small acts of kindness

18 years today.

2022-01-28T23:33:00.024+11:00

I had a friend message me tonight and let me know she was thinking about Lily.

I welled up. That all too familiar gigantic lump lodged in my throat and hasn’t shifted for the half hour since. And now I’m sitting down again, staring at this old blog page, like I did a whole eleven years ago. I haven't posted since the day Lily would have turned seven. Because there is no post after that. That is it. That is the rawest part of my life, and I can give nothing more.

But here I am again. Because grief does not die with the last post. Or with the send off. Or with whatever you do every single day to keep going.

I last wrote about Lily on the day she would have turned 7. Today she would have turned 18.

I remember Every. Single. Moment of that damned day 11 years ago. I remember every conversation, every look, where I was standing, the moments of silence. The friends enjoying life at Bronte park, Bella looking up at me, the silent car rides, the talking to Rory in front of the mirror, the walking to the restaurant late in the night, the ordering of the triple Drambuie shot. The opening of the laptop.

And all my feelings of the day spilling out.

Because people like me like to contain our feelings. Stoic Serb. But it always spills. It always spills.

---

A few years ago, I shared that post again. On what would have been another birthday. Not all birthdays, not all anniversaries, feel the same. But that one felt the same. As does this one. I got a message in the middle of the night. I heard the beep beep and opened my phone. It was 4am. ‘I just read your post. Thank you for sharing it. I needed to read it’.

Someone who had suffered a greater loss than mine because there were more years for him in which to build memories. But he understood. He understood that grief is raw. It is human and it hurts. It hurts a lot. Even when you are stoic.

In the dead of night, we deal with our grief and our demons and our losses and our dreams for a better tomorrow.

---

My friend - the same one that texted me tonight - also texted me when I was in a meeting a couple of years ago. I saw the notification, looked down at my phone, as I do far too often, and saw the message. I swallowed. I swallowed so damn hard. Anything to push that lump back down to the recesses of my memories where they normally sit.

I wrote back a thanks that I truly meant, and looked around the room. I needed to leave. But I stayed put. Stoic Serb. I wondered how many of us live lives, fight demons, scratch at wounds while no-one is watching. They are there, but they aren’t. We don’t see them. But people around us are feeling and living through them.

Some memories sear in your soul. That moment, strangely, is one of them.

When I left the room I went for a walk and sat by myself. It was comforting that someone remembered. It's also wound-opening. I breathed and breathed and breathed.

---

It’s all strange with Liljana.

Lessons, but not lessons. Experiences, but you don’t know what to do with them. They live in you, as I assume most trauma does. It’s a wound. But it’s alive. In your psyche, it’s alive.

My son tells me I hold grudges. I do. I will forever remember the person I most resent of that time. I've never let it go. Maybe I should forgive them. After this post, I might.

---

I remember my friends rallying. Confused, shocked. I see their faces as I write this. I see the Drambuie bottles, I see them turning up at the door, at the hospital, I see their patience and their quiet. I see my rage as one friend dared tell me Liljana was beautiful. ‘HOW THE HELL WOULD YOU KNOW?!’.

I see my rage at neighbours, from the apartment underneath, who dared call to say they could hear my stomping in the night. ‘HOW THE HELL WOULD YOU KNOW?!’.

Rage spills where the doors open.

---

I was one of the first of my friends in Sydney to have children. A new life and death in a few short months is an impossible thing to comprehend whilst still believing the world is yours to take. We’d barely left the clubbing, the trekking in NZ, the parties, the baby shower. My friends rallied. And I wondered how many of their own mothers and fathers had wounds buried that were never spoken about.

I thought about my own mum who had also lost a young baby. We are everywhere.

I had one friend call me from work while Lily was in Intensive Care. One of his work mates had had a preemie. He said I might like to talk to her. I called her. She was so gracious, so wise, so giving of information. Finally there was someone who had lived a similar experience. I was grateful. He told me later she got off the call and went to the bathroom and cried and cried. And, I expect, heaved all her grief in to the bathroom bowl. She gave me her story for comfort, but there is no comfort in grief. Even when you just teeter on the edge of it.

---

I remember my boss at the time who had received an email from HR. ‘Di has been away a lot since the birth of her baby. Will she be taking that as annual leave?’.

The ferociousness of his reply is something I will never forget. Ever. ‘Don’t you ever ask me about her again. She can take all the time she wants. She’s worked here ten years. I never want to hear from you asking about her again’.

I had returned to work soon after the birth. I travelled to and from the hospital with my breastmilk during the day, before heading back to the hospital in the evenings. All so I could have my maternity leave start when she got home. But she never got home. And deep within his own heart, he knew that was a possibility. Times have changed since then. He was ahead of his time. And I thank him.

I remember the flowers that arrived from colleagues and friends at birth and the cards of condolences at her death. I will be eternally grateful for the celebration of life and the care and compassion in the after.

---

I remember turning up at a birthday while Lily was still in hospital. I was wearing new jeans and a sass and bide top that had been gifted to me. I had lost weight. I was pumping milk through the nights and was barely remembering to eat. I wasn’t supposed to look anything other than a mess. But that night, even I knew I had something. I was a fierce lioness. Devoted. With purpose. Unflappable. And in the very clothes that would mark 2004 for me - as an aside that lives in my memory. ’Di, you look so fantastic!’ was repeated over and over and over again. Most hadn't seen me for a while. I clinked glasses, I smiled. Inside I wondered who was looking after Lily tonight. I wondered over and over again. ‘Who the hell is looking after Lily tonight?’.

I walked in to the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror and a huge gush of fresh milk burst from my breast. I lifted my top, already saturated, and on and on it gushed. Over the mirrors, the sink, the walls of the whole bathroom, wherever I turned, like a ferocious hose no longer contained. A creamy milk. Everywhere. Lily was in hospital but I was here with her.

I was in shock but managed to wipe it down. My memory tells me there were numerous knocks at the door. It felt like such a long time. I dabbed at my top. I covered and uncovered the tell tale signs. How could I hide it. I couldn’t. I stuffed toilet paper down my bra to stop it from leaking further, picked up the untouched champagne glass, crossed my arms and went back inside. Rory, I need your jacket. He handed it to me.

Two hours later, back at home, I pumped and pumped and pumped and pumped until there was neigh a drop of milk left in me. Only to wake four hours later to do it all again.

---

I remember the donations to the neonatal ward in lieu of flowers that live on in life saving cribs today. I remember and I am grateful.

I remember the funeral. I remember my anger at the priest for the catastrophy of the proposed readings. I remember Rory’s forever deserved and life-long friends from Woollongong and beyond, driving up for the day. The nurses and doctors arriving and me wondering who was looking after the new babies being born. I remember execs from work walking in after an offsite, cut short so they could make it. Friends flying in from Melbourne. Friends that still hold me to this day.

I also remember so much explosive pain that day. The personal pain. The shared pain. I - we - remember it all.

---

I rock as I write that. Bella does this rocking thing at the moment. I watch her all the time and wonder if it's a self-soothing thing. I'm rocking now as I write. And I know it is.

---

I remember Lily’s wake. How do you deal with death but to celebrate life? Our friends understood. They stoicly stood by our sides for two whole months and they weren’t letting go now. Someone turned up, a friend of a friend. ‘This is weird, isn’t this supposed to be a wake for a baby’. I heard him, walked in to the bedroom and howled. Had I done my Lily a disservice by celebrating her? No I hadn’t. I know that as I write this. She, and her tenacious spirit were worth and will ALWAYS be worth celebrating. So, fuck you. But like the other person above, I think I finally forgive you. It's strange. This post is strange.

There is a catharticness that is happening as I write and it's mixed with feelings I can only describe as suppressed.

It’s strange.

I have been a raging ball of fire the last month or so. Not always, but I have a hairline trigger that feels undeniably, whole heartedly justified in every single moment and every single rage and hurt I have felt… but in the dead of night I wonder to what end. Am I lashing out, am I pushing away hard because it is an easier pain to deal with than the one I have hidden away? I wonder what is bubbling. Where is its starting point?

---

I started reading a book today ‘The Body Keeps the Score’. It was recommended by a friend dealing with his own trauma and personal journey. I’ve had it on my list and downloaded for the better part of 6 months or more. Is the fact that I finally opened it today another sign?

Do we all wait for the right moments to try and understand our grief and how it spills and spills and spills?

It's not just me and my friend. It’s not the situations we deal with on the outside. The stories that we know. It’s all of us. It’s what we keep inside. It’s what we keep from others. We’re all hurting. At different times, in different ways. We’re all hurting.

And we’re all doing our best to love hard, too.

I know we are.

---

Thank you, M, for your text tonight. I’ve been thinking about Lily all week. The last few days in particular have felt completely out of control. I wonder about my month and how much is related. I'm grateful for the release of bashing this out.

You unlocked something deep. Something simmering.

It’s the randomness of timing, too.

Years pass and you move on. But your heart doesn't. The trauma doesn't. The anger at the universe is as ferocious as ever when you dig just a little. It simmers, simmers, simmers and then it bubbles over. We’re human volcanoes. And no-one knows when a quake will set it off.

---

I know I’ve used 'ferocious' so many times today. It's telling. And it weaves itself in to everything.

It has been my month. It has been me. It is in the way in which I protect Bella and the expectations I place on the boys. It is the standard to which I hold others accountable, how much I want people to care. And it is an unfair expectation. It feels unfair because it's something I want mirrored. I so desperately want everything I feel mirrored.

I'm sorry. How do you ask someone else to mirror your pain.

---

Bella turned 17 yesterday.

‘Who’s birthday is it today, Bella?!’

‘It’s mine! And it was daddies yesterday. And it’s my sister’s tomorrow!’.

It is, Bella.

Happy 18th birthday, Lily. Wherever you may be, you are still here. And always will be.

28.01.22

Today, Liljana would have been seven.

2011-01-28T22:22:00.005+11:00

Seven years ago today I gave birth to Liljana O’Connor. The only time I’ve managed to slip in the remotest inkling of Slavic heritage in to any of my children’s names. The Gaelic side soon took over, stomped their feet and it was all I could do to keep the rest from being called niamff, ruadhri or shiovion. All lovely names but they look funny (and I still can't spell them).

She came out, pink and screaming, aims flailing about like she was about to feel pretty pissed about being being yanked out like that. Except that she wasn't yanked. Nor was she supposed to be screaming and pink.

She was born at 23 weeks 6 days. That one day makes a difference. The tipping point of revive-or-not on our Australian shores is generally regarded to be 24 weeks. I went in to labour at 23 weeks and 3 days. I tried my damndest to keep her in but my cervix was having none of it. So out she came. I remember it, totally. I remember it all, despite the shock.  

She was 550g and perfect in her form. The weight of a tub of butter, but I didn’t see that. All I saw was perfect eyes, a head of hair the Kardashians would be proud of, ten fingers and ten toes. She was angelic. It is not what many would expect. I had no preconceived ideas. But I know it is not what many would expect.

She sounded like she had a mighty fine set up lungs on her too. But truth was she didn’t. Lungs are the main reason our premmie babies struggle so much to stay alive…

-------------------

I went in to labour not many days before. We were camping.

I’m not a camper. I’m a wrap-myself-in-a-doona-in-a-comfy-bed kinda chick. But it was hubby’s birthday and he was keen. At 12 weeks I'd climbed Uluru, at 22 weeks I’d completed the Milford trek in New Zealand. For someone with a bun cooking I was looking and feeling pretty healthy. I refused to eat anything that hadn’t been washed and re-washed 32 times and I’d drunk one Breezer in 5 months. I was serious about doing all I could for the baby on the inside but on the outside, life carried on relatively normally.

And then I felt some pain. An inkling. My back was a little sore. I was at work and I was feeling strange. Something was wrong. I called the hospital. I went in. The midwife checked me over. She didn’t check my cervix. But all was fine. She was careful. She was thorough. But she didn’t check my cervix. The doctor came in to have a chat. Looks like all ok she said. But she didn’t check my cervix either.

That night I got everything ready for my trip and went to bed. I woke up with a cramp. Damn constipation I thought. It comes with the preggers. A few cramps overnight and I was proud that I managed to just ride them out. Damn Serbian stoicness.

We hit the camping ground that we were sharing with friends. I wondered off on my own a lot. Damn constipation I thought again. I spent too much time hunched over on a stool by myself. I complained very very little. All part of being preggers right? Right through to the next day. The pain came and went. Right through til about midday when I walked in to the water and the pain subsided. Strange I thought. I called the hospital again. You should come in they said. My stoicness, my stubbornness nearly held me back. My stupid Balkan stubbornness. But the pain was still there - except for when I was in the water. I couldn’t spend the next 14 hours sitting in the sea. So we packed everything up and got to the car. I lay my head in my partners lap as someone else drove. The car clock was directly in my line of sight. 40 minutes in the car. 40 minutes of watching the clock as I felt that stabbing pain, on the dot, every 5 minutes.  

Wholly fuck I thought. I’m in fucking labour. I’m in fucking labour. I couldn’t talk.

------------------

Liljana spent 2 months in neo-natal intensive care. I can’t put in to words what it’s like. I could try and say it's a mix of sterile metal, warm bodies and fairy dust. A magical place where magic things happen, and wonderful people come and go. Where babies come and go. And sometimes babies die.

It is the place where Liljana was cared for, prodded, watched, nudged along, prodded again, held, nurtured, loved. Loved oh so very very much. I have no words to do justice to the compassion and commitment the nurses, the doctors, the other parents showed.

It was my haven. It was where I retreated to every day. Where Liljana and I got to hang with each other. Where I got to watch and hold her. As long as I washed my hands every 13 steps and almost always with the confines of a humidicrib between us. I could spend the whole day there. The whole night there. It was all I wanted to do. Friends were caring, compassionate. But I didn’t want them. I was harsh towards many of them. I wanted my Liljana and I wanted her to grow and get better. She was strong as an Ox. She grew, boosted along by my breast milk which I was expressing around the clock. A regular little mechanical cow I was. Proudly I pumped and pumped and pumped. She was taking the steroids and I felt like I was on them. One foot in front of the other. Not flailing once. She passed scans, tests. No brain bleeds. No apparent eye damage. She overcame and came through a stef infection that was supposed to take her in hours. An infection that drew her grandparents from across the country to come and say goodbye. But she defied them and beat that stef infection off with pure tenacity. Balkan stubbornness. Her lungs , her weakest point, were being helped along with steroids.

Neo-natal intenstive care. Fairy dust was sprinkled all around her.

And then she died.

-----------------------

Liljana was defying the trend of bubs born at her gestation (such a horrible word) right from the moment they pulled her out.

They told me at the delivery that they would lay her on my chest, and if she was took any breaths, at all, they would let her drift away on my chest. The expectation was that she would lay on me for the few minutes that she was likely to survive on her own.

But she defied them. She screamed, she turned pink, she flailed her pretty little chicken arms. “We’re sorry Di, we really want to give her a chance, she is remarkable – let us try and help her”. A combination of euphoria and panic all around me. For my part there was only euphoria. Help her, yes, yes! My baby. My baby was going to make it.

------------------------

Two months in and they were tossing up whether to perform a tiny little operation. In her favour was that she had doubled in weight. Not in her favour was that she had taken a turn a few days before, where they had to revive her. No-one was sure why but she’d come through. We had said all along, if she was going to be kept alive for the sake of being kept alive we were against it. Support her own fight yes. But force it? No. If she was ready to go, she was ready to go.

They decided to perform the operation. They had been waiting for her to double her weight and she had. We waited in the waiting room.

The doctor walked in. It had only been 10 minutes. His eyes were red raw, his chest heaved and his sadness was palpable. It engulfed us. He didn’t need to talk. We knew. We went in to the theatre and watched our Liljana leave us. She had passed away during the anaesthetic and they kept her artificially breathing til we got there. Reacted? Too weak? Who knows. Cyndi Laupers True Colours played on the radio. Rory picked up Liljana and let out an almighty scream. He held her and cried a primal cry like I have never heard him cry before ..or since.

You with the sad eyes

don't be discouraged

oh I realize

it's hard to take courage

in a world full of people

you can lose sight of it all

and the darkness inside you

can make you fell so small

But I see your true colors

shining through

I see your true colors

and that's why I love you

so don't be afraid to let them show

your true colors

true colors are beautiful

like a rainbow

Show me a smile then

don't be unhappy, can't remember

when I last saw you laughing

if this world makes you crazy

and you've taken all you can bear

you call me up

because you know I'll be there

I sat in the corner and howled and howled like the weak incapable person I was. My baby. My beautiful baby. My beautiful Liljana was gone.

Fuck you god, fuck you universe, fuck you air and earth and sand and all that makes us who we are only to rip us apart bit by bit.

But not those amazing nurses and doctors in intensive care. You cried with us. You did everything with us. For the care and love you showed my little girl. My god. I have no words. NO. WORDS. I will never, ever, forget you. And I will never forget that each of you came to her funeral.

They might as well have shut down the hospital.

-------------------

They say when you have a baby born too early that your friends will shy away. Won’t know what to say, whether to congratulate you or not. This was not our experience. Our phone did not stop ringing, the flowers did not stop arriving, the love for us and for Liljana came wrapped up at the hospital ward from the moment she was born. From all but one person. Just one out of what felt like hundreds of remarkable and wonderful well wishers. I won’t forget any of you either. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Today I caught up with some friends at the park with Isabella - my spunky little girl who I went into labour with exactly ten months later. 12 months to the day after I went in to labour with Liljana. Isabella, who turned 6 yesterday.

Liljana would have been 7 today I said. And then I started to cry. I rarely cry for Liljana these days.

I cried. And I cry. My little girl would have been seven.

-------------------

Rory called me this morning. It’s Lily’s birthday today he says. I know I answer. He rarely mentions Lily either, except for when he has been drinking and he may let out that he thinks about her every day. Do you still do that I ask him. Every day he says. She will be my last thought before I die he says quietly. We don’t know what to say to each other. Each of us feels our pain on the inside. If he was there with me, I would embrace him. He’s not there. I embrace my Isabella who smiles her magical smile up at me.

---------------------

How many children do you have people ask me. 3 I say out loud.

4, I say to myself.

But not today. Today I will say it out loud. I have 4.

I have Liljana, Isabella, Cormac and Hamish. They are all so very beautiful, amazing and wonderful.

Liljana isn’t here. But she is here with me. And with Rory. And with all those that remember her. And I know my dear beautiful friends that many of you do.

Today you would have been 7 Liljana. I miss you and I ache for you. I ache for you so very very much.

So very much.

Finding yourself back where you began..

2010-10-03T19:50:00.012+11:00

I grew up in commission flats. High rise commission flats. I had my first crush there, experienced my first best friend there, my first punch up (I was at the receiving end - til my mum sent me back down stairs from the 6th floor to give as good as I got), my first familiarity with a pub spilling out with happy drunks at 9am.

I was happy.

We were surrounded by other migrant families, lots of - indigenous and white - park bench occupants, families with 9 kids (my best friend Linda came from one of these families - oh how I miss her), and family friends that were counted on across the multiple floors and buildings as parents worked double shifts in low income roles.

My family was one such family.

My dad was a tram conductor before supplementing his income with a taxi driving gig (which he went on to write off twice - yes that is exactly where my driving skills came from). My mum was a cleaner at St Vincents hospital nearby, from where she would often knick a couple of biscuit packets, tucked away in the square pockets of her crisp blue cleaning uniform - to treat us to when she got home. It was from there that she would ring me at 8am to make sure I was up and getting me and my brother ready for school. I was always still fast asleep. On the odd occasion she ran home in her tea break to make sure we were ok, before running back.

My dad just told me the other day that I would often be left at home alone by the time I was 3, with strict instructions on who I was to answer and not answer the door to - instructions I dutifully fulfilled as I stood on three layers of yellow pages and peeped through the peep hole. My now hubby was aghast when he heard this story, but you can't understand what you haven't had to experience.

I was happy.

They, unfortunately, were not so happy.

But they scraped and saved and by the time I was 12 they had managed to buy a house in the Nth West of Melbourne and the next stage of my life commenced. I found my high school love, although we only ever got as far as pashing behind the shelter sheds. I think my hair and shoulder pads got in the way of anything beyond that. I struggled to fit in but somehow I managed to do it, and eventually do it well.

They continued working in the same jobs (though my dad moved up to being a bus driver) and they bought another investment property within a year.

However, without the combined goals of scrimping, saving and their built up communities around them, the seams of their fairly unfortunate marriage (I doubt they ever truly loved each other, actually I know they didn't) fell apart and stage 3 of my life started.

From there many more stages came and went and much of it all I sit and reminisce about today. Especially today.

Fast forward to this week.

I landed back in Fitzroy, Melbourne to attend, quite possibly, the most generous 40th I've been to (I'd flown in from Sydney where I now live). Along with 20 0thers I was treated to a ridiculously divine three course meal, champagne and wine on tap, at a very very swanky restaurant 100 metres from the block of flats I'd grown up in. My girlfriend having the 40th was a flatmate I'd lived with in Bondi, in my very early 30's. A million lifestyles away from where I began.

I sipped the champagne right outside my block of flats. My block of flats. I was in wonderful company and was thoroughly enjoying myself but I couldn't sit still. I excused myself and wandered outside where I stood for what felt like an hour or more.

I breathed in the air, I looked for the monkey bars I'd spent many years swinging on, I saw myself as a 7 year old running down the fire escape and sat wondering if the elevators were still as crapfully slow and vandalised as they were back then.

I remembered the ladies that looked after me on the 17th and 7th floors, and remembered my crush from the 4th floor. I remember my one friend that had Enid Blyton books (my own library was stocked with a handful of Golden books) and that nurtured my love for magical stories. I wondered how long it must have taken me and my brother to walk alone to the local primary school. I remembered Mr Sullivan that always told me off for being late but that I loved with my whole 7 year old heart. I remembered by first call to a radio station - was I about 8? - asking them to play "What about me". I felt lost, happy, strange, wonderful, blissful.

I love where I grew up. I love where I ended up.

They're my childhood memories, and damn if they aren't as wonderful today as they were back then.

The only thing I miss, is not knowing where all my friends of those years are now. Linda, Kathy, Deborah, I still think of you often.

For all my friends today...how did I manage to continue to get so lucky?

Dovic xx

PS Has your road travelled moved in directions you least expected? Or always on course?

Pomodoro. Not just a tomato (Warning: this post may change your life)

2010-08-02T22:57:00.021+11:00

I'm going to try and make this a quick post tonight - it's gonna have to be to prove a point I'm trying to make.

And what's that?

That there is a lot that can be done in 25 minutes.

Yes, yes, I can hear you ask - if that is so, why has there been so much time between blog posts? Could I not have whipped one up in 25 minutes? The answer is perhaps. Infact, I'm about to test that theory now.

Fact is I used to be a brilliant multi-tasker. I could be found holding drink, getting a phone number (oh, the days...) and planning out a work paper all at once. But those days are long gone - at least the ease with which I could balance it all in a single minute. My ability to multitask dissapeared with each placenta I lost. And yet my responsibilities grew and grew and grew...

So I read with interest when I went over to a blog I'm feeling a lot of love for at the moment. It belongs to Sarah Wilson (of Sunday Life) and she seems to write about a bunch of stuff that verges on tree hugging and generally makes me want to hug a tree - her stuff is all about steering towards a sweeter life.

I read with interest as I stumbled upon a time management technique she'd tried out.

She gives a thorough descrption, but it basically goes like this:

Set up an online timer. Pomodoro is the recognised brand, but she pointed me towards Focus Booster which I have continued to use and love it ('tis easy - I even drag it around with me on the laptop).

Timer runs for 25 min, tick tocking in the background the whole time (I have used it at work and don't recommend having it on high volume unless you're not afraid of security).
Buzzer goes off at end of 25 min for a 5 min break.

You stop what you're doing right then and there. You get up and do something else. Hop on twitter, call your best friend, make a cuppa. I like to take a walk. They're all ace. Basically, whatever tickles your fancy.
At end of 5 min (and 5 min only - no dragging it out) you hop straight back on for your next 25 minute hit.
You continue this for about 3 x 25min lots before taking a longer break.

Here's the thing. As a technique, it works a treat. If you've got a to-do or wish list as long as mine, or just want to churn out some writing or work, try it out. Ideally, the universe would hand me over an extra 3 hours a day to work/play/procrastinate away at my leisure (which is code for spend time online) but in the absence of such generosity I simply have to do more in less.

So is chunking in to 25 min lots now the answer? It most certainly helps. It's not a habit yet, but I'm trying. And it's working. And that's why I'm sharing.

Obviously I love comments (*batters eyelids*) but would genuinely love to know if you've ever done anything similar or plan to? Do you ordinarily get distracted or manage to stay on course?

Dovic xx

PS In the interests of true disclosure this post ended up taking two lots of 25 mins. But I had a nice yummy rice cracker with cream cheese inbetween. And now? Off to read a book....See. Lovely.

2010 and why the Jetsons have much to answer for

2010-07-15T16:52:00.019+11:00

It's 2010 folks.

Isn't that a strange number when you see it looking out at you like that. It looks like the sort of year you would expect to be a Jetsons year - aka flying cars and saucers even.

More importantly, a year where gadgets prevailed, leaving many many hours to play happy joyful families without household conflict, knowing that the cooking, cleaning, shopping, light switching, clutter decluttering, fridge filling, billpaying, etc was all being miraculously taken care of by some happy joyful robot somewhere. And with hair piled high you could carry on balancing that happy joyful family with all the happy joyful interests you could dream of. I truly pictured this would happen one day. I may have been 7 at the time but those smiley Jetsons set me up for future feelings of failure.

Yes, there are many new gadgets. Some help undoubtedly - the washing machine will indeed wash clothes, but truth is I still have to fold them, all 73 pieces per day (this may not be the case in other families - you listening Rory?), and some don't seem to help at all - the internet, which sadly gives me joy also gives me absolute time wastage in almost equal parts.

I'm not whining about gadgets. I love them. What I'm really whining about is the fact that despite them, and partly due to them, life doesn't seem to have gotten easier.

Infact, I feel for the most part that I'm running on empty. I feel, for the most part, that I can only give 30-70% to anything at any one time. With more choices, more guilt, more gadgets, more social responsibilty, more helicopter parenting, more friends, more work, more interests, more access to technology, more memberships, more travelling partners etc, my head feels like it's going to explode and there is never enough of me to go around.

Hell, I can't even relax properly. I try hard, but living life in 2010 is a bigger beast than I have managed to comfortably chew on each day.

Is it me? Quite possibly. I seem to have come from the 'not happy unless I'm doing a double shift' mould. I do try and keep it in check but, frankly, life around these here blocks seems to beat to its own hectic drum regardless.

The parenting gig is one that I undoubtedly invest the most energy, juice and time into - without regret. I love kids and I especially love mine. If I could give even more, I would.

But life didn't start when I popped them out. Before they came along I was very happily doing, and enjoying 300 other interests. Having kids didn't change that. Having kids just took an 80% slice out of me, and shifted my perspective somewhat. Those other interests remained, hovering in the background, crowding out whatever white space there may have been there previously.

And that is where all the mental conflict starts. Your story may be slightly different, but 'same same' different no doubt.

I work. Passionately, even managing to think about it all of the time whilst only being paid for it a tiny percentage of the time.

I write. This actually translates to I often love to think about what I could be writing.

I am a partner. The 7 day challenge validated that there is plenty to be gotten from giving, but giving takes energy and my energy bank runs low. Always.

I am a friend. One where I am often cut a lot of slack. Thank God.

Conflict. Conflict.

What else crowds that white space? Probably a lot like you, I am a person with a gym membership, a lover of sleep, a person who loves to retreat, a wonna be cooker extraordinaire, blogger, twitterer, people lover, wonna be student, lover of good causes, someone with a unibrow that needs to be waxed (ok, maybe that's just me) and hair that needs to be coloured far too frequently, lover of books and all things news, and still much much more. None of this, and plenty more important stuff rarely gets much of a look in (except for, ahem, twitter and that's another post). The 'me' bit, from the brain to the unibrow and back down to my fingers, all of that gets pushed to the back of the line. But truly, it is everything that is pushed and shoved and nudged around just to try and make it fit in.

Conflict.

I know I'm not alone.

Infact, I need to know I'm not alone. Where do you sit? Have you mastered your own universe? Do you have family to help with the load (we don't)?

Or, like me, do you have a sliding scale of where you give and at the bottom of that scale is you. And scattered throughout is conflict.

Yep, please tell me - I'm not alone.

Dovic xx

Dry July and beyond

2010-06-26T12:43:00.019+11:00

I have a headache kids. And sallow skin.

I don't always feel and look like this. Infact, a spray tan tends to work wonders, including knocking off a few kilo's in the swoop of a spray gun. But tis what lays beneath that matters, and what's been lying beneath has been mighty murky.

After what should have been a fantastic break in China in May, which in all other ways it was, I came back to Sydney with a thud. That would be a thud to the ground due to the excess weight I was now carrying in my belly, and the dull thudding occuring in my head.

After China? How? Why? Let me explain.

First stop, Cocktails. Next stop, Bailey's. Third stop, Bloody Mary's for brekky. You get the picture.

For six whole days (and just quietly, I think I may be talking about myself in the main here) we drank. And drank. Slowly but surely. Not enough to get pissed. Just perpetually merry.

But...there is a but...and here it comes.

A couple of girlfriends landed in China looking better than I had ever seen them. As it turns out they had both completed a 30 day challenge, that included amongst other wierd and wonderful things, refraining from drinking alcohol for 30 days straight. I was intrigued.

Could I get myself a piece of that magic they were exuding? I decided to contact the guru of said challenge, Chris Walker and find out.

After a nothing short of amazing meet up he...rejected me. I am led to believe for the loveliest of reasons, but I suspect tis because he suspected I needed to find my inner beauty in other ways. Like by stripping away bad habits one by one.

Infact, and without skipping a guru beat, he still encouraged me to go dry on alcohol and a few other goodies for a month. I walked away from that meet up feeling like I was floating on air. And did something I never do. I went to the supermarket and bought sunflower and other seeds I can't remember the names of, all manner of beans and colourful vegies, and lots and lots and lots of soda water.

With Balkan determination I set straight forth on my 30 days all by myself and didn't look back. No alcohol, no coffee, no diet coke, no meat.

The impact was immediate. I got a headache and craved a glass of wine. Yet I persevered, and by day 5 my partner was commenting on the whites of my eyes, and work colleagues on the fact I had cheek bones.

Losing weight and looking sparkier were not the only benefits. My back stopped aching, my mind was sharper and my wallet was heavier. All in all, I was feeling and looking hotter than I had looked for ages.

Of all the things I had cut out, it was the my first glass of wine I craved most and I counted down the days towards it one by one.

Infact, I was convinced that what the challenge had surely assured me of, was that I want alcohol in my life. I've never been a binge drinker (or even a big drinker), just an accidental semi regular drinker, so I set forth on my accidental semi regular drinking with gusto. I wonder now whether I was testing myself.

One week in I crashed. I felt like crap. Two weeks in and the spring had sprung out of my step and my sleeping had stopped being sound. Three weeks in and there is no denying the goodness (and godliness) had slipped out of my bod. And I have only one place to lay blame. It is squarely at the foot of that now empty bottle of drambuie on the benchtop.

So I'm quitting folks. Yep, you heard it here first (or maybe second if you're on my facebook - see you lot get all the news first). I am done with alcohol. If we catch up, I'll suggest it be over that other beverage befitting of our (that would be my) age, tea. Now don't snuff your nose, I'm not averse to you slipping in the odd shot of Baileys. And I so totally totally get that drinking a glass here and there is fun. I'm just talking about me, at home, and as a general rule.

Don't think I can do it? The guru made me realise I could. Infact, I'm already there. Besides, like the nutcase/clever cookie that I am, I just posted it publicly.

I think husbands (even the goodies that just like sharing a drink with you) and the craziness of kids, tis what drives many of us to that corner of the pantry for a little bit of magic. Nothing like that glass or two to help you get through a ball juggling day. And there is ofcourse nothing like a glass or two for social lubrication. But ditching it for a month at least can be fun (and kilo squashing).

I am sober, hear me roar (and snore - coz I know I'll be sleeping better).

What's your story when it comes to those lovely glass bottles? Are you friends or foes? I'd love to know....

Dovic xx

PS Tis dry july in a couple of days...if you feel inspired, you know where to find me (I will either be right here, or at the tea house).

naked faces

2010-05-14T12:38:00.005+11:00

What did it take to draw me out of hibernation I hear you ask?

It was nakedness. Naked faces in all their lined glory.

I happen to love skin. I think it runs in the family. Caught my mum flipping through some People mags she bought when I was about 14.

Me: "Um, mum, why did you buy People magazine?"

Her: "Luk et doze bewdiful boobiz. I lovit tu luk et dem!"

Whilst I don't restrict my lovin to 'boobiz', I do find beauty in skin and the physical form- all the way from the tips of toes to crinkly eyes.

So here are my crinkly eyes just for you :)

The wonderfully clever Jodie over at mummymayhem came up with the idea that all us blogsters (I use that lightly in reference to, ahen, myself - since I've clearly been MIA) should ditch the makeup and glam piccies and put up a pic of our faces up close and personal, sans all that pruning. I rekon I could dig all the way to the south pole and be hard pressed to find a glam piccie.... but I love the idea of bearing our souls by baring our faces.

In the spirit of it being real, the first pic of me on my own was taken with my new smancy dancy camera (no bluring of that shiny forehead or missing that whopper pimple) 5 min ago. Post school/daycare drop off, pre any smidgen of self lovin, no hair wash, no nothin. Just me :).

BUT I couldn't make myself smile (that was wierd clicking the camera and trying to laugh..at um..nothing - no future in modeling for me) so I've added the other too. Coz this lovin our faces business ain't much glory 'less you can enjoy the wrinkles too, esp those grinning ones. And love em I do!

Dovic

Cheating

2010-04-04T21:55:00.006+11:00

It's April and I'm not quite back yet. I want to be, I really do but with fam in town, ideas swishing around in my head so quickly that they swish right out again (before I get a chance to do anything with them), and no laptop/iPad in my hot little hands to write on the hop (oh how cool that would be - that's a hint Apple), I'm a little lost in the timing.

And then I felt a little reflective of an older post I did today - my Christmas post. It's Easter, and my dad sounded only only slightly bemused when I got my Serbian Easter greeting wrong and wished him a happy Christmas by mistake. So I thought I could cheat a little and reflect back on that other festive season as I warm myself up for the next post (and damn it if I'm not feeling warmed up already...)

---

'Tis the Season

Howdy all.

Well it's been a coupla weeks coz it's that silly season where we all go off to drink, eat, be merry and buy a ridiculous amount of stuff.

Christmas nearly killed me this year. I'm not good at it, at least not til Jan. I grew up in a house that didn't acknowledge santa except for in the plastic form in the $2 shop. We got a small kmart christmas tree some time in my early teens. No pressies, just a 2 foot tree with some gold tinsel and some wrapped up empty boxes sitting beneath it. I didn't mind, hadn't picked up in all the years leading up to that christmas tree that we were ever supposedly missing out on anything. Now we'd moved to a street full of Aussies and I think my parents had cottoned on to the fact that this festive season came with festive bits and bobs.

Before then, whilst my migrant parents were still mixing with migrant friends, there was non of the colour enhanced christmas we see today (hello China :)). Yes there probably was in other families, even probably right next door to us but they didn't speak Serbian so it didn't count. We were still doing the orthodox thing of going to church on the 7th Jan (the day good old Jesus was born according to the old testament calender or something like that), visiting friends, sharing food and solemn stories and .80 alcohol content 'Rakija' shots, and then heading back home in the Kingswood for a rest - christmas, beginning to end over in a single day. Was always a day I remember very fondly, no tinsel needed.

So, no fuss, no pressies, no 12 month saving accounts to support the season. All that was needed was a pressed polyester suit for the fellas and new frock and a good perm for the ladies. Having graciously farewelled communist Yugoslavia not too many years earlier, church at Christmas and Easter was a good opportunity for folks like my parents to have a twice yearly chin wag and meet up newly welcomed Aussie Serbs and rejoice in their roots and faith. And us kids? We just had loads of fun running around in our new frocks and pressed suits too.

There was, ofcourse, probably more to it than that, but not in the storeroom of my (possibly not greatly reliable but can't be far wrong) memory bank.

Now my kiddies are here and I struggle to find the christmas mojo that was never cemented in my own make up. No big family gatherings, no extravagance, no reels of wrapping paper, no pork roasts to reflect on and gain insight from. And so now I fail dismally every year in the traditional Aussie Christmas sense. Hopefully my kids don't notice and R doesn't seem to mind that I'm crap at it (though he reminded me this year about 13 hrs too late that reindeer eat carrots and santa appreciates a glass of milk and cookies - there you go, one additional childhood memory my kids miss out on). To be honest, I crave the simplicity of the days my memories feed me with.

What I do get about Christmas is that it is an opportune time for lots of people to get together where it may not happen otherwise. A season with abundant opportunities to reflect, share and love. It should happen all the time of course, and doesn't. And sadly, far too many miss out on the opportunities for joy. But we know it's the aim, so this year, with none of R's very christmassy family around we decided to take our family christmas spirit down south to Melbourne, which is quite possibly the most glorious city on the planet and my home town naturally.

We started off hanging with the gorgeous godparents to my middle child (who I am pretty certain have since been prescribed Valium to help with the post traumatic stress disorder triggered by having 5 under 5 for 5 days in their otherwise organised home) and then we had our final night at my dads. And wasn't that a hoot. Crazy chaotic household like one big jigsaw puzzle where you are sure the pieces couldn't possibly fit but they all strangely do.

In Rory's words...

"um, Di, do you, um, realise that we have just spent the evening in a room with my 7 yr old brother in law, a fiesty Serb, my Chinese mother-in-law who is younger than my wife, a Sri-Lankin refuge who rents a room somewhere in the house, an ex drug user, a Swedish Iraqi Moslem who is now the husband of your other brothers ex girlfriend and has arrived with your brother whilst I bounce my little girl with Down Syndrome on my knee as we wait for dinner to be served at 10pm".

And I hadn't even noticed. Diversity. Aint it sweet when it hits you in the face and just looks normal to you. Coz it is folks, it is. And that's Christmas too. It doesn't have to be one size fits all.

Hoping you enjoyed yours however you spent it. And hoping 2010 turns out to be your best year yet. It's gonna be a goodie. I can feel it.

For me, next year I promise I'll try and remember the carrots.

Dovic xx

Logging in to life

2010-03-21T22:58:00.003+11:00

Just a short note that I'll be popping out of cyberland (the WHOLE of cyberland except for email) for a couple of weeks, and that Blogarch will be resumed in April :)

The year is passing in a blur at the moment and I don't want it to get to mid year and for me to have spent all that time wearing out the keyboard on my laptop. I need to spend time wearing out the pages of a book, or doing random and radical things like taking a bath, returning phonecalls and emails (that 2008 form of communication), returning DVD's that are now 3 weeks late, GOING TO BED EARLY....that sort of stuff.

A short snippet in the meantime of my conversation with my Mr 3 this morning (after he found a whistle I bough him from the $2 shop).

C: Mummy, is this for me?
Me: Yes, it is :)
C: Who bought it?
Me: I did
C: Oh wow mummy I love it (with beaming saucer eyes). THANKYOU MUMMY!!!
Me: You're welcome C (beaming right back at him)
....quiet for a moment
C: Mummy?
Me: Yeah C?
C: I love you mummy. Very very much
Me: I love you too baby (as I dive in for the hug and smooch).

And this is why we have kids.

Til then....

Dovic xxx

Oh to be 23 again

2010-03-20T08:39:00.007+11:00

This is going to be a speedy gonzales post. And it will likely have plenty of spelling mistakes (coz I'm a bit pickled). It won't be speedy gonzales coz I'm typing fast, because I can tell you I am typing really reallllly slow. My fine motor skills aren't what they could be, especially not after a few Grand Marniers. Just that I have to get my elderly ass in to bed. Even if I'm feeling quite spruiky at the mo :)

So.

At the moment we are (very!) lucky to have an Au Pair. She is the ants pants. She is divine, beautiful with my kids, doesn't mind one iota that I do stuff and don't give her any real direction so she just continues to do amazing things as she takes care of things around me - which she does to a degree that makes me wonder whether I should trade her in for the hubby. She is THAT good. She is awesome. And she is 24. So she is clever and mature and hangs out occasionally at this secret squirrel place that no-one our age seems to know - just those clued in in her age bracket, especially the Swedish, French, English, Czech, likely gorgeous and hot lot. Of both sexes.

So a couple of us in 'my age bracket' decided to try it out and....we got taken to the secret squirrel door. They let us in! Must have been the spray tan.

Anyway, it was gorgeous.

And whilst my buddies were chit chatting at the bar, I planted myself in one of those funky chairs and listened to some hot 24 yr old belt out some lovely tunes. And I was surrounded by legs up to armpits and just a whole bunch of young adulthood. It was strikingly beautiful. Not aesthetically, although ofcourse it was that too. It was more in that whole 'damn I'm having a great time without a care in the world' kind of way. I watched and thought how nice it would be to sit there watching every night - a lovely reminder of just how wonderfully intoxicating life can be when you live it from the inside out.

Oh to be 23 again and not have a worry in the world. And to milk those legs for all they were worth.

There is beauty in the world and it's not just in the aesthetic. It's in that time where life and love and dreams and passion and invincibility all collide in to one. What a glorious glorious time.

23 was that time for me. Do you have a mesmorastic (I made that word up) age? If you could go back in time. live an age all over again???

Dovic xx

PS One day my guess I will look back on this year and think if only I had that time again.....infact, I'm sure of it.

My genetic flaws

2010-03-14T22:46:00.013+11:00

Tonight I'm sad.

Coz tonight I want to change me and not for the first time either.

Do you ever just wish you were not some particular way and that you were the opposite particular way instead?

Here are my list of grievances (I've left out my addiction to diet coke since that one I can't blame on the folks). What I wouldn't do to be a more punctual, well rested, up to date with all my paperwork, not wired on diet coke type of individual.

Lateness. This one isn't really an issue for me personally BUT I know it's an issue for others. So I will generally leave things til the last minute... then sweat my butt off trying not to be late, so as not to piss off completely those that actually live life at the other end of the scale - ie suffering punctuality anxiety. It's a very tough gig accommodating both ends of the spectrum. Mentally exhausting even. And besides that, the tax office, the telco company, Virgin and the SDRO arent as sympathetic to the 'I can't help it, I've been wired this way!' exclamations.

Side memory: Mr strongest school memory (other than when my parents shaved all my hair off) was when I was in Yr 1 and I would have to stand at the front of the class, bent over, as Mr Sullivan gave my bottom a good whack with that gigantic ruler every morning for being late . I loved Mr Sullivan. But that humiliation did not change that wiring in me one iota. Even as a little person.

Procrastination. This kinda ties in with the doing things last minute. And it's a bit strange because it's not so much the 'getting organised' bit. I actually quite enjoy planning to be planned. But getting to the do, by some strange stroke of genetic misfortune (yes I'm still blaming the wiring), doesn't generally occur until the moments before.

Side memory: After flaffling for 36 hours straight, at 1am on the morning on the morning of my HSC exams, I finally opened those books and got started on the studying. Even now I wonder how on earth....

Sleeping. I just can't get to it. I've whined about it. I've blogged about it. But I haven't managed to shift my clock to anywhere before midnight. I'm avoiding it right now. I want to get that old lustre back in my skin. See, I'm whining again.

Side memory: If all else fails, blame it on the folks. My parents never gave me a bedtime. Their motto was I would fall asleep when I needed to. Every night. So I still wait for that magical moment. Every night.

So now I have enough bills/taxes/forms/diary detail etc to bring tears to the eyes, and yet I only manage to get to them at 11.59pm in order to avoid going to sleep. And then the sadness of it all makes me open up my blog and post about it - because there is no hotline for this stuff - leaving those awful sheets of paper with 'Dovic' posted all over them, and worn out from handling, left un-done for another night.

Heeeeeellllp. I want to be rewired. And I want it now.

Dovic x

Blogarch. Me. Costello Syndrome. Depression. And that other fella.

2010-03-10T22:31:00.009+11:00

Wow. It's been busy in here! All those re-entries put a lovely smile on my dial and I thank you. I've been a bit MIA but a bit more on that later.

For regular readers, the 7 day challenge was indeed a great success (much to R's infinate delight and chuffedness and chest pumping) and the love has continued to flow over in to March. Noice. Haven't managed to get him to agree to telling his side of the story (probably hard for him to talk with all that grinning going on) but I'm still working on him.

The other point I have to make about March is that I've renamed it. It's Blogarch. Yes, it's the time I take to regroup, rehash and redeliver this thing that started off as fun and has since lead me towards many 'too late' nights. Not because I'm blogging (yes I know *shakes head in shame*) but because the whole problem with blogging is that you get caught up discovering other peoples blogs. Some are bloody funny. Some don't go anywhere. Plenty track journeys that amaze, delight or have you reaching for tissues and clutching at your heart as you realise how big and wide the whole world is and how much we still manage to hurt and love in much the same ways. For some, pain digs deeper and wounds are heavier. Then you discover the others, the creative types that colour your cyber world in ways your inner world never will be (unless, you buy something from them which I inevitably do - problem solved :). Hello Retro Mummy!).

So Blogarch is about two things. One is that I will indeed rehash and redeliver.

The other is that I thought I would lead you over to some other favourite posts in this early part of Blogarch. Oh there are hundreds of them. So I'll just pick a select couple. Ok. 3. And if you do find yourself over at these cyber addresses, please make sure you make your way back over here to let me know what you thought. And if you don't have time to have look right now, come back when you've poured yourself a nice warm cuppa. It'll help. And be worth your time. Promise.

Living in Invisible Cities

A few months ago I nearly choked on my vegemite sandwich as I received an email from Dan Niblock (my blogging idol). He was asking me (ME!) if he could include my post on Bella (over here) in his compilation of 'the best of the best' of DS posts. The best thing about being featured was that when I ventured over for a squizz I discovered some wonderful posts. And then I discovered one blogger for whom I have no words. I have a heart that beats heavy with every word of hers I read, such is the power of her writing. And yet that is not enough. I know very little about her but I know so much now as a result of her writing. She is a mum. Her daughter is Willa. Willa has Costello Syndrome (a 1 in 30,000,000 chance - yeppo, that's million). Willa also has cancer. I don't even know which post to link to. So here was December.

The space that occupies your heart will never be the same.

Lisa and Mini Ginger

I sometimes suffer from anxiety. Not often, but sometimes. My guess is that most people I know have/do. For me it feels like someone has pulled the cord on a chainsaw and let it go right in the middle of my insides. It thrashes around ripping and tearing and shredding on all that is sitting and pounding beneath my skin, and there is not one damn thing I can do about it. Nudda. And it doesn't penetrate the skin so you would never ever know. But I do and it's awful. Awful with a capital A, W, F, U and L.

Recently I read the post of a girlfriend who suffers from depression. Never, in one zillion years, would I have guessed. Because I suspect that same thing happens. What you see on the outside will rarely reflect the extent of the turmoil that sits on the inside. I've lived around depression. But never have I come across anyone so openly willing to talk about that journey. I thought I kinda got how it operated depression but I only understood a smidgen. Then I read this post. I had no idea what Lisa was going through. Now as I track her journey she continues to inspire me right in the middle of it all. I hope, and especially if you are travelling a similar road, that she inspires you too.

Five Thumbs Down

I have one purpose and one purpose only for including this blogger. I came across his blog randomly one day and laughed my belly off. And now I want him to write more. And he hasn't yet. So this is my way of letting him know I'm waiting :).

That's it for Blogarch for today.

Til the refresh,

Dovic xx

Show the Love Challenge Day 7 - Getting Sprung

2010-02-23T12:58:00.009+11:00

We've been had! Well, kinda - for 48hrs or so.

That irresistable fella of mine (funnily enough way more irresistible the last few days than he ever has been :)) discovered the challenge on the blog on Sat arvo! I kinda had the feeling this may have been the case when he was all sweet and coy and lovely and being EXTRA nice and affectionate. With suspicions in tow, I asked him if he knew why I was on such good behaviour and he answered "no" - just that little bit too quickly. When I asked whether he wanted to know, he shuffled on his feet and again answered a little too quickly "no, why would I want to bite the hand that feeds me?". Shuffle. Shuffle.

Aha!! Sprung :).

I knew it, but he was still denying it when I checked in again last night. It wasn't until I pulled out all the manipulative skills I could muster that he finally admitted, that yeah, he had a squizz on Sat night and....well, there it all was.

I've been in a state of panic worried about how he might react but I needn't have been. He was all for the challenge. Infact he's all for it going on for another year. And the year after that too.

So, suffice to say it's been a success. I'm gonna take the lead from some of the feedback I've had and give this a good old shot for a little longer.

Would I recommend it? Hell yeah. Admittedly keeping a blog kept me on the straight and narrow, but I haven't yelled in a week and don't actually feel like yelling now that my week is over. WIERD. Without the blog I rekon I would have given up at day 3, so if you do give it a shot, make sure you pre plan it. Obviously I haven't been talking much about what I did, but in the main it was no complaining (though I did get simmeringly shirty mid week), being conversational, actually stopping what I was doing and looking at him whilst we were talking and just trying to stay cool all week really. There are others out there that are way better at this stuff than I am!

Now, this is the 7 day wrap up and it's hit 10/10 in the success stakes (hard not to with R pulling out all stops the last couple of days), but I'm keen to add a couple of pieces later on. Going to interview R to get his perspective on how this week went, from the sneaky side of it right up to how he feels now . And trying to twist the arm of a friend of mine, who wrote "A womb with attitude" to do a guest blog on the power those raging hormones have over us mere mortals.

But for me, for now that's about it. Phew. I'm exhausted. And I still have all that swinging off the chandeliers to do yet....

Love to hear your final thoughts if you have a chance to slip 'em in the comments.

Dovic xx

Show the Love Challenge Day 6 - Somewhere over the rainbow

2010-02-21T23:27:00.005+11:00

A big beautiful gorgeous day and so nice to enjoy it from the inside out. Something about this challenge is working :) (Here is where it started).

Gonna leave it at that tonight.

Til we meet for the last time and wrap up tomorrow....

Dovic xx

PS Don't forget to cast your vote.

PSS Luurve the star chart!

Show the Love Challenge Day 5 - Raging Hormones and a Star Chart

2010-02-20T23:16:00.007+11:00

So we're loved up today and it's nice :).

Infact went to the mother of all kids birthday parties (Ali, you kick ass) and received a ridiculous amount of jibbing about how lovie dovie we were being.

My guess is that I'm on best behaviour and he's lapping it up, so we're both naturally leaning over for a cuddle and smooch. But, as per the previous post, this has not been smooth sailing and my point to ponder today is how much of it is hormones and how much of it is the actual poor blokey behaviour.

As my girlfriend Amy put it pretty succinctly today "hormones are like alcohol, they don't create the problem, but they can exasperate the problem". Blokes seem to be a different beast all together. They're pretty consistent emotions wise (major catastrophies like a fave footy team not winning, notwithstanding). If they're crap they'll just be crap most of the time, if delightful then probably delightful most of the time. My guess is most of our fellas will sit somewhere in the middle, nudging whatever side they do on a fairly consistent basis.

So what'll work then.

I was looking at R today and all of a sudden it hit me. What I had in front of me was a labrador puppy. Loyal, loving, gentle. But in the relationship sense, clumsy, temperamental (kinda contradicting what I said above, but we're talking specifics here) and needing a little training. He really really wanted to please, he just wasn't quite sure how to yet. I know. I know.

So I'm gonna go with the good old star chart for some good old behaviour training.

For example, R is really bad with dishing out the "yeah sure". Instead, there is always another response. See below and take a punt at what is more likely to put a smile on my dial.

Me "Can you empty the dishwasher"

Him "Why didn't you do it earlier".........or....."Yeah Sure :)"

Me "Stop the car! I need to go to the loo!"

Him "Why didn't you go when we were at home".........or....."Yeah Sure :)"

Me "Want to come shoe shopping with me"

Him "Are you mad?".........or....."Yeah Sure :)"

See what I mean? How blissfull would life be and how much would I be able to temper my hormonal rages with a few more "yeah sures".

So tomorrow we start and he gets a star each time I get a "yeah sure". Since he's keen to keep whatever is driving this nice behaviour up at my end, he's agreed to do it :). And these are his reward requests.

10 stars - shag (see, predictable)

20 stars - bikram yoga session at 5pm on a Sunday night (for those new to the blog, see here)

50 stars - a day out with me (awww...but how did Bikram get in first??)

100 starts - a weekend away with me (he's obviously expecting this star business to go on for a while).

Hope you're still having fun at your end!

Dovic xxx

PS Have just added a poll. Over there to your right. What do you rekon??

Show the love challenge day 4 - Bingo!

2010-02-20T09:08:00.001+11:00

Re here

...ish :)

Dovic x

Show the love challenge day 3 - slippage and oh what a difference 10 min makes

2010-02-19T16:58:00.010+11:00

We nearly hit a road block and dived over the cliff dear followers.

Had to skip a couple of days as R was working interstate and, truth be known, it is much easier to like someone when they're not there. Especially as you're enjoying some quality telly time with vino on hand and no-one switching over to the history channel (yawn - sorry all you war buffs).

But that's not to say it all went smoothly in his absence.

Oh and if you need background on this challenge, go here.

All was kinda going well for the first couple of days, and I was doing a remarkable job of being all positivity and light (remarkable indeed considering my love of rants and the fact that I was single parenting, among other things, most of the week). And then we hit a road block.

I felt like I was doing all the giving, and basically not receiving much in return other than a couple of ironed uniforms and kiddie breakfasts (see previous posts). I didn't mind to begin with. Everyone around me was quite obviously overjoyed at my new found patience, love and serenity, so that was kinda nice in it's own right.

But even this flower needs a bit of watering - not just sunshine.

This was a very busy week work wise for R.

Nonetheless, over at my end I was propping up a load of pretty significant proportions myself. I was busy, tired, doing the sleep deprivation gig, carrying other freelance work and course responsibilities and channeling a homely version of Mother Theresa in the middle of it all.

It was starting to feel like a one way street despite the good feelings everyone was radiating as a result of my new found warmth. And I started to feel like someone, who shall remain nameless but whose name starts with R, was starting to settle in a little too nicely into the being stroked and supported business - and taking it all a bit too much for granted.

Last night when, after 2 nights of no kiddie responsibility he blurted out the "I'm too tired", "I need sleep" blah blah blah words, that should never be spoken to a woman who is both tired and needs sleep (and on top of, it has to be said, by someone who has contributed minimal 'value add' during the week) I started to feel that old 'oh yeah right' start to creep in. Similar calls last night and this morning and I knew by the time the sun had started to rise that Mother Theresa would be turning in her grave at my inability to squish up the temper just a little bit longer. I wanted to. I really really wanted to. But managing a relationship really does take it out of you. How on earth do the abused do it?

Lesson number 2.

This love and light thing has to very very much be a two way thing. It may start with you but it can't end with you. However, not saying/screaming anything (coz I'm not complaining remember) delivered a result.

If I had written this post at 9am, it may have been sprinked with a few profanities.

At 9.01 he called me from work.

"Hi"

"Am I still in the doghouse?"

"Why would you be in the doghouse?" (*definate point for picking up on the simmering overnight mood and acting on it quick)

"Because I didn't help last night"

"Should you have?"

"Yes"

"Are you sorry"

"Yes, very"

And that's where a few minutes made all the difference. He saw he was being a twat, has no idea why I'm being so nice but realises there is something he needs to do to keep it up.

I'm not completely won over yet but he still has time tonight.

We're on a date (which I organised as part of this self regulated challenge - babysitters and all and a rare occurrence).

I will come in tonight with the day 4 post but with one line only. And it will be

Bingo, or
Work in progress, or
Someone please put a pillow over my head

Hopefully no swearing will be needed. I'm back to smiles so rekon it'll be a goodie :)

Dovic xx

PS I know plenty of you are doing the same this week and that at least a couple of you had meltdown moment last night. We may all be different but we're all same same really :). Thanks for checking in on how it's going over this end xx

PSS I got a cleaner in today too. I think that should be included in 101 Of Saving Relationships and I give her 10/10 for 'value add' today

****FOOTNOTE ONLY 5 min later - heading towards the "someone please put a pillow over my head. Need cheering on to survive this!

Show the Love Challenge Day 2 - Sleep is my new friend

2010-02-16T22:41:00.006+11:00

Ohhhh....so today had a shaky start.

(Once again, if you need a heads up on the challenge you'll find it here)

I forgot to go to bed last night. Not til late - so late that I'm not even going to offer up what time it was. I am a nightowl. This works fine when you are young, hip and happening, but not when you have a household that echoes and roars like a Tsunami from the moment the first person in the house wakes up. It's LOUD.

I am going to put that down as lesson one.

Sleep needs to be my new best friend.

I was sleep deprived. R had already been up for an hour or so, and like yesterday, had ironed another school uniform and got the first two fed before having to leave for work himself. I feel bad for the second day in a row saying that - it's sweet and up until 2 days ago I never would have even thought much of it. It works for him I know. He does mornings like I do nights. Whilst I'm cooking at 11pm he's snoozing away. When he's up in the morn I have the pillow(s) over my head whilst I try and drown out all the sounds and get another hours sleep in. But he does other sweet things like close all the doors and shove the kids up the other end of the house, so far up the other end they almost have to sit on the neighbours back porch. To be honest, it's the ironing of the school uniform that's doing it for me at the mo especially. I think because I know he's doing it as a 'dad' as much as as a hubby and that is a blow your heart up with love and stuff kind of thing to do/acknowledge.

Anyways. All was going well while the pillows were planted on my head but as he was leaving for work and popping his head in the room to say bye, I could feel that old crankiness start to rise. So what did I do? I composed my insides, smiled at him and said thanks. Then I smiled a happy smile to myself and curled up in a ball to enjoy about another 2 min peace before the rest of the household realised my body was awake and ready for jumping on. And when, precisely 2 min later, all 3 of my little people came screaming in with 'mummy! mummy!' and summersaulting on my head, I didn't mind.

Being nice to R is extending BEYOND being nice to him. I have not had one negative thought in 48 hrs. I do need to get more sleep because a lack of it may be a stronger beast than all the positivity I can muster and it may be the time in my life to stop fighting it. But it's nice that I am being cranky at absolutely no-one at the moment. You want to somersault on my head? Knock yourself out. You want me to come and play ANOTHER game with you for about the 50th time today? Ofcourse. I'd actually really love to.

R would LOVE if I shifted my sleeping pattern. My head I think would love it too. So I'm gonna give it a go.

Finally, apart from all the love love joy joy happening around here at the moment, I've noticed another significant change. We are talking sooooo much. Not just chit chat but nice talking, you know the sort you normally reserve for friends and not for partners? I was on my way home last night from a dinner and he called me on the way to ask to get milk. I was precisely 7 min from home. Normally the conversation consists of

"can you get milk"

"yeah sure"

"ok bye"

"bye".

Last night is went like this

"can you get milk"

"yeah sure, how were the kids tonight, did you enjoy yourself"

"yeah it was nice being home. How was dinner"

"yeah cool. The food was yuuuummmy"....and on and on for another 7 min exactly. I forgot to get the milk coz I was at the front door before I knew it.

My being nice resulted in us TALKING. Like banter talk. You know, I like you and you like me talk. This experiment has been worth it so far just to remind me I don't need to wait til I'm hanging out with friends to have a conversation. I can do it right at home.

I have had so many awesome comments, some on this blog, others elsewhere, cheering me on from the sidelines or saying 'yay, I did it too and it rocks' or 'I should really give this a go myself before I slit my/his/her wrists. If you see them on any of these posts, have a read. They are so heartwarming.

I'm going soft. And I like it :)

Dovic x

PSS Have to skip tomorrows post which I'll explain later. So see you all Thursday night!

PSSS Will be in better writing form with a bit more sleep - apologies to any protectors of grammar and spelling and sentence structure out there!

PSSSS Will try the visualisation thing I was planning for today, tomorrow -with a bit more sleep too :)

Show the Love Challenge Day 1 - No complaints

2010-02-16T00:01:00.008+11:00

Ok, so if you're in for the first time, you may need to go here to work out what this post is about. Basically it's day 1 of knocking the sox of my hubby by being, ya know, nice. Not sickly sweet nice but "damn I think you're hot and appreciate all that you do and I have nothing to complain about and have I mentioned that I love you and that you rock my boat and hoping I can get you to mop the floor whilst getting all hot and bothered" kind off nice.

So.

Day 1 worked a treat!

I'm really focused on the not complaining for a start and I have fullfilled my day one obligation. Funny thing is I don't actually feel like complaining now that I'm not complaining. Wierd.

I woke this morning and B (5) and C (3) had been fed and daddio had even ironed B's school uniform. I managed to slink out of bed just as he was leaving for work and gave him a a quick kiss and "have a gorgeous" day before he left. And it felt really nice to be nice. Normally I may think things like 'you coulda ironed tomorrows uniform whilst you were at it'...you know, that sort of crap. And maybe he could have, but who gives a hoot. A chunk of the morning routine was done and I was appreciating it. I have to say he has really come in to his own in being helpful in the mornings in the last 6 months or so. See, I'm really liking him already :)

In the car for all the drop offs and I shot him a note to say thanks for all the above.

My happy happy joy joy mood was NO DOUBT helped along by the fact that I spent my day indoors with the Bizness Babes, and truth is any of those bizness babe days are some of my fave days. Often I'll slip in a whine or two about the home dynamics, but not today. Nup, today my lips were sealed in a cheesy grin and I might have even mentioned a few choice nice things about him. I think he gets scared whenever I'm about to be surrounded by a group of women (since he knows it's prob my time of letting loose on all his past sins) so I think he would be chuffed to the core to know that no such thing happened today.

I'll fast forward to late this afternoon. He was planning to go to Yoga in the afternoon (generally I would smirk here, but again, not today :)) and I called to check if that was still on the agenda. "I'd rather come home and see the kids to be honest". Aww sweet. Often I kinda resent the whole evening routine thing coz it's my least favourite time in the history of all my days (herding cats) but tonight I was on a mission. If he was going to choose to come home especially to see the kids then I would make sure they were bathed and ready for him. In 90% humidy (which nearly killed me) I raced around and did all I could to make sure there was all peace and no war between him and the kiddies when he walked in (actually I was thinking about me but you get the picture). In any case, he could just scoop em up and enjoy them.

The really really wierd thing? I really really liked doing that for 'him'. Lets get one thing straight, the whole surrendered wife thing is not my thing. I may be a martyr but I'm not going to do it without a few complaints. That's more my thing. But not tonight. Tonight I really enjoyed being focused on what he would enjoy when he walked in. And it was lovely to greet him. And it was lovely for him to give me a big squish and tell me to leave everything just as it was (I had failed in getting the kitchen sorted, including removing the pasta pieces from the walls and the milk splattered across the floor) and instead - I had a preorganised girls dinner - to 'go straight out and enjoy yourself, I'll take care of the rest".

Once again, aww nice.

And not one single whine from me today. Tomorrow I'm taking Allies advice and doing the whole visualise the positive relationship thing. Keep throwing those suggestions at me.

Day one now ticked off as a hot and happy success that was way easier than I expected. I feel like I'm cheating since I have bizness babes on tomorrow too but the feelings are real. I don't want to get all mush mush on you but, seriously, so far so good. Won't count any chickens yet (we're a moody lot us humans) but definately a top notch day 1.

How are you going with it???

Til tomorrow,

Dovic xx

PS If I have fella subscribers/followers that check in to this post, can you tell me, is he gonna be really really mad that all this sneaky stuff is going on??

Sex is the new black and my 7 day challenge

2010-02-14T23:33:00.007+11:00

Well, I don't know if that's really true but it looks like everywhere I look the really happy couples, I mean the really happy giddy eyed can't keep their hands off each other type, are getting quite a bit of it.

That's not say that those that aren't getting it aren't happy. There is a lot to be said for gazing at each other with bloodshot eyes, skipping the views of vomit stains on hunched shoulders, not noticing the showerless state of each other and gently reaching out before falling in a premature slump from sheer exhaustion, and finally snoring away the litre of red wine you drank together to get you through the night. Coz that's the other side of the coin.

And there are two distinct sides. I've been pondering side A for a couple of a few weeks now. Ever since I read this post over at Sunny Mummy.

Sunny Mummy does not preach what she is not actively practicing. And you don't need much time to work out what that little sentence means. Her sunny disposition stretches from from beyond the organised walls of her kitchen right through to the chandelier of her bedroom. I have been lucky enough to spend some time in her eternally sunny rays, and with so much energy and so much commitment to what she does I was wondering how she managed to, you know, fit that 'other' thing in. And ofcourse her energy and commitment extended right up to that Chandelier too.

It's not just the rolling around in the haystack stuff though. She is really big on being lovely to each other. WHEN? I ask her. Pointless question because I know for her it's everyday. Love notes, warm words, support, kindness. Now, I can't say I agree with all Sunny M's feelings, especially that around if they (the hubby/partner) aren't getting all these niceties and bit of rompy tompy too that this will necessarily lead to a roving eye (and I hope not! There is mutual obligation to get things working right on your home turf. Full stop.) but I could see that being nice could encourage some of that roving all over you, which can't be bad thing. And it's baby steps you're after really, that and a bit of washing up here, a mop of the floor there, a tidy up of the kids room sometime....oh yeah and the other stuff too.

So time for some fun I say.

When I read Sunny M's post, it was about 11.59pm and I had just finished up cleaning, mopping, lunch packing, box sorting, etc etc. And hubby had been snoozing away for about 3 hrs, having just finished his third book for the week that I 'juuuust have to read'. I coulda been cranky. For about the 7th night that week. But I chose not to be. Instead I wrote him a little love note with 3 things I loved about him. And UNBELIEVABLY I snuck in a 4th. I was starting to feel giddy lovey towards him, despite his distant snores, annoying habits and downright rudeness of going to sleep, like, when he wanted to.

What happened next I hear you ask?....well...I woke up in the morning and he was IN.THE.BEST mood. The kids were fed and dressed. The kitchen was clean. He was beaming warmth. And the cardboard pizza box I wrote my little love note on? It was cut down it's side and the side with the little love note on was tucked away peeping out of his draw. He'd kept it! Left over cheese and ham and all! He was happy and thrilled and feeling the love (for the first time in maybe years poor fella) and all it took was a little note.

Ofcourse everything went to crap about 2 hours later when I discovered my bag in the washing machine (don't ask) but I knew that I, via Sunny M, was on to something.

Sadly, it is only now, 2 weeks later that I have worked up the courage to commit to this sort of selfless behaviour (coz my preference would be to rant and rave every day with great joy and release) for a whole week. I am GOING TO BE NICE. If he survives the shock, and indeed if I can keep it up, I expect to be a little on the quiet side as I spend my time hanging from the chandelier post day 7 myself. But for now, the challenge is set.

And I know I don't post enough and that you've been complaining but truth be known I was planning my attack. I was working on developing a positive disposition. And now I'll be in here each day with a report. Yep, each day.

Let the 7 days begin!

Rules:

No complaining (this is gonna be really hard coz there is lots to complain about on a daily basis - and I'm only sneaking in that comment now coz I can't for the next week)

Lots of smiling and head nodding and other verbal validations for all the good stuff he does.

Will make up the rest as I go.

Report on day one coming your way tomorrow and I would just luuuurve if any of you managed to join me or throw some helpful tips my way. I'm going to need all the tips I get. Some of you are really good at this stuff :).

Disclaimer: He does read this blog sometimes and I've got my fingers crossed that he won't for the week. If by any chance he does, and does not reward my efforts by being extra gorgeous back and folding the clothes on Wednesday night I will be going on strike.

Stay tuned...

Dovic xxx

PS For all the updates, take a look at the list of Feb posts - they're in there day by day. Or click at the home page and work your way up.

Facebook is killing my parenting skills

2010-01-19T16:01:00.010+11:00

And thank God I bought myself an oven timer in the nick of time.

These days (ie today and yesterday) I'm limiting my own facebook time. I round the clock to 30 min and can't check anything online til the buzzer goes buzz. Cool huh. Small step but a goodie!

So yesterday I turned that buzzer on and sat outside with Belle's for an afternoon tea. And I looked at her. Up close and personal. Beautiful. Lovely.

I haven't done that in so so so long. She kept grinning coz she was wondering what on earth I was doing out there with her. I was twitching and wondering what was happening online. So I counted her freckles. One by one. And the tension from my shoulders dropped and I smiled with her.

So why don't I do it all the time?

My guess is that it's all about hiding away. The problem with having 3 (and I'm guessing this is the same whether you have 1, 3 or 7) is that it tends to be quite a bit like herding cats. You scream. They run. In the opposite direction.

And you want to run too. Right over to the computer screen. It's safe there. You type, people listen. People type, you listen. Such a civilised way of communicating.

But lately facebook and cyberland has started to wedge its fat cyber butt right in the middle of my non cyber life. Need to race out the door? Oh just let me check email quickly. You want to play? Oh can i just catch up on facebook first. Need dinner? Here, here is some weetbix coz there is some very very important chat going on on some forum somewhere.

The wedge is deepening as facebook extends to links, as links extend to google, as google extends to blogs, as blogs extend to online articles, as online articles extend to twitter, as twitter sends you back to facebook. A cyber merry go round and round and round and round. And before you know it's a new day and you only have 3 hrs sleep left before the chaos of the morning begins - round about the same time REM sleep was just about to kick in. But your attentions are a bit wiped. You exhausted them in the wee hours in front of that civilised screen.

And it's not just cyberland. We lost connection on the computer for a week once and after initially calling the doc for some panic pills I soon realised that I didn't actually care. I just exchanged one screen for the next and discovered Greys Anatomy and a couple of other shows I've since forgotten. Same thing happened when my phone fizzled a couple of weeks ago. I just didn't care. Like chocolate. Don't need it. Love it, but don't necessarily want to gorge myself on it. Til someone drops off a box of Ferraro Rochers and I gorge plus. And then I realise I overloaded. But damage is already done...yep, same same.

These days I am noticing a direct correlation between my improving typing skills and my deproving (I know it's not a real word) parenting skills. My middle sons way of having fun with mum? Crawl in to my lap as I type away and sit quietly til I'm finished 2 hrs later (he is such a people pleaser that one). My daughter has given up and just hands me the Play School DVD with a flick of the hand and a roll of the eyes. My youngest just belts me from behind, but he's my third so I just ignore him, coz he's used to that.

I miss them. I miss watching them. I miss talking to them whilst they still want to do that (I rekon those days are numbered). I miss them lying on my belly and staring at me like I might just be the most magical person on the planet and they may just want to marry me themselves one day.

Most of all I just miss looking at them. Their skin, their dimples, their button noses. The freckles that pop up just when you're not looking.

Freckles. In the sun. That's all it took.

So less facebook time for me. I'll parent more and I'll blog more (that's for you Em). The rest of cyberland I'll still see you around, just a little less.

Til Friday,

Dovic
xx

'Tis the season

2010-01-05T23:16:00.021+11:00

Howdy all.

Well it's been a coupla weeks coz it's that silly season where we all go off to drink, eat, be merry and buy a ridiculous amount of stuff.

Christmas nearly killed me this year. I'm not good at it, at least not til Jan. I grew up in a house that didn't acknowledge santa except for in the plastic form in the $2 shop. We got a small kmart christmas tree some time in my early teens. No pressies, just a 2 foot tree with some gold tinsel and some wrapped up empty boxes sitting beneath it. I didn't mind, hadn't picked up in all the years leading up to that christmas tree that we were ever supposedly missing out on anything. Now we'd moved to a street full of Aussies and I think my parents had cottoned on to the fact that this festive season came with festive bits and bobs.

Before then, whilst my migrant parents were still mixing with migrant friends, there was non of the colour enhanced christmas we see today (hello China :)). Yes there probably was in other families, even probably right next door to us but they didn't speak Serbian so it didn't count. We were still doing the orthodox thing of going to church on the 7th Jan (the day good old Jesus was born according to the old testament calender or something like that), visiting friends, sharing food and solemn stories and .80 alcohol content 'Rakija' shots, and then heading back home in the Kingswood for a rest - christmas, beginning to end over in a single day. Was always a day I remember very fondly, no tinsel needed.

So, no fuss, no pressies, no 12 month saving accounts to support the season. All that was needed was a pressed polyester suit for the fellas and new frock and a good perm for the ladies. Having graciously farewelled communist Yugoslavia not too many years earlier, church at Christmas and Easter was a good opportunity for folks like my parents to have a twice yearly chin wag and meet up newly welcomed Aussie Serbs and rejoice in their roots and faith. And us kids? We just had loads of fun running around in our new frocks and pressed suits too.

There was, ofcourse, probably more to it than that, but not in the storeroom of my (possibly not greatly reliable but can't be far wrong) memory bank.

Now my kiddies are here and I struggle to find the christmas mojo that was never cemented in my own make up. No big family gatherings, no extravagance, no reels of wrapping paper, no pork roasts to reflect on and gain insight from. And so now I fail dismally every year in the traditional Aussie Christmas sense. Hopefully my kids don't notice and R doesn't seem to mind that I'm crap at it (though he reminded me this year about 13 hrs too late that reindeer eat carrots and santa appreciates a glass of milk and cookies - there you go, one additional childhood memory my kids miss out on). To be honest, I crave the simplicity of the days my memories feed me with.

What I do get about Christmas is that it is an opportune time for lots of people to get together where it may not happen otherwise. A season with abundant opportunities to reflect, share and love. It should happen all the time of course, and doesn't. And sadly, far too many miss out on the opportunities for joy. But we know it's the aim, so this year, with none of R's very christmassy family around we decided to take our family christmas spirit down south to Melbourne, which is quite possibly the most glorious city on the planet and my home town naturally.

We started off hanging with the gorgeous godparents to my middle child (who I am pretty certain have since been prescribed Valium to help with the post traumatic stress disorder triggered by having 5 under 5 for 5 days in their otherwise organised home) and then we had our final night at my dads. And wasn't that a hoot. Crazy chaotic household like one big jigsaw puzzle where you are sure the pieces couldn't possibly fit but they all strangely do.

In Rory's words...

"um, Di, do you, um, realise that we have just spent the evening in a room with my 7 yr old brother in law, a fiesty Serb, my Chinese mother-in-law who is younger than my wife, a Sri-Lankin who rents a room somewhere in the house, an ex drug user, a Swedish Iraqi Moslem who is now the husband of your other brothers ex girlfriend and has arrived with your brother whilst I bounce my little girl with Down Syndrome on my knee as we wait for dinner to be served at 10pm".

And I hadn't even noticed. Diversity. Aint it sweet when it hits you in the face and just looks normal to you. Coz it is folks, it is. And that's Christmas too. It doesn't have to be one size fits all.

Hoping you enjoyed yours however you spent it. And hoping 2010 turns out to be your best year yet. It's gonna be a goodie. I can feel it.

For me, next year I promise I'll try and remember the carrots.

Dovic xx
PS It's the 7th in 2 days! And that will be my day full of special accumulated memories. If you know a Russian or Serb by birth or background, shout them out a 'happy christmas' I'm sure they'll be tickled by it :)
PSS ****This is a next day PS - my cousin, in Bosnia no less, JUST posted piccies on facebook with christmas trees and kids with stockings full of pressies. Wow. Santa has made it all the way down there too (with a wee little break for a shot of Rakija himself between the 25th and the 7th). Gonna have to investigate whether this is a new phenomenon or whether my memory is just shite or whether we really were the only ones without a tree all those years ago.
PSSS Could ya, would ya, tell me what your christmas memory circa 1978 was?

Well it's been a while...(and what Down Syndrome really means)

2009-12-16T21:25:00.013+11:00

About 3 days too long based on my last poll :)

Anyways, to be honest, I would have updated earlier but am just getting in to the groove of this blogging thing and am also stuffed. I just don't have a pause button. I don't have a 'me' button (though the readers of the Bikram Yoga post will be well pleased to know that I'm well on my way to Lotus posing with the best of them and the readers of the Martha blog with be pleased to know I've been cooking! With vegetables!).

BUT. I don't want this post to be about me. I want this post to be about Isabella. And I have since about Tuesday when I caught a bus with her into the city.

Isabella.

My 4.5 year old with Down Syndrome. Ya know, I just had a flash back to the moment in hospital when they told me that her having Down Syndrome was a possibility. And I just felt a tinge of sadness and a lump in my throat with that flashback (I've also just had 3.5 Drambuies on ice so that probably doesn't help :)). But it was sad. It was sad because my partner just walked in after almost floating back to Bondi the night before to a room full of huddled doctors (a senior one and about 7 other student doctors) and hit the floor with a thud when their whisperings started to get a bit coherent.

IT COULD NOT BE. NO! NO! NO!. How could they make this up! Not his little girl. Not the one that was gonna kill all the fellas with her surfing skills, not the one that was going to turn the heads around Bondi for the next 18 yrs plus, not the one that would be doing this inbetween working out what more to do with the split atom for 2027 Nobel prize win. Could they not see they were wrong??

What a strange strange time that was. Such a strange strange time. I want to go back and give that mum and dad a great big hug and say "you have no idea just how ok you will be, you have no idea just how beautiful she will be just as she is, you have no idea that one day will start to write a blog about her and your eyes will well with tears because, frankly, the light inside her makes you feel a beautiful, tender and caring love that you could not have expected".

Those that know us know that we lost another little girl 10mths earlier. Our beautifull Liljana who was born too early, much as her fight would have had you question otherwise. We then, and still now, missed her. So our resources were down. First the dream of one girl, and then the dream of the next.

And yet we still had our baby girl. But the adjustment from what we thought she may be, and the realisation that what we thought no longer mattered, was a mighty adjustment to make in 2 days. It took longer ofcourse. It took longer for R. He lost 2 dreams in less than year. It was understandable that he shoved his head so far down that sand pit that it took me virtually jumping on his back and thrashing about to pull him out.

I had my pains too. I was angry with the universe. So so SO angry. How could it do this to me?? I wasn't a bad person. I love diversity. But another load of adjustment and pain my way? Again? Why? Why? Why? Lots and lots of nights wondering why??

Soon enough (actually around the time my friend Sally popped over with a bottle of Baileys and left 3 hr later, ahem, Baileys free) my mind started to much more easily shift towards..."oh look, she needs a breastfeed, where is that nipple shield" to "oh, wouldn't that top look great on her" to "I wonder if anyone has noticed just how divine her eyes are". The mummy in me kicked in. And I am very very very proud to say in a very very big way.

But it wasn't all butterflies and fairyfloss. I became an internet addict. In the middle of midnight, 2am and 4am breastfeeds I was googling every possible Down Syndrome scenario. At 3pm in the afternoon I was googling. At 4pm I was still on. At 9pm I was still on. More, more, more. What more info was there for me to know. I was addicted to knowledge. It probably took me about 2 years to really start to kick back. A lot of mums will say they wish they could have just relaxed and enjoyed that time more. But I did enjoy Belles. I just wanted to be armed with every bit of ammunition I could to make her transition in to life outside my arms as positive, as capable, as strong as possible. I think in plenty of ways I've managed to do that. I think in plenty more ways she would have done it anyway.

It's a little late to mention this, but this post is really for those many people that asked me many times, and for those that wanted to ask. What's Bella really like? What's it like having a little girl with DS

I could tell you plenty of things. I could tell you how really, it's not much different to having another child (and I'm qualified to say this because I have another two - they can alternate between being the most divine little creatures on the planet to you wondering what on earth you thinking when you decided to procreate). I could tell you if you are a new parent that she is toilet trained, walks and talks (those big early worries) and can give a head of hair (usually her brothers) a tug so hard you would be sure there is no 'low tone' there at all :). I could tell you that I find it frustrating that it takes her a little longer to learn things. And that this is my biggest big fat cross against that extra 21st chromosome. That despite how strong her desire is, things will always take a little longer for her to learn. I could tell you, like most of us, she won't learn everything. I could tell you that oft times when she does, it will be with a lot more effort and persistence than the rest of us could even muster. I could tell you that she has the most amazing green eyes and a smile that melts hearts. I could tell you that her brothers adore the pants off of her (hair tugs and all). I could tell you that she is one hell of a clever cookie that knows exactly what she wants and doesn't want. I could tell you that some days, like my other 2, she wouldn't have a clue what she wants. I could tell you that if anything, ANYTHING ever happened to her my heart would break in two and never ever be repaired again. I could tell you that the way she greets people at the door makes her, quite possibly, the only reason anybody ever comes to visit (it's certainly not for the cooking, I can tell ya).

But I won't tell you all that. What I will tell you is what happened on the bus on Tuesday.

It was 9am. I was on my way to a course she was coming to. The whole bloody bus was miserable. I've forgetten how unjoyful people are. Not me and Belle's. She was my joy. That kid just did not stop smiling. And playing. And chatting. I did not stop smiling. She made me happy on that bus ride from the inside out. All these miserable people could do with a bit of Bella in their life.

But she's a kid right. All kids are a bit of fun (when you're not racing to work yourself - but that's another blog). No. Bella's extra. And I've known that for a while. But on Tuesday I remembered why.

On the bus ride home it was a MUCH happier bunch of vegemites (3pm - non workers is my guess, bless their happy socks). They smiled at her. She giggled back. They giggled. Grown men giggled. Ladies stopped on their way out at their bus stops. They tickled her. They high 5'd her. The bus ride was less than 20 min long. There was happiness all round and she was handing out little rays of sunshine in dosages well beyond her size and years. And then we got off the bus. And the bus driver said "goodbye gorgeous". And she beamed. And she blew him the biggest most beautiful kiss. And then he beamed and his head nearly fell of his shoulders from having to hold a smile so wide. And he blew a kiss back. And then he nearly crashed the bus driving off he was in such happy la la land.

And me? Well I was so so so proud of the beauty in front of me.

I haven't thought about the 27th Jan, 2005 for a very long time.

Tuesday and the other Tuesdays in my life are the reason why.

Thankyou Bella. Thankyou for being more than I ever thought you would be. Thankyou for being beautiful. I love you.

For the rest of you. Holy cow! You got to the end! Can you go and follow or subscribe or leave a comment or something so i know who you are :)

And a teeny little post script. Bella got up at 5am today. She took care of her dolly patiently for about 2 hours before the rest of us ventured up. But it was too early. She got tired and cranky and shovey and sooky and a bit of a pain. Coz, really, she is just like any other kid :).

And lucky for me, she's all mine.

Dovic xx

Be my Martha

2009-12-07T20:40:00.010+11:00

**UPDATE: Have just registered Domestic Goddess 101 and Domestic Spunk Rat 101 in bloggerville to prove I'm seriously up to the challenge I talk about below :)**

Sorry for the lack of posts my lovely followers and random subscribers. I'm suffering writers block. I have so much to say and so little words to say them with.

Why is that?

I did fall asleep IN the car OUTSIDE the cinema yesterday. AFTER I parked, thankfully. Was 6.45pm one minute, then 6.55pm the next and after deciding to yes, still brave the cinema, I fell asleep 10 minutes in. Straight after my choc top ofcourse. At least I'm cool with priorities.

Anyway. It could be that I need a night away from the computer and time to rest my weary head. I should probably get a good meal into me too. Something that isn't comprised solely of toasted bread, butter and vegemite. Or chocolate. Or Icecream.

Why can I not find the time to plan meals a week in advance, why do I not have chilli's drying from my kitchen window and lemons preserving in the pot. Why am I not Martha Stewart. Why am I not Cindy Crawford (I could do with those legs). Why am I wide awake at midnight but feel like my eyes are being jabbed with toothpicks during the day.

I certainly will ponder these and many other questions as I slink off heavy shouldered to that lump of a thing I call my bed and continue to waste my opportunity to sleep by picking up one of the 13 books on my bedside table.

If you know of any way, ANY way of making sure I turn off the lights before the first light of day, or any way of meal planning that works, or any where to get a good mattress, or any way to make my eyes drop the bags, let me know. Infact, any hint on the home, sleep and even hubby front (note I need to fit some work in too) would be pure wonderfullness. For tonight, I would love it if you would be MY Martha Stewart.

ACTUUUUALLLY, my shoulders just erected themselves and sprang back to life writing that. I have an idea! I wicked idea :) I will try every handy hint for at least a week, no questions asked and report back. Even if it's something wierd like go to bed and have sex with your husband 3 times a day. Or greet him with a home cooked meal. Or eat apples for 7 days straight. I'll try them all in one week if I can (but only if you're being serious which rules out the 3 times a day thing). Don't want you killing me over the longer term.

Oh dear blog, you do manage to find ways to make me happy.

Dovic x
PS have just put up a poll too.
PSS Quite possibly the reason my head hurts so much these days.... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JcSzqm5Whwc (but only look after posting a challenge/handy hint, don't want you losing the moment like I almost did :)

Bikram Yoga vs Throwing Dishes

2009-12-02T20:12:00.017+11:00

Today, I could have done with an affair. At least the thought of one.

Was on the way home from the course and got a text from hubby saying "Can you be home by 5.30? I need to go out." Of course, I responded. Perhaps he wanted to nip out and buy me some flowers. Perhaps someone had an emergency he needed to ride his horse to. Perhaps HE had an emergency. HE did. Bikram Yoga.

Don't get me started.

Oh, I already have. Ok then, here it goes.

Said hubby has been working interstate for the last six months or so. My Monday-to-Friday gig has revolved around sleep-deprived nights, chaotic mornings and evenings, working four days and juggling the world, three kids and the kitchen sink. Blah, blah. Said hubby has been bike riding, Brazilian martial artsing and Bikram Yogaing. Probably all three at once. For all I know he's been doing it all to the daffodil tunes of Doris Day (whilst my neighbours probably have me on speed dial to DOCs- "There is a crazy woman next door that yells a lot.")

Anyway. He has been back exactly three days. For three days he has gone to Bikram Yoga. Bikram Yoga??

Seriously. Why on earth go out and exercise when you could stay home and share my misery, hover around Facebook for two hours and sit slumped in the chair next to me with nothing to say. Coz that would really be my preference. Seriously.

And here is the conundrum. Apart from continued announcements of going out and doing, like, fun stuff for himself, he is actually much nicer to be around. And he looks hot. Me on the other hand...well, I'm perhaps about 7 kgs heavier, much wrinklier in the forehead (yes I know they are called frown lines), and haven't so much as taken a run to the loo, let alone flung a flexible leg over my neck, for as long as I can remember. And the worst thing?? IT'S ALL MY FAULT. Somewhere between that first fertilisation (ie when the sperm met the egg) and 2009, I forgot how to take care of myself.

I forgot.

Everything I do, and I do mean everything (I think), has an element of putting someone else first. It can't be right. Or healthy.

The first fleeting thought was the affair. How nice would it be to have a fella that didn't Bikram Yoga and instead stayed home, walked around with low slung shorts and six pack for a shirt, lathered up in soap suds as he moved from hand washing the dishes to the delicates to the car (including removing the toast ingrained in the floor mats - sorry, that may have ruined the image), before laying a gorgeous dinner in your lap, handing you are wine and asking what YOU want to watch on telly. Bikram Yoga?? No real men (other than Becks) would be caught dead in a lotus pose when they could be lifting dishes at home.

Then I realised this sort of man only exists in porn movies (here's an idea - porn movies for women: no sex, just lots of naked men running around cleaning from one end of the house to the other) and that an affair would probably land me with a man that plays weekend golf, watches 16 hrs of footy telly in one hit and/or calls me by the wrong name. Is there no win in this snatch another male game?

For true satisfaction, I would probably have to look closer to home. And that means looking at him.

He's happy. He's content. He does have a six pack. He loves me much more after yoga than before yoga. In fact he loves the whole universe a lot more after yoga than before yoga.

I need a piece of his pie.

So Friday we're joining a local yoga/pilates/gym place together. We'll tag team this whole happy daffodils and butterflies thing together. If he's gonna have fun and be all zen-like and sexy looking, well damn it, so will I :)

To be honest, I probably would have resorted to throwing dishes AT him if I hadn't spent the last couple of days in the rays of the infinitely sunny Stacey from http://www.facebook.com/pages/www.sunnymummyausblogspot.com/117857524509?ref=mf.

She makes me want to clean and dry dishes, then pack them away nicely instead. Very strange behaviour indeed.

Dovic xx