On equanimity

What do you find attractive in a mate? What do you look for in a friend? What quality makes you feel most loved and secure?

Most of us don’t really know. Those of us that do have a ‘feeling’. We call that feeling Love. But we are wrong.

Love is important but as some of us know; Sometimes Love isn’t enough.

Love without loyalty won’t last. Love without faithfulness won’t make you feel secure. Love without strength isn’t powerful enough to let you relax.

Who wants to live the mantra ‘I know they love me but…’? Not me.

I need equanimity.

Flakey, shaky, flighty, moody, chameleon, temperamental, two-faced, inconsistent, indecisive, shifty, insincere, egotistical make me nervous, insecure, restless.

I crave equanimity.

All is well in my world when I know that the people around me love me enough to not be moved by my shit. That they will stand up to me in my own best interest. That they will walk through the valley of hell with me. They will love me even when they don’t like me. Then, I’m safe.

The love I receive is faithful, strong, staunch, sure, grounded & true. Or it simply isn’t enough. Fact.

This is the love I give to my son. I will be here, loving you, come hell or high water, forever. This equanimity holds his world together. I am no different.

Equanimity is the glue that holds my pieces together.

Margin for error

My son can be described as sweet, compassionate, excitable, intelligent, short, unreasonably strong for his size (just ask my Nanna), musical, extroverted, intuitive… and a million other words. But I will spare you the proud Mum ramblings.

The single word that possibly describes my baby best is ‘staunch’.

1. Firm and steadfast; true. See Synonyms at faithful.
2. Having a strong or substantial construction or constitution.

My baby has had a debilitating ear infection for a minimum of 3 months! He as had about 5 upper respiratory infections in that time and no less that 3 random (or so we thought) raging fevers. He has been sensitive and moody at times, but for the most part he has been his sweet, happy, energetic, caring self. One word. Staunch.

He has also been more cheeky. He stopped listening to my requests. So I got frustrated. I was consistent in my discipline with time outs and removing toys. I even yelled. I yelled more than I liked to yell. Yet I kept yelling because it was the only thing he would pay attention to. I now know that it was only my yelling that he was hearing.

I have been yelling at my sick baby. Few realisations make you feel quite as small as that. My baby has been in and out of the Doctors office feeling like hell, with a permanent sinus infection, partial deafness, infected ears, stuffy noses and sore throats for months. His Mum has been yelling at him the whole time and still he doesn’t complain. Staunch.

He can communicate, yet he couldn’t tell us what was wrong. The Doctor has looked in his ears a million times and never seen the minute difference in the ear drum. I have researched for hours and hours and we all missed it.

Sometimes the margin of error is tiny and yet it’s implications are huge.

PS I called this post Margin of error because I already have a post called Epic Mum Fail. And I am trying to see the lesson in this as opposed to just heating myself black and blue.

7 things I CAN’T live without

The Universe has a sick sense of humour.

Over the past 5 years I have come to depend on food. I have always loved eating. (I’m a Taurean – sue me!) But it was my Stepford wife transformation when I moved in with my husband that inspired me to learn how to cook.

Cooking, ah I love to cook. I make fortnightly menu plans. I visit the green grocer, deli and butcher. I cook from scratch at least 6 times a week – not including lunches which can range from honey sandwiches to lemon Parmesan pasta. I even have a menu chalkboard.

Cooking is multi-tasking-goodness; relaxing, fulfilling, nurturing, practical.

Now I enjoy cooking more than eating. I love the process. I love hearing my 2-year-old say ‘Mum this is DELICIOUS!’. I love that when my husband is down he asks for a cake.

So imagine my surprise devastation when my morning sickness not only stole my appetite, but my desire to cook!

Cooking is almost a chore now. The smells of cutting fruit for my son is enough to make my stomach lurch and flip. Ironically (or sadistically) I still love my food blogs, reading recipes and food porn. It is just real produce that makes me ill.

This isn’t the first of my loves that the universe tampered with. Some I fight for – the ones I won’t live without – some I have willingly let go.

1. Sleep - Since half way through my first pregnancy a full nights sleep has been allusive. I compensate with naps.
2. Alcohol - You know the walk your talk thing? Self destructive behaviour and cocktails till 2am was fun, but not helpful for a natural therapist. Plus I have been pregnant or breastfeeding for 3 of the past 4 years. So a vodka to calm the nerves it out of the question. Thankfully I have also let go of hangovers.
3. Music – I still love it. This one I’m fighting for. Every now and then we get some real music in around Playschool albums and ABC Classical. I still get to concerts (about 2 a year) but I’m not on the dance floor these days. This is one I can’t let go.
4. Tea – I am still a tea-a-holic. In fact I probably should belong to TA (Tea-drinkers Anonymous). I can’t let go of my teacups, high tea, daily cup[s], but these days I am a connoisseur of decaf and herbal teas. Bye-bye caffeine.
5. Girlfriends - Never. Ever. Giving. Up! I have one girlfriend close by, one the other side of the city and one interstate. If it weren’t for Facebook, Email and cheap domestic flights I would be screwed.
6. Space - Personal space. A space for me in my house. Head space. I’m not prepared to let them go, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at me – if you can see me beyond the toddler crawling all over me.
7. Reading - I don’t really have scope to lounge around reading novels (or text books) any more. But I have my [sneaky] ways; I read late at night, I read blogs, I read Ebooks on my iPhone. My reading obsession is still alive and kicking.

What can’t won’t you live without?

*photo credit

More certain, not more prepared

I was a super prepared mum-to-be. Borderline obsessive. My midwife commented a number of times during my labour that I was simply ‘too composed’ for a first time Mum. My birth was so tranquil that no one knew when I had hit transition.

I had done my homework and yet there were a million things I was totally blindsided by. The baby, for one. His Daddy placed him on my chest and I was shocked. Where the hell did this little person come from and why was everybody looking at me, waiting? Then there was the placenta. I have to birth that too? Now?! Can’t I have a rest first? Then there was the size of the placenta – it was over 2kg (that is over 4 pounds)! Then there was the blood, the hemorrhoids, the discomfort of the first feed – I thought I birthed a baby, not a damn vacuum - and the contracting uterus.

Then after it all, everybody went home. And left me alone, in a dark room, with a newborn baby. Suddenly my preparation came sharply into perspective; I was about to climb Mt. Everest in a sundress and my supplies consisted of glossy magazines and a picnic basket. I was beyond screwed – I had screwed up. I hadn’t had any sleep in over 24 hours, I had exerted more energy than I knew I had and I was now responsible for a human in its most vulnerable state. I did the only thing I could do.

Me: You can’t go. I have no idea what I’m doing!

Midwife: (Smiling) You will be fine.

Me: No, seriously, no-one would have trusted me with a newborn yesterday – what’s changed?

Midwife: Try to get some rest. When he stirs breastfeed him. Change his nappy if he needs it. Press the call button if you need to.

That night certainly wasn’t the last I have laid awake confused, overwhelmed, scared as a parent. There is no terror more potent than fearing for the health/safety of your child. And yet, I signed up for round two. Am I more prepared, you ask? No, not really. I have just come to realise there is no greater privilege, joy or fulfillment for me than to utter the first words I said to my son; ‘I’m your Mummy. I’m going to take care of you. And you can be anything you want to be.’

4 types of tears

I have heard of 4 seasons in one day. I have experienced 4 moods in a day. Who am I kidding – I have had 4 moods in an hour. Today was a first. Today I had 4 types of tears in a day;

Angry tears

We all know these tears. They come at the worts time. You are so angry you could explode. You are trying to keep your voice even when you want to screech. Your rage is building and all you want is to make the other understand your position. You need them to understand. And your body goes and betrays you – you burst into tears.

This morning it was my son, being cheeky, then back-chatting me, kicking the game over and finally sitting with his back to me saying ‘I’m ignoring you, Mum’. At least I didn’t yell.

Sad tears

The most common type of tears. They are best defined by what they are not. Generic sadness. Not quite grief. Not quite heartbreak. Not quite wracking sobs. Just tears. Something saddens you, upsets you, pulls at your heart-strings and the waterworks begin.

Later this morning after the ‘ignoring incident’ where Mr 2 was sat in the ‘thinking corner’ of the couch to ponder his behavior he promptly fell asleep amidst his apology. Sleep. At 11.30am. Most mothers would be silently dancing around the room with joy. But my baby is sick. This isn’t the tiredness of a child running in the sunshine. The tears just flowed.

Helpless tears

These tears are new to me. From what I can tell they are reserved only for situations where you are unable to or ineffectual in your attempt to help a loved one. I have only ever experienced them when a loved one is ill in some way.

This afternoon, leaving the Dr’s office I simply couldn’t stop them rolling down my cheeks. He assured me that the referral I clutched was for the best Dr in his field and that my waiting period was remarkably short. He also warned that none of the efforts I was making would help in any way what so ever, except for making me feel useful. Great.

Grateful tears

These are often mistaken as happy tears. There is a difference. A subtle difference. Grateful tears are tears of pure thanks. Something reminds you how very lucky you are; to be alive, to have the family you do, to be exactly where you are and the gratitude is expressed physically as little drops cascading down your cheeks.

Later this afternoon, when we arrived home. Mr 2 sitting in his Daddy’s lap pretending to drive the car in the driveway. Cooper is luminescent with joy and his Daddy is sitting in awe. Powderfinger’s ‘Burn your Name’ (one of our wedding songs) comes on the radio. I am utterly struck by exactly how blessed I am to be wife and mother to these beautiful men.

Yes, I am hormonal, sleep-deprived, stressed, exhausted and generally sentimental but what a day…

Big Scary Adult Stuff

I clearly remember coining that phrase when I was 20. Big. Scary. Adult stuff. I was faced with the prospect of letting myself truly love for the first time, and I was shitting myself. There was definitely something between us – but nothing like I had felt for boyfriends before. We danced around it. We let it fester. We de-constructed it brick by brick and hurled them at each other – me out of fear and him out of frustration – we were on target and we drew blood. When he put it to me – we try this time or I’m walking away – I froze, sheer terror gripped me and I ran from him into the pouring rain.

The only way I could explain my reaction, my angst, my ineptitude was Big Scary Adult stuff. My friends immediately related. I felt unprepared. I was taught advanced calculus but not this? I was overwhelmed. What the fuck am I supposed to do now? I felt alone. Even if I had the words to ask for help, who would I ask? I was terrified. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I know a lot is at stake.

I hoped the Big Scary Adult Stuff would ease. But the truth is that Big Scary Adult Stuff multiplies. I prayed that I would wake up a competent adult one day and feel capable, brave and knowing. The truth is that I am more of those things every day and the adult stuff just gets bigger and scarier. Being vulnerable and open is hard; watching your vulnerable and open child be rejected – is anguishing. Not knowing how to help yourself is painful; being helpless to loved one is excruciating.

The more I grow into my adulthood – if I can indeed claim to be an adult at 26 – the more compassion I have for myself and the more reverence for my elders. The shit just grows bigger and more terrifying; facing it daily with grace THAT is the definition of adulthood.

I did give him and answer in the end. He showed up hours later dripping wet in my office doorway, in his vintage leather jacket and faded jeans. Perhaps if I had chosen the blue pill, the stuff I’m facing now wouldn’t be so big or scary.

What big scary adult stuff are you facing?

*photo credit

Preparation

The universe has a beautiful way of preparing me for what comes next. An art so beautiful, organic and simple that I miss the clues if I am not paying enough attention.

I have a good idea of what is coming next. I have been pregnant before. I can expect in the next 6 months to be more and more at the mercy of my body as she does what she must to create life. I serve my body as best I can and she goes about the most amazing miracle ever witnessed on earth. For the following 6 months after that I can expect to be at the beck and call of a tiny, pure blob of divinity incarnate as a child. It is not what I am being prepared for that I am listening to. Its the how that has my attention.

I am being reminded to let go of the parts of my life that will not support me in the next 12 months. I am being gently corralled into the mindset of service. I am being asked to let go of my wants, and to follow my needs. I am being nudged, strings are being pulled, the unhelpful are being weeded. The process is slow, gradual, but by no means subtle.

Mother nature is thorough. Everything she does has a clear purpose, and I am content (in my enlightened moments) to accept that I may never understand her purpose for me. But I do understand what mother nature is doing now. The morning sickness is to take my focus from my mental sphere and bring me into my body. The lethargy is to curb my immediate ambitions, to force me to prioritise what I do. The insistent cold that lingers because it cannot be medicated safely is to remind me that the baby comes first. The weakened state of my body that hasn’t the reserves to build little organs and fight an infection is to force me to ask for help. The lost voice is to remind me to witness more and talk less; it is time to go within.

There are no mistakes. We may not know why all the levers are pulled when they are, but we can rest assured they create the perfect conditions to prepare us for what lies beyond.

Are you paying attention? What are you being asked to prepare for?

*image credit

Lemon Tea for the Soul

Weekend meditation: What in you yearns for nurturing?

I have found time and time again that listening is a good thing. The only smart thing to do.

• Listen to your body
• Listen to the whispering voice
• Listen to the yearning
• Listen to the craving
• Listen to the squeaky wheel
• Listen to the part that is asking for nurturing

Ignore your body and you will get sick. Ignore the whisper and you will be unfulfilled. Ignore the yearning and you will be miserable. Ignore the craving and you will be unsatisfied. Ignore the squeaky wheel and it may stop turning all together.

Ignore the part of you that needs nurturing and you will grind to a halt.

Listening is hard, harder than it needs to be. There is so much white noise in our lives, it takes effort to hear through the static. If we don’t listen carefully, intentionally, regularly the message gets louder. Louder; more painful, more urgent, more frantic. The dial is turned up. And up. And up. Until we act. Until the message us undeniable (and your options are few).

Listen to the whisper. Tend to the niggle. Soothe the ache. Oil the squeak.

*image credit

Competing for my heart

I am a bit of a foodie. I have been accused of channeling Martha Stewart more than once. On one famous occasion I had a complex concussion (knocked myself out cold on the kitchen tiles) and stupidly decided I needed to bake an apple pie from scratch in the 30 minutes before my guests would arrive. The party was a success, nobody noticed my slightly swollen brain and the pie was delicious!

So it won’t surprise you that I have coveted a Kitchen Aid Stand mixer for, like, ever. And I had to combine my 25th Birthday Present and my First-Ever Mother’s Day to justify the expense. I LOVE it! It is an antique green and it is used every other day for everything from baking specialty cakes, to making the smoothest ever mashed potato, to making pizza dough, home-made bread, everyday cakes and my husband’s favourite biscuits.

I never thought it would happen, but the KitchenAid has a rival; The SodaStream. I have been making home-made (non-carbonated) lemonade for ages and using fruit juices in water (lime, lemon, orange, watermelon) to serve to my little man. But this blessed little machine makes the fight to serve healthy drinks to a 2-year-old effortless. The syrups are much lower in sugar than pre-mixed soft drink, I can regulate how much syrup I use (I use about 25-50% of the recommended dose), I can control the carbonation level (medium for son, light for me and as bubbly as possible for Hubby). The SodaStream is far less expensive than the KitchenAid (especially if you buy from Big W as opposed to Online), is used every day and makes Mocktails (something I expect to live on in the warmer months) a perpetual possibility! Not to mention the green implications of not buying prepackaged softdrinks!

Yes, I know I have just outed myself as a kitchen appliance geek. But you will forgive me, right?

*Photo credit

Cravings

Before I was pregnant I had cravings. The normal cravings every woman (and some blokes) get. Ice cream, chocolate, Japanese food, pizza. Usually after a bad day, a blood sugar low or a hormone spike/crash. Often these cravings were a thinly veiled justification to eat something sugary or fatty.

These are not cravings. These are little mental stories we tell ourselves about what it is we want to eat and why. I.e. I need a bag of jelly beans. I crave them when I am studying. Or We are eating pizza for dinner, I have been craving that fantastic chili prawn pizza all week.

Asking someone if they have really had a craving is similar to asking women if they have ever had an orgasm. If the answer is not a resounding “Yes!” then it’s a no. If you have a craving you know it. Really, know it. Like every cell of your body refuses to process another command until you get this random food.

They are sudden, they are undeniable, they are specific and they are powerful.

Mid conversation a craving (in this case for cheese Twisties) hit and before I utter another word my neck extends like a Meerkat on patrol and snaps to the side fast enough to give me whiplash. ‘Twisties!” I splutter as though it is my last request. That very moment I begin to salivate, my head starts to spin and I begin to feel light-headed. Heaven forbid anybody get between me and the nearest packet of Twisties because I cannot be held responsible for that I would do to them. My home will not be a happy one unless I get Twisties in the forseeable future.

Cravings bother me. I am a rational, measured, calm and accommodating person. Cravings are not. Thankfully my husband is, and Seven11 and Franklins are a 2 minute walk away.

Some of my cravings to date, in no particular order: (remember I am only at the beginning of the second trimester)

• Macaroni and Cheese
• Watermelon
• Milk Chocolate (I am a Dark chocolate person normally)
• Pizza
• Sushi (this is an almost every other day craving)
• Mashed Potato
• Frozen Ham and Pineapple Pizza (yes that specific)
• Salt and vinegar chips
• Sour Cream and Sweet Chili Sauce on anything (if all else fails bread)
• Cream cheese, alfalfa sprouts, tomato and beetroot sandwiches
• Turkey, cranberry sauce and cheese toasties
• Ginger beer
• Lime and Passion fruit Sorbet
• Canned spaghetti on hot buttered toast
• Twisties
• Yum Cha
• Pies
• Toast smothered in Peanut Butter

Special permission

I often get warned that a lot of the angst I experience is because I expect too much of people. There is a largely unspoken societal rule that says ‘Don’t expect a lot from others.’ I have seen blog posts dedicated to this exact topic. How much should we expect from friends? How much should you expect from wedding guests, or the guests from the couple? How much is it reasonable to expect grandparents to help with child care?

Everybody has a different agenda. Everybody has competing priorities. Everybody has a schedule that is packed to bursting. Most people want to help you, support you and meet your expectations (I am an optimist). But sometimes, often? it just isn’t possible. So we have learned to expect less. Certainly less that my grandmother could expect from her friends and neighbors when she was my age.

What really pisses me off is when people get upset when you do too much. They start talking about ‘your place’. They start listing off your other obligations. They get defensive. They get suspicious. They get upset.

It makes me wonder what happened to us as a society? What happened to paying it forward? Personal generosity? Helping a neighbour? We are all in for attending a concert for charity. Having money direct debited from our account each month to support the faceless needy. But cooking for the elderly, giving a struggling friend a much needed rest, actually showing up for each other when it counts, well, it seems we need some special permission for that.

I don’t know if it is compassion or pig-headedness, but I won’t be asking for special permission. I won’t be standing by when I could lend a hand, and I won’t be apologising for it either.

Mum Fail, Again

My two-year-old has changed tremendously in recent months. So much so I am honestly struggling to keep up with him. I am ok with him using words I can’t remember using in front of him. I can cope with him putting 2 and 2 together. I even think it is adorable that he has begun to give me orders like ‘I think you need a shower Mummy. It will make you feel better. Go on, do it now.‘ And how he directs me to eat even when ‘morning sickness’ is telling me the opposite ‘It’s dinner time Mum. You should eat now anyway.’

What drives me insane is that his little brain  is curious and clever. He decided the other day to take apart the vacuum cleaner. The day before that he tried to get into the belly of his toy screw-driver to see how it worked. Whenever he finds a real screw driver he goes and tightens the bolts on his table and chairs. Yes, for real. He has half a book memorised already and we only began reading it to him at bedtime 5 days ago. All of these things should be good, right?

Well yes and no. Yes because he is obviously enjoying exploring his world and no because I am at a loss as how to keep him entertained and challenged. Every day I try to cover something educational; the alphabet, numbers from 1-20, how to tell the time, geometry, animal documentaries, reading books. Sometimes he is interested, sometimes he isn’t. I try to do something crafty every day. He loves to paint, draw, use chalk, colour. He is obsessed with learning to use scissors and glue. It might have something to do with his recent obsession with going to school. Real school. Big school.

So I got ballsy and set up paper mache… What was I thinking? Was I even thinking at all? Obviously my brain got up and walked away on its own two legs. I watered down wood glue and put it in a big tray in front of a toddler. In the middle of my living room. Insanity! Of course he splashed his hands in it. Of course we argued that glue splatters were not a design feature for my couch. Of course he got bored within 5 minutes. Of course I ended up covered in glue (in fact I think I am still malting little dried bits of wood glue even now). To top it off as soon as I hung the balloon to dry it popped and the paper mache is now a crumpled mess hanging from my bathroom ceiling.

*Sigh* Epic Mum Fail. I hope one day I get the hang of this.