Taking Stock

Her pages had been empty of late, left in a drawer under sharpened pencils. Dust was settling around ornaments of inspiration, clock ticking around her motivation. Excuses piled up, leaking on to the floor like dishwater.

It was not a reflection of her ability, but of her effort.

 

 

Spilt Milk

Maybe he scribbles on his arms because mummy and daddy are covered in scribble. Maybe he does it because it tickles as the tips run along his soft, bare skin. Maybe, just maybe, he does it because he keeps being told to draw on paper, and paper is just a flat, boring surface that doesn’t tickle and doesn’t look like mummy and daddy. Either way, it’s a step up from drawing on all the walls.

I can think of far worse things to trouble myself over.

For example, flies in my wine.

 

It Takes A Village

The rumour is, that the village is gone and motherhood is lonely. There are many days this rumour feels undoubtedly real, BUT the village is still there, you just have to be open to it; you have to let it in as much as you want it to let you in.

On some days the village is the park, where you make small talk with strangers trying to make their shopping list on their iPhone as their children wrestle them as if they are still in the lounge room. It’s times like this when a villager takes action and pushes their own child over with the others, separating the herd from their parents and dragging the mother to safety. “Come with me, let’s talk smack about motherhood for a while”. Yesterday my village was only made up of two, and we told horror stories about the emergency caesareans we endured and how we desperately want more children, tipping our heads back and laughing at how ridiculous our “biological urge” is, or as recent studies have argued, our “psychological urge”. (That’s a whole other conversation.)

On other days the village is the pool or the sport of the term; gymnastics, athletics, dance. The villagers stare at each other silently, they are so sure they want silence, they are so sure that they don’t want to make small talk or get into another deep discussion about why their child is still shitting under the table while demanding privacy when of course he could get all the privacy he wanted if he just went to the fucking toilet. The villagers try to escape eye contact by escaping into their phones as their children run, swim or frolic like a bunch of uncoordinated psychos. But it only takes one; one overheard comment, one caught glance or one unintentionally loud exhale to get the relatable acknowledgement from some or the entire group. And before you know it, you are walking back to the car, smothering your child in kisses with the knowledge that you are not the only mother trying to coax your child out from the dining room table as they conduct one of their many daily bowl movements.

On most days, the village is digital. I consider this the biggest village by far, the easiest to access and the most private. A village made up of mummy bloggers of both the super mum and the super honest: A village of grandeur or slap dash recipes: A village of the motivated or the recluse: A forum for all. On the days when leaving the house just seems all too hard, I am thankful for the digital village and it’s ability to keep me connected to the world.

If you are not prepared to call on your village, the village is privy to the signals of need; a look of apology as your child hits another, shoulders removing themselves from your ears as your child finds a friend to play with, a ‘like’ on a specific post. We are all secretly and some times unconsciously hinting towards a village, hoping they’ll pick up on our vibes and let us in.

It takes villagers to create a village – look up, look around.

Be a villager; For the sake of your sanity.

Sharing Space

She woke; baby breath blowing gently on her cheek and tiny fingers reaching knowingly in the dark for the comfort of a mothers presence. Stiff as a board she remained so as not to wake him but instead to stare at him through the slits of her morning eyes. So still and so quiet she took a moment to embrace the lack of space his tiny body provided while in her bed, her feet cold and without a pillow, this tiny person, consuming her world.

He was her world.

 

Flashback Friday!! (2015) Wine Religion

He turned water into wine; of course he did! Yet here I am replacing my wine with water in the hope to eradicate the leftover baby weight that shimmies on my hips. If I thought it would do any good, I would give up eating altogether; replacing food with wine. Like a fly, I could float to the tops of glasses on the bubbles of Champagne, flutter in a delicious frenzy amidst a dry Chardonnay or allow the fruity essence of a Sauvignon Blanc to cause my eyes to turn inwards and my body belly up; sigh.

He turned water into wine; of course he did.

Desperate Measures

She rolled herself in double sided tape, webbed her fingers with mesh and smeared glue under her feet. She screwed hooks into her back, latched loops onto her fingertips, strung webs across her body and stood, arms wide towards the world, waiting and waiting.

She just wanted to catch a break.

Truth Beyond The Lens

They say a picture paints a thousand words, well these certainly forgot a few words…curse words.

 

These pictures didn’t mention how he fell asleep just as we parked at the gym, and that those two minutes of sleep would be all he would require for the rest of the day.

These pictures didn’t mention the heart attack I had in the grocery store when I couldn’t find my son because he was actually just in my blind spot, (my butt) hiding behind me.

These pictures didn’t mention that despite his apron and holding of a spoon, he was actually no help at all in the kitchen and that cooking with a toddler is a joke…a non-funny, only Ricky Gervais could make it seem funny, type joke.

These pictures didn’t mention that despite him rubbing his tummy and saying ‘Mmm yummy, Banana bread’, he refused to taste the banana bread and it’s now just a beautiful loaf of my blood, sweat and tears that my husband and I won’t eat because banana bread can’t be enjoyed when we know it’s going straight to my arse.

These pictures didn’t mention how quickly he turned his water colours into what I can only assume is a picture of Satan’s lair and potentially where my son was trying to send me today.

These pictures didn’t mention the rebellious drawings of absolutely non-creative, downright ugly marks that now live on every. single. wall in my house, which he managed to do in the two minutes that it took me to get dressed in my room.

These pictures didn’t mention the refusal of a nap that led to me having to parent ALL day.

These pictures, however, may have mentioned wine, but definitely not in detail.

I think my camera is broken?