From the Blog
Our daughter has recently acquired a new fear. I say acquired as we tend to collect fears in our family, like some people collect stamps. Ever since a seagull swooped down and took a chip —not even her chip, mind you, but a chip in the hand of someone standing nearby her— E has convinced herself that every bird, at every time, in every environment, is a chip-stealing, beady-eyed vigilante.
I’ve been doing a lot of washing lately. On first read this may sound virtuous, or, depending on who is reading this, downright depressing. But for me, when I start hitting the laundry, say, several times a day, it usually means my arms are trying to process what my heart can’t, won’t, or doesn’t want to yet. Sure, it’s not a glamourous or romantic form of escapism. I’m not driving into the sunset, windswept tendrils flying, shirking my responsibilities. I’m bending over a machine, perspiration on my forehead, swirling my confusion in with the powder and dettol. Because, sometimes you just want things to be clear, to see results. A load of dirty, crumpled washing in, a load of clean, fresh-smelling clarity out. Resolution. Achievement. A basket of chaos to a line full of order.
That’s my first thought as daughter E and I run-walk through the school’s side gate, awkwardly steering the double pram containing Baby J and the combined chaos of our morning…all the while trying to look cool as we kick up dust. If it feels big to me, it must feel enormous to her.
In an earlier post I called anxiety the great imposter. It’s a class-A actress. If anxiety were to audition for a role, especially one that involved threat of death or insanity, suffering, and plain-old-pain, anxiety would secure the lead. Because anxiety doesn’t just effect your mind, it inhabits your body too. Something a lot of people might not realise about anxiety is just how much it hurts physically…
By all predictions, it shouldn’t have been what it was. My hyper-vigilant, perfectly trained, parent-perfectionist-worrier-warrior radar had already assessed it. This day was meant to be B-A-D! The facts of the case were as follows: an over-tired mum ,with a sore throat, and an aching back…
3am. It’s become his hour. Doesn’t matter that we’ve just moved house. That we, his parents, are weeks behind on sleep. That the corridor looks different. Sounds different. No more creaky floorboards, but a whole lot more mileage between his room and ours. Maybe that’s the point. This kid with mussed-up bed hair that makes him look so cool and so young all at once, he climbs out of his ‘down-bed’ that he shares with his sister, and trips his way over toys and bedding to the light. And his high, distinct three year old voice calls it out loud and clear: ‘Mam-ma’.
Psalm 139:12. Romans 5:8-10. 2 Corinthians 4:7. On those days (or weeks, or months) when it feels like darkness is a swooping bird hanging over your head that just won’t let you go, remember: It’s okay to be not okay. Really.
It began simply enough, as significant events often do, with an exchange of gifts between young neighbour-friends on our shared front-lawn before we departed for an early holiday. It was starting to rain, and we adults were pondering the vicissitudes of the sky, when upstairs neighbour O, the eldest of the clan of kids, appeared with her signature blue gumboots. But instead of putting them on her own feet, she passed them to our daughter E. For jumping in muddy puddles, O elaborated, echoing wisdom imbibed from one of their mutual heroine’s, Miss Peppa Pig.
I left off the first section of this story at the turn of the years 2009-10, our fears and desires dangling prayerful and hopeful as we sat by the water of Lake Jindabyne. We were a month away from moving to a new city, a new job. Would a change of scene also mean a change of circumstance, a shift of inner landscapes as well as outer ones… perhaps even a resolution to our infertility impasse?
You desperately need something to shift. To give. And you know that it will. Sometime soon. It’s the way of things. One day seeps; unstoppable into another. Today’s narrow focus; becomes lost in tomorrow’s vast forgetfulness. The single; thing that never stops ticking-on is time. You can be sure of that.
Our daughter has recently acquired a new fear. I say acquired as we tend to collect fears in our family, like some people collect stamps. Ever since a seagull swooped down and took a chip —not even her chip, mind you, but a chip in the hand of someone standing nearby her— E has convinced herself that every bird, at every time, in every environment, is a chip-stealing, beady-eyed vigilante.
I’ve been doing a lot of washing lately. On first read this may sound virtuous, or, depending on who is reading this, downright depressing. But for me, when I start hitting the laundry, say, several times a day, it usually means my arms are trying to process what my heart can’t, won’t, or doesn’t want to yet. Sure, it’s not a glamourous or romantic form of escapism. I’m not driving into the sunset, windswept tendrils flying, shirking my responsibilities. I’m bending over a machine, perspiration on my forehead, swirling my confusion in with the powder and dettol. Because, sometimes you just want things to be clear, to see results. A load of dirty, crumpled washing in, a load of clean, fresh-smelling clarity out. Resolution. Achievement. A basket of chaos to a line full of order.
That’s my first thought as daughter E and I run-walk through the school’s side gate, awkwardly steering the double pram containing Baby J and the combined chaos of our morning…all the while trying to look cool as we kick up dust. If it feels big to me, it must feel enormous to her.
In an earlier post I called anxiety the great imposter. It’s a class-A actress. If anxiety were to audition for a role, especially one that involved threat of death or insanity, suffering, and plain-old-pain, anxiety would secure the lead. Because anxiety doesn’t just effect your mind, it inhabits your body too. Something a lot of people might not realise about anxiety is just how much it hurts physically…
By all predictions, it shouldn’t have been what it was. My hyper-vigilant, perfectly trained, parent-perfectionist-worrier-warrior radar had already assessed it. This day was meant to be B-A-D! The facts of the case were as follows: an over-tired mum ,with a sore throat, and an aching back…
3am. It’s become his hour. Doesn’t matter that we’ve just moved house. That we, his parents, are weeks behind on sleep. That the corridor looks different. Sounds different. No more creaky floorboards, but a whole lot more mileage between his room and ours. Maybe that’s the point. This kid with mussed-up bed hair that makes him look so cool and so young all at once, he climbs out of his ‘down-bed’ that he shares with his sister, and trips his way over toys and bedding to the light. And his high, distinct three year old voice calls it out loud and clear: ‘Mam-ma’.
Psalm 139:12. Romans 5:8-10. 2 Corinthians 4:7. On those days (or weeks, or months) when it feels like darkness is a swooping bird hanging over your head that just won’t let you go, remember: It’s okay to be not okay. Really.
It began simply enough, as significant events often do, with an exchange of gifts between young neighbour-friends on our shared front-lawn before we departed for an early holiday. It was starting to rain, and we adults were pondering the vicissitudes of the sky, when upstairs neighbour O, the eldest of the clan of kids, appeared with her signature blue gumboots. But instead of putting them on her own feet, she passed them to our daughter E. For jumping in muddy puddles, O elaborated, echoing wisdom imbibed from one of their mutual heroine’s, Miss Peppa Pig.
I left off the first section of this story at the turn of the years 2009-10, our fears and desires dangling prayerful and hopeful as we sat by the water of Lake Jindabyne. We were a month away from moving to a new city, a new job. Would a change of scene also mean a change of circumstance, a shift of inner landscapes as well as outer ones… perhaps even a resolution to our infertility impasse?
You desperately need something to shift. To give. And you know that it will. Sometime soon. It’s the way of things. One day seeps; unstoppable into another. Today’s narrow focus; becomes lost in tomorrow’s vast forgetfulness. The single; thing that never stops ticking-on is time. You can be sure of that.
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