Today I met my latest inspiration. I am grateful I went along to Marieke Hardy’s talk as part of The Noosa Longweekend Festival. She is controversial, witty, insightful, sharp, honest, political, vulnerable. She is an author, an actress, a blogger, a contributor to frankie magazine and The Age, a scriptwriter and often seen on ABC. When asked what she believes she is best at she replied ‘at telling the truth’. Even though sometimes her family wish she wouldn’t. No prizes for guessing why I found her inspiring.
Monthly Archives: June 2012
one hundred and fifty eight
Seeing Kate wearing the jersey (or jumper) my ouma, her great granny, had crocheted for me when I was about her age was just wonderful. I loved that jersey and I’m so grateful Kate loves its now indie vintagey vibe. I’m especially grateful that the trendy sales assistant at Alterior Motif, one of Kates favourite stores, loved it too. My ouma would be thrilled.
mother
I ran away today. Day one and I ran away. From my kids. Kate is feeling ill and emotional and just generally needy and annoying and moody too. Jem wants to know what’s for breakfast after she turned down an offer to join B and I for brekkie downstairs. And she’s moody too. And they’re both bloody messy. And just there. Shit and its day one of school holidays. And I just didn’t feel like dealing with them today. I love my kids so much but I think I love them even more when they are at school. And if you are this far with me you know a lot about me and my family and the love we share and my gratitude for them and the characters that they are. But have I ever admitted that I never wanted them? Well, never wanted kids. My plan was not to get married, never to have kids and focus only on me and my career. My plan. Me. In Control. Then I fell in love. And we loved being the two of us. But then we decided at some point that something was lacking, not with us but just lacking and at 31 the kiddy thing started. I offered 6 weeks of myself. Then I was back at work. Well, that never happened either. I did go back, but later and as a very different person, with a very different view on the world. The thing about kids is suddenly you realise you are no longer in control. Not that I ever was, but I loved the illusion of it. So, this morning, I left. Because I could. Just for a moment. And I do love my kids. And I am grateful for them. More than anything in the world. But then, you knew that.
one hundred and fifty seven
I suspect it might be because I’m the giver of nightly fresh food but whatever the reason little Jayde seems to have developed a soft spot for me. She’s always up for a little cuddle, her favourite spot in the evening being on the couch behind my head, often snuggling under my hair. She seems to feel secure there. I’m grateful for the love of a sweet little creature. Whatever the reason.
hoopla
I mentioned I’d read Fifty Shades of Grey. And Fifty Shades Darker. And Fifty Shades Freed. And was asked what I thought. I must admit I was intrigued. Especially after Helen gave me a copy of time magazine with a write up on it. I mean, it was in time magazine. I bought it at the airport. Erotic fiction is not exactly a good aeroplane read with a stranger in the seat next to you or your sweet little daughter asking what you reading mom? Quite explicit. But oh so tedious. And oh so badly written. And so repetitive, even her choice of words. Same adjectives used over and over and over and over again. The first sex scene was intriguing, the dominant submissive bondage thing, but then became so formulaic, so unexplored, so expected I actually flicked ahead. Tum ti tum. Mommy porn? So if you wonder why then I read all three, I can only blame my need to finish things, my obsessiveness, my need for linear completion, and my curiosity. I just wanted to know what happened at the end. Damn. But my advice to you, if you are hoping for good fiction, don’t bother. It’s a happy ending. Even if all you want is a good read, a good story line, well written sex scenes, don’t bother. If you want to be titilated, didn’t do that for me either. In my opinion the hoopla is just not worth it. In fact, I am a tad confused by it.
one hundred and fifty six
I washed today and ironed today and washed some more and ironed some more. I am grateful B is home with a bag full of washing. I am. Really I am. But I hate ironing. And no, I simply cannot find my meditative ironing bliss. But I am grateful for the little chuckle at my life. At change. At choice. I am grateful for my newfound humility and my silly pride at a job well done. But I still hate ironing. And I still don’t do windows.
anti?
I thought quite seriously about getting a tattoo at one point. To celebrate life. A flower chain on my wrist that I would add to every year since I finished treatment. I thought about it seriously for a minute. Naah. One, tattoos are not for me. And two, I was so determined not to be defined by this, not to be Lianne Cawood, cancer survivor. And that tattoo would help me do that. And I do so like to define myself in concrete ways. Which is not a good thing. And anyway, it’s there whether I like it or not. The cancer survivor thing. But it’s only a little part of me. You see, yesterday was not only our anniversary it was also the anniversary of my mastectomy. 5 year anniversary. And that’s the reason I am so glad I never got that tattoo, because that is all that would matter. Every day. But yesterday we mattered, not it. Now I love the sudden reminder, the wow can you believe it was 5 years ago feeling. That was then, this is now. I’m writing about it because it was a wow moment and I love that, and hopefully someone will get hope from our ability to smile now. And also because I realised I haven’t quite put this tattoo thing to bed yet.
one hundred and fifty five
I am grateful B remembered it was our anniversary today before I did. I suspect I would have been less than gracious had it been the other way around. I am also grateful for the fortuitous timing of his return. Despite me forgetting (momentarily(!)) the day we got married 18 years ago, I suspect I would have been less than gracious had he not been home to celebrate. I am especially grateful for the magnificent day we were blessed with today. It has been a very good day.
one hundred and fifty four
vomit
I dropped my fourteen year old at a party last night. Watched her walk in smile and wave. My heart sang and sank. It sang at her beauty, her independence, her kindness. It sank at the loss of control, the fear of the unknown, the fear of her peers, the knowledge of needing to let go. But jeez louise, she is only fourteen. Was I right to let her go? This was a byo party. Openly byo. Yes, by invitation only, with id being checked at the door, but still bring your own booze. Come on. When I fetched her at 12, I drove past packs of kids heading home. Weaving home. Did their parents even know where they were? Girls with heads down in the gutter, vomit all over the road outside the party house. Kate and her friend were all smiles and full of stories. It was a good night, it was a fun night, but mom, everyone was drunk. Everyone. Even their friends who don’t drink. I admit I was very proud and yes relieved at my strong willed daughter. Actually she just isn’t interested yet. The father was there and had to call a passed out fourteen year old girl’s parents. I am so confused by all of this. The kids are going to do it, maybe earlier than I would like but the world is hurtling along for them. They’re dealing with things way before we had to and thats just the way it is. Was it right of these parents to provide a ‘safe’ environment for them to do it in? But what happens when those kids leave that house? Where do their parents think they are? Well I knew and I was there. And I suggest you do too. We can’t keep our girls in a cage, that is simply not the answer, we can only equip them to make the right calls, and to call us no matter what and no matter when. No judgement. Well, I’ll try. So I will continue to live by that, but damn it’s going to be tough. And it’s just too damn soon.





