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.