I’ve just had to give myself a bit of a talking to for being somewhat of a cow to Ash. He’s away at a work conference for a couple of days and made the mistake of calling to check on us at about 8am this morning. ‘How’s everything?’ he asked, to which I MEANT to reply ‘All good, we’re missing you, looking forward to you getting home.’ 

To which I ACTUALLY replied something more like: ‘Well. Sid has been up since 5am, he’s just tipped his porridge on the floor, the house looks like the set of Home Alone (post Kevin defeating The Wet Bandits), I don’t know why we even have cupboards since our belongings seem permanently strewn across floor/table/couches, we’re due at the dentist in an hour, I haven’t showered and the car is covered in enough bird turd to be classified as a health risk. But it’s fine, we’ll manage!’ *dusts hands after landing giant stink bomb on Ash’s day*

‘Are you cross at me?’

‘Yes!’ 

I knew the absurdity of it all even as the words flew out of my mouth. What am I cross at him for? Because he’s not here, knee deep in porridge and nappies? Because he had the initiative to book Bobby a dentist appointment? Jeepers Eliza, you could do a lot worse!

I got off the phone with that yuck feeling reserved for cow-like behaviour and immediately messaged an apology. I was easily forgiven (I think) because he’s been here himself, he knows what it feels like. 

I think we’ve all experienced those moments of frustration that spill out as terse words and snappy replies, you’d have to be a saint to always operate in the realm of patience and calm. But it doesn’t feel good does it? To be cowish to your team mate.

I’m not offering any advice here (clearly!) but I guess it’s just something that’s on my radar, to pull myself up on a bit. It’s so easy to sink into the blame game, the ‘Who Does More War’, where NO ONE ever wins because the more you look for negativity the more you find (kind of like grey hairs) and I want no part of that. 

Because at the end of every day, I love my loud-laughing, lawn-obsessed larrikin of a partner, and I miss him when he’s not here. That’s what I wish I’d said on the phone.

So Ash if by chance you read this today, maybe cancel your one way ticket to the Middle East, which possibly seemed like a nicer option when you got off the phone this morning.

We kinda like you around here.

Eliza xx

Feelings. For a long time I thought there were certain things I shouldn’t feel, or at least shouldn’t admit to feeling. The obvious ones are okay: happiness, excitement, love, even sadness and anger are easily labelled. We’re pretty comfortable with them, we learnt to name them from a very early age and if we were lucky, we had positive experiences that allowed us to process them in a healthy way. Though for some of us that might be a work in progress.

But it’s those smaller ugly feelings, the gnawers, that I think can be harder to admit. Feelings like jealousy, boredom, disappointment, frustration and worry can sit like a bubbling stew, simmering away inside our stomach. They feel hot and burny each time we think of them, so we just don’t think of them, or at least we try not to. We push them down, we scrape them to the side of our brain, we think of something else. We give ourselves a little pep talk, we tell ourselves to stop being so ridiculous. We emit the emotion as something else, anger perhaps, or maybe impatience with our loved ones. Why do the kids need to be told the same thing over and over again? Can’t the husband ever think to put a load of washing on? Everyday one percenters, that we would normally resolve with ease, become ammunition that we fire out like a sergeant attacking the enemy. Those at the other end dive for cover, or stare back like a deer in the headlights wondering where this angry road train came from.

I am no psychologist, no sirree, I’m as mad as the next woman. But as I raise these little people, who are constantly trying to negotiate their big, overwhelming feelings, I am learning a few things. I am learning that it’s really important for me to help them understand their feelings, to put a name to them. Of equal importance though, is letting them know that their feelings are normal and their feelings are okay. It is okay to feel jealous that your friend has the cool toy. It is okay to feel angry that your brother wrecked your train track. It is okay to feel frustrated that I’m dressing you when all you want to do is play. It is okay to feel bored.

It is okay to feel anything. Feelings are free, we do not control them. We know that it’s how we respond to our feelings that matters most. So we teach our kids different strategies for managing those big ugly feelings (a constant battle in this household!!).

We teach our kids that it’s okay to feel, but I’m not so sure we’re as generous with ourselves.

We are adults. We live a privileged life in a beautiful country. We have a wonderful family who we love endlessly. We are healthy. We have nothing to complain about.

And yet, the feeling comes.

For me the feelings were boredom and frustration. It has taken me a long time to admit those feelings to myself because of the immediate guilt that follows. How can I be so bloody ungrateful for the amazing life I live that I feel bored and frustrated? What is wrong with me? I love my children and my family as much as any other person in the entire universe. I cherish these days of babyhood and love and mess and tears and hugs so, so much. I don’t want these days to go away.

And yet, the feeling comes.

So here is the thing, the moment I told myself to ‘get real’ and actually admit what I was feeling, was the moment things started to get better. Because by admitting I was bored I was able to say ‘Well Eliza, what are you gonna do about it?’

What are you gonna do about it?

I am in charge of my life. I am the one who makes the difference. There is a saying ‘If you don’t like something, change it. If you can’t change it, change your attitude.’ I’m doing a little bit of both.

I’m back working a bit. I’m back reading books whenever I get a chance. I’m back taking the boys for big adventure walks. I’m recognising the feeling and jumping in the car to take the boys for a drive somewhere new. I’m writing different bits and pieces when I get a chance. I’m playing netball again.

And I’m embracing this season more, with my fresh perspective of ‘what are you gonna do about it?’. If I’m feeling bored, I do something about it. I don’t want to be skulking these precious days away.

I think sometimes we feel ashamed to own our feelings because there is so much horror and hardship around the world. But if we own up to our feelings we are more likely to do something about them. If we do something about them we become happier, and happier people contribute more to their families and their communities. We do better when we feel better.

Lastnight Ash and I watched Insight on SBS, it was about professional athletes and the depression that often follows their retirement from elite level sport. We had a discussion about how he will feel when he winds up his footballing career, which is obviously not at the elite level, but still plays a huge role in his life. It would be easy to say ‘it’s just football’, there are obviously bigger problems in the world. But that won’t help, the feelings of loss and disappointment will still come. We’ll be better off admitting those feelings and then coming up with some ideas on how to manage it.

If you’ve got an ugly little feeling lurking there, I hope you don’t diminish it by comparing it to other people’s problems. I hope you let yourself feel it. Maybe then you’ll be able to say to yourself ‘what am I gonna do about it?’ 

And if you’re partner is the one being an angry road train it might be worth the question, ‘Are you okay? Is something else bothering you?’

If you can name it, you can tame it.

Eliza xx

She’s just settled herself outside with a cup of tea and her notebook. She has brought the biscuits and fruit with her in a bid to draw the infants out into the autumn sunshine. It works, out they toddle. There’s a caterpillar making its way across the table, ‘It might be a bit hungry,‘ the toddler decides. He feeds it his leftover orange peel and misinterprets the creature’s panic for enjoyment. Gleeful laughter ensues. They all smile at each other, a mother and her boys.

What a difference half an hour makes, she muses. Half an hour ago they had been in the car, whinges and cries exhaling like a noisy fog from the backseat. Deep breaths of patience and calm inhaling at the front. She had just realised that the clock reading 3:06pm had not been changed to mark the end of daylight savings and should in fact be reading 2:06pm.

Gah! She let out an internal cry. How could it only be 2 o’clock?

The thought of returning home to drag their way through the rest of the afternoon did not seem appealing. She drove a few extra blocks, a time-wasting ploy not lost on the ever observant toddler. Right, she decided, this is not that hard, she just needed a couple of deep breaths and a plan. It’s always the afternoons she finds hard.

She walks them through the front door, heading straight for the kitchen. Haphazardly she arranges some good and not-so-good food onto a plate and opens the door for outside. Sunshine. She turns on the music at the same time she picks  up her pen. ‘I’m going to do a little bit of writing,’ she tells the boys, ‘you can find something to do.’ The baby grins back happily, satisfied with the food put before him. The toddler wanders, searching for something to pique his interest.

It was then that the caterpillar had come stretch-arching across the table and she had called for the children to come and see. 

Now she sits watching them, and she wonders for the millionth time how she could ever think of motherhood as hard.  Her sons’ simple delight in the caterpillar brings her such pleasure.

Not five minutes later and she has once more remembered. The baby is crying again because he didn’t sleep for long enough, the toddler is begging for his favourite show to be put back on. A meltdown is brewing.

This is parenthood, she knows. It is as wonderful as it is relentless.

In that moment she wants to turn away from the overwhelming responsibility of raising little people. 

She wants to turn outward. Out to what? She doesn’t know. Social media? A glass of wine? An escape? 

She doesn’t turn outward, she turns in. She takes a big breath and she turns in to her little people. She scoops the baby up in her arms and draws the toddler to her chest, ‘We’re all having a hard time,’ she says, ushering them inside to their toys and books.

And though the rest of the afternoon moves slowly, she is comforted by the thought that we are faced with two choices when life gets a bit sticky: we can turn out, or we can turn in.

She likes turning in.

I’m sitting here with a glass wine, eating left overs. My partner and I have just tucked our kids into bed. He’s wandering the garden, doing jobs. I’m sprawled on the couch.

This is a diary entry from The Honest Files. I feel tired and emotional, the tears have come easy all day. That’s not particularly new for me –  I laugh easy and I cry easy – but it doesn’t make it any less embarrassing when you’re blubbering to your boss because you’ve gotten to work later than you’d like. Pull yourself together Eliza.

Tuesday mornings are always fairly hellish. So many of you know the story, getting kids breakfasted, dressed, toileted, packed up and out the door, while trying to maintain some semblance of personal hygiene and pride in appearance, is like walking through a car wash in nothing but a raincoat. You get out the other side, but it’s not pretty.

And so it was this morning. I woke up early, with the same blind ambition of getting the kids to day care and myself to work in an organised, timely fashion, as I do every week. We were actually doing quite well today, the house was mad but we were on time. I waved goodbye to Ash then proceeded to load every limb with the bags, laptop, baby and shoes. Out we go. Except we didn’t go, because one of the kids had an incident that required a full costume change. Back we go. Stay cool Eliza. (I didn’t.)

Day care delivery involves a crying baby being unvelcroed from my body and I walk away feeling a mixture of guilt and despair at the growing child care bill that due to my poor management I haven’t kept up with. That’s embarrassing but it’s real.

I get in the car wanting to drive like a demon but remind myself of the advice I once heard,  ‘when you’re feeling rushed, that’s the best time to take things slow’. It’s true. Mistakes happen when you rush, no use killing myself or anyone else because I’m late.

I get to work. I re-read my lesson plans. I start getting organised. I realise I’m supposed to be on yard duty. I rush out the door and find myself 10 minutes late. My boss is already out there. Far out is the phrase I’ll write, it is not the phrase I thought.

She didn’t berate me. She didn’t give me an awful look.

She asked those words that are posted on social media regularly, but I’m sure are not asked often enough, ‘Are you okay?’

Well, my friends, out the tears did flow. ‘I’ve just had one of those mornings,’ I blubbered. There were kids, there were parents, I’m not a pretty crier. Embarrassing.

But you know what? It’s really not embarrassing. Because the truth is, I wasn’t okay. I was feeling strung out. The little one percenters had built themselves into a mountain that needed to fall away at my feet. My boss collapsed them for me and I fell. I needed to.

So we had a chat, I pulled myself together. I spoke to another colleague/friend, I cried again, then I pulled myself together again. I’m not good with people being nice to me when I’m emotional.

Then, on the day went. I taught some beautiful, enthusiastic, energetic kids. They had no idea what had transpired before they walked through the door. They just walked in with their stories of loose teeth and favourite teddies and we got on with the lesson. Teaching is hard but it’s wonderful.

There are some things I learned today:

‘Are you okay?’ is a phrase I need to ask more. It’s often not the big things that are weighing on our minds, but the little things, all adding up. If I can pop that balloon of pressure for someone else that would be so good.

This is not my time. In lots of ways, this is not my time. This is not my time to take on extra responsibilities. This is not my time to be the first at work. This is not my time to wear the latest fashion, heck, this is not my time to wear ironed clothes. This is not my time to get everything right. My time for all of that will come again, but this right now, this is not my time.

This is my time for nurturing. And when you employ a mother, you employ a nurturer. We may not get there early, and we may not be able to take on extra responsibilities, but we bring so much more.

We bring compassion and empathy and love, as well as the same working knowledge we had before. We cry easily, but we laugh easily too. I’ve done a bit of both today, and I feel so much better.

Eliza xx

 

When I grow up I want to be a grandmother,

The little girl declares.

A grandmother? the teacher asks,

Her classmates a sea of stares.

 

Yes, the little girl replies,

Can you think of anything more divine?

Grandmothers have secrets,

Sewed deep in their design.

 

What sort of secrets?’ the boy asks,

Turning to her now,

Yes tell us please, the others join,

We want to know, what and how?

 

Okay then, the girl begins,

Here’s one just for a start,

Have you ever noticed that time slows down,

Once your parents have depart.

 

Grandmothers can take a clock,

That was ordinary just before,

And make the hands crawl around,

So there’s always five minutes more.

 

And have you seen how average trees,

Become jungles of the wild?

Grandmothers can find a forest dweller,

To play with every child.

 

Grandmothers don’t go for walks,

There’s no adventure there,

Grandmothers go on treasure hunts,

Where precious jewels lay bare.

 

Did you know the dress up box,

Is a portal to their magic world?

Where princesses talk to animals,

And kings rule with cloaks unfurled.

 

But perhaps the most important thing,

That sets a grandmother apart,

Is that whenever you are with her,

You feel a fullness in your heart.

 

Because parents have the biggest job,

Loving us all the time,

Grandmothers patch those little holes,

With their secret needle and twine.

 

How do you know all of this?

The teacher asks in wonder.

Because, the girl replies, my grandmother was Marsie,

Gentle as a flame, braver than thunder.

 

I want to be a grandmother when I grow up.

 

Eliza xx

I once looked at old photos,

And smiled at my face,

With rosy cheeks and plumpness,

Adult-me would embrace.

 

I laughed at the fashion,

Inflicted upon us all,

I remembered the happiness,

And the nicknames we would call.

 

I thought of our old houses,

The places we called home,

I conjured up the wonder,

Of childhood free to roam.

 

But there was something I was missing,

When I looked upon the scenes,

A person in the background,

Permed hair. Acid-wash, high-waisted jeans.

 

Of course she’d always been there,

Steering our mother ship,

I had seen her physical presence,

A child cuddled on her hip.

 

But I didn’t see her there,

The woman behind the smile,

The mother who held our hand,

Across every bumpy mile.

 

I didn’t see her then,

I never could’ve known,

The strength and vulnerability,

Motherhood makes you own.

 

But I’ve got my own kids now,

It’s like someone’s turned a key,

Because today when I look at photos,

It’s a super woman staring back at me.

 

I can see her so clearly, my mother,

As I never could before,

A woman who’s unshakeable,

And I love her even more.

 

Eliza xx