Butterfly Wings

Ten years ago today, the day after Christmas, on the Feast of the Holy Family, The Man and I became husband and wife. Incidentally, a year later, on the Sunday after Christmas, the Feast of the Holy Family, our firstborn was baptised, and the saved tier of the wedding cake was shared.

We had a pretty subdued Christmas, but we make more of the Epiphany anyway, in terms of gift-giving. This year that’s a fortunate thing, as I’ve been a bit “off” this week, and I’ve needed these days to be quiet and homely. I must admit, I’ve probably tested the “in good times and in bad” thing a little this week.

So I’ve been a bit sentimental today. Ten years seems like a pretty big deal to me. I had wanted to commemorate it in some significant way, maybe a renewal of vows and/or a gathering of family and friends, but we didn’t get around to organising anything, and didn’t want to spend a lot on doing so anyway. Tonight we took the boys to Mass, combining both our anniversary and the feast day, then bought pizza on the way home. OK, so I didn’t eat raw tonight, but it was gluten free, cheese free and vegetarian. I was all set to make them all watch the video taken on our wedding day, until we realised that the VCR isn’t working - well, the sound is fine, but there’s no picture. I could have made them listen, I suppose…

So I’ve pulled out all the photo albums, the candle and the ceremony booklet. I’ve been remembering all the preparation that went into that day, the emotional discussions, the negotiations, the trying to keep everybody happy. I’m thankful that we did the whole thing on a relatively small budget, partly out of necessity, as my parents wanted to pay and didn’t have a whole lot of money to throw at it. We were blessed and honoured to have my choir travel all the way, without wanting a cent contributed to their costs, to sing for our ceremony (and a little performance at the reception too) - and the wonderful music at the reception was provided as a gift from a family friend and her duo partner. Everything else was done pretty much on the cheap, but it was all done well. I’ve never been one for pomp and ceremony, and didn’t want to change that just because of a wedding. After all, it’s just one day. I simply wanted to marry the love of my life. In the end, what is it really worth if the money is still being paid off on your tenth anniversary?

We did manage to throw in a couple of surprises. My sisters and I sang the entrance song, Bach/Gounod’s Ave Maria, and only confided in a handful of people. My younger brother had to perform his page boy duty on the day with no rehearsal, as I couldn’t trust him to see, and keep quiet about, what we had planned before the day. At the age of six, carrying the real wedding rings, he did a fantastic job. The priest and organist knew, and my other brother, as altar server, had to bring me a microphone, but everybody else, including my father, the choir, the photographer (who berated me later!) and especially the groom, were kept in the dark until I was handed the microphone at the back of the church. I sang while my younger brother and sisters walked up the aisle, and then they sang Dad and me on our way. I’m not writing this in order to brag; I’m sure many others would have done a much better job of it, but it’s still one of my favourite memories. I have to admit that I love being able to pull off surprises, especially if they’re nice ones and I can see the recipient’s reaction.

I sang again later at the reception, but I chose a bad time to do it. It was a soppy love song that I wrote especially for my new husband, and it sort of fell between my choir’s performance and the clattering of dessert dishes. It was caught on tape, and watching it makes me feel a bit sorry for the silly bride up there embarrassing herself, but the groom seemed to like it, and after all, it was for him. My sisters wrote a song for us and sang it during the speeches (a much smarter timeslot). The speeches were heartfelt and kept clean, most of my cousins were there, plenty of kids to keep each other entertained, and plenty of food to keep the guests satisfied.

Looking at the photos stirs up a mix of emotions. There are a few faces I barely know - friends of family, partners of guests; there are faces that have passed on and can only be seen now in photos and in memories. And of course, all of the faces that are still around are ten years older. Children have grown up, adults have become older adults. A few of the young adults are now married and/or have their own children. In fact, I believe one of my cousins proposed to his (now) wife on our wedding day. I grew up with celebrations that included, and welcomed, children, and our wedding would have seemed strange without them. I think our children would have enjoyed that party.

And today it’s raining, just as it did that day. It had been overcast all day, held off until after our photos in the forest, then we drove away from the reception in the rain. I should mention that the bride and groom were the very last people to leave the party. Even my parents left before us. We had a brief honeymoon, returning home in time for the non-event that was Y2K - the “millennium bug” New Year.

Looking back, there are only a few things I might conceivably change, and they’re really not major things. Ten years later, we’re still together (happily), we have two beautiful children, and we’re all loving and learning together. That day seems so long ago, yet only a memory away. I wonder what we’ll be saying about it in another ten.

Well, I didn’t realise how long it’s been since I posted here. Apparently, I started “getting serious” and seriously abandoned the blog.

We did complete the 3 day challenge mentioned in that last post - basically green smoothies for breakfast, lunch and dinner, with only a couple of snacks at other times. Some time later we did the 10 day challenge, this time not aiming for 100% smoothies, but making sure there was a substantial smoothie component each day.

I was planning to do the 24 day Christmas countdown challenge. Then I decided to just do my own version. This is usually a dangerous thing. At least when the Green Smoothie Queen is sending daily prompts and inspiration, I tell myself that I committed to something that somebody else asked me to. I seem to have trouble committing to myself. However, this past month I have stuck to a mainly-raw, mostly plant-based diet. The times that I have eaten animal protein or cooked food, I haven’t actually felt that great afterwards. I can’t say if that’s purely psychological/guilt or if my body really didn’t like what I put into it.

I admit that I wasn’t going to actually post numbers until I was under 100kg, but it’s so close, and I feel I need a little bit of inspiration, so here goes. Since March, when I started documenting this journey and riding my bike more, I have lost/released about 13kg. Since the start of October, when I really got serious about the food part, I have lost/released about 8kg (included in, not in addition to, the 13 since March), about 5 of those during December alone (mainly-raw, mostly plant-based, no coffee, almost no alcohol). I haven’t braved the summer outdoors on my bike very much, but during the past week or so I have been trying to do some serious kms on The Man’s bike - currently on a stand indoors. Okay, so I slacked off a bit during the last couple of days.

The funny thing is that, even with the extra weight, when I was riding the bike more during winter, I was becoming quite fit. Getting back on the bike this month was a bit of a shock at first. It seems ironic that now I’m trying to regain the fitness I had when I was fatter.

I didn’t quite reach my weight goal, which was “double figures” (under 100kg) by Christmas, and to still be under 100kg by New Year. In other words, I was aiming to stay in control of it during the traditional stuff-your-face time. I’m so close, and now my goal is to be at double figures by the double figure year (’10). Today is our first double-figure wedding anniversary - married ten years ago today. I like the way all those numbers work together.

On our wedding day, I was heavier than I wanted to be, but I still have a bit of work to do to get to where I was back then. This time, however, I think I’m on a better track than the starve-myself-into-the-dress mentality I had at the time.

So I said it was time to get serious, and here I am again, after midnight. My excuse this time is that I have to wait for a load of laundry to finish.

However, since that last post, I have actually signed up for the Green Smoothie Queen’s 3 Day Challenge. - three days of green smoothies. I start in the morning. I was supposed to get to bed early tonight as part of my preparation, but, well, I didn’t.

This is not my first time trying green smoothies. We’ve been making them for a few months now, sporadically, whenever we feel like them. This is our first time using them as our main source of food for more than a single meal. The Man is planning to do this with me, and we’re hoping The Boys will at least drink some smoothie with us. They’re not officially doing the challenge, but they enjoy partaking in a glass or two as a snack between other meals, or even as a “dessert”.

I still haven’t decided exactly how I plan to document this “getting serious” thing, but I figure I’ll just start with this Challenge and go from there. I just thought that it was time I followed up on my declaration of seriousness!

Back in February, I wrote about our summer experiment with “tea” made into ice blocks/icy poles/popsicles. Summer is again approaching, and with the unseasonably hot spring, the boys wanted to make more. So they did.

During the past few months, we’ve also been experimenting with green smoothies. Even Boy Two (the avoider of all Green Things at all costs) decided that green smoothies were pretty cool. Anyway, a couple of weeks ago they were on a roll. They had made their tea ice blocks, and Boy One suggested we make some green smoothie ones. Upon a quick web search I discovered that we were not the first to try this (shocker, I know; we’re so original! haha) but it was still his own original idea at the time.

Best thing, they were a hit - and very easy to make, since we simply made a batch of smoothie, poured some of it into moulds and drank the rest. I don’t know if it really made too much difference, but if we want the smoothie to be fairly runny, I make it thicker at first, pour into the moulds, then add water to the remainder and give it another quick blend.

I’m looking forward to experimenting with more flavours to keep it interesting through the summer.

It’s mildly ironic that I’m writing this now, since it’s after midnight and part of my plan to “get serious” involves getting to bed at a decent hour. However, I’ve been thinking about it, and now seems as good a time as any to write it. I have also had a glass and a half of white wine during the course of the evening, so while my thoughts are more spontaneous and less refined, I’m more likely to be honest.

I need to make some changes. Yes, I already made a start, but I hit a plateau and I need to do something about getting back on track. I won’t go into detail right now, but I have health issues to deal with, including a whole stack of weight I need to shift.

So I’ve decided to do what every other self-respecting blogger has done, and document my process. It seems that people find more success with sticking to their plans when they’ve made them public, sometimes embarrassingly so. While my blog certainly doesn’t have a readership anywhere near the size of the television audience of shows like The Biggest Loser, the idea that somebody, somewhere may read my blog and judge my efforts could be motivation enough. Even if nobody reads it but me, I will know that I can’t hide it any more.

I haven’t decided how much detail I will post. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to document photos or weight or a food diary (or to subject potential readers to that). However, I suppose there’s no point in doing this if I haven’t included at least some of those details. Anybody out there want to give me their opinion on that?

So anyway, that’s the (vague, murky, hazy) plan so far. Starting as soon as I work out what to actually post, I will start posting about my personal journey. After all, that’s how this blog started, except it was just for a different journey.

And then again, I may wake up in the morning and read this, and ask “What in the world was I thinking???” Watch this space (well, if you want to)…

Today is our “engagement anniversary”. It may seem a strange day to remember, but to me, it’s just as significant as our wedding anniversary.

On this day, ten years ago, we committed ourselves to one another, in a private moment shared by just the two of us. One hundred days later - not planned that way, that’s just how it worked out - we made that commitment official, surrounded by family and friends.

Our engagement was a relatively short one, but those who really know us know that both The Man and I are slow to make big decisions - and when those decisions are made, they’re made. So we might as well have married that day, as our deliberations and second-guessing had already been done. We had been officially a couple for just over two years, and before that we had spent a year and a half as friends, going out quite frequently on “non-dates” and trying hard not to become too attached. I think most people who knew us spent a lot of time wanting to grab us and say “get on with it already!”

Just over two weeks before he asked me, we were out one night and I had initiated the “are we ever going to be more than this?” discussion. He had, of course, not wanted to just give in. He confessed later that he had actually been planning to ask, but he had wanted to choose a time when it clearly appeared to be his idea, and not just a reaction to my impatience. So, that night, shortly after returning home from the latest emotional discussion, my little sister rang, very excitedly, to announce that her boyfriend (now husband) had proposed. I burst into tears, and while I wanted to be happy for them, I was just so upset for myself… and ridiculously envious. Of course, as I found out later, that put The Man’s own proposal plans on hold further, in order to not steal their moment.

So, two weeks later, after I had prepared a romantic dinner, he finally decided he was ready to ask me. He didn’t have an engagement ring, but he found one that he had given me as a souvenir from an earlier trip to Sardinia, knelt and asked.

I laughed.

After all the fuss of the previous weeks, I didn’t know whether or not to believe him, and he had to convince me that he was serious.

Today, I was planning to prepare something less “ordinary” for dinner, to commemorate this day. Just before leaving in search of ingredients, the kitchen tap refused to turn off. So, instead of washing up, buying ingredients and cooking something special, I turned off the mains water supply, went shopping for new taps and bought takeaway Thai for dinner. Not so romantic, but the kids thought the candle was a nice touch.

Not the one on the browser.
The waaaaaaay back button.
35.2 +/- 0.1 years should just about do it.

Today is the twenty second anniversary of my Nonno’s passing. It seems so long ago now, and it’s almost two thirds of my lifetime ago, but there are some things that stay in memory better than others.

Every year this day comes and I think of him especially, as I will in four days’ time on his birthday. He would have been seventy-five that year.

Today I have been thinking extra hard about him, as the weather is one of those associated memories. It’s been raining, both here in Brisbane and down the coast where I grew up, and where he lived. There is flooding around parts of Brisbane, and in Lismore they are bracing themselves.

Twenty two years ago, in Lismore, they were recovering from the “Mother’s Day Floods”. My Nonno lived out of town, and as many older Italians do, had ignored the symptoms of the illness that had had been developing. As the flood waters were rising, Nonno was getting sicker. As the roads became blocked, it grew urgent. He was ferried to the hospital via SES emergency boat. His photo made front page of the local paper, which probably annoyed him more than anything, but he would have been too ill to bother too much.

I tried to find that photo online tonight, but have so far come up with nothing. I’m not even sure I want to. The thought of finding that photo scares me a little, and makes me a little sad. It’s the last mental image I have of my Nonno. He spent some time in hospital, but I wasn’t allowed to see him. Understandable, in retrospect. I was twelve. He would have been weak, pale, attached to whatever tubes and machines they would have hooked up, and a shadow of his usual, larger than life, loud, passionate self. Much better to remember him as the strong, loud, sometimes scary, always lovable, grandfather in the photos and memories that remain.

I don’t remember the date he went to hospital. I do remember that he survived his surgery, then suffered a heart attack in recovery. I guess the strain was too much. I remember being picked up after school, asking my parents how it went. I remember them being annoyed, hurried, telling me to get in the car before asking questions. I don’t remember if he was already gone by then. I don’t even remember if it was still raining that day.

The things that stay in your mind…

Thinking tonight of all people who are dealing with the wild weather, especially any who are sick and agonising about going out in the weather to seek help or treatment. It’s scary at the best of times, let alone on a night like tonight.

I was supposed to get so much done while DH was on days off. I had so many plans.

I was going to ride my bike, and try to go further distances while there was somebody at home to be with the kids. We went away for a few days, then had a (scheduled) day at the hospital. Then both kids and I got sick. So that wiped out the rest of the week. Today I’m feeling a bit better. The boys are back to normal.

I was going to clear the laundry that piled up over the days of rain. I did some of it just before we went away. DH did a lot of it while the rest of us were sick.

I was going to do some major decluttering and cleaning of the house. I’m not even sure what happened to that plan…

I was supposed to help (until I got sick) with the music at a relative’s funeral today. He was buried on my uncle’s fourth anniversary. It’s also the birthday of the daughter (and former friend) of FLOG. I haven’t told DS, as it seems that he has finally moved on. A day of so many endings. Of course, I believe that death is only an ending for this life, and that there is a new beginning beyond that. And I’m beginning to believe that there are also new beginnings beyond failed friendships. But April 17 is starting to be one of “those” dates.

So apparently I have precisely two days left to redeem myself. DH goes back to work on Monday, unless he’s too sick. I wonder if it’s too much to ask for a fine day tomorrow. How far do you think I could ride after a week off the bike?

So I went for a bike ride this morning. By myself. Rode as fast as I wanted to. Came home feeling fantastic! I had even temporarily forgotten about my neck/shoulder/back pain. I wanted to go out again.

I commented to my DH “Gotta love endorphins!” Apparently, I rattled this off rather quickly and with less clarity than was required.

He replied “Got eleven dolphins???”

I talked to him a couple of minutes ago about something, and commented that I was sore again. He commented that the dolphins must have gone away.

Maybe I should go back out and look for them!

OK, you know the tune. I’m in a bit of a silly mood. But anyway, word of warning - this is about the thing on my forehead. Actual details here. The “song” makes more sense that way.

He said “We’ll have to treat it, looks like a BCC.
It’s too inflamed right now, but it looks like one to me.
I’ll test it in two weeks. See you then”

And now I’m making a paste out of bicarb,
Smearing the paste on the bump,
Killing it softly with bicarb,
Killing it softly with bicarb,
Watching it oozing and shrinking,
Killing it softly with bicarb…

He said “You can’t freeze these ones, what doctor did you see?”
Rolling his eyes and thinking “typical GP!”
“The most effective treatment is just to cut it out”

But I’m making a paste out of bicarb,
Smearing the paste on the bump,
Killing it softly with bicarb,
Killing it softly with bicarb,
Watching it oozing and shrinking,
Killing it softly with bicarb…

“There’s this expensive treatment, a cream to kill the beast.
It works quite well, for four in five cases at least.
But if it fails in your case we’re back to surgery”

So I’m making a paste out of bicarb,
Smearing the paste on the bump,
Killing it softly with bicarb,
Killing it softly with bicarb,
Watching it oozing and shrinking,
Killing it softly with bicarb…

The bicarb (sodium bicarbonate) idea came to me after writing the other post. While we were researching alternative ideas for treating DS, a lot was mentioned about alkaline terrain being inhospitable to cancer. I know I’m generally on the acidic side (and I’m sure there’s a clever remark in that, but I’m too tired), and figured that between alkalinising my diet more (giving up coffee helps too) and using bicarb topically, it was at least worth a try before going back to the doctor. After developing the theory and the plan, I actually found online references to a doctor who uses bicarb (often high doses intravenously) to treat cancer (including skin cancers). He’s also criticised by many for his methods, as is usually the way with alternative practitioners, but it was enough backup for me to try my way - which seems to me to be pretty harmless whether or not it works.

So anyway, I’ll spare you the really gross photos, but if you want to see some progress shots, they’re on the next page.

Read more »

Well, in the U.S. it is, anyway. However, it is just as relevant here, and the awareness is just as desperately needed.

For more information, please click on the ribbon, or here.

I don’t really need to say anything about this one. Just watch (and listen to) the vid. Please

HT: ElementalMom

I had coffee today.

It was a wet day, raining pretty much constantly. During the school pickup, the kids and I were soaked. Even with umbrellas. I felt cold. Our feet squelched in our shoes. I still had to go to the shops for a couple of things, and I didn’t want to go home, dry off and go out all over again. So we went to the shops wet. I bought sushi for the boys, and then I decided to have my first coffee in 27 days (give or take half an hour).

I expected something significant. Maybe a sudden caffeine hit, having acclimatised to being virtually caffeine-free (OK, so I’ve had some chocolate, but even if there is caffeine in that - which is still up for debate - it’s hardly significant). Maybe a noticeable increase in heart rate. Maybe a feeling of guilty pleasure from indulging in something from which I’d been abstaining. Instead, at best, it was OK. It was nice and warming, yes. It tasted OK, but nothing to get excited about. If anything, my heart rate has been lower all afternoon. And now I have the guilt without the pleasure. I haven’t even confessed to DH yet. And, surprisingly, the boys haven’t told on me, either.

Apparently, I don’t really need my coffee fix. In fact, the green smoothie I just had was far more satisfying than that moment of weakness, even on a dreary, wet, cool day.

[Edit: DH walked in while I was typing this, so he knows now ]

Last week (or so, don’t remember exactly) the boys and I were riding along, minding our own business on our way home from school, when we caught up with another mum with her kids walking home from school. We slowed down, carefully passed them, and started to move on.

Then I heard the mum start saying something along the lines of “Well, I didn’t know it wasn’t a man, I wasn’t really looking!” in that defensive, too-loud way that you do when you think your kids have embarrassed you in public. In actual fact, I don’t recall hearing any of what they had said before that, but I imagine that the mum had said something about moving over to get out of the man’s way, and that the kids had informed her that I wasn’t a man. Like I said, I don’t really know, but I recognised the mum’s embarrassment. I don’t know what made her think I was a man. I was riding a men’s bike, but if she hadn’t seen me she may have been judging by my voice, while I was telling my boys to go around the other people carefully.

At first I was slightly amused at being called a man. I acknowledge that it’s not easy to judge gender from a fleeting glimpse of a person on a bike (while trying not to stare). And I’m fat. And I don’t have close-fitting bike clothes to show off my femininity (mostly because of the fat thing). Then I started thinking that this may be a positive thing. If another woman can mistake me for a man, then maybe I could stop being so paranoid about riding on quiet bike paths alone. Maybe those (admittedly rare) attacks were on petite women riding women’s bikes. Maybe a bigger woman in looser clothes on a men’s bike looks male enough to get away with it.

Maybe I should get a helmet that doesn’t have a pretty purplish design on it…

Homework sucks. I can’t do it.

How can I tell myself I’m OK, when I’m constantly being told that I’m not?

How can one possibly know what this is like for me, if one has never experienced having excess weight, and has never had to make the effort and figure out how to get rid of it?

I’ve actually lost a little weight. Losing weight while doing this will just lead to my receiving a “see, told you”, even if the other things I’m trying might have caused it. I think I’ve shown how ridiculous obsessive counting of numbers on labels is. It’s doing my head in. But apparently the counting is what I need. Um, news flash, I have OCD.

I’m not OK.

Yesterday, DH and I went for our annual skin checks.

He, of course, was declared worry-free, which is good, of course.

I have to go back in a couple of weeks. Most of my body, although fat, and partially sunburned from my bike ride on Saturday, is problem-free as far as the reason for the appointment. Fortunately, I received no lectures on either the sunburn or the fat. The thing on my forehead, however, which has been bothering me for ages, and which a year ago was frozen off by my GP (thinking it was just a harmless sunspot), is now considered to be a basal cell carcinoma (BCC) (this doctor is not so impressed with my GP). However, since I’ve bumped the thing so often lately, and it is inflamed and scabby, it’s difficult to be sure that it is what he thinks it is. So I have to try to let it heal (ironically, it’s in a great place for hats to irritate), then go back for another look, partly to confirm that it’s a BCC, and partly to determine which type (some are worse than others, but he thinks mine is one of the “least bad” - gee, where have I heard that before?)

If it turns out that it is a BCC, or at least that the doctor is more sure of that next time I see him, I have two options.

The first, simplest option is surgery. I’ve had a BCC removed before. It was on the side of my face, right on the line where the arm of my glasses sits. It was smaller, and healed well. This new one is larger, and is above one eye. Traditionally, the doctor would cut a margin around the actual BCC, then straight cuts to each side, in order to close the skin in a straight crease line and minimise the obvious scar. But this is my forehead. And the cut will be big. He described the result as a brow lift. On one side. Firstly, I don’t need a brow lift. My forehead is about the only part of my body that doesn’t have a lot of excess skin. Secondly, I don’t really want to walk around permanently with one raised eyebrow. He did show me a couple more cut techniques he could use, which would bring the skin together vertically, causing a vertical scar that didn’t naturally fall in a crease line. This should avoid the raised eyebrow effect, but leave a more out-of-place scar. I believe I can better tolerate a vertical scar than a permanent derisive expression. And, as long as he takes a decent margin, it has a success rate of very close to 100%.

The second option is Photodynamic therapy (PDT). After he takes an initial scraping of the thing to send away for testing to confirm the cell type, I can fork over $250 (a lot more than surgery) for a series of treatments. These treatments consist of applying a chemical cream which is then activated (made toxic) by a light treatment in his clinic. This treatment brags a success rate of 80%. Yes, that’s a failure rate of 20%. One in five people will have to return for the surgery anyway.

I’m heavily leaning towards the cheaper, vertical scar.

And maybe I can put some of the financial saving towards a new hairstyle. I think it’s overdue.

Trapped inside my own body

I know, I know, I have fully functional arms and legs, all in correct proportions and quantities. To all intents and purposes, I’m an able-bodied person and have no right to complain.
However, I’m fat. But inside, there is a person who doesn’t want to be fat. For myself, not just for my critics. I’m fitter than I look. Most people don’t know that. This morning I rode 2km on a bike, walked another 500m or so while carrying 22kg of child lying down in my arms (he had a headache and felt sick; I parked our bikes and carried him to a shop for some food and drink to give him the energy to get home again), walked the 500m back to our bikes with same child on shoulders, then we slowly rode the 2km home. What I really want is to go for another ride, but he’s asleep now and I can’t just take off for an hour or so without him.

Trapped inside my own home

See above about the child asleep in bed thing. I love walking, but he doesn’t. He’s starting to be just a bit too heavy to carry around in the Ergo. I can still do it, and once we get a rhythm going we’re great. But my back isn’t fond of that arrangement for too long.
I’ve rediscovered biking, but I can’t leave him at home alone, and there’s only so much going around in small circles in the backyard that a person can stand.
I have an old manual treadmill, but it’s just not the same. But it looks like it will have to do for a while.

Trapped inside my own head

I have too many thoughts. It is always this way, so no news there. I’m being told by my health care providers that I have hormonal issues that stop me from losing weight optimally. I’m being told by others that I’m just lazy and eat too much. I’m being told by myself that I just can’t win, and that maybe I’m just looking for an excuse to fail.

Trapped inside my own selfishness, guilt and resentment

This morning, I actually wished DS would want to try school. We’re homeschooling. We’ve chosen this. He doesn’t want to go to school. His brother is at school but is looking forward to the day we resume homeschooling with him, too. My head is telling me that I’m never again going to be able to leave the house by myself. I don’t like that feeling. I don’t want to resent my kids. I don’t want to delude myself into thinking that my only chance at sanity is to farm my kids out to a school all day.

Trapped inside my own introversion

This post will be public, but not pinged to strangers. I doubt anybody will bother reading it. I don’t even know if I want anybody to read it. I’m doing this blogging thing, maybe as an outlet, maybe for attention. Sometimes I just wish somebody who cares about us would read it. Sometimes I have to be grateful that they don’t. I’d probably offend somebody. I’ve been down that road before too.

Technically, it’s iced herbal infusion with a twist, since we don’t actually drink “real” tea. Anyway, during the summer, we’ve made a few batches of iceblocks (icy poles) with juice or lemonade. We have décor Lickety-Sips® but obviously any similar moulds would work.

Recently I decided to try something a little different. Instead of filling them with sugary liquids, I wanted to use something healthier.

I made our favourite herbal infusions, enough of each to fill a set of moulds, and made herbal tea iceblocks. For the boys, I couldn’t completely avoid sugary liquid, because they like honey in their tea, but we ended up with chamomile for DS1, ginger for DS2, peppermint for DH (he varies his teas, but I decided peppermint was good for a cooling treat) and rosehip for me.

The boys were a little hesitant, but tried them - and approved them heartily. An interesting - although not surprising - result was that the sweetened iceblocks were softer (more like “real” iceblocks) than the unsweetened ones. There must have been enough honey to stop them from freezing hard. DH’s and mine were just like solid ice with flavouring. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but I like my iceblocks a little less teeth-shattering. I also like my rosehip tea unsweetened.

I think some more experimenting may be required.

I hate taking young children with small bladders to the shops.
I hate public/shopping centre toilets.
Actually, I hate what people leave on, or under, the toilet seat, and can’t be bothered cleaning up after themselves.
I hate being the one who notices what they’ve left behind.
I hate wondering if the small child touched it, even if I’m pretty sure he didn’t.
I hate that washing his hands thoroughly still doesn’t seem enough.
I hate feeling like he thinks I’m a freak for being paranoid.
I hate worrying about him adopting, or adapting to, my paranoia.
I hate thinking about it for the rest of the day.
I hate mentally composing a post about it all the way home.
I hate knowing that, if/when DH reads this, I’ll be berated for using the word “hate”.
I hate OCD.
I hate hate.

That is all.

My homoeopath has decided that at the crux of pretty much all of my problems and unresolved issues is the deeply ingrained belief that “I am not OK”. She says that I see “I am OK” as my goal, when I should see it as my starting point. She tells me that I need to accept myself as I am and then set my goals, and not to set myself impossible standards I must attain in order to consider myself good enough. She’s probably right. All right, she is right. I’m a perfectionist - well, these days a lazy perfectionist. Once upon a time, I would stress out if I left anything incomplete or imperfect, and would make every effort to finish what I started to the best of my ability (which, of course, was never quite good enough). These days, if I even bother starting anything, I’ll often quit part way, and then I’ll simply torture myself with guilt, rather than try harder.

Anyway, today she gave me “homework”. Each day, until our next appointment, I am to find my own space and time, just for me, with the simple task of telling myself that I am OK - me - just the way I am.

Then she hugged me.

I’ve been hearing Billy singing to me ever since…

and it looks like I’ll have to start my homework tomorrow (oops, behind already!)

I didn’t make official new year’s resolutions. I’ve tried that before and failed. Badly. However, there are a few things I’ve been trying to get motivated to do, and one of them is to get more exercise. I like walking, but going for a good invigorating walk isn’t so easy with kids who don’t want to go for long walks. I also have this thing about needing to go walking for a reason (other than just to get exercise) - but there isn’t always a reason to go anywhere every day. DH isn’t usually home early enough to either come with us as a family or stay with the kids and let me go alone. Finally, summer here isn’t nice for walking anywhere for most of the day.

I’ve decided I have to stop making excuses. I now have my parents’ old manual (that sounds funny when talking about something you operate with your feet, but you know what I mean - non-motorised) treadmill, so I have no reason not to walk when it’s hot outside (although it needs some minor adjustments, having been stored away for a while). And now I have a bike.

A few months ago, my parents brought me my old bike that they had been storing ever since I had stopped riding it. It has been years since I rode a bike. That bike. I had asked them if I could have it back. They were happy to be rid of it. They had already tried to sell it, but nobody had been interested. So it’s been sitting in our garage ever since. It’s still in pretty good condition, and it was a good bike to begin with.

So we finally decided to see what we could do with it. I bought some tyres and tubes, and DH installed those, and played with the gears and brakes. OK, so it’s not new, it’s not exactly the most up-to-date model, but it’s mine. And it works.

The kids were very excited watching the process. When DH and I are on foot we slow them down. They even helped me choose a helmet - which I admit I kind of enjoyed too, since the last helmet I had was my first, a Stackhat that came in three colours at the time. I remember being so envious when other kids started getting the new streamlined helmets and I was still stuck with my safety yellow/orange Stackhat… actually that’s probably around the time I stopped riding my bike. Hmmm… unresolved issues???

Anyway… last weekend we went for a ride to the bike park nearby. I was terribly anxious about riding in public where people I know might see me!!! However, once we got going I remembered how much fun it really was. They’re right. Once you’ve ridden a bike you don’t forget how to do it. And the boys wanted to race me, which was kind of fun - although it’s only a small bike track, and those corners were a bit tight for my big wheels on my first outing. That’s my excuse for them beating me.

After some more fiddling with gear problems, it seems to be working pretty well. On Saturday we took the boys to explore another local bike path. I wasn’t brave enough to ride that day, so the boys rode while DH and I walked/jogged/ran/yelled after them. Yesterday, the boys and I rode, and poor DH had to do the walking/running on his own. Today, DS1 and I left the others at home while we tested how quickly we could complete the same course.

Small steps… but I’m hoping for bigger progress this year.