Monthly Archives: February 2012

friends

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I like my friends. A lot. In fact, I love them. And often for very different reasons. But I don’t always like everything about them. Just like I know they don’t like everything about me.   Some get me more than others, some judge me more than others, some are amused by me more than others. And vice versa. Some are very very different to me, and I love that because we teach each other so much. Some are very like me and that’s often more challenging, but delightfully affirming too.  Some have very different values, attitudes and spiritual beliefs to me.  But that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends or get each other. I get this. Completely. I wish everyone did.

thirty three

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My little Jem is struggling to sleep. It annoyed me for a moment that B had to sleep elsewhere, but then I realised how lucky I was. Because I got to snuggle up with her. And I know there aren’t too many more of those precious moments left. It is always so beautiful to see her sleep and to watch her wake up. I am grateful I get to do that. I am grateful she still gets comfort from being in mommy and daddy’s bed. I know I always did.

addict

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Approval Addiction is the title of a book my friend gave me to read. She wasn’t trying to tell me something. It’s something we recognise in each other. Seems like such a harsh word, addiction. Am I an addict? I like approval. We all do, if we’re honest. But am I that dependent. That needy. The more I read the more I recognised myself. And I never got past the first two chapters. Because I stopped. Because I’m not. I am not that dependent. Not anymore. I talk a lot about respect and honesty but my other big thing is fear. Fear is the thing. It strangles us. It makes us make the wrong choices or none at all. Books like this exist because of our fear. The world is as it is because of fear. It is what feeds my need for approval. The fear of not being liked, the fear of not being taken seriously, the fear of offending, the fear of being anonymous, the fear of failure, the fear of being ignored, the fear of being alone, the fear of illness, the fear of being destitute. The fear of death. Of late I’ve pissed a lot of people off because I don’t care so much anymore. I can’t pretend anymore so you’ll like me. I like me. And I’m truly not afraid. Maybe the book is not so relevant to me anymore. So, I will not be ending this post with my name is Lianne Cawood and I am an approval addict. Not anymore.

thirty two

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I am grateful for this pile of dirty washing. And for the muddle we all found ourselves in this morning. A muddle because there was too much laughter, debate, advice giving, loving, hurrying, even singing, happening. Grateful because it meant B was home.

thirty one

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Today I was relieved to hear my dad had had a successful prostrate op. Third time lucky. And a good night in ICU. I am so grateful to him for looking after his health and fitness all these years. I wish I could be there. I wish I could hug him. But spending a quiet moment, having a flat white with him, on a bench on his favourite river, was the best I could do. So I am grateful for the memory of him here, because it felt like he was right there with me.

issue

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Another friend, a very supportive friend, commented on how difficult it was for her to share. And how uncomfortable her family would be it if she spoke about them the way I do mine. I respect that. I respect her. She always makes me think.To be honest, Jem has an issue with my posts. Her issue is that I always post about Kate. Actually Kate has an issue too. Hers is that one of her friends saw my drama post and said gee, your mum swears. A lot.  And you all do know of course despite my potty mouth, neither of my kids swear. Or probably because of it. So uncool mom. I think I have always been able to share. But I also know I used to censor myself. I used to only share the bits that would paint a pretty picture. And that’s where I’m not alone. But life isn’t very pretty all the time. But it is a journey. And for me it’s been a journey of finding my self respect. Of earning my self respect. Respect is everything to me. I respect you, and that’s why I am happy to share. To be honest. About everything. I know it bothers some of you and I know some of you just aren’t interested. And that’s all good. If only one of you gets some comfort, some courage in my daily (or not ) sharing about my issues, issues we are all confronted with, and some that I pray none of you will be, then I am happy. And I’m especially happy when that one is me.

me

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I had my breast reconstruction on valentine’s day 2008. So, it’s different for me now. Today 4 years ago I was given me back. Well, a slightly different version of me. A forever physically altered version of me. The me they could sort of bring back. A patched up me. The other old me is gone forever. And I don’t mean that in a sad way. I loved that me then but I love this me now. It’s taken me a while to realise that. That was then and this is now.  But then, I didn’t get it. I honestly thought if I got my breast back, I would be whole again. I could wipe my hands on my jeans, that’s that and it would all be gone. If I could have two grateful posts today, and no I can’t because those are my rules, this would be my second. I am grateful to my wonderful plastic surgeon, Dr Gereth Edwards, who knew me better than I knew myself and who didn’t put up with my crap. The world is poorer for him no longer practising due to an unexpected stroke. And especially because his priority was not people like me, but people who couldn’t pay, who had no hope. He was a saint. He was a young saint.  He didn’t say what I wanted to hear. He was so brutally honest, I hated him at first. But he made sure I understood I would never ever look like that me again. He knew I simply couldn’t comprehend the enormity of it all. Of my disease. I fought so hard and he never let me win. And then I surrendered to him. And here I am. Scarred, but me. A new improved me, who loves her new patched together breasts. If I didn’t think some of you might be offended, and my family mortified I would have shared a pic of my man made breast and my recreated nipple from my tummy, with you.  My previous breasts have been bared on all the best beaches in the world, on a chesterfield with some of my agency colleagues (did I mention I can’t resisit a dare) and breastfed my precious children. I miss them. I shared them. I took them for granted. But these new ones, I am even more proud to share. And eternally grateful to Dr Edwards for. Mostly because I know now, I am so much more than the physical me.

thirty

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Not a day I celebrate with mush, but I would be odd if today didn’t make me think about relationships. And how blessed I am. So today I am grateful for B and I. For us. For the love we share. For the humour we share. For the children we share. For the honesty we share. For the shit we share. For the life we share. I love us.

drama

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No-one said it was going to be easy. To be the mother of a teenager. And I am keeping it in perspective. I am.  But this was exactly what I didn’t want to happen. And exactly what I knew was going to happen.  And exactly what I told myself I had to step back from and let happen. My baby being hurt and let down by some little prick. I know she believed he was more than he was capable of being right now, but he should never have let her believe it. I do have compassion for this boy, because he is going through some serious stuff right now. Far too heavy for a boy of his age, let alone a girl of Kate’s age and sensitivity to be dealing with.  I think he gets this and wants to protect her from it but is incapable of treating her with the respect she deserves. Well, I hope he gets this. Or of understanding how much true compassion and empathy she has.  He couldn’t have wished to have a more perfect angel at his side right now, but he has no idea how broad and beautiful her wings are. He has no idea how to lean on her.  And nor does she know truly what she has. But I see it, fuck do I see it.  Maybe I should thank him for not forcing her to find out just yet. She gave him chance after chance after chance to be the man I think he is down deep inside.To be the person she saw he was, or is going to be. He made her happy, but he also made her sad. So very very sad. And for that I’d like to wring his neck. And mine and B’s, for knowing we were right to forbid it, but didn’t, because we knew it was her choice to make.

twenty nine

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Today I am grateful for how fresh flowers can make everything seem so much lighter and brighter. I don’t buy them too often here because they are a silly price, but as I drove past the fresh flowers here sign I remembered how they always filled our home in SA and how they made me feel. And decided we needed a bit of that today. And tomorrow.