Despite the fact that my girls, the Jewel and the Queen, did not get to bed until nearly midnight last night (which normally guarantees the day following will be endured rather than enjoyed in any sense of the word) have been the epitome of fairness, politeness and calmness. Every half hour or so I wait for the tantrums, the shouting, the arguments and hair pulling. Every few minutes I check where the baby Bushranger is and to my surprise he is not being pulled about by his ankles by the Jewel, or thrown up into a tree. After some careful thought I wonder if this is because, with my new found steely resolve and demand for respect from the world, they know not to mess with me.
I arrived home at around 9pm from my dinner with the Father, to find the Christmas Tree up, decorated and awash with lights, my girls all shiny with their hair combed and pulled into pony tails, and their faces shiny, tired and glowing with happiness and fish and chips.
"Mummy, we forgot to go to bed early!" laughed the Queen. I could only do what is described as scoopede them up, hugged them very tight, thanked the Good Lord above that I had such beautiful girls who were happy to see me, and snuggled them and kissed them and stroked their lovely hair as I put them to bed.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
The Risotto Was Nice
He had fish. Aptly, it was flounder. Which is what he did, when he wasn't trying to manipulate, deviate, obfuscate. We were there, apparently, to make him feel better. I was there to mend a relationship. Those two agendas are not compatible.
By about half way through my delicious salmon and prawn risotto I put up my hand and said very clearly "Stop". I had had enough. I asked if we could continue this converation with a mediator present. He was surprised, a little offended, and admitted to being confused. I pointed out to him that I was not a problem to be solved, and I was the sum of many parts, and trying to take me apart and solve me like a scientific equation was never going to work.
I said that it was very sad that the two people who understood me the least were my husband and my father.
Every now and again I would see a man who is deeply afraid of love. He talked about the mental anguish he had suffered over his feelings for me, and his worry that it would never work out. But then he would close up and accuse me of yet another personality trait which is wrong, simply because it is not shared by him. His response to his knowledge that my marriage is in trouble was to tell me that his and mum's relationship "transcended everything". I almost laughed. She's dead, you arse.
I am aware that without full context, these words are very angry, unforgiving and complaining. In person I was calm, articulate and reasonable.
I am home now, with a husband who wants to talk about "us". I decline, in favour of eating chocolate.
By about half way through my delicious salmon and prawn risotto I put up my hand and said very clearly "Stop". I had had enough. I asked if we could continue this converation with a mediator present. He was surprised, a little offended, and admitted to being confused. I pointed out to him that I was not a problem to be solved, and I was the sum of many parts, and trying to take me apart and solve me like a scientific equation was never going to work.
I said that it was very sad that the two people who understood me the least were my husband and my father.
Every now and again I would see a man who is deeply afraid of love. He talked about the mental anguish he had suffered over his feelings for me, and his worry that it would never work out. But then he would close up and accuse me of yet another personality trait which is wrong, simply because it is not shared by him. His response to his knowledge that my marriage is in trouble was to tell me that his and mum's relationship "transcended everything". I almost laughed. She's dead, you arse.
I am aware that without full context, these words are very angry, unforgiving and complaining. In person I was calm, articulate and reasonable.
I am home now, with a husband who wants to talk about "us". I decline, in favour of eating chocolate.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
When Other People Hurt
It is no surprise to those closest to me that I am very close to leaving my husband. Actually, the decision has been made by me, but I am yet to execute the practicalities.
This morning, as I lay in bed listening to my kids argue and screech and laugh, I thought of how the Jewel missed her daddy "sooooo much" when we went away for a weekend to the beach. She became a little emotional when she heard a song on the radio which sang of wishing you were here, I love you so, la la la. I thought to myself how I would be dealing with that for a little while to come, and my immediate reaction was to make that yet another reason why I should stay. You know, "for the kids".
But, it is actually up to my husband to maintain that relationship, not me. If he wants to keep seeing the children, and spending precious time with them, and be a good role model, then he will, and that is not a role I need to facilitate. And when we were away that weekend, her emotion was fleeting, as it is with children that age. It was acknowledged, accepted and dealt with. She rang Daddy, told him she loved him, reminded she would see him in two days, and then went to play in the sand.
I know my children may grow up with some internalconflict over their parents no ,longer being together. But, as the daughter of a couple that should have separated roughly 36 years ago, separation is far preferable to a lifetime of watching someone else's unhappiness, not to mention learning how to live in a toxic and unhappy home.
This morning, as I lay in bed listening to my kids argue and screech and laugh, I thought of how the Jewel missed her daddy "sooooo much" when we went away for a weekend to the beach. She became a little emotional when she heard a song on the radio which sang of wishing you were here, I love you so, la la la. I thought to myself how I would be dealing with that for a little while to come, and my immediate reaction was to make that yet another reason why I should stay. You know, "for the kids".
But, it is actually up to my husband to maintain that relationship, not me. If he wants to keep seeing the children, and spending precious time with them, and be a good role model, then he will, and that is not a role I need to facilitate. And when we were away that weekend, her emotion was fleeting, as it is with children that age. It was acknowledged, accepted and dealt with. She rang Daddy, told him she loved him, reminded she would see him in two days, and then went to play in the sand.
I know my children may grow up with some internalconflict over their parents no ,longer being together. But, as the daughter of a couple that should have separated roughly 36 years ago, separation is far preferable to a lifetime of watching someone else's unhappiness, not to mention learning how to live in a toxic and unhappy home.
On Acknowledging Your Mistakes
I had interesting exchange with my husband this morning. He is taking the kids out for an hour or two, to do some shopping. Before he left I checked his bank account via the internet to make sure he had enough money.
As he was leaving, he told me he had taken $13 from my purse. I replied that I would be grateful if he asked me first, to which he responded "well, I'm telling you now, aren't I?".
"And I am telling you that good manners suggest you ask first before you take something that belongs to someone else, just as I have always taught the kids, and just as I would do with you" We had further exchanges in which he said that he doesn't mean what he says, giving me the "woe is me, be nice, I'm depressed" look. And my response was
"Its not my responsibility to work out the meaning of your words, based on your past behaviour and my good nature. It is your responsibility to say what you actually mean, and then take responsibility for those words."
As I was saying it, so many things clicked into place.
In a huge flash of understanding, I realised that in my haste to excuse those around me, I have allowed them to make excuses for their behaviour. Or I have behaved in such a way as to make it easy for them to either behave well, or find justification for their bad behaviour. And so, I need to take responsibility for that aspect of my behaviour, but it doesn't make their own behaviour right.
As he was leaving, he told me he had taken $13 from my purse. I replied that I would be grateful if he asked me first, to which he responded "well, I'm telling you now, aren't I?".
"And I am telling you that good manners suggest you ask first before you take something that belongs to someone else, just as I have always taught the kids, and just as I would do with you" We had further exchanges in which he said that he doesn't mean what he says, giving me the "woe is me, be nice, I'm depressed" look. And my response was
"Its not my responsibility to work out the meaning of your words, based on your past behaviour and my good nature. It is your responsibility to say what you actually mean, and then take responsibility for those words."
As I was saying it, so many things clicked into place.
In a huge flash of understanding, I realised that in my haste to excuse those around me, I have allowed them to make excuses for their behaviour. Or I have behaved in such a way as to make it easy for them to either behave well, or find justification for their bad behaviour. And so, I need to take responsibility for that aspect of my behaviour, but it doesn't make their own behaviour right.
Supping with the Devil
Tonight I am having dinner with my father.
He has been having family therapy. Its that special family therapy, apparently, where only the protagonist attends and his victims are then enticed, like a delicate, terrified moth, into an unseen but deadly web to what is ostensibly a pleasant meal but will, in fact be more of the same. As far as I recall, its only the spider that enjoys the meal - or worse, strikes a deadly wound and savours its victory later.
So, if I am to allow it, I will spend two to three hours looking at his petulant face, pointing out the various pieces of food and sauce stuck in various places on his chin and mouth, and listen to him justify his outrageous behaviour and requests for my own compassion and understanding. Even now, I can feel my shoulders squeezing tight and rising up, my turn down, and all possible responses to his brand of manipulation being made ready.
I am trying to approach this as an adult, when really, no matter how old I am, or wise, or experienced: I am the child of this man. The daughter, the teenager, the toddler, the baby, the newborn. His first born, his precious little girl.
Its the little girl that needs to respond, to be given a voice. She needs to be heard.
He has been having family therapy. Its that special family therapy, apparently, where only the protagonist attends and his victims are then enticed, like a delicate, terrified moth, into an unseen but deadly web to what is ostensibly a pleasant meal but will, in fact be more of the same. As far as I recall, its only the spider that enjoys the meal - or worse, strikes a deadly wound and savours its victory later.
So, if I am to allow it, I will spend two to three hours looking at his petulant face, pointing out the various pieces of food and sauce stuck in various places on his chin and mouth, and listen to him justify his outrageous behaviour and requests for my own compassion and understanding. Even now, I can feel my shoulders squeezing tight and rising up, my turn down, and all possible responses to his brand of manipulation being made ready.
I am trying to approach this as an adult, when really, no matter how old I am, or wise, or experienced: I am the child of this man. The daughter, the teenager, the toddler, the baby, the newborn. His first born, his precious little girl.
Its the little girl that needs to respond, to be given a voice. She needs to be heard.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Dear Diary
I remember as a child starting a diary with great enthusiasm, intent on recording my every movement, thought and wish in the sure knowledge that anything I had to say was so important as to deserve a permanent record.
As an adult I kept a diary through my travels, the disintegration of my first marriage and the blossoming of my second. As each child was subsequently conceived I would start the diary again - renamed "journal" - sure in the knowledge that these large events necessitated a thorough description of all emotions.
And now as a daughter, wife, mother, it has become so very clear how beautifully circular our lives are. I am now living in a little house not 300 metres from the first house in which my own parents resided when they first came to Australia. I too have two girls and a blonde boy. I too have a husband who has left work due to "health" reasons and threatens to stay that way. Until about half an hour ago, I was terrified that I had become my mother.
Tonight I sat in absolute awe as we watched Brideshead Revisited. As Sebastian and Charles trundled down country lanes through summery England, I felt my heart crack a little as I remembered the innocent and totally irresponsible days when my second husband and I first met. We had yet to be married, have children, a mortgage. We were living in a little cottage on top of a hill by which pilgrims used to trudge on their way to Yorkshire, and next to which was an orchard and a laneway full of cowslip and hedges. Seeing the sleepy greenery on the screen not only reminded me of my own happier days, but the nights many years ago in my childhood home, watching the same programme and watching my mother smudge away sneaking tears as she too mourned the loss of her country and happiness.
I understand now that far from being ashamed, I have an opportunity to embrace and love our similarities, and finally and truthfully understand all that she came to be, and all that I can be.
As the child of this mother, I can make right all that went wrong for me as a child. I can provide illumination and understanding where for me and my own siblings there was confusion. I can provide steady love and loyalty, where for us there was insecurity and a constant fear that someone would leave, or die and leave the rest of us with all the shit.
Well, it was Mum that did die, and I am left with the shit. Ironically, the same man that caused her so much anger and grief is still here, not twenty minutes down the road, and my own husband is doing a very passable imitation of the father that made such an unhealthy impact on my early life.
Until half an hour ago, the unfairness of my life was almost too much to bear, and the responsbility of taking care of my family's emotional and physical needs has been pressing down on me with a force that can't be countered. I had reached the stage that while I recognised that I had, in fact, married my father, that knowledge did nothing at all to temper the sheer fucking anger I feel at the two of them.
Then suddenly, I was my mother. The sadness, the unfairness, the sheer bloody irony of it all struck me so hard that I am still reeling. And in that moment I came to love her and understand her more than I ever did my whole life. I can feel her at my shoulder, egging me on, imploring me to not make the same mistakes that she did.
And so, a journal. I feel like I can see through the mist sufficiently to record this effort I am about to make. (I am so tempted to call this a "journey", but will resist, happily). It does feel like an effort: as if I am in training, and need to pump my muscles, heart and lungs full of oxygen ready for the strain of what I am about to do.
As an adult I kept a diary through my travels, the disintegration of my first marriage and the blossoming of my second. As each child was subsequently conceived I would start the diary again - renamed "journal" - sure in the knowledge that these large events necessitated a thorough description of all emotions.
And now as a daughter, wife, mother, it has become so very clear how beautifully circular our lives are. I am now living in a little house not 300 metres from the first house in which my own parents resided when they first came to Australia. I too have two girls and a blonde boy. I too have a husband who has left work due to "health" reasons and threatens to stay that way. Until about half an hour ago, I was terrified that I had become my mother.
Tonight I sat in absolute awe as we watched Brideshead Revisited. As Sebastian and Charles trundled down country lanes through summery England, I felt my heart crack a little as I remembered the innocent and totally irresponsible days when my second husband and I first met. We had yet to be married, have children, a mortgage. We were living in a little cottage on top of a hill by which pilgrims used to trudge on their way to Yorkshire, and next to which was an orchard and a laneway full of cowslip and hedges. Seeing the sleepy greenery on the screen not only reminded me of my own happier days, but the nights many years ago in my childhood home, watching the same programme and watching my mother smudge away sneaking tears as she too mourned the loss of her country and happiness.
I understand now that far from being ashamed, I have an opportunity to embrace and love our similarities, and finally and truthfully understand all that she came to be, and all that I can be.
As the child of this mother, I can make right all that went wrong for me as a child. I can provide illumination and understanding where for me and my own siblings there was confusion. I can provide steady love and loyalty, where for us there was insecurity and a constant fear that someone would leave, or die and leave the rest of us with all the shit.
Well, it was Mum that did die, and I am left with the shit. Ironically, the same man that caused her so much anger and grief is still here, not twenty minutes down the road, and my own husband is doing a very passable imitation of the father that made such an unhealthy impact on my early life.
Until half an hour ago, the unfairness of my life was almost too much to bear, and the responsbility of taking care of my family's emotional and physical needs has been pressing down on me with a force that can't be countered. I had reached the stage that while I recognised that I had, in fact, married my father, that knowledge did nothing at all to temper the sheer fucking anger I feel at the two of them.
Then suddenly, I was my mother. The sadness, the unfairness, the sheer bloody irony of it all struck me so hard that I am still reeling. And in that moment I came to love her and understand her more than I ever did my whole life. I can feel her at my shoulder, egging me on, imploring me to not make the same mistakes that she did.
And so, a journal. I feel like I can see through the mist sufficiently to record this effort I am about to make. (I am so tempted to call this a "journey", but will resist, happily). It does feel like an effort: as if I am in training, and need to pump my muscles, heart and lungs full of oxygen ready for the strain of what I am about to do.
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