fever

I have caught a fever, and I am unsure how it will end.

After living through over 4 decades as a dedicated anti-sports-fan, suddenly the turns of my life depend upon whether one group of people, is able to get a ball into a set location, more or less times than another group of people (in different coloured clothes).

A few days long of a year ago, I was in this same situation.  And here I am again.

Do I REALLY love him, or am I rooting for the other team?

Last year it was the Matildas versus England.

Today it is Carlton versus the Dockers.

(for context, for sports fans).

(I am leaving the different choices of names there as evidence, my instincts to be analysed by sports fans).

Last night we had a choice - spend time together, or only he watch the game.  He chose the latter.  (They won).  Today another team of his lost, despite my best screaming at them and (often successful) willing of the other team to miss.  But now... the Dockers could still make the finals... Carlton have already lost... but the Dockers will fuck it up anyway...

So...

Do I want the Dockers to have a chance at finals?

Or do I want my lover to love me?

almost ready to write again?

              Dearest Reader,

I have been thinking of you.  Have you ever thought of me, I wonder?

Either way, I would like me to write again.

But what and where?

And as who?

I have supporters.

As long as I keep it fictional. 

                  (Or at least, not about them).

on success and men

 

This isn't really about success, but this is the antidote to my last post, "on failure and men".  And "successful" was a word used to describe me - by a man - not too long ago.  So let's go with it.

I previously removed, and then recently republished, my last post.  I am aware that it is very negative - against myself, and against men.  But weren't they some clever observations that I made in a clever way?

But today I'm feeling more positive.  And I owe the men an explanation.

Firstly I want to clarify that when I complain about "men", I don't really mean "men"... I don't have a problem with half-the-adult-population.  (I mean sure, as a feminist I do somewhat have a problem with y'all... but that's about power structures and all that horrid stuff.)  When we're talking about PEOPLE, of course I like men.  As family members, colleagues, even as friends.  Some of my favourite people are men don't you know... even some of my greatest champions and wisest counsellors.

What I wanted to quit was of course not a whole section of society, but my own warped attachment to certain members of the group.  By "men"... I mean the humans that I made into sexual-romantic objects.  Which is my doing, not theirs.

Secondly.  Hmmm.  Well first I need to state that I'm still annoyed at all the older women who hear my plea that I have quit men, and dismiss it.  The answer "you'll meet someone" is... infuriating.  I mean, for one thing, you're just ignoring what I am plainly stating that I want.  Which isn't very nice of you.  For another, it does sound a bit like you're siding with the MEN.  Why are you on their side and not mine?!  (Not that it's a battle.  See above.)  But still... aren't we modern feminists who don't need men?  Why do you insist that a man is the answer to my life?

Well... it is because you are romantics.

And so am I.

Yes, ultimately, it is a defence mechanism.  I had vowed off romance because I don't believe it is something that I get to have.

For me finding romantic love is like chasing the end of a rainbow.  There's that rainbow, clear as day, and seemingly so close... and then it vanishes should I ever dare to approach it.

I still don't know anything about anything.  But I wonder if the rainbow could teach me something.  About enjoying beautiful moments while they exist, instead of trying to pin them down.

on failure and men

 

Well, dear reader, I have bad news.  Before the third month of the year had begun, I had already broken my New Year's Resolution... multiple times.  (This is in fact the reason I don't generally make them - most of us mere mortals should be well aware that we can't keep them!)

Against my own strict and clear instructions, I have: messaged specifically forbidden men; looked at others with a hopeful eye; and even been on the verge of (let's pretend anyway, that I was only on the verge of), catching feelings for another (who has of course caught no such feelings for me).

But my experiences have led me back to my resolve.  How sick and tired I am of my emotions, my thoughts, and even my fucking actions, being dictated by men.  By my own desire for men.  By my relentless and hopeless hope that someday, some man, will know me, for everything that I am, and want every single part of me... for his own.

As a child my mother taught me about things men want... words you hear everywhere like "mysterious"... the evocative ideal of a woman who you can see but never fully know, who teases and tests and tricks men into submission.  Wantable women are guarded, wantable women are slow to say yes, wantable women don't fuck around and turn their exploits into a public joke about themselves.

And I was struck by one thought - that if this were even vaguely true, then no man would ever want me.  My mother would have had me (and would still have me) change myself to fit what they want.  But what could be less feminist?  Less true to myself?  And in terms of love - the entire fucking point, surely - less determined to be be a full-blooded, romantic FOOL... who will be loved only for who I am, everything that I am, and everything that I have been and will be?

And yet the men are in agreement with my mother.

So alone it is.

And maybe next time, dear reader, I will have something other than god-damn, fucking MEN to write about.

romantic celibacy

 

I have come to realise that the point of my resolution, and of holding myself to it for at least a year, is to give myself a chance at peace.  A respite.  Not just from the horror that is online dating, but from a lifetime of misguided hopes.

The fact is, I am a romantic.  I have, since as young as I can remember, dreamed of romantic love.  I have longed for it, and in going through life with looking-for-love-tinted spectacles on, I have seen glimpses of its potential in boy after boy after boy.  I only count it as a few times that I have been "in love" (only one of those requited), but crushes, lusts and hopes have been a constant of my existence.

My real life experiences with men have only resulted in disappointment.  My heart is more exhausted than my unfit, middle-aged body; my romantic hopes have been replaced with justified cynicism; even sex has turned from a game, to a base need, to something generally to be avoided.

Reality was always going to disappoint.  For most of my life, the primary occupation of my mind has been to daydream romantic scenarios with my latest object.  I have squandered 42 years in daydreaming, rather than actually achieving anything in life.  And of course, at the same time, no doubt sabotaged relationship possibilities with real life men.

But I don't know that I have ever wanted a real relationship with a real life man.  I have desperately wanted fantasies (and cried my lungs dry when they haven't come true), but I have never particularly desired simple coupledom for the sake of coupledom.

The real reason I get my back up when you tell me I will "meet someone", is self preservation.

YOU mean, that I will almost certainly meet an attractive, decent fellow, who wants to be in an honest, committed relationship with a gal like me.

What my still-beating, still-romantic heart HEARS, is that I will get a real life fairytale.

I need to live in reality.  I am well aware that my stupid heart will surely fall again someday, but I am doing what I can to avoid indulging my over-active imagination.  Hope is a dangerous drug that has hurt me every time; I am going cold turkey.

New Year's Resolution

I am starting the new year by breaking my rule of not making new year's resolutions.

For 2023, I am giving up on looking for a man.

It isn't much of a resolution, given the minimal effort I made in 2022 to find a partner, and the complete lack of success in getting beyond a first date with any of the few I went that far with.  But it is a mental adjustment that I think needs some specific rules for it to stick.

So here are the rules: 

• First and foremost - no online dating.  I have zero profiles on zero sites at present, and I will keep it that way for the entirety of 2023.  
• Secondly, no pub or club or otherwise in-life hook-up attempts.  Including no drunk-texting (or sober, lonely texting) of either "back-up men" or exes.  And of course, as per rule one, no drunk (or lonely, ego-boost-desiring) tinder-rejoining.
• Finally, no more looking at every vaguely appealing man as "potential".

In the unlikely event that a man in real life should pursue me - for romance, or more realistically for sex - I am allowed to say yes should I so wish.

I am publishing my resolution here to hold myself to it, of course.  And also, to document the outcome; my feelings, and also the reactions.

I was inspired to take this course when contemplating the annoying phenomenon of other people wanting me to "meet someone".  It seems that just as nature abhors a vacuum, so society abhors a singleton; a single person is seen as merely a person-yet-to-be-coupled, half of a future couple.

And it takes its toll.  I can genuinely prefer having my bed and life to myself, profess as such without defensiveness, and still people say "I'm sure you'll meet someone".  And I start to believe it.  I start to wonder... where is he?  Will I meet him soon?  And then I get tired of waiting, head back to the dating sites, and suffer the inevitable disgust, disappointment and disillusionment.

So let me be single.  Indefinitely.  And with intent... at least for 2023.

Mid-life

 

"I think it is possible to track the onset of middle age exactly.  It is the moment when you examine your life and instead of a field of possibility opening out..." you realise your life is shit and isn't going to get much better.  (To paraphrase Hari Hunzru, as discovered via a facebook post.)

Fitting that someone I don't actually see In Real Life anymore should share an unfairly well written and unnecessarily accurate description of the tipping point, that I have recently become aware of having tipped over.  My facebook has become an obituary to friendships-past.

How happy I was to turn 40.  Despite a recent divorce (hello dear reader, I was not quite separated when last I wrote, all done and dusted now!), and a more recent betrayal by a man and a "friend" (it turned out getting divorced was a breeze, there are much worse people out there!), and generally being single and dissatisfied with my career and feeling low on friends... I felt great about the milestone.

I think I'm currently at the hump point - right in the mid-life crisis zone.  I've already gotten rid of the husband and even bought a new car.  I've dated younger men and have screwed around enough for several lifetimes.  And if I enjoy substances any more than I do now then I won't get to live too much of the second-half of my life.

So I guess I'll have to find something else to appease my restlessness on the road to acceptance, to eccentric middle-age and beyond.

Any suggestions?

Over

It has only happened to me once: to have fallen in love, and had him fall in love back.  At the ripe old age of 26, after a couple of minor heart-breaks and a heck of lot of men wanting me for "only one thing" (too many of whom I indulged), I pounced on love and labelled it "forever", "marriage", "all my dreams to come true".

I planned to be taking a life-long lesson in love - to see how love evolved over the years.  Not a new love, then another, then another, as many a hopeless romantic has enjoyed; but to appreciate love as it matured.  So I am sad to report that after only one decade together, the love has ended.

There were compromises made.  After I promised myself "all or nothing", I was convinced by my love that such a notion was unrealistic; that I couldn't really expect him to love everything about me.  I thought I was being a grown-up, learning about "adult relationships"; but it turns out, I was in some ways giving up on my own ideals.  The other day I asked my husband if he was a romantic; he answered, simply, "no".  I should have asked him ten years ago.  I just assumed that he was, that he was capable of - and interested in - life-long worship.

But I suppose ultimately I believed... convinced myself... that this love was the love, because of the dreams.  No, I am still not in England (or even moved there, then returned... again) but we do have the babies.  I so desperately wanted babies, and was so frightened that it would never happen.  I simply couldn't risk missing out on them by testing and questioning my relationship.

Then, of course, my children changed me.  They changed my priorities, even my opinions - the very things that husband and I had in common.  They banished swathes of the old shyness, and brought forth this capable woman.  Capable even of raising these children on my own, if I must.

And I fear I must.  No, not really alone, of course - they have a loving father.  But I cannot parent with him.

We have exhausted each other with our mis-guided expectations, our mis-matched temperaments, and burnt out the love we once had.  And we never did have any spare kindling.

For a love without kindling it lasted a long time, through quite a lot of the shit that is life.  And, ultimately, it produced the two most incredible little people on the planet.

Thank you for loving me, David.  I am sorry that I cannot love you any longer.

U-turn

Folks, life has taken an unexpected u-turn, and I don't know if, or when, I will be writing here again.  But we know I'm a fickle creature... so don't hold me to anything.

In the meantime why not enjoy my back-catalogue?  Please comment or send me an email at anneswishingwell@gmail.com if any of my old posts inspire you. :)

delving

There are plenty of reasons for me not to write; I have a two-year-old and a three-year-old... okay, if that alone doesn't make you gasp you are not paying attention: I deliberately had my children close together so that for half the year I could get awed sympathy at my ridiculously difficult situation.  I also work part-time, am lazy, unfit and a problem drinker.

But more often than not the real problem is not that I don't have time to write, or even that I am lacking the energy to write, and certainly not that I don't have anything to write... it is that... I am NOT FUCKING WRITING THAT.

A few years ago I declared that I wanted no further therapy, no more tinkering-with-my-psyche; my neuroses were nicely balanced and they could stay as they were.  Since then I have had children, and they have of course played havoc with that precarious balance.  Second child, had soon-after-first,
 - with all the subsequent hormonal upset and bodily trauma, plus first-child's jealousy and an ill-timed rash of other bad-luck - brought with her dear self a not-dear bout of Post Natal Depression.  So that's all been hard work, to say the least.

But what I am occasionally aware of, quite unbidden, is the knowledge that there is more.  That there lurk within me older, darker hurts.  Being aware of my luck, my privilege in life - not only as a middle-class white person, but specifically as someone who did not suffer childhood abuse (knowing too many people who did) - I don't like to count myself as someone who has suffered trauma.  But quite frankly, dear reader, I have.

Sometimes I think we all have.  Sometimes I think it is the fate of womankind.  And oftentimes I believe that I am just over-thinking things and feeling sorry for myself, like the rest of my self-obsessed generation.  But my reality is there are things done to me, against me, that have scarred me... and I just don't want to go there.  It's not only that I don't want to share these hurts publicly, it's that I don't want to feel them.  I can't afford to: I am trying to enjoy, love, and be there for my children.

I know I can't love them 100% while these hurts are there, but I am also sure that I don't have time to deal with them now.  There is just too much.  I must bury them and be a half-way decent mother and enjoy their so precious, so fleeting, and so important early years while they briefly exist... and maybe fix these things later.  I did try to fix myself before I had children, I really did.  I just didn't know all these hurts were there.

For now I am attempting to perform a psychological triage: work out what I can fix now to be a better parent; what can wait; and what can be buried forever.  After-all, how far can a person really delve?  I could get so lost in the abyss that I could spend my life improving myself, and never really get the chance to live.

SAD

As in Seasonal Affective Disorder - I'm actually quite happy, because the weather is beautiful at the moment.  In fact, I can't even claim to suffer from SAD the disorder; if I have a disorder, it would be better labelled HAD - Hemispheral Affective Disorder.  I am on the wrong side of the planet.  Or at least in the wrong climate zone.

I used to be a total sun-child, even here in scorching Perth.  A major psychological issue for me was desperately wanting to be in Europe, and yet being quite addicted to our hot-as-hot, sunny-as-sunny and never-cold-for-months-on-end summer.  When I lived in London in my early twenties, I struggled to "appreciate" the rare sunny days, as English folk do, because I was used to sunshine being the norm.

But slowly, something changed.  The brightness of our sun, so shocking to me on my return, came to feel oppressive rather than joyful.  I had children and I switched completely to HATING Perth summers, once it became impossible to let my very active babes run free in our skin-burning, heat-stroking summer days.  And on a solo return to London-town a few years back, in a surprisingly sunny summer, I understood fully another issue: while our summer sun shines on dead lawns and wilting gardens, the English sun shines on soft, lush, unbearably-pretty GREEN.  My Uncle noted at my observation, that you can have either quality or quantity of sunshine.

And what I've come to feel, is that the seasons here just work wrong.

It's not just that our cultural heritage is English, that one of the many hangovers from Empire is a lingering expectation of Northern-European nature in a clearly very different land - our Christmas celebrations held mid-summer and only partly re-jigged to fit the new time of year; Easter with its pagan messages of new-life (ie. spring) held when the leaves (of the few deciduous trees) begin to fall; and a list of four seasons that simply don't hold true here.

It's also that the progression of the seasons makes sense - emotionally, poetically - in northern Europe.  Winter falls and folk move into hibernation mode; the days are short, we trudge to and from work in the dark, and live indoors, eating heartily and making use of the cosy pubs that have evolved with the history of the land.  Spring comes with all the glory of the poetry written about it, the earth thaws, the flowers bloom, hope rises with the heat.  Summer (when it arrives, I'll concede it doesn't always, at least in England) is more like a Perth spring, the dimmer-switch on the sun in England just doesn't turn up quite as bright as ours.  But that makes it usable heat - both the weather and the mood for walks and picnics, playing in the park, pottering about on bodies of water, even optimistic backyard barbecues.  And then at last we drift into the most beautiful season of all, the one we almost completely miss in Perth - autumn.  A chill joins the air, and the colours come with a delicious melancholy, wistful after the joyous sunshine seasons, preparing for another winter.

Here it is backwards.  The world greens as the days grow shorter; by the time the grass has restored, it is largely too chilly or wet to play on it.  Autumn is not a note of darkness to come, it is a relief from the excessive heat of summer; our fall-season not only lacks the colour that makes the season aesthetically beautiful in colder climes, it lacks the emotional beauty too.  Winter is just annoyingly cold in our suddenly under-heated homes, and when it rains it pours.  Spring, my least favourite season, means still-not-hot-enough-for-the-beach, and miniature native blooms hiding in the scrub.

I know I am biased by my desire to leave this town, and you may say I am simply seeing the grass as greener... (although in this case it is literally greener grass).  My point is not really to say which is better, but which suits me.  And as an intellectual-ish type, a writer of sorts, I have come to need the poetry of a cool climate, over the activity of a hot one.

We had a plan at one point to move to Lisbon.  It was our then desire to keep Perth summers, whilst living in Europe.  But now I crave only Northern Europe.  Four seasons, in order.  And red-flecked, chilly, nostalgia-inducing AUTUMN, every year.

reality-check

I know I have two small children, and only one day a fortnight "to myself", but still I feel that this little time has been a worthy test of my fortitude and actual commitment.  And I have to admit - to both myself and my small, but very supportive, readership here at the Pickled Pear - that I am most likely not going to be a professional writer.

Please, PLEASE do not spare a moment's pity for my making this declaration.  For it is I who must apologise.  Several of you have made a point of openly complimenting me on my writing, and encouraging me to make a living from my talent.  Which has possibly gone to my head a little more than you imagined.  I am afterall, in real life, a reasonably shy and awkward character; you would be forgiven for believing me at least a little lacking in self-esteem and therefore worthy, if not actually in need, of overt praise.  And while a bit of praise has been a welcome antidote to the bullies of the schoolyard and the critical-mother of the home-life of childhood, you should probably now cut it out.  I actually think I'm pretty fantastic.

I think this so much, that it is not to my 30-odd fans to whom I feel an apology is owed, but to the world.  I actually believe in myself so very much, that I think it is a shame for HUMANITY, that I will be squandering my incredible talent as a writer.

And there is one simple reason that I will be denying the world my brilliance: abject laziness.  It is the reason that both my house and my children are cleaned with far less regularity than is generally suggested; it is a major reason that I am currently so fat that people just assume that I am pregnant again; and it is THE reason that I doubt I will write for a living. 

I tend to think of laziness as inate, perhaps even genetic.  Some people are natural-born go-getters, and some of us would really just rather have been born rich enough to live on the sofa.  Forever.  With wine and cheese brought to us on a regular basis.  I have always, against my politcal ethics, quite fancied the idea of a sedan chair, with a group of burley males to carry me about the place.  (I am sure that if I DID have a sedan chair, I would be even fatter than I am today, so it is probably just as well I am not insanely wealthy.)

Anywho, as far as I can tell, the key to success in anything worth doing, is a combination of: innate-talent, a fair dose of luck, and a good dose of GRIND.  And while I have no troubles with the first two, the major ingredient is lacking.  I love to blame my star-sign (yes, yes, an atheist shouldn't even entertain the notion of star-signs... whatever!)  My favourite book on the subject by Mystic Medusa, the Surreal Field Guide to Astrology (now sadly out of print... and no, you can't borrow the THIRD copy of it husband has acquired for me) states that "duty does not call to these people, duty carps at them in a low and grating monotone."  Sigh... so true.  Star-signs being accountable or not, I totally feel that way.  Fuck duty; bring on hedonism!

So while I may have decided that the most enjoyable thing to do with a slightly tipsy evening with family early-to-bed is to write this post, it's not something I'm ever likely to do with any stamina.  Yes, I will keep writing this thing (with exciting upgrades and expansion of audience planned for the future!)  And yes, I even have a wee book on the go (it may well take YEARS).  But I once read a poignant suggestion that if you don't do it ("it" being WRITING) while you're busy with work and life and what-not, you won't actually do "it" anymore by having loads of time.  You either write, or you don't.  I am 36 and haven't done it.  I am 36 and have an entire day off a fortnight and am not doing it.  I would rather spend occasional days pottering, daydreaming, and occasionally getting high... and pay for it with an easy, uncreative, salaried day-job.

Which, dear reader, is what I (currently) intend to do.

Festival

Today is St Patrick's Day; hence I am decked in green, have cooked up a Guinness-based meal, and am looking forward to a decent indulgence in Irish whisky tonight.  I have never been to Ireland, and am only one-16th Irish.  All I know about my Irish great-great grandmother (despite living with her grandson, my granddad for over two years) is that her name was Alice, she had red hair, and she was Irish.  I could have learnt more about my history, but despite being given the advice AT THE TIME to do that very thing, I did not.  Which just goes to prove that you can't tell young people anything.

So I am celebrating a religious, nation day which I absolutely cannot claim a right to, and reflecting on the sadly commercialised nature of all of our holidays.  I am clearly guilty of participating in this nonsense, but I believe that really, it is about craving something more meaningful.  As a committed atheist, I am not specifically sad about the religion being taken out of formerly religious festivities; but I would rather join in religion than in capitalism.

I do not believe humanity requires gods, but I do believe it requires celebration.  And I am not just being hedonistic.  No really, I'm not!  Pure hedonism is empty, unfulfilling, and frankly, dull.  Societies create festivals because we need an outlet for hedonism, but we also need meaning, and we need each other.  A festival is more than just a party; it evokes a shared consciousness, a connection with our fellow-man, and yes, a spiritualism, that we all need to feel.  Festivals bring a desirable check to hedonism - by giving it set outlets - as well as a purpose.

I am anti-capitalism for moral reasons - the requirement for continuous "growth" (of profits) in a capitalist system creates the requirement to continually find new workers, markets and environments to exploit.  Most importantly to me, it is an inherently unfair system; and I cannot accept preventable inequality in my world.  But I am also anti-capitalism for aesthetic reasons.  There is something just so grubby, so anti-social, so un-beautiful about taking a human celebration, and using it to sell stuff.

Despite an interest in my heritage, I am not particularly nostalgic: I look to the future.  And in my fantasy future, in our anarcho-socialist-eco-feminist-utopia (yes, I am a crazy optimist), we will figure out a way to celebrate properly; without recourse to imaginary higher-beings, but with depth of feeling.  (And still, as tonight, with plenty of the consumable type of "spirits".)

So, happy St Patrick's Day all!  May you celebrate with friends, family and feeling.

Greener Grass

A while back now I was sitting in a quiet corner of a shopping centre, breastfeeding my younger child, and feeling trapped.  Probably my least favourite thing about breastfeeding was being stuck in one spot for long periods of time, watching the world around me and wishing to be part of it.  On this particular day, for who knows what reason, I started humming 'My Favourite Things' from The Sound of Music, and it occurred to me that the lyrics are utterly ridiculous.  "Raindrops on roses", "whiskers on kittens"... really?!  Those are you FAVOURITE things.  I mean they're kinda sweet, cute things.  But your FAVOURITE things, in the entire world of things?

So I wrote my own version.  My list is, naturally, rather more inspired by debauchery.  Especially in the context of missing the pre-parenting world.  I still sing this to myself from time to time; it's kinda comforting.  It reminds me of a version of myself that I still cherish, and nowadays even have the occasional opportunity to return to, at least temporarily.

Yes, my actual favourite things are my two beautiful children, and my doting husband.  Love is, of course, the ultimate thing of all.  And there are other deep things, philosophy, art, intellectual yearning... these are the things that life is really made of.  But they can be complex, emotionally fraught, and frankly, hard work.  These are my other favourite things.

To the tune of 'My Favourite Things':

Flirting with older men with British accents,
Drinking 'til falling down, dancing 'til morning,
Smoking a spliff on a warm afternoon,
These are the things that I wish I could do.

Leisurely walks in a town or a forest,
Pub lunches, bubble baths, chatting 'til dawning,
Sensual sex with a generous man,
These are the things of which I am a fan.

When the boy shouts,
When the girl whines,
When I have to nag,
I can't help but think of my favourite things,
And they make me feeeel quite... sad.

Living the dream

In my former life when I watched adult television regularly, there was an episode of Beautiful People in which they defined camp-ness as doing things 'as if'.  Now I'm not sure if I could be considered 'camp' (even if I have fancied myself cool enough to be a fag-hag), but either way I am absolutely loving the notion of doing things 'as if'.

So when I'm driving to work in my hail-damaged Hyundai, I sing along to the tunes blaring on the radio 'as if' I'm on the French Riviera in my convertible Jaguar (brunswick green, with matching leather driving gloves).  And when, over these hot days, I've had a few minutes to myself in my Big-W paddling pool, I drink my glass of cask-wine 'as if' it were the finest champange, and look up to the frangiapani tree next to the fence 'as if' it were my view in a luxury resort.

And now, typing at my dining table surrounded by house-work, I do so 'as if' I am a great writer in my secluded study with inspirational, landscape views.

I can wear my Cancer Council sunglasses as if they were Prada, my op-shop dresses like they're one-off Valentino frocks, and my more-than-chubby body and un-styled hair with the air of a Hollywood starlet.

The other night hubby and I watched a series about an arms-trader and the people trying to bring him down (and those propping him up).  We tussled over who was most naughty at wanting to stay up for yet another episode (the treat of ADULT TELLY was a bit much for us), which was a lovely reminder of just how much I love living with my best-pal, soul-mate husband.  And in the morning we both awoke relieved that we were only dreaming that we had an arms deal to do, affairs to hide, and death to avoid.

But perhaps even more of a relief was looking at the luxurious lives on screen and feeling smug; knowing that I could never be lured by money.  Poverty, even of the suburban-Western variety that could befall me, is clearly not fun; but my current middle-class reality more than satisfies.  A life of wholesome work, a loving family, and healthy illusions of grandeur, are all I really need.

If I could just find a way to clean the house 'as if', I'd be set for life.

A moment for Mama

The first night with my first baby I was in for a shock.  Somehow it didn't occur to me that the sleep-deprivation would start immediately - and on this particular night I had just given birth!  After 24-hours of contractions, culminating in pushing a baby out of myself, I had never felt more in need of a good night's sleep in my life - the same night that I would discover that a good night's sleep was no longer available to me.  Frankly, I was horrified.

Obviously I had to suck it up and get over my horror pretty swiftly, but a couple of weeks ago it occurred to me how much the past three years of my life have been an ongoing, extended version of the same phenomenon.  The phenomenon of being more deserving of self-indulgence than ever before, whilst being - for the first time in my privileged life - largely incapable of self-indulgence.

I was prepared for the one-way relationship with my actual child; that I would be giving, and not taking, the care and the love.  But I didn't quite factor into the equation the fact that I would also have less time and energy to give to myself (I didn't know how much I used to give to myself!), nor the extra burdens I would face as an individual.  What I noticed recently, is that even outside of the actual caring for and raising of my children, I've been through a lot.

The statistics.  In the past less-than-four years I have survived:

- 18 months of pregnancy
- 41 hours of labour
- 2 births
- 7 months of breast-feeding (aka having-the-life-literally-sucked-out-of-me)
- 25 months of alcohol deprivation
- 10 kilograms weight lost (not including babies)
- 20 kilograms weight gained (not including babies)
- 187 visits to medical professionals (I'm not actually going to do the sums... it might be more!)
- 2 courses of combined-hormone contraceptive pill, 1 course of progesterone-only implant, 1 course of pill overlapping with implant
- 1 year on anti-depressants
- 1 month coming off anti-depressants
- 75 meetings with mortgage broker, real estate agent and tradesmen (again, I'm really not doing those sums)
- 1 mortgage acquired
- 1 house painted
- 2 house moves
- 1 paid, professional job maintained
- 3 years of not having a really proper night's sleep (and I'm a lucky bitch with two mostly-sleeping-throgh-the-night babies)

I am being flippant, publishing "the stats" (as well as putting out a blatant call for awed sympathy).  The fact is, it's been a tough time.  It's been a tough time on top of looking after two babies, now toddlers.  It's been a tough time that I haven't had a break from, and that I've largely had to ignore in the face of my babies' greater needs.

I'm not a martyr, the kind of mother who gives her entire self to her children then blames them when she is drained; I'm a feminist, and an unapologtic selfish creature - I look after my own needs.  But between the physical work of being a parent, the emotional journey it itself takes me on, and perhaps hardest of all - for an emotive character such as myself - the strain of managing (which sometimes means hiding) my private emotions for the sake of my children, it has occurred, largely beyond my notice, that I have suffered in silence.

Just occasionally I get a reminder of the trials.  This post came about because while I was suffering a few withdrawal symptoms from my meds, it occurred to me that pre-child me would have been feeling quite sorry for myself, and expecting the world to give me a bit of a break from being a fully together adult.  Pre-children the trialling-not-taking-anti-depressants situation would have been enough, on it's own, for me to ask for sympathy.  But in my current life I barely even get a chance to contemplate my problems, let alone deal with them.

Don't go getting worried about me, though.  Yes, it's been tough.  And yes, I've had to put myself second to my children (not last, I come second... sorry husband!  Not sorry friends / family / employer / world.)  But the scariest thing is that it's okay - I can do it.  It turns out, these beautiful children don't just take, they do give.  They have, just be being so god-damn loveable, given me strength.  They have, simply by existing, made their mother a better person.  Which is just as well - I fucking need to be.

Berlin scheming

What I have been saying to everyone, is that I am not "in love" with Berlin, but that I really like it.  I really like it a very lot.

As you may be aware, I am more than a little inclined to follow my gut-instincts, aided by witchy magical-signs-from-the-universe, whenever making major life decisions.  Life experience has taught me that for me, this is the very best method of creating a happy life for myself; far more reliable than any more 'sensible' method of decision-making.

And here Berlin is making a rather strange case for itself.  Being not "in love", I would think it is not the home for me.  Yet, somehow, I am quite certain that it is.

My overall impression is that we could have a really good life in Berlin.  We could be happy there.  And on this trip - paying rent and living with two children - it became very apparent that perhaps we would not be so happy in London.  At least, as I explained, not full-time and permanent.

What I feel about Berlin is that we could be ourselves there... but better.  Only the week before our holiday I complained to husband that the thing that really annoys me in life is dealing with incompetence.  Then here we were in a city where WE were the most incompetent people around.  The Germans were polite enough but clearly unused to dealing with our moments of human-error.  So we would have to work on that... but I think that's a good thing.  Just as the hippy-vibe of the Berlin people is something for us to aspire to.  Their healthily-lean bodies in practical clothes, no make-up and natural hair - it's how I feel I should be.  I could be a less superficial, more intellectual version of myself.  A better mother, a better wife, a better person.

But we could also relax.  The city functioned so well, we didn't have to think about it.  I think it would be really nice to live somewhere that just WORKS.  The lack of hills deprives the city of vistas (a reason I believe I didn't quite fall "in love"), but makes it eminently pleasant for walking and cycling around.  I normally am not a fan of cycling, but in Berlin I would absolutely get a bike... a big hipster bike with a basket and a huge, comfy seat.  The food was brilliant too.  I ate two of the best breakfasts of my ENTIRE LIFE in Berlin, just by wandering to local cafés.  And the people were even better.  Friendly and helpful and encouraging us to move to Berlin immediately.  They appeared to be relaxed yet competent parents, too; with pleasant, active children.  The whole city had a great vibe towards children, with amazing playgrounds at every turn... with beer for the adults.

Now I would never advocate marrying someone you're not "in love" with, so can I advocate settling in a city I only really, really like and find practical?  Well, the fact is, we prefer Berlin to Perth... and it's in Europe.  Even if it this were a marriage-of-convenience, it would be a damn good one; with London, my lover, just around the corner for regular flings.  But I don't believe it will be so sordid.  One of my dearest friends (and a Berlin-lover) said, Berlin and I have only just met - I don't want to fall too quickly.  I agree, and feel sure the love will come.

Several VERY important people (and quite a few random strangers) highly recommended Berlin as the place for us to live, which is actually why we visited.  Despite such rave reviews, we were impressed.  And as for magical tidings, the weather did it for me.

For our five days in Berlin, the sun shone so magnificently we were sunburnt.  The trees in full summer foliage (underground powerlines - genius!), the consistently high-quality buskers, the street-after-street corner of abundant flower-shops and even the ubiqutious graffiti, dazzled under bright-blue-skied brilliance.  At the very minute our (insanely fucking expensive!) cab pulled up at our flat in London, the skies unleashed an almighty downpour of flooding RAIN - not the well-prepared for drizzle - torrential, flooding, skin-soaking RAIN.  I am aware that both weather scenarios are highly unusual for their locations, but the timing made both stand out.  I got the distinct feeling that Berlin was beckoning us to stay, putting on her best show that we might be tempted to settle; and that London was giving us a very clear message to FUCK OFF.

Well, London, you will never convince me to "fuck off".  I will be back, often, dressed-to-impress.  But Berlin, you just might have convinced us to stay.  At least to move in and see how it goes.

In eighteen months husband is due long-service leave.  If we can arrange a house-swap we could give Berlin a trial-run risk-free.

So our long-term scheme of moving to Europe has moved into a new phase: learn German.

Berlin, hier kommen wir!

London dreaming

It took me at least a fortnight to get over my jet-lag.  My husband, generally similar in sleep-habits to myself, and even my two infant children, were sleeping soundly through the night within days.  But here I have been, insanely tired, yet unable to make myself sleep before sun-down in London.

This is not unusual for me.  Weeks of troubled sleep and dreamlike living are familiar accompaniments to a return to Perth from London.  But this time a new interpretation presented itself: is this long-recovery time physical, or psychological?  Does it take my body weeks to heal from a change of time-zone, or my soul?

After all, London is not just a city to me: it is my other home, my other love, my other life.  If where-I-live is my husband, then London is my lover.  (You will notice I have written "where-I-live", not "Perth"... Perth and I are not married.  Just because we grew up together does not mean we have to wed.)  After an intoxicating month with my lover, it is natural for reality to be a little hard to settle in to.

I feel part of the world in London, at the centre of things.  I love being in a "proper" city, with vibrancy and activity and importantly, not just a large number of residents, but a large number of transient people.  Students, tourists, visiting artists, new immigrants and potential new immigrants... these people give a city of sense of being part of the entire world.  I love the history and culture, walking amongst a living museum, stopping for a pint at any street corner - because they all have a kitsch or cool or ancient pub.  And of course I'm half-English.  I love being in the "green and pleasant land" that is the home of half my kin.  Walking through the gentle, pretty, sprawling parks under mild English skies is so beautiful to me it hurts.  Being with my London loved-ones makes me miss them before we've parted.

I feel sad at how quickly life moves on without me when I leave, at how much I am missing.  But I notice it is a romantic melancholy that overtakes me, a wistful longing for a dream, not a reality.  This trip, with children, showed me that while I love London, I don't think I should settle there.  Perth has spoilt me in practical terms: my expectations for my standard of living could simply never be realised in London.  Perhaps even worse, the everyday inconveniences, incompetencies and downright unfriendliness that Londoners put up with - grumble about, but also accept - are unacceptable to me.  I just don't think I could live with it long-term.  So there is a sadness even while I am still in London.  I have come to the tragic conclusion that trying to marry my lover would likely destroy our love.

I also notice how uncreative I was in London; I did no writing of any kind.  But another part of our trip had me, and still has me, feeling rather upbeat.  I think of this other city and feel excited, not wistful.  For how I feel about my potential new home (my long-awaited husband-city?!), watch this space for my next piece... on Berlin.

My son's "other"

It only occurred to me when writing, that Master-Two doesn't have a beloved teddy-bear - he has an alter-ego!  A filthy, bedraggled, cuddly alter-ego.  And in this case, Master-Two is the evil twin, Ted is the sweet one.  A recent case in point.

So, Master-Two didn't want to leave the doctor's office, on account of the toys (the multitude of nearly identical toys at home are NOT a substitute, okay?!)  A standard bribe was issued and reasonably well received: a visit to a playground on the way home.  I really felt too tired for a solo chasing of multiple toddlers in an open space, so I admit I was attempting to get out of the promised bribe when during the drive I asked "home?", and received the inevitable "not home, just PLAYGROUND!" response.

I felt, and said, that this was fair enough.  I did, however, explain that a nicer way of stating the same sentiment would be to say "not home, can we go to the playground please, Mummy?"  But Master-Two was to leave me in no uncertainty about who was in charge: "NOT 'please playground' Mummy, just PLAYGROUND!"  Right we are then.

Moments later, a spookily mirrored conversation was had in that same car-seat behind me.  "Ted", Master-Two asked, "would you like to go to playground?" (vocabulary and grammar improving exponentially lately), to which Ted replied sweetly, "yes please!"

"Ted must be rather more polite than you are", I noted.

Not a post

I was planning to write weekly, but y'all will have to wait until our household again possesses a functioning computer.  It's like living in the dark-ages here!  I mean, we have electricity and heating and smartphones and wifi... just no laptops.  Dark-fricking-ages.