I am wondering what it is that is driving me to my blog once more. I remember when I kept an actual journal – the old fashioned type made of paper that you wrote in with a nice pen – it was done very sporadically, and usually when I was pregnant. When pregnancy was over and I no longer deemed myself to be incredibly special I would lose interest and continued on my very ordinary life.
It may be that subconsciously, meeting and sharing my life with T is just as important to me as having my babies. God knows he has saved my life. The longer we are together and the more our lives intertwine with children and ex-spouses and mothers, fathers and siblings, the more I can see how much we have to learn from all of this. The biggest lessons I am learning are the ones about myself.
In the early days I was full of self righteous anger and indignation, hurt, blame, sorrow and guilt about the breakdown of my marriage two years ago. I convinced myself that the way to get through this sorry process was to either make the ones hurting me suffer as payment for what they had done, or shout at them long and hard enough until they agreed with me and changed their ways.
It has not been until I have seen others try to use this same method - and fail - that I can see that the only way through this process is to accept it and see how I can use it to become a better person. I also know I need to stop thinking that there will be an end to it all. T and I were dreaming of a day when all our challenges would go away, but we can see now that will never happen, and do we want it to anyway? This is our happy ending, right now. And rather than cursing our challenges and getting angry with those that make it so, we know we need to accept any responsibility we have for those challenges, and work on our responses and deeds, rather than spending precious minutes and hours cursing those that behave badly.
T and I have also talked about the difference between continuing to fight for that which we believe in and fighting for fighting's sake. Standing up for our own beliefs and values takes the emphasis off having to "win" and places it more appropriately on doing the right thing for ourselves and our five children.
So, I may not be pregnant, but I feel like we are nurturing something precious and new and excitng.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Saturday, May 16, 2009
On Dying Mothers
At the end of this month, it will be four years since my mother died. Five days ago the mother of my dad died. She was almost 92 (at this point, most of my Nottingham family add the words "bless her") and as far as I can see was as bad tempered and disfunctional as any normal mother. Her relationship with my father, as far as he was concerned, was complicated. A number of times he insisted that he hated her. Talk to her, and he was her shiny boy who could do no wrong. He could no more find the words to tell her the wrongs she had done to him than I can to him.
And so it goes round, and I have found another circle. I listen to my father talk about the death of his mother and for some incomprehensible reason it seems inappropriate and distasteful. I cannot listen to someone so close to me discuss the loss of a mother so dispassionately. Even his lack of hate, guilt, remorse seems wrong.
In the days that follow, my resolution made two or three New Year's Eves ago deepens: I choose to live an honest life. I make varius sub-resolutions, some of which I follow, some of which are disastrous, some of which would be made a whole lot easier if I had been one of the people who had won $1.8 million in last night's Tatts. Its hard to have principles when you live on the poverty line.
And so it goes round, and I have found another circle. I listen to my father talk about the death of his mother and for some incomprehensible reason it seems inappropriate and distasteful. I cannot listen to someone so close to me discuss the loss of a mother so dispassionately. Even his lack of hate, guilt, remorse seems wrong.
In the days that follow, my resolution made two or three New Year's Eves ago deepens: I choose to live an honest life. I make varius sub-resolutions, some of which I follow, some of which are disastrous, some of which would be made a whole lot easier if I had been one of the people who had won $1.8 million in last night's Tatts. Its hard to have principles when you live on the poverty line.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Shiny Girls
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.
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.
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.
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