So this is christmas...

Christmas is built on religion, consumerism and expectations....

All three aspects stir up feelings of great discontent.

The purpose of christmas is the celebration of the "birth of christ". I am not religious. I am far from religious. I am anti religion in an aggressive way. My parents are not religious. I believe 1/4 of my grandparents are religious. Bar my Granddad, I know of no one in my family who has ever been a church goer. So how does it become that a primarily agnostic family partakes in the core celebration of a religion?

Consumerism! Weeeeee!

The media tells us to!
The day after Halloween (another bullshit "celebration"...) shops start sneakily slipping in display shelves and progressively, tinsel starts taking over store fronts and by mid November entire malls are positively dripping in twinkling lights and shiny baubles and the glimmer of irrelevant fake snowflakes in the lead up to a southern hemisphere summer. Gigantic Christmas trees are surrounded by piles upon piles of fake gifts, wrapped in sparkly paper and fancy bows. Subliminal messages to the hundreds of children who will pass through.

Children are drilled with the idea of christmas being about presents. People say, "if you don't like the idea, make christmas about what you want it to be, family, and food and having a good time." But how, HOW am I supposed to instil this in my daughter when everything is about presents. As soon as an adult comes into contact with my 6 year old they ask "what's santa bringing you for christmas?". The public school she goes to spends the weeks leading up to christmas reading stories about santa, making christmas stockings and baskets "for christmas treats", she tells me. Writing letters to santa asking for a myriad of toys that will be played with for 2 weeks before being discarded at the back of the closet.

And then. Then. I have this overwhelming desire to buy her things, fill the base of the christmas tree with everything she asks for and more. Not because I love her, not because I want her to have nice things, not because she has behaved well and earned said gifts. But because I don't want her to be disappointed.

I fear my 6 year old will be disappointed by the gifts she receives from the elusive character that is Santa. 

What have I become?! What monster have I created?!

I have slowly but surely been influenced by the pressure of society to provide unreasonable amounts of material objects to please my 6 year old. 

This is what christmas is. 

And trust me when I tell you, I have tried, I have tried so SO hard to teach my daughter, to explain to her that gifts aren't important. How full your santa sack is, isn't important. That family matters, spending time with her cousins, having her Nana and Grandad come stay, these things are important. 

She claims to understand. But within the same breath she tells me that she thought of something else to ask santa for. 

I feel defeated.
I feel powerless. 

Trying to fight against something that is so aggressively forced upon you, that there is no way to avoid it. 

Every year I will try my damndest to explain to her what christmas is about, who it is intended for, and why Mummy would rather ceremoniously set fire to a christmas tree than cover the floor it sits on with environmentally unfriendly rubbish.

But I foresee fighting a losing battle.
A battle I will continue with my son. Whom, this year, is too young to give a damn about presents and santa sacks. 

I don't like christmas. 

I don't want to celebrate christmas. 

Yet because I have children apparently I am being "cruel" or "a grinch", to roll my eyes at santa visits and sneer at the idea of christmas place setting at the dinner table. 

Last year my daughter had a pile of presents under our tree. They were all for her. 

She sat there and opened present after present.
Tearing through the wrapping, her eyes not even seeing the gift inside, just discarding each toy and book in a pile next to her and moving on to the next colourfully wrapped package.
The last gift hit the mountain of loot next to her and she looks up and asks

"Are there anymore?"

This is not my doing. I have not encouraged this.
This level of expectation is not what I have taught my daughter. 

I have always downplayed the present aspect. 

Santa can't always bring everything you ask for.

It's not important that you get lots of presents.
We should be grateful for what we get, not how much we get. 

But it all falls upon deaf ears, because consumerism, media, hype, advertising, all speak louder than mum ever will. 

Defeated. I have been defeated.

I don't believe in the birth of christ, I don't believe in the christmas spirit. 

I believe my children are been taught a level of expectation that is completely unnecessary. 

A "tradition" that will do little beyond creating a materialistic society.

Call me a grinch, call me a killjoy, I am beyond giving a fuck. 

Who Gon Stop Me

I had my daughter when I was 19 and since then I have done most things purely for survival purposes. Worked 40 hour weeks with my baby girl in daycare for 50 hours a week, just to survive.
Had 2 jobs at a time, just to survive. Missed out on adventures, just to survive.
I have done nothing for me and everything to keep afloat and make sure my daughter doesn't miss out.
I have never, ever held resentment or anger about these things. I have accepted that you do what you have to do and you get on with it.
But with the support and love of the best husband money can buy, I am now doing something for me.
And I am wet my pants excited.
I am beginning study to ultimately become a midwife. I have to first do a bridging course and that will take a year, after that it's 3 years of midwifery study.
I'm so terrified, but SO excited.
I know that this is what I'm supposed to do. I watch programs and I read books about it and I know, with every fibre of my being, this is what I'm supposed to do.

Due to medical issues, I have never been able to give birth to my babies naturally.
In fact I have the most unnatural births around.
I am put under full anesthesia and deliver them via c section.
I have never been there for the birth of my babies.
And it's a really fucken difficult thing to deal with.
I try and not think about it too much, because I know if I do it will eat me up inside.
There is no other way I can give birth to my babies and that is just something I have to accept.
I think this is the root of my desire to want to become a midwife. I can't be there for the birth of my babies, so the next best thing is being able to help other women give birth to their babies.

I can't think of anything more rewarding than assisting in the arrival of new life.

In saying that, it is only recently that I have become aware of the difficult side of my chosen profession.
I have come to learn and accept that although this is possibly one of the most rewarding professions, it can also be one of the most difficult. I learnt this first hand, but that is an experience that deserves a blog of its own.

That experience was a huge learning curve and I know for the next 4 years there will be many more.
But I'm so ready for it.
I'm so happy that I finally get to do something for me.
I know that it's going to be difficult. Of course I do.
People keep saying "you know, it's not going to be easy"
That makes me want to slap them.
Of course I know that. You think I don't know how difficult it's going to be to study, work, be a mother to two children, be a wife, keep my house slightly less than chaotic, get sleep, eat well, not go insane.
You think I don't know how difficult this is going to be?
I know this. And I am ready for it.
So a "good for you" or a "I believe in you", would be a far more welcome response.

I have those who doubt me. Probably with good reason. I haven't been the most over achieving person in the world.
That's fine.
I doubt myself sometimes.
But this time. This is more than a job, more than high school, more than wanting to lose weight or learn to sew or completing a marathon.
This is a life decision. This is what I am meant to do.

There are people who doubt me, there are people who give me negative feedback and literally laugh when I tell them. 

They are not my definers.
They won't hold me down.
They will fuel my fire. 

I will show those little people.


Life lesson #whatever,
Find out what you are meant to do. Do it. 

What are you meant to do?

Would?

Blog interrupted. 

I found this blog that I don't really remember writing. It's fairly dark and grim and I never finished it. Maybe I will one day. But for now, this is where it ended... Enjoy?

I like to think I have things under control.

In my head anyway.

I like to thing I'm strong willed and independant and capable.

I don't need help.

This is what went through my mind every couple of months for the last four years or so.

I should start from the beginging. Explain what I am babbling about.

This is kind of an average subject for me, I don't like thinking about it too much and I certainly don't like admitting it.
I "suffer" (that word is lame, it makes me think of a cancer patient) from depression and anxiety.

It seems every second person does these days. It's almost trendy.

It's something that has been apparent in my life since I was an angsty teenager but actually became a problem after I had my daughter.
In hindsight it is blindingly obvious to me, but at the time it wasn't. I had full blown post natal depression. I didn't have baby blues. I wished for horrific car crashes every time I hoped in a car.

If not to abolish me, then to abolish this new little stranger who I had to take care of.

I did not find instant love with my daughter.

I didn't like her.

I didn't know her and I was in a horrible state of regret.

Every morning I woke up and thought "what have I done?"

This is a difficult subject to talk about as you can imagine.

Very few people know about this.

But I'm kind of at a point where I feel talking about it can only be a good thing. It helps me come to terms with things and it could potentially help others.

As I said, at the time I didn't know what was wrong. I just dealt with the feelings I had. Ultimately the lack of resolution led to the dissolution of the relationship I had with my daughters father.

I didn't know what was wrong so I decided it must've been my environment. I decided the only way to fix how I felt was to leave.

To this day I whole heartedly believe that had I got proper help and acknowledged what was going on, it is very likely that the relationship would not have fallen apart.

So around we go, back to the start of this entry.
I left my daughters father and I decided; no, I'm strong, I can fix this, I can do this on my own.

I don't need help.

And I didn't.

I eventually felt better, I moved on and things started looking up.

And then it happened again.

I found myself in this dark place with no understanding of what was going on, what was making me feel this way or how to make it stop.

But then I get up.

I decide this is no way to live.

And I carry on.

And I make myself better.

And then it happens again.

Over and over, round and round.

I was constantly finding myself in this horrible place where there is nothing in site, it is a black abyss and I'll be damned if I know how to get out.

Every time this happened I would start having suicidal thoughts.

Mentally calculating how many pills were in the house, what they were, and how many I would need to go to sleep forever.

My preferred method was always pills.

Once watched an episode of Nip/Tuck where a dying patient had had enough and wanted to just hurry up and end it. Her doctor friend advised her to drink milk to line the stomach, take the pills and put a plastic bag over her head and just quietly drift off to sleep.
And once in a 4th form first aid course an ambulance office told me the lethal dose of paracetamol was 60 tablets.

I only ever got as far as opening the medication box in my kitchen and assessing the pill situation.
By this point I had patched up my relationship with my daughter and decided that she was pretty spiffy.

She has, and always will be my reason to keep going. Despite internalising the complicated situation and having intense arguements

(unfinished)

Your Song

An entry I found unpublished from over a year ago. It's not terrible. I shall publish.

Lucky you.

I am not musically talented.

I played about 4 different instruments when I was younger, I sucked at all of them and stuck to none of them.

I wish I had stuck with the violin.
That shit's cool.
How hipster would I be. With my alternative look and PLAYING THE VIOLIN.
I think I would need to wear more hats.

Music is an essential part of my life, despite my inability to make it.
If I have nothing but music, I am ok.
I managed to delete my entire music collection a few weeks ago (shut up I don't want to talk about it)
I almost cried.
I am slowly rebuilding my collection.
I am rediscovering old memories, and making new ones.

Music pinpoints times in my life.
It reminds me of heartbreak, happiness, hurt.
Pick a song on my iPod (maybe before I deleted everything...)and I can probably associate a time in my life with it.
Or a person.
I love songs that I associate with people.
Be it good or bad.
I love the nostalgia attached to music.

Rilo Kiley, Owl City, Deftones, Slipknot, Passion Pit, MGMT, Marilyn Manson, Ellie Goulding, Pink Floyd, Gene Pitney, Less Than Jake, Brand New, The Beatles.

All music I can associate with a time and/or person...

Rilo is graveyards and molboro lights and a secret that changed my life.
Owl City was long drives and desires that weren't reachable
Deftones is staple. Deftones is the discovery of someone who would complete my life. I'm your Passenger.
Passion Pit is my beloved boys, dancing on the deck, being so entwined in the music we could burst.
Slipknot was the soundtrack for my teenage years. I was emo before it was cool. The kids at school called me a goth and a freak...With fair right, I wore a dog collar and a trench coat. Lovely.
Gene Pitney, my siblings will tell you, that's Dad.
The Beatles... My Penny Lane.



This is just a teeny tiny fraction.

Well I guess this is growing up.

So at some point in the past couple of months it has become apparent that I am fast moving into the world of becoming an adult.

..Don’t you have a 3 year old child?

You may ask.

Why yes. I do.
But extensive research indicates that having a child does not cause you to grow up but to very much divert the other way and clutch onto your childhood that little bit longer.
Spending summer jumping around in paddling pools, eating ice blocks at the park, having biscuits and and juice for dinner just because (actually I think the minute you turn into an adult you do this, purely because no one can tell you not to).

I don’t feel like a grown up at all.
I have this little game I like to play.
It’s called Shower Skittles.

I stand in a hot shower and eat skittles.

But a few thinks have happened in my life that would push me a little further into the category of ‘Being an Adult’

My boyfriend Jesse proposed to me.

Without delving into the depths of my personal life, I’ll give you the short story version.
Jesse was my bestfriend for years. He watched me go through boyfriend after boyfriend trying to find the ‘perfect man’.
He used to tell me “You should just marry me so I can look after you and Penny”
Queue Julia Roberts movie story line.
Something changed and SUDDEN REALISATION.
Perfect man.
In front of me.
The whole time.

In my considerably short life, I have made some shockingly bad decisions.

Jesse is not one of them.

He may actually be the single greatest decision I’ve ever made in my life.

So now that Jesse and I are on the verge of becoming one of them married types, we’re also on our way to being pushed even further into the “Being an Adult” category. We’re about to buy a house together.

Wonders never cease.

I don’t know how much I like doing THAT type of adult carry on. The whole mortgage thing.
I love being engaged and I’m frothing at the mouth to marry this amazing man and claim him as my own. Legally.
But the concept of signing my life over to the bank is a little less than love worthy.

At this point of the blog I’ve hit a wall.

The overall theme for this was growing up.

But I kind of just want to gush and brag about my fiancé.

Which I can imagine would be terribly boring for you, dear reader.

Just let it be known that although I am being dragged, kicking and screaming, into the “Being an Adult” category, it’s kind of not so scary, because I am going there with my soul mate.

This is for Jesse, to avoid a public declaration of love, I lesbians you.


We will grow old together but we will never grow up.



A life lesson in itself.

Learning to Fly

I am in the midst of learning a life lesson.

I have a new job and thus far it is scaring the bajeezus out of me.
Somewhere along the lines of the interview process, everyone involved forgot to mention that my new role is highly maths based.

Small fact to leave out.

I failed maths all through high school and was, in the end, placed in the 'remedial' class (that's Cabbage Maths for all you youngin's)
I have the maths skillz of a 6 year old and that's probably insulting the 6 year olds intelligence.

So I was conflicted after the first few days.
Do I hitail it outta here? (shout out to my buddy Benji)
I have NEVER been good at this type of thing. What's to say I'll ever get any better?

But then I realised.

...I'm not an idiot.

I'm really, really not an idiot.
Should you compare me to a common Ursus arctos horribilis...I think you would find I have an intellectual advantage.

I never paid attention in high school.
I remember writing pages and pages of notes in my 4th form maths class.
Looking back now, I had an excellent teacher.
I remember I would write all these notes down, but it was in vain.
I wouldn't process a single thing.
And then I would wonder why the hell I couldn't understand anything.
One day whilst sitting in detention (rebel without a cause, you know it) I had to pretend to look busy, so I read some maths notes I had written.
I suddenly understood how Pythagoras Theorem worked. (Don't ask me now, I don't think I've used it since then)
All because I had actually read my notes.
But then as if I was being disloyal to my rebellious, devil-may-care self, I shut the book and refused to read the other notes.
Hindsight is a big, huge, laughing bitch.

So today, I sit here, with little knowledge in basic math skills.
A self inflicted downfall.
So I have 2 options.
I either choose to make a change or I don't.

In the words of Obama and Bob the Builder.
Yes. We. Can.

In this case, yes I can.
I can do this.
Just takes a little bit of brains, a lot of paying attention and even more perseverance.
There a few people in my life I want to make proud, my Mum, Jesse, and Penny.
They are the most important people in the world to me, and I keep living every day for these people. I could give up, but because of those three lovely people, I keep going.
But I think above and beyond that, I want to make myself proud.
I don't believe I have achieved much in my life... If anything.
Some will argue that my super rad daughter is a fairly great achievement, but I have to be honest, thus far that has been easy, I haven't had to do much to add to the radicity of that child.
She came out awesome and has yet to let up.

So this probably sounds a lot like the previous entry where I was like FUCK YEAH I'MA GET SKINNY.
(which I failed miserably at I'll have you know)
But I think it's a bit beyond dieting.
I even voluntarily went to a meeting this morning to potentially become part of a mentoring program.
I'm taking the steps...
I'm currently standing at the bottom of the ladder, not even touching it.
But I want to start climbing it.

I have an amazing family and partner to support me.
Better yet I have an awesome training buddy who teaches me odd calculations and tells me of years gone by when he used to be a rock star and his cherry docs weren't the shoes of lesbians.
Here's to you training buddy.

And here's to me making something of myself.

So I'm asking for your support on this one party people.

Give me your rags to metaphorical (or real...) riches stories.

Tell me a time when you or someone else questioned your ability and how you proved that wrong.

Scientia est potentia.

Nil By Mouth

I am not a fatty.

Denial is the first step I believe...

But seriously. By the mainstream standard, I doubt I would be considered fat.
Out of shape? Definitely.
But in the fine words of Dr Suess:
I'm in great shape for the shape I'm in!(sic)

So I know I'm not fat, but I know I'm out of shape.
I would be happier in myself should I lose weight and shape up.

I rarely do anything to myself to please anyone else.
I get tattoos because I think they're pretty.
I stretch my ear lobes because I like the look.
I wear make up, straighten my hair and wear nice clothes because it makes me feel good.

I don't believe you should ever do anything to yourself because you think it will please someone else.
But I am a firm believer in self pride.
I think girls should tidy themselves up and make an effort to look pretty, for themselves.
Because having respect for oneself is a virtue.
You don't have to paint on your face or wear a cocktail dress every morning.
But for gods sake.
Put on some mascara, brush your hair, wear a skirt.
You owe it to yourself to show others that you have pride in your appearance.
People will look at your differently.
People will treat you differently.
In a good way!
Because if you don't show respect for yourself then surely you can't have much respect of any one or thing else?
And it's the same for guys.
Pull up your pants, have a shave and put on some fucken deodorant.
You male lot don't try hard enough.
Due to perpetual gender discrimination it's usually not as influential in your day to day life.
But a lot of you smell gross and are no fun to look at. (A lot, not all, my boyfriend for example, he smells and looks delightful and shout out to some of the boys in the office for having fantastic cologne. And some of you aren't not good looking also.)

Self pride is a big thing to me.
It comes from working as a makeup artist.
I would watch people transform in front of my eyes.
In all senses of the word.
I put make up on them and they would leave that shop a different person.
They would be ecstatic about their new look.
How is that a bad thing!
Think about how much happier you'd be in life if you looked in the mirror in the morning and went
"I look gooood... Hey everybody... Come see how good I look today!" (name that movie)
I mean, your job might be shit but at least you look good! ...Story of my life.

Ok so obviously life isn't so superficial, and to be aesthetically pleasing does not result in inner happiness.
But I'm just saying... It's one less thing to worry about if you're happy with the outside.
And that just about brings me back to my starting note.
My life is pretty amazing.
But there are minor adjustments I could make to make it even better.

When it comes to weight, I believe that unless you are going to do something about it, then you have no right to whinge about being a fat ass.
So rarely do I say anything about my weight.
I have the odd girl moment and once in a while will have a pout about feeling fat.
And my family take great pleasure in calling me fat (I give as good as I get).
But generally speaking, I know I have nothing to complain about.

I don't eat terribly, but I'm not overly healthy and when it comes to exercise, well, that's non existent.
But just this weekend my cousin has informed me of this "diet" she's gone on.
She's lost 5kg in a WEEK!

(I'm not a spam bot I swear. You want happy pills to make you junk bigger? I send you, you give me back account and pin number!)

This appeals to me.

So I'm going to give it a go.
I'll take measurements and weigh myself and then I'll let you know how it goes.

So join me, fatties!

We can get awesome together.

We'll eat celery sticks and take too many laxatives!
It'll be fun!

So here's to feeling pretty and confident!


Life lesson number whatever:

Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.