I am grateful that B and I still have moments that make the girls go ewwww. Although I have to admit it doesn’t take much. A cuddle here, a kiss there. All it took tonight was me feeding B a little cheese and pickled onion nibble. One of my favourite combinations. And only because he had his hands full doing dinner. And for that I am also grateful because B usually can’t resist an opportunity to maximise the ewwww.
The girls want a house. And a dog. I want to stop living in limbo. Or I think I do. I think I want a house too. And a dog. B wants neither. He loves apartment living. I think I might just like the idea of a house and a dog. Because conversely I also like the notion of non attachment. I’m trying to learn to let go and not hold on. Living in limbo enabled that. But I think not being able to make too many decisions because of my health was a huge cop out. And a delightful one too, because we could just avoid doing anything. I feel we’re at a crossroads, or actually a tjunction and I think I want to go straight. B knows I often do just want to go straight. Even when its dangerous. And especially when I can’t. I’ve been waking up with an anxious feeling in my tummy. Anxiety at change. And at permanence. Even though nothing really is. I think these feelings are all tied up in our decision to buy here. I could smile with a nonchalant air at the question of settling before. I wasn’t rejecting anyone by saying yes or no. But as we get closer to making a decision I realise thats whats unsettling me. I like the idea of settling. Not the reality of it. I’m scared of disappearing. Of anonymity.
I felt chilled to my bones today. I suspect it might have something to do with a fairly challenging day. I am grateful for our table burner. For its warmth and its beauty. I love how something so small can transform, not only a room, but a mood too.
We never get our delivery of the Noosa News, so I am so very grateful I grabbed a copy from near my coffee spot this morning. And that I got to see my sweet angel’s face when I showed her what I discovered. Her name in print. She thought her offering in class had been chosen for the school newsletter, not for the local paper. Her delight was almost palpable and I am truly grateful to her teachers for her sweet sweet moment. Maybe next time she’ll listen in class too. And Kate was proud of her too, even though she is planning a career in journalism and damn if her baby sister hasn’t beaten her to it.
I met two older women yesterday who really made me stop and think. I have become boring. I have no funk. I love a woman with a classic look but with an edge. A little funk. I’ve lost mine. Francesca is a 50 something year old who arranged a fabulous birthday lunch for a friend of mine. She wore a black edgy coat with high boots, black jeans, a classic black fedora style hat, an artfully tied loose scarf, funky blue ray ban readers. But it was less about what she wore but how she wore it. With flair, with confidence. She was stylish, quite classic, but funky. The other is also 50 something and from one of my favourite decor shops. She was wearing her hair parted and twisted into knots not unlike Bjork, a black jacket with a flair, over a black knee length skirt with a flair and heavy docs. She also had ray ban style prescription frames. She also looked stylish, classic, yet quirky. And age appropriate. And was confident about who she was and her style. She liked my Number Six Karen Walker sunglasses (yay me), and we got chatting about teenagers, docs, converse and style. I realised I’ve allowed myself to disappear. And allowed my kids to censor me. I say I’ve lost my funk, but I’m actually not sure I’ve ever been funky. I think I would love to be. I love all things creative, I appreciate talent and anyone with an effortless style. But I’m not visually creative in the obvious sense of the word, I’m too restrained, too self aware, too risk averse. And I’m cool with that because thats me. But I used to like my style too. Classic with a little twist. I’ve lost my twist. I think I got scared of standing out. I lost me while trying to assimilate. Into all my new worlds. So maybe when I hit 50 I’ll be inspiring too in a funky classic way, because I’m determined to get my funk back. My twist. And not give a damn what my kids say. Or anyone else.
The best kind of dinners are the ones you don’t have to think about, plan, shop for or cook. The best kind of phone calls are the ones you receive from your teenage daughter whilst you are still at lunch at 4pm telling you her and her friend are shopping for dinner and will be cooking too. I am grateful for unexpected phone calls, unusually selfless gestures and spontaneous treats. But next time, I’m not offering to wash up. I should have just left it at thank you.
I am grateful for a fabulous day spent with three gorgeous 11 year olds. So fabulous, we all bought the same necklaces. I think I forgot myself momentarily. And I love that.
I am grateful for Mr Bean moments. As in ooh, a parcel for me, I wonder who sent it? I am still so amazed at the simplicity of online shopping with the Australian postal system. Parcels just keep arriving. I have no idea what’s in them. It’s like christmas everyday. Today this package contained a Tommy Hilfiger trench coat that I never ordered. I didn’t.
I am grateful for an exquisite last morning for Mel and her girls. And I’m grateful that not even an impossibly grumpy teenage daughter (only with me of course, but it’s not me, it has to be her, I mean I’m so calm and non reactive) could take away my joy at an early morning walk on the river. But I am especially grateful today for Mel’s visit because her calm demeanour always makes me realise how full on I am. And how accepting I have become of me.
I am grateful my daughters have a father like B. Gentle, kind, firm, loving and very funny. Their hero. And extremely patient. My hero. And very very huggable.
grace and dignity 