1 Dec 2015
This year we have cheerfully bought into conspicuous consumption and have introduced ‘Elf on a Shelf’ into the family home.
This is Mary. Named by the girls without intervention. Personally I liked Rosie-Sparkle-Boo-Butt better but they decided Mary was the best name for a Christmas Elf.
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| An ‘elfie’ |
I know right? And they have no idea. That is what is so awesome.
The general premise of Elf on a Shelf is that the elf comes into your home and observes you during the day to find out if you are naughty or nice and reports back to Santa each night. Each day the elf is hiding in a new spot and part of the fun is finding the hiding spot.
The story that accompanies the elf says you are not supposed to touch the elf as that kills the magic off and it talks about good deeds and about night time prayers in the story which led to conversations about god which I obviously deflected with a clear and definite ‘ask your father’.
Because theology at bedtime is generally more than my brain can cope with at this time of the year.
Elf in the Shelf obviously works MUCH better in homes that are more authoritarian than ours. This is something we learned pretty much immediately.
As you can see above, Mary the elf was covered in snowman putty on her first day in the family home in case she was missing the snow from the north pole.
They weren’t TOUCHING. They were HELPING.
Honestly. Don’t I know anything?
She has also been HUGGED.
And KISSED.
And CHATTED to like nobody’s business.
Because Mary is part of the family and not hugging and kissing her would make her feel like we don’t love her.
Go ahead – argue with that if you can.
Plus my girls are perfect remember – so obviously they are angelic, well behaved and generally a shining example of our excellent parenting at all times with no exceptions. Ever.
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| Perfection |
And it’s very lucky that I’m not a boy called Pinocchio.
In fact, for me, the best thing about Elf on the Shelf is the conversations the girls have with the magic elf rather than any possible impact on behaviour (Um… zilch, zero, none, not a chance, it’s just make believe mum – everybody knows that Santa can hear you when you think)
I love the joy that goes into these imaginary conversations and new discoveries. I like watching them grapple with real magic versus make believe magic. The earnest discussions about whether the Tooth Fairy and the elves know each other because they are real fairies whereas the ones you see on the TV are generally just stories and the ones you find in the toy catalogues are just advertising.
So much GOING ON IN THOSE BRAIN BOXES.
And the delight when they find Mary’s hiding spot each morning. The breathless retelling of what Mary did last night when she visited Santa and her other elf friends.
It’s ridiculously cute.
So yes. We’re part of that growing culture of people buying into Christmas traditions in the absence of our own, contributing to the dumbing down of society as a whole and commercialising the pagan and christian yuletide messages with nary a thought to the therapy our children are going to require in future years because we lied to them about Santa Claus.
And it’s fun.
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18 Nov 2015
So Charlie Sheen, man of a thousand memes, lover of 5000 women, yadda yadda yadda is HIV
positive.
And the judgement has begun.
And as you know, the internet is full of judgemental little fuckers just baying for his tiger blood. The righteousness! The fury! The disgust! The anger!
What a filthy, over entitled, scumbag right?
Or not.
What about a very human person who did a lot of dumb stuff very publicly who was diagnosed with a a pretty shitty disease WHO WAS FORCED TO GO PUBLIC WITH IT.
I’m not a Charlie Sheen fan. But I do recognise our common humanity and I am flabbergasted and appalled by vicious glee and sly vitriol that has been expressed about this diagnosis. Because the HIV diagnosis is not the appalling thing here.
It’s sad but not appalling.
It’s the public outing of people for no other reason than our own insatiable desire to judge that is wrong. It is none of our business whether or not Charlie Sheen is HIV positive.
Or if whatshisname is gay.
Or if she is actually 36 not 29.
Or if they screwed two women at once.
Or if they let their four year old suck on a dummy.
Or if they breastfeed until the children graduate university.
Sure some if it’s interesting and some of it’s just plain weird but it’s actually none of my business. Or yours.
No man or women no matter how famous should be forced to reveal private information about themselves to the world at large. Even the ones that have repeatedly demonstrated their commitment to douchebaggery such as Charlie.
The public is unnecessarily salacious and massively moralistic about celebrities.
I don’t disagree that Charlie Sheen has a responsibility to talk to his family and ex-lovers about his diagnosis. And I don’t disagree that he’s probably made a call about sexual responsibility at some stage that has been a less than sensible one. And if he didn’t tell lovers or take precautions he is culpable.
But to be publicly ‘outed’?
That is wrong.
It is not in the public interest for us to all know this unless he wanted to tell us. And despite our almost pathological obsession with defining all people as ‘saint’ or ‘sinner’ there is no obligation for anybody to be a role model, or an example.
Unless they want to be.
Free choice. It’s not just for you.
****
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20 Oct 2015
I’ve got a secret.
And I’m ready to share it with people.
I’m not a single parent.
I KNOW!
I’m married to a guy who I respect and who I love and who drives me completely insane at least once a week.
We have two children. Gorgeous children. Mad. Totally bonkers the pair of them. We’re rather fond of them the both of us.
He is a beautiful man. Kind most importantly. A super parent. Stricter than me which surprised not only us but everybody we know, but in absolutely fairness stricter than me simply means he won’t peel their fish fingers. He’ll just eat them himself and make them another meal.
I know. We’re the kind of parents that give Type A people a serious case of the ‘tut tuts’.
And you know something. It works.
We’re on the same page when it comes to parenting even if we are singing from two different hymn books when it comes to the importance of putting things back in the cupboard from whence you first got them.
My children’s inability to put things away I directly attribute to his genetical influence because my family lineage is littered (tee hee) with obsessive compulsive tidy upperers. Which is why we eat so fast in my family because otherwise the plate will be whipped away, cleaned and returned to the cupboard while you’re still masticating the first mouthful.
I digress.
What’s this about me not being a single parent?
Thing is, I am about to go away to America for 13 sleeps. To celebrate one of my BFFs 40th birthdays. Cool huh? I plan to get properly excited as soon as I finish my ‘to-do list’.
But SOOOOOOOO many people are following up “Oh that will be nice/I love San Fran/lovely news” with a slightly bewildered “who is going to look after the children?”
Which I confess is driving me a little spare. Because at 6 foot three with startling light blue eyes he’s pretty hard to miss.
You know the guy? The guy who started the whole growing the humans thing? The guy that taught them fart jokes are funny? The parent that likes taking them to the park? The guy that will agree to be the bad guy or the baby depending on the game? The guy that soothes their grazed knees and gives them cuddles when they’re tired? The guy that does silly dances to make them laugh? The guy that lives in our house with us and they call him ‘Dad’?
Him. That guy.
He’ll be looking after them. Like he does all the time. But on his own for a bit rather than with me which may be busier but will definitely be quieter.
Exactly like I do when he goes away (except he gets to pee standing up which gives them less time to join him to discuss urgent questions like how does the internet work, what is wind and why is the tooth fairy the only fairy that’s real?)
That’s who will be looking after the children.
Him.
****
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6 Oct 2015
Is there anything that is true about yourself that you’re not entirely comfortable with?
In fact, doesn’t fit with your general view of yourself?
Mine is the D word.
Depression.
Depressing isn’t it? In this last week, after a tough few months, they added PMDD to my file. To sit alongside PND, PTSD and old fashioned regular depression. I cried and cried when I got the diagnosis. Asked if I could just ‘fix it’ with vitamin supplements, kale or…. or…. or….
Anything really. Anything within my control.
I have a great doctor. And a great clinical psychologist. A great support team in my husband and girls. All together we’re a good team when it comes to ‘managing’ my depression. I self weaned myself off my medication this year and thought I was doing okay bar some dips.
But I wasn’t.
Those ‘dips’ were extended mind fucks of paranoia, anxiety, hopelessness, dread, fear and sorrow that were impacting my life, my family and my business.
Chemical imbalances in the brain don’t respond well to being ignored despite best efforts.
One of the things that is the hardest about depression is that people continually think of it as malingering which can be eliminated by some positive self talk, a kick up the arse, more exercise and kale. And they like to tell you how you aren’t depressed you just need to do x, y or z and you’ll be just dandy.
I wish. I would eat the kale, all the kale, if it ‘fixed my brain’.
It is what it is. And while this week I’m in a great place of acceptance about it, I know that once the medication is in full force again and I’m feeling on a more even keel, I’ll revisit my view of myself. I am not the type of person who ‘gets depressed’, ergo I can’t possibly be depressed.
I can be drearily predictable sometimes. Even to myself.
The irony is not lost on me that my latest diagnosis happened the day before mental health week began. Almost like my depression diagnosis has FOMO. Which considering the brain it resides in, is entirely possible. I’m a FOMO MOFO.
But I’m also becoming better educated not only about about my own depression but depression generally and the genetics around it. And the simple fact is that I have to be vigorous about my own mental health in as much as I want to be in entirely the right head space to recognise any signs that my daughters inherited a dose of depressive genes from me (alongside the astigmatism or general awesomeness which are also scientifically proven to have genetic links).
That genetics thing scares the absolute bejeezus out of me. This is not something I want for my daughters.
I was 13 years old when I first started self harming. Just 8 short years older than my eldest is now. I used to slash the inside of my arms and the tops of my thighs. It used to make me feel better. I just thought I was weird but I did it anyway. I did it until I stopped doing it. I moved on like all good undiagnosed depressives to other things that made me feel better. Except they didn’t always. Because brain.
And that’s how life is sometimes. You just do it and assume that it’s you, that somehow you missed the memos about how to do life properly and you try and stay away from the edges. Until you find yourself a mother to one, pregnant with your second, making plans for them to grow up motherless and someone says…. um – this isn’t actually normal, and not because you’re weird or shit at life.
Because depression feels a lot like being shit at life. Failing at something other people seem to manage effortlessly.
I will never be “okay” with my diagnosis.
But I am incredibly grateful for it. It didn’t just change my life. It ultimately saved my life.
So there’s that. And I’m “okay” with that.
You can get help at Lifeline or by calling 13 11 14
Or if you want to talk about PND go to PANDA
****
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24 Sep 2015
You know that time that you did that thing and it played on your mind endlessly. It was the rock in your chest, the nauseated feeling in your throat, the words of recrimination spewing poison into your mind.
And you finally came clean with somebody and they laughed.
Or hugged you.
Or spoke kindly to you of the power of forgiveness. For yourself first and foremost.
And all of a sudden, that thing was a lesser thing. A manageable thing. Actually, just a thing.
People’s things are different. Huge. Take one friend of mine – Honest, loyal, kind, hardworking, thoughtful, loving, funny and strong. She also has a flexible approach to deadlines, a genius for conflict avoidance and (to me) a completely bizarre belief that she is not ‘good enough’ and ‘unloveable’.
We were talking recently about some things that had been happening in her life and how this thing had happened and she felt terrible about it. I was vehemently banging the table and pointing fingers and telling her that she is an idiot (I’m a supportive friend like that).
Says I, in full throttle, “You are amazing, you’re funny, you’re a gorgeous friend, you’re a great mum, a brilliant boss and that example you just gave me is bullshit. That is ONE SECOND OF YOUR LIFE. It’s nothing. It’s inconsequential. TAKE IT FROM ME THAT IF PEOPLE ARE JUDGING YOU ON THAT MOMENT THAN IT IS THEY WHO ARE FUCKED UP – NOT YOU”
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| anything else would just be ridiculous |
Guess when I had my “AHA!” moment this month?
To be honest, I don’t even need other people to label me because I’m front and centre with the label maker making sure I get my labels printed in big font and pasted all over the insides of my own mind, obscuring the view.
We are none of us perfect.
Not. A. One.
The things that become things do so because we frame them, label them if you will, in the context of our surroundings, our own sense of value, and the people around us.
And that would be that if we gave the good, the bad and the ugly exactly the same amount of space in our minds. But most of us don’t. We internalise things, they shape our beliefs, our sense of worth, our interactions and ultimately, our choices.
As you know if you’ve been here a while, my psych and I have spent much time sorting through the chaos of my brain. She likes to while away the minutes dissecting my low self esteem, my fundamental lack of self worth, my talent for catastrophisation and my singularly spectacular talent for denying my own depressive tendencies; while I want to talk about, well, fun stuff.
In the midst of one gruelling session, she said to me (seemingly out of the blue) – describe yourself.
I did. Without hesitation.
Let me tell you my friends – if we were dating, I’d have dumped me. What an arsehole!
She then asked me to share some of the things my friends have said about me over the years. And bar the inevitable disagreements and bust ups that happen in all human relationships along the way (every single one of which I mentioned in excruciating detail first), the vast majority of my friends are very, very lovely about me. Even the ones who have known me a long time.
But yet, for every 15 minutes of imperfect behaviour, I have dedicated many, many, many thousands more believing that those moments of imperfection, are what define me. Those moments of imperfection, those things which make me feel ill or that spend weeks heavily pressing into the extra set of ribs in my chest cavity, are what other people see in me. Whereas, most probably, they’re not thinking about me. They’re focussed on their own 15 minutes of good, bad or ugly.
15 minutes or 900 seconds.
900 seconds in a day. 86,400 seconds in a day. 604,800 seconds in a week.
If you live to be 80 you will have participated in 2.52288e9 seconds. That’s a lot.
Relatively what are 900 seconds in 2.52288e9 seconds? Nada.
And so I was absolutely correct as I bellowed emphatically stated my support of my friend. All of the things that I know about her are true. Relatively, her moments of imperfection are irrelevant to me, and pretty much everyone else, because they are just parts of her totality – and none of us are perfect.
As her friend, we love her for who she is, and when we think of her, it is her overwhelming gorgeous totality that we think on. When we are asked to describe her, that is what we describe.
We want her to surround herself with people that know her and love her without judging her or emphasising her imperfections or chipping away at her self worth. Because she is bloody amazing.
We don’t want her to her to flirt with kindness and love, but to behave thoroughly inappropriately with them both privately and publicly.
You may ask if this has been percolating away in my wee brain for all this time – what was my AHA! moment.
The answer?
I should totally listen to me. I’m fucking ace. I’d make me a great friend if I gave myself a chance.
****
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4 Sep 2015
I got asked yesterday why ‘somebody like me’ wasn’t commenting furiously about the European refugee crisis, Cameron’s concession to public opinion, Iceland’s brilliance and the heartbreaking pictures of Aylan Kurdi, who died along with his mother Rehan and his brother Galip while seeking asylum.
The answer is simple. Because I am heartbroken by this every single day.
We live in a country where we will not put our kids in a car without a car seat, or take birthday cakes to school because of the sugar and yet parents like us, Rehan and Abdullah, felt that the only way to keep their kids safe was to put them in a boat and set out across the ocean in the HOPE, only the HOPE, that they would be safe.
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| Tully and Cassidy aged 3 & 5 #kidslikemine Galip and Aylan aged 3 & 5 |
And that family is now destroyed. Along with many other nameless, faceless, desperate people fleeing everyday violence and mayhem that is so far beyond our comprehension that people are actually proud to display ‘Fuck off we’re full’ stickers on their cars and well suited middle class people almost spill their Shiraz as they bullshit on about ‘economic migrants’ as if they actually have a point. Or a clue.
People don’t seek asylum for fun or because they need our poorly performing dollar tucked into their wallets.
They seek asylum because they see NO OTHER OPTION if they are to protect their families.
While we are filling our Facebook feeds here in Australia this week saying let’s not see the picture, this is too too too sad, those poor refugees, oh I’ve been to Bodrum stories – we seem oblivious to the irony that when people come to us over distances much more vast – we lock them up in what are effectively concentration camps.
Indefinitely.
I am heartbroken about the Kurdi family and their fellow citizens.
I am also heartbroken about 23 year old refugee Reza Berati who was killed 18 months ago by somebody paid by the Australian government and whose murderer has still not been charged.
I am heartbroken about Ranjini, who was found to be a legitimate refugee in 2011 and who along with her children has been locked up in a detention centre since 2013 with no right of appeal because she doesn’t actually know why she is locked up.
I am heartbroken about H**g, a refugee who lives with partial paralysis and profound depression as a result of their extended incarceration in an Australian detention centre, not the horrific violence that caused them to flee.
I am heartbroken about H**z who fled his country to stop them killing him and his family and now lives an isolated life, unable to contribute to the society he lives in because we wont let him get a job because, well actually, I don’t rightly understand why not.
I am heartbroken about Mojgan Shamsalipoor, the refugee and Brisbane high school student who was physically dragged away from her husband and re-incarcerated after she spoke to the media.
I am heartbroken about the doctors and nurses who will be charged and jailed for speaking out about the extensive child and sexual abuse atrocities committed in Australia’s detention camps.
I am heartbroken that not-for-profits, charities and churches who seek to support people in detention centres on Manus and Nauru have been banned from visiting.
I am heartbroken about the children who are being abused in our name because their parents sought a better life for them.
I am heartbroken that it has taken the picture of a child in shorts and a t-shirt lying dead on a beach for us to realise the common humanity we share with refugees and asylum seekers.
This breaks my heart every single day.
I know people think I’m soft hearted because I have not stopped weeping over the stories I read almost daily about the violence and ugliness we perpetuate in the name of national security against vulnerable people. There are some days when I feel so sad and so helpless about our own approach to refugees and asylum seekers that I feel physically sick.
These are people. People. People so desperate that they risk everything to come to us and we hide behind our shameful, and globally condemned, refugee policies and procedures, pretending it’s not our problem.
We’re protecting our borders.
Well bullshit. Our little cocoon of righteousness and entitlement is just political and media rhetoric that we buy into because we don’t want to rock our own (metaphorical) boat.
My vehement hope is that the saturation of coverage highlighting the humanity of the refugees and asylum seekers in Europe, galvanises us here in Australia to be more proactive and vocal in our opposition to the hideous way we treat the people coming to us seeking safety.
That we demand change the way the UK demanded it of their politicians.
That we accept that our politicians are there to represent us and that if they are not representing us we have nothing but our own apathy and fear of the unknown to blame.
That we can change the way we do it if we have the courage to speak up.
That we can change the way we do this if we can maintain the focus past the lifespan of the headlines.
That we can change the way we do this by remembering that refugees and asylum seekers are people.
Like you.
Like me.
****
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