Butterfly Wings

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!)