Tuesday, April 27, 2010

My Arch Nemesis

Here' s the thing, that's me on the right with the sun damage and wrinkles and bags under my eyes.

The chick on the left has obviously been heavily photoshopped or doesn't have any children or doesn't live under a big hole in the o-zone or... all of the above.

But, what we do have in common is a great eyebrow arch. Yay us!

I have recently discovered the 'joys' of eyebrow threading. It is an amazing, quick and really effective way of making me look as if I take some care over my appearance. Because these days, really...

It is however, REALLY painful. I am not a sook! I have had two, count 'em TWO home births without ANY pain relief. But having hair torn from my sensitive brow brings a tear to my eye every time.

So I was thinking can you get an epidural for eyebrow threading because I'm owed two.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Esther Gets Her Grove Back

So hi blog, long time no see.

It has been over two years since I sat down at the computer with the sole purpose of writing for myself; for my own pleasure.

Ironically, this has been a period of my life where I have done pretty much nothing but parent, sleep and write.

My computer has been my friend, my foe, my solace and my prison. I have come here to become someone; I have come here to become a grown up, I have come here to become a writer.

I have ALWAYS loved words. I love looking at and saying words. I love new words and using words I just learned in a sentence.

I love they way some words sound. Like ukulele and palindrome and extraordinary.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I love to talk and more recently I have even learned to listen.

I love to read, I love being read to. I love nothing more than listening to a wise man speak - snaps to you Dad.

I love books, I love lyrics, I love crosswords. I am a sucker for the written word.

So I guess it comes as no surprise to the rest of you that words have become more than an amateur passion. In the last two years I have bitten the bullet and gone pro.

I am now a jobbing wordsmith, a writer a
columnist, contributor, essayist, freelancer, scribbler or scribe.

It is a noble profession and I can't claim to take a wildly important or even slightly noble role in it but, here I am, working, writing, putting hands to keys and reading my words in print and, all of a sudden, I am someone.

Recently I have been consumed with my own absence from my life. Where did she go, that fun, slightly funky chic with ideas and her own purposeful - if sometimes misguided - kind of style?

Where am I, and who is this middle aged, boring old housewife living in my skin?

Well web log, I have come to say, here I am. I haven't quite decided what my new style is and I can't even be sure that I care but I am on my way back into my skin, slowly but surely.

Right now I know two things:
  1. the monkeys are amazing - the kind of naughty irritating amazing that can make you feel homicidal but amazing and I am responsible for a small part of that and
  2. I like my life - I like this new direction, I like writing and I know I am on my way to being the kind of person I want to be
For now, I'll enjoy the journey and I will write my own story, script my own return to form and, maybe even get my grove back at the same time.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Baubles, Bangles, Bright Shiny Things

Check out my balls!

I love Christmas. I was told today that it is because I am still a child. I guess that's true. There is still a big part of me that is too excited to sleep on Christmas Eve.

Strangely, it has nothing to do with getting presents and everything to do with the 'magic of the festive season'. I love that for one day a year everyone believes in fairies or Santa or their own pagan jollyness.

For me there is an element of the 'keep the Christ in Christmas' about it. A very unpopular state of mind the other 364 days a year, just on the 25th of December, it's OK to go to church and be grateful to the big fella.

I try to live my life with a 'glass half full' attitude. I am committed to an 'attitude of gratitude' and I would like to think that I 'pay it forward' as often as I can. All cliches covered, I really do quietly, all year round, like to try to be the best, non homophobic (it's all about loving and being loved), non judgy (there is only one true judge), non pro life (every woman's right to choose), non preachy (the best evangelism is a spring in your step) kind of Christian.

I sometimes fail miserably. I am sometimes a vile old bitch who has nothing but mean things to say about everyone and everything but, Looking at the miracle that is the monkeys, it really cements my belief that 'you can't tell me God ain't good!'

It is really so unfashionable now that I'm almost embarrassed to admit it. Publishing this, even to my audience of me; putting it out in the public forum is kind of scary. I don't generally discuss my faith with anyone (except John and that's only when I fancy being personally held responsible for the Crusades and the Salem Witch Trials) so this, for me, is a pretty big deal.

Still, as the Salvation Army float said in the Johnsonville Lions Christmas Parade, 'Jesus is the Reason for the Season'.

Sunday, December 9, 2007

Happiness Is

Remember those revolting cupey (sp?) doll people on those 'happiness is' cards and calendars in the 80's? I have to say I always found them repulsive.

Short, nude, prepubescent. There is nothing even remotely charming about that. And yet, it spawned a range of stationary that people actually chose to spend their money on.

It's like the whole 'Lady and the Tramp' thing or 'The Lion King'. In fact any movie where animals play the romantic leads.

Adult humans have romantic feelings, short, fat children, dogs and lions do not.

Anyway, I digress.

The actual point that I am trying to make is that happiness actually is... silence coming from two bedrooms and a clock that reads 7:01.

Now, I love the monkeys. I love them in a way I never dreamed possible. I love them with every particle of my being. My soul actually sings when they smile. I love the way they laugh. I love the way they sing. Hell, I even love the way they shout at each other in the car. Their cuddles melt my heart and, when I am not my evil alter ego, 'sleep deprived mean mummy', I even love their funny little leg kicking tantrums. I love them from the minute they open their eyes in the morning until the minute I tuck them into their beds at night. That however, is my limit.

At 7:00pm everything they do or say ceases to be amusing or cute and instead becomes annoying and foul. Every utterance from their tiny poisonous mouths makes me want to scream 'SHUT UP' and start phoning 'round possible foster carers.

I don't know weather it is an innate body clock thing or simply that once I click out of mummy mode the switch can not be turned back on 'till morning. All I know is that 7:01 brings on a bad case of "SHUTTHEHELLUP" in me.

I even feel bad writing about it but I figure that the incredible guttural overwhelming love that I feel for them for 13 hours a day, cancels out my evil longing for some peace and quiet and time with my husband.

Doesn't it???

Thursday, November 29, 2007

The Naked Chefs

Yummy, yummy, yummy I got love in my tummy.
Man, I make cute babies.
I should breed for a living!

Only 3 More Sleeps

Monkey Senior is 4 on Tuesday or, in an engineered, it's your birthday today because it's easier on me and it falls on the weekend and your daddy's home and you're only 3 so I can tell you it's your birthday because you can't read a calendar kind of way, it's her birthday on Sunday.

3 More Sleeps.
Now, I know it's genetic (I started planning my parties about 364 days in advance) and I also know that I feed the psychosis with my 'it's nearly your birthday', 'wanna see what's in the goodie bags?', 'are you excited? I'm excited', 'who are you gonna invite to your party', only 10 more, 9 more, 8 more sleeps...' etc. etc. etc. But her excitement has reached epic proportions.

She talks about her birthday, quite literally, in her sleep - I went in to tuck her back in around 10pm last night, she smiled, rolled over and said:
"it's very nearly my special birthday. How exciting" without waking up!!!

Anyway, this is not helping my party planning compulsion and I am feeling overwhelmed by the need to meet her expectations for the best party ever. Hard enough living up to my own exacting standards without the added pressure of letting down my monkey princess.

Next year, I'm gonna seriously consider 'junglerama' or 'lollypops' (for about 10 seconds until I discount them out of hand for their poor white trash mystique and repuls-o-ramic clientèle and disgusting greasy food)and then I'm gonna do it all over again.

What am I gonna be like at her wedding???

Monday, November 12, 2007

Animal Cruelty?

And she wonders why he bites her!

Bert, the cat who was sold to us as the worlds 'most passive and loving breed of cat' (note to the uninitiated - don't believe everything you read on line) has mutilated every part of my baby's body.

The problem is... there is not a man or woman alive who would blame him.

Monkey Senior is drawn to drama. She loves the excitement of the wind up. Reminiscent of my sister and I with our father, who would goad him mercilessly until he lost his temper and then run and hide; Anna seems to be exhilarated by the few moments leading up to the attack.

In fairness to her, Bert is boring 99% of the time. He eats, he sleeps and he meows at the door. None of these things are fun for a three year old. It's just that I am worried that she will be taken off us by some well meaning social worker who thinks she is full of whatever that German word is that means world sadness and is self harming.

She told my mother the other day that all her 'skin used to look like this' - here she pointed to a small area of unmarked flesh on her belly - 'until Bert came along and now it looks like this' - here she points to the huge scratches that run over the rest of her tiny frame.

She acts out the same kind of scenario with her cousin. He plays on his own or watches the telly. Very independent wee man. She desperate for him to notice her irritates the living crap out of him until he smacks three shades of shit out of her. The fun? the moments just before his fist connects with her head, when he is paying her attention.

What vital parenting skill are we lacking? What have we failed to instill?

I am fretting that she will grow up to be one of those women who chooses abusive boyfriends because the making up is so great.

Maybe we should have bought her a fish!