A new day

So much has happened, so much is going to change but as I type it is all the same. And that’s OK.

I learned – in a very hard way – that some of my relatives read this blog. It appears that when they read this post they didn’t see a daughter deeply concerned for a parent, they saw someone saying dreadful things about someone else.

Those of you who know me know that could not be further from the truth. Your comments confirm this – offering advice and insights from your own experience or just empathy for when you are in a stressful situation with one you love.

It appears those relatives then decided, instead of calling me and asking what was going on and if there was anything they could do, advice they could offer, shoulder to lean on or ear to hear with, rang their own mother asking how and why I would say such dreadful things about my mine.

I want to say thank you to all of you who have commented, sent private tweets, emailed me, sent me texts and (gasp) spoken to me over the last stressful week to ensure I was OK, to see where things were at, to offer an ear or advice and to just show me that you care.

Your concern, understanding, love and empathy has been invaluable.

There are some very exciting times ahead.



What to do what to do

I have drafted and redrafted this post all day long and in the end I come to this. I know it is cryptic but you’re just going to have to bear with me on that front.

What do you do when someone you know is clearly severely depressed but they just refuse to see it?

What do you do when you realise someone you love deeply is one of the poorest communicators you’ve ever known? When the result being they throw poison bullets at you, assassinate your character, dredge up things from the past, jump to ludicrous conclusions and basically make you wonder how on earth you come back from this place with them?

What do you do when you realise you are just so much more emotionally mature and skilled at being able to communicate than someone who has years on you?

What to do, what to do.


I know. That doesn’t really make sense does it because it’s so freakin’ cryptic. But it is how it has to be.


A corollary to the above quandary is that I am not going to Melbourne for the Carer’s & Disability Congress.

Thank you so much for voting for me – it means so much to me – but I simply can not go away at this point in time while the above situation is still ‘live’.

I am gutted.


Onward. I guess.

Situation: Normal

Look, quite frankly, I have not been in a good way – very anxsty, very stressed. It has all been finance related so nothing new there and something I just have to constantly keep working on.

To feel productive and to take my mind off our financial yoga pose of down-the-drain I decided to clean the garage. Fist bump my brilliance. Also, go me for triumphing over that rather debilitating spider and cockroach phobia. Hello Sydney’s Northern Beaches. Now, if I could just be a little less pathological in my hatred of ants I am sure I’d be up for some human + environment symbiotic award. Or some such.

The garage. I want you to visualise a double car garage that has never been able to fit two cars in it. It fits Mum’s teeny Mazda but you put the Hyundai silver bullet in there and be committed to sleeping in it and peeing in one of the empty Coffee Dare bottles Chef has thrown over into the back. No point even attempting to get the bus in there, it’s TOO TALL.

So the Mazda lives in comfort but has a rather ugly bedfellow. It’s like a physical manifestation of The Odd Couple. On the one side is Mum’s neat, clean pocket rocket. On the other? Well, imagine a garage with lots of shelves and storage systems and order. Then imagine none of that but the equivalent amount of stuff. It’s like one of the kids bedrooms but with bikes. And scooters. And camping gear. And discarded spare furniture. And dust, dirt and leaves. Such a pretty picture.

Cleaning this space is truly a total indulgence of my burning desire for order and to line things up in neat(ish) rows. Oh sure, it’s all going to be trashed in a matter of minutes when someone comes out here looking for a spanner/screwdriver/plumb-bob/random object not found anywhere else inside the house.

We inherited a metal shelving unit from some neighbours who were recently kicked out to make way for another concrete box new home ignoring its capitalising on its proximity to the beach by building a pool. I stacked various things onto the unit – camping gear, Christmas decorations and so forth.

All good.

The spare chairs for our dining table were then restacked and covered with a filthy rag dropsheet.

All good.

Then the major issue – how to store myriad scooters and bikes so they are easy to get to and, most importantly, put back. The kids don’t care about this shit, but I am so bored with having to pull someone’s bike out and then being cobbled or losing skin off an ankle/shin/knee as another bike/scooter/object with wheels and pointed edges says ‘pick me, pick me’!

But then I realise if Chef’s (broken) motorbike was just a metre forward then everything would be so much better.


And I try to move it.


Without realising it isn’t just on it’s side stand but on the full stability stand (so, you know, boys climbing on it won’t end up under it as it topples over. Chef. Sensible.) I attempt to move it forward and surprisingly enough it doesn’t really budge more than a micro-millimetre. Ignoring this sign from the universe the motorbike not to fucking touch it I really get my weight behind it and give it a good push.

Fucking idiot.

The bike does this heavy groan kind of lurch forward and in relatively slow motion moves forward about 5 cms before I realise I am in deep deep shit and it falls away from me.

In some sort of perverse slow motion I try frantically to pull it back towards me but fail spectacularly. Curiously screaming ‘shit shit shit’ does nothing to stop the forces of gravity and TADA! let’s drop a Kawasaki ZZR 750 onto the side of an automobile. Even better, lets drop it onto the side of your MOTHER’S automobile. Their cute little white little clean little not-a-dint-on-it little car.

I bet you didn’t know the pillion passenger foot rest can really make quite a pretty pattern – and dent! – as it hits and scrapes down the side of a car door.

You know, the front windshield panel on a motorbike pops right out as it slams into the side of a car door, while warping the door as it goes smash, crackle, POP!

Total and utter fuckwit.

I just stand there staring at my handy work. The boys all gather round and stare at the murder scene. None of them, NONE OF THEM, utter a single word.

And then I start to cry.

Cleaning the garage? Noble.
Creating order out of chaos? Pleasing.
Doing more than $2,000 damage to your mother’s car in the process? Priceless.

Still, the boys can easily get their bikes in and out of the garage now.




Pop Quiz

Q: If you know your daughter’s husband only has one day off this week and that day is the day that all four of their children are in the care of various education institutions would you:

a) avoid frequenting their downstairs abode as much as possible

b) if a) has not occurred to you and you see their bedroom door closed would you really knock on the door

c) knock on the closed bedroom door and ask if you can come in

d) knock on the closed bedroom door, ask if you can come in and then start coming in despite l.o.u.d. protestations?


ONWARD. Or maybe Giddyup?

In brief

On Monday I went to my Dad and stepmother’s for a mini-break with the boys.

Last time I went I just loaded their internet connection and off we went.

This time, after several hours, there was no way their system was going to let my system play.


And then the mini-break turned into five days.

It was great! It’s not like we did anything exotic but you know, living the day-to-day somewhere else is always refreshing.

It did, however, bring swift short shrift to my dalliance with doing the 365 blogging thing.

Hah. What a joke. Lasted all of THREE days.


There were further family ‘issues’ in the middle  of it with mum but after many tears that was eradicated.

In a nutshell, she has reached the point where she simply does not want anything to do with my father. At all. Ever again.

My reaction to this has been mixed – featuring a smattering of empathy and understanding with a fair swig of bewilderment and confusion (we have lived in the same house for 10 years and for the better part of the last 8 my Dad and stepmother have come here for the boys’ birthdays etc when mum has also been present) and – admittedly – a few heaving spoonfuls of ‘fucking get over it’.

Then, in my brief interlude back into the city on Wednesday to see my shrink, my mind was cleared. My psychiatrist explained to me that certain events and experiences put down a level/foundation/bed of pain and damage in a person that it is fair, reasonable and possible they might never recover from. And that is OK.

Furthermore, he is of the professional opinion and advice that when a person does/says things within particular categories to you, you have full and total permission to never ever let that person back into your life.

The other people who are impacted by that just basically have to man up, make adjustments and allowances and respect that position.

I am not going into the whole sordid history of my parents – it is neither my place nor my desire to do so. But let’s just say Mum is sitting firmly in both these camps.

Cue immense guilt for what she has done over the last decade to make it easier for me blahdeblahblabhblah. Don’t worry, I’m not dwelling on it, that was as much her choice as it was my desire.

It’s been quite revelationary actually.

My heart is also heavy with just how I am now going to ‘manage’ four children’s birthday parties and various other gatherings but so be it. Say la vie as some would say.


Meanwhile, Grover still appears to have nits, I suspect Jasper does too and after a new treatment program tonight (the proper one from my legend hairdresser) I know that Oscar and Felix both had one tiny louse each and an egg each. Awesome.

Tomorrow I will tackle the little fellas, it was too late and they were beyond it tonight.


The car had to be registered today. Holy crap what a delightful way to haemorrhage even more money. Sheesh.


Yesterday I was out at the pool with the boys and when i returned indoors saw several missed calls from Chef. I kinda knew what it was about.

When he answered he said, ‘So, would you like to speak to the new Head Chef of Danks St Depot‘.


So very proud and so very happy for him.


I am going to say this out loud and totally jinx myself, but these holidays are flying by. Can you believe we’ve only got three weeks left? That three weeks have already been? I am now a firm advocate for going to the beach to swallow whole chunks of time. For FREE!


NOW, something important.

I am about to launch Team Oscar: helping one boy be the best he can be

The goal:

To raise the funds(approx $4,800) for Oscar to attend the incredibly awesome special needs high school St Edmund’s.

The plan:

1. 10kms in 10 weeks.
At the end of last year I went from sitting on my increasingly lardy arse to running for 30 minutes and losing 6 kilos in 9 weeks. So – now I’m setting myself the goal of running from half an hour to running 10kms in 10 weeks. (obviously wanting to lose more weight as well but my focus here is the 10kms.) You can all take bets sponsor me. You’re welcome.

2. Buy the t-shirt.
It’ll have something like Team Oscar on the front and helping one boy be the best he can be on the back, with my blog address because I’m a publicity whore I want people to do the curiosity-click and then donate money.

They will probably be purple w/ white writing – or maybe black with purple writing. Purple is, as many of you know, Oscar’s favourite colour.

Just be grateful it won’t feature an iron-on transfer of some WWE wrestlers on it.

Anyone know of a good t-shirt manufacture for such shenanigans I would be grateful for the lead/intro.

3. Online auction
This is where I’m going to need some help – I have no idea how to run such a thing or what to auction (some of you – Corrie I’m looking at you) have already offered to donate items but really, I still have no idea how to run such a thing.

aaand – that’s it so far.

I’d love your thoughts and ideas for other ways we can get our boy (and keep him there) to St Eddie’s.


And listen, while we’re talking about fundraising, one of the lovely blogging ladies I follow here in Australia is undergoing immense strain and trauma at the moment with her husband in intensive care and the situation looking anything other than grim. The Aussie Mum Bloggers have stepped up and are raising some funds to help her through the next few weeks.

Donate over at Glowless while I try and make the widget work for me here.

Just shocking.


Ummm, I think that’s it so far. Anyone still with me?