Who we are Pt 1

 How were you raised, and how has that affected who you are?  And, perhaps more importantly, how has it affected how you are raising (or have raised) your kid(s)?

These are questions that I am asking myself.  I think that in general my parents were good (great?) parents.  I think, as all humans, they had their faults, and in some ways I either act or react due to these faults, as do I from their strengths.  I think that the environment in which I was raised also plays a big part in who I am, and how I am raising my daughter - and whether you can accredit that to my parents or not is up to you. 

When I think about my parents, when I was a child, the word I think of is “present”.  My parents were always present for me.  From a very young age I can remember “hanging out” in my dad’s office, using up vast quantities of his hot melt glue stringing “webs” across the room, using almost equally large quantities of solder making towers of molten metal.  I can remember excavating little buildings out of polystyrene and running electrical circuits inside to poke bright LED lights out of the windows.  Playing “Jill of the Jungle” on an ancient PC.  

Most weekends (in my memory) we would either go places or do things “as a family”.  In an environment where so much was communal/shared it was important to my parents to ensure we were a well knit family unit.  In the summer we used to picnic at the “water hole” where we swam in the deep red-brown water, coloured from running through the peat bogs in the mountains.  We found a dead sheep there once, and the sandy shallows were often decorated with fresh (and not so fresh) sheep droppings.  One of my brothers tried to drown me there - my memory, probably not his.  He held my head under the water until I managed to get him to let go by scratching and biting, coming to the surface panicked and screaming.  As an adult, I have a strong fear of being trapped or cornered - I wonder if that experience could have something to do with it?  As my brother was many years older than me at the time, I wonder whether my behaviour had caused his action?  Of course, I have no memory of any of this, only of the trauma - and unfortunately sometimes the trauma is the only thing that sticks with you, despite all of its happy surroundings.

I can remember going to the shopping centre on a Saturday with Mum.  She would often drop me (and sometimes my older sister) at the library and I would spend hours engrossed in our books - my favourites being Biggles’ books and the Chalet School series, so I suppose I could’ve been anywhere from 10-15.  After the library, I would walk over to the Square and buy myself a snack (often chocolate or Mighty Munch) and a soda (Club Orange, Lilt or Cidona, three things that Australia sadly lacks).  And on the dot of 3:30 I would go to our assigned meeting place outside Bewley’s to meet Mum.

If you asked my sister, or either of my brothers about our childhood, they would have very different memories than me.  Their childhoods were busy, and full of people and children, while I can remember being lonely, of not having anyone, and turning to books and the internet in a bid to find some connection.  Listening to Simon and Garfunkel to somehow share their loneliness.

“Hiding in my room

Safe within my womb

I touch no one and no one touches me…

I am a rock, I am an island.

…and a rock feels no pain,

And an island never cries.”

It wasn’t always like that.  As a young child, there were around 5 children my age in the community.  My best friend as a very small child left the community not long after I had started school.  I can remember when their family left, they strapped a washing machine onto the trailer, I suppose it was a gift from the community.  I can’t remember much other than that.  Then we were down to four - two boys about a year older than me, and a girl 2 years older and we were all in the same class.  We were technically home schooled, but as it was a community and all of the children were home schooled there, it was more like a very small private school with set teachers, subjects and lesson times.  Holidays were rostered and when on holiday, you were assigned to an adult and put to work - weeding, cleaning, or whatever the task of the day was.

I don’t think of that part of school as a negative or a positive memory.  It was, and therefore it is.  I never particularly enjoyed school, I would have preferred to be in the great outdoors gambolling with my pet lambs or climbing trees and damming the stream.  Unfortunately in Western Society at least, school is something We Must Do and therefore We Did It.  My parents felt strongly and negatively about the public/state school system, about what it taught both societal and educational, and so they made the decision to raise their children away from all of that.  “In the world but not of the world” was a popular Biblical phrase.  We were called to be “set apart” and set apart we were.  And for my younger years, being set apart wasn’t all that bad.  

It was somewhere between the ages of 10 and 14, I would say, that being “set apart” became more apart than it was before.  The community began to change more than it ever had previously.  People had always come and go - it was never a case of community being forever.  Families were free to leave, although it wasn’t encouraged.  There was a sense that the people who stayed were doing it right, listening to God and their calling, so there was definitely an us versus them undercurrent.  But in my tween/early teen years, almost everyone left.  And when I say almost everyone - the community dwindled to just 11 people - and I was the only child left.  One after another, my classmates (who I wasn’t very close to anyway) left.

My then closest friend, outside the community, also homeschooled (I presume my parents were aware that I needed a friend) moved with her family to the UK.  Of course, my memories are just memories, so the timeline is probably not entirely accurate, but once it was only me I spent a lot of time in my room.  I played some games on the internet, chatted in chat rooms to strangers (somehow always safely, but WHAT were my parents thinking???) and read an insane number of books.  I studied alone, and took my exams in a tutorial centre in Dublin. 

If you had asked me then, I wouldn’t have known that I was lonely.  I don’t think I would have asked to go to school - not that it was an option.  I don’t think my mind would have computed that anything at all was wrong.  And of course, this hasn’t even touched on the religious part of our lives.

Every August there was a Youth Camp for the teenagers, 13 and up.  My birthday was in September, and the year I was going to turn 13, all of my peers (the ones who had left, the ones who remained, ones from overseas…) went to Youth Camp, and I was not allowed to go.  I sat outside the closed door during meetings, listening to the speakers preach.  I watched the kids in their group activities, sports, I watched as they all trooped downstairs to eat in the long tables set up in a separate room from everyone else like me.  I think that is my very first oh so vivid memory of being “apart”, being “different” - and this was just because of age!  It made such a massive impact on me because I was the only one left out.  In future years, kids who “barely missed out” were allowed to take part - but it was too late to change that year for me.  

I am not an only child.  I am the youngest of four - my brothers are 10 and 8 years older than me, my sister is 5.5 years older than me.  When I was 8, my eldest brother left home, and when I was 10, my second brother followed him.  My sister was my playmate for a short time as a child, but she soon grew too old for dolls, barbies and the like.  My female classmate, 2 years older than me, worked for awhile until she “grew up” too, moving on to boys and makeup, two things that never interested me, before then moving to America.  

The boys used to make me do trials in the community grounds to prove that, as a girl, I was tough enough to hang out with them.  Although as a girl I was forced to either wear dresses or skirts (trousers were forbidden for females), I still managed to climb trees with the rest.  I would walk tightropes of thin branches, climb trees and jump, on a rope swing, to plunge into holly bushes to prove my worth.  I would never, ever let anyone think that I could be scared - or a GIRL.  Being a boy was so much better.  Boys got to wear shorts and trousers.  Boys were the heirs, and kept their father’s name.  Boys got to work outside the community in real jobs, boys were tough and never had to clean the house or cook community dinners.  When I grew up, I was going to have boys, lots and lots of BOYS.  I had all their names picked out already.  

Did my parents think boys were better?  I doubt that was even subconsciously their thought.  They surely supported me when I decided I wanted to become a pilot.  They had my back when an elder disagreed.  My parents always had my back.

So, why the negativity?   Why the anxiety, why the PRESSURE?  Why the overwhelming feeling, the fear of never being enough?  

My teenage years were rough.  I never rebelled.  I went to school and I passed my exams and I took over the farm at age 15 and raised sheep and goats and I loved it.  At age 17 I finished school, and at 18 I started flying.  So how was it rough?  Why was it rough, and what about my parents?

And I think this post has gotten far to long…

So TBC…

Some people

 Some people are incredibly narrow minded and selfish.  I read it on the news, on social media etc, all the time.  For instance the border closure warriors who DEMAND we keep QLD borders closed forever.  Protect our State!  Protect our people!  I presume they don’t have family outside of the state!  I have a colleague (now ex colleague) who has just taken a job in the US simply because his kids are in the Netherlands and he hasn’t got to see them for almost 2 years due to border closures.  His only way to resume contact with his direct family is to leave his job, his life, etc here in Australia and move to another country.  

We have just passed the 2 year mark of visiting our loved ones in the UK and Ireland and it hurts.  It hurts the most that I haven’t been able to introduce my little girl to her family.  Her grandparents, aunts, uncles, her myriads of cousins.  Here we are in our little “island”, protected for sure, living an amazing Covid-free life… but so so isolated.  At Christmas we are hoping to see my step daughter for just the second time this year - that’s insane!  There have been so many interstate border closures, or threatened closures, that David hasn’t been able to head down to Tasmania even for a couple of days, without risking not being able to get back to his family for MONTHS.  That is a real danger, and has happened to too many people already, and it’s the SAME country.

It is looking more positive now that things will begin to open up again.  Vaccination rates are rising and premiers are beginning to promise the easing of restrictions.  But in one breath they say international travel will resume in December, and in the next they extend aviation relief payments to March, so I honestly don’t know.  It almost makes me want to move back to Ireland - but I know we can’t do that either, right now.  Just one example of why is that C needs her dad, even a couple of times a year is better than nothing, going into the difficult teenage years etc. 

So here we are… still waiting.  And I know we are SO SO lucky to live in Queensland.  We have only experienced a handful of 3 day lockdowns, with 8 days being our longest.  Melbourne, for instance, has broken the world record for days locked down - I believe over 260?  And here we are, mask wearing our only restriction - and not leaving the state.  Fingers crossed that won’t be forever!!!! 

It is eerily quiet in my house, because the spawn is on her way to daycare with David.  If all goes according to plan, 2 full days spawn-free are ahead of me.  Today, I plan to go for a run, give the dog a haircut, and attempt to tackle the wreck that used to be our front lawn.  When the pool was put in, the lawn was used first as a pathway, then for a crane to rest once then to deposit crusher dust and gravel, and then for tiles to be cut and tile glue to be both mixed and apparently poured out on the long suffering grass.  All of that to say, it now looks like a building that site with a few tufts of grass poking through.  I haven’t got a clue how to fix it, but someone suggested starting by bashing at it with a steel rake, I’m good at bashing, so I’m gonna do that.  I’ll let you know how it goes.

Yesterday I took the spawn to a dance and play cafe and we overstayed our welcome and she got overtired and only napped 20 minutes.  It always seems like a good idea at the time - oh she’s happy enough, I’ll chat for another few minutes… and then we always end up regretting it!  At least it meant an early night and then Dave and I were able to actually enjoy our dinner (lamb Rogan Josh) in peace (in front of Blindspot on Netflix, in case you’re wondering).

It’s a strange feeling when the spawn is gone.  On the one hand, I LOVE having the day to myself, being able to do anything and everything (within reason as technically I’m on reserve).  But at the same time, the weird brain response that is Mum-hood deeply misses the tiny tyrant.  It is SO needed, this break, but those little cheeks are oh so kissable.

 

(Having the best time climbing on her Whatsie play couch)

(making a god-awful mess in my house while I tried to fold laundry)

In other news, I have zero idea how to properly format these posts using the Blogger website on my phone rather than an app, so I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with some left aligned, some Centre aligned, and pictures simply plonked down where Blogger decides to put them. 
 

No more birthday party

(For attention, a little bean giving its daddy a good morning hug)

 Now I’m just feeling sorry for myself.  

Everybody except for 1 person has canceled on my party tomorrow.  And that made me feel sad.  Before that, I closed the car boot on my head and that made me feel angry, and then it gave me a headache (yes, in that order), and then Emily started whinging at me and that made my headache worse and I slammed the garage door as hard as I could (she was already in the car, don’t worry) to try to let out some of the frustration, but other than making a really loud noise, it didn’t actually help.

And I’ve just checked my roster and I have lost all of my remaining flying for the month (I had six flights left) and now that has made me feel Even More Sad, and I am officially Feeling Sorry For Myself.

*sigh*

Just thought you should know. 

So what should I do with this extremely-free weekend?  If anyone actually reads this blog any more, ideas please!

Age is just a number

A photo just for attention of my child of the pandemic helping herself to hand sanitiser 
 

Age is just a number

This coming weekend, another year is done and my age increases yet again.  Even with a mask on, I often don’t get ID’d any more when I buy alcohol, and when I smile there are the beginnings of lines around my mouth and the corners of my eyes.  When I brush my hair, I notice more and more grey appearing as time goes by.

I don’t feel old, although that said, what does old feel like?  Sometimes I creak a little when I get up in the morning, or when I’ve done some unexpected exercise.  I don’t think I feel any different than I did as a teenager.  It’s strange how we change - and then maybe we stop changing.  Our bodies grow older, and perhaps we grow more tired, or maybe that’s just the addition of children and less sleep… but I am still me.  Do others change their opinions of me?  

I don’t feel like an adult, most of the time.  In a social setting I often feel like a fish out of water, trying to keep up with the conversation and understand the nuances.  One on one, I do okay, but when there are many people in a group I panic and lose track of the conversation.  Maybe that is something to do with progressive hearing loss - I don’t technically have hearing loss, but I struggle to hear an individual speak when there is a lot of background noise or cross conversation.  

I have decided to throw myself a birthday party.  I have a swimming pool for the very first time, so we are going to enjoy bubbly (strictly not champagne because I’m a cheapskate), doughnuts and cake, and I believe David is planning a barbecue to add a little savoury to the overwhelming sweetness.  I have only invited four people, I hope they come, but when trying to think of who to invite, I couldn’t actually think of anyone else here who is truly my friend.

I have friends overseas who I would invite, I have a friend or two in Melbourne who can’t get up here because of lockdown and border closures, but they’re not close friends.  They’re not people I would talk to all of the time.  In fact, of the four I have invited, only two would be in that category.  The others, in a way, were “numbers” but I couldn’t think of more to add.  I am not the kind of person who needs “quantity”, but prefers “quality”.  And if nobody ends up coming, I get to eat all of the cake and doughnuts and that has to be a good thing!

All this really says very little, and instead is just the meandering of my mind.  Maybe that also comes with age!  

I am not an old mother, nor a young mother, but in the more recent societal normal of career THEN kids.  I don’t feel old amongst my mum friends although I am the oldest of one of the groups.  Is this because I get down and dirty with my kid?  I never want to be the parent who sits on the sidelines watching while E plays, or swims, or adventures.  I want to be doing it all with her, participating in her childhood, her life.  So fingers crossed, I won’t Get Old or Grow Up too quickly.

 I’ve just finished day 1 of my recurrent sim - a biannual occurrence which never fails to fill me with stress and anxiety.  I finished at midday today, and have felt completely exhausted and lethargic ever since, a physical side effect of this stress and anxiety.  The hardest thing I have found about being part time is how rusty I feel All The Time.  I am currently working 50%, but that is not helped by Covid, and border closures, which actually mean I am only flying once or twice a month.  I assume that once flying is back to normal, flying 2-3 times a week would be perfect - but right now I am strongly considering increasing my work days from a 5 day to a 7 day fortnight.  The thing is, it makes me feel incredibly guilty about being away from E that many days. 

A large part of parenthood so far, is discontent.  I’m not sure if that’s even the right word.  So many words can fit the bill, words such as sleepless, exhausted, irritated, exasperated, and sometimes even downright angry.  Nothing can begin to come close to describe the deep deep love I have for my daughter - how I would do absolutely anything for her - but when you’ve had little sleep, and a tiny tyrant is either rolling around on the floor screaming, or pulling at your clothes whining, sometimes you just don’t want to deal with it any more - and I guess “getting” to be away from her more (daycare/work) both brings relief AND guilt that I could possibly enjoy time without her. And I miss her too - deeply!

When we are together, I try to be the fun mum.  We go out a lot, we go to play centres, for walks (or jogging - me, not her), we go to the petting farm, we have even found a little toddler disco that she loves. And when she is busy and having fun she is oh so lovely. - and then we come home and Mum tries to have a cup of tea and then all hell breaks loose.  Or then when she wakes up first thing in the morning, and gives you the biggest grin and wraps her little arms around your neck… oh I never want those moments to end…

So, all this to say, I would love to be less rusty at work, and I would love to fly more - but I would also love to Have More Time with E, and Enjoy Her More (not always compatible with each other)… so I am somewhat torn.  I will probably have to increase my hours at work soon, but that doesn’t make it an easy call to make.

 Other people’s opinions

When I was young, I don’t know, maybe 11-13 years old, I can clearly remember being outside in the garden, where a friend 2 years older than me and her mother openly laughed at me because I hadn’t started shaving my legs yet.

The first chance I got, I shaved my legs, and I have continued to do so my entire adult life.  Any time the hair even begins to show, I feel hideous, embarrassed, and remember the feeling of being laughed at.  But having leg hair is completely natural - isn’t it?

and there we have it - other people’s opinions, and how they influence our lives, and our life choices.

The biggest “opinion” I face on a relatively regular basis, is the opinion that I cannot “only” have one child.  “She’ll be lonely,” people say, in their all-knowing wisdom.  “What if something happens to her?” is another gem.  Well, for a start, no matter how many children I hypothetically had, losing one would be JUST as tragic and very much not replaced by their having a sibling!

People, the vast majority of them strangers, assume that they have the right to hold this opinion on how many children our family contains.  And for some reason, I often feel like I have to lay bare my soul, explain to the tiniest detail why we have made this decision.  Why should I have to share my birth story with a stranger?  Since when did they have any right to know our family’s financial situation, for instance.

It is quite incredible how much we value other people’s opinion.  Frankly, the only reason “another child” has ever been in my mind at all, is the thought of how others might view our one-and-done family.  

This platform, for now at least, is not somewhere that I want to share my birth story.  If you know me, and you want to ask, without demanding that I populate the world, or give my child “the greatest gift” of another human being for their very own (maybe a puppy would be more appropriate?) then I would be happy to share more with you.  I am merely exploring the idea that others really think they should have an opinion.

I have been listening to a podcast lately, and it has really made me think a lot about this.  Someone’s seemingly innocent question of “when are you having another one?” could be vastly inappropriate.  What if that family had suffered miscarriages before, or after, their living child was born?  What if they desperately had wanted a second and that was never to be?  I admit that I have been one of these people to ask these inappropriate questions.  Childless myself, at the time, and thinking nothing of it.  It all changes when you become a recipient of these opinions yourself. 

I can remember someone saying “it’s not a family unless you have at least 3 children”.  WOW.  Pretty much sure that gem needs its own paragraph.

When I was younger, I thought I would have more than one child.  In fact, I have always loved names, and from a child I have had a whole list of names to call my offspring, which changed every now and then - but in the end I didn’t use a single one, but chose a completely different name instead.  I used to think I would want boys (having been told, at least through actions, that “boys are better”) but when I actually fell pregnant, I desperately wanted a girl - and got one.  In fact, when I met David, I told him I only wanted one child, although I also changed that to “maybe two, 3 years apart”.  But now, we are very firmly back to One and Done, and we really shouldn’t have to justify it to anyone.

And before you, dear audience, say “but you could change your mind” etc etc.  Yes, we COULD, and if we do, that is our choice once again, and doesn’t mean we were wrong, or listened to any of you, or pretty much anything.  

And in the meantime - please stop.  If you have an opinion on someone’s family size, just keep it to yourself?  It really, really isn’t helpful, and sometimes it downright hurts.