Evolutionary Parenting

Every now and again, I like to log onto TED (www.ted.com) and watch inspiring videos of what humans are achieving in the world beyond my own small life.  Last night, whilst waiting for our younger DS to settle down, I thought I would lay in bed and catch up on what TED had to offer.  Out came my iPhone and before I knew it, I was relishing in the amalgamation of technology with medicine, mammoth artworks made from fishermen's nets and the attempted genetic modification of a chicken to create a chickenosaurus or dinochicken, because chickens are dinosaurs don't you know.

But one story that caught my attention was the talk entitled Let's Talk Parenting Taboos, delivered by Rufus Griscom and Alisa Volkman who own www.babble.com, an online portal for parents.   Rufus and Alisa start the talk off by saying that when they got married and fell pregnant, much was discussed by their friends and family about parenthood, but when the big day arrived, and the reality of parenthood set in, they realised that a vast amount  been omitted - the ugly stuff that doesn't get spoken about.  They wanted to create an online space that would tell it like it is and hence Babble was born.

What struck me was what they considered to be parenting taboos.  The first one they decided on is that it isn't always the case that dad's fall instantly in love with their newly delivered offspring.  Now, I don't know if it is because it was this was a TED conference and they didn't want to offend anyone, but I would have loved it if they also said that a lot of women don't feel instant love for their new offspring either.  I know that I desperately wanted a child when I fell pregnant with my first child.  However, when my DD arrived, I remember being totally overwhelmed, at the tender age of 24, by the enormity of the responsibility for which I had just signed up.  I just sat in the hospital bed and cried.   Yes, everyone thought I was crying from overwhelming love and happiness, and if my darling daughter is reading this, yes, honey, I was crying from overwhelming love and happiness, but also for the responsibility I suddenly felt ill prepared to take on - for the next 18 years of my life, which by the way turns out to be forever because you never do stop loving and wanting to protect your children.

I also cried because no-one told me that a women's stomach doesn't snap back into place the moment the baby is delivered.  As naive as it may sound, I genuinely believed that as soon as the baby was delivered, and the placenta along with it, my tummy would be as taught as before.  Imagine my shock when lying in my post delivery bath, I looked down to find my tummy skin ebbing and flowing to the ripple of the bath water.  Yes, people, ebbing and flowing!!  It was almost doing its own horizontal mexican wave!  I stood up to find that I had an apron and that I had to get back into my pregnancy clothing.  Now it is true that I put on a whopping 23kgs with my first child.  Everyone kept telling me I was too young and not ready for a child (and judging by my reaction above, they were probably right), so I ate to look pregnant.  It was a totally conscious decision.  I thought, rather than wait for the four or five months to start showing, that if I helped nature along a bit, gained enough weight and started to look pregnant people would applaud my life nurturing decision rather than tell me I wasn't ready for it.  So, yes, I probably was around 12kgs too heavy when my child entered into the world.  However, nothing had prepared me for the flap of skin that was left behind.  I don't remember reading that the uterus takes a long time (weeks) to shrink back to its original walnut size.  Of course, now in my forties, I realise that biologically it would be impossible for a muscle that was the size of a walnut stretched to the size of a watermelon, to suddenly snap back to its original size.  But at the time, I didn't know.  I was humiliated by my changed body and I didn't know what to do, so I cried.

The second taboo mentioned was that of being lonely when you have a baby.  This is one with which I definitely agreed.  No-one does tell you how lonely it is.  All you imagine is you sitting there with your baby playing blocks, its beautiful eyes staring at you, giggling.  Oh, how life is going to be wonderful.  All I can say is curse you nappy and baby cream ads.   What they don't tell you is that babies actually don't interact at all for the first six weeks (they only smile at four weeks and that's only if you don't mistake it for wind) and not much until around 6 months when they start being able to sit up and see the world around them.  All they do is eat, poop, sleep and cry.  Boy do they cry.  No-one tells you that the crying unnerves you and no amount of times going through the routine taught to you in ante natal classes (are they hungry, wet, full of wind, tired) can save you from the ever-eroding self confidence that a new mother inevitably undergoes.  I was constantly on the phone to my mom asking if I was doing something wrong.  The confidence of my youth was rapidly leaving me (and is only now, after one has left home, starting to return to anywhere near its former glory).

Suddenly, my friends, who weren't in committed relationships, never mind ready to have babies, no longer saw the fun in me as a person.  I couldn't go to restaurants, to the movies and even walking the dog proved to be like a mission impossible.  I would try to cook but that was impossible (you will hear mothers talk about how they learned to peel potatoes with one hand.  I used to think that was a crock, but it's true, you do learn how to do that).  I would try to talk on the phone - impossible.  Anything and everything is impossible to complete when you have a baby.  Do not believe the Wii Fit ad that has that woman with the triplets doing ten minutes of a fitness routine whilst her babies sit and smile at her.  It's rubbish!  I found myself wondering what age is the youngest you can send a child to preschool and I found myself envying those mothers that "had to work".  I wondered whose dumb idea was it that I would be a stay at home mom!  This was not the fun I imagined it to be, that was for sure.

Then, around a year to 15 months they start to walk.  Oh, that's fun!  They don't so much walk as catapult themselves around a room.  You pretty much find yourself standing permanently trying to catch them from doing some harm to themselves because they are only as tall as the nearest coffee tables.  Suddenly, seemingly innocuous furniture seem to grow monstrous personalities that are determined to harm your child (for whom you now do have an overwhelming love and protection).  Socialising is just exhausting.  I remember my sister yelling at me once when my child kept interrupting me and I would break our conversation to hear what my DD had to say.  "Can I not have a conversation with you without being overshadowed by a four year old!" she yelled.  I felt awful, torn between my sister, who I didn't see that often, and an incredibly demanding four year old who had no concept of "in a while darling, mummy's just talking."  Thankfully, years later, my sister phoned me to apologise after the birth of her two children.  Suddenly, having joined the Lonely Parent of a Demanding Child Club, she totally understood.

The other two taboos was the fact that a woman is not allowed or supposed to talk about her miscarriage and that you can't say that your average happiness has declined.  I will leave the miscarriage for another post as it warrants that, but again, I agree with the fact that parents on the whole feel compelled to say how much better their lives have been since they had children.  I believe that my children have enriched my life in ways that I could not have ever experienced had I chosen not to have children and I have definitely matured (you can spot the fifty year olds who have never had kids a mile off), but there were times when I felt so low, as a parent, as a person and as a woman, that I wondered if it was always worth it.  Parenting is hard.  You lose yourself, or at least I felt to some (I admit quite shamefully, large) degree, I had lost myself.  I did not want to be defined by my children and I didn't want to be defined by motherhood and in fact I fought against it - a lot.  I spurned the mother's groups, the forced kids activities, the let's stay at the party moms, now I realise, much to my own detriment.  It took me a long time to reconcile  that my role as a mother would take over everything else I had to offer as a person.  I was definitely never prepared for that.

As I sit here today, with my 18 DD now living with her boyfriend some 20 minutes away, independent, strong, I believe I must have done something right on the very rough road of parenthood.  She is not conventional, opting against university, wanting to do things her way - much like her mother.  I see people's reactions when they hear that she isn't going to university and has moved in with her boyfriend, but I don't care, I am so proud of her and the wonderfully sensitive, kind and compassionate human being she has become (a sure sign of a totally biassed mother).  When the time comes for her to have children, I will gush and goo and tell her how wonderful motherhood is, but I will also tell her all the things that people don't mention - the shock, the loneliness, how your pubic bone hurts like hell as your womb grows, and how some people are unfortunate enough to get piles, among others.  My parenting journey may have been a rocky one, much like everyone's I reckon, but that doesn't mean it wasn't a valuable one that did result in a love for my two children that is so huge that my heart wants to burst every time I clap eyes them.  I call it Evolutionary Parenting!

Clinical depression and weightloss

Well, this week, I was diagnosed with clinical depression.  I've known it for a long time.  Even before my mom died last year, I knew my soul was injured and the physical me just withdrew further and further into the shell of my home.  I no longer see any friends, I feel my family is broken, especially with the death of my mom and I feel like a total failure as a wife and mother.  It was inevitable that I was going to break down, although I tried for the longest time to hold it all together.  My sister and husband had seen the signs for years, although I was in total denial.  My will to live was reaching an all time low.

So, I ended up at the doctor and the diagnosis was delivered.  Medication, therapy and group support have been prescribed so, it would seem, all is in hand.  But, I don't want to bang on about my depression - it consumes every fibre of my being - I really want to focus on how I am going to beat it.  As you know, 15 months ago, I became sober, giving up alcohol totally, so that is a step in the right direction, although it would appear, not enough to help life my depression.

The next thing on my list is my weight.  I am 30kgs overweight, which is a lot to lug around every day.  I cannot deny that it affects me in every way.  I hate going out socialising because I always feel like a giant (I am usually the tallest and the fattest), I definitely avoid the beach (and I live near some beautiful beaches), it goes without saying that I loathe clothes shopping and even being at work, I feel like I have nothing to contribute because how can someone as overweight as I am be taken seriously.  I conveniently have a desk at work that faces the corner with my back to everyone else.  It has come to suit me very well - like the proverbial ostrich that buries their head in the sand, I feel like if I can't see them, then they can't see (and be appalled by) me.

Of course, for the last five years, I have avidly watched the Biggest Loser and for the last five years I have been in awe at firstly, the immense bravery of the contestants showing their bodies in front of a nation, and secondly, the transformation.  As I sat on my recliner with my feet up, stuffing my face with chocolate, I have wished like hell that I could find the motivation to stick to a diet and lose the weight, thereby enacting my own transformation.  Of course, for five years, nothing has changed - well, except for my weight, which has increased in that time.

So, this week, I joined the online Biggest Loser club.  This is not the first time I have done this - like most habitual dieters, I do a rotation of all the popular diets; weight watchers, tony ferguson, biggest loser - but there is something about the Biggest Loser that I like.  I guess having a series attached to it makes it real, inspirational and with that is the notion that perhaps, just perhaps, I could achieve the same results.  My first week, I have lost 1.4kgs, but I have to confess this is not through sticking to the program.  It is probably more about not eating as much chocolate, although that can't be true - we've just had easter for goodness sake.  For whatever reason, I have lost it, and it is quite nice to see I have lost "one blob".

Tonight hubby and I were watching the Biggest Loser and the last five contestants did the reflective hike where, during a long hike, at intervals the weight they have lost is put into a backpack.  By the end of the hike, they are carrying the weight they have lost, effectively weighing what they weighed in the beginning.  After the program, hubby came up with the bright idea of getting me to feel the weight that I am carrying, thereby giving me a physical representation of how my weight is affecting my energy levels, and hence my mood.  Before I knew it out came the hiking back pack (now moulding after years of lack of use) and hubby was scouting the house for items that would add up to the 30kgs I had to lose. And this is the result:

Normally, I wouldn't show myself in such a public fashion but in the spirit of attempting to emerge from the dark cloud that sits with me, I decided to be honest with myself and confront the reality.

This is what hubby scouted around the house to put into the bag - yes, an entire set of dumbell weights, numerous books and a cast iron lid!!

I can tell you, it was quite horrible to carry it.  Hubby's passing comment? "How can you possibly feel well carrying this around, my love."  How very true!

The Wrath of Nature

Our televisions have recently been filled with images of the devastation that have hit Christchurch in New Zealand as well as the catastrophe that hit Japan. One woman in Christchurch survived the quake, only to return to her home to find an enormous boulder, dislodged from the mountain above from an aftershock, had ripped through her house like some wrecking ball on a mission. She was lucky, unlike others who, having survived the earthquake and had returned to their homes to survey the damage, had been killed by other renegade boulders.

The devastation has been huge with the water particularly being affected by sewerage pipes that were ripped apart in the earthquakes in Christchurch and the radiation contamination in Fukushima. As I watched the coverage, I wondered what Mother Nature is up to? I mean, since the beginning of the year, we have seen Queensland and Victoria devastated by flood, Western Australia devastated by fire, birds seemingly randomly falling out the of the sky, Christchurch devastated by an earthquake, not to mention the catastrophe that continues to unfold in Japan - and we haven't even got to the end of April. It seems that every week we are seeing footage of one disaster or another.

A quick gander across some forums tell of a story of the beginning of armageddon. With all these disasters befalling the world, wouldn't now be a good time to find Jesus, we are asked in one. This is the beginning of the end of the world, it has been foretold by the end of the Mayan calendar, 21st December 2012 is the end of the world, we are told by another. Climate change advocates tell us that this is the result of our wanton disregard for the precious resources that the earth provides, that the greed that capitalism engenders and the prolific consumerism that it encourages is slowly killing the earth and now it is fighting back. It certainly does seem like Mother Nature is groaning under the strain of all that is going on in our world.

We stand at a population of nearly seven billion, more than double the population in 1965. Surely we have to ask ourselves if this is indeed sustainable. Is it any wonder that Mother Nature is reacting. Are these just random acts of devastation, or is this indeed an earth that is yelling out for us to be more accountable, more considerate, to stop the consumerism, to stop the wars and to find some way to live in harmony with the wonderful gifts with which She provides us every day. It is certainly food for thought, don't you think?

Traditional Family Values - Extinct?

Whilst on my way to work today, I tuned in to my local radio station. The topic for the ten minutes was whether or not traditional family values exist. The argument, according to the middle aged presenter, was that The Brady Bunch should return to our screens so that current up and coming youngsters can learn what true traditional family values are all about. The Brady Bunch episodes would always culminate in the entire family being together either at the dining table or in the lounge discussing the moral of the episode - the proverbial image of families talking together and solving problems together. The lines were then opened to hear what the general public thought about this notion and indeed the notion of traditional family values and whether or not they still exist.

An expert was called in who categorically declared that the traditional family values of sitting down and eating together do not exist and that it is due to technology that this is the case. Then a plethora of people called in. Most of them wanted to make me puke. You know the kind. The goody-two-shoes types you used to hate at school who would tell on you if you were passing notes. I listened as mom after mom phoned in to say that they had traditional family values and that they insisted upon it in their family (not a hint of jealousy there, see?). I wanted to hit each and every one of them. I preferred the ones that phoned in to say that it was a miracle if their family got to see each other for more than five minutes in a week. In fact, I liked them a lot.

This got me to thinking. Why was it that I despised the family-value supermoms and loved the family-value wrecks. Was it because that I indeed fell into the category of the latter. Let us have a look at it. I am in my forty's. I have a husband, an 18 year old and a nearly 13 year old. I work part-time, my 18 year old is hardly ever at home and the only time we get to talk is in the car when I am ferrying her from one place to another (which admittedly is quite frequently). However, she announced the other day that she really hates my incessant questions in the car, to which I snapped that I wouldn't ask so many questions if she would volunteer some information on her life, rather than have me extract them like some painfully wedged in wisdom tooth. Strike one there then.

Our 13 year old has PDD-NOS and Sensory Processing Disorder. For those unenlightened (as we once were), PDD-NOS (which is short for Pervasive Developmental Disorder - Not Otherwise Specified) is a mild form of autism and SPD is a condition that renders the sufferer unable to filter sensory input. They, by default, find communication on any standard level extremely difficult.

And isn't that the point of the Traditional Family Value (which we shall term TFV for short) of getting together at the end of the day? For families to get together to communicate, to talk about their day and find solutions to the day's problems as a collective family? I wondered at my own upbringing and tried to remember our TFVs. We sure enough sat down each night to eat at the dinner table, but more often than not, my parents would end up arguing. Us three kids would just look at each other, rolling our eyes, sighing at yet another chaotic meal. Eventually, my father would insult my mother and I, being the eldest and feeling the most protective of my mother would jump in and have my say too. We invariably would end up in our rooms not talking at all (and even perhaps a bit hungry because the meal had not been finished). However, sure enough, the next night, we would all have to sit down to begin the ritual again. By the time I was 15, I began a protest and simply refused to eat at the dinner table.

When I became a mother, I imagined a life of TFVs and the Brady Bunch image of eating together, talking through our problems and celebrating our successes together. But, alas, the reality just didn't gel. I was exhausted, suffered terribly with post natal depression and it was all I could do to get the food down the baby's throat so I could curl up and find some blissful sleep. As the children got older, I returned to study and then to work. Time became an issue. The children couldn't wait for my husband to get home as they would be too hungry, so I would feed them early. Being almost six years apart, the conversation was somewhat difficult. They certainly did not want to communicate with each other. I would try to eat with them, but gave it up in favour of adult conversation later in the evening. While they were eating, I would try to complete household tasks so that my house didn't permanently look like a bombed flat in Beirut. The TFV dream seemed to be slipping away.

Eventually, I didn't even think about the TFVs. We succumbed to technology (which, frankly, I love). A TV and laptop in each room and a mobile phone for each person. When we have dinner, sometimes we manage to eat together, but more often than not we don't. TV eating is big in our household. I get the feeling I should be ashamed of that, but somehow, actually I'm not. I realise that society's demands are a double-edged sword. It demands as a mother you expose your children to as many activities as is humanly possible, jamming their every waking moment with some learning experience. But then, you also have to make sure that they have enough time to slow down and sit quietly at the dinner table (and even at lunch on the weekend) to talk and be together. Frankly, with all the activity we are shoving at them, it is incredible they even have the energy to eat, let alone talk and solve problems as well.

As it happens, neither of our children do 'activities'. They are extremely anti-competitive and as such don't do sport/music/dance. Our 18 year old doesn't talk, full stop. It wouldn't matter if we made her sit down and eat with us, she would still glare at me every time I asked her a question about her life, like I was invading her privacy. Our son blurts out random things whether we are at the table or not. As parents we can make sense of what he is saying, but again, sitting at the dinner table would have no baring on that at all. As for my husband and I, well, we have always done our talking in bed (among other things), when we have crashed after a very tiring day of working, cleaning, cooking, running kids around, etc., etc.

In fact, I am wondering, really, why we have a dining table at all. All it is used for is a dumping ground and on which to do homework when the kids don't want to be in the study. I guess it is a symbol. A symbol of an ideal - of a family that sits around it at each and every meal time, talking animatedly about their days, sharing and caring in that Brady Bunch way. I guess it is an allusion to a TFV I once wished I had, but now realise is just a pipe dream (loaded with guilt for the time strapped mother). Maybe one day, in act of rebellion, I will burn it, but for now, I'll keep it ... just in case.

Change is hard to accept

Wow, three months since my last post. A lot has happened.

It is funny how life is in a constant state of flux. Nothing ever stays the same. It is a lesson that I have been slow to learn and I still struggle to accept. Today, I am having to cope with yet another major change in my life. Our 18 year DD is 'leaving home'. I put the words in inverted commas because she isn't really leaving home in the "this is it, I now have a new address" sense. Rather, she has a new boyfriend and now spends more time at his house than she does at home.

I am surfing unfamiliar territory here. My darling hubby is totally accepting of the situation, citing that this is natural and exactly what should happen. I am less accepting of this situation. As if the loss of my mom was not enough, I feel a deep sense of loss for my daughter as well. I know that technically she still lives with us, but we recently went on a two week holiday, and she opted not to come with us. Then when we returned she opted to stay with her boyfriend and told us that she would see us "sometime on the weekend". Ridiculously, I have taken this totally personally.

My mom was my best, and at times, my only friend. I struggle to make friends largely because I am a bit of a homely hermit and tend to stay indoors a lot (plonking away on my computer or surfing the net on my insatiable quest for information). When I lived in the UK, my mom and I would meet up three or four times a week and talk and window shop for hours (I have mentioned this before). I guess my expectation was that my relationship with my daughter would be the same. I had this idea that she would want to spend time with me and we would talk for hours on end laughing and revelling in each others company. Romanticised, hey? But our relationship is nothing like it. Our DD is head strong and quite independent (except when it comes to getting a job and earning her own money, but more of that another time). For the last two and a half years at least her friends have been far more important to her than her family. I have no way of knowing if this is normal. I never had a huge circle of friends and up until the age of 38 stayed very close to my parents and in particular my mom. I do remember my boyfriend being more important to me than my parents and lying to them to be with him when they forbid it - does that count?

My husband says that it is perfectly normal and a good indication that we have done a good job. She feels confident enough to go out into the world and be her own person. I still worry and I am not enjoying this new change that is settling on our family. Our son is now essentially an only child (which, frankly, he seems to be enjoying just a bit too much). I feel like I am going through an empty nest syndrome without all of my children having left home!

We have yet to meet the boyfriend, but when I speak to her on the phone, she is elated with him. He seems to tick all the right boxes - good education, employed, independent - but that doesn't mean anything really, does it? I just wonder if I am being over protective or, dare I say it, selfish. The last two years have been difficult for her and I. I am strong and quite volatile. I was brought up fearing the wrath of my father, and fear him I did. At times I would "lose it" and apply the same tactic with her, especially when I felt disrespected by her but she would respond by being more head strong and simply doing her own thing. It created a huge rift between us. My mom said that it was karma because I was the same when I was her age but I don't remember being quite so headstrong. Maybe I was, I don't know.

The upshot is that I don't want her to leave home. I want her to stay a little longer so we can become friends and mend what I perceive to be the rift. I feel desperate, like a child. She is the mature one - independent, knows her own mind. I have never had that confidence. I've always second guessed myself - even now as my daughter prepares to venture into the world, I am wondering if I have done a good enough job and feeling wounded by the fact that my 18 year old doesn't want to spend more time with her 42 year old mother.

Of course, as I am writing this, I realise just how full of self pity I am and how much "it's all about me" I have become. I have probably been this way for at least five years, but no doubt longer. Our daughter is safe, well and happy. Why can I not be happy for her and for the fact that we have brought her up to know her own mind? Because in my mind, I expected her to fill the role that I filled for my mom - as friend and confidante. You see, I am realising with me that it is all about expectations, of which I seem to have many, and that when those expectations are not met, and they rarely are, I am almost devastated. It takes me a long while to adjust course and be happy with the new direction as it were.

I am reading a lot about living outside of oneself. Living to do for others rather than concentrating on what is going 'wrong' in one's life - the perfect antidote to self pity. I think that I realise that I have lived a great deal of my life lamenting what has not gone according to my expectations and that I need to start living outside of myself. It is hard for a person that is very introspective, rarely ventures out except to work and shop and is used to getting her own way to accept this, but accept this I must. At the age of 18 my daughter is brave and strong and able to face the world and 42 years into my life, I must do the same.

Time is no friend of mine

Today is another sad day. The sun is shining, a glorious day. But my heart, my heart is a black jagged rock. Lifeless, sick. I am exhausted. I loathe the exhaustion. I loathe the process of mourning. I am motherless and I loathe that even more.

When I was pregnant with my first DD, I would scour books to find out what being a mother entailed, and I would look for stories on what it was like. I had this "need to know" desire to know what to expect. People, usually moms, would see me and smile. "You know," they would say, "nothing can prepare you for motherhood. It is something you just have to experience." In my naivite, I did not believe them. I continued to pour over those books. Of course, when the day finally came for my DD to arrive, the penny dropped and I knew exactly what those people meant.

I believe the same can be said for losing a mother. I used to nurse, so I have seen a lot of death and witnessed a lot of loss. I have seen people lose friends, siblings, relatives, parents and children. I have seen people have lingering illnesses that ravaged their bodies until they died, and I have seen people die suddenly, with no warning. I have watched as family and friends reacted to both scenarios with varying degrees of grief and relief.

Then, to add to my schooling on loss, when I was 25, my first husband, died in a scuba diving accident. He left me and our 16 month old daughter behind. He had been my high school sweetheart and my best friend. Despite us not having the most harmonious marriage, I felt the loss greatly and knew, at that very moment, that life would never be the same again.

Fifteen years after that loss, with my nursing career over, a new husband and another child in tow, I imagined that I had graduated quite well from the school of loss and felt that I probably would not have to go back to that school for quite some time - say, in another 20 years or so. I also felt that when that time came, having already lived through so much loss, having experienced it professionally and personally, I would be ready and would cope with it not only well, but with aplomb. I was wrong.

Nothing and no-one can prepare a daughter for the loss of her mother. I am sure that losing a mother for a son is equally painful, but since I am not male, I can only speak from my own female experience. It sucks. Big Time! With the passing of my husband, I found that time was indeed the great healer that old wise men say it is. In time, I allowed myself to be open to new opportunities and eventually to love and, yes, live again. I thought on my first husband with fondness and love, but I loved my new (and current) husband in a totally different way. And I knew that this was not only okay, but right.

Not so, with losing a mother. Far from being my friend, I am finding time is my enemy. With each new day (and it has been 105 days since her death), I find living life increasingly difficult. As time passes, images of her last day of life haunt me. I find myself screaming out inside my mind, wishing I had said and done so much more with her before she passed. I try frantically to remember the sound of her voice, the feel of her touch and I lament the fact that she is no longer here to help me make sense of a world I have always found a challenge. I feel like a young fledgling that has been forced to leave the nest, to make its own way in the world, but I am the one who clings on to that nest for dear life, begging not to be made to go.

My heart cries out for a face I will never see in the flesh again, for experiences I will never get to share. I long for advice on my children that only a mother can give, based on that mutual sense of knowing. I feel so alone. I brim constantly under the threat of sobs, my heart physically aches. I sit in a house that needs a mother's attention - unable to move, no longer able to care. My own children are bewildered, unable to understand the loss I am experiencing. How can they until they themselves walk this path? I want to cry out at the thought of this pain that they may one day be forced to suffer.

How is it possible to move past this mire? Time is no friend, that is for sure. With each day, I am reminded time and again that my mother is gone forever. Never again will I be able to phone her just to say hi, or that I am having a bad day, a good day or that one of the children drove me round the bend today. Never again will I hear her excitement at her achievements, and have her delight in mine. Never again will I be able to wander ALL day around the shops, chattering constantly, buying nothing, because neither of us have money, but going home feeling like it has been the best day ever. Never again will my husband say "What on earth do you two find to talk about ALL day?" How could he understand that mothers and daughters always have lots to say to each other?

I wander when the hole in the soul gets filled. I wander when my own life starts to take on meaning of its own, knowing that the thread that bound me to my mother, has been severed, never to be repaired. How do you reconcile that? How does a daughter reconcile that the woman who gave her life, who taught her everything she knows about being a woman, wife and mother, who is so inextricably linked to who you are and are likely to ever be, is gone, forever.

I feel like a rudderless ship, sailing in a squall filled ocean, unable to see my way clear of where I am headed, being tossed about this way and that, constantly feeling sea-sick to boot. I am unable to help my ship mates or those around me because it is all I can do to hold on myself. I feel like rain is pelting my face, stinging, and I am wondering when, if ever, the storm will pass. My logic, of course, says to me it will. I will eventually pass through the storm; no longer will the rain be pelting my face, and slowly, I will be able to emerge, standing on my own two feet, strong enough to provide some sort of assistance to those around me. But I suspect that my rudder will be irreparable. I will no doubt have to replace it with an invention of my own, but I somehow feel that it won't be the same, as good or as efficient, as the original.

Until then, I guess it is just a matter of riding the storm of loss, where time is no friend, and the ocean is vast. Such is a motherless daughter's lot.

Alcoholism, Autism and Death

October 2010. 10 months into the year - the year that has decidedly been the annus horribilus of my 42 years of life. This year, I discovered I was an alcoholic, my son was diagnosed with autism and my mother died. Add into the mix an 18-year old daughter who took it upon herself to push every single boundary a parent could put into place, and you have the recipe for a melt down.

I don't want to sound like I am wallowing in my own misery here. Well, actually, I am wallowing in my own misery and, right now, I don't care.

It seems to me that the minute I gave up drinking, my elixir of emotional escape, life threw at me what can only be described as one massive curve ball after another. Discovering that our youngest DD has autism (not Aspergers after all, but High Functioning Autism), was a bitter pill to swallow. When he was nearly 6, he was diagnosed with ADHD/ODD (oppositional defiance disorder) and through that diagnosis, we treated him behaviourally as best we could, often pushing the boundary in an attempt to get him to move outside of his comfort zone. We had no idea that what we were doing was traumatising him because he suffers enormous sensory overload and that his 'small world' is an attempt to control that sensory overload to within bearable limits for him. Not knowing what life holds for him is worrying too.

DD begins high school next year, and we have no idea how he will cope with the change of school, the demands of changing classrooms for each subject and the demands of homework three or four times a week. It is all I can do to get him to do his homework once a week!!

And, as if the universe hadn't thrown enough at me, my mother got lung cancer, after having given up smoking 26 years ago, and passed away just 8 incredibly short weeks after receiving her diagnosis. My mom was the one woman in the world who knew me, who never judged me and, who, to me, was goodness personified. I was not ready to have her suddenly ripped from life and from me.

Mom's last days were not good. I wish I could say that she slipped away peacefully. She looked peaceful enough, but I know that is because the drugs kept her below the surface of consciousness. She did not want to die. Who does at the age of 62? As the days progressed and breathing for her became more difficult, she kept crying, saying that she was going to miss everyone so much. She worried particularly about dad. Always thinking of someone other than herself. On the Sunday before she died, I attended her and my dad's baptism. I am not a religious person, but I wanted to share in what was clearly very important to my mom, and of course, my dad. It was emotional, and those that were there said it was 'beautiful'. I don't agree. I found no beauty in witnessing my mom pleading with God not to take her life, apologising for wishing she could die in the days when my dad drank, and would verbally abuse her in his drunken state. I found no beauty in her belief that she may be being punished for wanting to die at a time in her life that was almost unbearable to live, despite dad being sober for 26 years and their marriage being happy and solid since. I saw no beauty in how everyone thought it was a miracle that my mom had committed her life to God 'only' a couple of months before she was diagnosed with lung cancer. Where was the miracle, where was the justice?

In her last day of life, Mom was really restless, unable to urinate because her morphine interfered with her kidney operation. The doctor came to see her, and we were told that she would not last much longer. We tried to make her comfortable on the sofa, whilst we waited for a hospital bed. My sister massaged her legs, whilst the house became an endless platform of people coming to say goodbye - a testament to the love that Mom imbued. In a quiet moment, I sat next to her, holding her hand (I loved her hands). "I love you, Mom", I said. "I love you", she whispered, still restless. Those were the last words she would ever say to me.

Eventually, having not been able to wee for a day and a half, and after a couple of attempts to drag her to the toilet (and I say dragging because the disease had gripped her so much that she was barely conscious), the home care nurses came to catheterise her. As they did so, she cried out whilst thrashing about, wide-eyed, like a caged animal, "Help me!". It was barely audible because her voice had been taken by the tumour, but her expression said everything she wanted to say. We had to hold her down whilst trying to get that damn tube inside her. My mom, this once poised and gentle woman, was being violated in her own lounge. She was aware she was dying, I am sure of it. Mom had said that in her dying moments she would like to utter something profound, something that people would always remember, but it wasn't to be. "Help me" were the last words she ever uttered. 12 hours later, under the cover of a series of drugs and, no doubt, the comfort of an empty bladder, she died.

I cannot begin to describe how the loss has affected me. I am a motherless daughter and mother and I feel wretched having been forced to join that club. I do not make friends easily. I have trust issues and I find the effort of keeping friendships going quite difficult to maintain. Mom knew that and just accepted me for who I was. I have lost the one person who understood my psyche, who understood my difficulty with the injustices in the world and my inability to do anything about it. She understood my ever changing mind, and my fierce struggle for justice for Jordan. She understood the reason why I was totally overprotective of our eldest DD and she understood that even though I so desperately wanted to, I simply did not have the energy to be the domestic goddess I believed her to be. The moment Mom died, I felt all my inadequacies woosh at me, as the realisation hit me that I would never find, in anyone, the love that she had for me, warts and all.

I know that I see mom's death not in terms of what was taken from her, but what was taken from me. I know it is selfish, but again, I reiterate, I don't care.

In the nearly four months since Mom's death, I have found life difficult. I have indulged in the seduction of depression, not wanting to see anyone or do anything. I have managed to get out of bed, and 'function', but the reality is that I am nursing a broken heart and a broken soul. People say that time heals all, but I have yet to experience that. I do not know if time will heal the hole inside of me that has been left behind by my mother. Perhaps time will enable me to cope with the wound a little better, but I am not sure if it will ever heal.

So, here I am, able to write again, which is progress in itself and trying to look forward to the next stage of my life. Our house is on the market and I am looking forward to moving into our new house in a new community. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine that when we bought that house 15 months ago, it would represent a true step into a new future, leaving behind all the bad that has happened this year. I know that life is hard (Dhukka - first noble truth of buddhism) and I know that nothing ever stays the same, but I cannot help myself hoping for a couple uneventful years. Years that will allow me to get used to the notion of living in the moment, remembering the wonderful woman that was my mom and enabling me to be there for my autistic son who is going to need his own mother now more than ever.

Until next time.

We need more time

Today is a beautiful day. The sun is shining, blue skies everywhere, birds flying in and out of the bird feeder and pond in my parents' back garden and you could easily be fooled into thinking life is good. I went into my mom's bedroom and lay with her for a while. We chatted about the events of yesterday and she commented on the beautiful day it was. "I must get out today", she said, "but after I have had a bit more rest, I am tired today." Comments like those are becoming more frequent.

My dad is frustrated. He believes that we are all giving in. He wants a remission and I feel for him. We all want that, but he feels he is the only one who is trying to fight for it. I left my mom to rest and my dad went into the room. Their room is actually inside a conservatory. Light floods the room and mom has a wonderful view of their beautiful garden. I would love that view when the time came for me to go. I hear dad say that he won't allow her to stay in their room all day and her pleading with him, saying that she is not giving in, but just needs to rest.

I understand dad's frustration. He has been the patriarch of our family for ever. Always in control, always the problem solver. Volatile, but passionately in love with his family. Now, faced with a problem he cannot solve, frustration and vulnerability have overtaken him. At times, we have caught him crying and as my sister and I have approached to comfort him, anger flashes in his eyes and he orders us to leave him alone. Even now, the only person he can let close to him is my mom. I fear for him, for how he will really cope without her. The cracks have started to show - some of his behaviours have been irrational and not like him, although the way he is handling the stress is very much like him, only ten times worse. I have assured my mom that he will be taken care of, that he can come and live with us, if he wants to.

Mom is so worried about him. In fact, she is worried about everyone. This process of watching mom die seems to have brought out the worst in us, rather than the best. I am usually the peace keeper and healer in the family, and yet I have turned into a ball of anger, finding fault in everyone except myself. I feel martyred at times, resentful of all that I am doing for everyone else and feeling like no-one appreciates me. My sister, struggling with so much outside of this journey, seems to me to be a shadow of the person she was. My brother has retreated to the sanctuary of his family and who can blame him. Watching someone you love ebb into death is not easy. My poor dad is trying so hard to keep us all going. To keep us believing that mom will find a way to go into remission, to give us more time to have with her. I, sadly, do not have that faith and my lack of religion/God belief does not allow me to pray for it, what is the point?

I love going through to my mom in the mornings. I lie with her on the bed, in my pyjamas. I find myself studying her. Her eyes are so blue and so kind. They are eyes that have seen heartache, but have loved so much. I study her hair, now shaved. I love the shape of her head. Her ears stick out and I absolutely love them. She seems so fragile lying in bed. I usually suggest we do something for that day, she usually agrees but asks for time to rest, just a bit longer.

I have noticed that she is wanting to sleep more. Our palliative nurse said this would happen. She said that the cancer needs energy to grow, and that it draws this from the body. This starves the body of energy and so the body's response is to sleep, since the lack of energy will make you tired. Bit by bit, the body will shut down as the tumour grows and your body is starved of more energy and eventually, you will slip away. Watching mom sleep fills me with dread. I know that while she sleeps that monster growing inside of her is drawing energy from her increasingly weak body. I know that when she puts off going out with me on a beautiful summer's day to sleep, it is because the monster is willing for more of my mom to help it grow.

A frustration rises in me again. Why isn' she getting the treatment she needs, even to just keep the tumour at bay for a short while. Why can't people see the urgency? Why can't they see that we need more time, mom needs more time?

As I sit here looking out into the beautiful clear sky, watching the birds, and admiring the glorious garden, I wonder how much time we have. All of our days are numbered, for certain, but mom's days are much fewer. Each day I wake up and think, another day gone. I do celebrate her life and the wonderful person she is, but, perhaps selfishly, I look to the skies and rue the timeline that is our life and the shortened version that is my mom's. My mom is so gentle and kind and I can't help thinking, "We just need more time".

A hope that once was but now is lost!

Waiting for someone to die is crap! And that is what I am doing. I am here, in the UK, separated from my husband and children, waiting for my mom, who happens to be my best friend, to die.

We have been told that her lung cancer is so far advanced that there is no way of curing her, that there is no hope. Okay, I try to process that. Having been a nurse for a short stint, I know lung cancer is really not the kind of cancer you want to get. We are then told though, that all is not lost because the cancer is treatable. Treatable, but not curable. What the hell does that mean? Well, it means that they can offer palliative (not curative) treatment, which basically means she is being offered a very diluted form of radiation therapy or chemotherapy, which may or may not reduce the tumour to a size that will alleviate some of the symptoms she will experience whilst on the journey to death. I note that the news is kind of delivered in a tone that says we should be grateful for this 'life'line. My parents struggle to understand and initally believe that they are being offered a chance at survival. Impatience is detected in the doctor's voice as he, again, reiterates that my mom is going to die.

This news was delivered six weeks ago and, yet, my mom is still waiting for this so called treatment to begin. In fact, in that time, we have been told that unfortunately the cancer has spread to the brain and that the original treatment being offered to treat the tumour in the lung has to be put on hold, so that radiation therapy can be started on the brain tumour. That was three weeks ago! The treatment only begins on the 28th June which will last for five days. She then has to wait another three weeks before she is able to start the chemo on her lung tumour, and only then if she is well enough.

My mom was informed of her diagnosis on the 12th May and given a prognosis of around two months to live. This then begs the question: Why are they even bothering on the 28th June, since, really, according to them, she only has another two weeks to live? Mom is of the opinion that they know she is going to die, and they are actually delaying treatment in the hope that she will die, so the NHS won't have to pay for any treatment. At first, I believed that to be a very cynical point of view, but now I totally agree with her.

Do I sound pissed off? You can be certain that I am spitting nails right now. This is a system that has totally failed my parents, and my mother especially. No-one cares. We have spoken to so many people, right from the oncologist to the MP of the local area to try and expedite the treatment that offers her no real hope and for which we should be eternally grateful. But, truthfully, no-one gives a damn about a 62 year old woman who is being taken from this earth far too early. No-one gives a damn about a family who has been given no time to prepare for the end, and who are trying desperately to hold some level of sanity whilst the insanity of death unfolds each and every day. And why should anyone care? She is only a statistic after all. A no-hope case that is just costing the NHS money. Not a woman who is courageously trying to die with some dignity, whilst being a support to her family like she has always been, despite us trying not to need her so much. Not a woman, who despite dying of cancer, shaved her head so that she could raise money for charity for a little girl who captured her heart. No, to the political cogs that turn the NHS, she is just a nobody and there is no denying that the venom I feel towards those political cogs right now is unsurpassed any venom I have felt towards anyone or any thing.

Today, my heart has physically ached - all day. I never used to have this kind of feeling when I felt sad, but my first husband passed away when I was 25 years old and ever since then, when I feel extreme sadness, my heart literally physically aches. Today it has ached more than ever before.

When I arrived six weeks ago, my mom and I were able to take fairly long walks along the beach. We talked and laughed and dared to hope that perhaps there had been some mistake made somewhere along the way. Whilst waiting for the treatment-for--which-we-should-be-grateful, my mom has literally withered before my eyes. She has good days, to be sure. Those are the days that she can get up, shower and dress herself and then retire back to her bed, or to the swing chair in the garden. On occasion, she tries to come out for a bit of an excursion with us, but that knocks her completely. On the bad days, which are becoming more frequent, she cannot get out of bed, is totally breathless and sleeps for most of the day. When she sleeps, you get a glimpse of what she is going to look like when she finally exhales her last breath. I cannot look at her when she sleeps for the pain in my heart is just too great.

I am trying to remain positive, but let's face it, who made up that crap? Who said that in the face of losing a loved one, we should remain brave, strong and positive. Hello, there is NOTHING positive about losing a loved one. Not for the person being left behind anyway. Oh, you may find comfort in believing that they are going to a 'better' place, that this is God's plan for them and that their time has come. If you are new-ageist, you will believe that mom has come to learn whatever lesson she was sent to learn, or experience whatever experience in the physical form she was meant to experience and that now her time had come. If you are law-of-attractionist, you believe that hey, she brought this upon herself.

I believe none of that. I don't believe in God. I simply don't. I am busy reading the bible to try to understand the comfort my mom currently finds in Christianity and I see a God that is pretty wonton and not very nice. He shows mercy here and there, but on the whole, I have a huge issue with the whole dictatorship thing who periodically puts woman down. Right from the first book in Genesis, we are painted as the evil ones, and frankly, I find that abbhorent. I have an issue with a bible that has numerous different versions, has numerous different interpretations with each faction declaring that theirs is the right one. I have an issue with a God that basically creates the earth, lets the devil and sin run amock for an indeterminate amount of time and then says but when I do come back to rule the earth, you had better listen to me, or be cast into a lake of fire. Now, I know that there are going to be huge outcries from Christians across the globe (not least my parents) who will say I haven't read the bible extensively enough and then they will quote all the historical markers within the bible that must make it true. But, you see, that is all the bible is, nothing more than a history book. It, in itself, does not prove the existence of God. It only proves our need to want there to be something else for us, other than our allotted three-score-years-and-ten.

Even I am guilty of that. I have spoken to God. It is true, I have. I have asked him why after my mom had spent an entire lifetime trying to lose weight (thanks society for that, by the way), dieting and denying herself extensively, that, in her dying moments, when it really doesn't matter what the hell she eats, has she now lost all sense of taste. Surely, this one small thing, the omnipotent, omnipresent, God could do this one small thing for her. I'm not asking for a cure, just a simple pleasure for her. The simple pleasure of sinking her teeth into a meat pie and actually revelling in its thick beef sauce and knowing you can eat without a care in the world. Is that perhaps too much for God? I also asked if he could cure her, just in case.

Of course, I will be told that if she dies, it means that God had another plan for her. Of course he did. How silly of me. He had her give up smoking 26 years ago, then afflict her with a disease that was, literally, her worst nightmare, to not be able to breathe and then deny her her sense of taste, just to make sure she couldn't enjoy anything in her last few weeks here on earth. But, hey, God has a 'plan', I'm told. We don't know why these things happen, but it is all part of his 'plan'. So, whilstever we are believing in the 'plan', we are not motivated to find a cure, because the 'plan' shouldn't be questioned, should it.

On the note of finding a cure, why is it that lung cancer is the largest killing cancer in the world, yet is the most underfunded in terms of finding a cure. Is it because, like obesity, we look upon it as self-inflicted? Or is it because the powers that be like the money generated from taxes gained from cigarettes. Why aren't we targetting tobacco companies and forcing them to fund the amount that it costs to treat the 10% of smokers who get lung cancer. Better yet, screw freedom of choice, let's just do away with cigarettes altogether. Smoking is an addiction and like any addictive drug, it should be banned. Sorry, but watching my mother die in this fashion has made me very firm on this. It is a horrible horrible way to die and it is like playing russian roulette, you just don't know if yours is the chamber with the bullet in it.

Anger is the name of the game for me today. Anger, and extreme sadness and helplessness. It is hard living a life that no longer has hope. My mom used to be full of hope. I miss that.

What If...

Such a long time since I have written anything down and such a lot has happened. Sobriety remains strong but no longer is the focus of my life. My mother is dying of lung cancer. That changes your focus and brings a lot of things into perspective.

As I pen these words, I am sitting in her lounge in the UK. Lee-on-the-Solent in Hampshire to be exact. The lounge is cluttered, but comfortable and, being half past midnight, I am basking in the quiet - a commodity not easily found of late, but more of that later. I have not seen much of her today. As the pressure of the ebbing of her life bares down on me, I feel a much stronger need to withdraw. I don't particularly like this quality, but it is one I am having to face. The irony is that although I am withdrawing, I also have a need to be around people. It means that I want to be near people, but I don't want to be bothered BY them. I want to be left alone, to let the world go on around me, whilst I sit here, in suspended animation in my own thoughts and actions. Of course, that isn't always possible, but today, for some reason, my family sensed I needed it and gave me the space I needed.

So what did I do with this space I had been afforded. Not a lot actually. I transferred all my contacts from my mac book pro contacts to my entourage contacts. There was purpose in this madness. My mother, who is dying, has decided that she would like to help a little girl at her church called Grace. Grace is 19 months old and has Rett Syndrome. She cannot talk, sit, walk and finds eating difficult. She has captured my mothers heart. My mom has to undergo radiation therapy because her lung cancer has spread to her brain and she has decided to shave her hair off before she loses it to cancer. She has asked us to organise an event, inviting friends and family to witness my dad shaving her head. She is asking everyone who comes to please make a small donation and she is going to donate the money to Rett Syndrome research. A local newspaper picked up the story and came to interview her. They asked her why she was doing this amazingly inspiring thing. She replied, "My life may be coming to an end, but Grace's is just beginning. Why would I not want to help her." I am emailing all my friends to make a donation to my mother's cause.

My mom has been given only a few months to live. How does one deal with that information. One day, you are imagining growing old with your mom (who is only 19 years older than you are) and the next you are forced to imagine a life without her. I have decided that I definitely don't like this game. Life continues to be unfair.

My mother has only recently become a Christian and given her life to Jesus and to God. At around the same time, barely a few weeks before her fatal diagnosis, I decided that there was just too much evidence to prove that God did not exist. Like a child that discovers santa claus does not exist, I grievously mourned the letting go of something so ingrained in my socialisation. I felt like I was lost and alone in the desert. But the evidence, or lack of it, was irrefutable, I had determined. Of course, my mother's affliction only served to prove my point of view. What kind of a loving God would put what I consider to be the most wonderful, graceful, beautiful soul through such a thing? Surely, no loving God could or would do this.

I arrived in the UK angry, scared and desperately wanting to be strong. For someone who didn't believe in God, I found myself really angry at Him a lot. I am a Humanist, I declared to my now solidly Christian family. I had gone from being the kind, dependable one in the family to the one who didn't believe - EEK! Yet my mother, who had only recently made this act of commitment to God would proudly introduce me to her Christian friends and tell them with pride that I was a Humanist. They would all nod and smile as if to say 'It's only a matter of time.' At first, this annoyed me, like I was some sort of lemming that would hurl itself over the cliff like everyone else. But, slowly, as I have gotten to know these remarkable people, I have been unable to deny that there is something there. Something peaceful resides within this Christian mob and that peace feeds my mother.

The jury is still out with me. It is a fine line, this God thing. Religion, and the atrocities committed in the name of it, does not sit well with me. But, my research has hit a bit of a dead end. Whilst science can largely prove the big bang theory, there seems to be little evidence of of what caused the big bang. So, what we are left with is no way of irrefutably proving the existence of God but also no way of irrefutably denying the existence of God. Well that isn't any good really, is it? Especially for an intellectual thinker like myself. I like proof, I like evidence, but, strangely, I also like to think that we are not alone. Especially at times like this. I secretly admit to wanting someone/something supernatural to hold me and let me find peace within this seemingly unreasonable predicament. I have dared to hope for a miracle. I have contemplated getting on my knees and praying, although I didn't because I felt that lacked a certain amount of integrity since I would be doing it really just to hedge my bets and not truly because I believe that God will cure my mom, or make her suffer less, or whatever else He has in store for her. True to form, I asked my mom that when she dies, if there is a God and Heaven, if she could please send me a sign. Faith is something, it seems, I sadly lack.

So, where does that leave me? In a vast, gaping, no-man's land, it seems. I don't totally believe there is no God, but I also cannot totally believe there is a God. To support my education on all things religious and supernatural I have done research into other Gods/prophets, etc. I like the idea of Buddhism, that whole cause and affect thing (Karma), really appeals to me. Taoism is also a good one, although not as good as buddhism, I fear. Hinduism is not really my cup of tea and I have yet to do full research on Islam, although my dad, the other intellectual thinker of the family, has been giving me a bit of insight into it. I wasn't brought up Christian per se, but being anglo-western, it is the easiest for me to grasp because it is a part of our culture.

Mortality is funny how it brings up these questions on the meaning of life and where we go when we die. I am selfish. I want my mom to reside with me, so that when I come across life's hiccups, which anyone who has read my blog will realise happens to me a lot, I can ask, as I have always done for her advice, and she can impart it and the balance of my universe will be restored. Why would God want to upset that? If he has the power to create an entire universe, can he not take away the tumour that is ravaging her lung and sapping her of all her energy? It was her biggest wish not to die of a disease that will cause her not to be able to breathe. Of course, the Law-of-Attraction proponents will say that my mother brought this on herself because she attracted that which she most thought about and feared. I can't put here what I think of that (insert any expletive you can think of). But I do ask the question, why would God allow my beautiful mother to die of a disease that has frightened her the most?

Strangely, and like a true Christian, whilst afraid of dying, she doesn't question God's plan. My problem is that we are expected to accept the plan without any documentation of what that might be. Why would He give me a mind that is totally on the go all the time, questioning EVERYTHING, accepting nothing, if He wanted me to buy into His plan? I ask you God, why would you do that. I consider it to be a form of torture. Yet, niggling in the recesses of my thinking brain is the question What If...

Clarity, messages and facing the truth

It has been a while since I blogged. Between going to college, AA meetings and some new part time contract work, my life has not been my own. I hardly recognise my life right now. I have been sober for 57 days and my life has definitely taken on a new direction. Funnily enough, it isn't probably the direction I imagined. Well, the truth is that whilst I was drinking, I wasn't imagining anything other than whether or not I had enough wine to satisfy the amount I needed to drink. Yes, my life is different now.

The first thing I am noticing is that I have a clarity of mind now. This is not to say that I know exactly what I want out of life yet. What I mean by clarity is that I am starting to remember things that are dead give aways that drinking was indeed a problem for me. Things that in my inebriated state, I had pushed back to the recesses of my mind because I didn't want to remember, I didn't want to face the truth.

In AA, they often talk about identifying rather than looking for the differences, which is what a lot of AAs mostly do when they first enter the rooms of AA. I was no different. That first day, I was praying that the stories I would hear would confirm that I in fact was not an alcoholic, that it was just the endless stream of crap circumstances that had made me turn to wine in such a vehement fashion, and that once they were out of the way, I would return to being a 'social' drinker. It is laughable now, but that is what I truly wanted to believe.

Of course, as each person shared their story on that first day, I could not escape the truth. I could not escape that there were many more similarities and not enough differences. I was indeed an alcoholic and my life had become unmanageable. However, over the following few weeks, whilst still in the fog of unfolding sobriety, I did manage to convince myself that my drinking was not that bad. I heard how people had blackouts and thought to myself, 'I've never had that'. I heard how people stashed their drink here, there and everywhere, to make sure they always had stuff around, and again, I thought, 'that isn't me". Of course, what I was doing is still trying to find the differences, perhaps setting myself up for the inevitable relapse because I still wanted to believe that I wasn't really an alcoholic.

When I first came to AA, I was told that all I needed to do is to not drink a day at a time, don't pick up the first drink because then you cannot get drunk, and to just keep coming back to AA. Thank god, I have taken that advice. In the last couple of weeks, I have had flashbacks of just how bad my drinking had become. I would be driving along, thinking about nothing in particular when I would suddenly remember an incident that would remind me and prove to me that I am where I am supposed to be. These 'memories' are coming thick and fast at the moment, and although a little confronting (well, actually severely confronting at times), I know that they are a necessary part of recovery.

One such 'memory' came recently when I was sharing from the floor of AA. I had not really thought about my 'drinking story' as such and when I was asked to share, I decided to talk about my drinking story. "I took my first drink when I was 14," I began. As I started to share my story, I heard myself say the words, "I didn't suffer from blackouts." I then paused momentarily. Suddenly a memory came rushing back to me. "Actually", I said, "isn't it funny how alcohol robs us of our memories, because, actually, I did have blackouts." At that moment, a memory had come flying into my mind and I felt compelled to share it. I then told the story of when, only five years ago, I was at my sister's wedding. I had travelled from England to South Africa for the wedding and it was a beautiful affair (lots of alcohol, as you do!!). I met my brother-in-law's family and friends, all of whom were lovely people. My sister and her husband shared mutual friends too and it was good to catch up with the few that I knew. I was having a lovely evening.

Toward the end of the evening, a guy I had been talking to off and on came up to me and started chatting to me again. He then looked at me, and said, "You really don't remember me do you?" Innocently, I said I didn't and tried to imagine where we had met when I lived in South Africa. He then went on to tell me how I had been at a bar in my home town, where he also lived, totally drunk out of my mind, on my own. He said that he could see that I was in no fit state to drive (which is what I intended to do - another thing I told people I never did), so he started chatting to me and offered to take me home. I agreed and I assume that I must have passed out in his car, because he said that he took me inside, put me into bed and left. I shudder to think what could have happened and to be honest, it may well have happened, but he failed to mention it, and I am praying that isn't the case. I have absolutely no recollection whatsoever of this event at all. I have no recollection of meeting this person, of talking to him and certainly none of letting him into my home and putting me into bed. It was a horrible, horrible moment and for the rest of the evening, I did my best to avoid him. I had totally forgotten that evening. I had blocked out the blackout, if you will. It came flooding back to remind me yet again, that yes, indeed, I did have blackouts and was on the path to total self destruction.

In the past few weeks, I have had many moments like that, many clear memories of when my drinking was way beyond 'social' and I have been grateful for them. They are daily reminders to me that I cannot get complacent, that I cannot allow myself to fool myself that I am not 'as bad' as the other people in the rooms. It doesn't matter if I am not 'as bad', it was bad enough for me. The joy about AA is that the only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking and thank God I got that desire 8 weeks ago whilst my life was relatively still in tact.

It is actually quite funny how delusional we can become about our drinking. I have not told many people about my alcoholism. Initially that was because I was ashamed, but now it is more because I don't feel the need to shout it out from the tree tops. I am on a journey of discovery and I want to keep it personal for now. However, when I have mentioned it to the very few people who are close to me, I have been totally surprised and taken aback when they don't seem at all surprised or shocked. I had seriously not imagined my drinking to be 'that bad'. Although it was not working for me and that I had considered my life to be unmanageable, I truly thought my friends would be shocked to find out that I considered myself to be an alcoholic. When they reacted with little or no surprise at all, I was quite annoyed. I look back now and realise that I wanted some sort of accolade for my sobriety. I had a picture in my mind of how the event would unfold:

I would tell them in hushed tones that I had something to tell them - they would lean in, and I would mention that I was an alcoholic and that I had been going to AA. They would look shocked and say, "No". That disbelieving, incredulous 'No' you see in the movies, you know the one I mean. I would then look down, nod, and say, "Yes, it's true." They would then look at me all doe-eyed, realising the honour I had bestowed upon them for telling them such a massive thing and they would then tell me that they had never known, that I hidden it so well. They would then ask how was I coping and tell me that they are so proud of me. I would then walk away, leaving them still shaking their heads in disbelief, me basking in my own glory.

It never happened that way. I would do the hushed toned "I have something to tell you", and they would lean in, then I would tell them and they would look at me as if to say "Is that it? Tell me something I didn't know". I have tried this only three times, but each time the reaction has been exactly the same. It has annoyed the crap out of me, but I have had to succumb to the fact that my drinking was not hidden at all, that in fact it was as transparent as daylight, and that people did indeed notice. I still don't like to think that my alcoholism was that evident to everyone around me. But life is certainly adept at sending us messages to clarify certain things and in the cold light of sobriety (which is warming up a bit now), those messages come through loud and clear.

Being sober is a humbling experience for me. I am learning every day, with increased clarity, to face up to how bad my drinking had become. It is true that I hadn't got to the point of losing my family or my home, but I had certainly lost my dignity and not only my sense of self worth, but my entire sense of self. Facing up to the memories, such as that guy at the wedding, is a gift because it enables me to remind myself of where I have come from and to reaffirm where I am going. It enables me to look at it for what it is - a moment of total insanity - and put it behind me, because, one day at a time, I am paving a new path for myself, one that won't be filled with shameful memories that come as flashbacks as if to haunt me, but a path that will be filled with memories that are good and wonderful, that in years to come I will look back on with pride. That is what sobriety is giving me and it is something for which I am truly grateful.

Intellect and the Steps to Serenity

Life is a funny old thing, don't you think? This week, I celebrated 30 days sobriety, although to me it felt like much longer. 1 month sounds so fledgling and, compared to the people I have met who have been sober for so many years (something I am battling to comprehend), it is indeed such a short time. Of course, with alcohol being what it is, I am now no longer the 'new' newbie. Since starting AA, a couple of other people have started their journey into sobriety and even though I am still considered a 'newbie' (not sure when I actually get to shed that label), I feel much 'older' because through the love of the members of AA, I am already forming friendships and feeling more connected than I have ever been in my life. I feel like a part of the club, so to speak. However, as I look at those newcomers, I am forced to not forget what brought me to AA in the first place, and that is a good thing, since complacency is an alcoholics downfall, as many will tell you.

Last week, I celebrated my own chronological birthday. It was on a Saturday and on that day I was 28 days sober. It was also the first sober birthday I have had since my 16th birthday. It was a lovely day and I felt totally enveloped by the love of the family around me. It was a truly lovely day, despite the lack of alcohol, or should that be, because of the lack of alcohol.

However, the friday night before had been particularly bad for me. A pattern has started to emerge whereby on a friday night I hit a very big low. Intellectually, I know that this is because that for the last 11 years before my sobriety, Friday always signified the start of my weekend and I always marked that with wine, lots and lots of wine. Now, with four Fridays under my belt, a pattern has started to emerge, whereby 7pm Friday comes around and a big cloud seems to settle over my head. I get grumpy, teary and I don't want to be around anyone. I feel angry too. The weird thing is that I don't have an urge to drink. There is a term called 'white knuckling it' which basically means that you are going through each day wanting that drink and just hanging in there (white knuckling it) going day by day wanting it, but not giving in to the urge. The aim is to lose that urge, to be free of the desire to drink alcohol and to find serenity in your day to day life. I can honestly say that I haven't been white-knuckling it. I haven't had that daily urge to drink, but I have yet to find serenity in my day to day living and this is particularly evident on a Friday night. For some inexplicable reason, come Friday evening, that dark cloud settles over me and I am as grumpy as shit!

What had been worrying me is the fact that I wasn't feeling like I was 'working the program'. I am a proactive person - a doer - and a person who gets things done (except housework, I'll admit!!). When a problem presents itself, I am the type of person who diligently sets about finding the solution. I may need a day or so to process the problem, come to terms with it, so to speak, but then I spring into action. I research, research, research and then try to apply that research, that which I find relevant to my situation, that is, to my particular problem. I also offer this service to those around me and have become quite the 'go to' person in my circle of family and friends. Often, of course, I offer this service even though the other person might not want it, but that is another topic entirely.

So, here I was, 35 short days ago, faced with being an alcoholic. Having had exposure to AA in my teen years and early twenties, I knew that AA was a very successful program at helping people find that serenity within their recovery. I knew that those people who successfully applied the 12 steps of AA found an everlasting serenity and I knew from the very beginning, that I wanted that serenity. Drinking alcohol had been such a big part of my life, had sapped every fibre of my soul, that I knew from the outset that I needed to rebuild my soul and finally find out, come to terms with, accept and love who I am. I knew from past (outside) experience, that those people who worked the steps, did exactly that, they found serenity and themselves. Attending AA meetings as an alcoholic confirmed this for me. I hung on the words of people who had worked the program and who had found serenity. I felt that if I listened to what these people had done, applied it to my life, then I would be the walking embodiment of serenity, something I so desperately wanted.

I am beginning to realise though, that alcoholism is not a disease you can treat with intellect. It is something that is unique to each person and is not a disorder or disease in the usual sense of the word. It is not like having a disease that is treatable with an antibiotic that each person with the disease can take and will be cured - if only alcoholism was that easy. Alcoholism for each person is defined in a totally different way. All you need for membership to AA is a desire to stop drinking. That is it. They don't ask you how much you drank, or how often. They don't care. All they care about is that you now want to give up drinking and they want to help you to achieve that sobriety, and find serenity in that sobriety.

When I first attended AA, I began to wonder if I needed to be there. I was a suburban housewife who hadn't lost her children, house or husband. I didn't drink in the morning (a common myth of what constitutes an alcoholic), and I only ever drank wine - no beer, spirits and definitely no methylated spirits. In fact, I began to feel that perhaps my drinking was not that bad after all. Yet, I had a nagging feeling that I needed to be there in those rooms. It frustrated me, though, that there was no definition, that applied to all, of what actually constituted an alcoholic. I could not apply my research techniques and my intellect to this problem and I was starting to get really annoyed. I had always been able to meet a problem head on and solve it, to the best of my ability. I prided myself on always being able to find an answer.

I think that when I first attended AA, I thought that I would take the 12 steps and systematically work through them and find that elusive serenity. I am discovering that it just isn't that easy. I am certainly learning that this is not something to which you can apply intellect. It is often said that when you enter the rooms of an AA meeting, very often you will hear what you need to hear. This is especially true for me. Even though intellectually I was questioning if I needed to be in AA, something inside of me told me that I needed to keep on going. Even on the days when I have not felt like going, I have somehow dragged myself off to the meeting and walked away with just that bit more understanding and especially a bit more insight into myself.

I am beginning to realise that intellectually attacking a problem was a way of not dealing with how I truly felt about a problem/situation. I went into crisis management mode and needed to find a solution before the gravity of the situation could overwhelm me. I was hoping that finding a solution to being an alcoholic (AA) would produce the same result. I would 'work the program' - i.e. apply the 12 steps - and thus find a solution to alcoholism. Alas, or indeed, thankfully, it just does not work that way. The 12 steps pretty much ensure that. It is a program of physical, mental and spiritual growth and in order to gain that elusive serenity, you do indeed have to apply all 12 steps.

I understood this from the beginning, so, with my intellectual cap on, I looked at Step 1: We admitted we were powerless over alcohol, that our lives had become unmanageable. Tick that one off, I could do that. Right, next step. Step 2: Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. Okay, first stumbling block. Intellect has never been able to explain faith, and this is what they were saying, isn't it? That I needed faith in a power greater than myself would restore me to sanity. Firstly, I wasn't all that sure I was insane (refer to my reference to being a housewife who still had everything) and secondly, although I had always 'believed' in a God, I was never sure what form that God had for me or what that higher power meant to me. I knew before joining AA, that it was a spiritual program, but I think somehow that I thought I could apply intellect to getting past the 'spiritual' steps and apply the others to achieve the desired outcome. Slowly, I was beginning to realise that I simply couldn't.

My dad phoned me the other day and asked me how I was going with the AA program. I said that I was frustrated that I hadn't found a sponsor and wasn't working the program. He explained to me that recovery from alcoholism cannot be rushed and that for some the program comes very easily and for others it takes a long time. I don't do 'long time'. I'm a proactive doer, remember. In fact, my psychologist once described me as an underachieving high achiever. Underachieving, no doubt, due to alcohol. I wanted the solution to alcoholism and to be the walking embodiment of serenity - right now! I wanted to be going to those 'newcomers' right now and offering them my pearls of wisdom! After 35 days of sobriety, I am slowly learning that patience is an important skill to have. I am also slowly learning that despite skills in doing and acting, I have never learned the skill of just sitting quietly and accepting the situation for what it is.

If I am honest, I am only at Step 1 - I am only now really accepting that I was powerless over alcohol and that my life had become unmanageable, despite the fact that I had managed not to lose everything. In fact, I am very grateful that my higher power showed me AA at such a young age so that I could recognise the signs in myself before I did in fact lose everything, because I know that it probably could have and would have happened. I am working on Step 2 - it isn't easy. My intellect wants proof of this higher power, my faith has never been particularly strong, despite having a firm belief in 'something'. I do believe that my higher power showed me the way, brought me to this path, I just wish I could have a more definitive understanding of what that higher power means for me. I have struggled with the whole God thing - the omnipotent being who smites us when we step out of line - no, that's not going to cut it for me. I believe in a God that is loving and only loving. I believe we were given free will for a reason, not to be set up to fail, but to learn, experience and grow. This alcoholism is my path of discovery and growth, and with patience, lots and lots of patience, and through my, yet-to-be-defined higher power, I am sure that I will finally find serenity.

Life on Life's Terms

Life on life's terms is a saying that I have learned, but am not ready yet to apply. I like to control, I realise. I don't like to Let Go and Let God and I am definitely not very good at Easy Does It. These are sayings that I see every time I attend an AA meeting. I read them, but I am not sure I comprehend them.

With 27 days of sobriety under my belt, I learned that no matter what the affliction, the world does not stop - life goes on and if we are to survive in a world without alcohol, we need to accept life on life's terms. It is hard.

This week, we learned that our youngest DD, whom had been diagnosed with ADHD/ODD 6 years ago, actually does not have ADHD at all, but a high functioning form of autism called Aspergers Syndrome. He is entering high school next year and we decided that since the original diagnosis was so long ago, it would be prudent to get him re-assessed, just in case there were any special considerations that he may need. What we were told was so far left field of what we were expecting, we were dumbfounded. We stood quietly as we were told that although the results of his re-assessment have to be finalised (through consultation with a panel of psychiatrists and other medical professionals), all indications point to Aspergers. The implications for him are enormous. The dreams we had for him - university, love, marriage, a family of his own, whilst not impossible, do seem further away. With a diagnosis of ADHD he had a shot at a normal life, with medication perhaps, but still a shot. We have a couple of friends with ADHD who have successful marriages and relationships. People with Aspergers are autistic. It is a form of autism that means they are lacking in social, communication and language skills. They also lack empathy, as they cannot read facial cues that let you know when someone is hurt or annoyed.

At the moment, all I can see for my DD is a life of difficulty negotiating the soft intricacies that make an intimate relationship possible. I know little of Aspergers, but what I have read has said that adults afflicted with it have difficulty maintaining long term romantic relationships and find staying in long term employment difficult due to the social skills required to maintain relationships of any kind.

Apparently, social skills therapies do help as does cognitive behavioural therapy. Obviously, these will be made available to our wonderful, beautiful DD. My heart is breaking today. I want to be one of those parents who fiercely says that their child is different and they are proud of it, but right now I can't. I am mourning the future I saw for him. I know that there is nothing to say that he won't have a wonderful future and find the cliched love that I want for him, but I also know that life is hard and that having a disability, no matter how mild, makes it even harder. I am mourning and for now, I am going to wallow in it.

Amongst all this, I am having to still deal with my own alcoholic demons. This is a shock that in the past would have me reaching for that glass of wine, to help ease the pain that I feel for my child. I would have been sitting in my chair, wine glass by my side, telling myself that this is okay; that we can deal with this. Together we can do anything (I felt a lot of bravado when I drank). Of course, the drunker I got, the less motivated I became to move, let alone do 'anything'. Now, I no longer have that option. I have to face the realities of life in the cold light of sobriety. I have to admit the pain is excruciating. The noise in my head is louder than ever and I cannot say that I am not tempted to crawl into bed and opt out of my life for a while. Life on life's terms - damn you!

I am wallowing in self pity - I know it. I know the positives in my life and the stuff for which I should be grateful, but truthfully, right now, I am not grateful. In fact, I am pretty pissed off. Does the universe imagine that I haven't been through enough? More importantly, does the universe not think my youngest DD has been through enough? I have a thousand questions and no answers.

This may all seem a bit melodramatic to someone on the outside looking in. After all, I am lucky. I have a wonderful DH, a wonderful home with two beautiful children. The disability could be worse - it is fairly mild compared to others. Yet, I feel wretched. Luckily for me, in AA they know exactly how I feel. I sat in a meeting today listening intently as tears rolled down my face. They didn't judge or tell me how lucky I should feel. Instead, they comforted me and told me not to be so hard on myself. They totally understood that I could just do without this unexpected turn in life. I just needed a bit more time to come to terms with my own affliction. It sounds selfish, doesn't it? It is. Alcohol is selfish. It consumes you and seduces you into wanting it more and more, regardless of the people it is harming along the way. I just needed a bit more time to gain the energy to start living life on life's terms.

There is a lesson here, of course, that life does go on. It doesn't stop to let you get better. You have to negotiate, and heal, around it. You are forced to face it head on and say 'I can do this, without alcohol, I can do this.' I am trying, but I am not going to say that for me, right now, it isn't hard, because it damn well is. I know that I should be saying 'Let Go and Let God' and perhaps that is the other lesson the universe has thrown my way. Living life on life's terms is all about Taking it Easy, Letting Go and Letting God as well as Just for Today. Someone once said to me that God doesn't give you anything in a day that you cannot handle, and since I am here writing this at 4:40pm, there has to be some truth to that. It doesn't make it any easier I am afraid, but then again, I'm pretty sure no-one said it would be easy, it is just is what is - life on life's terms.

Another day, another challenge

Today I celebrate 20 days sobriety. I use the term celebrate loosely as I am truly not in a celebratory mood. It is Friday and Friday was always settle-down-early-with-some-wine-to-kick-off-the-weekend day. I am seriously mourning that day.

The day started off well enough. Woke up, not having had a good sleep, which is becoming a real problem for me (more of that later), but I felt good. The sun was shining, no college today and all was well in the world of me. I attended an AA meeting, which was stimulating and very enriching, went to lunch with some new friends from AA who counselled me and soothed my restless soul. This day was going so damn well. I looked up at the clear blue sky and truly felt blessed. So, why, just two short hours later am I feeling so wretched? What is it about that fatal elixir that is so alluring that I would be willing to give up all this love, compassion and human-ness that I haven't felt in so long, in a heart beat.

Wondering around the shops, where I was meant to buy fruit and vegetables for the week, and instead came home with a deck of Angel cards, my mood decidedly started to decline. What was it that brought it on? I couldn't tell you. All I can say is that somewhere during my car ride home (all of 15 minutes' worth), I started fantasising about a cask (classy girl, me) of white wine with ice blocks clinking the sides of the glass as I poured it in. It is hot and on especially hot days I liked to pour a big glass (and when I say big, I mean the kind of wine glass that resembles a small fish bowl) of white wine, chuck in lots of ice and sit back into my chair sipping (and when I say sipping I really mean glugging, but let's not get hung up on technicalities here) my chardonnay (that's what I liked to call it anyway - again, people, technicalities!) and imagine I was in a completely different life.

Of course, I wouldn't just stop at the first glass. Actually, I couldn't just stop at the first glass, I HAD to go on to the second, third, fourth, etcetera, etcetera. I would sit for hours, praying neither of my children would bother me (and to their credit, they rarely did), and just drink and drink. I would watch those programs of 'Get a new life in ..." and wish that was me. It didn't occur to me to think that in fact I had done the 'Get a new life' thing - twice. Once with a move to the UK and now with the move here to Melbourne four years ago. Gees, someone should mention when you apply for immigration that the grass is decidedly not greener on the other side!! They should let you know that when you move thousands of kilometers around the world, your problems tend to stick to you like feathers to tar; that no matter where you try to hide, you will one day have to face your demons in order to move on. I mean, really, there should be a warning, or something!

I have not faced my demons yet. I am not really up for it, if the truth be told. I have tried to tell myself that since I am sober now, I don't have any problems, but I know this not to be the case hence the reason for my urge to drink now. I couldn't tell you what is pushing my button right now - walking in and facing a messy house that hasn't been hoovered in over three weeks doesn't help, I can tell you. Actually, on that note, I used to blame my drinking for not doing the house work. Actually, that isn't true. I used to blame my circumstances of my life for my drinking, which had the knock on effect of leaving me too exhausted to do the housework. I can't use that excuse anymore. The simple truth is I am bloody lazy when it comes to housework.

It's such a bloody thankless job. You get up, make the beds, tidy the kitchen, hoover the carpets, clean the bathrooms, do the laundry, iron the laundry, pack and unpack the dishwasher ad infinitum only to have the family come home at the end of the day and mess up the kitchen, pile up the laundry, wee and god knows what else in the toilet, shower (how dare they), eat food which messes up the plates, and then to add insult to injury, they actually get into the beds that I spent a good half an hour making that morning. I mean, how much punishment is a woman supposed to take? I tell you, I give up. Correction, I gave up, long ago.

A few years ago, someone, one of those domestic goddess types (I would personally like to murder the person who coined that phrase, by the way), once told me that she doesn't enjoy housework either but with every thing she did she imagined her family and the love she had for them. I was bemused by the correlation, but decided to try it out. I discovered that I simply don't have that much love. Imagining that I was now not only a failure at the domestic goddess thing, I was also love-deficient for my family, I was racked with incredible guilt for days which, of course, led me to drink, drink, drink that feeling into oblivion.

So here I am, today, 20 days sober with chaos everywhere. By everywhere, I mean every-bloody-where. There are clothes on the floor in every room, dust on every floor and surface, laundry piled high, a dishwasher open waiting to unpacked, with at least two more loads waiting to be packed into it and not a single bed has been made (I mean, what's the point really?). All this chaos would be okay if I was okay with it. But here is the kicker, I'm not. I like my world ordered and neat, but I don't want to have to do it. Like I said, I realise that I am quite lazy when it comes to housework. In other areas, I have amazing motivation, will go to extraordinary lengths to get the job done, but housework? Housework be damned. Maybe this is why, walking into the chaos and having to face my own reality, I have the urge to drink.

So, what is it about alcohol is going to solve this problem for me? Well, it isn't obviously. It is just an excuse - an excuse to pick up that first drink which I have been informed on good authority that if I don't do, I will manage to keep sober and regain manageability of my life. If the truth is known I have been waiting for the domestic goddess in me to emerge. I figured that if alcohol was the reason that I had struggled so hard with this role in life, that life without it should make the role easier. I am a wife and mother and surely there should be some genetic wiring that kicks in to assist a wife and mother do what society imagines a wife and mother should do. I am pretty sure that even hard and fast feminists manage to keep their own homes in order. What is wrong with my wiring? Its apparent misplacement has really and truly annoyed me. When is the domestic gene going to come to the fore? I wonder if there is a test to see if I have it. I'm pretty sure I don't.

I don't even enjoy cooking. Yet, I have an ENORMOUS library of cookery books. I cannot pass a book shop without going in and either buying a self help book or more often than not, coming out with a cookery book. I never use them. I pretty much buy the same ingredients, and wing it on the night. My planning skills are not all that well honed (no time, needed to get down to the wine, you see), so I invariably forget to take meat out the freezer. This results in me defrosting it in the microwave to whines of hunger from the family, and literally throwing together something edible. My specialities are spaghetti bolognese (Mince meat, pasta sauce in a jar, an onion and pasta), Thai chicken curry (chicken pieces, onion, thai curry paste, coconut milk, frozen stir fry veg and noodles) and chilli con carne (mince meat, onions, red kidney beans in a tin, tinned diced tomatoes, chilli powder, tumeric, paprika, cumin and rice). As you can see, I'm hardly Jamie Oliver - but, you guessed it, I have three of his books and even downloaded his App to my iPhone at a cost of $7.99!

It is like if I am surrounded by all these things, I will become that which I am obviously not. Why is it that, at the age of 42, I am unable to accept this in myself. Does anyone care, really, if my house is not perfect (and by not perfect I mean a tip that people have to wade through to make it to the kitchen, but again, technicalities people)? I keep telling myself that I have yet to come across a tomb stone that reads, "Here lies Mavis who was the worst housewife you could ever meet.", or "Here lies Jane whose cooking was really quite bland", but for some inexplicable reason, I feel totally inadequate as a wife and mother.

I wish I could say that at least I have a career. But I simply don't. I used one excuse after another, I now realise, not to finish any of the countless courses I embarked upon, or stay very long in any job - my record is nine months. Somewhere, in the recesses of my brain, I figured I would be a wife and mother. That is the most important job in the world, after all, isn't it? I mean, we are nurturing the world's future generations here, and by doing so, shaping the world's future, aren't we? Oh God, I'm running out of time. Our eldest DD is leaving at the end of the year and our youngest DD is 12. What shaping have I done? What have I taught them? Certainly not how to keep a clean house and cook nutritious bloody meals, that's for sure. And yet, my quest for domestic goddess membership continues. It's exhausting I tell you.

So, another lesson learned whilst typing this blog. I'm lazy, hate housework and am never going to be a domestic goddess. Another thing mourned. I'm wondering when I am going to allow myself to celebrate the person I am and the contribution I must make in some form to the universe. I mean, I can't just be some drunk suburban housewife who hasn't passed on any skills to her offspring, can I? There has to be more to life than that surely? I have to have come to the realisation of my alcoholism for some purpose, surely. I don't want to end my journey in this realm without having made some valid contribution. I thought being a domestic goddess might validate who I am, but it isn't working. I have to find something else and then earn enough money to hire a cleaner and someone to do the goddam ironing :)

My journey continues and just for today, I will not pick up that drink!