Stuff to Do

I've written openly about eczema, and how it affects our family. Something else which I have not shared, for fear of judgement and guilt, is how it affects my ability to relate to my children. Our family life practically revolves around The Itch. Preventing The Itch, Controlling The Itch, Managing The Itch, and finally, Repairing the damage done from scratching - you guessed it - The Itch. The Itch encourages me to see my children not as God's beautiful creatures, but as yet another thing on my to-do list. I see them as evidence of my own failure to care for a living being. The line between being a child who has The Itch, and being The Itch personified is blurred. Particularly at 3am, when I am up for the fourth time, feeling hopelessly inadequate yet completely necessary, with a toddler who would probably love to sleep. She doesn't know what it's like to not have The Itch. She thinks it's normal to wear socks on her hands, masking tape around her wrists, an

It's not about the chairs, the table, the setting, the catering. It's about relationships. It's about laughter. My husband threw me a surprise party, and he didn't tell me anyone was coming over at all. As far as I knew, it was a typical Saturday. And I hadn't cleaned my bathroom, I'm not even sure if the toilet was flushed. There was typical family clutter hanging about, underwear on the clothesline, and a few dirty dishes in the sink. And the thing is, it didn't matter. My friends came to see me , not to go all Your Royal Judginess on me. They came, they brought incredibly thoughtful gifts, they brought some of their children, and we had a lovely time. It didn't matter that we ate cake (and boy, what a cake!) off of our extensive collection of IKEA's finest plastic plates, and half the people had to use Alexander's feeding spoons. It didn't matter that our chairs and table didn't match, or that we didn't have perfect place s

Partly inspired by a blog post I read somewhere else recently, but also by a trip down memory lane last night.  I was looking through my high school yearbook last night. I looked at my photo, and began to talk (in my head) to that girl. Because though she was me, she's not really me now. Or rather, I am not her. I thought about the things that I would say to her.  I would say... It's okay to be scared. I know you can't see how happiness could ever be yours, but you will taste happiness. And that happiness? Will taste even better because of your sadness.  I would say... Your open and raw emotions are a gift, not a curse. Whoever says it's shameful to hide your tears is just plain wrong.  I would say... You have a brilliant future in front of you - don't let the weight of someone else's expectations push you into a future that's not meant for you. ...   I would sit with her, listen to her dreams, dry her tears, laugh at her jokes, but most of

Go figure. As soon as I declare myself a writer, life happens and I don't get to write. And now, I'm sitting at the computer, with a whisper of an idea in my brain, but not quite sure how to get it out. This may or may not make sense, but hang on and stay with me, because I will eventually get to a point.  I have this blue shirt. It's nothing special, just a shirt. I don't have any particular feelings about or attachments to it. It's just something to wear, then wash. I look good in blue, but that's really all I can say about it. It doesn't quite fit me these days, either the neckline dips a bit too low and reveals too much, or the hem creeps up and exposes my well-earned soft middle area. Some days, it just doesn't feel right. The arms are too tight, or too short, and I fiddle with it all day long, tugging and stretching, trying to make it look and feel the way I want it to look and feel.  I never quite get there, and yet I never think about donating

Have you ever offered encouragement to someone else, only to realise that it's exactly the encouragement that YOU need? This morning was hard. We had a birthday dinner last night, including one sorry-looking but completely delicious cake in the shape of a number two (the actual number, not a exaggerated description of the euphemistic usage of number two). So things were slightly off-schedule, as far as bedtime, etc. was concerned. Plus, my oldest girl was (and is) still recovering from this bout of nonspecific illness she's had for two weeks. Actually, to describe the challenge that was this morning, I have to start by telling you about yesterday. Yesterday was Monday, and the first day back to school for my oldest after missing 6 or 7 days of school. So the routine was unfamiliar at best, and completely absent at worst. We got through it though, and with two gorgeous children dispatched to their appropriate places of learning, we set out on the fortnightly shopping trip. It