From the mouths of babes

I've been surrounded by teenage boys of late.  I'm researching a book concept, and have been working with my big fella's school, talking to gorgeous young men/boys, asking them what they'd say to a younger version of themselves.

My first takeout has been - this is humbling
My second - I want to be that age again and do it all over but so much smarter
My third takeout - I want my boys to be like these boys.

We talk about the benefit of hindsight, of wishing we knew something back then that we know now. So we could have done things differently or paid more attention, or experienced that moment more.  And I get that.

I would have let go a little more in my life.  I think I regret my restraint, and don't get me wrong I danced on the tables with the best of them,  but I think I was too conservative in my approach to life.  There was a lovely saying by a lovely reader of The Collective (and seriously if there is ever a magazine that I read word for word, cover to cover, it's this one).

It was Dream Big.

I'm actually dreaming bigger now than I ever have before.  Thank friggin god it's not too late to.  But I've just stumbled on this by accident and with a little help from serendipity.  Maybe I should be talking to older women now and ask them what they regret not doing at my age, and then start doing it.

The boys comments were spine tinglingly awesome.  So awesome that I rang my husband straight away with a quivering voice, recounting some of the gems.  "We need to get this in from of our boy", he said.  "He needs to hear this".  And he does and he will.

And out of the mouths of young men come wisdom that can be applied to any age.  If these boys are tomorrows leaders, I'm ok with that...

Don't waste time doing nothing - go and hang out with your friends instead
Don't hold back - take every opportunity that you can, try different things
Be more confident
Don't be an idiot, make the right choices
Remain a kid while you can
Make memories, so you can pull them out and look at them in the future.

Do you love these messages from 17 year old's to 13 year olds?

What would you do differently with the benefit of hindsight?
Are you dreaming big and making the most of the now?

Doing it tough again

I'm dusting off a post from last year.  Bear with me.

Last year I ran a marathon then 6 days later lined up with my oldest bestie to compete in Tough Mudder.  I knew I could run the distance (20kms) because I'd just run twice that.  I loved it so much that I rallied my troops.  And this year, in fact today as you read this, I'm heading back for more with two gorgeous girls that want to share this madness with me.

Now this isn't about the event, this is about the challenge...because none of us are ready physically for it I haven't run this distance since then.  But that's part of the fun because this will be an experiment in endurance and balls.  And my girls and I have plenty of the latter.  I sent this blog post to them during the week.  Because the overrriding takeout for me is not about being sensible and 40 something and a mother.  This is about being me and having a laugh and having a "can do" attitude.  I'm not here to watch this life.  I'm here to live it.

What about you?

Every couple of years Katie, one of my BFF's (actually my very longest serving BFF - she showed me to the girls loos when I started a new school age 7) and I find an event to do that's about us, about pushing ourselves, about connecting - it needs to have some sort of physical challenge involved and hopefully a smidge of intrepidness.  So far we have done the 100km Oxfam Trailwalker, Mototapu, an offroad marathon in NZ,and this weekend gone, we competed in Tough Mudder.  I know many of you have seen photos and news stories about it, and yes, it really was as wickedly fun as it looked, as well as a physical challenge with electric shocks, mud and high things to climb while on a 20km run.  My marathon weary legs were a little weary, but managed even though I was always a few paces behind Katie.

And we ran, and chatted, and freaked out, and asked strong guys for help, and got muddy, and patted ourselves along the way as we realised that we were passing people who'd started an hour before us.  And we laughed.  At some points, we laughed so hard, we had tears running down our mud smeared faces.  One of us may or may not have  ripped the butt out of their pants resulting in an extra challenge when climbing up and over obstacles with their arse hanging out but it would be wrong for me to mention it here. This one will be long remembered for being fun.

Which got me thinking.  As we get older, how often do we have that kind of fun which makes you feel ageless.  Which makes you feel like you have no burden of responsibilities.  Which makes you feel light and blimmin joyous just because of the sheer fun of it all.  And I'm not talking about the kind of fun you have after that extra half bottle of wine - which is never quite as fun the next morning, (although Sister, the "flag dance" will be longstanding in our family treasure chest of happy memories). I'm talking about those moments that brighten your soul a little, and make you doggedly determined to do MORE OF THAT soon, ok, before you forget how good it feels?

Because I think in our busy lives of responsibilities, of raising children, of paying mortgages, of making our mark on the world, we forget to have fun. Or we have redefined fun as something that is really only a satisfactory attempt at "fun".  It's a little safe and a little controlled, and in my world, usually revolves around my kids and their version of fun.

I'm guessing that there are some of you reading this, who are happily shaking your heads thinking "nup, not me", well I say hats off to you, and I bow deeply, because you are my role models. Don't change a thing, just sit there smugly, because you can.

I ran over a marathon finishing line with my arms in the air and my face fill of joy last Sunday, and on Saturday, I ran laughing with my bum hanging out of my ripped pants, mud smeared all over my teeth, and a light heart.

It feels good to have fun.
When was the last time you had belly-laughing, pants-wetting fun?

One Word

At the start of the year my clever friend Kelly from the fabulous  A Life Less Frantic  wrote this, an idea fondly borrowed from the equally lovely blog maxabellaloves - there's two blogs to check out if you're after some good reading and good writing!  The idea is all about finding a "word" that will define your year, that will be your mantra, your goal.  Now I loved this, and commented quickly and decidedly .....

Ummm, finding my word is harder for me, and I’ve chewed it over a bit. I have many goals this year, and they need focus and productivity, and energy. If I get all floppy and spend too much time faffing, I’ll never get there. So, I’m going to set myself the goal of trying to be all of these without losing the essence of what makes me tick. Which is a bit of floppiness and a lot of faff. So my word is focus – on my goals, on my tasks, on the opportunities and potential.

Well that was well and good in JANUARY, but we're now in almost May, as in 5 months into the year, not 5 days, and truth be told I'm not nailing my own brief.  Fact is, there is waaaay too much faff and far too much floppiness.  So much in fact that there isn't enough room for focus and productivity.  Ok, it's not as dire as it seems, I've had stories and more stories and corporate writing, and pitches and my pipeline is full of ideas and spec stories.  My year is definitely more focused and productive than the last.  But truth is, I'm not operating at full speed.  I'm not finding moments to sneak out a quick pitch, or jot down an online story idea.  I'm lazing in bed watching the sun rise rather than rising before it.  I'm heading to my big white bed and my book and my husband at night rather than not.  This is my choice. But with every choice comes a cost, and my cost is my productivity.  And that's not a choice I agreed to  make at the start of my year.
So I'm going to find more moments, more opportunities, I'm switching up a gear.

And I'm changing my word.

My new word is now "productivity".  And this time, I'm not opening the door for fluff or flop.

What's your word for this year?  And are you living it, or only a little bit like me?

Marathon Day

I wasn't sure about joining the groundswell of blogposts, Facebook posts and tweets about this tragic day.  But the thing is I can't not, because this one is very real to me.

There has been a lot of bang on commentary about the amazing , selfless acts of bravery, as people ran towards the site of the blasts to help those in need. Who ran towards potential danger, with no thought of their own safety.  But then, perhaps this nation has learnt from the heroic acts of those who ran into the burning Twin Towers, and who fell to their deaths with those they were trying to save. Of those that run into schools with armed kids trying to kill other kids.  Heroes.

I want to write about those you saw running.  Those people who were almost at the end of a huge physical and emotional effort, those who were in such a mental  "zone", it probably didn't register that they were in danger, that their lives were at risk.

I ran the Sydney Marathon last year and bored you all rigid with it for a good 6 months, finishing off with this .  My marathon experience was joyous.  I ran with all shapes and sizes, all ages, all states of mental and physical fatigue.  And I ran joyously.  Not one moment wasn't.  I flung my arms in the air and crossed the finishing line of my marathon, joyously.  And then I put it in the file called "Highlights of my life" because it was one.  Running a marathon isn't about tying up your shoes and pinning on a number.  It's months and months of lonely hours, just you, the footpath, and your own thoughts and doubts.

Every person who lined up at the start line of the Boston Marathon did so as winners.  They had done everything they needed to be there.  They had everything they needed to cross the finish line.  For many this may have been their "Everest", it may have been the hardest thing they'd ever do in their lives. Yet that was taken from them.

Four years ago, I watched the end of a marathon, gulping back tears and with a fierce determination that I'd do that one day.  I had stumbled across it, and stood transfixed, watching the wave of determined and focused faces as they stumbled their last few hundred metres.  Then only a few years later, my family and friends waited expectantly at the finish line waiting for for me.

I don't want to take away attention from the tragedy.  Because this is a tragedy.  But these people running and those watching expectantly and supporting the runners, have had something taken from them, their joy, their trust, their achievement and in the 143 tragic cases (and counting) so much more.

A warning

I've been lucky enough to write some stories recently about important health topics - melanoma and breast cancer, and both have made me hyper aware of my own need for care and vigilance.

I trained for marathon through winter last year, and by the end of my training, my back looked like this.

I ran in the rain, and clouds, and sometimes sun, and I would diligently cover my face, and would put a slick on my arms and shoulders and as far down my back as I could reach, in a rush.  I wore a visor, and I wore sunglasses, and I thought I was doing ok.  But that photo isn't ok.  That is sun damage.  The thing about sun damage that I didn't know is that it is cumulative, it builds on what damage you've already done.  The slate isn't wiped clean after each incident, it goes onto the tally.  The longer your tally, the more chance that you may develop a skin cancer.  And the body in it's infinite amazingness, remembers.  A sun burn experienced years ago is still tucked in the body's memory banks,  adding to that tally.

This is a bit sombre, and possibly a little overdramatic but not much.

And as I wrote and researched my article, I got an almighty wake up call.  I have olive skin, when I was a kid, my parents would watch as I got as "brown as a berry".  I don't have many moles, and thankfully I haven't had too many instances of serious sunburn (apart from those teenage years where my sun "protection" was baby oil *shudder*). So my risk factors were low.

But the young guy I interviewed for my story had had a mole that he had removed purely for cosmetic reasons, but which turned out to be a melanoma.  And his life had changed.

I watched a mole of my own change a little.  Hmmm.  And an appointment was made, where the doctor shook his head smiling.  "That's just a "insert hard to pronounce and spell medical word", that's nothing at all and is completely normal."

With relief, I relaxed as he continued his skin check.  And went straight to a little mole I've had my whole life.  "Now this one, this one could be trouble".  He looked, he flicked through text books, looked at pictures, then looked at my mole again.  He made me look at it, even though I said "I've honestly had that my whole life and I'm pretty sure it's always looked like that".

To the naked eye without a magnifying glass or textbook.

"Moles can change", he said.  And that hadn't occurred to me, I thought a "changing mole" was a radically different look, bleeding, colour, visible to all.  But not every change is obvious.

So I had my dodgey mole removed, and it turned out to be fine.  But that's because we caught it now.  "These type of moles turn to melanoma's if not removed", he told me.  And I believed him because I checked Dr Google when I got home and saw words that shouted out "close call" to me.

I know mole removal is common place, as is dodgey moles, nothing moles, I know people who have moles removed regularly without drama nor whinging.  This story is SO not about me and my mole.  This story is about vigilance, and taking precautions, and getting checked often and professionally.

So, when was the last time you had a skin check.  Truthfully. Was it "never ago" like me?

The story I wrote about melanoma opened my eyes and could very well have saved me a lot of things in my future including my life. Maybe this blog post may do the same to you.

Put "skin check" on your To Do list if you haven't had one recently.

Promise?

Who are the "biggest losers"?

My boys have started watching The Biggest Loser.  Accidentally.  I don't think I'm ok with it.  On autoplay I do the positive glass half full "yes these people are big but at least they're doing something about it."  And they are.  But this is extreme.  My husband and I try and be good role models for our kids, we eat healthily with treats, we exercise, we make sure exercise is part of our kids lives.  So they know that eating well and exercising is the norm.  And I say this knowing that most of you reading this do exactly the same thing, and probably more.  This is not rocket science.

I tried explaining the simple concept of calories in/calories out to my boys, but lost them quickly when I tried explaining that "calorie" was a measure of energy (and I may have actually made that part up).  Isn't it simple? You eat well, you do plenty of moving and somewhere in the middle it all balances out into a healthy person. And there are times when I'm glad I have boys and that I probably won't be faced with all the stuff that mum's of girls have to filter, to protect their innocence and their self esteems.

Like when I saw this on one of those spamming group buying emails that seem to clog my inbox

Get Rid of Stubborn Cellulite! Only $49 for a Non-Invasive Ultrasound Fat Cavitation Session (Valued at $400), $99 for Three Sessions (Valued at $700) or $139 for Five Sessions (Valued at $1000). Target Love Handles, Thighs and More. Plus Receive an Expert Consultation

WTF is fat cavitation?  It sounds like a made up word, and it certainly doesn't sound comfortable, nor capable of working miracles.

There seem to be so many excuses not to get off your bum and do the hard work yourself.  Miracle treatments, mud wraps 5:2 diets,  - no doubt, all largely fads and not very successful ones at that.  There aren't many better feelings that completing a hard run, gym class, swim, walk or whatever your choice of exercise is.  My doctor once advised me that as I am on the slippery slope to pre-menopausal symptoms, that exercise will be one of the best preventions and if need be remedy for dealing with times when you think you're being smothered by all the turkeys.  And there is even a medical name for it - endorphins.  If you've never experienced them then get moving for a while and you'll catch on.  Endorphins are the bodies invention for the gain at the end of the pain.

So my blood boils a little when I see extreme solutions to extreme situations.  Don't get there in the first place.  Move lots, eat healthy, be healthy.  Then you can save the money you might have spent on "fat cavitation" on something a whole lot more fun.

Am I preaching to the converted?

Doing

For the third year a group of my biggest fellas friends are getting together and swimming the 1km Cole Classic Ocean Swim to raise money for the Kids Cancer Project, a cause close to the hearts of some dear friends.  I'll be chatting about this soon, but please do go and look at this and you'll understand why it's important to a very wide circle of my peeps.

This year, for the first time, my son Will is toeing the start line with his mates, and their younger sisters.  Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, our family think that we're not "good swimmers".  I know for a fact The Husband isn't (too much worry about contact lenses I secretly think) and as for me,  if there is a old woman slowly breaststroking in a bright floral cap, with her zimmer frame resting near the pool edge, she would be faster than me, and probably managed an overtaking manoeuvre to get past me in my preferred Ultra-Slow swimmer lane.  It's just the way we roll.

But you also know that for me it's all about getting out there and doing it, regardless of how and where we end up in the pack.  You have a choice, it's simple - you either do or you don't.

I like to "do".

I swam last year, the first time in many events I was a smidge tempted to pull out, the washing machine I swam in, with bodies swimming on top of me in both directions, made me lose my nerve big time, and in the water there's nowhere to pull up and get your equilibrium (and nerve) back.  Still, I kept going, and ran proudly up onto the beach.  So I know what's in store for him this year and where he needs to be.  Last year I forced  encouraged him to run a 7km Fun Run with me, the event was fine, as was most of the training, but it was an exercise in persuasion, incentive building, and goal setting, with every run we did "Mate if you can run to the white car, we'll walk for a minute", "How far to go Mum?" , "Not far, maybe another 20 5 minutes!".  This year, our training has taken place in the pool, which I think is a much more peaceful experience for him as he can't listen to me, and I can't actually nag him.  It's just 50 metres after 50 metres of blue water and black line with an occasional "You go first this time" or "that's 800, only 200 left to go" to each other.

We get out of the pool, and with the adrenalin still pumping, knowing he's done his exercise for the day and that he can swim the distance he needs to, he happily heads to the car.  He always is a little pumped and says things like "That was great Mum, I like swimming together"which always makes my heart swell.  We've done a few ocean swims as practice, which is terrifying for both of us, but I know I need to freak him out with the things that freak me out, so he won't be freaked out on the day.  These are more like old times, with little breaks and words of encouragement from me and reassurance that he's cool from him.

But the best thing of all, is when we're swimming along side each other, in a quiet bubble of contentment and compainionship.  With every other breath we can see each other, we're reassured, we're focused, And we're in the ocean which has to be one of life's most natural highs - ocean swimming if you haven't tried it should be on your Bucket List. And now as his team is training together in the ocean, I watch as he swims along side his mates, and pushes himself to keep up.  I'm not close to him now, he's swimming in the pack and I'm swimming on the edge. But I've always got his back.

I'm proud of my son for doing.

Beautiful day

Another year new year has rolled over.  I hope you've enjoyed the end of yours and the start of the next.  I am thankful for what 2012 brought me.  And I am excited about what 2013 has in store.  Each year brings more focus for me - focus on the things that are important to me and focus on what I need to do to achieve them.  This last year didn't finish as well as I had hoped for reasons of no interest to anyone apart from me.  So I feel I'm starting this year on the back foot a little.  Which is a good thing.  Because it means I don't casually saunter into the new year, thinking "yeah, I'll do a bit of this and I'll do a bit of that", and vaguely get on my way.
Instead this year I am grabbing it, looking it dead in the eye and giving it the "game on" face.

I have goals, dull, specific but important to me.  I have priorities, I have simple needs.  I'm the kind of person who randomly lurches along from one thing to the next, I've always joked that this is how my creativity works, lurching and random.  Who am I kidding, it's just laziness (and I like to think something not quite wired right in my head).  My husband is the Ying to my Yang.  He writes lists, he has focus and plans in every area of his life, he writes them, reads them, actions them.  He is continually frustrated by my ability to live by vagueness.  I've always secretly believed that we get to the same place in the end, but I'm starting to doubt this is true.  He carries us, he carries me.  We have moments of clarity when I go "I want this and I want that!!!" and he goes "well write it down, make it happen", but I don't and then I forget, and then I lurch a little more.  I make excuses for myself - not enough time, too busy with the kids, the house is too messy, I'm on deadline -  but everyone, especially me knows this is bullocks.

Well that was then, and this is now.

And 7 days into the new year, I'm feeling the old routine starting to get in the way of my drive.  I faff around the kitchen, I empty beach bags, I fold clothes, I pick up stuff, when I should be writing, or planning, and with the Husband back at work today and a house full of kids, I can't see how this can change.  But it's going to.  Because 2013 doesn't start in January 30 when my kids head back to school and I have my friend Solitude back keeping me company.

2013 starts now.

Game on.

What I know about tradition.

Thanks to my fortnightly linkup with the clever Sarah from thatspaceinbetween, I'm moving on from curries and crazy Indian driver stories and reflecting a little about traditions and rituals.

And Sister, you have full power to counter anything I've forgotten or embellished from our childhood.

Our family wasn't big on tradition.

The sister and I had birthdays 3 years apart to a day within each other.  Our birthday ritual was us being allowed to choose a meal which meant we had 2 nights in a row of "nice" meals (apart perhaps from the year when my chosen meal was sausages and curry sauce, and the sister's the next night was  sausages and brown onion sauce, back to back sausage fiestas!).  The Sister who had godparents, always got one extra present than me.  And the lovely childless couple that were her godparents, always lavished her with a doozy of a gift.  So I guess that was a tradition, I always got one less present than The Sister.

Easter was a cake of Cadbury chocolate.  Easter eggs don't feature prominently in my memory banks, just a cake of chocolate, which like Charlie in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate factory, we would nibble on for days to try and make it last.

And Christmas, well, I think as we got older, we tried forcing Christmas on our family.  I can remember buying a tree once, a teeny one that Dad eventually planted in the garden.  We do have some nice christmas memories but maybe that has more to do with the volume of alcohol consumed by the adults by mid afternoon than a joyous coming together as a family.  Just saying.

And I decided early in my life as an adult not to head down that path, although strayed dangerously near for a few years when my former partner who was a doctor worked back to back Christmas days and for 2 years my christmas day consisted of a run and peanut butter on toast.
As a Mum, we started with a hiss and a roar with my baby boy treated to a full family, fully festive shindigs. Until the year we headed away on christmas day to a beach house, where as we started up the bbq for christmas dinner, my little boy complained "this is like every dinner - it's not even christmas'y".  And as I drove to a petrol station to find something festive to add to our table, a lightbulb went off. I wasn't even close to winning.

And so with a blank piece of paper, I started to create traditions.  For my family.

So I could regale you now with all the things I have introduced to our little family for times of celebration, although truth be told, sometimes I'm better at thinking up the ideas than delivering them.  But we do have "things" that are ours and that the kids look forward to and that I passionately reinforce to them that when Dad and I are old we want to look back on the Christmas book or the Fathers Day letters, or look at my bowl of Mothers Day shells, and remember when they were little fellas.  And that they can do the same with their kids.

Because it's never too late to start a tradition.

They all start somewhere.

What are your favourite traditions?  Are they new ones or oldies?

Clocks

I love a good clock.  The bigger the better, no roman numerals, no lines instead of numbers, just black and white clear numbers on a white background, thank you.  I brought a clock when I was getting to know The Husband, it was a slightly illegal sneak out of our office, when I insisted he had to see my clock before I bought it.  I know that many of you are raising your eyebrows a little puzzled, but there's a few of you that aren't.  The Husband and my story is not one that reads easily, so I won't trouble you with it, or him, or anyone else we left in our wake.  But I did appreciate that he convinced me to do the deal on my lovely clock and I love that it now sits on our bookcase in our house, where our boys sleep.  This, back then, was a pipedream   .  Still it's part of our story, and it's a nice clock.

I've just written a story about time, for a lovely friend with a lovely magazine.  And during the writing I stumbled across a quote in one of my all time favourite books; The Time Travellers Wife (I know, it's a very polarising, love it or hate it book, well I loved it)

Clock time is our bank manager, tax collector, police inspector;

this inner time is our wife

- JB Priestley, Man and Time

And here his wife is his absolute happiness.

In other words, "clock" time is the stuff that has to be done, the non-negotiables, the mundane.  And "inner" time is the time spent on things that make you feel joyous, that bring light and happiness into your life and that you look forward to.

Now this I get.  There is a difference with how we use time and there is also a difference with how we feel as a result of how we've used that time.
I feel significant satisfaction when I've used "clock" time to sort out the mountains of paper work and I've had a filing fiesta.  I feel relieved when I've paid bills, and filled in forms.

But I feel like I can bound off tall buildings when I've used "inner" time and have finished writing a story, I feel calm when I tuck myself into my big white bed at night with my book and my bedside light and my husband, I feel love when I see my little fella waiting poised for the next cricket ball for me to bowl to him.  I feel content when I settle beside my pyjama clad boys for a movie night.

Time is not what's different, it's how we use it and how we feel while doing this, that defines it.
The trick is in getting the balance, or perhaps that should be, the imbalance, just perfect.

 Do you have enough inner time?

Everyday People

When I first arrived in Sydney and was desperately lonely and I'm sure, a little depressed, I'd have days go by where apart from a fleeting conversation or two with my local butcher or fruit shop people, I would have talked to no one during school hours older than 3 years old. We'd laugh at how I pronounced "mince" (and I'm sorry but it is not spelt meeence) or they'd explain what "Two-up" is, or I'd simply ask what apples were best at the moment, or that yes please, I'll have the bread sliced thanks. At the end of my first year, with a friendship or two safely in my clutches, I did a trip to my local shops at Christmas with a box of chocolates for each of them.  This wasn't about christmas, it was just about unwittingly throwing me a life line when I needed it, and making me feel less lonely, and making me feel more normal. And that part was really important to me.  I wanted to feel the same as everyone else.

Every day we have an people in our community we brush up against, they don't know our stuff and we don't know theirs.  They make our coffees, they put our rolls in a bag, find us a bunch of coriander, or slice our ham. They are our everyday people.  They see people like me who was lonely, or people who are sick, or people who are sad, or people who have just received good news.  And we may share a little of us in the few fleeting minutes as they're weighing our sausages, but not enough for them to judge us.  They are safe people who are so much part of our everyday life that we don't even notice they are.

My local bakery has a few thai girls who serve and do a roaring coffee trade.  They are always smiling, always up, always efficient.  The other morning, while waiting, I actually took notice of them.  They remembered people coffee preferences, they all crowded around a little girl in her dads arms who had a stamp to show them on her hand, they pulled a snake out of a lolly jar for another little boy they knew, they chatted and brought a little sunshine into that bakery. I left feeling all warm.

It's the safeness and reliability of everyday people that makes gives them a special place in our world.  Because sometimes you just need some normal and some predictability to make you feel normal.

Who are your everyday people?

I dedicate this to Jamie and Russell at the butchers, Maggie and Vince at the fruitshop,  and the girls in the bakery...of course.

Blending worlds

I read a lot.  And look at photos. And spend time on social media. I have my parameters where my online world ends and my other one starts.  But increasingly those lines are blurring.  And I'm guessing I'm not alone.

 I have friends online that I have never met.  And when I do meet them in the flesh (as happened last week at the Sydney Writers Centre meet-up for my writerly peeps,) they are every bit as lovely as I imagined.  

Many of these friendships have formed through a kind of courtship online played out on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook. Maybe it's the anonymity of the online world, but it's easier to share thoughtfully while at home with a bowl of almonds and a heater and snug slippers on, than it is while standing in the school yard with three backpacks on and carrying a trumpet.  

I like heart felt, I like deep, I always have.  I'm the kind of person who is useless at small talk but if you meet me at a function I'll bury you in a sea of "what's your favourite memory" or "what country do you desperately want to visit in your life time".  And once you're trapped, I'll dig deeper until you'll regret ever wandering over in my direction.  That's especially the case if the waiter with the drinks tray has strayed past me a couple of times as well.

But the joy of online is that you can find all kinds of specialness.  We have so many fabulous "projects" that have been embraced such as Fatmumslim's hugely popular "Photo A Day" challenge, the various grateful projects, and the many other activities online that encourage you to dig a little deeper inside yourself and share with the world, what you think or feel or see.

And yes, I agree, don't just save this for the online world, share this generous, thoughtful you with your everyday world as well, don't keep this you a secret.

Sometimes The Husband come homes and my peaceful writing cocoon I live in during school hours is a distant memory with me ferrying my kids to various playdates, sports and music activities, he gets the dregs.  I struggle amongst the clutter of dinner and homework and fighting and keeping kids off the electronics to remember this feeling of calm and special thoughts.  We talk the mundane and the practical when I really want to share the nice stuff, not the ordinary. 

So there is my challenge - to take my special and bring it into my normal.  To share this me with the me that my world sees.

Do you live a double life?  How have you brought your special into your normal?

Can you feel it?

I generally start my blog posts in my head while hanging washing, emptying the dishwasher and all the other mundane tasks that consume the bulk of my day, and tonight I started one about how The Husband and I leave for India in 4 weeks and all we have managed to book so far is our international flights and nothing in between, including transport and accommodation, shots or visas.  We're squeezing in a maniacal amount of places inside India within a 16 day stay, but *imagine me writing blog post inside my head* this is a trip we'll probably only get one shot at.  In our lives.

I stopped dead in my tracks and thought "Fark, this is likely to be the only time IN WHATS LEFT OF MY LIFE that I'll get to India.".

Now in reality, there's simply too many other places I want to see in the world to warrant a repeat visit to, especially when India is going to be so ....colourful/traumatic/friggin filthy (select one).

But still, nothing disturbs me more than the thought of my own mortality.  The thought that this could be the last time I (insert anything).....I'm not sure if my rampant need to acknowledge my life and the fact that my life clock is ticking, is due to my Mum's early death at 56 with a life time of dreams unfulfilled.

I want to create dreams and live them, then talk and laugh about them, then go and create new dreams and go crazy living those ones as well.
There is nothing more confronting and stop-dead-in-your-track'ing than really, truly grasping the idea that this...is...it...

The Sister and I have battled with and accepted the way our dear dad lives his life, he lives with complacency and simplicity that we have unfairly labelled "apathy" even though simplicity and happiness is all he wants. We've accepted that he has no need to trek through streets thick with sewage so he can stand amongst the greatest mass of people on earth, nor to dip his toes in the southern most point on the African continent, nor to crawl through mud, nor to wake up to a daily sunrise.  He has no desire to dance drunkenly with old friends to old songs, to get a tattoo nor to hover over the edge of a live volcano.  His worst nightmare would be to arrive somewhere new not sure where to stay nor how to get there, he is happiest at home amongst what he knows and loves.

After years and much head bashing we've accepted this.  But I will never choose that for myself.  I need to know my highs will roll over from one adventure to the next, and that in between time, I will relish the simplicity, and happiness will be a constant in whatever I'm doing. I'm fighting complacency and mediocrity, not by being dramatically amazing, but just by the mere act of doing.

I may not ever return to India, or the last country I've been to, or the next one I visit.  I may not do many things again, but that's ok, because I'm 100% positive that will be because I'm doing something new that reinforces that I am alive, and I am living this life.
I am living this life.

What makes you feel alive?

Laugh

Every couple of years Katie, one of my BFF's (actually my very longest serving BFF - she showed me to the girls loos when I started a new school age 7) and I find an event to do that's about us, about pushing ourselves, about connecting - it needs to have some sort of physical challenge involved and hopefully a smidge of intrepidness.  So far we have done the 100km Oxfam Trailwalker, Mototapu, an offroad marathon in NZ,and this weekend gone, we competed in Tough Mudder.  I know many of you have seen photos and news stories about it, and yes, it really was as wickedly fun as it looked, as well as a physical challenge with electric shocks, mud and high things to climb while on a 20km run.  My marathon weary legs were a little weary, but managed even though I was always a few paces behind Katie.

And we ran, and chatted, and freaked out, and asked strong guys for help, and got muddy, and patted ourselves along the way as we realised that we were passing people who'd started an hour before us.  And we laughed.  At some points, we laughed so hard, we had tears running down our mud smeared faces.  One of us may or may not have  ripped the butt out of their pants resulting in an extra challenge when climbing up and over obstacles with their arse hanging out but it would be wrong for me to mention it here. This one will be long remembered for being fun.

Which got me thinking.  As we get older, how often do we have that kind of fun which makes you feel ageless.  Which makes you feel like you have no burden of responsibilities.  Which makes you feel light and blimmin joyous just because of the sheer fun of it all.  And I'm not talking about the kind of fun you have after that extra half bottle of wine - which is never quite as fun the next morning, (although Sister, the "flag dance" will be longstanding in our family treasure chest of happy memories). I'm talking about those moments that brighten your soul a little, and make you doggedly determined to do MORE OF THAT soon, ok, before you forget how good it feels?

Because I think in our busy lives of responsibilities, of raising children, of paying mortgages, of making our mark on the world, we forget to have fun. Or we have redefined fun as something that is really only a satisfactory attempt at "fun".  It's a little safe and a little controlled, and in my world, usually revolves around my kids and their version of fun.

I'm guessing that there are some of you reading this, who are happily shaking your heads thinking "nup, not me", well I say hats off to you, and I bow deeply, because you are my role models. Don't change a thing, just sit there smugly, because you can.

I ran over a marathon finishing line with my arms in the air and my face fill of joy last Sunday, and on Saturday, I ran laughing with my bum hanging out of my ripped pants, mud smeared all over my teeth, and a light heart.

It feels good to have fun.
When was the last time you had belly-laughing, pants-wetting fun?

Keep On Moving

Do you ever suffer from reverse body dysmorphia?  Where you think you look better than you actually do, and then it all comes crashing to ground when you catch a glimpse of yourself in a shop window.

We're living in the teeny tiny house with no mirrors at the moment, and I'm sorry, but a misted over bathroom mirror or a mirror that even the husband has to stand on the bed on his tippy toes to put his contact lenses in don't count.  We have no full length mirrors.
I know the importance of a good full length mirror, in fact on our first real "shop" together, when we were supposed to be buying practical stuff like washing machines and toasters, the Husband and I brought a massive full length mirror that can be tilted to give the illusion of elongation.  We also brought a small guilt edged mirror.  At the end of that shopping trip we were able to tick the 'mirrors" box on our must buy list, but nothing else.
Still with my favourite mirror in storage (along with the rest of my life), and with no mirrors where we're living, I need to rely on shop windows.  And it always give that nasty shock when you realise that a) those pants actually are too tight or b) those shoes don't make my legs longer or even c) seriously?  You thought this all worked together?

The most confronting times are when I'm running and I see myself in a glass bus stand as I run towards it.  I know I am neither elegant nor straight kneed when I run, yet it still surprises me when I see myself.  I swore never to run in an event that takes those professional photos, in shorts again.  Tights to the knee can hold a multitude of sins, flabby thighs and loose skin included.  I only hope that the weather stays cool for my marathon in September, it's hard to suck in your thighs as you run past the camera when the only thought in your mind is survival.

I have many friends with amazeball bodies, that you can't even feel an iota of jealousy because they work hard, and they look fabulous, and hell, they were kind of born that way.
Yes I'd love a number of changes to my body, but medieval torture weapons aside, someone is yet to invent a way to make legs longer.
You all know that I'm training for a marathon in 5 weeks...jaysus, yet sadly, my body is the same as always (on the surface - I'm guessing my knees are saying, "are you kidding us?).  I do not look like a skeletal olympic marathon runner, I just look like me.  Maybe it's got something to do with my favourite post run recovery of potato chips and chocolate milk, or maybe it's because I run long distances without running out of puff.  But the fact is, I feel good about myself because I know I'm doing something. I'm moving, and logic says if you move then you're going to be healthier than if you didn't.

And when you feel good about yourself, everything has a way of mentally firming up. And you smile that little bit more, and your shoulders are pulled back slightly further.  And you don't need to be running a marathon, you just need to be moving.

And now I look in those shop mirrors and ignore them .  I think to myself; "this is my body I've been born with and I will do everything in my power to make it the best it can be within it's own confines."
It's when I stop believing this and doing this, that trouble starts.
So I don't stop.

Do you get this?  What do you do to feel good about yourself?

Postscript; have you EVER seen a worse case of shin wobble than in my photo?  I didn't even think it was possible for shins to wobble?

School Projects

Our family is in that fun position of having three speech projects on at the moment - it's always a challenging time, especially when speeches are involved.  The topics increase in interest with age.  And even though we have been lucky enough to interview and do a photo shoot at our school canteen (for my Y1's Workers in the Community" speech), the Y6 speech about "Playing the hand you're dealt with" is so much more heart swelling and interesting.

I literally stand in front of my eldest as he eyes the computer hoping to get a "hit" of Minecraft, and mentally shake him by the shoulders.  I've said to him - this is about you, this is about living to your full potential, using all the gifts you've been given.  This is about going for it.  You are almost 12, you have the world at your feet.  I didn't know this when I was 12, I wish my mum and dad had told me, like I'm trying to tell you.  This is your time.  You are amazing.  Don't hold back.  GO FOR IT!

And as I bleet on, he gives me a bemused look, and gives me a "sure Mum" and "are you done?" kind of look.

Is it me?  Am I just panic stricken because I see my years racing and my "time" disappearing at great knots?  Am I trying to live vicariously through my son and will my other two have to suffer through their mother as well?  And am I trying to put my expectations onto young shoulders that have only started their journey.  Probably.

But then my eldest came rushing through after a last burst on his speech.  He was excited and proud of himself, he explained what he'd written.  He read it out, beautifully, and it was beautiful.  Because for a moment, however long it lasts, he got it.

And as a mother that's all I'm trying to do.  To help my kids to have beautiful moments like that. To see the world of opportunity at their feet.  To see all that they are capable of.
This is the beauty of experience, and sharing that knowledge and learning from all the twists and turns we've taken in our lives.  I want my kids to look forward at their lives with vision and unwavering focus.

I want them to dare to be great.

Do you get this?  Can your children see the world as their oyster?

* Thank you for this perfect image

Laugh Out Loud

In my quest to get to the start line of my marathon in September, I have a weekly long run, it's been creeping up in increments of 15-30 minutes, and today's was an eye watering 3.5 hours.  Two of my clever friends Kayte and Katie have sworn by listening to audio books.

Me, I make life hard for myself, I don't have a shred of confidence so won't run with anyone, and I insist on listening to a "Good Running Songs" playlist of 61 songs.  And I promise you that over 30kms, you too will tire of listening to "Whistle Baby" or "Champagne Showers" or whatever other boppy songs I've Shazam'ed in Cotton On and other teenager'y shops.

So today I found an old audio book that I still had a few chapters left on - Dear Fatty by Dawn French. I know I've posted about this before and how once on a run, I lost control of my breathing as I sobbed through a page or two.
And for an hour today, I didn't think of my feet, my dicky knee, the achingly long amount of running time stretched out ahead of me, I didn't think of anything other than the carefully crafted words cleverly  placed together.  I absorbed each word, and rolled it around in my subconscious, thinking "I want to write like this", because her words weren't particularly profound nor articulate, just beautiful.  And I am a sucker for beautiful words strung together beautifully.  I listened and memorised sequences promising myself I'd use these somehow.

She talked about a mid life crisis as a mid life "sadness", she mentioned what was probably a nervous breakdown as a "wobble", and somehow while still capturing the essence of the trauma, she said it in a respectful and loving way.  And she talked about her family and friendships as people who have created the magic that is her life.

As I listened I often laughed out loud.  And sometimes I sucked in an extra breath that was in fact a gulp.

And what I've realised is as I rush through books, I don't read every word, unless I make myself because I can tell it's worth it...Fifty Shades of Grey is a speed reading case-in-point - shockingly appalling writing only slightly mitigated by the sex... So so bad.

But when listening to an audiobook you have no choice but to listen to each word.  And today I listened to and enjoyed each word.  I was in the moment, and in a moment that should have been painful, boring and relentless, I had a moment.

Thank you girls.
Have you listened to any good audiobooks? Do you get this?

HTFU and other useful life lessons

I have a tendancy to be a sook and a bit of a victim.  Although I never think of myself like this, but quietly I know it.
Are you tough physically and emotionally? Both or perhaps neither?

I try and do lots of things that push me physically, I think, "yeah, I'm staunch, I'm tough", but in reality I'm not sure I am.  Once before a long running event, I received some wise words from a friend who runs ultra marathons, 'If something goes wrong, sort it".
In other words, no excuses, no one to blame, don't be a victim, dust yourself off and deal with it.
 
And something did go wrong, I started cramping 20kms into the 40km run. So I remembered his words and sorted it as best I could.  Along with the fact any form of withdrawing from the race would have required helicopters, sorting my shiz out saved my race.  Yet still as I hobbled over the finishing line, I started bleating on about cramp and "woe is me" kind of crap to account for my painfully slow time.  My friend who'd also run and finished long before me, said "yeah, me too", and as I looked around cramping runners and riders were everywhere.  Although I'd been "tough" to get to the end, I still looked for an excuse.  I was still a victim.  Seriously?  Time for me to harden hard.  I seem to have a pattern of trying to do tough stuff, coming unstuck a little then whinging and blaming others or making phantom excuses.
The Husband and I have had many a debate about this and how (be believes) it extends well, to life in general.  And even though I passionately defend myself, there may be a wafer of truth in this (and I'm safe here because he reads my blog only a couple of times a year, and only then to skim read to see if I've mentioned him in a less than loveable way).

Now you know I drag out the  ol' chestnut of living your best life whenever a skerrick of an opportunity presents itself, and this is a glaring one for me.  Because many have genuine and heartfelt reasons for being victims, for making excuses, for not getting on.  Life may have dealt them a crap hand, and then their next hand is ever worse, but still, they keep going and not crumbling under the weight of the baggage they may reluctantly have to carry around.  They see the good things as amazing, they see the bonuses as miracles, and they keep moving on.
I have been gifted a number of people in my life, who I just constantly shake my head at their resilience and unwillingness to be victims.

And if ever there is a life lesson to be learnt, it's by rubbing up against these people and hoping that a little of their optimism and refusal to fall, rubs off on you as well.

Is your glass half full, or half empty even though you like to think of it as half full?


And I dedicate this post to my lovely, brave sister-in-law who this morning has started a battle with breast cancer and will stare it down with pragmatism, determination and faith.  She is an inspiration.  Always has been.  And I bet she doesn't even know that.

Everyone has a story

Did your mum tell you to never judge a book by it's cover?  To give everyone a chance?
I think in today's society, we're more accepting of others and pride ourselves on this.  But do you think there is a latent kind of exclusion, where perhaps you gravitate to the people who look most interesting or more like you and the kind of person you are, than others.  So in other words, you're still making a choice on who you want to talk to based on ...well...the cover?
And I'm not saying this is right or wrong, I'm just saying. And reflecting....

I've just been to a couple of conferences recently, and I've already regaled you of how I'm such a namby-pamby-woose-bag in social settings when I feel intimidated or am out of my comfort zone.  In the more recent conference I was playing handbag on the Husbands conference and met a stack of lovely peeps, whose lives reflected mine - kids, hubby, happy life, dreams ...and like a moth to a lamp, I connected with these people and stuck to them like glue.

But the Husband also happens to be one of the Big Cheeses so I needed to chat with many, not a few.  And that's when it happened.

Sitting for breakfast one morning with an older couple, we were having the perfunctory chitchat that you tend too over a plate of melon, pineapple and dry toast that's gone through those rotary toasting machines. They were keen to connect.  The Husband and I were flat after the cocktail "roadies" we'd had the night before.  But polite.  I asked if they had a child other than "Sandra" who they'd mentioned.  They looked at each other for a long moment.
And then he started to tell their story.
And as they shared their deeply personal and sad story, I listened hard while mentally slapping myself over the wrists.
I hadn't judged this couple by their cover, I just hadn't given them a chance. Or been bothered to.

Shallow, lazy, safe...there you go, a few adjectives you may want to apply to me.

And the same thing happened only a week earlier.  I met someone with a story.  And I only found out the story afterwards.  After the casual chit chat, and general niceties.  And lets not kid ourselves that after a few minutes someone is going to tell there deepest darkest experiences.  I won't. But knowing there is someone "open" to hearing it, is a powerful and intimate connector.

My lovely and very clever friend Sarah from That Space In Between writes beautifully about loss, and those left behind and the complexity of emotions of living a normal life amongst society, while carrying a trauma around like an ugly handbag.

How many people do you brush up against briefly in life, half listen to, or ignore, who has a story.  A story they want to share or not.  Do we just need to let down our personal safety bars a little, to open ourselves up to hear a story if there is one to be told.

Because life isn't just about kids, marriage, life and dreams, and we shouldn't pretend it is.

Everyone has a story.

Self-blog-analysis

So I went to a bloggy conference thingo on the weekend.  I knew it would be full of excitable bloggers learning and networking, but what I didn't know was how I would react to this.
I froze. Stricken by shyness and general weirdness.
I'll give some perspective, in my life as a corporate wife handbag to The Husband, I go to lots of lovely shindigs, and meet many lovely peeps, with genuine enthusiasm I meet and greet and chat, and share, and generally have a fine old time. And when I'm with my dearest friends, I'm fair game for anything, especially if a lovely glass of pinot grigio has been consumed first.  Dancing and tables have been used in the same sentence.
So Saturday, I thought, no brainer, just lots of me's to chat to.
I give thanks every night that my writery friend Sarah was coming too, and when I arrived, like a startled deer in the headlights, as I stared at the seething room of excited, networking bloggers, I sent out an urgent SOS text - "get here quick or I will never ever talk to you again".  She said she ran the last couple of blocks.  And together the day was salvaged but my confidence was in shreds.

You see, I think people think that because bloggers share their every things, that we're a pretty extrovert bunch, and I'm guessing after Saturday, that's a fair assumption.  But then you get people like me, who unless I really am confident in a group, and have a couple of safe haven's (or friends) I can go back to for re-energising, I free-fall into a black pit of self consciousness and verbal constipation.

Don't get me wrong, I am happy with who I am, what I do and what I produce.  More than happy.  I just don't know how to sell myself to a group of people expert at selling themselves too.  Lordy, I have to sell myself and my pitches most days with emails and phone calls to editors, convincing them that this story is the bomb and that I am the only person who should write it.  So why the freeze?

Maybe it was because we were all the same but the playing field wasn't even - there were people there who pull up their deepest emotions in a blog post and a handful of people read it, and on the other, there were people who blog about the best use of ribbon in scrapbooking, and a zillion people read it.  And truly thats ok and blimmin impressive.
We all blog for different reasons.
Maybe it's because some people blog because they want to share - photos, thoughts, hints, chitchat, and then some people blog because they want to write.  And their lovely loyal readers are there, because they like the writing.

And I'm ok with that.  Because that blog "loyalty" is so much more rewarding than an empty container of business cards and a pile of new "likers" who don't actually read the writing.

In the end, that's what its about for me...the words not the numbers.
Thank you for making time to read my words.