Selwyn's Sanity

Shut Up, Stupid Heads!

2012-01-25T03:52:00.000-08:00

That's a four-word summary of what I'm writing about over at Segullah today.

Of course, now that I've written publicly, getting all snarky with my whole anti-dating and -remarriage attitude, I should probably cue the intro music for the next scene, no doubt titled "In Which Life and God Have a Humongous Laugh and Set Forth To Prove Me Yet Again An Idiot."

Yep. Situation normal really.

My 7 Links, or, Retrospective Introspective

2012-01-22T04:33:00.000-08:00

So, my (amazing) friend Queen Marnie tagged me in a meme (my first ever!) way back in... bugger. AUGUST. Totally skipping over the fact that I'm way late to this, here is my response!

Though I will say it feels odd to be reflecting about my own blog, in which I am intensely neurotic, catastrophising and carrying on at the best of times, so to be talking about my blog on my blog seems as subtle as a rugby tackle to the head.

But that's not going to stop me from doing the meme! My first! Woohooo!

Okay, 7 links coming up.*

My Most Beautiful Post

If it's in terms of words, it's Snapshots From A Difficult Day. For me, it's the post that managed to wrap up the huge, conflicting, intense, tiny moments and emotions that make up my life - taken from just one day - and capture them just like I wanted and remembered.

If it's photos, it's Hatro, freshly twelve years old and newly ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood. Feels like eons ago... and he's changed a whole heap since then!

My Most Popular Post

Blogger stats tells me it's far and away the one about getting my tattoo re-inked. (Most of the traffic came from a Segullah post I commented on.)

My Most Controversial Post

I don't really write controversial stuff, though I've noticed some of George' and Jezzie's actions tend to get feelings and comments on the cranky end of the spectrum (cranky towards them, supportive of me which is both comforting and vindicating). In particular when I asked "Guess Who Got Married?" (hint: it wasn't me) and seethed about delusions. My favourite vent would have to be the one with cake.

My Most Helpful Post

This is a tough one. In terms of help for others (not that I know if anyone has actually done anything with the advice I tossed into the internet's wind) who want to help those who are hurting, it would be 'How To Catch The Pieces Of Your Friend's Broken Heart'. The post to help those who are hurting with music would be providing a 'Soundtrack For the Dumped and Broken Heart'.

A Post, The Success Of Which Surprised Me

Any post which someone comments on. Surprises and dumbfounds me every single time. That said, 'Blanket' affected more people than I expected. I didn't mean to make anyone cry, but turns out I did with that post. Sorry!

A Post That Didn't Get The Attention I Think It Deserved

I'm thinking this one won't get the attention I want it to until my boyos are old enough to read some of my blog and really understand the weight of the last couple of years. It'll be a wait, but I hope it will be worth it.

The Post I'm Most Proud Of

Most I've already listed. Though I am mightily fond of 'Yeah, Happy Father's Day You %&$(%@#!!'.

I'm meant to tag some other people for their own "7 Links", so - with no obligation at all:

The Awesome Angry Baker
The Gorgeous Michelle
Magnificent Mel
Whomever else would like to jump in and play.

And I'm really interested to know which of my posts you like the most (for whichever reason) and how you first got here. Blogger stats don't tell me everything...

*Seven links and plus some.^
^Obviously.#
#Footnotes are a favourite of mine.^

On Being Crumpled, Not Crushed

2012-01-17T02:58:00.000-08:00

It's one month until my current uni term finishes. That's one (major monster) essay, and one (two-hour, open-book, oddly questioned) on-line quiz. I've already asked for (and been granted) an extension for the essay. Summer holidays finishes for the boyos on Sunday, then they're back to school. That's when I'll be seriously addressing my essay.

I am trying really, stupendously, incredibly hard to be gentle with myself.

It's...uh. It's not going so well.

Before Christmas I was seriously considering resigning from my new job. The people I was working with were taking it as a personal insult that I didn't know what to do, where to go, where to find things and what happened next. It was happening over and over and OVER and OVER again. Every shift. Warring in my head were two armies, with the generals of each army brawling at each other right behind my right eyeball. "She shouldn't dread going to work!" one roared at the other, the pitch causing my eye to twitch. "She has to work - she has sons to support and money to save for five weeks of not working!" the other spat back, stomping so hard my teeth snapped together.

"The hours suck - she's not seeing her kids!"

"She has to suck it up, it's called life! It could be worse - she could be working for family!"

To and fro, back and forth the words, punches and arguments flew. Tasha was worried about me, I was worried about me, and I was spinning between the two belligerent (yet compelling) arguments. Until -

"It's just a job, Sel."

Tasha made the simple statement.

"You can quit the job. It's just a job. You're not like George if you quit the job, if you stop trying. You don't have to succeed at everything you do."

Both aggressive, sweat-streaked and exhausted arguments staggered under her perfect punch to the gut, woofing out air and falling on their arses in surprise.

I could quit my job. I don't have to succeed at everything.

I'm not like George if I leave something behind.

I didn't quit my job.

Things got better at work. A couple of shifts with really good people helped enormously. But most help was the knowledge that I could resign, that working there wasn't carved into the face of the planet, visible to the sun, forever.

I'm constantly under pressure. Most of it I've given myself, maybe some fragment of my personality trotting through my unconscious hours, laying freshly ironed expectations and hand quilted concrete assumptions across my shoulders and forehead. I have to maintain my Distinction plus average at uni. I have to get out of bed when my boyos do, even if I've only had five hours sleep. I must be available for extra shifts at work. I will send out birthday cards in advance^. Presents too*. I will get the stuff I was meant to organise in November delivered#. If I don't bake the cake and biscuits for the boys' lunches how else are they going to know I love them? I'll drive the hour one-way to take and collect Hatro and two others to EFY, because Hatro's going to EFY so I have to get him there.

Why high grades exactly? Which scholarships are being applied for, let alone at risk? Why get out of bed so early, when it's holidays and I need (on a mood enhancing, bone deep, nerve-endings and soul replenishing level) to sleep for at least two more hours? Why take extra shifts right now when I am so tired? Why send cards when the internet is available? Why not skip the baking and just sit and hug a son instead? Why not stop and realise that my ward is full of willing and able women with much more time and resources who can take Hatro to EFY as well as the two other young men?

Want to know why? Because I had forgotten I had a choice, or at least an option beyond "If it's going to get done, I have to do it". Truth is, since moving to BrisVegas my options have furled open, twisted and spun, streaming through the air as banners behind a charging war horse. But I'm still used to having possibility tightly scrolled and folded, kept forgotten in an unused pocket somewhere in the luggage train.

I hadn't realised that I was so clenched against dropping anything, to failing, to walking away from something that wasn't broken, to being in any way anything like George. That sword wasn't protecting me, it was giving me something dangerous to fall on when my energy/will/determination ran out.

But it's weight is familiar, it has helped make me strong. And I'm afraid that if I let go of my expectations of doing everything properly/brilliantly/myself, everything will come tumbling down.

But the image I have in my head, whenever I think about letting go, is of a crumpled flag stretching out in the breeze, and cartwheeling on the grass beneath it. And that picture makes my shoulders release a captive sigh, my eyes close in victory and a slow smile march home.

^Sorry Marnie. I meant to!
*Um, sorry Michelle. They're coming... Soon....ish.
# Oops, I'm really sorry Tay! This year - I promise!

The Hole I Left Beside Me

2012-01-08T05:14:00.000-08:00

I don't pay attention to my shadow. I just looked down past the curve of my dress and - yep, just as I casually expected - my shadow's puddled beneath me like (I imagine) it always is. For all I know it's been off touring the globe, or swimming through the summer dusk between the husky crickets and darting geckos, but regardless of where it may have been, right now it's licking the balls of my feet.

It has come as quite a shock, and then irritation, that I've been carrying a hole around beside me, and paid less attention to it than I have my shadow. It's been tethered to me, following me in the ebb and tumult of my days and I didn't even know it was there. Not a hole to drop things in, but a blankness, an untaken breath, the wait before the begin. It's less a hole than an outline with dotted edges, "Insert here" in italics across the stretch of it.I had no expectation of it, unlike the unwritten-yet-assumed agreement with my shadow, didn't even know that the hole has been just there to the right. like a dance partner on a half second delay.

A cut-out, a pause, waiting to be filled, to be energised, to have any number of verbs shoved into it and take a step, stagger, lift a load of it's own. A hole I left beside me for George.

On closer examination, it doesn't read "insert here". I can recognise my own distracted scrawl across the belly of the dull paper, the hopeful words dejected and forlorn. "Insert George's parenting here" it says, leaving plenty of room for races and movies, unchartered reaches for exploration and memories, emotional depths never considered, let alone plunged.

I left space for George to step into the boys' lives. Years ago, still smarting and grazed from the abrupt stripping of my world, I deliberately (and a little grudgingly) picked up the luggage that plainly stated "Single Parent". No Bedazzling on these cases, no soft padding or camouflage greens - just thick canvas with a rough heft and pull to it, the sharp smell of swallowed tears leaking from the pockets, and the knowledge that whatever the contents, they were now all mine.

And in that moment of picking up the load, I must have had a pinch of hope somewhere, that took a scrap of cloth and pinned it just out of reach of both my hands and my shadow, a ragged bit of parenting that I hoped George would pick for himself. Then - full of balancing demands, shifting needs and ragged heartbreaks of three broken people - I took a wobbly shuffle and staggered a bit forward, with a train of luggage chuffing and groaning beside, astride and behind me.

Then fast forward three years, to George's epic fail of parenthood, delivered to my inbox. Officially, cowardly, removing himself from the boys. After the email (or maybe just a couple of sentences into it), I saw the hole I had left beside me. Three years had severely mauled the scrap of cloth. Truth be told, the luggage I originally picked up looks different now too - it's scuffed, ripped in places, some bags are entirely unaccounted for (though certainly not missed). But the weight of my load is familiar now, the cloth comfortable against my shoulders, the smell spicy warm, and I know exactly which box is best to kick and which pockets hold the most cherished mementoes. But the little scrap of cloth, hopefully pinned in my wake? It is still the centre of the hole I left beside me, but time has not been kind to it.

When I read George's email (and reread it the following days), I considered what was left. I had left a hole nearby, a space the boys desperately wanted George to fill. But he didn't. He didn't fill it, whether he wanted to or not. The scrap of cloth isn't even scrap any more. It is a pinchful of thread, stuck by nothing more than the static cling of lost memories and ignored potential.

I had wanted (over the course of the past few years) for George to want the boys' photos, their school report cards, notice of their safety during cyclones and camping trips, postcards from school excursions, the bickering and tussle of having two demanding, intelligent, frustrating, exuberant, astonishing sons.

I wanted George to want the boys.

I wanted my sons to know their father wanted them.

That's why I left a space, just in case George ever stepped up and said "I'll do it." It wasn't to control his influence on and with the boys, but somewhere he could begin, to say "This bit is mine," and stretch out from there.

But he didn't.

He sent the email, and with a few keystrokes the last threads of possibility shuddered, released their stubborn, hopeful grip on each other and spiralled away. There should have been bagpipes, howling their grief and fury at a battle so carelessly lost. It's a war I had - and have - no will to fight.

I wanted George to be a parent. That's what the hole was for. Not for me - not even at midnight, when the weight of my worry crushes all sobs in my throat, and I wonder how I am ever going to be what my sons need. Not for George - not even when the boys are dazzling tumbles of wit and eccentricities, wellsprings of laughter and lessons in humanity and confusion. The hole was for the boys, to fill up the spaces in their own lives where they wanted George to be.

I left a hole.

It wasn't filled.

At least not the way I wanted it.

The threads have pulled apart, lost to the dance and tumble of our lives, arguments held and refereed, family prayers uttered, hugs shared, insults hurled and every day's laughter. The hole isn't there any more. It's been filled. Filled and overflowing with the dust and sparkle, the wild tears and noise, the wounds and victories and crazy journeyings that Hatro, Wong and I have lived together.

Maybe, just maybe, in our own special way, (scarred and pitted from the war thrust upon us, maybe because of those losses and sudden successes, how they've roughly tied and thoroughly knotted us together) maybe, together, we are whole.

This Time Next Year

2011-12-29T13:05:00.000-08:00

Posting about time going by too fast over at Segullah today...

I have a huge list of things to write about, hopefully in the next week. Life is - as always - odd. Crazy. Brilliant. Demanding.

This time next year seems somewhere over the edge of the earth.

Giving Away His Children

2011-12-13T19:04:00.000-08:00

I had to email George a reminder (which was actually written as "You owe me an email") after a week of nothing. Here's his reply:

That's the entire email* (names changed to protect both the innocent and [insert appropriate noun/verb/adverb/adjective/invective here^]).

I have several favourite# parts of the email, but am off to work so I'll have to detail those later.

* I really must update my internet skills and knowledge - I never realised it could be used to casually give away children before...

^ By here I mean "In the comments." Please!?

# By 'favourite' I mean "Bits that have me particularly flabbergasted, irate and/or laughing my butt off". Feel free to share yours here^ too!

More than anything, I'm sorry for George. He doesn't know what he's throwing away, and it's going to haunt him, be the biggest heartbreaking regret of his life and eat his soul to dust.

Timeline Of An Unbelievable Afternoon

2011-12-04T03:51:00.000-08:00

**Times are approximates**

8a.m. - George returns Wong's phone call from yesterday. "Yeah, I just wanted to know if I should bring my Doctor Who dvds" says Wong. A minute later the call's ended and Wong's digging through our dvd collection. "Dad said I can bring it!" he sings out to me.

9.15 a.m. - during church, just after the sacrament's been passed, Wong cuddles into me. "I miss Dad," he sighs. We whisper together about praying for those we think about, and how much he's looking forward to seeing George.

11.45a.m. - I see a little blue car cruise into the church parking lot, and am confident it's George. Relief shudders through me like the first stage of flu.

12p.m. - On the way out to the car, find out choir practise has been cancelled, and try to find Wong. I make it to the building doors when Hatro soars past me, shoeless and without his tie. "You okay?" I call. He frowns, turning, and says "I'm looking for Wong. Dad's out there, near our car." He shouldn't be frowning. My stomach curls in on itself.

12.05 - I take the boys bags out of the car boot, and realise with a start that George has parked three spots over, no cars between. Hatro is back, bouncing on his toes behind me. George gets out of his car (he's put on weight.. lost hair... he looks... crumpled?), looks me in the eye and turns away. "I sent you a text message" he said. "I can't take them this afternoon."

I blink, repeatedly, trying to clear the growling in my ears.

"I sent you a text, but I guess you -"

"No," I interrupt, "I don't check my phone at church."

"I'm sorry, but I can't have them this afternoon. But I can hang around here with them while you're at choir practise -"

"Choir's been cancelled." I'm looking at him, incredulous, seeing his eyes skitter away whenever they meet mine.

"Oh..... Are you hanging around? Can you, I mean?" I see Wong zoom up behind him, circle his arms around George's waist, tight.

My hands are shaking, and I have the keys so tightly gripped that up to my elbow aches. "Uh, sure. How long.. how long are you looking at?"

"Ummm.. ten? Fifteen? Maybe 20 minutes?"

"Yeah, no worries" I say, "I'll be inside. The boys can come and find me when you're done."

"Thank you," he says, but I can't look at him. All I can see are Wong's arms around him, then Wong's grin rising like the moon from his orbit.

"Have you told Wong?" I asked.

"No" George says, and I turn away from the boys' expectancy, saying "I'll be inside." Then I'm across the grass, burning into the chapel, hoping my clenched hands loosen before my stomach does.

30 seconds later - I have no idea how many people I've pushed past, but I see Arn and lurch to a halt. "Have you seen Tasha?" I ask, and wind myself a little tighter, trying to keep the shrieking in. I must have looked awful; poor Arn has a double take and leads me first to the Primary room, then kicks someone out of a room to let me into it, closing the door with a rushed "I'll find her!"

My hands flutter like broken butterflies from my mouth to the window pane. I can't stop the shaking, and I'm trying to suck the tears back in. I can imagine what's happening out in the car park: Wong's face red and blotchy, throwing his huge blue eyes into violent contrast, Hatro deadpanned looking off to the right somewhere, the little muscle under his ear twitching. I can't believe it. I never expected that he wouldn't actually come and get them.

A minute later - the door opens, Arn comes in. "I can't find her" he says, watching me carefully. "I'm sorry," I tell him. "But he's not taking them." Arn frowns, confused. "He's out there, in the carpark but he's not going to take them this afternoon. He's not taking the boys." My eyes flood again, and a surge of frustration and disappointment sears the wave away. "Ugh, he's out there, and I just want to ARGHH-" and I'm throttling the air in front of me.

I take a breath, apologise to Arn again. "I'm sorry. I'll be okay. I'm just going to go sit in the chapel. Thank you for looking for me." Arn opens the door for me, and I walk through it, through whoever was clogging the hallway, and out to my car. I look over from behind my sunglasses and it's like I pictured - Wong's head a mottled mosaic against George's side, Wong stiff and intent on something out the window, all three of them crammed into the back seat of George's little car. I grab an old bookmark from my car, and return to the building, walk until the air-conditioning kisses my forehead and wraps its arms across my shoulders. I make it to the first bench and fold into static.

Not even two minutes later - Tasha whirls in "I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you!" She hadn't even seen Arn yet, just came out of the Bishop's office to see me sitting there, alone. Again the fury surges across my face, burning me from the inside. "He's not taking them." I tell her.

Tasha not sits but kind of staggers to a thump beside me. "WHAT?"

"He's not taking them. He's out there in the carpark, right now, but he's not taking them for the afternoon. He's just out there with them for about 20 minutes, then that's it."

Tasha stares at me, shocked.

The next ten minutes or so - swirl between my tightly reined relay of events to date, and discussing her current Primary responsibilities. I keep an eye on the exit driveway, waiting and dreading for the sight of George's car leaving.

"Right, I'm going out to the car." I collect myself, stand, and Tasha walks out to the curb with me. I detail where his car is, without pointing. The Relief Society President is lingering nearby, knowing that something significant is happening but with no idea or clues as to what it might be, particularly with hearing:

Tasha - "You going to be okay?"

Me - "Yep. YEP. I just don't see why sometimes I can't just punch someone who so deserves it."

Tasha - "Well, I'm going to my car, but I'll still be here if you need, okay?"

The RS President asked me about my new job as Tasha walked away, then waved to someone who had parked between George's car and mine. I wished her a good week, and walked to my car, got in and started the aircon. Looking up I saw Tasha walking back, she came and stood with me, chatting about nothing.

A minute later - the boys opened his car doors, and Tasha walked away. Wong was saying "Love you Dad" as he walked to our car, George walking around the bonnet saying "I think you'll be taller than me" as Hatro reaches out to hug him. Hatro doesn't look at me as he returns to the car, and suddenly it's George realising as he opens the door that I'm beside him.

The door closes, carefully.

"Thanks" he says, looking at me for half a second before his gaze tumbles to the ground.

A pause, my teeth reluctant to open. It needs to be said.

"That was a shitty thing for you to do." I look towards my car, can only see the heat reflecting off the glass and am relieved the boys are inside.

"I know," George replied, "I know it's made things difficult..." he slows to silence.

"No actually, you don't know. And that's what irritates me." I state, shoving the words at him, sharp and hard.

"Whatever you've got going on in your life, whatever's happened to cause this, regardless of if you do email this week like you texted to tell me the reason why you've done this - just, in this next week, work out when you want to see the boys over Christmas and let me know. I have to make plans, and plans for the boys, okay?"

Again our eyes meet, and he drops his away. "Uh, with Christmas..." he glances up, shifts away again, his words washing against the hot air and spiky midday reflections "... just make your plans with the boys, and I'm sure they'll be fine... that the... your plans will be fine."

He's not having the boys over Christmas. I stare at him, appalled, (one part of my brain works out where exactly to punch, pull then shove to put George through his car's open window, a mental movie as clear and sharp as broken glass) then blink and take another breath.

"Are your parents coming up at all?"

He shakes his head, no.

He opens the door, says "Okay then.... thanks."

I raise my hand in a whatever farewell, and return to my car, where the boys are discussing candy canes. We're not even out of the carpark (George has already gone) and I address the elephant.

"Guys, I'm really sorry that Dad isn't spending this afternoon with you."

A grunt from Hatro, a sighed "Yeah" from Wong.

"Did he tell you why?" I ask.

"Yep" they both reply.

"Why's that?"

"Because of money" Wong states simply from the back seat.

A half second of derision in my head then "What? Aw, guys, that's a crap excuse. Wait, I'm not doubting that's what your Dad told you, but that is a stupid reason. There is no reason why no money would have stopped you guys hanging out together this afternoon, and I'm sorry that your Dad gave you that excuse."

I take a deep breath, release it slowly. "I'm sorry that he's not seeing you this afternoon guys, whatever his reason is. But I want you to know that I think that reason isn't a reason, it's an excuse and a stupid one."

Personally I'm proud that my voice has stayed in its normal register, and the boys are reacting like its just another one of my mini-rants-against-whatever. A minute later and the boys are in hysterics because I'm telling them off for hypothetically stealing Christmas trees, and the ten minute drive home is full of our usual jokes and rampant imaginings.

But I'm still cranky and bewildered as hell.

Now (a good nine hours later) the boyos are in bed. Wong's cried in my arms about the whole thing ("We could have gone to a park! We could have watched Doctor Who! None of those cost money!"), Hatro's put himself to bed early, and all I feel is a squishy sadness for George.

He didn't look happy. He looked... emotionally crumpled. Beaten by unknown assailants. While the fact is he disappointed the boys, I have to give him credit for coming to tell them in person, spending at least some time with them, and in the carpark of a church. That couldn't have been easy on him.

It sure wasn't easy on the boys.

He Didn't Take Them

2011-12-03T19:25:00.000-08:00

Angry doesn't even begin to cover it. More later, after I've sat and soothed my boyos for a while.

The Boys Are His Tomorrow Afternoon

2011-12-03T04:07:00.000-08:00

I finally had contact from George. A text message. So the boys are off to spend the afternoon with him (and whoever else) tomorrow afternoon.

I'm not 100% sure how I feel about it.

I'm happy for Wong - he's been giddy all week, looking forward to it, and jumping in circles today when he realised George had been in touch about it, so it was going ahead. Though Wong wanted to ask George something today, rang, left a message, and (in keeping with the usual) has received no reply.

It's 9.35pm, both Hatro and Wong are fast asleep, and I'm trying to nail how I'm feeling to the wall. It's like when some people are nervous their leg jitters, but inside my ribs. I watched the boyos today; they spent the entire day in their pjs just relaxing, scooting up to me every now and then for a 'hugsy', calling out to each other in different rooms as they competed against each other in computer games, hollering insults and threats and I realised: they are happy. There's no cloud of grief or frustration hanging over them, no bitter fizz of anger or disappointment. They are comfortable and content in our new home, enjoying a simple day together, casually expectant that I'm there and available, ready to tease them or put them in a hug or a headlock, able to disagree or demand a better argument/excuse/level of manners.

I can't see any signs in my sons of being "from a broken home". I've looked for indicators, damage, compensating behaviours and while there have been issues and needs, they've been addressed with the best ways I've known how, until here - right now and today - I just see my sons. Two incredible, demanding, demented, clever and stubborn people that I'm lucky and blessed to share my home, heart and life with.

Tomorrow, George gets to share some of that. He doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve them. The fact that we have been here over a month and he's only seeing them for the first time irritates me. Well, it did irritate me. Now it's a feeling of sorrow for him, as in "I'm so sorry that you're so dumb that you're not spending time with them." I wonder when it's going to hit him. The weight and magnitude of his stupidity.

Is it going to be when Hatro walks up to him, and George finally realises that it is Hatro and not some unknown kid? Is it going to be when Wong finally lets go of George, hugging a year of missing and lost opportunity into his side? Or is it going to be when he waves goodbye to them tomorrow night, and the smell of sweat and sun slips out of the car and silence fills the spaces where the boys voices were?

I don't know. Maybe he won't realise at all. Maybe the George who would care is long dead, buried somewhere lonely and forgotten. Maybe he's lost, wandering in the demanding mud of obligation and keeping up appearances. I want him to realise his stupidity, for the cost of his decisions to gouge into more than his wallet.

He's picking the boyos up from church tomorrow (the possible headlines are limitless), dropping them home between 7 and 8pm. They're taking their swimmers.

So I'll have the afternoon to myself. I hope - for the boys' sake - it becomes a regular occurrence, spending an afternoon with their Dad. I hope it doesn't bomb.

Nope - I hope it does bomb. I hope that there's words said that show the boys exactly where they stand in their Dad's priorities. And I hope they find out that he loves them. I hope Jezzie's not there, that she and George don't try to play happy families, that my boys just get some time with their Dad. I hope it is a steaming mess of awful and I hope that it's just a fun afternoon out for them, and there's some middle ground where nobody gets hurt.

Here's hoping.

On Playing Nicely With Others

2011-11-30T04:16:00.000-08:00

I keep expecting wood splinters to tumble from my hair.

Some days I'm not scraping at the bottom of the barrel for patience and calm, I'm actually using my forehead as a brake or pickaxe trying to pry up one more tiny sliver to help me through until.... until some future half-moment of time where I can take a breath that doesn't rip my shaking grip apart.

The past week has been difficult. The vacate forms from my old place still haven't been signed off, the owners' and agent's greed and unprofessionalism stopping the ink from flowing. I've worked five shift at my new job, three of which with someone that refused to teach me anything beyond where the towels are kept and that I was slowing her down. All shifts have been evening rosters, so I've seen my sons for no more than two hours on the days I've worked. I spun out of control on a rain drenched roundabout after work, wraiths and demons of death and near misses misting my windscreen as I carefully, shakily drove home. The next night I arrived back at my car to a vandalised side mirror, and Coke splattered windows. Wong kept talking about George, and the fun they're going to have on Sunday - George so far hasn't been in touch with me about Sunday, so I've had to tell Wong (repeatedly) that it may not happen if George doesn't contact me. George rang this afternoon and spoke briefly with the boys, and while Wong specifically told George he had to contact me... nothing. I'm behind on my research for uni, I still don't have my washing machine, and I ache.

Frustration crackles along my skin, a purple wave of sharp edged sparks flaring and twitching along my shoulders and arms. It swirls spicy and blue into my mouth and snaps as I bite down, then hisses as I swallow instead of spitting, flares between my teeth as I curl measured breaths and words into conversations and emails instead of the fury burning the restless tip of my tongue.

I feel battle weary. At least there'd be the familiar weight of a weapon by my side, something with which to strike back at the attacking hordes, or to lean upon as my eyes flutter at the approaching grey static. A bandage or two, maybe, to bind the aching halves together, or to cushion my ungainly tumble to the ground. A discernible, obvious enemy to face, with no more sudden stabs of once-friends or ambushes within sight of home.

There is a banner I stumble beneath, though. Whatever I'm doing, however close the tears or tension, doesn't matter if I'm on my face, or feet, or in a seething heap of attitude, I know the words the stubborn cloth sings.

"For the boys, for us."

Playing Catchup

2011-11-19T04:12:00.000-08:00

Wow and oops, it's been nearly two weeks since my last post. Here's the brain dump:

I have a job! After two weeks of sending out applications and not hearing anything back, in the space of two days I had two phone calls organising two interviews. One for a nursing temp agency, the other at a nursing home. The nursing home wanted me to come in the next day, the agency next week. Highlights from the nursing home interview included the question "Well, Sel, why should we employ you?" My response "Because I'm excellent." I did go on to explain the ways I am in fact excellent, but I'm still amazed I answered that question so directly and, well, honestly. A couple of hours later they rang to say I'd been successful, and orientation is on Monday. Having a job is SUCH a relief!
Related to the job; I'm horrified about the fire - deliberately lit - by a nurse at an aged care home in Sydney. Five people have died so far, in a brutal, terrifying way. It frustrates me that so many nurses see aged care as "bottom of the barrel" nursing, as an easy job that nobody wants. Well, I want to work in aged care, both now while I finish my degree and when I graduate, and have no problem in telling people if they don't want to be nurses in aged care, don't work there, and don't grow old.
Tasha drove me to the job interview, and we went to lunch afterwards. Tasha totally rocks as a best friend.
Tasha and I *may* - or may NOT - have driven past George's new address. I may - or may not - have (in my hypothetical [or not]) efforts to look casual during the drive by ended up holding the street directory upside down.
Tasha's best comment, on driving away from George's suburb, "Man, if I lived there, and had seen where you lived - and I'm sure he has, Sel, who wouldn't! Of course he has! - if I lived there and seen where you lived, knowing that's where 'my' money was going... it would EAT ME ALIVE."
I have laughed more since moving here than I have in the past year, easily.
I have been repeatedly surprised by the generosity and love of friends, in person and delivered by post. Hugs for the brain, hugs for the heart, delivered exactly when needed.
It took George two weeks to ring the boys (cost of a local call!) after I gave him our new details, and I reckon it was Wong calling him and leaving a message two days before. Okay, to be fair Wong rang and left a message, and the next day George texted back saying he'd ring the NEXT day. That was rough on Wong, having to wait, though when the call happened Wong was delighted as ever to talk to him. George told Wong he may pick the boys up the first Sunday of December, after church. Two weeks to call, two more weeks to visit - the effort must be exhausting.
Hatro has been ordained a Teacher! He's going to EFY next year! He won't stop growing!
I have a new calling at church - Valiant 9/10 teacher. I get to teach an energetic bunch of 9-10 year old boys. It's going to be fun, frustrating and hilarious, I can tell already.
My extended family are driving me crazy. It's probably just as well I live 1000 kilometres away otherwise I probably would be in a whole lot of trouble for telling them exactly what I think of various stupidities. Zu should stay clear of me for at least a year.
Have been hanging out and shopping with Tasha. It has been so good for me, just to relax and do things (like wander around Spotlight - a fabric store - or a shopping centre, and go and see Contagion, and ~~lose at~~ play Mhing) that I haven't done in.... probably years.
Of course, even without the move and everything, I'm behind in my uni reading. It's a fascinating subject (Public Health stuff, both macro and micro level) and I get to come up with my own research and policy idea. Narrowing it down is the hard bit.
Went to Stake Conference tonight. Wong was in tears before I went, then crying on the phone as I arrived there - he couldn't find the hot dog rolls which in his words was "not a BIG emergency". I also managed to swear before conference started (a habit I REALLY need to get out of - the swearing in conference bit, not swearing in entirety.... baby steps people!) and said to Tasha "I bet conference is about 'Be nice and understanding to your children'..."
The stake conference session tonight was about "strengthening and protecting your children". I was pretty close.
I got home to find Wong had found the rolls and so he was a happy little goofball.
John Scalzi's 'Old Man's War' is my favourite sci-fi book, ever, and is in my Top Three Favourite Books. Even if you don't like sci-fi, do yourself a favour and read it. It's even better on the 10th re-read.
Life is good. Irritating, unfair and unorganised stuff is still going on, but life is GOOD.
And the photo? Lovingly captured by Tasha during a game a couple of weeks ago. The perks of living so close are... priceless.

When The Dam Breaks

2011-11-06T04:44:00.000-08:00

Recently, while Tasha and I were at lunch at IKEA, she told the other woman enjoying our excursion with us "Oh, Sel's a writer."

The comment stunned me, mentally had me falling on my butt saying "What?!?" while on the outside I think I just stammered and blushed as Tasha explained and sung my praises. Part of me was still sprawled in the dirt wondering why on earth she'd say something as huge as that, as another part of me shrugged, then stated "So what? You are!"

I am a writer. I fall asleep introducing words to each other, watching how they slip against each other, twirl and scratch inside a sentence, and I wake trying to tie my dreams to coherency, and wondering how to best describe the heavy lushness of my morning's first stretch.

At some point a quote slipped into my head - the source now lost amid a hundred conversations, the colourful static of a thousand web pages - that whatever your first or last thoughts are each day, that is what you should do with your life.

I don't dream of being a nurse. But I'm fantastic at it. When I am (hopefully) interviewed for one of the jobs I've applied for, I have every intention of being honest when they ask "Why should we hire you?"

"Because I'm incredible." I'm going to say. "Which no doubt sounds conceited, but I am fantastic at what I do. I have enthusiasm, passion, and dedication for caring for elders, regardless of if they have dementia or mental illness or whatever. I care about them as individuals, as clients, as people who have lived and loved and now need help, and I am incredible at it."

It's all true. I'm a brilliant student nurse, an amazing personal carer, but it is not what I dream about.

I dream about writing. Nursing is a career, a skill set that matches my personality, my interests, the calmly considered occupation that will satisfy the various needs of myself intellectually and professionally, and meet the financial needs of my family. Writing is simply, totally for me.

Lately, the words have been blocked. The words haven't disappeared: I can feel the sharp edges of vehemently, breathtaking and startled right where my nose aches when I'm about to cry; the mucous thick stickiness of hesitation, expectation and doubt glop over the tumble of paragraphs in my head, glue the compiled verse firmly up against my ribs. I want to write, have the belly deep pull to create, to slam words and phrases together until they combust into breath and song - but stop.

I'm afraid that I can't write, create, convey what I'm feeling - make something worthwhile - if I'm not in the fire of fury or despair. I'm in such a different place now to where I was six months, a year, multiple heartaches and disasters ago, and have no wish to return to the inferno. If I'm some sort of asbestos flanked hellhound, if firefronts and chaos are what I am wont to live in, I have managed to claw and fight my way out of hell and am now determined to enjoy my time in the sun. There is still definite heat, the sharp teethed potential of new burns and furious blinking to see clearly, the inevitable future sunspot flares, but the incinerating tempest has passed.

I need to write a book. A book about survival, endurance, creation. I can feel the words and chapters sliding against the dam wall, soft syllables shushing just before I can work out their messages. For months now, right at the edge of the world, just before I slide off to sleep, is the knowledge I need to write a book. The fact has grown, spreading through my hours, gold flecks suspended in the sun's heat and painted against the inner curve of my dreaming.

I'm scared of what will happen when the dam breaks. What if I'm awful?

What if I'm not?

No Sugar Coating Possible

2011-10-31T06:36:00.000-07:00

As far as "Topics of conversations you never want to have with your children" go, this evening I managed to move two from the "don't want to" to "done" pile.

I'm not feeling particularly efficient. I'm feeling dejected, thumped yet again by disappointment and self-recrimination. Tonight, in our new home, I sat my boyos down for Family Home Evening and in the course of a conversation told them that their Dad had an affair while still married to me, and that I couldn't make him see them, even living so close as we now are.

I'd had a suspicion that Hatro had put the clues together himself some time ago. But it still hurt to see him put his head down on the table, hidden in the curve of his arm, while I explained to Wong that George had still been married to me when he started a relationship with Jezzie. Hatro kept his face buried as Wong and I talked about promises broken, and how we can't make people choose the way and things we want. After a couple of minutes Hatro sat up and started pulling his eyes into funny shapes (trying to camouflage the burning red edges), just as Wong's eyes swam desperately under the threatening flood of tears, Wong finally realising that George didn't want to see Wong as much as Wong wanted to see him.

I didn't want to tell my sons that their Dad had an affair.

Broke promises to me, to them, to God.

I didn't want to tell them that his choices have been focussed on his new family, not on his sons.

I didn't want to answer that every time George has asked to see them, he has, that I have never stood in the way of them seeing each other. I wanted there to be qualifiers, like "He wanted to, but there was the cyclone", or "He asked to see you every weekend but...."

I didn't want to have to sit, and see them come to bloody, punctured grips with the reality that their Dad.... isn't choosing them. That he hasn't chosen them. For years.

I didn't want to tell them, but will no longer accept Wong waiting - day after day, weekend after weekend - for a phone call or visit that never eventuates. I've tried to protect them both from the selfishness of George's inattention, and today the time and choice came to reveal the truth honestly, carefully, completely.

Like taking off a Band-Aid, there is an amount painful pulling, some deeply lodged wisp of hair unfortunately pulled out by the roots, but now there's knowledge of just what the damage is, what had been hidden underneath, with the opportunity for fresh air and sunshine to dance and tickle its way over the fresh growth.

I took the opportunity to tell them both how proud I was of them. Of Hatro, with his determination to keep to his personal standards, to be worthy of the priesthood which he bears, the strength of character he displays and the incredible individual he is growing into. Of Wong, with his immense love of so many people, and the hurt that he feels for everyone, because of everyone, and his courage to keep loving people despite his disappointments.

I wish that I never had to have tonight's conversations with my sons. I wish that George was different. A part of me wishes that George could see the immeasurable grief he is buying himself in not involving himself in Hatro' and Wong's lives. Only a part of me wishes that, though - because I don't want to miss anything about them, because they are stunning.

I can't sugar coat many things for my sons. I can't be an at home Mum, because I need to work. I can't be as level-headed and balanced in my parenting because I'm the only parent, with no other parent to bounce ideas off, argue with, plan with, tag-team deploy. I can't give them my undivided attention on call because I'm human, I'm studying, I'm trying to keep the household running while hoping the house really does feel like a home. I can't sit back and not be involved in their lives because they are tangled up among my heartstrings, their footprints dance through my dreams, they are the warmth my prayers and hugs wrap around.

I don't give my sons sugar coating. I don't give them everything they want, or even half of what they want probably. But I give them constancy. I give them love, and direction, more love, repeated reminders to brush their teeth and frustrated orders to pick their dirty clothes up NOW! I worry that I'm too tough on them, or too soft, that I'm ruining their lives because I can't give them what I wanted, hoped for and dreamed of. I haven't been able to protect them from pain, suffering, from mowing the lawn or being bullied.

I couldn't make George ring them, see them, contact them, and I couldn't protect them from being hurt because of it.

I could tell them the truth of the situation, and I did. No sugar coating possible. It seems to have gone well. Relief is tart against my throat, soothing. I hope there is drenching sweetness ahead.

That's Not A Giant, That's My Baby

2011-10-08T05:39:00.000-07:00

My baby turned 14 today.

Dear Lord I love this child.

This man-child, who still wanders out of a morning, tousle haired and with one eye open, straight into my arms for a hug before staggering off for breakfast. Who delights in having bigger feet than me, being taller than me, and taking up most room on the lounge.

He has such a sharp, fantastic sense of humour. At the moment he wants to be a psychologist or behavioural scientist (like Cal Lightman on "Lie to Me"), wants to drive the car (2.5 more years to wait) and is balancing between childhood and established young manhood. Some days it's closer to the side where his toy dog lies next to his pillow, some days it's all gruff grunts and muttering.

Yesterday, I made cupcakes for Hatro and his mates who were coming over for a sleepover. I made them in soccer themed cupcake holders (bought waaaay back in April when I visited Tasha) and put little sugar soccer balls on top of the icing. As I called Hatro to the kitchen I wondered if they would be too "little kid" - but he grinned at me when he saw them on the rack, and I could hear the echo of his enthusiastic "Cool!" long after the wrappers were tossed away.

I've been told about Hatro's quick wit shown on the recent Temple trip. They had an activity with youth from a Brisbane ward, and a 'getting to know you' game had them catch a ball, introduce themselves and throw the ball to someone else. Hatro caught the ball, said "Hi, I'm Sebastian" and tossed the ball on. Next time it came around, another name. He had everyone in stitches laughing. He's ready to be ordained a Teacher. He's now old enough to go to EFY next January - I'm not sure if I'm ready.

Two years ago.

15 months ago.

Today.

Baby #1, born 6lb 8oz (3080gms), now somewhere over 170cms tall and probably just a little over the 7lb mark.

Happy birthday Hatro. You'll always be my baby, no matter how tall you grow, how big your feet stretch, how many candles you do (or don't) have on your cake.

A House of My Own

2011-09-29T17:24:00.000-07:00

(It's not this one, but I can dream about getting this guy to build me one of my own!)

I GOT THE HOUSE!!!!!!!!

Happy dance in the lounge room ensued, and ecstatic phone call to Tasha.

It ticks ALL the boxes - close to Tasha (she'll no doubt regret being so close!), in the same school district as Tasha's kidlets, not too big, not tiny, and it's an address to move straight into!

HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY DANCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm Wearing My Ugg Boots

2011-09-28T04:04:00.000-07:00

So, if you go over to Segullah and read my post, you'll know that the above title means I'm studying. Or, that is to say, when I'm not taking this short break to say that I've posted over there today. I've got heaps to say here, but I have heaps of study to be doing, so what I have to say - apart from what I'm currently saying - will have to wait. Because I'm trying to study. And maybe get some sleep in. Sleep would be good, and would stop me having convoluted Douglas Adams and Terry Pratchett style sentences in the conversations in my head.

While being distracted about the house application I put in. For BRISBANE. ON THE SAME STREET AS TASHA. I'm a little excited and very hopeful that I get the house.

And the picture above? It's the one I talked myself out of using for my Segullah post. It's one of the lessons I've learnt (and continually relearn) - when in doubt, don't.

But I still think the picture's hilarious. In a disturbing kind of way. Disturbing with a pink headband of awesome!

The Colour of Happiness

2011-09-22T05:34:00.000-07:00

Tonight is lovely. The stars hang heavy, their sparkle pulling them closer to the ground. It's not cold enough for a jumper, my ugg boots are splayed over in the corner, happiness wraps around my shoulders and tangles in my hair.

The boyos are on school holidays. As Hatro put it in family prayers, they are having a "rather relaxing holidays". Each day when I open the door they each call out to me from wherever they are taming dragons, reading Terry Pratchett or playing computer games. Dust bunnies scurry across the lounge room floor as I walk through, still in my work boots, and I couldn't care less. Hatro wanders into the kitchen and angles in for a hug. Wong changes course on the way to/from somewhere, and blows me a kiss and says "I love you Mum". Now they are both in bed, Hatro listening to an old cd I made him years ago, Wong asleep sitting up nursing his stereo. Happiness waltzes between my heartbeats.

Tonight, I'm back. Back to where I used to be, and so much further and better than I expected. I look back - all the way to September last year - and the storms, damage and shrieking sirens have stilled, having slowly whirred down to sepia tones and sodden ash. Emotionally, spiritually, this past year is a catalogue of broken bones and anaemia, adrenaline spikes, bloodied noses and swollen, tightly shut eyes. Tonight, my eyes are clear and unclouded, it's only freckles that are blooming on my skin, and happiness is a phoenix bursting through my chest.

Happiness is the wild scatter of a fire's dancing flame, confident and bold against the night sky. Happiness is feeling brand new inside your own skin, with a warmth like buttered brown sugar in your bones. Happiness is words, testimony and truth crisp and fresh in your mouth, faith made manifest. Tonight, happiness is who I am, because I have cried, listened, grieved and struggled so many times before. Happiness is knowing that I am better than I was.

Words twined through my head tonight, in shifting hues and highlights. Despite the serious topic - actually, probably because of the subject matter of promises and stupidity - love and compassion welled beyond my ability to capture and collect it. Living through a gospel principle, or a scriptural account, is difficult. There is beauty in words, simply uttered, thick with significance.

"Go, and sin no more. Thy sins are forgiven thee."

Happiness colours my night - dancing embers, swirling sunsets, radiant sunrises, a phoenix of hope soaring within me.

The Fallout Continues

2011-09-08T07:54:00.000-07:00

I think Wong may be an entity to which physics does not apply. At least for Newton's Third Law of Motion, where "for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction". It's now 0001hrs, Friday the 9th of September, and the past five days have been teeth grittingly, eye-closingly painful. For Wong and I both.

If the Law of Motion applied to Wong, it stands to reason that his misery on Sunday would be offset by happiness and rainbows and sonic screwdrivers, right? Well, so far no such have arrived here in our household. Even when Wong rang George on Monday and Moron* actually picked up the phone, Wong wasn't as delighted as he usually was, and after hanging up (no apology from Alien Probe Subject #1* for not being available on Father's Day either, incidentally) the storm front descended and are yet to blow themselves out.

Tuesday George sent the boys an EMAIL thanking Wong AND Hatro for the presents. He couldn't even be bothered to ring to say thanks, which would have made Wong's week. No, instead I had the joy and delight of trying to peel a scowling, belligerent Wong off the floor, walls and family members (read Hatro and myself) that he was frustrating beyond all belief.

I have yelled at Wong every single day this week. Every single day this week I see my grandfather's dense, formidable frown carve cliffs on Wong's face, and have wished that Pop was still alive so I could hear him gruffly tell me "C'mon, carrot top, you can do it." Because it's weeks like this that I really wonder if I can.

I know Wong needs to get his angst and frustrations about his Dad out - but I am heartily, bile-retchingly sick of having to deal with the carnage. Every single day this week Wong has cried at some point, acted appallingly, and stomped around the house throwing tantrum and (worse) books, then sobbing some more or looking through me, sneering, when I bring him to account for it.... Every day this week I have sunk to my knees begging for patience, for clarity, for the ability to know and provide whatever it is that my sons need, knowing that I'm not enough. I can be as much as a Mum AND a Dad as I can be to them - I'm "parent" in any way you care to define it - but I am not ever going to be enough.

Not when it comes to what they want, and what they need. They want their Dad to be involved, to be an active participant. They need exactly the same. I can't give them that. I can't - as much as I'd love to, and have worked out the logistics in my head - I just can't forcibly drag George to them (possibly bleeding, probably bruised, potentially having lost some teeth or yet another [minuscule] testicle) and make him care.

The physics of my love for my boys is down to the very essence of life and movement, wrapped among the honeycombed marrow of my bones, weaved throughout my thought processes and carried on every single breath I suck in, clench my teeth around, and breathe against their foreheads when I kiss them as I sleep. Even the fact that I'm up this late/early is because if I don't vent, if I'm unable to write to untangle my frustrations and considerations, I'll be a worse behaved and responding Mum than if I had gone to bed half an hour ago.

The bitter ash still falls. The boyos have been sniping at each other, armed with whatever sharp words or inflammatory behaviour they can bring to bear. I've yelled at them, both - sometimes separately, sometimes together, often despairing that there will ever be a week where things will simply go well.

I'm going to have to sit Wong down, and talk. "I'm sorry your Dad keeps disappointing you, Wong. It's not fair, and you don't deserve it. You are fantastic, a whirling cosmos of intelligence and compassion, and I can't understand how anyone wouldn't want to be part of that. You are awesome, Wong, and you can become even more amazing. But if you keep moping around I'm going to have to staple your bottom lip to your forehead, and your top lip to your earlobes because the crankypants lumbering around our house looks awfully like you, and I need to be able to tell you both apart."

Or, you know, words to that effect. I'm a bit fuzzy on the details, specifically how to recognise his hurt, while putting an end to his wallowing in it, and flinging the resultant goop onto Hatro and I (mostly me). It just has to end - the fallout is toxic, and I can't keep shoveling it up for the rest of our lives. There's got to be better things beyond the mushroom cloud. I just loathe that Wong can't see it, because the bomb keeps going off, every time George rings... or doesn't.

*Moron = George. Ditto for Alien Probe Subject #1. George/Moron/Probee/Fool/Tosser/Jerk/etc are all interchangeable. Particularly this week.

Yeah, Happy Fathers Day, you %&$(%@#!!

2011-09-04T07:14:00.000-07:00

I am royally pissed. No, not true - I am so irritated I'm practically nuclear. Forget royally so, the magnitude of my fury is galactic. This quadrant of known space is mine, is under threat of hurling meteors of vitriol and cosmic blasts of evisceration, particularly if you happen to be in the species of maleus neuteredi, subsection voidus assicus, most commonly known as George.

George, you have totally screwed the pooch - and I'm not referring to your missus. For three years I have put up with your total, insensible disregard of Hatro and Wong. For three years I have witnessed your gradual removal from their lives, all at your own instigation. I have seen the delight and near desperation on their faces when you deigned to give them some attention - and seen that explosive response lessen and fade, their shoulders crumble when another phone call ends, another holiday goes past without you seeing them, another "one day" promise burning to ash behind their eyes, the scalding embers charring their tender, wounded hopes.

Today, you crossed the line, you ass. You've lumbered straight past the border of jerkhood, and are now living somewhere deep in the swamps of douchedom. You, Sir Deadman, are a pathetic example of anything worth talking about, or aspiring to. You have become the poster boy of deadbeats, if by 'poster boy' it's understood to mean 'balding, narcissistic pox-ridden flatulence'. The only poster you belong on is the "Wanted" variety, for crimes against parenthood and human decency.

The line you crossed, George, was where you ignored the phone calls - multiple phone calls, numbnuts - from Wong. Today, on Fathers Day. If you had pulled your head out of your own sagging, belligerent arse, you would know that Wong wanted to speak to you. Not only WANTED to speak to you, but he NEEDED to speak to you. He needed to know that his Dad, the one that he still has on a pedestal (or at least did) wanted to speak to him too, on his Dad's special day. He needed to know if you got the Father's Day present he bought for you - out of his own money. He wanted to know if you read his letter, and noticed that he was the one who addressed the padded envelope, and signed his name - he'd never signed his name before on mail! - on the parcel he organised. Wong's need leaked throughout this week, washing up against the walls as he ate breakfast each day talking about your reaction to Father's Day, foaming like high tide in the car as he weighed up gift options and your possible preferences. His gnawing need to connect with you was a flood, unstoppable, brimming with sweet cool water - that ran onto rough dry ground and stared, disbelieving and wounded, at the unaware sky.

Except it wasn't unnoticed, George. I've been wading through the heaving tides, nonstop. This week all I could do was sit back in my little mother dingy, following the course of Wong's enthusiasm, waiting. Hoping, praying, that you wouldn't prove your self-absorption, but preparing regardless. So this morning when the banks overran, leaving Wong sobbing at the bathroom sink, I was there, scooping my son and his tears up into my arms, close against my chest, catching his heartbreak in sorrowing, disappointed hands.

The boyos aren't your sons anymore George. Genetically, yes, and always, but how can they be your sons when you know nothing about them? And care even less? Answer your damn phone, moron. You have no idea what you're missing out on. You weren't at church today, to see Wong get up and bear his testimony, first out of everyone. About how he believes, that he knows the walls of Jericho fell down, that David did really kill Goliath with one 'teeny-tiny stone'. You didn't see how he grooved off the stand, without closing with the usual "in the name...", and how his goofy grin sat on his face when every person after him ended "in the name of Jesus Christ, amen" as he blushed again at his forgetting, then excitedly whispered that he'd never heard anyone else testify of Jericho or Goliath. You didn't hear Hatro's testimony, or how the microphone projected the rocking bass of his voice through the whole chapel.

You have no idea - you frakking smeghead - that Hatro's note to you for Father's Day is incandescent with sarcasm. Hatro made no mention of Fathers Day, not about what you might like, or what he'd like to get you. Not a word. He scrawled out words when I told him Steven was sending you an envelope. When the boyos were asleep I read their messages. Wong was full of longing, looking forward to playing a game next time he saw you with you, Jezzie and Hatro, like you all played last time. Hatro's was straightforward 'Happy Fathers Day', then 'your ever loving and adoring son'. The words sizzled, pulsing with his personality. What you don't know, King Fool, is he doesn't speak like that. Not genuinely, with his arms arranged - all bony joints and sharp angles - across your shoulders, or pushing shoulder to shoulder alongside you. Hatro only speaks like that when sarcasm drips so thickly from his tongue the floorboards spit and fizz underfoot, his humour attacking so fast that you don't even know you've been skewered until the sting shrieks for attention, or the cleverness waits, bowing, for its deserved applause. You have no respect for your sons, and your oldest seems to return the sentiment.

I realise that my disgust may be unwarranted. I accept that there may be perfectly valid and legitimate reasons why you were unable to answer your phone, or return Wong's numerous calls. Possibilities include:

You are in hospital, dying of syphilis. A nasty way to die, and a way that I have specifically (deliberately) not hoped for you, but it would present a legitimate excuse for not ringing Wong back. Though George, seriously, not all STD's are contagious - at least, not through phone lines.
Your hands have cramped protectively around the space your testicles once occupied, making it nigh on impossible to dial a number on a keypad. Covering your balls or your arse now seems a little pointless though, don't you think?
Alien invasion, with you a plump appetiser. Though I checked Google - no sci-fi sightings. Unless you've been singled out (ha!) for special attention. In which case I kind of hope that the arse protection is a significant concern to you.
I'm really scrabbling around for reasonable explanations now. Maybe you are totally exhausted from the mind-blowing 'marital private time' you and Jezzie are revelling in. Oops, wait - with a five year old and 3 year old - and living with her parents - that's probably unlikely... Particularly as today there would have been some sort of aggravation from HER sons' Dad interfering with your usual self-absorption routine.
I'm sure there are other totally obvious and acceptable reasons why you totally ignored your son today. Repeatedly. Just like I'm confident that there are myriad extenuating circumstances that have stopped you ringing the boys for the past couple of weeks. Surely you're not so much of an assh*le that -

Wait. Actually, I think you may well be that much of one.

Well, George, congratulations. Not only have you knocked yourself off the pedestal Wong put you on, you've pissed me off. I've been able to come to terms with the damage and disrespect you've done to me, but inflicting that on the boyos? Seriously, traumatically idiotic move.

Be afraid, George. Be very, jock-staining afraid. I'm not going to give them soft edged glasses anymore to reduce the glare of your selfishness. The glasses are off. What you do is going to be what they see. I'm not going to give them possible explanations about why you may have done or not done something, trying to buffer them from the hurt. I'm going to change what Fathers Day means to them. It's going to be something bigger and better than what you've given them. I seriously didn't think you could skulk any lower in my esteem. Turns out I was wrong.

But for now, be grateful. Be incredibly, count-your-unbroken-bones grateful that I don't live in BrisVegas. Because in my head, you no longer live in No-Man's Land. I'm still going to abide by my own principles, in that I'm not going to belittle you or insult you in front of the boys. But I'm not protecting you anymore from their reactions to your actions. I'm not going to protect you from my reactions to your actions either.

Be afraid George. Be grateful, frakker. Be nice to my sons. Be warned.

A Quick List To Catch Up

2011-08-22T06:07:00.000-07:00

Assignments are coming due. A paper on ethics, wherein I must substantiate what I know to be the ethically correct course of action with journal articles and professional codes of behaviour. My lecturer stated "There is no right answer, no wrong answer. You must be able to defend and justify your decision." It makes me think of faith, where sometimes you can't justify or defend your decision, it just IS. Like ethics, you can't explain acting by faith to someone if they don't have faith themselves.
My family have accepted I'm moving, though are now working through the Kubler-Ross stages of grief. Anger seems to be the theme this week, seasoned heavily with drama and snide comments.
Associated with both assignments looming and moving, I've been given advice about how to structure my degree next year with subjects and nursing placement (where I work as a nurse, under supervision). The reality of having to do placement tackled me from behind like a disorientated rhinoceros - oddly enough, I fell down. Luckily I had my phone handy and rang Tasha. While not exactly hyperventilating, my opening gambit was pretty much "Oh, bloody hell, what on earth am I doing - are you sure you are willing to look after my two deranged boyos so I can go and try to finish my degree?" Tasha calmly cajoled me away from the edge of Hysteria Cliff, back to Outskirts of Crazyville (my place of residence), telling me gently "Of course I will you stupid git, that's the whole point of you moving here!" (Words to that effect. Possibly she was more considerate, possibly also more blunt.) She also sent me a text a bit later:

Coz I know u so well I'm figuring by now u'll b thinking there was sum sort of hesitation when we said we'd look after the kids. Time 2 remind you that ur a paranoid basketcase :) We have your back Aunty Sel. It will all b good so stop freaking out. U're family dude, chill :)

She knows me very, very well.
Monday was a weird day. It was the 'un-anniversary'. Oddest - and best - thing was the dream I had Monday night. Started with being at church, where George walked in and played a dvd to the entire congregation - a montage as to how and why Jezzie was better than me. I was totally mortified at first, then realised the reasons where "Sel likes green, Jezzie likes pink" and "Jezzie has longer eyelashes". At which point I pulled 'Old Man's War' out of my (new, previously unseen but absolutely fantastic) handbag and started reading, ignoring the video. The dream then cut to George walking up to dramatically announce that Jezzie was pregnant. At which point I started laughing, and laughing so hard I was worried I was going to pee myself. That's when I woke up - laughing. I giggled myself back to sleep.
Amazing, totally unexpected news - I've been invited to join my university's Honours Society due to my academic performance. Not only does membership involve mentoring by professional alumni, it also awards scholarships. I didn't even know the program existed. I'm going to accept the invitation.
I got my tax return back. Within a week of submitting it. My bank balance is now looking as fat and contented as a cow-fed python.
Things are looking good.

Avoidance Is (Sometimes) The Better Part of Valour

2011-08-13T06:41:00.000-07:00

I loathe my branch's cultural hall. For a room roughly half the size of an anemic basketball court, there is a stadium full of my animosity crammed within its walls. I avoid going in there as much as possible. Since moving back here nearly two years ago, I have walked onto the hall's floor exactly four times. Which - considering the number of branch activities and at least monthly 'Sandwich Sundays' held during that time - is an impressive feat. It's also a feat and challenge I have absolutely no intent to change, address, attack or otherwise confront.

While I know the emotional canker at the cause of the strife, I don't think my actions are conceding defeat, or practising cowardice. Instead, ignoring the hall's existence is my personal belief made physical statement (or, more precisely, non-verbal statement) that some battles simply should be neither fought, nor even considered.

I've always disliked potluck dinners, or lunches, or any food-involving church activity that doesn't involve a barbecue. It's not a recent thing. I'm incapable of inane chatter, allergic to gossip and highly suspicious of mysterious casseroles - not a great mix for potlucks. When I lived in Melbourne, at any given activity at the chapel I wouldn't be in the hall, but in the kitchen washing up, or drying, so it would all be over sooner. Fortunately in Melbourne, there were other people of similar sentiments and personalities also seeking refuge from the showy peacocks and community-minded canaries, so conversation flowed as freely as the watered down cordial, enough that the time sped by and I could honestly tell (the very sociable) George that yes, I had enjoyed myself, yes in the kitchen as usual.

Not so when we moved here. I can't identify or clearly remember what it was, but potlucks were torture for me. Nobody who liked to read would attend, back-biting was rife, Hatro didn't like the dry bread in too many of the sandwiches - these were the things I remember that made it so much easier and more enjoyable to return home with the boyos, make our own favourite lunches and relax. George, for the vast majority of the time, would stay for the lunch and return later that afternoon after meetings or home teaching.

At least, initially that's what he did. And for a while longer, that's what he told me he did. Afterwards, after "we" ended, I was told by several people in the branch that they had seen George and Jezzie in the cultural hall often after church, talking or chatting closely. At the potlucks they were seen having conversations, sometimes Jezzie's husband and son right there with them. A visiting leader saw them at some point talking together, and warned both the branch president and George to be careful in the way and places he spoke to her, because people could get the wrong idea. A friend came to me in tears after George moved out, saying she'd seen them standing very close a couple of times at church, and in the cultural hall, but decided not to tell me 'just in case'.

The cultural hall has a stage, and provided the backdrop against which our tragic marital dramas played out in front of the congregation, with two spouses for too long unaware. I walk past the doors to the hall repeatedly every Sunday, hold them open for prams and whiteboards and toddlers staggering like sailors... Then carefully close the doors again and cleanse my hands against the cool creamy brickwork as I walk away.

I am not going to confront the demons within the cultural hall. They can sit there and chew on the fat and gristle of what has happened, but I'll not give them fresh meat or pain to sharpen their teeth on. If I was to go in there, hear the sharp chirpy shots of my heels fire out across the floorboards, it will only stir up imaginings and memories best left to rot. Striding in, to war, would only cause the hot gush of gall to curdle my thoughts and tongue, when I am more than content to keep the door closed, to put my effort into so many more palatable and sweet drenched fruits and let the husks of the demons fade, wafer thin and bare.

So no, I won't be going to Sandwich Sunday tomorrow. I will be coming home, the boys clamouring for their favourite sandwich, for a brownie, slipping off my heels to better slide across the kitchen floor, counting down the ten or so weeks until we leave for a new chapel, a new cultural hall, a different arena for more battles, strategic retreats and determined demon slaying. But not tomorrow.

A Night For Remembering

2011-08-05T05:34:00.000-07:00

Tonight I’m calm, thoughts and memories lapping softly against the relaxed shore of my evening. I’m quietly surprised actually, considering the driftwood and baubles washing up around me, and what they represent and recall.

It’s quiet. Two clocks drip seconds, out of sync but in harmony, my laptop whirs, sometimes there is the muted spiral of voices from Zu and Rae downstairs, but otherwise it’s quiet. Peaceful even, with the soft murmur of memories shushing around me.

I went to the movies tonight. Zu called out to me before I left, the chirp of my heels piquing her interest and curiosity, wondering if I was wearing one of my new dresses. I was dressed up a little - jeans, jacket, boots and black shirt. Hair up, curls escaping. She grinned and asked where I was going, with whom.

“Just going to the movies.” I replied.

“You sure you’re not meeting anyone?” she asked.

“Yep, just the movies, with myself.”

Her face twisted a little, confused at the foreign concept, her innate sociability flummoxed by my bizarre behaviour. “Oh well, have fun!”

And I did. The boyos are off camping with their cousin, two nights of dirt and Nerf guns and no Mum, as anxious to leave this afternoon as I was to see them gone. I miss them already, while luxuriating in the silence, soaking it up, letting the quiet roll down my spine like molasses.

I took myself out to dinner. Read a book at the café table, ate the lamb with my fingers, listened to the lorikeets bicker and gossip as night fell. Ordered Italian hot chocolate to take to the movie, where I sat in a theatre all by myself, spellbound.

As I walked back to my car I saw a couple hugging by the church, and with a breathy whir, memories swirled.

“I just missed your heart”, said Hanna in the movie.

I remembered how - a few metres away from the whispering couple and months ago - Maverick stood tilting his head to one side, just before he slowly leaned in to kiss me. Smiling, I crossed the road, shaking the memory gently away like the rain that had fallen as we swayed together.

I looked behind my car, suddenly recalling parking a few places away years ago, a week after George said he didn’t love me as a wife anymore. Suddenly thrust back when he was still living in the house, though relocated to the garage, and we politely coordinated schedules for the weekend - he went out that Friday night, while I went to the movies the Saturday morning. Tonight, years later, I felt again the splintered, roughened edges of my eyes again burn in the bright sun as I left the cinema, the cruelty of doing something so ordinary when my life was eviscerated, broken.

“I just missed your heart”, said Hanna, again, in the movie.

The memories bumped casually against my legs, a dog nudging softly for acknowledgement, a gentle pat. There was a little twinge for each memory, but no ragged edges, no breath-robbing injury or consuming destruction.

This week I fossicked through my cupboard to find the book I wrote in, years ago. I had forgotten the date, though knew it was approaching, of when the universe shuddered, convulsed and staggered into a new alignment. The words are still difficult to read, though now because I feel so keenly for the broken and bereft woman left reeling and desolate, not because I feel the same way.

Also this week I changed email programs, coming across an email I’d sent to Dee about ending my engagement to Marcus (nothing but relief there, then and now), then emails from Mav from after we were no longer we. I still think of Mav, wonder what he would think about a subject, but I do not regret ending the relationship. The memory was swift this evening, and sweet, and then dissolved gently as I drove away.

Next week is three years “Since”. Three years of intense growth, floundering, doubt, stubbornness, sadness, apathy, passion, blessing, stupidity, brilliance and insanity. Three years of questions, uncertainty, tears, pain, fury, firsts, lasts and never agains. Three years of fantastics, incredibles, unbelievables, avoidables and surprises.

Right now, in some ways I’m a long way from where I want to be - from where I should be. I lost hope and faith repeatedly, and at times spectacularly. But I am in such a better place now than ever before. It seems ridiculous to say I’m in the best place ever right now, with the restrictions and responsibilities and unknowns currently at play in my life, but this is the best I’ve ever been.

I don’t know how that can even be possible, but it is.

"I just missed your heart." It's like I've spoken it to myself - that I've missed my heart. Been pining for the very middle essence of myself. That it's been away on sabbatical, off surviving wild seas and catastrophes, enduring a slow exhaustive recuperation. Now, somehow, impossibly, I feel whole again. With vivid scarring, yes, and wonky seams, but complete. More me than I have ever felt before.

I feel like I am mine. I don't know how that is possible, but it is.

Writing About Letter Writing...

2011-07-28T15:01:00.000-07:00

... over at Segullah yesterday.

I love letters, writing and receiving. I can type faster than I write, so email is a boon too.

Another post will arrive in the next day or two!

Another Week, Another Emergency

2011-07-23T07:26:00.000-07:00

**WARNING: This post contains mention of blood, the word 'uterus' (repeatedly) and girly bits. Read on at your own risk**

It's been too long between posted writings. Truth be told, words spool and sizzle in my head like tangled Christmas lights doused in petrol, set alight by an errant thought or dancing dust mote. My thoughts gallop and tumble, searching for an exit that doesn't exist, or that only opens for a couple of minutes late each night - an airlock twisting between prayers and the free fall into sleep.

There is so much I want to say, that I need to spill across the page in order to recognise the patterns and truths of each day, but sometimes the immense waterfall of thoughts intimidates me and I go splash in the shallow kiddies' pool of decisions instead.

Then this week hit. This week has been difficult. Four and a half days off work, sick. Tuesday and Wednesday are still a blur, with snapshots of clarity I wouldn't mind forgetting. I want to forget what my feet looked like, covered with blood, as I stood in the shower. The shock of it, the rude cheerfulness of the red that speckled and shifted as the water fell. The disconnect in my head, as I washed down the tub with shaking hands so the boys wouldn't see anything, while the medical professional I'm becoming catalogued the objective data, symptoms, rinsed off the IUD that had impossibly spontaneously expelled, checked that it was intact and calmly bagged it before arranging to see my doctor.

I want to forget how the fury felt hurtling up my throat, fury at having to deal with yet another emergency, this time with me at the centre of it, and deal with it on my own. I felt ferocious, with long forgotten memories heaving forth. Memories of being told by my ob/gyn that I shouldn't have been able to have a child, let alone two, due to the mess PCOS had made of my ovaries. I suddenly recalled the hot blankets the nurses had piled on me after having surgery four years ago, surgery which implanted the IUD in an attempt to control and lesson my symptoms. I could taste the mint and malt milkshake George bought me afterwards. I want to forget the gut-clenching memory of how he bundled me close against his belly, so his heat could soak into my aching back as he breathed a prayer against my neck.

From this week I want to forget the way Hatro's jaw clenched when he realised how sick I was. I don't think I'll be able to forget how Wong and Hatro didn't bicker once - not about tv shows, not about the merits of nutella vs satay chicken, not about the incursion of one into the other's air space - or how they each asked Heavenly Father to help me feel better at every opportunity.

I hate being sick. This week frustrated me because I was ill, with no immediate diagnosis, losing pay, with no willing support nearby. I became incredibly crankified because it stirred up so many memories I had happily forgotten, and raised questions that are squishy, undefinable and frankly terrifying. I now have more "what if's" and "wait and see's" added to my life, though I really think I'll file them under "LALALA I'm not LISTENING!" and just move forward and concentrate on catching up on everything I'm now even further behind on.

And yet. There are things this week has shown me, taught me, slapped me with. It has shown me the care and concern my family have for me, as erratic and panicked as it may be. There's the fact that I live in a country where I have access to excellent medical services (doctors, pathology, ultrasounds, emergency departments, pharmacists) for free and/or reasonable cost. I've been able to keep all my girly bits intact, avoid surgery and be in good (if leaky) female health. And that when I'm baffled to be given the hospital phone in Emergency with the statement "Your sister's on the phone", I can then laugh when I hear Tasha demand "DUDE - what's going on? I'm totally worried!" from over a thousand kilometres away. Tasha, who - upon hearing the message I left on her phone - rang my old work to get my Mum's number, then rang my Mum, then rang the hospital and (truthfully!) said she was family, just to get to me. And rang my Mum back to report, plus gave a little guilt trip, for just leaving me at the hospital, alone.

This week has been gross - physically, mentally and emotionally. Here, now, on the other side of it, I'm feeling good, and making lists of what I have to catch up on. The boys are blowing raspberries at each other again. I'll be laughing with Tasha again tomorrow on the phone. And I've blogged (albeit about girly bits and blood).

Memorable lines/comments from this week:

Wong (in response to my Mum stating I had a sick uterus): What's a uterus? And why does a baby sit on it?

Talking to the ER doctor and nurse:
Me: "I don't smoke, don't drink, don't do drugs."
Doc: "My God, do you have ANY sins?"
Me: [pause while going through my mental checklist of sins, thinking "You bettcha!" then -] "Sci fi. I love your Caprica shirt!"
Doc: [blinking in surprise] "Um, thank you!"

Just before the doc let me leave ER:
Doc: "So, do we need to talk about anything contraceptive at all....?"
Me: "Nope, absolutely no need!"
Best bit - Tasha's laughter when I told her that bit of conversation!

Here's to surviving another week, though hopefully with less fever, bleeding and insanity!

Reclaiming Myself

2011-07-01T07:10:00.000-07:00

Countless times I have found myself floundering deep in the oceans of my mind, wondering who on earth (or in hell) I actually am, what decision I'm going to make next, which disaster is waiting to be addressed.

For years I have mentally filed where I have lived not by the look of the mailbox or the ages and stages of my boyos, but by the familiar waltz of moonlight across my bedroom roof, and by the sounds of 3a.m. in those places. Ceiling shadows and star shine, cross-referenced with how deep the strain has carved around my eyes, with flashes of random freckles of enthusiasm and contentment amid time's passing.

Yet again I find myself on the cusp, poised like a gangly 12 year old at the top diving platform remembering both the breathless delight of the whistling plunge and the tongue swallowing nervousness of the jump. I'm trying to leave behind memories and thought processes that are weighing me down, and those suckers are twined deep in places. I'm stubborn, determined to make these changes, just frustrated that the pain still spikes.

I am reaping the whirlwind. The consequences of others' decisions and my own are obvious in the wonky, shining, confused and glorious weft and weave of my life. I would never have expected it, but being part of a disciplinary council has been one of the most uplifting and comforting experiences of my life. I have learned more in the past seven months than I think I have in the past 4 years, an intense tsunami of realisation and revelation that has fundamentally altered how I think, not just about life, but ultimately about me.

I have worth.

Three words, tiny marks on a page, pixels on a screen, the incandescent swirl of creation lighting my soul. There is still darkness, but the colour and sparkle fill my eyes.

Being A Grown Up (More or Less)

2011-06-22T14:21:00.000-07:00

I'm posting about being an adult over at Segullah today.

As a funny aside, I asked Tasha to read it for me once it had gone up. She texted back that Arn had walked in while she was reading it, had seen the word "mammaries" then she heard "mammaries mutter mutter Selwyn mutter mutter."

One day I'll grow up and won't make Arn shake his head anymore!

Now, off to work on a Public Holiday, which makes me feel really old and responsible.

Divorce Effects End..... Now!.. Now! Um, Now? Nope. Never.

2011-06-11T04:36:00.000-07:00

Sometime in the next couple of months, the evening will come that marks a huge amount of distance. About three years ago, I had the first undeniable prods that something wasn't right with George. With us. I doubted what I felt and thought maybe I was being paranoid and obviously unreasonable. Surely the scaly finger of doubt scratching up my spine was simply hormones, deviant thoughts and stupidity. Turns out they were - just not mine.

Two years ago, this weekend in fact, George spent the weekend with the boys. Stayed in my house. Took the boyos and I out for dinner. That weekend we spoke about his infidelity, which had only been revealed mere months before. Then, the long weekend over, the boys dazed and crying, he returned to Jezzie and their life together. From that weekend on, for reasons unknown and unguessable, George's communication with me deteriorated.

Last year, I was fizzy with anticipation for my upcoming trip to America. AMERICA! Me, Selwyn, going to the US of A! With my boyos! My first uni exams were over, and (again, just months earlier) I had left a lab session to speak to a judge, and hear her announce the legal end of my marriage, and announce the event of my divorce. A divorce which, in its own way, had lead to the aching need to write, to release the churning fury and gagging despair, which had in turn evolved into the opportunity to fly across the world and meet friends in person, and discuss life and words and wonders with them.

Three years, and uncountable times each year I have wished, pleaded, demanded that the effects of the destruction of my marriage finally come to an end, and not continue their unheeding reappearance and willful damage of my life and - worse - the lives of my sons. While the aftershocks of the divorce have reduced in frequency, there are still times when its consequences punch me in the nose, or unexpected situations lunge up trying to lick my face with an enthusiastic gravel tongue.

George finally paid maintenance. Or, more specifically, the government removed the payment from his wages and placed it in my account. Six months of worry, stress, aggravation and juggling on my part, trying to make sure that my sons had what they needed (when will they ever stop growing? And expecting to be fed?). Six months of George no longer ringing them every week, instead telling them "You ring when you want to speak to me" and then letting their calls go to the message bank, every single time they rang. Six months of Wong wandering around the house with the phone in his hand, or under his arm, waiting hours, or sometimes days, for a return call. Six months of my trying to balance work and uni and parenting and praying that I wouldn't just wish him dead already... One payment received. No promise of further payments, no expectation that George will once again find the testicles that have been removed (possibly made into earrings? Tiny, weeny little earrings?) and choose to be something approaching a responsible adult.

Last week, I felt my (dear, pummeled, scarred and stubborn) heart stall as the doctor stopped the stethoscope's regular metronome across Wong's chest and pause on the left...slow further... mark time at another point lower, return carefully to the cadence breaking point, and finally crawl to eyes closed stillness, listening. In my head a film whirred into light, informatively colouring the areas of cardiac tissue that the doctor's fingers were poised above. Minutes later, the x-ray referral form whirred into my hand, with "? cardiac cause" stark against the paper and burning the back of my throat.

"Hey, cool," Wong chattered as we fished through the parking spaces to our car, "next time I ring Dad I can tell him I've got more x-rays - and one of my BRAIN!" If I had an x-ray of my head then, there would have been nothing to see, just a rising breathed spiral of "Please, God, what do I do? Who can I tell? I need to stay calm! Please Heavenly Father, make this okay...."

With her remarkable ESP ("Emergency = Selwyn" Perception), Tasha texted, worried. We spoke, and my worry spooled out, out, ever out. I was trying so hard to keep calm, contained, but my exam just two days earlier had included dysfunctions of the heart, and I knew some of what "? cardiac" could be. "What about George?" Tasha asked at one point.

"I'll contact him if something happens. If the boys are in hospital, I'll ring him, but otherwise, what's the point?"
Another unexpected consequence of divorce is realising character flaws in someone you used to love, is now a stranger, and for whom you have a total lack of respect. For a man who has known his sons have gone through two major cyclones, and didn't ring once (before, during or after) to check on them. What's a doctor's x-ray referral to that sort of care factor?

In the end, Wong's x-ray came back fine. A different asthma treatment was started, is already working, and the x-ray of his skull was a hit at show and tell. My own heart has resumed its usual cavorting idiosyncrasies, gratitude spilling from my lips just as often as my admonitions for whoever to "Pick up your socks already!"

Then, when out of nowhere George rang of his own volition, I continued in my afternoon routine, glad to hear Wong cackle on the phone to his Dad. Then, pity pours into my belly, thick as cold engine oil and sharp as lemon juice in a cut. Another unexpected consequence of divorce is feeling sorry for the stupid shmuck that walked away. Away from Hatro and Wong. The fool who no longer knows the cadence and dancing tumble of their laughter, the sly emerging sarcasm lifting Hatro's eyebrow and conversation, the flooding empathy and imagination of Wong's everyday. Who, admittedly, doesn't suffer the choking panic of a stilled stethoscope, but who also doesn't feel the gritty floor under our knees as we pray as a family, doesn't ache from the laughter clogging our conversations, who isn't wearied by, available for and deliberately engaged in the tussle and slide of parenting. I pity George. I pity him for the choices he made, that he continues to make.

I pity him. Which doesn't mean I haven't thought of punching him, or delivering a cutting sentence that slices through his bravado and ego, revealing the slimy, pathetic little weevil that he regularly appears to be. I know I'm judging him. Judging him by my standards, of how I think a man should act and behave towards his own children. The fact is, three years is a long time. Eons of chaos, heartbreak, putrefying emotion and grief. While this post is about George, I don't think of him very often. When I do think of him, it's usually with a derisive snort and a head shake of disbelief. I don't know George. Not anymore. Haven't for a very long time. I don't like or respect who his actions have presented him to be over the past few years.

Three years are nearly up. That's nearly a third of Wong's life, a quarter and a bit of Hatro's. Just over an eleventh of my time on the planet. I think no matter how often we hurtle around the sun, the effects of the whole mess are going to continue to crash into our lives. Sometimes the damage will be significant, horrific, causing separate ripples and consequences to spiral out across lives, events and hearts' hopes. Sometimes the unexpected effects may quietly surface in a conversation, or a photograph, be acknowledged with a solemn nod or regretful sigh and sink away again, forgotten.

I've forgotten the date. Completely blanked it out. I've tried to blank the all pain away, but the memory of it remains, sleeping, sometimes stirring restlessly, a ghost limb twitching in the dark, nightmares and galaxies away from the war that stole it. Scar tissue isn't new skin. It doesn't heal. Scar tissue is actually more fragile than the thinner skin nearby.

But scar tissue means you survived something that hurt, that could have killed you. Scar tissue is the living reminder that you have learned something about people, places and situations first hand, up close and personal. Scar tissue is bumpy, uneven, pulls uncomfortably and is often ugly. Unless you live with it, work with it, in spite of it, every day, hour after dragging hour, until you glance at it casually one day then think "Oh, that's right - that happened" and continue stretching, or running, or laughing. Or you look again, and pause in your stretch/run/laugh, realising that the scar is moving like the skin around it, maybe the muscles have accommodated the limits of the jagged line, but either way, the scar isn't twitching or aching anymore. It's just part of you, like freckles on your shoulders, and you are living with the scar, past the moment of pain and creation, and on. Still scarred, but living.

A Matter of Perspective

2011-05-25T04:27:00.000-07:00

This week has been crazy. Exam preparation, working more hours, surprises from people (the good and annoying type, surprises and people both). Then, my Mum was admitted into hospital.

Today, I'm buzzing off four hours sleep, a twelve and a half hour work day*, and the knowledge that I:

totally aced a uni essay (high distinction!):
have cheesecake brownies for my study group tomorrow; and,
didn't write what I was planning to explore, but I'm still happy with the results.

Which writing in particular? My most recent post over at Segullah. It wasn't what I was expecting to discuss, but it simply flowed out. Alas, and happily, my head is swirling like an overfull pond teeming with huge koi, rolling with ideas and events I want to capture in words. Just not tonight. I have one more lecture to watch for my last lab tomorrow (yippee!), then I'm going to bed for a good eight hours.

Thankfully, my Mum is doing better. Still no diagnosis for her pain, but all the horrific, serious conditions have been ruled out. More tests tomorrow.

Perspective is definitely something I've been thinking about, particularly this past month. But I can't get distracted now, I must go and watch a final lecture. Now. Right now. Press "PUBLISH POST" already! Now!!!

Maybe my next post should be about will power, and my apparent allergy to it...

*Tasha, the math makes me happy!

I'll Miss You, Kung Fu

2011-05-15T05:57:00.000-07:00

I'm still letting go. Some of the objects fall easily from my hands, floating gently away like dandelion seeds dancing the edges of a soft breeze, or drops sleekly gliding off leaving nothing but an evaporating memory.

Sometimes letting go requires amputation. A sudden sharp slice severing the connection, for the greater good albeit at significant cost. This week I cancelled my Kung Fu membership. I'm no longer attending classes. It's a ghost limb aching, fretting at me to be soothed with the balm of action, movement and involvement.

Hush, I tell my twitching muscles. Hush, and let me tell you a story.

Is there fighting in it?

No.

Kicking, or punching?

No, afraid not.

Is there teasing and demands and difficult moves overcome?

No, not the way you think.

Then we're not interested, my body pouts, and taunts me in my sleep with action montages and precise, elegant fight scenes until I fall awake and land awkwardly on reality.

I cried after I filled out the form at the kwoon's office bench. Si Fu ordered "Come around here, so I can give you a hug" then simply hugged me while I tried to gather my courage and composure.

"Whatever you've got going on, Sel" he said "It's all going to work out."

I tried to properly tell him what his support and encouragement had and still meant to me, but my tears thickened my words so all I could say was "I really needed that. What you did." Meaning everything from when I started Kung Fu to keeping me in a hug right then so I wouldn't unravel.

"I know. And I'm proud of you. We all love you here." And I cried again, already mourning the loss of Kung Fu in my life, another letting go leaving sharp, silent empty in its wake.

*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*

I wrote recently at Segullah about not being in control of my life. Not in a '100%, I have it totally organised and just the way I want it' controlled sort of way anyway. But since that, there are more areas that I have taken control of in my life, based solely on the understanding that I'm NOT in control.

I gave up Kung Fu. Nobody forced me. I didn't have to cancel my membership. But I'm moving. I'm leaving where I am, and later this year I am moving away to a new place, a new city and there are actions I have to take now to make that happen. I have no idea of the hows and whys, but I know it's what is going to happen. I am choosing to do everything in my power to follow the path I know is mine to travel, and pay the price, the cost, the pain and effort required. Leaving Kung Fu now is hard. Theoretically I could have kept training for months. But it's not about the rational, socially acceptable reason or rationale.

I let go of Kung Fu because I wanted to be able to reach for something else. I'm going to miss it. I will miss the social interaction, the learning and redefining of just what I am capable of physically and mentally, the banter with people who have understanding and appreciation of what the training involves. I will miss the people. I will so very much miss some of the people.

I'm letting go of Kung Fu. Opening up my fists to let it flow its familiar way along my arms, belly and legs, and to meld its strength colourfully, gracefully with the features of my past, leaving my hands open and ready for whatever lies ahead.

This Week's Theme Brought To You By... Vomit

2011-05-09T20:32:00.000-07:00

For Mother's Day I received two books (that I chose and am still awaiting their arrival), a key holder for my handbag (Hatro: "Because you are ALWAAAYS losing your keys! Isn't that a good idea?"), scented rock candles (Wong: "That's a strange idea, but I thought you'd like strange!"), a copper bookmark (as yet unlost, a rarity for my bookmarks) and three poems:

Wong Poem #1:
Roses are red, violets are blue,
Sugar is sweet but not as sweet at you.

This is the poem I received first. I was surprised to get a poem without ANY reference to bodily flue, cartoon characters, explosions or violence. Maybe my babies are growing up *sniff*... NAH!!! I should have suspected something - as we know from the scriptures (any), Calvin & Hobbes and The Art of War, distraction is a good tool before you ambush your opponent, particularly with something like:

Wong Poem #2:
Vomit
is weird but
beautiful to look at,
Just like you!

(This poem of Wong's concerns me on several levels...)

Hatro Poem:

Roses are red, violets are blue
I love you as much
As I hate Wongie's spew.

Ah, children. Delightful.

Hatro did go to pains to tell me (once he had stopped chortling himself silly at his own poetic brilliance) "But you know that A LOT, right Mum?"

Yes, I do know. And I love you both, more.

A Thought Before Mother's Day

2011-05-07T05:24:00.000-07:00

Both boyos have been sick this past week. Carefully maintaining their viral demarcation lines, so that once Wong got better, Hatro could invade the role of 'sufferer'. Then they both kindly shared their virus with me. It's just a cold. But colds can still grip you by the sinus and try to wring you out like a clogged wind tunnel - or could, if there was any room for air to escape.

All of us stayed home Friday. From work (me), school (the boyos), from the world (us all). Stayed home and played Plague House, each snuffling or coughing like the nearly dead. Friday night, after a late bedtime, Wong started coughing. His asthma is exacerbated from his virus, and any coughing just keeps going and going.

Cough. Cough cough. Shuddering breath in - hack, cough, wheeze, cough, choke - vomit. All over his top sheet. I patted his back, "Try and slow your breathing Wong" I repeated, trying to fold up the sheet and avoid sneezing on him, knowing full well telling an asthmatic to calm their breathing while they cough is cruel and useless, however necessary.

I didn't even make it out of his room with the bundle before the same hack and chunky cough sounded again, turning to see Wong try to catch fluid in his hands and find a lungful of air. Again the burble, this time over his doona. I gave up trying to do anything but pat his back until, abruptly, the cough disappeared, maybe through the floorboards, leaving drips, wet tides, an acidic reek and Wong snorting his nose clean in the bathroom.

I stripped Wong's bed, folding the sheets around their sodden load with ease born from vast previous experience,then knelt, swirling the floor's dappled mess into order. A thought of smoke drifted through my pounding head - This isn't fair - and I huffed, a short, scornful eddy that shredded the words into nothing. I wiped my leaking nose onto my sleeve, hands still busy with the speckled floor and damp sheets. Fair? What's fair got to do with it?

I chose this.

Not the vomit. Not exactly. I chose to have my sons though. Deliberately. Welcomed them. Into my body, into the world, into my arms and grafted inseparably into my heart. I chose to have them, with the future ahead as unknowable and slippery as they were as they slid from my body and into the spaces between my breaths and heartbeats.

I chose to have them in my life. Not just in my life, but as fundamental elements of it. I chose them, before I knew them, and nearly three years ago chose them definitively, absolutely, unquestionably and totally again, and would have done my best to kill anyone who stood in my way.

No one did stand in my way. No one fought for them. But I chose them anyway.

I still choose them.

I will always choose them.

I choose to be their mother. Their parent, in word and deed and raised impatient voice, in prayer and tears and nose rubs, in mess and chaos and unexpected order, in blown kisses and arguments and private jokes. I chose them, and in choosing, chose wiping up vomit, and going without, chose being interrupted and laughing myself asthmatic, chose giving us all time outs and knowing how they both look at any time of day or night, and chose being delighted and gobsmacked at just how astonishing they are, and of being painfully aware of how fast they are growing.

I chose, and choose, to be present for that. All of it.

I swabbed up the remains of the cough off the floor, shed the slimy linen skin off the doona, tossed the sheets into the basket, washed my hands and tucked Wong into bed. I didn't remake it, Wong cheerfully snuggling into the bare doona and undersheet and my own exhaustion decreeing the action unnecessary. "G'nite Mum," Wong smiled, eyes closed, as I kissed his face. "Love you."

"Love you too sweetie," my reply, blowing kisses between us as I turned off his light and go into Hatro. Hatro, sprawled jointlessly over his bed, lost far inside his dreaming. I turned off his stereo, kissed his forehead, murmuring "I love you" into his curls before I slowly creaked back upright and made my sneezy way to bed.

I chose this. I chose them. I will always choose them. That's how and why I know I'm a Mum.

Hailing From Heaven

2011-04-21T05:36:00.000-07:00

There's a promise wrapped in scripture that talks of a celestial window being opened, and blessing poured out of it. Whenever I think of it, I have a mental image of a normal window in a house, and I'm like a kid, ducked down out of sight in amongst the garden right under the window frame. Then from above, I hear a soft rustle, and suddenly am drenched in water, and the air flares with diamonds as the drops shimmy off my eyelashes.

Waterfall from heaven kind of covers how this past two weeks feel like. I'm thoroughly drenched in mercy, relief, and wonder, with my baffled, overcome tears flowing into the miracles that bathe my upturned face.

I dropped a uni class this week. A subject with significant lesson preparation, a half day lab, and two full days of "on the ward" work a week. I loved that subject. Loved walking into the hospital each week, wondering just what the day would bring. And whatever the day brought (three coronary emergencies, at one point) I reveled in it. Bit hard into the sweetness of knowing I'd chosen something I was GOOD at, that I enjoyed, and had an affinity for. Sadly, the balancing act had twisted off-centre, wobbly and erratic, threatening to strangle me as I kept it upright. I couldn't keep going with my uni workload, and paid employment, and my responsibilities as a Mum and have all of us (let alone myself) survive unscathed.

So I dropped the course. I didn't want to. After work, I walked into the Nursing offices in my denim jeans, steel capped boots and hi-vis shirt, disappointed that I couldn't finish the subject as planned. The census date had passed, so I would be incurring the full fee for the course, and have to pay it again next year when I re-enrolled. I was halfway through the term, so close to getting it signed off... But I knew it was needed. For my sons. For myself.

For my sanity.

I spoke to my advisor, whose support flowed over the table to surround me. "There are things I need to look into on my part," she said "procedures to follow. But I will support you in any way I can to get you through this course. You can't stop being a nurse. You're good." She paused, looked over her glasses at me. "You know you're good."

I left her office wondering if there was any way I could keep the subject and survive. Nope. Regret or my hair stung my eyes as I drove away with my windows down, back to home where the boyos waited with spilled milk and air kisses. All evening my phone hiccupped, with texts from uni friends asking about assignments, or placement. My closest uni friend rang, confided she had been diagnosed with depression, and had other tests she had to go for. The nurse in charge of my placement texted, simply saying she was thinking of me. Doubt that I was making the wrong decision, disappointing so many people, grimly clawed up my neck to nest in my hair.

I kissed the boyos goodnight before I went to bed, Hatro lankily oblivious to the world, Wong rising groggily to the surface of awake just enough to say "Love you Mum" before sinking back into his dream's liquid depths. Doubt lost its tentative hold, tumbled from my shoulders and slunk away. Difficult decision, right reasons. It was enough.

My advisor rang the next day. She had spoken to all my lecturers, the degree coordinator, more. She lay out my options - more than I would have considered available - and in her words were the sound of heaven's windows being thrown wide open. Amidst the possible choices she advised "You won't be charged for the subject," and had to pause, my tears and heaven's waterfall deafening me. The effort she and others had gone to, in trying to work out some way of having me succeed in the subject, and their belief in me struck me mute. Having to make the final choice, I didn't know what to say. "Go with your gut," she said.

I took a shuddering breath in, felt the peace of my decision melt my shoulders, and said "I can't do the subject."

"And that's what's right for you, Sel. You have my support."

She emailed me minutes later, advising what had to happen next, her final line asking me to keep in touch, and that she knew I was on my way to being a fantastic nurse.

*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*

Tomorrow, I'm flying to BrisVegas. Last week, in the midst of another emotional meltdown over the phone with Tasha, she said "You need to come down here, away from that [derisive term] town, and have some space and remember what is important. You need real support. Arn agrees. We'll buy you tickets. Will you come?"

I looked down at the floor, seeing the crumbled remains of my pride drifting slowly through the angst laden air to curl as ashes on the floor.

"C'mon, Sel. You have no pride left - just say yes."

I laughed, choking through my stuffed nose. "Okay."

"What?" Tasha demanded, no doubt expecting more of a fight.

I cleared my throat, pushed the remains of my useless pride with my toes, and laughed again. Easier. "Yes. I'll come."

"Right, I'm buying the tickets!"

Tomorrow, I'm flying to BrisVegas. I'm leaving my boyos with Zu, my sister, who has the whole weekend planned with fishing and chocolate and whoknowswhatIprobablydon'twanttoknow... I'm going to spend the weekend with Tasha. And Arn (poor, long suffering, surelyverysoontobetranslated Arn). We're going to eat too much awesome food, talk almost enough about everything (it's never enough), and I'll apologise in person for being such an idiot and awful friend to Tasha.

Who will no doubt cry along with me, as she has for years now, tell me I'm stupid, that she loves me, and demand where's the chocolate?

It's going to be a fantastic weekend. No doubt clogged with snot and tears at some point/s, but also saturated with laughter, and support, and affection.

I'm so glad, and thankful, Tasha was thrown out of heaven's window, for me.

Pass the chocolate.

Fallen

2011-04-17T03:20:00.000-07:00

My last post stinks of despair. Reeks with charred hair and smoldering ashes bitterness.

After my last post, I gave up.

Gave up hope. Hope that I would find actual, enduring happiness. Hope that the blessings I had previously received would be enough to drag me through the carnage strewn battlefield of my life. Hope that the promises my Heavenly Father had made would eventuate. Hope that I could and would survive the constant, never-ending barrage of unfair decisions, smothering expectations and blistering loneliness of every other day.

I did not believe in hope. Not for me.

I grudgingly accepted that maybe my life was not meant to be drenched in satisfaction. Instead, maybe my life would be one of some contentedness scattered oddly through the disasters that were simply my lot. "Only in your life, Sel" Tasha had said to me after my last post "does a Category 5 cyclone only get one sentence." I decided, somewhere, that if God would not grant me any happiness, I would take any I could get for myself.

I started dating a guy. A guy from Kung-Fu, the same guy that I went out to dinner with last year. The one Tasha wrote a post about, naming him Maverick.

I fell in love with him. With his honesty, his humour, his intelligence. With his determination to show me his true self, so that I would know him for who is really was. With his irritation on my behalf at the demands placed on me. "You're doing too much," he growled at me "Far too much. What can I do to help?" His consideration and respect for me scared me, surprised me, overwhelmed me. He sent me a text early every morning, for weeks following a theme of making each text describe my qualities beginning with a single letter. Twenty-nine texts (three texts of 'm' words), cheeky and teasing and blatantly admiring.

Maverick thinks the world of me. That I'm amazing, beautiful, weird, uncoordinated, argumentative and lovable. At least, he did, until I broke up with him on Monday.

My reasons didn't make sense to him. He has never known anyone religious before me, so my faith was an odd thing that didn't seem a deal to him. But I'd been ignoring God, petulantly stomping around with my fingers in my ears shouting "I'M HAPPY!! SEE, I'M HAPPY AND EVERYTHING'S OKAY!", knowing full well that I was doing the wrong thing, and not wanting to give up the charade and face reality. So he'd not seen what faith meant to me, and how fundamental and huge a part faith was to who I was, because I'd been pretending it wasn't that important after all.

But I still believed. Believed that God cared for His children, that the heavens were open and prayers were answered. Just not mine. But oh, was I angry. Frustrated. Exhausted at the crushing weight and barren tundra my life seemed to have become. So furious at God, and at His broken promises, that I couldn't stand being anywhere near those who had perfect, happy lives.

I didn't talk to Tasha. A part of me loathed her. Jealously gnashed and screamed when I thought of her, happily moved to BrisVegas, with her supportive, worthy husband, her certain, so secure and rewarded faith. The worry and concern in her voice when she rang in February slashed at my raw, aching belligerence, and I wrapped my doubts and battered faith in soundproof, spiky glass and hoped Tasha would stop texting and insisting on future miracles.

Tasha stopped texting.

The betrayal I felt at that was sharp, and I told myself it was relief. That she just wouldn't understand. I was still lying to myself.

I kept seeing Mav. Fell more and more in love with him. Was happy. Told myself over and over and over that while Mav didn't believe in God, it would work out, that I could be happy with him. When Mav started talking about marriage, something that he had never considered with anyone before, I knew I could be happy with him. That it would be enough.

But I knew it wouldn't be.

I didn't speak to or contact Tasha. For weeks. I'm ashamed to say, for over a month. Never, ever since meeting her ten years ago has such a long time gone between phone calls, never longer than a week in the past near three years. I didn't go to church for two weeks.

Then I told my branch president (church leader) that I was seeing a man, one who did not believe in God. I rang Tasha, told her what I had been doing. Both of them said they loved me, and stated flat out, without dodging or embellishment, that I was settling and that I deserved much more. Initially, I listened, justifying to myself that I would keep seeing Mav, because they didn't realise I wasn't going to get happiness they wanted for me. Then, gradually and unstoppable as sunrise, the knowledge that I was lying to myself flowed through my heart, and flooded every recess of my once denying mind. I wanted to share my life with someone who shared my faith, who could support me in doing what was right, who loved me, respected me, and could and would pray, love and work with me and aim for forever.

Last Sunday, I fell to my knees and arrived at the feet of Heavenly Father. I had known that afternoon what the answer would be, and had yet again cried down the phone lines into Tasha's listening ear as I began grieving the loss of an almost-lived happiness and faced the realisation that I was going to hurt a wonderful, considerate man. The answer to prayer was immediate, powerful, undeniable. The possible future and happiness I could have had with Mav miscarried into my mattress, soaking with my tears into aching, heavy invisibility.

I broke up with him on Monday. "I don't understand," he said. "You love me. I know you do." He waved carefully as he drove away, and I wrapped my arms around my splintered pain, and cried, knowing I'd done the right thing, and it had hurt him.

^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^

I have fallen.

In love.

Away from God.

To my knees.

Back to where I want and need to be.

I've hurt people. Mav. Tasha. Myself.

I've cried more than I have in years.

I have fallen.

Back into God's waiting arms.

Alleluia.

No Fairytale Ending

2011-02-19T22:50:00.000-08:00

I am standing on nothing.

I cannot see a light to stagger towards – the long fading constellations have finally fallen away to dust. Winds of dilemma shriek and tear at my arms, my composure, fisting hair and vacuum into my mouth, exhaustion clogs my throat.

I do not believe there is a happily ever after for me.

Not the eternity-sweet and faith-swaddled perfect ending that so many people hope for me. Not one that has a faithful, sincere, honest man crazy about me, who will take me to the temple as a date night, and will hold the small of my back as we kiss.

I want there to be happiness. I have been promised that “all this” will “work out for your good and the good of your family”. I know that I will marry again, that I can be happy.

I’m scared to hope for something so elevating, so fulfilling, where faith is as fundamental a part of the relationship as the other person is. Being a member of a faith does not guarantee happiness, or fidelity, or success. But it contributes enormously to the likelihood of it.

I can’t see it, cannot actually visualise, something like that happening to me.

Loneliness sucks at my bones, parching my lips from within, my heart’s weary thump calling through cavernous silence, unheard.

I know I can be happy. Happy in a relationship, where there is respect, and interaction, connection and honesty. There can be an incredible relationship without shared faith. I have lived the gamut of faith levels in a spouse. From anti-church to half-hearted participation and from full devotion and activity to total avowal and treachery of all promises and covenants.

I know I will marry again. I know I will marry a good man, who loves and respects me, because I will not marry someone who doesn’t. I just can’t fathom, or imagine, that it will be the perfect Ensign-standard happily ever after.

Not for me.

Coming Up For Air Is Refusing to Drown

2011-02-04T04:56:00.000-08:00

So much time has passed since I last posted.

There has been flooding.

There has been angst, tears, prayer, swearing and laughter.

There has been a cyclone.

There has been full-time, physically demanding work.

There has been a Kung-Fu grading that I absolutely smashed into the ground.

There has been the chaos of back-to-school organisation after three months of holidays. Hatro started high school, Wong a new school, and my heart slaloms between them both, praying they will be happy.

There has been no contact from George since November, except for a phone call on Wong's birthday.

No maintenance, either.

I have been to a boxing match. I have used Kung Fu on someone with intent. I have stood at my kitchen sink late at night, swirling my hands and unmatched dishes through the bubbles, listening to music that makes my feet disappear.

I have received emails, texts and parcels from friends that have sprung leaks in my heart, reminding me that I am thought of, appreciated, loved.

I have asked for help (because I promised) and didn't explode or dissolve as a result. I have been surprised.

I have been propositioned, insulted, complimented and challenged. By friends, and events, and the Lord.

I have been blessed. By friends, and events, and the Lord.

I will be writing again. More often.

I am still here.

Then I Gave Him the Ring Back and Walked Away

2010-12-26T23:00:00.000-08:00

It's been a tough week.

Mentally, I'm exhausted. Physically, worn out. Emotionally, I'm in a little 1950's nuclear bunker, untidily thrown on a tiny, scratchy-cottoned cot, staring at the ceiling waiting for my life's dust to settle. Again.

But I refuse to settle, or to compromise what I believe in.

If someone chooses not to follow counsel - from others, leaders, inspiration or scriptures - that is absolutely their right and choice. But it's not my choice. I choose to live what I believe, to repent as I stuff up, to not justify my mistakes or actions, to follow the counsel I have received, to keep the covenants I have made. For myself, I want to share my life with someone who feels, behaves, strives towards, about and for those same things - and if they don't, there's nothing to share. Except misery and unhappiness. A lesson I have learnt well, and will not live again.

I'm also not going to be made to feel stupid, or immature, or incapable. By anyone. Let alone repeatedly. I refuse. It's taken years, but I believe I am actually a pretty awesome individual. Weird, yes. Complicated, definitely. But without doubt, and in spite of my many failings, quirks and weaknesses, I am amazing. And I will not be made to feel anything else. By anyone.

At least I've learnt some things from all this. That I am open to the idea of being in a relationship. That I remember how to kiss. Just how many people are hoping, praying and delighted for my happiness. The importance of keeping boundaries. How easy it can be to let myself be pressured. How much stronger I am, knowing what I want, what I will and won't accept.

I've also been reminded of important things. That happiness is absolutely something I am able to have, regardless of other people, events or situations. That I have the best, most awesome and brilliant friends in the universe. That God loves me, totally. I have the opportunity, power and gift of choice. That I am a pretty incredible person. That faith is something I will never live without.

Again, I'm totally unsure of just what the future holds. I'm hoping laughter. Conversation. Fantastic friends and new, incredible opportunities. So while I may be here, in a bunker, for my own emotional repair, it's only temporary. Just while I catch my breath, have a chance to give thanks and work out which door to choose to walk through next. To rest a little, listening to some soft jazz, the notes dancing, shining with gentle possibility.

In The Beginning...

2010-12-11T19:06:00.000-08:00

When I first met Marcus, I was in a foul mood - a stinking, festering hot mess of crankiness. I was being pulled in seventeen-thousand directions, was making dinner for people who didn’t care, was messy and sweaty from work and cooking, then unannounced a guy from church and a total stranger came in the door to visit my sister. I was not a happy girl.

Tim introduced me to whoever the guy was, but I was busy grumbling to myself and spilling something hot, so I didn’t pay any attention except to distractedly note that the guy was tall. I finished the dinner preparations as fast as possible, wanting escape the heat of the kitchen, my sister’s voice, and her questions to the guy about his Maori ancestry and tribal tattoos.

Sitting out in the garden, I waited impatiently for them to leave. I hurled my prayers at the sky, feeling close to overwhelmed yet again by my life, pleading for patience or maybe please just a chance to creatively hide some bodies. Tim and the guy left finally, and I gratefully retreated to my room while my family ate. Then, ten minutes later, Wong came to me with an unfamiliar mobile phone – they’d left it behind. I rang Tim, it was the guy’s, and they’d be right back to get it.

Shortly after, I heard Wong talking at the front door. Deciding grudgingly to be polite, I went to talk to the guy. He apologised for leaving the phone, saying he’d only bought it that day as he’d lost his old one the day before, and had never left his phone behind anywhere before, he was really sorry for the disruption… I walked him out to the car. Night had fallen, turning the couple of metres outside the front door a puddle of early midnight black. Somehow, impossibly, with all the space around us, the back of our hands touched - and the entire world smashed into overexposure and phosphorous, and I saw us holding hands, curling towards each other – and the stuttering second had passed, and we finished walking the four metres to the car where Tim was waiting.

“We’ve just been talking about you” Tim smiled, leaning out his window.

“Please don’t” I replied, pulling my shaking hands into fists behind me, already berating myself for reacting so stupidly to a fleeting, random physical contact.

“Oh, but I will,” Tim said. “because you are wonderful.”

“Goodnight Tim.” I stated firmly, patting the hood of the car. “Bye” I said to the guy whose name I couldn’t remember “I’m glad you got your phone.”

Tim waved as he pulled away, and I returned to my room, mortified at my huge internal reaction to a tiny accidental touch.

Turns out, at the same time in the car, Marcus said to Tim “That was a divine appointment.”

“Huh?” said Tim.

“That was a divine appointment. That woman. Wow. I’m going to marry her.”

Neither of us can remember each other’s face from the first meeting. Nor can we forget the soul shaking reaction we each had when our hands accidently touched for a half second. Neither of us knew the other had felt anything.

That was how we met.

************

The next day, Tim rang. He was very clear about what a lovely guy Marcus was, that he was a member (in the branch 300+ kilometres/150 miles west), had converted in February and had a temple recommend for baptisms and had been to the temple several times. Marcus was also very shy, Tim confided, and – well, Marcus wanted to know if I would like to go out for dinner with him, and if so, what night would be good?

It was at this point that I let my head drop with a thud against the kitchen bench top. It was Tuesday. I’d met the guy on Monday – the day after I promised Heavenly Father that I would say yes to any single LDS guy crazy enough to ask me out, because I would not go out with anyone who was not LDS. Frankly, I wasn’t expecting such a short turn around between promising and having to prove it, hence the head-butt to the marble bench top.

I sighed, and accepted the date. By the time Saturday rolled around, I had relegated the reaction to touching his hand to a far distant part of my head, chiding myself for overdramatic flights of fancy. It’s just a date, I told myself. You’ll be home by 930 at the latest, and finally be reading Anne of Green Gables. It’s just a date.

At the restaurant, he asked for a quieter table than the one we first were shown, and held out my chair for me. In the first couple of minutes we worked out what we were going to eat, that neither of us had ever dated anyone LDS, and we were both nervous. Ten minutes later, we were talking about everything, shyness dissolved to nothing in the jasmine scented air. The four course dinner punctuated our conversation, the tiny waitress apologising each time she came to our table for “stopping your romantic evening”, and I couldn’t stop looking at him. I’d remembered he was tall, but had forgotten it was 6 foot 2 inches of huge. Maori, with broad shoulders, strong arms and a rugby player’s build. The edges of his tribal tattoos peeked out from the cuffs of his dress shirt, and we spoke of heritage, culture and language. He said I was intimidating at one point, which was blatantly untrue, feeling as pale and slight as I did next to him.

After dinner, the contrast between our colours was emphasised as our hands moved closer on the table. I’d been warned that being LDS and dating LDS was totally different to what I’d known before, but I hadn’t believed it until that point, when I could feel the spirit chatting warmly with the attraction I felt, thickening the air around us. In a lull between sentences Marcus slowly, cautiously reached out a finger, and brushed the inside of my wrist beneath my bracelet. The vision from when we’d met tumbled through my head again as my breath caught, and I had to swallow before I could reply to his question. I took my bracelet off to show him the beads, and then sat astonished as he gently wound it back around my wrist. Impossibly, I smelled baklava.

He stood, and held my chair out for me. We paid, our smiling waitress wished us more lovely romantic evening, and we began walking along the marina, the warm breeze slowly melting the scent of coconut and lemongrass away, the moon a heavy, golden, luminous mango above us.

He Asked Me To Marry Him

2010-11-21T13:57:00.000-08:00

I said "Absolutely."

He put an engagement ring on my finger.

Crazy happy doesn't even begin to cover it.

Hypothetically Speaking... The Crunchy Goodness Edition

2010-11-11T04:12:00.000-08:00

What if, on your very first date, you walk together along the marina after dinner, and Someone Amazing turns mid-step, gently wraps his arms around you, and lays the softest kiss to your forehead?

What if, the next day, Someone Amazing waits as long as possible (all day) to drive ten hours south (all night) to start a month long course, just to make the second date last longer?

What if, just before leaving, Someone Amazing softly pulls you into his embrace, and prays for you, your sons, your upcoming week and asks that you will have comfort, support, happiness and peace?

What if, every day since then, has had long phone calls, short phone calls and flurries of messages, with laughter and honesty painting the air?

What if, on seeing Someone Amazing again, you sigh inside yourself, happy?

What if, despite your best, most sensible and awesome plans, you know you are being guided, directed to something luminous, joyful, beyond imagining?

What if, while you're tossing Malteasers into your mouth, you notice Someone Amazing is watching you, and when you look at him, he then asks softly "Your ex - was he good to you?" Then he waits, while you cough - surprised - and he listens intently to your answer, then kisses your hand.

What if, Someone Amazing says "Selwyn Myself, I'm going to ask you to marry me. It's not about if I'll ask you, but when. But I am going to ask you to marry me."

What then?

My Plan

2010-11-09T03:49:00.000-08:00

Was very simple. Straightforward.

1. Go on the date two weeks ago. Have a bearable time. Be home by 930, curl up with Anne of Green Gables that Tay sent me months ago and be done with another difficult first.

2. Move to Brisbane before March next year to complete my degree, Tasha having bravely and insanely offered to be the support I need. Slowly, incredibly cautiously commence participation in dating in BrisVegas on a one date per semester time frame.

3. In a year or two (most probably after I graduated) consider marrying Someone Amazing, and only at that point start dating to that end. Accordingly, ensure that all logic and practical considerations were met with the ratio of mutual compatibility in the medium to high ranges, emotions and impressions kept firmly caged and contained in order to not skew the data, all pertinent information correlated, analysed and inspected for faults and strengths as relating to faith, fidelity, honesty, loyalty and honour.

My plan. Sensible. Calm. Rational. Logical. Planned.

My plan. Hoping to stand at dusk and watch the stars shyly bloom, maybe even witness a satellite's slow twirl through evening, my plan is softly sputtering to silence, a single tired sparkler lying forgotten on the grass as the entire sky rips into swirls, blooms, twists and fountains of unexpected, riotous, illuminating abundance.

It's astounding. Different. Beautiful. Unplanned. Drenched with expectation.

Mine.

Some Points About My Date & Weekend

2010-10-29T03:32:00.000-07:00

At the Thai restaurant, he held out my chair for me.
We talked for hours about all sorts of things.
He rang me early Sunday morning to ask me to have lunch with him, and sat next to me at church.
We have spoken each day since the weekend.
I'm still smiling.

(Please note I have written more than 4 sentences Tasha!)

In Amidst the Chaos of This Week -

2010-10-29T00:22:00.000-07:00

- I posted at Segullah.

All about leaping into the unknown.

Yes, it relates to last weekend's date.

I've promised Tasha a minimum 3 sentence recap - which I will do tonight.

I may even stretch it to 4 sentences, seeing as she posted so brilliantly for me =)

Note to self – don’t threaten Sel, ‘cause it’s going to come back and bite you big time in the bum!

2010-10-24T22:44:00.000-07:00

You know when you open your big mouth and say things like “if you don’t hurry up and blog about all this then I’m blooming well going to?!” Yeah, not the best thing to do to someone like Sel. Strangely enough I never seem to learn, and so here I am, Tasha, not quite what you expected – my life is full of those moments!

But you know what, I am going to take one for the team and type this up because the last ten days have been full of The Bold and the Beautiful moments, The Young and the Restless drama and – quite frankly – one whopper episode of Melrose Place partner swapping indecisions.

This is a story that needs to be told!

And since Sel is currently spending most of her days either blushing, smiling, texting or giggling I’m really thinking that it might be a while before she actually does get around to it - and for us followers, that’s just simply not good enough!

**********************************

Remember the last post?

There’s a small paragraph in there that mentions two things – a guy at Kung Fu who called Sel “awesome” and a warning from me that she should be careful.

You could have been forgiven for not remembering it because it was so small. Sel’s good at that; hiding the most important details in stunning prose and dripping sarcasm so that you’d almost not even know that they were there – unless you know where to look. Have a stroll back through the posts and check out how many kung fu stories have been casually dropped in there lately that have made her think of various things, most of them actually involved the same guy. She’s a cunning little sucker huh?!

Now we’ve been friends for quite a few years now and I’m coming to know that with Sel it’s more about what she’s NOT telling you, than about what she actually is telling you that’s important. Last week she was being just a tad cagey – hence the warning.

She liked the guy, but only as a friend of course. For Sel it’s been a long time since she’s thoroughly enjoyed spending any time with any one of any male persuasion. Self preservation really, and who could blame her. But all of a sudden she’s found someone, male, who is making her laugh, is fun to talk to and is – in her eyes – happy to just hang out and be friends. What she’s always frustratingly unable to see is her own downright amazingness – and availability.

“We’re just hanging out”

“It’s just friends”

“We’re just rolling around on the floor wrestling…..”

and then…..

“It’s not a date”

Hmmmmmm………..

The last one she was very adamant about.

Definitely not a date.

Now I’ve been raised to call a spade a spade. A shovel a shovel.

If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck and waddles like a duck, then …..its a duck. You can call it a chicken as many times as you want to but it will always be a duck!

Maverick (you haven’t named him yet Sel so now I get the chance to!) called Sel up Saturday afternoon and asked her out to dinner that night - smooth.

So the two of them go out to dinner – alone – at a lovely restaurant – alone – on a Saturday night – alone – outside of Kung Fu – alone –both single – alone - and Sel’s looking more gorgeous than ever – alone - and it’s not a date?!

It was so cute. She really was convinced that they were just hanging out and that he had absolutely no interest in her whatsoever. The bubble had to be burst, and it had to be done with delicacy and tact – unfortunately I was the only one there.

“You’re an idiot. It was a date.”

Could have maybe done it better …

****************************************

Have you ever gone on a diet and avoided the supermarket like the plague because you know that you may not be able to trust yourself to make the right purchases when you get there? And then comes the inevitable day. Everything’s been fine for a while and you’ve been doing really well on the diet stakes, but the time has come to visit the supermarket for the first time and even though you don’t want to buy any bad food, for some reason you end up wandering down the chocolate aisle aimlessly looking?

Without realizing it Sel was wandering down the chocolate aisle.

Sel doesn’t want to get married again – ever – but she kinda does. It’s impossible to be a Mormon and not want those blessings that are on offer.

Being alone is do-able, but we know that it’s not the way Heavenly Father designed for it to be. We are made to be part of a two, and Sel knows that – deep, deep, DEEP down in there somewhere! She also knows that if she’s ever going to make herself a “two” again, then it will only be with a worthy Priesthood holder who can take her to the temple and enable those blessings to flow. And yet her she was out on a “date” with a guy who had never even met anyone who was religious before.

Generally if you don’t walk down the chocolate aisle it makes it awfully hard to buy any.

Harsh, but true.

Sel deserves better.

Sel deserves someone who can take her to the temple now, not someone who might, someday, eventually come to think the gospel is true. She’s already been down that road.

Needless to say we had an awkward conversation. Which lead to even more awkward realizations and a whole heap of thinking for Sel. But in the end a commitment was made and her eyes finally opened. Something tells me it had nothing to do with my amazing tact and grace!

Whether she wants to admit it or not, Sel is quite the catch. She’s gorgeous, witty, intelligent, funny, kind, strong willed, caring, loving and an all around amazing woman – she still doesn’t think so, but we’re working on that. Men are going to see that and that’s something she has to come to terms with whether she likes it or not.

Sel also knows that she’s going to get married again –remember the “crap” reference at conference a while back? Marriage is what the Lord has in mind for her and she’s finally come to the point where she’s willing to put herself in His hands, wait upon His time and do it within His boundaries. She’s not exactly happy about it, but is finally willing to do it.

Monday Sel made the decision to only date members of the church and that she would say yes to any LDS guy that asked.

We just didn’t think the Lord would work so fast.......

In Which Any Attention Is Too Much

2010-10-16T01:03:00.000-07:00

This week has provided far more bizarreness than I could ever have hoped for and wished against.

Admittedly, the stage wasn't brilliantly set for Sunday's surreality, seeing as I had stayed up studying until midnight, then was up early preparing a lesson and sharing time. So I may have been a little sleep deprived, but there is no way I was hallucinating or delusional or in any form imagining the events of Sunday afternoon.

It began with the branch president speaking to me after primary. Asked how was I going, how were the boys, had George been contacting them regularly, what were my stress levels like. All lovely questions. Then, when I stated that the boys were fine, I would be fine after my final exam, and pretty much I had everything I needed, he looked me straight in the eye and said "Not everything, Sr Me - you just need a perfect husband."

Being the courteous, polite lady that I am - I laughed at him.

"No, no, Sel, don't dismiss it!" he earnestly began, but I interrupted.

"Thanks, President. I haven't dismissed it, not at all. Just.... not now."

"Look, don't dismiss it, okay Sel? Look, next time there's a - no, not YSA convention, the other one.... Oh, yeah, Single Adult convention - next time there's a Single Adult convention, and you have the time and means - even if you don't have the means - just come and see me and we'll make sure you can go."

Oh, because now I'm old, single, with no time and am too poor to do stuff on my own....

Again, I couldn't help but laugh at the situation (and thinking about it, I really ought to apologise to him for my hilarity about such a serious subject), to which he frowned at tried again. "I'm serious, Sel, okay, just think about it. Not necessarily to go looking for a husband, but even to find people you can relate to...."

....Aaand don't have anyone here that I can talk to. Great!

I coughed, trying to barricade another laughing fit in my belly, and nodded at him. "Sure President," I agreed, "I'll think about it."

Eventually.

*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*

Straight after church, Hatro's home teaching companion had organised a barbecue at a nearby beach with all the families they had been assigned to visit. Hatro started cooking the food and the adults chatted while the very small kids ran crazily through the playground, tumbling and rolling to their feet like enthusiastic puppies. About 10 minutes into the event some more people arrived, but I didn't recognise them. Visitors, I was told, from Brisbane.

"Hi, I didn't meet you at church" said the guy. "I'm Martin." Martin - about forty, tall, big smile.

"Sel. Pleased to meet you."

Our small group of eight adults chatted, drawing lines of connections between who lived where and knew who from Brisbane. Then a few minutes in:

"So, Sel - are you from around here?" asked Martin.

"No, I'm not from anywhere. I've lived all over Australia."

"Oh? Your husband in the forces?"

Instant, shuddering brain whiplash. I could see Hatro's back off to the side, carefully flipping rissoles over, and several of the other adult's heads swing up, antelopes testing the air for sudden danger. I've never thought of what to say... What do I say?

I smiled as I replied "He was, but I'm not married anymore."

Martin's eyes widened, and he held up his hands. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"No, that's fine," I reassured him "It's not a problem."

The conversation regained its balance, and wandered on around the table as I carefully blew out a long breath, checking for damage. There wasn't any. No twinges, aches, flares of embarrassment or panic - the only difference I could feel was relief at having stated the fact so calmly.

Then, just a few minutes later as I was chatting with one of the women, I heard behind me:

"So, tell me Judy, how many single adults are in your branch?"

"Well, there's SEL, and me, and maybe four or so others, but they're much older guys..."

Oh, please don't, I thought.

Wong rushed up to me, dying from dehydration, and I returned to the picnic table.

"Hey Sel, you're not married" grinned Judy, "No" I warily replied.

"Are you?" she demanded of Martin. "No" he answered, surprised.

Judy smacked the table, then announced "There you go then!" as she gestured to us.

"Go where?" I retorted, affecting stupidity. "Where are you going, Judy?" I could offer some suggestions...

Wong now being watered, I drifted back to my previous location, making sure I stayed out of reach of the table's conversation.

Unfortunately, that didn't work. Very pleasantly, Martin made sure to pull me into whatever discussion was running, asking me question after question.

"So, what do you do here?"

"What subjects did you take this year?"

"What exams do you have left? Feeling confident?"

"Have you lived here long?"

"How do you find that?"

"You have two sons?"

"Are you okay about what I said earlier? I didn't mean to put you in a difficult spot."

Question, question, question. Politely, interested, listening to the answers, asking more questions... It was incredibly disconcerting.

Then, after lunch (more questions), as he was leaving, Martin came up to me, saying "It was lovely to meet you Sel," and - instead of shaking my hand as I was expecting - gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I stuttered my way though "Nice to meet you too Martin", and the ocean breezes fiddled with my skirt and fanned my still surprised face as he drove away.

*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*

Monday marked my last exam, and I blitzed it. While it's still unofficial, I reckon I've passed this term, and thus my first year of my nursing degree. To celebrate, my placement group had planned a dinner at a local steakhouse, with the instruction to 'dress nice, smart casual'. No worries - on go the jeans, a lovely green shirt, dangly earrings, low heels and makeup. I try to work out how long it's been since I actually went out with a group of adults as I do my hair, but never worked it out.

I arrive deliberately early to the steakhouse, as it's across the road from my kwoon and I needed to see my instructor. I walk up the kwoon's stairs as the usual pre-class chatter and teasing drift down, and as I reach the main floor, chat briefly to ladies in the next room while Si Fu finishes on the phone. I hear the phonecall end, so turn speak to Si Fu only to find he's leaning across the bench, smiling.

"G'day Sel," he says. "Whatchya doing?"

"Hi Si Fu. I've -"

"Can you step back a second for me?" he asks.

Surprised, I back up away from the office partition, and he checks out what I'm wearing.

"Geez, Sel, you scrub up alright, don't ya! Very nice!" He's grinning at me, and gives me a cheeky wink when I blush. I step back up to the partition, and try to cool my traitorous cheeks. "Sorry, darlin'," Si Fu grins again, "What can I do for you?"

"I've done something to a muscle" I explain, and he comes out of the office to talk to me. It's only as I mirror his movement that I realise that the kwoon has gone really quiet, and I look into the main room to see everyone looking at me. Surprised. One even obviously stunned, mouth open. The handful of guys blink and turn back to their stretches when they see me looking, and yet again embarrassment twists its burning coils through my cheeks.

Si Fu works out what the muscle is doing in my leg, gives me advice on how to treat it, then as he walks out onto the mat to show me a stretch I'm careful not to look at anyone as I follow him. The noise level is too low, and I can see out of the corner of my eye people turning slightly to watch what we're doing. Si Fu chats to me while I test the muscle, asking about how my exams are going.

"All done now," I grin at him, "nothing but five months off until it starts again. Just have to work out what I'll do without so much study."

He leans back, considering.

"I know what you can do," he states.

"You can get married in that time!" He nods happily, and I shake my head at him, laughing.

"I'd need a date for that to happen" I reply lightly as I leave the mats and slip my heels back on.

"Aw, c'mon Sel - you can get them at the health food shop!"

Yet again he's confused me with his teasing, and it takes me a few seconds to get the joke and laugh. By which time he's already turned back to the class and calls out "Hey guys, Sel said she doesn't have any dates....[significant pause].... and I told her she should maybe try the health food shop."

I slap his shoulder, tell him to shut up, then say thank you and goodnight as I start back down the stairs.

"Congratulations" Si Fu calls down to me.

I turn, confused. "For what?"

"For passing your exams. Well done. I'll see you tomorrow, Sel."

"Thanks Si Fu - see you then."

As I turn the next stairs, I can hear conversations start up again, but this time I can't hear the words. I push open the door into the cooler night, and while my face again inks heat thinking of the kwoon's silence - guys I regularly train and spar with - I can't help but laugh at Si Fu's teasing as I walk back across to the celebration.

*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*

As a "passing my exams" treat, on Tuesday I have a massage. The woman digs into my tightly coiled shoulders and we chat about different things, and she's interested when I'm going to put myself "back on the market". We've spoken briefly about these things before over several months, but I'm still surprised when as I'm leaving she lends me three books: How To Be Single, It's Just a Date, and He's Just Not That Into You. Her advice to me is just relax, go on any dates I'm asked out on, and just have fun. My pulse spikes so hard that I can feel it pounding in my ears, and I thank her for thinking of me and beat a hasty retreat, wondering why the entire world is conspiring against me.

*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*

Everyday this week I have received compliments, and am royally sick of blushing so often. Tasha rings to find out what's going on, and to cheerfully tease the hell out of my discomfort while reminding me that I need to be careful. At Kung Fu yesterday, talking after class to one of the guys, he said he enjoyed the social component of the place. "And you. You. You're awesome!" His admiration was obvious, and while I've enjoyed regularly speaking to someone who uses words like 'rhetoric' and 'irony' casually, intelligently (and correctly!) in conversation about books, a huge chunk of me wished I'd never met the guy if it had meant I could have avoided such a lovely, sincere, totally unwelcome compliment.

*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*

To say that my confidence has taken a hit these past two years is a gross understatement. My confidence vapourised, its constituent parts hurled far up into the atmosphere, lost beyond the dark, huddling clouds that enclosed me. A dank, frozen winter descended, freezing every exposed tender or confident part of me to blackened, crippled death.

I'd been left. Deliberately, calmly, unequivocally not chosen by someone who - up to that point - professed his admiration, appreciation and adoration of all those qualities and attributes that combined to make me the unique, lovable individual he had whispered endearments to. Obviously, I had been found lacking - wanting in a myriad, never-named or alluded to ways - simply not enough. There was no confidence after that. None. Come, deadening clouds. Press your chilling, sodden arms across my lesser, nothing face.

In time, my confidence grew. Confidence that I could look after my sons on my own, be able to haphazardly tend the slowly familiar tundra of my life, slowly eked out through the clouds, warming the air around me. I moved, and made new friends who knew nothing of "before" except what I told them. I had confidence then in my ability to continue to provide for my sons, to be a valuable employee, a strong member of my branch, a contributing, mostly functioning member of society. But every time someone complimented me, or simply enjoyed talking to me, doubt would scramble up my neck, twist through my hair and hiss panicked slander into my ears.

*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*

But now. Now is different. I am different. I don't accept the doubt as readily, or carefully creep along the outside of conversations and functions with shoulders bowed and praying for invisibility. I stand tall, I laugh, I daydream, I dance as I dress because I feel good and am confident that I can deal with at least 98.72% of whatever life throws at me.

Except compliments. I told Tasha that I don't want to be complimented. Frankly, I want to be left alone to just be me, in my incredibly-hard-worked-for comfort zone thank you very much. Compliments mean people (specifically individuals of the male variety) are noticing me, to a degree that they go out of their way to tell me, and smile into me as they do so.

"And that's not an aisle I want to go down." I vehemently told Tasha. Who paused, then gently brought to my attention what I had just unthinkingly said.

I don't want people - particularly guys, men or similarly XY chromosomed beings - to see me as attractive. That leads to complications. Particularly of the emotional, heart-wrenching-and-catastrophically-breaking variety. Sure, that's skipping a couple of steps, but it's the potential of it. The warmth of the well-intentioned appreciative comments or looks is foreign, like old archival film strips spilling golden motes through a cinema, reminding me of a place possibly visited eons before. It's the gentle heat that I am fearful of, the slow gradual rise in temperature that may start to thaw the brittle, aching corners of my life, bringing sensation back to areas long left hibernating in buried, lonely tombs.

It's already started. The compliments have confounded me, yet at the same time intrigued me. I wonder "What do they see?", and consider the mirror's reflection. The furnace of my blushing fades to nothing eventually, but the corner of my lip often melts upwards when I remember what was said. Tasha suggested that the compliments are happening because I'm feeling so good, in general and about everything, that my outside is simply - finally - reflecting my inside, and that kind of happiness gets noticed.

Deep inside me, something is melting. The trickle of water is making me nervous, unsettled, as it slowly eases into new channels and directions. The warmth is spreading, softly easing into the lonely, secret places and heart desires that still slumber on, frozen... Dormant, waiting for an unexpected, impossible spring.

Happiness Is.... Scary

2010-10-03T04:10:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I lose my mind enough to think "Wow, maybe everything WILL calm down eventually after all!"

Which is when life rears up, laughs, and thumps me in the head for being so hilarious.

*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#*^#^*

I'm being forced to grow at the moment. Well, not forced exactly, more being given the pointed direction and encouragement to increase my horizons. About what I think, feel, believe, hope for. To identify what I'm afraid of, and why, and how that's impacting my life, thoughts and actions.

*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#*^#^*

The phone just rang.

I agreed to go on a double date.

I'm insane.

*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#*^#^*

This morning, I was prompted to bear my testimony to someone who was totally off her face on drugs. It makes no sense, no logical point, but I did it because that's my faith, my belief, my experience, my bones.

It makes no sense that I agreed to the date. It scares me. Terrifies me. A turmoil of emotion is flopping in my belly like a fish out of water in a too small jar. But I agreed to it, knowing that it's part of the next chapter of my life, a promised future that has happiness hanging off it like ribbons on a galaxy of helium balloons.

*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#*^#^*

Having faith is more than blind obedience. (Actually, to me blind obedience means having NO faith, but that's a different subject altogether). Faith is having trust. Trust that there is purpose. Trust that what I am guided, prompted, directed to do really will work out, and be amazing.

I have relied on my faith for over a decade, and have clung to it in particular these past two years. Whenever life was particularly difficult, hopelessness crushing me under its mountains, I would remember the first blessing I received after George ended our marriage. The blessing where the branch president's tears anointed my head, his words falling softly, sorrow-laden onto my bowed and shaking shoulders. A promise, that all this would work out for my sons, would work for me. An impossibility at the time, a pain studded missile detonating on the scorched and barren wasteland of my heart.

A promise-bomb, lying deep inside the shattered structures of my life, leaking hope. Buried, but remembered. I had lost faith in many things: in people, in family, in happy-ever-afters. But I never doubted that my God loved me, and he would never - could never - lie to me. He said it, so it would happen.

Eventually.

*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#*^#^*

That eventually hasn't totally occurred yet. Parts have worked out for my good, and I'm not sure if or when I'll have full clarity about how it's worked out for my sons, but I can see that there has been good out of this.

Lots of good, amazing, excellent - even stunning and amazing - scattered, mixed, POURED out on my life.

Then I was promised happiness.

Whoa whoa WHOA! I thought. That's not on. Happiness is too.... much. Too much to hope for. It means too much, does too much, messes with your head, and your heart, and has this horrifying habit of leaking into every corner of your life. Happiness means too much can be lost. And when you lose it, everything gets ripped out, leaving ashes and spiky, itchy empty in its place.

I was promised happiness anyway. In spite of myself. I can feel it, like a change in the weather. I've been happy at times, these past two years. I've been ambushed by it sometimes, smacked upside the head by its sudden arrival, dazzled by its glorious, luscious existence, stretched out in its bone-kissing heat while it's lasted. But this promised happiness is different. It's not just about me. Or my boyos. Or for just a little while.

Happiness is coming. And I kind of want to hide from it. I can feel the breeze start to change, like the back of your neck before someone touches it, carrying faint traces of laughter and jasmine, lightning and caramel. Part of me hopes to be allergic, to just be left to settle in a corner, thank you very much, content enough, all things considered. The other part of me would like the opportunity to taste it again, have the weight and brilliance of happiness saturate through every lonely, insecure, convoluted, over-thought area of my life.

I'm scared to let myself be happy, because of the risk, danger and potential disaster that it represents. But now, impossibly, what I'm starting to dream of, is having happiness lean right in, and kiss my laughing mouth.

It's Near the Top of My (Huge, Never Decreasing) List of Things To Do...

2010-09-30T22:40:00.000-07:00

.... but the next post is just going to have to wait until Sunday.

I've got so much swirling, gushing, roaring through my head at the moment: about the other weekend; about being 10 days, 1 essay, 2 exams and 5 quizzes away from the end of my first year of my nursing degree; how fast the school holidays have zoomed past; about compliments, wishes, changes, exercise, friends - so many different things that are combining to make life just a bundle more hectic and confronting than usual.

I will post about it. On Sunday.

Promise.

For Just One Significant Aspect of Last Weekend...

2010-09-22T04:36:00.000-07:00

... have a look at my post today over at Segullah.

Friends.

They're awesome.

Here and Now

2010-09-16T06:07:00.000-07:00

Night is sticking to my legs. The warm weather has thawed out the crickets, and they are pouring their chirping cement through my window, while a few fences over night birds squabble over bedtimes and sleeping arrangements.

The boyos are sleeping, packed for their weekend with George. Wong's anticipation has flooded through each day, a cheerful, sticky foam that I've waded through for weeks, while Hatro's disinterest is a blackened hull lying amongst the foliage of everyday conversation and topic changes. I'm hoping for smooth sailing, though squalls are ever likely. George rudely emailed that doesn't want to see me, even when dropping the boyos home. I don't blame him. Every email he sends, I remember a quote I once read: "It's human nature to hate the one's we've hurt." I don't understand him. I don't understand Jezzie. I don't hate either of them, or wish them ill. I doubt they would believe me if I told them.

My hand aches as I stretch the fingers out straight. Somehow I hurt it on Saturday, enough to spend Tuesday in pine-scented rooms waiting for doctors and x-rays. Nothing broken, "just" soft tissue damage. The pain is almost familiar, breathtaking in its intensity, spiking at the smallest trigger. I took the prescribed drugs and became an astronaut, floating in zero-gravity as I clung to the armchair. I hadn't felt so disconnected in years, not since I escaped the fog of zombiehood two years ago - I didn't take the second lot of meds, and sought better help.

Oil glistens on my skin and anoints my head. Si Fu gave me cream to draw out the bruising, and its shimmer catches the light as I type, a silvery emphasis of how much more I can move my hand compared to two days ago. Last night two guys from church rested their own capable hands upon my head, and gave me a blessing that my hand would heal rapidly, that I would be able to do what I needed. One of the guys - a gentle, quiet man, a multiple world-title holder fighter - came by later with different boxing oil, rubbed it into the creases of my sulking hand as he spoke of years ago, his calm cadence pulling the stress from my thoughts as gently as he drained the pain from my palm.

Tomorrow afternoon, with the sun at my back, I will be at the airport practicing patience. Tasha is flying in to spend the weekend with me, an impressive answer to prayer. We have joked about what cocktails we will make (Molotov), what movies we won't see (Vampires Suck), and have decided the rest is up to whatever we decide at the moment. I would have been fine this weekend, if she wasn't coming: things to do, places to go, movies to see and study to attempt. But Tasha is coming, spinning the whole weekend into a whirlwind of laughter and colour, for me.

People care about me. It still comes as a shock actually. Shocks within explosions, like cascading flowers from fragmented rock. When I see the eclectic profusion of my life - goodness spilling out of what I thought was beyond hope, overwhelming me with colour, beauty and grace - I can't help but stop and consider the miracle that it is. All of it.

These Are Fighting Words, or, A Touchy Subject

2010-09-05T06:01:00.000-07:00

Christmas 2008: Seeing him for the first time in months, I couldn’t believe how depressed George looked. Surely after leaving someone he ‘didn’t love as a wife anymore’ life would be much better? Instead, he looked soggy. Saggy. Dejected and slumped. In direct contradiction to our agreement and my wishes, his mother had booked a weekend in the town the boyos and I had just moved to so they could all see the boys for Christmas. His mother stayed out of sight in her rented lair, thankfully removing that potential stress, and I had avoided seeing them in my new country town - the place that was to be our new start – as I began unpacking boxes in a house that had no painful memories leaking from its corners.

I collected my sunburned sons at the allotted time, with George’s unhappiness dampening the air around us. The delight of having my children (freshly spoiled and sun-kissed pink) back in my arms and home warred with the memory of George’s face, and the previous thirteen years of spotting his moods semaphored conflicting thoughts through my head. In the end, when the boys were in bed sleeping off the excesses of their weekend, I rang him, asked if we could talk.

We met by the beach, sat on a bench facing the playground and sea. He spoke of his life, his thoughts, and I realised amidst it all he was depressed. Not just sad, but clinically, officially depressed. He did not say he regretted leaving, or had made a mistake, though did state he was sorry for the pain he had caused the boys and I. Before I left, confused and tumbled by the possibility that my still-husband-by-law was depressed and upset, asked if I could give him a hug. He smiled sadly, saying “Only if you’re comfortable to give me one.” So I moved closer, my arms moved in their so familiar path around his waist, and I hugged him.

As I was about to release, I felt his chin rest on my head, then one of his hands at my back moved, slowly pushing the small of my back forward until my hips touched his. Uh, NO! I thought, as my belly crawled up my spine, and thoughts skittered through my head in panic. He’s your husband! But he left. But he’s your husband! It’s okay for him to hug, you…. Right? Um.. Uhh…. I DON’T LIKE IT. Then George kissed my forehead, let me go, we said goodbye and I drove home, shaking.

Turns out he was living with Jezzie at that stage, and had been since he left town. He may have been depressed, or sad, or simply demented after spending a week with his parents, but he was still lying to me. He carried on the pretence for another three months, before telling me the “total truth”.

He should not have touched me like that. I hate myself for freezing when it happened, and not pulling back, or pushing him away. It still makes me sick to think of it.

^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^

After months of watching my sons’ Kung Fu lessons, and helping them with their moves, I took part in my first official class with my niece glued to my leg. The last section of class was sparring, and Rae delighted in pushing me to the mats in victory. “New sparring partners – change!” yelled Si Fu, the instructor, and I rose to my knees, ready for another kid to practice their skills on me.

Suddenly another adult – the class’s other teacher - knelt opposite me, and I knocked into Si Fu’s leg as I tried to back away. “Okay, Sel – spar with William.” Si Fu grinned, as William smiled over his clasped hands and bowed towards me. “Uh, uh, no..” I stammered, as they both waited for me. “I don’t know what I’m doing…” “You’ll be fine” Si Fu reassured me with a pat on my shoulder, as I warily watched William just sit there. “William knows what he’s doing, and will teach you. GO!” he bellowed to the class, and walked away.

Again William smiled at me, bowing over his hands in sparring tradition. I knee-shuffled back a little more, repeated the move back at him. He moved forwards on his knees, reaching out to my guard. “Uh, I don’t know what I’m doing!” I repeated, laughing nervously, still edging backwards. “You can go and spar with someone else.” “Nope,” he answered, swinging punches against my blocks “you’ll be right!” On right he lunged forward, grabbed one of my arms and pulled me towards him. I sucked a breath in, a voice shrieking HELP! in my head, then blocked, pushed his arm away, and backed up again. Clinically, the student nurse in my head noted that my sympathetic nervous system had kicked in, that I was in full fight or flight mode, and that I should probably move as William was still advancing.

Again he batted at my arms, as I tried to shuffle out of the way. Again, he pulled me off balance and I skittered – still on my knees – sideways out from his grip. Next, he grabbed my shoulder, MAN-GEORGE-GEORGE-NO exploded through my head and I slammed him backwards into the mat. William’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and while I scrambled yet again backwards, he knelt again, grinned hugely at me and said “Excellent!”

Then, I forgot the world. I was focussed on blocking his attacks, getting out of the holds, or throwing him into the mats again. At one point I came back to myself, mortified that I was shoving some guy around – and promptly spun and started crawling quickly away. “Where are you going?” William asked, grabbed and ankle and heaved me back. At which point I stopped being embarrassed, and sparred back, refusing to give up the match.

“-and TIME” Si Fu called to the class. I knelt back up, wiped the hair out of my face and returned William’s grin over my clasped hands. William pulled me to standing, saying “Great work!” Rae and Wong danced to my side, talking over each other in their haste to tell me of their own sparring results. For a second I just stared at them, baffled at their presence - I had totally forgotten they were at Kung Fu with me.

The class ended then, and Si Fu nudged my shoulder. “Yeah, I saw you there, on the floor with some guy” he teased and I felt my blush’s journey up my face. “I had no idea what I was doing – I can’t believe I did that!” I muttered to the floor. “You did really well,” Si Fu corrected, and gave me some pointers on my technique and other moves to use in sparring. “You should come to the Wednesday class – it’s self-defence stuff, great for women.” Hatro and Wong were dancing with impatience at the door behind him, Rae copying their moves for fun, and still I stood there, considering.

“What time?” I asked. “I’ll be there.”

^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^

That night I watched the stars from my bed, and repeatedly cooled my cheeks on my pillow as they burned remembering that I’d wrestled some guy. In the same class as my sons. Suddenly, I felt George’s hand in the small of my back, pulling me closer. Then I remembered the deeply satisfying smack William’s back made as I belted him into the mat. I smiled, startling the dark. Wednesdays would be fun.

^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^

About a fortnight later, I told Tasha I’d wrestled some guy. Her “What?!?!?!???” sounded more like a screech, rising up through the phone line like an incoming missile. I told her about the spar, the thought process in my head, to the following Wednesday class where Si Fu gently informed me that he’d noticed things I was doing – victim behaviours, specifically – that were worrying to him.

“You flinch” Tasha stated suddenly. “Huh?” I lost my train of thought, wondering how she knew what Si Fu had said. “I’ve noticed that you flinch when I give you a hug.” “Wha-?” “It’s not deliberate,” she continued, interrupting my question, “I can tell you don’t mean it… but you flinch.” A pause, then “Well that sucks.” I sighed. “Guess I’m even more screwed up than I realised, if I can’t even get a hug from my best mate without flinching. Oblivious about it as well. Great.”

Tasha warned me to be careful, her doubt about the worth, safety and appropriateness of my Kung Fu lessons sweeping through the phone line like high tide. I didn’t know how to explain it, the satisfaction I found in attending Kung Fu. Yet again, that night I watched the stars, double checking my intentions, motives and feelings about my lessons.

That was months ago. I continued going to lessons, practising my blocks and footwork next to Wong, having Hatro try to use his bony elbows against me. Every night after Kung Fu I’d lie awake, stretching my complaining muscles, wondering if I was being honest with myself. Honestly, I loved Kung Fu - the flow of movement, the clarity of purpose, the philosophy behind it all. The opportunity to use my body more than my brain, the sound the bag made when I kicked it, seeing what I was physically capable of, the sweet, heavy feeling of my bones after a hard workout.

“It’s sounding a bit erotic to me, Sel” Tasha laughed over the phone line. I laughed as well, knowing that there was sweat, heavy breathing and close contact. But then a scene flashed in my head, where I was kicking into held bolster, pushing my partner across the room. Sparring sessions where my opponent could not get me down onto the mat despite their best efforts. Punching, blocking, twisting and holding my own.

It’s the only time I get to hit back at the world.

In everything else, I play nice. I never reply to George the way I want to, to be mean or maybe hurt him. I bite my tongue, cheek and words when people say or do things that are rude, insensitive or deliberately spiteful. For the past two years I’ve just taken whatever has happened, and not come back aggressively. And that’s fine. But Kung Fu – it’s where I get to just beat the crap out of something, and have that be okay. It’s my stress relief, and it makes me feel good about myself. It’s helping me against whoever might try to make me do something I don’t want to do, and it’s something I do with my boyos.

It’s something that I want to do, for me, and for absolutely no-one else.

^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^

William taught Kung Fu on Saturday. We sparred again, and again I was able to smack him to the mats. Only twice, but twice is better than none, and means I only lost three times, not five. After class, I asked him how best to get out of a close hold. I have no doubt that if George tries to intimidate me during this next visit I will be able to react, but I want the reassuring confidence of knowledge across my shoulders to back up my latent attitude. Just asking William made me nervous, flashing back to George’s touch, and my hands started shaking while he demonstrated some responses. Thanking him, I slipped on my shoes, when he asked “What are you doing to get into that sort of situation?”

Shame and embarrassment scratched across my cheeks, as I tried to reply. “It’s, uh, my ex. He’s coming up to see the boys soon, and uh… he tried something I didn’t like last time…” I am learning Kung Fu, and I can do this I told myself. So I looked William straight in the eye and said “and I’m never going to let that happen again.”

William’s frown eased as he nodded at my reply. “Thanks William – I appreciate it.” I started down the stairs, only to turn back as he said “Hey Sel.” I looked up, and he continued “Si Fu’s back this week. Tell him you want to learn that, and he’ll teach you. I’ll be here, so you can practise on me, okay?”

I’m still embarrassed, but I smile and say “Okay, thanks. Thanks William.”

“See ya Sel. Have a good week.”

^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^

Kung Fu is my way of fighting back against the world. Sometimes I’m startled to see that others – Tasha, Si Fu and William, among others – are willing to fight with me.

Now, more than ever, I'm prepared to fight for myself.

I Look Forward To Never Remembering It Again

2010-08-29T05:45:00.000-07:00

Somewhere amid the tangled scheduling and compressed insanity of the past two weeks, I missed the second (un)anniversary of the end/beginning of my marriage/new life. I'm relieved I missed the day. Less stress and guilt at this moment can only be a marvelous thing. Unlike last year, I'm not going to scrounge through boxes to find the written journal of that time to remember the official date.

It's enough for me to know that in the past two weeks, two years ago, everything changed and somehow - incredibly - I'm still here.

It was a near thing, at times. So many times I felt whisper-thin, one tiny breath away from vanishing into nothing. Or felt enormous, the weight of the responsibilities, guilt and confusion burrowing into my crushed, frozen bones. I consider the past two years, and feel the destructive potential of those days flinging my hair into my eyes and scorching my throat - the heat of a narrowly missed inferno.

I could have gone under, vanished beneath the seething flood of anger, grief and everything. It wouldn't have been surrender either, but a simple pause in the never-ceasing effort to get through. These past two years have been the hardest of my life, and yet.

And yet I look in the mirror, and am still surprised that I don't look worse, or have permanent channels for my tears. I don't even have frown lines, only creases where my smile appears.

Two appalling years, and yet those same years have seen friendships survive the blaze and ashes of my previous life to thrive even stronger, and have seen more friendships explode into profusion along my way. I never considered surviving would involve such incredible people.

Two years, and I like myself again. Not in spite of someone (or someones), or in defiance, or denial, or aspiration. I like myself, for who I am, for what I have done, and achieved and have become. I like myself for what I haven't said and haven't done, for becoming a better person in spite of my inclination to the contrary.

Two years, and I'm facing the unavoidable truth that I am a better person now than I was back then. I am. I'm more careful. Fitter. More wary, anxious, independent, lonely, appreciative, exhausted, demented, inclined to laugh, capable, sarcastic, whimsical, faithful and loyal. I'm more, and less, and different than I was... I don't care as much about different things - like significant dates - anymore.

I don't want to remember the specific end/beginning date. I want the burn of those awful days to fade into the gloaming, to have twilight wrap its shadowed wings around the hurt bleached memories and fly far into night, leaving me free to consider the moon-heavy evenings and the careful placement of the stars. I want the dance of dawns and dusks to dust the dates from my mind, opening up the days to whatever is to come, not what has gone.

Happy Second Un/Anniversary Survival Day - I definitely deserve it.

May there never be another occasion to remember it.

Snapshots From A Mostly Bad Month

2010-08-22T04:20:00.000-07:00

An email read in part: We're coming up for a weekend, and want the boys for that time, Friday to Sunday.

My face scorches as I realise I'm going to have to see them. See George and Jezzie both touching my sons, see them face to face for the first time in not long enough. I'm sure they will deliberately touch, whether it's on the boyos or each other, making points that I have no inclination or interest in decoding, about what they mean to each other and my sons.

I hope they don't come to church. I wonder if they could be that arrogant, if I could be strong enough to bear their presence. They are alien, unknowable creatures to me, whom I pity and blame for the pain they have caused and are yet to receive. I can't say or guess if they would come to church or not. I guess I'll find out.

I wish I didn't have to see them. I wish they couldn't touch my sons. I wish they would disappear, like empty promises and forgotten names.

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*

A friend from a million years ago came to town on holiday with her family. Taylor, who joined the Australian Defence Force when I did, and lived in the barrack building closest to mine. As friends we spent nearly two years hollering at each other's windows to organise breakfast and dinner dates in the mess, shared tutorials by egotistical lecturers, suffered through the assorted hells of being young, immortal and in the armed forces, and most of all, laughing. Taylor saw the first year of my relationship with George, was my matron of honour at my wedding and gave Hatro his first teddybear at the responsible age of one week.

Moves to various parts of the country meant we didn't catch up in person as often, and somehow fifteen years have followed our first meeting. But as she drove north on holiday, we all went out for dinner ("Table for seven!") to catch up, two women, one heroic hubby, and four boys aged from twelve to just months old.

Taylor asked how America was, how my degree was going, what the boyos were reading and enjoying. I asked how her renovations were going, their holiday so far, how she was going with her tiny new son. In the tangle of conversation about something I'd written, I replied "I didn't think I gave you my blog address." She glanced up at me, cutting her north-Queensland rib steak, and replied "You didn't."

I blinked at her, confused.

"I was interested in the writers conference you went to, and tracked down your blog that way, and have read it."

Flustered, I laughed and poked at my own steak. "You cyber-stalked me?"

"Yep" she chuckled "and I've read what you've written."

"Uh.."I coughed, bit my lip thinking of what I've written here over the past year alone. "It's not a happy blog" I commented, feeling the weight of the words pulling the attempted smile from my lips.

"Yeah," Taylor nodded. "Your blanket post..." She laid down her cutlery as her eyes filled with tears. She scrunched up her nose to stop them, then smiled as she touched baby Ron's chest. "That post made me bawl."

We floated a smile to each other through our threatening tears, then followed the change of topic offered by Mark her hubby, while our kids spilled drinks and we made our table the noisiest and happiest table there.

Taylor has gorgeous eyes. When she smiles, she is the most stunning woman I have ever seen. That night, as I sat next to her, I watched as the eyes of her toddler son always returned to where she was, to what she was doing. I held baby Ron, and he was happiest facing her, and when not, he arched his neck and wobbly head around to see her better. I noticed how Mark looked at her, how all three of them tracked her movements as she stood and moved, saw the smile break like sunrise on Mark's face as she returned from changing Ron's nappy.

It was fantastic.

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*

"Well done, you've got laryngitis and bronchitis!" my doctor congratulated me.

"Great" I rasped, wondering if I could lay my head down on his desk for a minute or twelve. "Can you prescribe me a hole to go with that please?"

I spent the next two days at home instead of at placement for uni. The first day was fever-filled, chaos and failings spilling into my thoughts as I tried to rest, please please please to sleep. I spent the next day trying to catch up on all the non-study things that had fallen by the wayside in my disjointed efforts to do what was needed and required. Two days lost, days that needed to be made up the following week during 'break', two days that I couldn't study, two days that took four days to recover from, and put me even further behind.

On the second of my make up days at placement, a migraine ambushed me three hours into my shift. The third migraine in a week, Sel, is a pretty obvious clue that you need to slow down a little, nagged a voice, displaced from my thudding head into my... armpit?

I know, I told the voice, but that just isn't going to happen. I need to finish this shift, and not have to do another make up day. I need to go home, and spend some time with my boys before I try to catch up on the study I'm behind on. I need to work out just what the hell I'm doing, because at the moment I'm not sure if the spastic splashing I'm doing in all this deep water is swimming or actually drowning - either way, I'm tired, I'm aching, and it's got to be attracting sharks.

I took some meds. I finished my shift six hours later. I went home to find that my bedroom had been totally changed while I was gone, my study materials had been shoved together in an avalanche of paper, and my sister had moved back into the house. I carefully shut my bedroom door, lay down on my now single bed, and with my eyes shut counted slowly to 312 - which was when a sound bomb detonated in the lounge room with the arrival of my sister, niece and boyos.

The day danced into evening as I wrestled with my to do list. Much later I fell into the unfamiliar bed, blankly considered the ceiling, and said to the night "That was not a good day."

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*

Wong is bubbling with plans about what he's going to do with George during the school holidays while we are out shopping. I tune him out, hoping that he'll find it easy enough to transfer his enthusiasm, because George isn't having the boys for the September holidays like he promised them after all. The boyos don't know about the change in plans, their time shrinking from a fortnight to a weekend, but I don't tell Wong just yet, hoping this time George will cop the questions of when and why not, or if I have to tell him, that I can do it at home in private, to not have Wong cry in the unkind glare of the world.

Hatro - now firmly in the first power surge of the hormones of teenagedom - practices his casual sauntering beside me. Something happened when he went down to Brisbane. His references to George are different: dismissive, sarcastic, cranky and hurt. I don't know what happened - if it was something said, or seen, heard or realised - but Hatro does not see George on a pedestal anymore. I knew it would happen, even wished it would come earlier, but now I wish it could have been avoided, because Hatro is hurting.

Hatro bumps his elbow into mine as we walk to get my attention. "So Mum.." he begins, and I prepare myself for anything, wondering what I'll be hearing next "...So.... we'll be staying here these holidays then?"

I hook my arm through his, marveling at how tall he's growing, sorry that he has to deal with this, now. "Yep, you are sweetie."

He nods to himself. "Yep, thought so."

I squeeze his arm against my side, and we keep sauntering along, arm in arm, for a few more precious seconds.

No son should learn to distrust his father's promises.

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*

At District Conference, Tasha and I sit together for the evening session, Arn (Tasha's hubby) on her left, Hatro - for the first time old enough for the adult session - sitting on my right. Someone is handing out photocopies, and Tasha and I each take one. Last conference was about temple marriage - this one is about families. Tasha shoots me a worried look, I grin at her, and we both laugh at the expectation of it being something potentially difficult thus being fulfilled.

I love district conference. I love the chance to hear counsel, to be able to listen and feel the spirit and be directed in ways that are often familiar, while also surprising. This conference was no different. What I love most about conference is what happens after the evening session: Tasha, Arn and I put all the kidlets to bed, then we meet in their' or my cabin's kitchen or porch to compare notes, share impressions and ideas, and discuss the whole evening and life.

Sometime during the evening's discussion, Tasha asked "So what was your answer?" I opened my eyes wide, hoping to look innocent and clueless, and said "What answer?"

"You know what answer - the one you got that made you say something out loud during the talk!"

"Um - nothing?" I tried.

Tasha, ever honest, snorted her disbelief. I covered my face in my hands, embarrassed again at what had happened. "I don't believe I said that," I muttered through my fingers, as Tasha laughed and said she couldn't believe it either. Poor Arn by this stage was looking back and forth between us both, trying to work out what crazy conversation we were now having. "Sorry, but I think I've missed something..." he said.

"What, you missed Sel swear during conference?" Tasha teased. Arn looked at me, startled. "Didn't you hear it?" Tasha continued. "Right in the middle of Elder Neilson's talk, Sel said "CRAP!"" She laughed, again. "So I want to know - what was it?"

Again I covered my face, feeling the flaming blush of my cheeks heating my fingers, and groaned. "I can't believe I said that... and when it was so quiet.... Arrrrgh, I'm so embarrassed...." I leaned forward and buried my head in my arms on the table listening to Tasha laugh at me.

"C'mon, man - what was it? Is it about you getting married one day?" she giggled.

"Kind of..." I muttered to the floor.

Tasha wiggled in her chair, delighted, as I sat back up. "Well?" she demanded.

"It was..." I stopped, not wanting to continue.

Tasha bounced in her chair, grinning. "What? C'mon! What?"

Sighing, I flatly stated "Fear is the opposite of faith." Tasha cackled with glee, and I warmed my hands against my scorching cheeks at the indignity of having to consider what it meant.

Here's what I love about Tasha and Arn - they love each other. Their love fills the space between them whenever they are in the same room, a force as important, undeniable and gentle as breathing.

Here's what I love about Tasha and Arn - they have my back. They care about me, about my boys, and are immovable in their support. They also flatly advise when I'm wrong, when I'm heading in a worrying direction, and give clarity when I am too deep in the hole of chaos and emotion to see clearly.

So it was at conference. I sat at the table with Tasha and Arn, and was able to put my fears right out on the table about the future, knowing that they would be honest and faithful in their replies. Which they were, of course, spicing their words with laughter and Tasha's teasing, helping me breathe through the panic and begin settling into the new direction I found myself heading. Then a change of topic, the conversation swirled and cartwheeled between us, and I thanked God - yet again - for them both.

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*

A long drive home into the setting sun, only to descend into chaos. Dirty dishes littered the bench tops, my niece and unknown children splashed in a too-full bath, my sister Zu not even at home. Despite knowing for two weeks that she was responsible for dinner, even ordering pizza proved too difficult for her, and I had to leave the house or go ballistic.

That night, I knelt beside my stupid, still unfamiliar single bed and said "I can't do it. I just can't. Everything is falling down. Everything is suffering. The boys don't have my full attention, neither does uni, or my calling in Primary. I'm not passionate about being a nurse, I don't know why I'm even doing it, and I don't know if that will be enough. Then You lay on warning that I'm going to marry again, and that scares me. You know it terrifies me. Everything is hard at the moment, Heavenly Father, everything, and there isn't a single thing I'm not failing, and there's barely anything I'm able to enjoy, and everything is just hard." I lay my head down, and let the dam break open, too weary to wipe the tears away from where they wandered.

Right now, it's not meant to be fun.

I heard, and leaked a little harder into the thirsty mattress.

You are doing what is required.

After a while I could catch my breath again. Shortly after, I wiped my face on my pajama top and climbed the mountain into bed.

Okay, I replied.

The next morning Wong woke me, in tears because he missed George.

Nope, it's not fun.

I Don't Know Who I Am Sometimes

2010-08-08T04:06:00.000-07:00

I spoke at Church today. I was the final speaker, and after nearly twenty minutes speaking on what it means to be a Saint, and perfection being a process, not a single event, I started my conclusion.

It began like this: "I am many things. I am not perfect. There are many labels and names that I can be identified by." I told the people listening, as I looked to where the boyos were sitting.

"I am a wife." said my mouth.

WHA-???? shrieked my brain, astounded. No you're not!

"No, I'm not a wife." I spoke softly into the microphone, watching my hands shake on the stand, stunned I was saying these words. "I was a wife, but now I'm not."

I looked up again, over to my sons.

"Life is a process. I am a mother. A student. A friend. A Latter-Day Saint. A disciple of Christ. I'm a work in progress, just trying to make it back home to my Heavenly Father. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."

Then I walked back to my seat, sat beside my grinning boyos, sang the closing hymn's alto part, all the while trying to work out why I would say something so STUPID. So obviously, blatantly untrue.

"I am a wife."

Nope. No I'm not. Haven't been for nearly two years - and I just realised this month marks the lovely un-anniversary. Oh, felicitations, me. So why on earth did I say so?

It wasn't in my notes. Wasn't in my conscious thoughts. But out of my mouth tumbled those mystifying, lying, distressing words, falling into my ears as breaking glass, smashing my calm into slivers and ungainly angles, leaving me unable to recognise myself. Because the self I know - that I thought I knew - would not have said that I am a wife.

But the fact remains, that I was a wife. I was a GOOD wife. Even after he ended our marriage, George told me that I had been a good wife. An excellent wife. And I know that I was. Despite my immense doubts and self-examination as to what I had done, not done, or done wrong to make George leave, I knew that I had been a good wife. Which initially made the whole mess so much harder to comprehend, accept and deal with, because I had been the best wife I could be, and it wasn't enough for him to stay.

For some time now I've seen that George's choices had nothing to do with me. But I never expected to today open my mouth and hear words wrapped in my voice state the ridiculous, the obviously untrue, the unavoidable further evidence that my divorce will never really be 'done'. I still come up against situations and reminders that the aftereffects are still occurring, that the seismic adjustments are still shifting the world as I know it far beneath where I can see.

I don't know who I am sometimes. I think I know, am confident in my understanding, only to have my feet shift sideways from an unexpected source and find myself seeing the world - and myself - from an entirely foreign and surprising angle.

Months ago, I think during a discussion at Segullah on first impressions and beauty, I commented that I don't trust beautiful people. I explained that on meeting strikingly gorgeous individuals, my fist inclination and reaction is dislike, usually intense, totally unfounded and difficult to change. I'm not sure of the reasons behind it, I knew it was unwarranted and illogical, but it was my reaction nonetheless.

When I went to America, I walked up behind Sharlee Glenn as she was chatting to another Segullah staffer who said to Sharlee "Oh, and let me introduce you to Selwyn!" Sharlee turned, saw me, her eyes opened wide and as she leaned in to hug me exclaimed "Oh, Selwyn, but you're beautiful!"

Her reaction stunned me. I laughed, startled, and she drew back again to hold my hands. "Didn't you say on the blog that you didn't like beautiful people?" she asked me. "But you're beautiful!" And in that moment, I believed her.

Then, last week, Michelle posted some of the photos she took of my boyos and I while we were in America. The photos are captivating. She captured my sons - the way they stand and laugh and live in my head when I think of them, the energy and cheekiness that is part of their character and approach to life. Simply beautiful photos.

And then I saw me. I sat, disbelieving, scrolling through the magic Michelle had captured, that had this unknown, foreign creature smiling next to my sons. Surely that could not be me. Sharlee even commented on the photos "I still giggle when I think about that random comment you once made (in writing, before I met you IRL) that made me believe that you must be rather homely. ;-) "

I thought I was.

I sent the link to my friends, saying I knew they knew I didn't really look like that. They all came back saying that's how I DO look, and that I just don't see it.

And I don't.

Sometimes, I just don't know who I am. I don't recognise myself. I guess I'm more of a work in progress than I have previously thought.

About Being Hit With A Hammer

2010-07-31T07:17:00.000-07:00

CS Lewis wrote:

Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on: you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently he starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of—throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were going to be made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.

Frankly, if it were up to me, I’d prefer to live under a rock. Or a pebble. At the most a basic kennel.

It wouldn’t hurt so much, and be so unexpectedly violent and destructive. Then I try to convince myself over and over again that one day it will all be finished, and I will honestly be able to look at the end product of myself, and say to God “You were right.” And know it was all, somehow, worthwhile. Expensive, way over budget, so appallingly costly… and in the end, stunning.

It’s just right now, I’m much closer to the kennel than the palace, and always, constantly and forever, somewhere there is another wall being ripped out, another hammer fall echoing through the dim hallway, yet more scratches and dents marring my efforts than I can keep up with.

“It’s unfair”, I told Heavenly Father this week, strangling my shin where I had just belted it on Hatro’s bed, the lump boldly rising under my fingers competing with the clunky prayer closing my throat.

It’s unfair that I have to deal with all this rubbish.

With stupid emails from George not even naming me as the mother of the boys, yet naming Jezzie *NEW LAST NAME* as co-payer of child support in the same sentence.

It’s unfair that the furious and vicious comments I compose to George writhe like cranky salamanders in my throat, until they combust – unleashed – leaving me with laryngitis and fever to further fuel my unsettled sleep.

It’s unfair that he/they plays such silly, petty games, and I find I can still be hurt, yet again I don’t reply, because I am trying so hard to be better than the person screaming inside my skin.

It’s unfair, Heavenly Father.

It’s unfair that people who are luminous, and courageous, and struggling to do the right thing are being hurt, stymied, broken.

It’s just unfair.

My prayer coils along the ceiling like fog, tendrils twining through my hair, pulling at me, keeping me awake and clammy as I wait for the aches to fade, the list to end, the silence to break.

. . .

I know it’s unfair.

I hold my breath, hoping for more, for vengeance and retribution promises to be poured out on all those that would dare mock, cast away, who carefully, deliberately choose badly. The heavens don’t respond, not the way I’m waiting for.

I know it’s unfair.

There were no promises. No words of gentle encouragement or perfect advice. Just the simple statement that He knows.

He knows it is unfair. It hadn’t escaped His notice. He hadn’t been momentarily – or significantly – delayed or distracted by someone else’s life, and only tuned back in because of the insane antics of a frustrated redhead. He knows it’s unfair. He knows.

And right now, that’s enough for me. I’m still praying for those who are breaking, who are being near-demolished and razed, who are trying to function and simply survive the latest renovation.

He knows, I’m praying for all of us.

Guess Who Got Married?

2010-07-24T06:17:00.000-07:00

Within 5 minutes of disembarking the plane, the boyos told me how George and Jezzie were married today. That George told them last night. That they were married near/on the beach at a park, there was fish and chips afterwards, lots of people and helium balloons. Wong enthused "And now we have more brothers, and maybe sisters eventually", which then led to a full five minute discussion about what sperm were, did and were stored in, and how George didn't have the 'bits' to have more kids.

Within 10 minutes, Wong excitedly told me from the backseat "...and they said that if they get a house then maybe we can come and live with them!"

"Not going to happen" I stated immediately. Calmly. Flatly.

"Why not?" asked Wong.

"Because we have an agreement."

"But I WANT to live with Dad!" Wong said loudly.

"I'm sure you do, sweetie, but it's not going to happen."

("I don't want to live with them" Hatro firmly stated, glaring at the windscreen.)

"But WHY?" Wong asked me again.

No uttered prayer, no pause for breath, no time to pretty up the answer.

"Because I don't want you to live with Jezzie."

Then before I say more, Hatro changed the subject to the blood red clouds they flew through, and we drove on through the night, tangled up once again in each other's lives, pain and laughter, close enough to touch.

My Heart Has Left The Building. Again. Temporarily.

2010-07-22T04:10:00.000-07:00

At 8.30 this morning I used my break time to ring Mum. Mum, who had been entrusted to get the boys up, organised and to the airport on time. She told me (repeatedly) that they were fine and packed and ready to go, while in the tiny garden of the staff room I tried to stretch out the cramps in my legs and the crinkling at the back of my eyes, listening to the chaos that I'm usually present for. I talked to Hatro and Wong again, told them I loved them, reminded them to pack their books, told them I loved them, and hung up.

I didn't see my sons off at the airport. For the first time - ever - I didn't stand at the gate, twitching, while working out the order of spy inspired moves that would enable me to pluck Hatro and Wong from the belly of the plane ("belly" being "comfy seating with individual screens"), escape the airport's nefarious clutches ($4 parking fee, payable on exit) and drive into the sunset (just really early at 11am) with my sons enthusing over my total awesomeness (note to self - pre-purchase McDonalds or new DS game...)

For the first time ever, I wasn't at the airport powering the plane heavenwards with my prayers, wrapping it up safely in my hopes and super-hopes, launching it from my sight with my fervent benediction. Instead, I was at placement putting my learnt theory into practice, and somewhere between the held hands, stethoscopes and vital signs, my sons flew away from home.

I'm now in bed (the earliest bedtime this year) and I'm still twitchy. The quiet yells loudly in my ear, and I don't know how often I've paused, suspicious or worried, wondering why the boyos are so quiet. Then I wonder what they are doing, if their grandmother is being kind, if Wong is feeling loved, and why people can be so easily, casually cruel.

I hope they have a good time. I hope the boyos aren't faced with a wedding. I hope George gets asked some pointed questions and I hope he tells the truth to my sons. I hope I can dive off the edge of the planet and sleep tonight. I hope George and his parents are stunned at the glory and wonder that are Hatro and Wong, that they are amazed at how good and astonishing and brilliant those two boys naturally are.

My ears are ringing from their silence. My heart strings are pulled tight, pinching, uncomfortable with the sudden distance between us. My heart beats, the chords pulse, constantly calling "Come home."

Guilt Is A Greedy Beast

2010-07-20T08:09:00.000-07:00

Guilt is an almost constant presence. At times nibbling daintily at the edges of dreams, or coughing politely to interrupt my concentration, it’s mostly – and quite often - gorging grossly in front of me, mangled intentions and forgotten promises spraying from its swollen, spitting lips.

If guilt was able to be forecast like the weather, the next three months would read “Significant high-level mother guilt expected, with associated subsidiary scholastic temper storms weekly, unpredictable squalls throughout the region, and constant increasing pressure as the guilt settles in to batter the area for the duration.” Bad weather’s coming, and there is nothing I can do to escape it. Nothing short of quitting uni, or finding a decent job and going part-time, neither of which being worth what I would be giving up. So I’m feeling like I’m stuck in a grotesque banquet room, seeing all the platters of good, hopeful, bad, residual, better, unavoidable and best, knowing that guilt is getting ready to chow down, and hoping that I can somehow appease the beast with the more realistic (and least distressing) course options.

Course Option One: Residual Rolls

Guilt has gone on an enforced diet from these nasty things. Mostly from the “If I was a better mother I would have been able to keep George” variety – they leave an awful taste in my mouth and thoughts. I very rarely think this anymore, but sometimes, when I’m trying to balance everything and resist the guilt, it’s the first thing Mother Guilt throws in the food fight. She fights dirty, and it takes a huge amount of barricading to dodge all the slings and arrows of outrageous attacks, and unfortunately she always find the perfect angle to smack me upside the head with these hard, unpalatable chunks of stupidity.

Course Option Two: Quality vs Quantity Quail

Both at once is as rare as the legendary “Single Righteous Relationship-Viable 30-45 Year Old LDS Priesthood Holder”. Actually, that’s not true. In the past year I’ve had between two and nine occasions of high quantity AND quality time with my boyos, and zero, nada, no, zilch reports of the other fable, let alone primary source evidence of the same.

Regardless of legends, songs and well-meant promises or reassurances (Reference mythical creature in previous paragraph)- NOT THAT I’M LOOKING THANK YOU VERY MUCH BECAUSE I AM DEMENTED ENOUGH ALREADY! A “man” will NOT solve my problems! I have been there, done that and in case you didn’t notice it didn’t work out that well!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! –sorry, where was I? Oh yes. Despite lyrics, sonnets and encouragement to the contrary, you can’t have it all, let alone all the time. Oh, you can most certainly want it (no, I am NOT talking about a man!) but real life – my real life – states that it just doesn’t work that way. So, enter stage left Guilt, and laugh belligerently, waving the platters of quality quail and quantity quail under my seething glare.

Oh, how I want the superpower of igniting hair, egos and stupid parenting columns with a single look. I know I can’t take some of quality AND quantity, despite the number of articles and unwanted advisors telling me I’m just not trying hard enough, organised enough, praying sincerely enough. There is only realistically room for one on my plate, and as tiny and pitiful as it often looks, I take quality. I just wish I could suck every tender morsel from the quality time available without guilt heaving its crushing weight into my lap before I’m done. There’s always the cost of the quality. I choose the boyos, the study is ignored and I fall behind, compounding the pressure. I choose to pass a course, the boyos are left to sort their own fights, boredom, socks and lunch options while I’m in the same room, a billion miles away, and when they haul me abruptly back, I snap at them “WHAT?”... And guilt mauls my guts when they say “I just wanted a hug…”

Course Option Whatever: Stupid Speech Stew

I say stupid things. I try not to, but sometimes I’m suddenly the poster wench for Stupid Comment Awareness Day and I’m wondering why I can’t just shut my mouth and be a real Mum – a good Mum. Surely a good Mum wouldn’t say “I don’t care about whatever you’re telling me about book club Wong – just please, PLEASE shut up and eat your dinner! PLEASE?” A good Mum wouldn’t threaten her son with “Hatro, if you refer to any perceived similarities between your brother and a donkey/girl/baby tv show character again, I don’t know what the consequences will be, but they will be severe enough to make you cry like a little girl with a Strawberry Shortcake doll with its arms ripped off.”

I say stupid things instead of encouraging pearls then find the words grinding in my gut at bedtime, the bed too small for the heavy, sweaty body of guilt pressed against me as it whispers in my ear the probable (slur) repercussions (pinch) of each (misery) idiotic (hiss), unplanned (wince) word (failure) that fell (misspent) from my (pathetic) mouth.

Next course: Doubt Doughnuts

What am I doing to my boys?

Doubt is the cloying, rotting cloud of scent blurring the air around guilt, or the mangy, itchy cloak containing it. I never quite know where the doubt ends and the guilt starts – my eyes water and my brain seizes before I can mark the safe distance. I doubt if I’m doing the right thing, too many wrong things, the right thing the wrong way, the wrong thing the worst way…

Is all my effort at getting this degree worth the planned inattention, the scattered homework, the pleas for consideration, another postponed bedtime story? Have I done the right thing, the wrong thing, the kind thing, the cruellest thing not telling them the truth of so many events and situations? What if I love them as much, as hard, and totally as I can… and it’s not even close to enough? What if I’m totally screwing up their lives? Is being with me what’s best for them?

Guilt and doubt run in close, pour into each other that I can’t work out which starts where, and their constant stickiness makes the hair on my arms clump and arc up the wrong way, difficult to rub off or push away, and my eyes burn with frustration at having been suckered into such a useless activity again as I try to spit out the disgust coating my tongue.

Dessert Course: Envy Souffle

This dish looks amazing. It’s always beautifully presented, enticingly caramelised around the edges, simmering in its shimmering, golden perfection.

Sometimes, I want George’s life.

I want to not worry about report cards, twice-worn-now-outgrown pants and school trips. I don’t want to know about Pokemon, Yu Gi Oh, unfair computer usage or sports days. I want to be totally oblivious of the repercussions of “Yeah, I’m going through puberty Mum” even more than the “Excuse me Mum, I think I’m going to be -bleuurghhh…” I want to go to work, with my shirt ironed, my lunch made, and come home hours later to a made dinner, a kiss and nothing else clogging my mind except bedtime. I wonder what it would feel like to have no thought of your children beyond twenty minutes of conversation a week, and that be the full extent of my responsibility. I want to have all my wants come to pass, and have no consequences crushing me into the earth.

Sometimes I want George’s life, sometimes I wish he was dead, sometimes I wish he was a soufflé I could stab with a steak knife and watch him deflate and lie slashed on the floor and then have him watch as I walk away laughing.

Then guilt and I sob together, bellies heavy and grief-laden, because the weight of my sons is a comfort and a burden all at the same time and it’s exhausting, complicated, never easy and far too precious to screw up and get wrong which is what I’m worried I’m doing.

Faith, don’t fail me now. With exhaustion and frustration clogging my nose, so thick I can barely swallow, praying for Jesus to forget the sailor and just keep my tears and temper in check until I get home, some well-meaning patronising idiot tells me I remind them of Sariah, or Eve, so strong and capable and faithful and I have to close my eyes against the bright burn of their blindness. Guilt has exploded past laughter, and now wheezes asthmatically into my ear in delight at the obvious uncharitable thoughts and suggestions I’m loading into my conversational bazooka, and while disappointed I don’t disengage the safety and vaporise the unsuspecting, cheerfully chuckles and videotapes the pointed diatribe I seethe at God, agency and the so called plan of happiness.

More than anything, I believe. I believe in God, my Heavenly Father, my Saviour, Jesus Christ, and in the incomparable gift of the Holy Ghost. I know God hears my prayers, has promised me good for my sons and myself, and I know that I never walk, stumble or fall alone. Which makes guilt’s fingernails sharper and able to reach deeper in their lazy stirrings through my head, when I realise I’ve been stomping around the backyard hurling my pain, doubt and anger into my Heavenly Father’s lap instead of being still and knowing He is God and other currently useless platitudes.

Then, late at night, while my eyes marinate yet again in my tears, I choke out once more “Lord, help thou my unbelief.” And somehow, impossibly, incredibly, in the midst of my lonely, empty, pressure crammed sob, He does. Somehow, I’m gathered up against someone’s side. Someone who hears my guilt, my worries, my anger and fears as they pour and stutter out of me, and He cries right alongside me. Because He knows weight of my sons is a comfort and a burden all at the same time, just like He knows how the music kept me calm the night I thought I was going insane, that I delight in my sons’ sarcasm, knows I associate “pain” and “eternal” with George more than “forgiveness”, and loves me anyway.

Loves me, and fades my guilt to calm, the impossible to eventual, midnight stress to needed rest. The stress will still ebb and flow, doubt will thicken and bloom, guilt and anger will spice my thoughts with pepper and sand. There will still be tears, and consequences, hurled prayers and laughter. And always, always – maybe scattered amongst dreams of soufflés, steak knives, graduations and stunning sons – there will be hope, heaven’s grace, a family of three, and forever.

Alleluia.

And Welcome Back to Real Life!

2010-07-11T04:01:00.000-07:00

"Excuse me Mum," Wong said from the midst of a cuddle yesterday morning, "I don't mean to depress you or anything.... but Dad's hugs are approximately 1% better than yours."

Oh. Huh. Hmmm. Wow. I think my heart just tried to claw its way up my spine into my brain in distress. Lovely.

Real life and regular scheduling has recommenced.

Obviously.

******************

The two weeks of holiday screamed past in a fantastic, incredible tumble of sights, sounds, people, memories and snapshots. Over 300 photos have already been downloaded to my computer, with another memory stick waiting to swell the recollections, and those are dwarfed by the surround sound, panoramic montage playing in my head.

A montage now dominated by the yowling demands, shrieking scheduling and scratchy minutiae that needs my immediate, focussed attention. Already - surrounded by another dozen to do lists, conflicting appointments and grating muzak of time frazzled shoppers - I find myself sinking my feet in the cool, shimmering memories of the past fortnight and willing the hassle to fade to grey.

Q. The one problem with having gone a. on holidays b. to the States c. for two weeks?

A. Getting back and bracing myself to heft up the weight of my regular life from where I left it.

To be frank, I left most of it on the floor. My calling responsibilities came off with my heels the Sunday before I left, having made sure that everything was organised for my absence. My uni timetable and assignments were neatly packed in a box, revealing carpet lost to chronic paper dandruff weeks before. The familiar weight of Kung Fu lessons, speech therapy, Young Mens meetings and grocery shopping fell from my shoulders and honestly could have rolled under the piano for the attention I paid - I was focussed on leaving.

Leaving. Leaving my country, extended family, study groups and friends. Leaving for somewhere - something! - that was improbably, impossibly waiting for me. Leaving (sweet, luscious leaving!) George on the other side of the planet, not sharing a state, country, postcode or hemisphere with the fool! Leaving, to share the surreal opportunity of two weeks in the States with my boyos, travelling companions extraordinaire. Leaving the responsibilities, concerns, aggravation, worries and calamities of my usual life behind and diving, leaping, belly-flopping, soaring into whatever would happen next.

I am hugely content and proud to say that I revelled in every moment. Okay, I may have lost an hour at one point (when I realised I had failed a uni course*) but as I recognised that I couldn't do anything about it until my return, I continued to luxuriate in the bizarre, captivating circumstance of being there, then, with astounding whos, generous hows and stunning whys.

There were so many moments that caught my breath, where the world just paused, or shifted, allowing me the chance to see, to stop, to know. Or someone said words that shimmered on the ear, resonated deep inside and were sometimes even delivered hug wrapped. The night of the Segullah Writer's Retreat I lay in a princess's room, gazing up at the stars, and clear as the evening I realised none of it would have been possible without George. The stars blurred and danced as far below I finally accepted that this very good, astonishing circumstance had germinated from the bloody, broken carcass of a marriage, and that - as so long ago promised - the cost of that marriage's end would eventually be paid back in happiness and wonderful occasions. Evidenced - in part - right there. Back lit by stars, half a world away from the first bitter gulp, I could almost see the happiness, and tasted the tart sweetness in my mouth.

And I am trying to hold onto that. With the never ending, every day already clogging my nostrils, trepidation of the next ten weeks of exhaustive, demanding requirements spiking my pulse, worries and scheduling frustrations, I'm trying to remember that God told me all this would work out. He didn't say it would be easy, or always enjoyable, or peaceful. But that it would all work out for my - and my sons' - good.

Eventually.

***********************

".....hugs are 1% better than yours."

Wong grins up at me, rubs his chin, and says "Though maybe it's the prickly whiskers. Maybe you could grow some whiskers and have better hugs than him!"

Knowing the state of my own hairiness (to which Wong is obviously unaware) I pull him into a head lock. "Nah, no prickly whiskers," I growl at him. "How about we just agree that Dad gives the best hugs of Dads, and I give the best hugs of Mums?"

Wong chuckles, and twists into my side for another hug. "Okay" he agrees, gives me a sloppy kiss and wanders off singing of candy.

So then I did the dishes, refereed several arguments, and settled deeper into my usual life.

* I did fail a subject, by submitting my essay in the wrong area. Thankfully, on my return my lecturer had read my essay, revised the grade, and I have officially passed all courses for Term 1.

Blanket

2010-06-24T21:14:00.000-07:00

The night George ended our marriage, I walked into what – mere hours before – had been our bedroom, but was now my own. I wrapped myself into my favourite blanket, lay on my side of the bed, and proceeded to turn the mattress into a sodden swamp. The next morning the other side of the bed sprawled lewdly, offending me with its unwrinkled existence, rudely advertising the inescapable fact that things had changed.

That week, things changed again. Each night I had continued to wrap my sorrow and I in my doona, huddling around the ice deep in my belly, though it had gradually become more obvious that I could not stand to touch the sheets that we had shared. I tried to adjust - I stripped the bed of sheets, pillows, pillowcases and blankets, but every possible replacement had been background scenery to our marriage, and visual cues to memories that would not stay hidden and buried every time I walked into the room.

Something had to change, and that next weekend, things did - specifically, my linen. I waded through Spotlight reading the labels, doggedly working my way through colours and sizes until I found a sheet set that had no colour-coded memories, no spring loaded recollections, with no identifying features other than being the first sheets I would buy as a failed, separated, stunned and faded woman.

I took the sheets home and once they billowed on the clothesline returned to the bedroom to wage war. War against the memories that attacked me every evening I had gone to bed, to jeer at me every time I opened my eyes, to taunt me with the space that the alarm clock used to occupy. As music played on my new CD alarm clock, off came the sheets, the blankets and doona cover. I tossed them one by one into the hallway, grabbed the next blanket and froze, fingers woven through the handmade squares.

I made that blanket. Crocheted it, tiny chains of wool, thousands of links into one queen-size mesh of memory. My belly swelled with Wong under its weight, which was started with wool left over from Hatro’s baby blanket. A witness to the laughter, whispers, heated words, frustrations, tears and murmur laced touches experienced behind closed bedroom doors. A blanket that took me years to complete, three tiny loops at a time, wondering if my grandchildren would lie beneath it when they came to visit us one distant day to come, dreams and life and conversations twisted in amongst the thread, its weight as familiar as the warm loving body once curled at my back.

The weight of the blanket’s wool and memories pulled at me, my fingers still buried deep in the crafted holes, ever present tears adding to its heft as I tensed to throw the emotional grenade into the hall. But I couldn’t let it go. Somehow, my fingers would not release from deep within the folds, my arms would not lift and launch the bundle from my bedroom. The blanket was more than a memory keeper, a tear catcher, a repository of dreams. It was also proof of my determination, evidence of my ability to do something significant, in spite of derision and opposition, one tiny step at a time – over years if necessary – until the apparently impossible was achieved.

That evening, I carefully slid between the newly washed, wind scented sheets, gathered the blanket up close around my neck, and cried in relief and freshly minted pain that I had survived another day, had fed, cared for and kissed my children, and no longer had to look at or touch sheets that reminded me of George.

*************

That blanket, all several kilos of it, has remained part of my bedroom landscape. Its weight protected me against the winter’s chill - both inside and out - of last year, keeping the warmth as close to me as the pillow now lying guard against my back. I would straighten out the lines each morning, pulling the sheet smooth beneath it, and touch the slightly bigger holes along the diagonal that were proof of the difficulty and gradual improvement in building up to the next bigger level. After all, if I could take several years to make something so sizeable and worthwhile, surely I could do the same with my life – one breath, one day, one impossible effort at a time.

Until now. Now, the blanket holds me down. It makes me scratchy, annoyed and sometimes just looking at it I want to scrunch it up into a ball and shove it somewhere dusty, mouldy and out of sight. Maybe I’ve outgrown it, moved beyond needing the protection and encouragement it offers. There is nothing within its folds that I care to take with me into the future, preferring instead to leave the past far behind. Now, instead of reminding me of my ability to do small things to accomplish the unexpected, the blanket chafes as a reminder of the lowest times - nights spent staring at the ceiling while tears overflowed my ears, screams muffled into its crumpled folds - and mute testimony of times long past and corrupted.

And yet. As tempting as it would be, I can’t decide if throwing it out or donating it to charity is the right thing to do. Is it something I should be keeping for my sons, an heirloom of a happier time? Because there isn’t actually that much left to hand to them as a memento of George’s and my marriage. The wedding photos wait, banished to a plastic casket buried under my bed, wrapped in my wedding gown alongside the sealing gift of a framed cross-stitch boasting “Families are forever”. There are photos, still in last year’s box, of the places and faces now gone - photos that I am still to go through to weed out my favourites of the boys, and preserve some evidence of George’s involvement in the boyos lives, before.

I sold the wedding rings. I simply couldn’t keep them. Again, I tried. But the deluge of memories was too constant, too damaging to live with. Every time I saw the rings, wherever I had stored them, I remembered not good times, but the most recent and ugliest. Of George taking off his ring that first night while I cried in my bedroom and - a week later – forgetting where he had placed the ring, his laughter as he dug through his bedside table to find it. Laughter, just ten minutes after telling our sons of our separation, when he had finished with “So I don’t love Mum like a wife anymore, but I will always love you guys. Now, who wants Chinese for dinner?” It was then, shaking my head at him in disgusted disbelief that I slid my wedding ring off my finger under the table, as my sons stared at nothing and George enthused about what to order. The rings meant nothing positive to me, even eighteen months later, and – even considering the perceived bad luck of using a failed marriage’s rings - I doubted the boys would want them. Let them start fresh, I thought, without someone else’s unwanted, useless rings. So I sold them, happily and without regret, three months ago.

But the blanket still dogs me. I’m on the other side of the world, in a totally different hemisphere, and I find myself thinking of the blanket awaiting my return. A conspiracy of blankets stalks me even here: sixty-four displayed in a pioneer house cupboard, one for each child born to seven wives; the polar fleece cuddle blankets the boyos brought over for the plane; quilts and blankets scattered everywhere, waiting for my decision.

The boys don’t know the significance of the familiar cover, the depth and breadth of its circumstances. I worry and fret that they will one day ask for a token of our marriage, only to be disappointed that I have nothing but dusty, ignored photos. I cannot decide if giving it away is cruelly depriving my sons of a tangible piece of their parent’s happy history, or the gift of it is burdening them with a weight that they don’t really need to ever learn, know or bear. Or should I keep it, stored carefully away, and let my grandkids decide what it means, without history weighing them down.

Stateside Insanity Pending!

2010-06-19T15:25:00.000-07:00

While I remember, I've made a new blog for my Stateside visit:

Selwyn's Stateside Insanity

Chances are I'll muck up where I post between this and that one, though, so if you're interested, check both!

Clogging Up My Head This Evening Are The Following:

2010-06-19T03:08:00.000-07:00

George emailed the boys on Tuesday saying he'd call tonight at 6pm. He didn't. He did text early this afternoon, asking if he could speak to them then instead, but I was shopping with the boyos and totally missed the phone's beeping message announcement. I replied nearly two hours ago (before 6 p.m.) that he can ring whenever he likes, the boyos will tell him if they can talk or are busy. No response. He hasn't rung, or texted back, so the boys have gone to bed wondering what happened to their Dad ringing them.
Neither wanted to ring him. Well, neither asked to, and they usually do. I don't prompt, not wanting to add any pressure, perceived or otherwise. I don't take joy out of it, as there is none to be had.
Both stayed up nearly an hour later than they wanted and needed, waiting for the response that never came. This sort of situation is one of the hardest aspects of divorce to deal with. There are no right answers, either, just further fouling or soothing of pain.
The boyos did remarkably well, getting up at 2 a.m. and lasting until 7.30 p.m, including an hour at the shops, which they both loathe (Hatro in particular).
I need to go to bed. Badly. The early hours of the morning are going to arrive far too quickly!
I am so excited about tomorrow, actually leaving town with my boyos and staying in BrisVegas to make sure we catch Monday's flight. It's odd to many people, but it's the way my mind works, having planned redundancies. Because, after all, if our flight is delayed tomorrow, there are at least TWO more flights tomorrow night that can get us to Brissy. If there is significant delay, mechanical failure or airborne porcine, there are a further TWO flights on Monday that will deliver us to the International airport in time to check in. Or, should the flights be deemed non-viable tomorrow night, I have enough time to drive to Brisbane to make the flight. Fear not, America, we are coming!
I'm a little concerned that my odd ways over here will be blatantly disturbing over there. Because, any way I try to look at it, I just don't "do" normal.
The Relief Society President up here has being telling people that I write. It's freaking me out.
Significantly.
I just printed our boarding passes to Brisbane. I neither confirm nor deny performing a happy dance.
I'm still grinning about something that happened today, but that will have to wait until tomorrow.
I MUST REMEMBER to confirm my flight to Utah on Monday morning. I have to come up with a memory trigger for at the hotel or airport to do so. Suggestions?
I'm still working out how to tell the boys NOT to say any of the bad words for flying. Flag to a bull, really. Particularly Wong's voice always finds a silence to ring loudly in. Maybe I just won't raise the issue.
One more sleep! Tasha texted me those exact words. So sweet!
She also texted that she's going to miss me. Awwww, what a considerate sweetheart!
She then suggested that maybe she'll fill her time planning bridal bouquets for my return.
Did I mention I find jersey COWS really sweet, too?

One Serve of Patience, Side Order of Frustration and Tongue Biting

2010-06-18T04:11:00.000-07:00

This morning, while I was trying to remember the things I had forgotten to write down on my pre-last minute panic list, Wong said "I had the greatest dream last night Mum, and I remembered it! Wanna hear it?"

"Sure, sweetie." I answered, looking forward to another wacky Wong discussion while I ate breakfast.

"It was cool! Dad and Jezzie and I were at this water park, and goiadgaoiug3r90v-&aodighaodibleargh". To be frank, I stopped listening after "Dad and Jezzie". And didn't actively listen for the duration of his recital of his dream. Which took just under ten minutes. I kept half an ear half open to contribute to the conversation ("How high was that part? Wow, that would've been cool!") and went on doing the usual morning kitchen stuff while Wong waxed enthusiastic about how awesome George and Jezzie were in his dream.

"Did I go on that ride?" I asked at one point, when Wong described a gravity- and gut-defying ride that I screamed on.

"Oh no," he said, licking his toast "you weren't in the dream."

And that is something I'm trying not to be annoyed about lately. I plan things, as little as using the drive-through car wash that Wong adores, or even as huge as us all going to AMERICA, and all Wong spoke of for days last week was how excited he is to see George in five weeks time (for two days), and the fun he had in the world's HUGEST most EXCELLENT water park EVER with George and Jezzie last time he visited.

My heart breaks for Wong. He is so social, so open and trusting, so devastated by cruelty or meanness. It means that there is sunshine, thunderstorms and floods almost daily living with him, and a constant declaration of whatever he is thinking, at that exact moment, and discussion thereof. Wong is my child who - when begged to just be quiet, just for one whole minute - says "Okay!", then in his next breath is talking, again. It can be exhausting. Particularly when the wanders down his own mental garden paths divulge the running commentary of just what exactly he hopes happen with George next times, broken down in minute increments.

"Where is my excitement?" I want to ask him sometimes. "Where is your non-stop fore-casted enthusiasm at seeing ME? Can I please see you looking forward to the things that I try to organise that make you laugh, or dance, or whoop in delight? Please, can there be some excitement for me?"

Which is probably unfair. I guess Wong sees me every day, as reliable and constant as electricity at the switch and milk in the fridge, as unremarkable as comfortable socks and a sandwich for lunch. He doesn't see me as something as exotic and bewildering as a unicorn, as fickle and changeable as the moon's reflection on water, and as such, what is there to get excited about?

So, while I unpack the dishwasher, make lunches and at times deliberately bite my tongue, I listen to Wong cheerfully relate his nighttime adventures, filling in my own ending to sentences like "So then Dad jumped up and hit-", while Wong pauses to bite, chew, and slowly eat his breakfast.

Then, half an hour later, he planted a sticky kiss on my cheek, put on his school bag, gave me another kiss, yelled out "I love you!", blew me three kisses, and walked across the road to school. Stopping three times to wave again, and blow more kisses.

And - dammit, and of course - all the frustration melted away.

Feeling Itchy

2010-06-13T20:19:00.000-07:00

In one week, I am going to be sitting in a plane, boyos by my side, getting ready to power down the runway and launch towards America. Maybe then it will seem more real.

It feels like I'm dreaming. Filling out forms, flicking through our passports, making lists of which books the boyos want to track down and who to ~~send~~ buy postcards for (you know if I'm sending you a postcard, it's highly likely to be sent from Oz once I get back, right? 'Cause I'm still going to be me, just in a different country(!) which isn't going to change my inability to post things on time), and counting down the days seems like a hazy night's wander through my own imaginings.

But it's not.

Um, just one question...HOW did I get here? I'm not quite sure. But following is the closest I can figure out the process.

It started years ago, regardless of where you count from. Forget time being sand through your fingers, my past few years feel more like a horse sneezing into my face, diving open mouthed into a still, dark lake, and the last twenty seconds of thumping a punch bag into submission before my arms fall off and my stomach crawls out of the nearest emergency exit.

This whole "going to America" thing/situation/extravaganza/delusion/miracle started years ago (in 2005, eons ago) when Meridian Magazine had an article about a brand new online journal for LDS women, a journal called Segullah. I read the article, jumping mid-way to check out the journal. I was hooked. The Segullah site was added to my Favourites, the print journal added to my wish list, and life continued.

I actually submitted to Segullah. Way back in 2006 I think. A story wasn't accepted (though, as a gift to a friend was the impetus to start writing again) but my essay was. I couldn't believe it. I reread the email countless times, making sure I wasn't skipping any key words, but the truth remained, my essay was going to be published. As usually happens, I was in the midst of several significant situations at the time - I was Cub Scout Leader, I was President of Wong's kindergarten, and I was packing and cleaning in preparation for moving 3000 kilometres to be closer to my family and work in the family business.

My computer was the last item put in a box, as I was revising and emailing my editor (AARGH! My EDITOR! MY editor! I couldn't stop smiling) the essay changes right up to the hour the removalist truck arrived. The next week, in the glaring tropical sun, I wore the gecko jewellery George gave me for my birthday as he took the photo to grace my bio paragraph at the end of my essay. An essay that started with the incomprehensible, the unreal - that George would have an affair.

When I received the hard copy journal, I hugged it to my chest, delighted, disbelieving that it was my words printed on the page, in the publication in my hands. I traced the word "Segullah" with my fingers, tried to work out how to say it, and thought I was done with writing.

I wasn't.

In the midst of work and kids and church and life, I was busy, and happy, but writing the story, then the essay had released a bug. A bug that bit inside my head, making me itch for a pen, a keyboard, a crayon or the steam misted shower door to order the words just so about what I was thinking, had seen or to capture a moment with my boyos, my love, my imagination, my God. Which is why I started this blog, way back when, August 2008, to capture those things, to let my fingers fly with the current of thoughts tumbling from my head.

And then George. Did what he did, said what he said, lied and left.

That first morning, mere pulverising hours after my world had shuddered to a noiseless, rubble-filled stop, the extent of my hurt, my deep injuries came to light.

"My words, Mum" I sobbed, as she looked on, stunned. "My words. I - there's no..."

"My words are GONE!" My grief echoed around the warehouse, panicked, and fled out the doors.

And Mum bit her lip, tears filling her eyes as I stood there, broken, wordless. That's when she knew it was real, that George had left. How stunningly, seriously hurt I was.

My second blog post, in September, was that George had left.

After weeks away, my words had came back, to help me dig my way out of the crater I found myself in. I blogged to get my crazies out, and read Segullah everyday as a welcome diversion. I commented on posts, too, under the Selwyn pseudonym. Then there came a comment on my blog May last year asking if I would guest post on Segullah. So I did. And I got a kick out of seeing my pseudonym there, on Segullah. And people commented! It was lovely to get the feedback, and best wishes, and the next day someone else posted and I went back to my blog and work and life, with words twining before my eyes each night as I went to sleep.

Blogging was still my release valve, and that's all I was going to do. Until M-heart asked me where my essay was for the next Segullah journal article submission round. With her encouragement, I wrote an essay, the most painful and personal one I have ever written. I submitted it, and hoped it wouldn't be accepted because it was too close, too bloody to touch when I was so close to washing the stain away. Then, on the day that marked the one year survival of George's announcements, I received an email from Kathryn Soper inviting me to JOIN the Segullah staff.

I squealed.

Then I cried.

Then I laughed, and reread the email, and replied YES!

A week or so later, I read that there was going to be a Segullah Writers' Retreat. I'm going popped into my head. I started laughing, then bit the chuckle in half. No, don't laugh. I'm going. Certainty drenched me, despite all the reasons to the contrary the rational me was intoning through my happy dance.

I was asked to be part of the actual retreat - part of the I Blog panel. Don't tell anyone, but I think the incredible Segullah ladies have mistaken me for someone else. Someone with talent, who knows of what she speaks. But I AM going to the Segullah Writing Retreat, and am going to soak in the day, the experience, the opportunity to be there. And then there is another 10 days before we come back!

I am going to the Retreat, and the boyos are coming with me to the States, the miracles and generosity that make all of it possible another post and dozen in itself. I can't wait to meet people I've met through my blog, and Segullah, and just be somewhere so unexpected with amazing individuals that I wouldn't know if I hadn't written down my crazy, insane, astounding life.

People - people I count as friends, close friends - tell me I can write, and write in a way that sucks them in. Personally, I can't see it. I just get itchy when I need to write, and I write exactly the way I feel, think and see. I write to get the itchy and the crazies out. And somehow, what I have written is taking me literally to the other side of the world.

I can't believe it. Still. Maybe, in a week, when all I can see outside the window is the Pacific Ocean, wide as possibility, I will.

Luci, This One's For You

2010-06-09T20:59:00.000-07:00

Years ago, a few weeks after George left, I sat down at the computer and wrote a letter. A letter to all my friends stating quite simply that George had left, would not be returning and could everyone please pray for me, my sons and George. Then I attached the letter to a group email (I think, from memory, the subject line was "I'm sorry. I am so sorry"), apologised in the email that I was notifying such attached news via email but that was all I could do at that point in time, then pressed send.

I'm still not sure why I wrote that letter. It certainly ended all the emails I'd been receiving that included "please say hi to George for me/us", which reduced my crying a little. But then some of the responses made me cry even more, because everyone sent back love, and prayers, and support. I cried because it was so heartening to read the words and know people I cared about and respected were thinking of me, mine and keeping us in their prayers.

I cried because I was broken and all the emails I'd received were wrong - I didn't deserve love and wishes, because the person who knew me best didn't think I was worth staying with. Stay away, I wanted to reply. Stay away from me, flee, before I contaminate your life and destroy everything important to you just by being the failure I am.

Years later, I don't think or feel the same way.

Except when I do.

Nowadays, the sly little demon gnawing at my esteem usually only lasts for a minute before being slapped upside the head or booted by whichever roaming sentry of memory or burly belief is standing nearby. The warped, mouldy little beast is thrown from the nearest window by a sentinel memory, maybe the one of my enduring through the first Sunday at church, alone. The stench of #worthless!*&; is hunted to it's source by the burly, immovable belief guarding my mental castle of knowing that I am a loved daughter of God, and then the slimy, putrid offender is evicted, this time by trebuchet for extra satisfaction and enjoyment.

It's when I'm overstretched, overwhelmed and under pressure that the defences get stretched too thin, reassigned to put out other fires instead of standing guard over the rooms that hold the real, vulnerable, sensitive me. It's at those burnt out, wall-shaking, BOOM! laced times that I doubt my ability to survive my own life, to ever do what is required, to be what is potentially the fabulous future-me.

At those times, I'm tempted to clear the oily hair from my eyes, wipe my nose undelicately on my ripped sleeve, open the shuddering door I'm braced against and let the waiting hell-hounds tear me into pathetic, embarrassing little pieces.

Except - like this past week - I open the door, and find the ominous thumps and noises are my friends fighting the demons for me, giving me time to catch my breath, get a grip on whichever tool works best, and jump back into the fray. But not alone.

Last week, I got home from my major stress-inducing exam, to find a parcel waiting for me at the front door. Zealously tracking any orders I make, I knew I wasn't expecting anything. No clues on the outside of the box, as I dropped my bag on the floor to rip open the unknown. So open it came, and there was a bouquet.

A bouquet of chocolates. Of Ferrero Rocher chocolates. All wrapped individually into flower buds. With a card, reading

Chicken Little, always remember when the sky is falling that I, Turkey Lurkey, will always be around to help you with all the other farm animals! xoxo

There is only one person it could have come from. So, years after meeting her, still hugely unable to delay gratification when it comes to presents, I opened a flower, sat the ball of goodness on my tongue and cried, remembering...

...I'd sent the letter. And a week or so later, found myself thousands of kilometres away from my babies, in the nation's freezing capital, eating breakfast with one of the coolest, funkiest, weirdest women it has been my privilege to ever meet and become friends with.

I know I looked awful. It was still so hard, so raw. I had cried myself to sleep the night before, because I had somehow forgotten that I was married in Canberra, and on the way to my hotel I drove right past the bell tower that I said "I do" under, and it was the first night I had been all alone to let all the tears out without choking myself to silence. So my eyes were puffy, and even to myself I looked like a zombie. But I couldn't help but smile when I saw Luci arrive, and give and get hugs, and sit down to appalling service and a hot cooked breakfast as we caught up.

Not one to dodge, shortly after sitting down, Luci looked at me straight in the eye, leant forward and said "I got your letter." She blinked, eyes shiny. "I'm sorry, Sel."

I attempted a smile, which cracked, broken, across my face. I shrugged, said something that I can't remember. Spoke briefly about how I was feeling, coping, how my boyos were going. And Luci, as always, listened, then talked back, made me laugh, laugh 'til I cried, and yet again reconfirmed her place in my "Top 5 Chicks Who Have My Back" list.

When I left breakfast, and waved until Luci was out of sight, I felt better. I had laughed, and cried with laughter, and somewhere amongst the hot chocolate and eggs, bacon, confused waiters and crumpled napkins, Luci had quietly given me the dignity I hadn't realised I had lost. Luci ate with me, and blatantly enjoyed my company. She made sure I was okay - me, Sel, myself. The state of George was irrelevant, the condition of my sons of interest but secondary to how I was going. And she wanted to know. Because she cared. About a messed up, clashy-haired, peculiar and bereft oddball. About ME.

... and did it again with chocolates, last week. Because, as she texted me that afternoon in our SMS-storm "U needed to know that ur bloody awesome" .

I don't think I'm bloody awesome. But I'm so glad and thankful and delighted that I have so many friends that are, and are ready to go nasty-stomping, Thai-eating or choc-chomping with me whenever I need them, inside my head or not. And if they say I'm awesome, I believe that I have the potential to be awesome. Because they would know.

Just Quickly...

2010-06-06T04:59:00.000-07:00

I'm confident I passed my biggest exam on Thursday - Anatomy and Physiology. Three hours of cramp-inducing question answering. My last exam is tomorrow, and I'm confident it will go well. Then I'm off to lunch with my study group to celebrate. Dessert is mandatory - a condition of joining our group. Oh, the suffering!
I'm also amazed the past 12 weeks have gone so quickly, and I've learnt so much, just at uni. Go me!
I still surprise myself.
Often, to amazing degrees. I kinda like it.
George sent a weird email asking for the boys for precisely one and a half days in July. A Thursday night to Saturday sometime. My first thought? They're getting married. So I emailed him asking why those weird dates.
Three days later he replied, stating his parents were visiting and "wanted the boys to see them". Grr. I'm still kind of suspicious, thinking they may be coming up for a wedding.
I told George fine, but I'm not paying for the flights.
I've checked my internal gauges repeatedly, but I don't actually care if they ARE getting married. His life, his further mistakes.
I'm surprised that I don't care. I would have thought I'd feel a stab, or jolt, or lament, but nope, nothing.
I am DELIGHTED that I don't care! More proof evident that I am "over" the ~~fool~~ ~~guy~~ idiot.
If he is getting married, and springs it on the boys, I am going to ring him up and give him a huge, steaming, nose-bleed inducing definitive account of his parental ineptitude and unmitigated selfishness.
Unless I go punch him instead.
But I won't. However I'll get my punching bag put up this week, which will be bloody fantastic.
George no longer - and hasn't for the past several weeks - spoken to the boyos on the phone on his own. He has them on speakerphone, with Jezzie. I find that pathetic and ridiculous.
Wong doesn't care.
Hatro does.
But he won't talk about it.
We have hugs instead. That has to count for something.
This time in two weeks, I'm going to be in BrisVegas, with my boyos, as we attempt to stay up all night before our flight to America in the hope of reducing jetlag. The phrases "hotel pool" and "room service" are prevalent in plans by the boyos.
As my exam finishes tomorrow, two weeks later, the plane will be accelerating down the runway and then zooming us across the Pacific. It's hard to wrap my head around. But it makes me grin like a loon.
The comments I read from my melt-down post were a huge, stupendous, long lasting boost. Thank you, all.

Then My Phone Stopped Working So I Threw It and Cried Some More

2010-05-30T00:46:00.000-07:00

Last night was a train wreck.

Exhaustion played a big part in it. I haven't been sleeping well or much, due to assignments and exams and worries and all sorts of heavy, useless junk going on in my head that won't let me STOP and rest. I haven't been able to go for a run, due to the assignments, and lingering knee/muscle issues and the incredibly selfish rotation of the earth on its axis making it too dark to run safely when I have time to do so. It's a sign of my fatigue that I have drafted a strongly worded letter of censure to Sol in my head demanding instant change. Surely having the universe revolve around ME isn't too much to ask - just for an hour?

Which is kind of why I found myself parked on side of the Bruce Highway at nearly 9 p.m. last night, sobbing. I had spent the entire day working on the final essay of term, ending the boyos spats with each other (wait 10-27.5 minutes, repeat), tending Hatro's spiked fever, Wong's tears over the injustice of unavailable onion rings, and trying to make order of chaos/dinner/to do lists piling up around me. I hadn't prepared anything for today's sharing time activity, my essay stubbornly refused to be completed, I'd run out of bread right before "Sandwich Sunday" - and then there was a church leadership meeting with the district presidency.

So off I went to church, leaving my sons playing games on my laptop and watching TV with strict instructions to not open the door, answer the phone or fight with each other. The leadership training was good, in spite of my brain's determination to go into sleep mode since all I appeared to be doing was sit there, doing nothing. I sat, I listened, I tried not to mentally address the demands and issues awaiting my return home. Then right at the end of the meeting, President Mallard concluded the meeting by talking of promises. He promised that the Lord knew each of us, loved each of us, and would give us joy.

I appear to have a severe allergic reaction to joy, even the word itself. He said 'joy' and my nose itched. He continued to say that if we continued to be faithful we would have joy in this life, and my eyes instantly watered. He promised that by doing as the Lord directed we would be able to look after our families and have joy in and with them and suddenly I felt like I was covered in a rash. As President Mallard continued to promise that we would be able to do all things required of us my tongue swelled, my throat hurt and my joints froze, leaving me stuck in my chair longing for escape. Don't cry, I told myself, just don't. I wiped my eyes during the closing prayer, telling myself I just had to make it to the car, that's all, just into the car park, just a minute to go...

And I was delayed. People wanted to speak to me, introduce themselves, chat about Primary, and I smiled and replied and returned the hymnbooks until I could finally escape the promise-laced air inside the room into the cool patient hands of night. Another member asked to speak with me, and I said *NO* "Sure" and they walked me to my car, turning away while casting "See you tomorrow" over their shoulder.

Get in the car get in the cargetinthecar - suck in a breath. Another, because the first wasn't enough. Try and find the ignition with shaking hands, it's okay, it's okay, just breathe "Because Sr Me just doesn't cry" I choked into the quiet car interior. The engine's running, lights on, can't drive because my hands wouldn't stop shaking and instead of wiping away, my fingers smeared the tears across my cheeks.

Someone started towards my car, probably wondering at my delay, and I shoved the car into first and drove away. Contemplated returning to the chapel to ask for a blessing, but the thought cracked my shuddering control, spilling my worries and frustrations out onto the dashboard with my sobs. I turned the first corner, and the streetlights melted into puddles of colour floating underwater. I pulled over to the side of the road, put the car and myself in neutral, and cried.

I cried because I am exhausted. I cried because I'm not sure joy is meant for me. I cried because university is difficult and demanding and I'm worried that the boys will suffer from my scheduled inattention during the three years it's going to take to finish this degree that I'm trying to complete so I can provide for them. I found myself sobbing about the lack of cherry ice-cream, and the time to enjoy some. I cried because of approaching exam anxiety and my insecurities about visiting the other side of the world. I sobbed, listening to the indicator time my misery, while passing traffic reminded me that time was passing, go home, headlights repeatedly smudging and clarifying with the cadence of my tears. Several times I smacked the steering wheel, telling myself to stop it, to calm down, that I was okay - but the dam had broken, the damage crews were on strike and I was going to be soggy for a while.

During the first attempt to talk myself into continuing home, a car turned out from the church street, and slowed right down as it passed. I willed it on, hoping it wasn't anyone from the meeting. At the lights it did a u-turn and passed again, while my tears plummeted to my hands clenched in my lap - I wasn't going to wipe my eyes if someone was watching. Once the car passed beyond me I rubbed, furious, at my cheeks, willing the tears to dry up and never return. In my rear-vision mirror, the car was braking, coming to a stop in the middle of the road, waiting. I turned my indicator off, and watched as the car pulled away, brake lights flickering until other traffic caught up and swept them away.

I'll give myself five minutes, I told myself, then I will go home, and get my pj's on, put the boys to bed and work on my essay until the bloody thing is finished. Five minutes. I'll ring the boyos because I'm already late, then I'll just sit, and breathe and STOP CRYING ALREADY, and then I'll go. I promise. So I sucked in another shuddering breath to attempt normal conversation, pressed the call button, and my phone froze, and I couldn't see the screen because tears were hurtling out so fast they scratched my eyes and I kept pushing the buttons until I broke down, threw the phone hard against the passenger car door hitting my handbag instead, and simply cried some more.

I didn't want anyone to see me crying, yet being alone again with my tears brought more sobs. There was no-one I could ring, I realised. Not because of my useless phone. There was no-one I WOULD ring. I cried again, because I'm worried I've burdened Tasha with too much, more than I should, and I wasn't going to ring her in the midst of a crying jag, even if she would be the one person who would be able to decipher that I was the madwoman on the other end of the line. Tears gushed when I thought of not having the luxury of crying whenever I wanted or needed, and the loneliness of crying under a bus sign on a highway. I cried because I'd cried enough to fog up the windows, and even more when the air conditioning started because it made my heavy sandy eyes burn. I cried because I wanted to go home to my boyos, but couldn't control my emotions enough to drive safely to do so. Then I cried because I didn't want to go home, back to where a pathetic essay awaited my return, there was still no bread in the cupboard, two amazing boys were stuck with a struggling, insecure, recently short-tempered mother, and my bed would remain unused for hours while I kept trying to avoid failure.

Then a couple of minutes later, I was done. Done crying. Done ignoring the fact that sometimes my life IS really difficult, frustrating and exhausting. Done pretending to myself that I can cope with everything, and that this new, unplanned life is phenomenal and easy. And once I was done, I felt better. I had a crying headache, puffy bloodshot eyes and a sodden shirt, but I didn't have as much tension clawing at my brain and could breathe again.

So I drove home, said hi to the boys, apologised for being late and got changed into my pj's. That I continued to leak while I hung up my skirt was just incidental, that my sons didn't notice my huskier voice was preferred, that I didn't get to bed until 3.30 this morning was okay because I finished the essay.

I slept until 7.30. Made a quiche for the "Sandwich Sunday" at church, organised something for sharing time, and made it to church by 9, in time for Hatro to pass the sacrament and be sustained as Deacon's Quorum President. Sonny cheerfully lied to me, telling me I looked "Fresh" and not exhausted, and we giggled over the obvious fib. Wong zoomed to my quiche at the luncheon, choosing two pieces as part of his "only 7 plate feast". Tasha sent me a hug via a visiting sister. My eyes are still cranky. I have no idea what I'm making for dinner, or if the tortilla's for the boyos lunches tomorrow are mouldy. And that's my life, right now.

What Do I Say?

2010-05-22T04:07:00.000-07:00

In the middle of his leisurely dinner, squashing food into armies and volcanoes, Wong turns to me and says "Mum, I wish Dad still lived with us."

I look at him, my baby, who has now spent more than a quarter of his life without his Dad.

"I know you do sweetie. It must be hard for you, to miss him so much."

"Yeah," Wong replies casually, tossing a chip into his mouth like a fish to a seal. "So, why did Dad divorce you, anyway?"

A whirlwind blooms in my throat, sucking my mouth dry, churning up spiked icy shards in my belly's forgotten tundra.

I swallow, shrug to Wong's back (another chip meets it's mushy death under his fingers), and say -

he wanted something - someone - that I wasn't

he was selfish

he wanted to do something Heavenly Father doesn't like, and it was easier to leave and do it, than stay and try harder

he's an idiot

I'm still not really sure

- "He didn't want to be married to me anymore".

"Oh." Says Wong, bringing the limp, potato corpse to his lips. "Okay."

Some days it is okay. Some days it's not.

I still don't know what quite to say.

Yays and Nays for Today

2010-05-20T21:18:00.000-07:00

Played netball today. Yay!

Hurt myself at netball. Nae gunna yay.

Didn't hurt my knee again. Yay!

Heard my gastocnemius muscle/calcaneus tendon go "snap" as a result of my twisting to avoid falling on my knee again. Nay fun. I'm starting to believe Kung Fu will be safer than netball...Yay!

Had two great marks for returned assignments this week (including the biology one where I was able to correctly label the previous point's connective tissue!) Yay!

Still have two essays to write in the next week. Nay way I can procrastinate any longer.

The end of the uni term is almost in sight - only two essays, two online quizzes, two paragraph submissions and two exams to go. YAYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!! Nay, wait. Nay?

Start my new calling at church on Sunday - as PRIMARY PRESIDENT. Despite my self-doubt, I think it will be fun, although I have never been a president of anything. Best part - last Sunday as I stood after my name was read out, there was immediately laughter and chuckles behind me. I carefully checked my (ANKLE LENGTH!) skirt was sitting properly (for some reason that was my first thought) and wondered what had happened to make people laugh. Turns out as soon as my name was read and I stood, Wong sat bolt upright, and raised his hands to sustain me - before my councillor's name had even been read out. So cute :) He's a very happy chappy to have me in Primary. So that's gotta be a yay!

The Aussie dollar is being slogged in the exchange market. BOO! I'm hoping it will raise at least 7 cents before my trip. Yay if it does!

We received our passports, and wow, they are PRETTY! Not so much the photos (insert "Family of Freaks on Holiday" caption) but the actual passport and pages are covered in quite nice art. I'm surprised, seeing as I worked in the Public Service and know how aesthetics usually play a non-existent part of government publications. Yay for being proved wrong!

Off to collect Wong from school - with Hatro, who came home early threatening to spew. (NAY!) I have a NON-UNI book to read while I wait! Super YAYYYY!!!!

Ambushed by Happiness

2010-05-19T05:51:00.000-07:00

It's surprising.

I'm sitting here, uni notes in front of me (being studiously ignored), Hatro off at Young Men's, Wong playing the PS2, and.... I'm happy.

Content!

Happiness still strikes me unawares. I feel like a ship that has been battered in horrific storms for uncountable nights, suddenly finding itself in calm, warm waters. I'm used to the constant yaw and pitch of the deck, to winds that screech and yank at my hair and pluck the breath spitefully from my mouth, leaving me tumbling, bruised and gasping. My familiar has been heaving buckets of slop, tears and sadness over the side, only to have the raging sea pour on more seething mess behind me, or straight on top of my aching head.

But now... I'm lifting my face to the sun. Happiness is not a constant, blinding ray, but more and more often now there is a sudden, startling flash of light dancing inside my head - happiness making its reacquaintance. I'm still wary though. I find myself keeping a guarded eye on happiness as it makes it's dazzling appearance in my days. Too often I've relaxed my stance just a little (too far! cries the suspicious, wounded beasty in my chest, trying to protect me from more pain) only to have a tender spot left unprotected from sudden attack, and be damaged again. But now I find myself content, without having to think or wish for it, with no need to protect against the great savage unknown.

It feels surreal to be here. Now. To be considering where I have been, and to realise I am in the far, too distant day I never expected would happen - where I would be happy. Strange, that I arrived here unexpected.

I have been promised in blessings that "all this" will work out for my good and the good of my sons. As yet, I cannot see "all this" as good. And yet. And yet I am here, and I am looking forward. If I think or look backwards now it is only rarely, or fleetingly, and it's so much easier to shake the cold dripping shiver off my shoulders than it has been before.

At times I feel shallow that I am not still mourning, grieving, suffering the loss of my once life. The pain was so intense, so cruel, that to have survived it and be upright and moving forward seems somehow callous and uncaring. Surely the damage was so great, so complete that I should have sunk beneath the waves of heartbreak and betrayal, and tragically, forlornly wailed my way to the cold, grainy grave of love's ocean floor.

Surely to have survived, to have escaped the tempest is proof in itself that the winds weren't that fierce, the tumult not that abrupt, the damage only slight and easily missed or repainted? The thoughts buzz, stinging me with doubt and worry, and self-doubt eats at my belly as I wander through myself, assessing the damage, checking if the disaster was all (and only) in my head.

The proof is evident. I was gutted. I can trace the thick chunks still gouged deep inside. I can see how shaken the weight bearing struts were, see how close to collapsing in on myself I came. But now I can see the work I put in, amidst the struggle and chaos, to brace myself up, to hold until more thorough supports could be constructed. The hasty work is not pretty. It is clunky, and banged together at desperate angles that echo with the desperation of the time. There is significant water damage, deep down in the belly, that has warped the floorboards that I walk on, which now refuse to lie prettily flat. I look nothing like the sleek, agile craft I had planned on being, and not surprisingly those plans have blown far away.

In the gradual coming of the day, I can see more clearly. I am not the vessel I once was. I am not sleek, or stylish, or built for speed. I am strong, and capable, and built for endurance. Happiness ambushes me. The deepest gouges have been patched and painted by those who heard my SOS and answered, or sent support without knowing the depth of my dilemmas, the exhaustion of my efforts. Prayer has rubbed smooth the rough edges, removed the splinters and stains, a constant work in progress. Splashes of colour trail the footsteps of my sons, as we stumbled, staggered, laughed and danced together. The once waterlogged floorboards have dried, and they softly curl to gently cup my feet. I know whereon I stand. Happily.

Step, Fall, Whatever

2010-05-14T23:19:00.000-07:00

Last Friday, I played indoor netball with friends from my branch. At one point I landed wrong footed as I caught the ball, started to wobble and threw desperately to a team mate. The force of throwing the ball further skewed my balance, and down I went.

My knee and hands burned, and the whistle blew. “Step” declared the umpire, over the burbling of both teams asking if I was okay.

“Pardon?” I asked, still on the ground assessing the damage (slight graze to one knee) and trying to catch my breath. I’m still learning the rules, a fact which the umpire was cheerfully aware.

“It was a step” the umpire casually stated.

“O-kaaay,” I replied, climbing gingerly to my feet, “though technically, it was a fall.”

So many times in life, something happens that initially appears so innocuous, so slight that I just keep on going, finishing the game, the dishes, and the daily routine. Sure there may be a little blood, but usually it’s easy to hide or wipe off. The stinging is able to be ignored in the bustle and chaos of life and whatever comes next. Until I slow down a little. Then little things I take for granted are painful, or just impossible, because of that one little event that happened.

The discomfort is worse the next day. I’m staring at my knee, amazed at how tender the graze is. It’s not huge, just slightly bigger than the pad of my thumb, but I can’t kneel, or bend my leg, or have anything touch it. Hanging out the laundry I realise that the shorts fabric is discoloured on the inside from where I fell. The new colouring won’t wash out.

Accidents happen. Changes happen. People happen. I didn’t go to netball last week expecting or planning to fall over, let alone so energetically. I certainly would have tried to avoid falling if I’d known in advance that it was going to happen. Unfortunately, despite my many pleading prayers, I haven’t been granted a list of significant events to look forward to - or to avoid.

Sunday, and I’m feeling decidedly stiff and grumpy. I can’t bend enough to shave my legs, so carefully ease a big bandaid on the knee before I struggle my tights on. I’d cut my hand on a light bulb the previous day, and hurt my graze picking up all the shattered glass. At church, I look no different, but ache and want to tell everyone “It wasn’t just a step, it was a fall and it hurt. It still hurts! Just because you don’t see the damage doesn’t mean it’s not there.” Instead, I smile, and chat, and gently rub my aching knee in the Branch President’s office as I’m released from a calling I love, and accept another that scares me. I avoid crying, and wish I’d had more warning. About everything.

I’m wondering how useful an “advanced warning” list would actually be. If you had told me twelve years ago that my newborn would grow so tall and broad and stunning, I wonder if seeing him now would take my breath as completely. If a letter had arrived three years ago advising that I would be divorced now, I would have laughed in disbelief and frank, uncontained hilarity. But I wonder what I would have done afterwards, and what it would have changed. A year ago I had no idea that the Segullah Retreat was being organised, let alone that I would be going. Right now, I have no idea of who I will meet there, who I’ll laugh with, talk to, eat beside and enjoy the day with, and I’m trying to not stress out about all the unknowns. It feels a little surreal to contemplate being on the other side of the world in just a handful of weeks. I’ll be in a totally different place than my normal, my expected familiar - and with an unexpected pink and shiny patch on my knee.(Footnotes * and #)

Small events often lead to great, unknown consequences. A tiny piece of skin, two seconds of lost balance and the surprising impact continues to flow on into the thirsty future. I thought I had this post completed, just in time to take my still healing knee off to netball yesterday. And I taped BOTH knees, trying to learn from last week’s lesson.

I come to fully standing, flapping my hands to ease the burning. The umpire comes closer assessing the damage, then clarifies.

“Yes, it was technically a fall. But it was also a step. Other team has the ball. Play on.”

Then, somehow, during yesterday's game I fell again. Demonstrating incredible coordination (that never manifests except in these sorts of situations) I hit the same knee as last week, despite contorting myself futilely to avoid the impact. White pain shrieked in my head, and blood blossomed around my hidden scab straight through the padding and tape. THAT was unexpected, I thought grimly. Blood rules saw me running off court to wash my hands and for more tape to cover the blood. Which didn’t work – the blood leapt straight through, making oh, man, I’ve REALLY smacked it the dominant thought for that millisecond. Promptly followed by Gah! I’m going to have to change my Segullah post now! as I rushed to cover the welling blood. What on earth is my knee going to look like when I hit the States? Wow, am I vain? And about my knees of all things? DAMMIT, I’ve really smacked it…. Using my devious skills aquired being the Pack Leader at Scouts, I tented the tape so the blood wouldn’t wick so quickly, showed the umpire my clean hands and tape riddled knees, and ran back on court.

We won the game. But by the time I got home, blood had smeared right around my knee. On the positive: I could name the processes and substances that were manifesting in my injury, even as I cleaned the blood from my poplitus^. Apparently I am learning, retaining and accessing relevant information. On the negative: knowledge doesn’t make the pain any better – it can give you a greater understanding of how royally you have actually damaged yourself.

Today, I have one incredibly ugly knee - bloody, bruised, scabby and totally unwonderful. The other one is looking positively awesome in comparison, which is not said lightly knowing what my knees look like. Surprises all round.

Basically, May is smacking me into the ground. And today is only half way through the month. Wow, can’t WAIT to see what tomorrow brings at church! Actually, I’m kind of looking forward to tomorrow. I’ll still teach my senior youth class, even though I’ll have been released. I’ve baked caramello brownies as the challenge reward from last week, so that’s worked out well. Then I’m teaching Relief Society, which is always... uh… I’ll have to go with surprising as the best fit there! THEN I’ll be set apart for my calling, which I always look forward to. It’s the closest I get to advance notice (which is what I’m posting about at Segullah today/tomorrow *[curse you international date lines and USA based servers for mucking up my mental timeline!]).

Though I really, REALLY hope there’s no more marriage talk in the blessing.

Here’s hoping.

* Yeah, an itty-bitty overlap from my Segullah post.

# You’ll see why I don’t think the knee will be quite so delightfully pink and shiny after all.

^ Medical term for the back of your knee, where your leg bends. Yep, I bled all the way around to there. Delightful. Refer to point #.

Mother's Day Always Comes at the End of a Hard Week

2010-05-13T06:04:00.000-07:00

Last week was a tough slog. Last week was a combination of so many different issues colliding into an energy-sucking morass of demands. The sheer volume of work required for my degree had hit critical - all culminating in one ten day period where there were so many assignments, tests and processes going on everything else had to just adjust. Of course, my kids are creatures of habit, and the prolonged change startled them.

"Just give me this week" I asked them. "Just the next 10 days. I have a huge amount of reading and study to do, I need your help to get through it. I don't mind if you read, or ride your bike, or play whatever, just please, please help me when I ask, don't fight, and let me study."

Yeah, that didn't work. They tried, but a combination of my hours at uni, late night/early morning studying, everyone's disrupted sleep, Wong getting sick and all the other external factors that make up life meant that by Thursday the boys were revolting (either definition was applicable). Of course I knew Mother's Day was coming up, and the thought simply exhausted me. Sure, I'd LOVE to get something from my boyos, particularly if I have no idea what it actually is. But last week I was frustrated - tears-in-my-eyes-frustrated - that there wasn't someone else to organise the surprise. Or to pick a dollar amount that should be spent, or find something guaranteed awesome that the cost is ignored. Mostly frustrated that I couldn't just ignore it all, and let the whole day slide into the past unnoticed. I was annoyed, frustrated, but knew something had to be done to mark the occasion. So I planned to take the boyos to the shopping centre and have a hot chocolate while they bought me some cheap jewelery from the shop next door.

Of course, if I plan it, it all falls to pieces. I just didn't get to organise it before Mum wildly spun out of nowhere deciding it was her job to make a HUUUUGE deal out of hyping the boys up to get something done for Mother's Day, and make an enormous song and dance about it. I didn't want to crawl under a rock, I wanted to pick one up and start hurling it at people.

But I didn't. I deserve an award. A big, whopping, "Good Lord I can barely lift the award to give it to you" size award. An award that makes my hair look sleek and holds my keys so I don't keep losing them type award. An award for dealing with the never-discussed horror of organising your own (or your stupid ex's) birthday or parent's day gifts, and all the stress and anguish that goes along with it. An award for not screaming out loud when I have practiced it so often in my own head. I deserve an award and a rainbow constellation of balloons filled with gelato. An award that doesn't care that such balloons shouldn't be able to float, but will make them float bulging with Italian icy goodness anyways award.

"Fine." I told my Mum. "Do whatever you want. I have to do the grocery shopping."

And in giving up, it got better. I saw the delight in Wong as he pulled out an envelope from under his shirt (AAAGH! I thought. Please don't arrest him/us!) and as he asked the checkout chick - right in front of me - to "Please scan this and not give it to my Mum because it's for her for Mother's Day". Hatro pushed the trolley for me, even though he was practically asleep on his feet after a huge day at school and heavy impact Kung Fu meeting. Mum went out of her way to buy me a box of icecreams that she knows I don't buy very often because they: a. are incredible; b. cost accordingly; and c. serenade me with their siren song until I am captive to their thrall. Thursday ended much better than it started. Even if I was too tired to eat one of the icecreams.

Friday belted me up. Played netball, during which I hurt myself. Studied, tried to do all the running around that needed doing. Hurt my finger at some stage, which impacted my typing and concentration. Saturday meant more running around, still with a hurt knee and finger. Cut my hand, losing chunks of skin putting a lightbulb in the boyos' lamp. Hurt my knee more picking up the pieces. Talked/hassled/cajoled Hatro into vacuuming the entire house. Wong stomped around his room at the indignity of having to pick up his own mess. All I wanted was to send all of us to time out for two days, to just wake up on Monday and be done. Tears threatened all day, building like thunderclouds beneath my forehead, as I faced the reality of not being the Mum I so fully want to be.

Oh, I am such a sucky Mum, I told myself wearily, as I kissed the boys into bed. A terrible mother, because here I am, Saturday night, right before Mother's Day, getting Wong to promise that he won't wake me up on Mother's Day, that he will let me sleep in.

"So I can wake you at 7?" he bounces, excited.

"No," I repeat, lying him back down. "You let me sleep in until I wake up all by myself."

"When will that be?" Wong asks, confused at this unexpected complication and delay.

"I don't know - it will be in time to get ready for church though. Just remember - let me sleep in, okay?"

"Sure Mum!" Wong replies, throwing his arms around my neck for the seven thousandth goodnight kiss. "I'll wake - I mean, I'll see you tomorrow!"

6:14 a.m., I hear the boys getting out of bed, and I squeeze my eyes more tightly shut. A scuff on carpet, then Wong's kissing my cheek whispering "Happy Mother's Day Wickedosity Mummy!"

"Thanks sweetie" I murmur back. "Out you go now. Love you."

"Love you!" Wong replies, already out the door.

Oh, I am such a sucky mother.

7a.m. and I'm sitting up in bed, calling out to the boys. A stampede, and I'm covered in elbows and knees and kisses and shoves as the boyos work out who's sitting where and who's giving which present first.

First, the card, which talks, and ends in "Your Majesty!" I get a kick out of the card, though have no idea what the cartoon characters' names are. Wong gives me a present, and it's bright green with huge fake crystals sewn onto it. I know immediately that Wong has chosen it, and will no doubt be using it himself at the first possible opportunity. "Oh, it's be-UTE-iful!" I exclaim, and Wong wiggles, delighted. Hatro solemnly hands over his gift, some lip gloss, with the whispered comment that I'm the most awesomest Mummy. Wong gives me his hand-made card, which asks if I've won any games at netball and gives me a day on my own. The texta-coloured green flower on the front matches the bag.

I get up and make us ham and cheese croissants for breakfast, then we're off to church. Hatro passes the sacrament, and I'm struck yet again at the growth of him, the depth of character, the width of his shoulders and smile. Wong sings loudly and confidently off-key beside me, and kisses up my arm during the second speaker. The second speaker who speaks of fidelity in marriage, and the importance of eternal marriage - which is where Wong, concerned, carefully glances up to my face to check my reaction, smiles, and shuffles closer to my side.

I go to teach my youth class, only to find the younger youth have no teacher. We're running late, so I combine the classes, and have Hatro in my class for the first time in years. He knows more of the story of Balaam's donkey than the seminary students, and I remind myself to buy more of the manga bible books that he and Wong love so much - they are obviously being read! He doesn't contribute as loudly or confidently as the members of my usual class, but I can feel his attention and support like sunshine.

The branch president pulls me out of Relief Society for a chat, and he asks about the boys in turn, uni, my sister, my family, life. He gives me far too much credit for who my sons are, and doesn't seem to believe me when I say that really, they came that way. The chat continues, covering all aspects of my life. Then he extends a calling to me, and I'm unprepared. I laugh to stop the lurking tears, and look up at the corner of the ceiling. President is offering me tissues, a lollypop, but I laugh again, look at him, and say "Of course I accept the calling - it's just unexpected."

I blow out a breath. "I should have known," I smile at him "I was enjoying my class so much."

The interview finishes shortly afterwards, and the boys are pacing at the door, pouncing like puppies as I appear. "We're going to Charlie's this afternoon!" they remind me, "Let's go!"

So off to home, where they shed their church clothes like water, wanting to get to their cousin's house asap. I drop them off, chat to my bro, sister-in-law and youngest nephew while the three older boys whoop around the house in a tangle of noise and energy. "Have fun!" I call out as I leave, and my boyos yell out "LOVE YOU!"

Hours later they return, boisterous, demanding, hilarious and still tumbling around outside shouting rules and exceptions for their games. In their absence I've watched a movie with Mum, and thought about my chat with President. I ring Tasha, and share the news. She laughs, and makes me laugh at it all as well. Even the stuff I'm scared of, and dread, and refuse to hope for.

After dinner, the boyos and I are ready for our final Sunday ritual. We sprawl on the couch, boys more on me than the lounge, though they're precisely not touching each other. We sing along to the Doctor Who theme song, and snuggle in close together. The story is scary, and funny, and weird, just the way we like it. Wong leaves - "I'm so freaked out!" - and gets dragged back in by his own curiosity. We groan together at the "to be continued" scrawled across the credits, and the boyos invent possible scenes for next week as they dive into bed.

After family prayers it's kisses and rubbed noses (Hatro) and double kisses and hugs (Wong) and love called out down the hallway. Ten minutes later, I'm kissing them again, this time as they are oblivious to the world, before I go to bed. Every night, the last thing I say to them, both awake and dreaming is "I love you." I mean it more each day, a happy impossible paradox.

The Last Anniversary

2010-05-03T03:21:00.000-07:00

We don't forget, thought Mma Ramotswe. Our heads may be small, but they are as full of memories as the sky may sometimes be full of swarming bees, thousands and thousands of memories, of smells, of places, of little things that happened to us and which come back, unexpectedly, to remind us who we are. And who am I?

- The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, by Alexander McCall Smith

"What's the date today?" I casually asked the boyos, head buried in the preparations for dinner.

"The third" they chorused, and my pulse chokes, stutters, splutters against my ribs, oil dripping into my belly from far, far above.

My hip bone smacks into the kitchen bench, my natural padding no protection from the shock. My emergency generator kicks in, and I repeat in my head It's just a date, just a date, it doesn't matter, it's just a date that is in the past.

Today, years ago, I was married. On a clear, mild sunny day, unusual in Canberra's winter, I dressed in a dark bluegreen dress and went to the bell tower in the middle of the lake. My Poppy gave me away. I was pregnant with Hatro, glowing, and we were delighted. All my memories of the day are edged with gold and prisms, the sun playing with my joyful tears and the raised swords of the honour guard we walked under.

My favourite wedding photo is in my head, with a hard copy sleeping somewhere in a box. I don't remember it being taken. Our witnesses are signing the marriage certificate, and George and I are standing right there behind them, a billion worlds away. I am looking down at my wedding ring, and George is standing against my side, smiling down at me, and we're beginning to laugh. A tiny, swirling universe, curled in the middle of an island.

I knew the date was coming. Another set of complications with my passport applications meant I had to send away for the government approved certificate of marriage. A certificate that I had never ordered, hadn't needed for my actual divorce, but now require to leave the country. It arrived last week, and precisely stated the details of two very young people who were blooming with hope, love and possibility.

Another photo flickers to mind. Deep winter now, years and a bit after the first wedding, this time at night. A sealing, a promise before God of love, honour and faith. After, outside, we stand elated, shivering, surrounded by friends, saints and fellow long sufferers who weren't sure this miracle could come to pass. We have two sons in our arms, and all dressed in white - older, heavier, stronger, softer and closer than ever - the heat of our breath twines together in the clear, crystal night. The picture cannot hide the delight beaming from our eyes, the satisfaction in being together, here, now, always, finally.

Those two couples are dead.Those people were stupid, and selfish, and naive and spectacularly, incandescently sure of their love for each other. Those two poor, struggling, passionate, frustrated, determined individuals never saw the sunset their love could have one day painted across eternity's sky. Instead dark swallowed the night, ate the stars, sucked at the edges of the heart painted sky until nothing was left except empty.

Somehow, I thought tomorrow was the date. I will be busy tomorrow, the organised dance of Tuesday filling the hours to bursting. Tomorrow, it would have been just a passing cramp, a paper cut on my ribs as I continue my rushing tumble into the future. Today, I have the option of paying attention, as much as I would rather not.

So, dear today, goodbye. Goodbye for today, for the few hours remaining that years ago were spent with cake, and laughter, and freshly bloomed memories. Goodbye for the last bundle of years, that meant more than a piece of paper, or a misplaced calendar date.

Farewell, take care, sleep well - we'll work it all out on some beautiful day.

If Only It Was That Easy

2010-04-28T05:52:00.000-07:00

Can't blog much at the moment - under attack from assignments and practical examinations.

Yet again I think I'm nuts... I'm actually enjoying myself.

Though this late at night I have to call it quits because this LOLCAT is more apt:

I need more music to study by. (Study to?) Though Phil Glass is still doing a bang-up job with Metamorphoses 1-5 (I will catch up with you one day, Battlestar. Really.) and the Hero soundtrack is luscious too. Except when it makes me want to get up and kick through walls. I think I need more cello.

And more sleep.

Making My Head Hurt

2010-04-25T07:08:00.000-07:00

Sunset tried to get in the room, spilling light around the building's corners, but the room remained shadowed and unlit. Two beds waited, one in the corner, head against the window wall, the other pushed into the middle of the floor.

I was uncomfortable. I kept the bed between me and George. He was pacing along the foot of the beds, up to the window, peering out, around the island bed, repeat.

"I don't want to be here." I stated, knees braced and ready to react.

George paced along the foot of the beds, back and forth, back and forth, looking at his watch, pacing. I walked to the window, looked out at the dusky evening.

Across the street a woman darted back and forth on the footpath. She was hunching over, looking under trees, behind shrubs, down and up stairs. Her hands were clenching wide open, tightly closed as she scowled at the world, searching everywhere for something that wasn't where it should be.

I didn't want to be in the room, and didn't want to waste more of my life.

"What are you going to do about the child support?" I asked.

George came up to the window, shifted his weight beside me as he came to a stop. The woman's movements outside caught his eye, he stepped quickly away from the window, slumped his shoulders and turned to the door.

He stopped. Turned, and couldn't meet my eyes.

"Nothing" he said, as he walked downcast to the door, away to her.

I surfaced from the dream face first, clutching the mattress to stop my collision with the ceiling. When I remember the dream, sadness coats my mouth. Something teases in my head, koi fish thoughts waiting just beneath the everyday waterlilies, ready to break the surface, jumping to snatch understanding out of the air.

*&^#@*&^#@*&^#@*&^#@*&^#@*&^#@*

Change is coming. I've been told that life is going to change, yet - once again - I'm standing without any defining details or factual flares to light my path. It wasn't even answer to prayer, but it is undeniable.

So of course, I'm fighting it. But I'm kicking fog, trying to land a punch on something solid, concrete, a definite that is still far beyond my horizon. I know I'm being petty, bratty, petulant. The fact is, I'm tired.

I am tired of being always ~~expected~~ required to change. How much dross can one person burn away before the teeny drop of precious metal is extracted, let alone refined? I don't feel refined. I'm feeling stretched, torn, pummeled and I'm worried that I'll lose my pliability and one day just snap into nothingness. That I won't be able to survive the constant changes ~~demanded~~ encouraged of me.

I don't want to change. I don't want to hurt, or be scared ever, ever again. I'm feeling like I've been told I'm going on a trip. But I know none of the details. Where to get the tickets, what visas I need, when the flight leaves, do I need any shots? How do I prepare for something I know nothing about?

I don't know. I know that I will settle down inside my own head, eventually, and do what I need to do. Tasha told me that I just need to make sure I'm in a place within myself that I can hear, recognise and act on any promptings from the Holy Ghost, and just go from there.

But "there" means ripping myself open, and letting the air, sunshine and thunderstorms in. It means letting go, yet again, of my hopes and dreams and tiny, tentative plans and jumping off the abyss into the foggy unknown. Jumping means tangled parachute cords, and rocky outcroppings, of having no balance or knowledge of where the ground waits to kiss me hello.

How do I prepare for the promise of falling up into daylight?

Raising Boys, Raising Men

2010-04-18T20:55:00.000-07:00

Whatever size, location, inclination, age, skill set or interests, boys need men. Discussed further in my post today at Segullah.