And on the fourth day of blogging, there was nothing. Well, not nothing nothing, just nothing that I could clearly define for a beautifully themed post. So instead, I sat down and just started writing…
There was a bit going on today in Theverymoodyhousehold, with LOTS of BIG feelings. End of school year is getting to Giggles Magoo and his sense of self-worth; Little Mate just has B.I.G feelings all of the time and has trouble with moving from activity to activity or place to place or saying farewell to the day’s play buddy; Grimace has his own (mostly internal) battles going on that I am sure relate to the upcoming Christmas and the painful reminder that his mum won’t be there on the day, giving us all a hug. My big feelings were brought to be today by the anxiety I get around part-time work and the feeling of dread that a colleague has to do something for me on a day that isn’t in my work pattern.
The imposter in me say my woes are a little bit silly really, in comparison to processing the loss of a mother, or learning how to emotionally cope with the rigours of society as a four or seven year old… but the wisdom in me has taught me that acknowldgement of emotion is vital to help move beyond.
Nothing really to report on how we all dealt with the emotion, as really, today’s emotions sit in amongst the larger tribulations of life, but once home from work, Grimace took the kids to the local lagoon for a walk and a play, which really seemed to change the day. Little Mate reported back that they had seen the quakkers (I’m hoping he means the Ducks!) and they’d had a very nice time.
A healthy mental state is a vital part of our existence, but one we (hello broader society) quite often overlook. With each one of our household members feeling the end of year strain, I am very grateful to be able to step back, recognise the wear and tear we are each feeling, and then work with each family member to recharge those emotional voids. The walk at the Lagoon was what Little Mate needed; a guided Ninja Meditation was just what Giggles Magoo needed, and a little space and acknowledgement was all that I needed.
I’m not sure what Grimace needs, although I will be reminding him that his mum’s legacy of kindness and unconditional love lives on in him and his sisters, and that I know she was oh-so very proud of her clan. Will that ease the burden of loss? Probably not, but it will be nice to share in his feelings and to ease the burden of loneliness in loss.
Anyway, I’m off to bed – a little but chuffed that I managed a post this long. When I started typing, I literally had no idea what would come out.
Look at me go. I’m here again, ready to write. Ready to make the space for the words to hit the keyboard. It’s very nice. Hello, you 🙂
I did sort of write a list of topics to write about for most of the days in my 12 days of blogging, as I thought I would need a hand with all the thoughts on the mid-week days. And man, don’t I know myself well? (Shhhhh don’t tell anyone that at 35, I had hoped I’d know myself!) My plan, no lets not go that far; my list of topics I could theme a post on was really an attempt at a super-plan so past-me could help future-me win the challenge (or write a blog post for 12 days straight, whatever).
On my list for tonight was to write about my adult-onset addiction to running. You might look at me and struggle to reconcile me and that last statement…but, I don’t care. Running, as a semi-overweight woman is bloody empowering. I can choose how much I want to push myself, or how little, on any given day. I can run, knowing I am strong and healthy. I can run with a smile on my face (wait, is that a hill? I’m not smiling anymore) or I can run with solitude on my mind. I love the thrill of a race or event, the camaraderie when everyone is at the start line, the high-fives at the end. I love witnessing other people push themselves or choosing that today is a day to take it easy.
What I don’t love, however is my body’s seemingly unhappy response to my addiction. There was a time in my life where I was nicknamed Cripps. I always seemed to be on crutches or in a sling or carrying some sort of injury. As I reached my adult years, I became sick of being injured, so I just got busy with life. As I reveled in the non-injuries, loving the food, booze, bands and nightlife, I began to realise that life was noisy. Peace was difficult to find, as was my spark; but at least I wasn’t Cripps anymore.
Since rediscovering the joy in moving one’s body, the peace and freedom it brings, I’ve also discovered the expense it can bring. I’ve spent a freaking fortune on physio, osteo, medical bills and lost hours doing the ice/heat swapsies game. You know, I am actually sitting here, right now, with ice on my leg, leaving my Track running session early due to a strain in some stupid muscle. I know I am the most injury-prone person I have ever come across. I don’t know what else to do about it though, so, I’ll just rest up, do the rehab, try to commit to strength training and see how I go. Good plan? I hope so. I’m told that rebellions are built on hope (thank you for the inspo Jyn Erso), and so, perhaps I’ll just start my own rebellion.
I’m old enough and wisdomed enough to know that nothing is a constant, nothing is cemented in time. Everything is impacted by my own narrative, by how I let ‘me’ be defined by my thoughts (I better make them good ones then!). Yes, this is another injury, but time will pass, and I will help my body to learn from it.
So, my plan-come-list had me supposedly writing tonight about how wonderfully transformative running has been for me personally; how my community of brilliant running females has inspired me in so many other ways; how I think I am part of lottery-winning running group, as we are led by one truly great human (hi Lyndal), one of the best – open to all things running, yes, but kindness, strength, empathy, life, laughter and Gin (you do like Gin, don’t you?). How I didn’t realise there was so much perseverance in mid-life women, but bloody hell, I do now. How I know everyone thinks their running group is the best, but how I think it’s a little silly to play the ‘mine is better than yours’ game and that I’d rather look at it from the perspective of what’s best for oneself and that we all find what we need…and I found strength, character and perseverance through running.
Ha. Good Plan, T.
Anyway, never one to follow any sort of plan, I twinged my leg at the end of warm up tonight and instead I’m sitting here drinking a gin & tonic yelling into the internet-sphere about how much I love running, despite the woes it gives me.
I remembered to come back! I even surprised myself. Maybe there is something in this challenge.
Let me tell you a bit about my weekend. Not the fun adventurey stuff, no siree. Let me tell you about Friday. Actually, more specifically Friday morning. Friday is the day in the week that I live for. After a busy week, I sort of fall into it, somehow still in one piece. While work is over, it is not quite the weekend; Little Mate and I send Grimace off to work and Giggles Magoo on the school bus. Friday is the day where I can be slow in my movements, grab a coffee or three, spend some time at Gymnastics, watching Little Mate tumble through the morning and then grab a cheeky sushi or bakery lunch. Friday is the day where I start loosely planning the weekend family movements and what food is in our immediate-ish future.
Friday is my jam.
Well, usually Friday is my jam. When we got to the Friday that just lapsed, my week had been fairly jumbled; at work, I’ve been given the opportunity to act up a few responsibility levels, and while I’m enjoying it (hello pay week, weren’t you a nice little surprise), if I’m perfectly honest, I am all out of whack. Probably not helping though, was a tiny piece of glass, no wait, tiny pieces of glass, that had become lodged in my foot. Pretty much from Tuesday evening to Friday afternoon, I hobbled around, trying to avoid the sharp pain jolting through my leg (Magnoplasm did eventually come to the rescue).
Anyway, I digress. Friday morning, I’m tired and cranky. I’ve slept through my alarm and now it’s 6:58am and I’m rolling out of bed to the chaos of a family house. Grimace usually leaves home at 7am-ish and I was extra grumpy at myself for not getting up earlier to help direct the morning (anyone else think that if you’re up before the kids, things tend to flow a bit better? Could just be me).
As I hobble out to the kitchen, in attempt to stop my surly face, I stop to take in the tress outside our kitchen. Maybe I could shake this funk by being in the moment or something. Anyway, our lovely bi-fold kitchen window was open, letting just a little of the cool air in, just a little of the sweet sounding birds, perhaps just the right amount of joy. Right at the very moment I thought how lovely the birds were sounding, in through said kitchen window flies a Bower Bird. A real life bird, flying into my already chaotic Friday morning.
“GRIMACCCCCEEEEEE” I bellow, “GET OUT HERE” – you see, all that had to be done was to open our back bi-fold doors and an easy escape route was there. But old hobbly-pants-me couldn’t get anywhere quickly. Husband of the year rightly comes tearing out from wherever he was, ascertained the house wasn’t on fire and we all still had all our appendages. As he calmly saunters over to open the doors, it becomes clear that my quick-thinking bellowing to summons assistance has quite literally scared the crap out of the poor bird. There is shit all over our kitchen. Grimace was mid-put away of the dishwasher, and as the door was open, the terrified bird had crapped all through the dishwasher, on the bench tops, across the floor and literally all over the walls. Unfortunately Grimace’s eyes spied the clock too and he realised it’s 7:10am…so, now not only is he late and annoyed about it, there is crap everywhere and the bird is flying manically around the house; flying into our floor-to-ceiling windows, trying to find an exit.
As Grimace opened the doors to free the bird, the poor little fella flew directly into the glass window, next to the open door, slightly knocking itself not out, just down. Down the stairs. The poor bird fell down the flight of stairs. Now Grimace has to get downstairs to open up the back door to get this tortured soul free from this glass prison. Unfortunately, we have a fairly large house these days, so getting from top to bottom can take considerable time – especially when you have a hobbly wife and two children delighted/aghast at what is occurring (it was unclear from their squeals if it was horror or glee).
The next thing we hear is an almighty BANG as the poor bird again flies straight into the double-glazed window, but this time does a better job, and is knocked out. Grimace gets the doors open and proclaims “I see this at work all the time. Birds knock em selves out, and after a few moments they’re as right as ever and off they fly”, so he rushes past me to find a shoebox or something to contain the poor, tortured bird in case it is injured.
I feel like Grimace is potentially the bird tweeter or something, as next minute, up pops the bird’s head, up it jumps and off it flies off into the morning, leaving behind a chaotic state of chaos.
Grimace was late to work, there was shit all through the house, me and the kids were still in PJ’s/unshowered/un-breakfasted and realised I had forgotten to do school lunchbox the night before.
Hello, please, where is my Friday jam?
Things did get better, we made the school bus, I had twenty seven coffees, magnoplasm attracted the lodged glass out of my foot and I played with Little Mate at several parks. I think i even spied a certain bower bird, just sitting up in the tree eyeing off the beautiful windows.
(make sure you read this first bit, using your best singing voice)
And on the first day of blogging, my true love said to me…Babe, you’ll still be short of Christmas if you only do it for 12 days.
Despite stating the fairly obvious, Grimace had so eloquently helped me to explore why i’d be doing 12 days.. borrowing thur christmas theme to rediscover my writing groove, with no pressure as the joy of christmas will start immediately after I’ve finished my little challenge. So even if I fail off the bandwagon, who’d care? The 12 Days of Christmas will be right there, in all its delicious glory!
When I started this outlet, I wanted to find a way to document my family life. It quickly turned into an important aspect for me and my life; navigating thoughts, feelings and experiences, harnessing the random nature of it all into some clarity. I loved finding a post in the everyday, or sharing the latest adventure my little crew embarked on. I found joy in working through thoughts with my words, surprising myself with how easily I could find flow. Unfortunately I’ve become a little lost in the wider sense of myself, and I didn’t prioritize time to write as life changes took hold; how quickly a habit can be lost. Not writing regularly anymore, I start to doubt the topics I start writing about and then my ability. Then, I was finding other ways to organize my emotional responses.
A few recent events transpired, completely independently of each other, to cause chaos amongst my inner-musings – discussions with loved ones, slight changes in family routine and a doubt on my running form from injury and illness and doubt. The sorts of things that naturally occur in family life, but this time culminated to challenge me on who I am, who I strive to be and how I hope to reconcile these aspects, while finding contentment with my little crew.
I just knew what my missing link was, and in a stroke of creative genius (definitely impacted by the consumption of a delicious gin), the idea for 12 days of blogging was borne.
Thanks for playing along, I wonder what the second day of blogging will bring? Xx