Toilet Paper Road

Since becoming a mother I have developed a philosophy. It's deep. Basically it goes something like this... "It's wasteful and my own Mum wouldn't have let me do it, but if you think about it, it's worth the 50c it cost for the 55 minutes of fun it provided."

At My House...

At My House... I successfully processed 6 loads of washing over yesterday and today. I actually got to the bottom of the washing baskets. Is there anything more satisfying?

Conundrum

At the start and the end of every day I am disappointed. I’m disappointed that I ate too many biscuits, too many toasted cheese sandwiches, too many kids left over toasted cheese sandwiches and too much pasta. I’m disappointed that that bulge around my hips and waist is still keeping me company. I am currently the heaviest I have ever been (maybe even during pregnancy!) and I am not enjoying it. I recently went to the gym for 12 months. This was a real achievement for me as I had never even set foot in one before, literally. I really enjoyed it, I developed muscles and I felt good. It helped my physical and mental health beyond measure. But I stopped going a couple of months ago.

Put all those pieces together and the answer seems obvious. I’m an idiot. What is going on??? Why is it soooo hard to do the “right thing”? Am I lazy? Do I harbor some deep rooted need to sabotage myself and fail? Am I such a self-sacrificing mother that I put everyone else first and myself last? (not likely).

I suspect I am not alone in this battle which is why I’m airing my vulnerabilities and failings on this blog. Maybe my ponderings may help someone else, and maybe someone might have some suggestions for me. Although I warn you, I am NOT good at taking advice!

At My House...

At my house today my 4 year old was trying to work out how we could keep the chooks out of the garden and she declared we could make a scarecrow! So, inspired yet again by Emma at Frog, Goose and Bear we made one. And she is a gem! So friendly looking she wouldn't scare a fly.

Then and Now

In my teens and twenties I wrote poetry. Not prolifically but it was always significant and powerful as an experience. My father died when I was in year 11 and I moved away from Mum to Melbourne to study after year 12. Writing was a major form of release and processing of this turmoil as well as the normal angst of this age.  This is one of my earliest poem, so it's a bit rough and cheesy, but it still says something about who I was at 16, and therefore who I am now.

THE BOOK OF LIFE
[1988]

First words are tentative.
They are chosen carefully; they set the style.
First lines are precious
They hold an innocence of the predetermined script.
The next few paragraphs are dangerous.
Lack of thought and preparation can cause unforgettable damage.

The opening chapter introduces.
It explores, accepts and develops the character.
The second chapter questions.
It rebels, experiences, learns, hates, loves, believes, disbelieves.
The third chapter breaks out.
It expands, understands, identifies.


The questions are asked.
Whose fault was it?
The temptation to look ahead two pages is unfulfilled.
First pages are re-read.
To find an explanation for the riddle
To predict the mysterious conclusion.

A momentary answer is reached.

The story continues to progress.
If only the pages would slow down and wait until it is all cleared up.
Suspense is built,
New experience fills the lines
Detail is drawn, colour added.

The teasing blurb gives clues
But who really knows how the end will be.
Others that have read more
Offer hints and warnings
Rarely remembered
After the plot gathers momentum.

It is only when enlightening comes
That the give aways are recalled.
Satisfaction or disappointment of achievement causes purpose or despair.
Now is the time some look to other editions
Or determine to finish.
Decisions are made.

There are now more pages behind than before.
Some finish before all is resolved.
A lack of comprehension
Results are unappreciated.
Some understand completely
And can see the pieces falling together.

The last page dreaded or welcomed
It must always come.
The never-ending story does not exist.
Perhaps a sequel, or another edition.
The prologue is carved into cold marble
Detached from the story.

As I stand poised with another page in my ink free fingers
I want to examine every word
Search every meaning.
I want to do it right
Because I know one thing.
This is one book that can’t be re-read.

Wordless Wednesday

Wordless Wednesday

At my house...

Guess who got sucked in to having a look in the crappy crap shop??



















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