The joy of falling

I wrote this earlier this year, and I thought of it again when I was knocked off my bike last week:

The joy of falling

Falling over always makes me cry. This is not ideal when you are naturally clumsy. I am forever slipping over that tiniest smear of grease on the kitchen floor, or that one squashed grape in the fruit and veg aisle. 

I don't know how to land gracefully or safely, and it seems that all the rolls of flab in the world won't protect your bony protuberances when you land on them from a great height.

What smarts even more, though, after a comedic (to everyone else) tumble, is the feeling of having lost control, of losing one's grip on the ground, of being powerless and prey to the laws of gravity and pain. Once you are falling, there is nothing you can really do to stop it. When I have fallen, I am left with a lingering feeling of panic, of vulnerability, of shaken confidence in my ability to stride across the world.

When I bought proper cycling shoes and cleats, my sister told me, "You will fall off." When I tried to get on my bike in the back yard and figure out how clamping my feet to pedals on this inherently unstable thing called a bicycle was actually going to work, I cried, and I hadn't even fallen off yet. How on earth was I going to do this? How was I going to manage when the prospect of a fall, and not just from my feet onto the kitchen floor, was a certainty?

I found that the only way to get going and figure that out, was to commit to the clamping, and to the inevitable fall; not to timidly push my bike around the yard, but to get onto the street and get up some momentum and trust that the advice I'd been given and the skills I'd developed thus far would keep me upright for at least a time. 

I pushed my right foot onto the cleat, and lifted it to the top of the stroke. I pushed down hard, simultaneously engaging the clip with the pedal and driving the wheels forward. I had no choice but to follow suit with the left foot, clipping it in with a chunky click and feeling the bike leap forward. 

I rode around the block. 

I didn't fall off. 

I unclipped before I came to a stop at my drive way, and still I didn't fall off. I felt a great wave of hubris wash over me, and it was still with me when I set out for work the next day. I exulted in the feeling of doubled power as my legs pulled up on the pedals as well as pushing down - the dread Mega Hill of Death became a mere molehill and I smirked as I whirred past cyclists who were struggling as I had done just the week before.

Just before my destination, cyclists must negotiate a dreadful intersection near the Arts Centre where they have to cross right over a lane of traffic in order to go straight ahead. At peak hour, the cars are impatient with the bikes, who must weave in and out of them in order to position themselves safely. I am used to darting around and sticking my feet wherever I need in order to jostle for my own rightful position. I did this, but underestimated how much time I would need to free my foot. It stuck fast, the bike slowed, wobbled, and then in a graceful motion of surrender, keeled over to the side, taking me with it, fortunately onto the grassy verge. 

With no physical damage, and cars and snickering pedestrians everywhere around me, I managed to extricate my feet, and walk, duck like in my treacherous shoes, over to the footpath. My bravado had completely left me and my whole body was shaking. I knew that I had to get to my destination and I wasn't going to get there clattering around on cleats. I had to get back on the bike.

The rest of my ride was tentative, but I got there. I had learned that I needed to give myself time to get my feet down, to anticipate that I was in a situation where I might need to just click out and stay out for a while, that I couldn't rely on my quick reflexes to absorb my lack of planning. I felt a larger lesson seeping into my bones.

On the way home, I fell off again. This time I was trying to do a standing start up a steep hill, and I couldn't get enough momentum. My free foot slipped on the pedal rather than clicking in, and I toppled, this time onto the road, and I fared worse than in the morning.

The next day, my legs and hips were a mass of bruises, and I had wrenched my ankle hard enough for it to swell badly, and ache. I began to wonder if I had done the right thing in investing in these shoes.  Sure, the hills were easier and the snazzy equipment made me feel like a real cyclist, but wasn't it easier just to keep on with the sneakers and old pedals? Maybe I should just give it up. My sister was doubly right. And what if I fell of again, and again, and again? What if I could never get the hang of it? How stupid would I feel then? How incompetent! Uncoordinated! Because, after all, that's what I am!

A couple of months ago, I would probably have admitted defeat. The pain of falling, and the possibility - heck, probability - of it happening again would have put me off. The phrase "comfort zone" has real meaning here.

However. I've been having dreams about clipping in and clipping out. Whilst lying in bed I've been noticing my feet practicing the motions. Every time I stand up or sit down, the aching bruises prompt me to think about how not to fall off. I've rehearsed intersections and hill starts in my head. I've mused about how less humiliated I felt than I thought I would be, and I've remembered the kind hands reaching out and the smiles of solidarity from other cyclists who've been there and will probably do that again themselves.

This morning I rode in again. I planned ahead. I was cautious and careful. I respected my limitations, and the bike's. I became mindful of my feet melded to the cranks, and aware of how my body and my bike were moving through space. 

And I didn't fall off. But somehow, I don't think it would have mattered if I had.
 

Thank you, Mr Rat.

I wasn't going to post this, because primarily I was concerned that if I did, no-one would come around to dinner ever again.

In the interest of breaking the conspiracy of silence of grotty housekeepers everywhere (the silence that keeps us grotties from realising that half the population is at least as grotty as we are) I decided to be honest, however. I can only hope that the wardens don't read this and demand an immediate inspection of the vicarage.


We've been cooking up a storm at home this week - being broke always forces us to eat better, falling back on our kitchen resources and concentrating on producing the best possible food with the goods we have. We should pretend we are poor all the time. But, I digress.

Inspired by my domestic frenzy, Stompy decided to cook a date fudge slice. The result was beautiful and sat to cool on the bench. I went to bed early without doing my usual kitchen rounds, and didn't realise that the darned thing sat out on the bench all night... and when we got up in the morning, a delicate tracery of cocoa powder and icing sugar, spread from the top of the nibbled cake to up and down the wall, revealed that a rodent of uncertain and hopefully only mouselike dimensions had been enjoying the fruits of her labours.

Amidst squeals of "ewww" and "gross," we hurled the contaminated fudge in the bin, disinfected the bench top, baked a new batch of brownies, and then cruelly baited a mouse trap with a piece of the new brownie (since the rodent clearly had a taste for it), and left it on the bench top overnight.


Last night, just after midnight, I was prowling up and down the hallway with a heavy and sleepless Tom squirming in my arms, when I heard a clatter from the kitchen. It was either Toxic Teen raiding the kitchen... or the mouse! I put Tom in his cot, stood outside the closed kitchen door, and listened, afraid to open it. If the mouse had been caught, then I had the moral obligation to dispose of its probably still-twitching body. I could pretend I hadn't heard a thing and then go back to bed... but my scruples about letting Clarebear discover the mouse carnage got the better of me, and I opened the door and turned on the light.

The mousetrap had been set off, indeed. And there, scuttling across the top of the stove, glaring at me as it made for the shadows, was a grey, ghastly, gigantic RAT.

I turned off the light, slammed the door and stared wide eyed into the darkness. My dilemma had now increased. Should I open the door again and see where the wretched thing with its fat, sleek body had gone? Should I try to whack it with a broom and risk it tearing up my leg and biting my chin or something? Should I do what I felt inclined to do, stamp up and down and shriek and shudder and make gibberish noises?


I gathered myself and instead did what any sane person would do, and I tiptoed down to our bedroom, mindful of Beloved's tired state as he lay there snoring gently, and bellowed, "THERE'S A GIANT RAT IN THE KITCHEN!!!!"

To his credit Beloved didn't curse (much), but got up, surveyed the useless mousetrap and the resultant blood smear on the wall (more shuddering and gibberish ensued from me as I thought about how maybe his whiskers had been ripped out) and set a rat trap after cleaning off the bench, baiting it with yet more brownie. We retired to bed, where my mind was otherwise occupied by the ever wakeful Tom, who clearly had heard the call of Mr Rat and wanted to get up and play with it.

The next morning, the rat had been back and demolished the rest of the brownie on the mousetrap (which Beloved had not removed, but which I could not criticise him for after I had shrieked him out of his slumber at midnight) but the rat trap was untouched. Clever Mr Rat. By the time I got out of bed, Beloved had bleached everything and the kitchen was shining like a new pin.

Except for the pantry.

We have a wonderful pantry, in our old farm-style kitchen. Wall to wall shelving, and just enough room for our huge fridge. While the rest of my home has been gradually becoming uncluttered, however, the pantry has been one of those areas where sometimes I just have to close the door. It's not that it's been dirty, it's just that there's been so much stuff in there that I wouldn't have any idea just what sort of state it was in, really. And the cluttered shelves have just sat there in their grimly disorganised sort of way, chastising me every time I went to get the milk.

Well, Mr Rat had decided for me that this situation had to be remedied. The traps weren't working, as he was clearly a superior type of smarty-rat, and I needed to make sure that there wasn't anything in there making him feel that it was worth risking life, limb and whiskers to continue to have ratty raves in my kitchen at night. I hardly dared entertain the fear that perhaps it was a Mrs Rat, with the attendant equally sleepless Baby Rats keeping her up all night behind the flour bin. (Shudder, gibber.)

I girded my loins, sent Tom to daycare for the day, and set to with a bucket of hot soapy water, garbage bags and grim determination.

There was no evidence of a Ratty Residence, much to my relief, but I did find a half open packet of dried noodles that I swear has followed me around from the last four house moves, never being touched. I also found four half opened packets of linguine (and all my shopping trips of the past twelve months where I've asked Beloved, "how are we for long pasta?" flashed into my mind), no fewer than six tins of pineapple (we never eat tinned pineapple), five tins of beetroot (although to be fair, two of the tins of baby beets are for a salad I'd planned for tonight), and packets of half used spices that I remember buying when Toxic Teen was in nappies that I would never dream of using but for some reason had left to sit as some kind of archaeological record at the back of the spice rack.

We also have probably the largest unintentional collection of food dyes, hundreds-and-thousands, cachous and writing icing tubes in the Southern Hemisphere, thanks to my immutable believe that We Don't Have Any Of Those So We'd Better Pick Some Up.

I threw out everything that had been opened and not sealed in a container, including the open packets of linguine (so now I know we're all out of long pasta!) and cleaned out every corner, nook and cranny.

Once I had finished (see the results below), I took that big black plastic rubbish bag out to the bin, and, having forgotten Mr Rat and having rendered my pantry shudder-proof, the weight off my shoulders was literal and figurative. Now I want to go and bake, just for the novelty of not having to scrabble for a single thing. I am also able to start a pantry inventory, and I know that if we ran out of money, I could feed the family for a week out of what I have in there right now, as long as they were in the mood for pineapple.

I've not been able to go out for the bike ride I wanted to do today, but I've got a horrible job done, and I have Mr Rat to thank for it. If you'd like to come and receive your reward, Mr Rat, I've got a piece of brownie laced with ratsak with your name on it....

 

In which I pretend to be Good At Stuff

Today I packed away all the Christmas stuff (a few days late, but Epiphany came at an awkward time).

For the first ten years or so of married life, my "clearing up after Christmas" routine has consisted of hurling everything into one of those striped carry bags, chucking it in the shed without looking, and hoping for the best. This has of course led to my collection of Christmas angels being chipped and de-winged, and spiders making a home in my nativity scenes. Not good. I also had to buy new Christmas stuff each year to replace the unloved ruined stuff.

So, two years ago, I was inspired by one of those OCD cleaning blogs I torture myself with to Do Things Differently.

I went out and bought myself a few packets of tissue paper, I kept the little gift baggies that people are increasingly using rather than wrapping things, and I kept all of the boxes that things came in. I also bought a huge bin that everything would fit in. I wrapped, packed, padded and folded everything up, and it all fitted in the big bin, and with a smug sigh, I popped it in its new spider free home into the shed. This year when it came time to put up the Christmas decorations, out came the bin, and we all had fun unwrapping and decorating, and everything was in pristine condition. All the lights were fine, and nothing was broken. It was revolutionary!

The only thing that didn't work was those little chains of plasticky stuff with bells on. They always tangle and this year was no exception. So I got smart when I packed away today. I grabbed sturdy Christmas cards, and I wrapped those nasty chains around the cards, and popped them in a Christmas stocking for storage. So next year I will report whether or not it worked and those pesky chains were tangle free.



Oh, and here is the Christmas star we used this year. Clare made it for us.

I'm not losing a daughter, I'm gaining a son. Right?

I've just returned from Greta Garbo's flat, where she and her sister and I have been spending time reminiscing over school experiences, family laughs and upsets, and trading insults. In typical GG fashion, she had spent the day unwisely, not eating, and fashioning an eclectic menagerie of animals out of lumps of potato-starch-packing. She made me a frog with a pink nose. Her lounge table was covered in Lush products from a gift pack, and she was in her pyjamas and so, so young.

Tomorrow she is going to marry her love, a wonderful young man who we respect and care for a great deal. I felt I should have imparted much wisdom but in my normal tied-up manner I couldn't bring myself to do much more than joke and poke at her, telling her that not only did we like him a great deal, we liked him more than we liked her, and that we would want to keep him if they ever divorced. I've saved the profound things, the things that will make me cry, for my speech at the reception tomorrow night.

I don't remember the night before my first wedding. I remember the morning, getting ready, leaving the flat with my home-made dress and my five-months-pregnant stomach. Pregnant with GG - this precious little baby who woke up the resilience in me that had lain dormant until that point. The little baby who helped me birth the adult I needed to become. My wedding then was a backyard affair with salads and cold meat and bemused relatives who treated us like kids at a birthday party. This will be the full bridezilla catastrophe and I must say, I'm kind of looking forward to it.

Welcome back!

Sometimes changes come in sharp tremors that shake you and leave you in no doubt that your life has altered irrevocably. Sometimes it creeps up on you, and one morning you wake up and realise that they way you look at the world when you shake open your bedroom curtains is vastly different from how you looked at it a year ago.

I've had changes of both types over the last year. Major Tom's arrival in April was one of the first, and marked a change in some large and prosaic ways - a year's maternity leave, an alteration of our lifetime expectations, a whole new child and a boy at that! - and in some less tangible ways. Major Tom completed us in a way we didn't know we needed to be completed. From the moment I knew he was coming, I realised I had to readjust. Career, family, hopes, money - it was all going to have to be totally overhauled. Okay.

The second type of change has surprised me. It took the Night of the Great Spew to make me realise just how much I have changed.

Saturday was a harbinger of what was to come. On the way to Wangaratta, Clarebear vomitted and I had to turn around and bring her home. Because I hadn't got far, I set out again, only to have Major Tom vomit in short order, stymying our trip completely. Then, nothing. The calm before the storm. Sunday morning Clarebear was vomitting again, and vomitted and vomitted... all day. By dinner time both Beloved and I were feeling queasy, and by bedtime, he and I and Gennabug were all vomitting. Then ensued a night which saw encore performances from Isobug and Toxic Teen (who is really getting too old and mellow for that label).

This morning I awoke to find that Isobug and Gennabug had both missed their buckets in their bedrooms, and Isobug in the loungeroom also, and that the bathroom was a special kind of hideous carnage. Despite my own delicate state, I hastened to clear away all the evidence so that the house was smelling of bleach and fresh air and not some kind of third world latrine.

We rested most of the day, with me puttering around after the family, fixing toast, mixing hydration solution, doling out icy poles and resting a maternal hand on somewhat febrile brows. Beloved slept for much of the day. I spent the afternoon getting some tedious jobs done that have been shrieking at me for weeks - sweeping cobwebs out of the back entrance way, wiping out the cupboards under the sink, picking up bits of debris out of the back yard, sorting out the kids' shoe cupboards. The children kept me company in between their naps.

The only remotely resentful moment I had was after feeding Major Tom at 6pm, I came out to find that the planned meal of baked beans on toast (we had barely the stomach for even that) was still in its can/packet, and that Beloved had fallen asleep (again) on the chair and everyone was waiting for me to get it for them. I sighed a little, but then got on with it, and then tidied up afterwards.

This is hardly some kind of amazing feat of motherhood, is it? But for me, such a day, after such a night, is a major turning point for me. Last week I lamented to my sister that I was missing something, that whatever it was that enabled other people to cope and be good and reliable and tidy and organised, I was clearly missing it. I was basically deficient.

And yet, after today, I'm not. And tomorrow I wake up knowing that I'm not, and I can open the curtains and look out on a day that will be full of me being just fine and capable.

Brief thoughts for the day? My new favourite blog is Our Red House. The best thing I have done this month is start up a Home Control Journal. The funniest moment has been laughing about The Worst Vomit You Have Ever Done over lunch today. And tomorrow Gennabug has her orientation day for highschool....

Pic of the day:

When I got home from buying up my Sick Food (potato chips, Coke and Tic-Tacs) there was a little noisy miner bird chick sitting outside the church door, as if waiting for sanctuary. Its mother was swooping down and depositing food in its wide open mouth. I took a snap of it and she was flapping and shrieking at me. I called for Beloved to ask him what we should do, and he told me to leave it. It was gone an hour later. Hopefully not into Mungo's stomach.

What's this - I'm a person?

What a bizarre evening.

I came home from work, and got changed. While I was getting changed, nobody came in and hassled me about the colour of my knickers or asked me why I wear a bra or why my tummy jiggles.

I looked in the cupboard, and decided that a tin of cream of chicken and mushroom soup sounded very nice for dinner, and that I would go up to the shop and get something disgusting for dessert, and a magazine to read after tea. I didn't argue with anyone, nor did I have to negotiate the flavour of soup, figure out whether I'd have to buy two packets of something disgusting for dessert, or put three pairs of socks (if I could find them) on three pairs of feet and drag them up to the shop.

When I walked up to the shop, I didn't have to hold someone's hand while she balance on the brick wall, or call to racing children to come back before they got run over. I didn't have to listen to three different conversations at one time and make sense of them all.

I went around the supermarket and picked what I wanted off the shelves. I didn't have to say "no". Not even once. Well, only to myself. But not at the chocolate shelf. And when I picked up the block of chocolate, I didn't have to promise to share it with anyone.

When I got home, I cooked the soup, and served it up, and nobody told me that someone else had more than them, or that they didn't like those bread rolls, or ask if they could have it in a pink bowl and tell me NO I WANT THE PINK SPOON TOO!

I sat down and ate my dinner without interruption, and then I watched the show I want, and then I cleaned up and pulled a blanket over myself and now I am sitting here making a blog entry, and I am not having to promise to read a story in a minute and please will you brush your teeth.

One night. One night of the life I never really lived - coming home from work, on my own, doing my own thing. Quiet. On my own. I haven't spoken a word for two hours.

It's wonderful.

All the credit, none of the blame

I wonder if that should be my new mantra ;)

I'm in a glowing phase with the children at the moment. The teens and I are reaping the rewards of being so honest and accountable to one another for the past few years. Greta Garbo is working two jobs to save up for her university course. We seem to have overcome the teething problems of her new independence. She seems happy with the few requirements of her, and we're happy to be flexible.

I have been forced to come up with a different nickname for my second daughter. I think I may call her El Presidente. She brought home a nomination form today for a Young Women's Leadership Forum. Only twenty girls or so will be selected from this state, and the school is putting her name forward. She's working hard, both at school, and at her part time job. She's also working hard at being a wonderful, giving member of the family. I barely need to lock my bedroom door any more.

The little ones are charming as little ones often are. They've been blessed with their father's natural sense of equilibrium, and we rarely have any issues. Stompy, the ten year old, is doing her maths homework right now. The Diva is in bed, having just had a raucous night at Cubs. Miss Three-Going-On-Thirty told me she loved me.

I feel proud.

I was always keen to hear reasons why I shouldn't take too much blame for the problems we've had. So it seems a little hypocritical to claim any credit for any of it. I'm not sure there's much credit to be had. We provide a calm-ish, happy-ish, stable-ish home. We give them what they need, we talk with them, we respect them.

But I think the biggest thing we've given them in the last year or so is a great deal of our own self-confidence. I was interested to read an article suggesting that this indeed had a huge impact in how one parents. After I had my mini-breakdown last year, which was truly a crisis of confidence, I was able to reconstruct in a way what I did feel confident about, and able to tackle issues with a greater clarity. That has certainly assisted both me and the children. We had to address exactly what is was we were believing in, trying to model, and what we wanted and were willing to accept. Articulating that clearly to the children, and seeking support from other friendly and encouraging adults to validate that these were indeed reasonable values and expectations, was a great confidence booster as well.

Here are some of the things that have helped me build my confidence:

Talk honestly to other parents.
None of us like to admit we aren't coping, but once we hint that may be the case, it's common for other parents to admit their own failings. Hearing other parents who to you seem like wonderful examples admit their own frailty, and seeing that their children have grown into great young people, does wonders to convince you that you're probably not as vile as you think you are. And if your realisation is that actually, you might be doing a bit worse than you'd like, that kind of honesty from others and yourself can open your eyes to the assistance you might need.

Talk honestly with your children.
If you are feeling uncertain about how a particular issue is panning out, invite them to share their thoughts on it. Chances are they aren't happy either, and they may well have some wisdom or suggestions to share that may help you find a different perspective. Be prepared to listen unjudgementally to what they are telling you. Sometimes what they say can be hard to hear, unfair, and even cruel, but again, if you've got that information, then you can do something with it!

Articulate your expectations - and be prepared to explain them.
It's not a unique piece of wisdom to say that the days of "because I told you so" are well past for most young people today. They are used to a culture that adores them and treats them as if they are much older, and regardless of how hard you try, unquestioning obedience isn't a likely outcome for any modern parent of teens. Sometimes they'll ask questions that make you realise that the real reason behind your expectation is "because I don't trust you," or "because I feel like I'm not in control any more" or "because if you don't I feel like I've lost authority". These are understandable fears and anxieties... but that's your problem, not your teen's, and it probably means it's not a reasonable expectation.

Consider your expectations carefully, and explain them explicitly. Teens can be very literal, legalistic, and narrow minded. If you just say "chores" then it's not narrow enough for them. If you give them a list of the exact chores you want them to do, then the next time you ask them to do something not on the list they will huff at you, "But you didn't put that one on! I've done what you expected me to do! Why should I do anything else?" And they've got a point. Perhaps you can be as explicit as possible, and give yourself some riders and loopholes. Over issues like chores, where these arguments are common, it's worth writing them down.