What did you want to be when you grew up? I mean apart from being allowed to stay up past 7.30pm and be tall enough to reach the biscuit jar at the back of the pantry (my personal goals at 8). I mean, what did you want to do? Day in day out. As your day job? Are you doing it right now?

I think I fluctuated a lot, but for the most part of my childhood, I wanted to be a detective. I am naturally inquisitive and love to know the ins and outs of any situation. For instance, I can’t tell you how insane it makes me when my husband has spoken to a mutual friend and I’ll ask how they’ve been. “Yeah good” will be his standard response. Then I have to basically extract the rest of the information from him in such a way that pulling teeth would be both a) less painful and b) quicker.

I digress. I wanted to be a detective. Apparently, well this is what my father used to tell me (and I think it might be half bullshit), that one grandfather was a police detective and the other, a journalist. As I am adopted I seriously don’t know how much information he was privy to but I can’t really see a reason for him to make this up. Except for you know, him basically being a little out of his mind for a great deal of the time.

But it all fits. I’ve always been writing, although I guess I postponed it for a long time. When I met Phil I was attending classes at night studying Creative Writing but then my own life got far too creative and I lost interest. Before I knew it, I turned around and realised 16 years had passed and I was not doing what I loved. Sure I was working with some fantastic people, but my life was passing me by and I was still where I was when I left school. A little lost.

And this is how it happened. Essentially. I left school, went to Byron Bay for schoolies, spent all of my money and returned home with a part time job at Maccas and zero prospects. I wanted to go uni and study Journalism. It was immediately ruled out by my mother. Back then I didn’t know about HECS, she didn’t either I guess, and although I did really well at school, it was never addressed. I had no real options other than to get a day job. So, I sat down and applied for all the jobs from the previous weekend’s paper I had retrieved from the bin.

I kind of fell into accounting with my first-ever boss basically telling me she gave me the job because I was clearly on my way to the beach straight after my interview. She liked that I had other interests. She also liked that I really needed a job. Because they were the stayers. And I stayed. And I got married. And I changed jobs a few times. And I had babies. And then, about 16 years later it was almost like I woke up and wondered where the hell I’d been.

That’s when I started this blog. And started to write something on the side. And now we’ve moved to a completely different state and just quietly, that has been incredibly bloody hard. For numerous and varied reasons, but a very big positive is that I have gotten a job where I am doing something COMPLETELY different to what I have been doing for the last 16 years. Sure it’s a bit of a paycut and involves writing stuff to entice people to buy bras and weekends away, but it’s creative. And it’s a start. And it’s all I can really hope for at this stage in my life. I can’t change careers and hope to survive financially. Slow and steady and all that. But one day, and this might be a total pipe dream, I want to sustain my living from writing and be involved in Social Media.

Because it seems to be what I do not only naturally, but also instinctively love. I know, half of you are rolling your eyes; the other half didn’t make it this far into my post. That’s okay. All I know is that I am not where I want to be yet. Perhaps I want or expect too much. Perhaps this is as good as it gets. Impossible to know, but I do know that I have to give it all red hot go. Or I’ll be forever left wondering.

What about you? Are you doing today what you always wanted? What you fell into? What you were expected to do? Have you changed career midway through your already established life?

So waiting in line today at the Self Service Checkout at Woolies with my 3L milk and discounted loaf of bread, I craned my neck from the seven person deep line to see what was taking so long. That’s when I spotted her. The lady who had gone too far with the self servicing. No, wait, she wasn’t doing anything untoward, she was simply scanning and bagging oh, a WHOLE trolley and bagging them around her feet. And then I thought, well wait, it doesn’t actually say anywhere that she can’t do this. It doesn’t say express. It doesn’t say x amount of items or less. But my question is why? I mean if you want to put yourself under the pump and bag your own shit, why wouldn’t you just go to Aldi and spend half the cash?

This got me thinking about the unwritten rules in life. I mean it doesn’t say anywhere that these kinds of shenanigans aren’t allowed and like someone pointed out to me today, sometimes people do it that way because it’s faster than waiting for the checkout chick. Sure, but not for all the time poor people waiting behind you it’s not. And just because it’s not written doesn’t make it so.

UNWRITTEN RULE: Don’t write passive aggressive, vague status updates on Facebook. “Oh tomorrow will be so much better than today, you can’t break me!” Or “Some people should really think before they speak!” Who can’t break you? What did they say? Then when people enquire after them, they fall silent or respond with an equally vague response. FUCK. OFF. Just simply say – “Jason, I hate your guts, you will pay.” Yay, we all get that. Cut the shit people.

UNWRITTEN RULE: Never say this to someone with three children or more – “You must have your hands full!” No shit lady. Last time I looked, I only had two hands. You do the math.

UNWRITTEN RULE: Don’t tell someone they look ‘tired’. Sure, they probably do look shithouse and possibly look like they could do with a bloody good four-year sleep. But what do you gain from pointing out the bleeding obvious? What about when someone says that to you and prior to them opening their mouth, you’d been feeling on top of the world, not tired at all. Just like a venereal disease, keep that shit to yourself.

UNWRITTEN RULE: You don’t walk into other people’s houses UNANNOUNCED. Last night, it was kind of late, Phil and I were sitting up watching a DVD and we heard a rustling at the front door. Luckily we weren’t doing anything. I mean, I know we’ve been together forever but that doesn’t mean from time to time some spontaneous lounge room action doesn’t take place. Wait, yes it does but anyway, that’s not the point. In walks, unannounced, no knock, our new neighbour. At 10pm. “Hi guys, what’s cracking?” Oh nothing much. Other than your skull.

UNWRITTEN RULE: Don’t be a Keith. Keith was a guy from our childhood who always outstayed his welcome. Never be a Keith in life.

UNWRITTEN RULE: Don’t bring a six pack and drink a carton. I generalise with this statement but it basically means don’t turn up to someone’s house for a function, BBQ, dinner, lunch, whatever and end up consuming way more than you brought with you and then be known for doing this consistently. When we were growing up we went to this one friend’s house a lot. They had these friends who every. single. weekend would turn up with a six pack of beer, and drink a carton. It’s not cool. It’s not etiquette. It’s an unwritten rule.

UNWRITTEN RULE: Do not stay on the phone when being served. Common courtesy yes? Then why is it nearly impossible for people to just, oh I don’t know, show the person serving them that they can focus on their transaction and actually use their manners while doing so. It should also be written into the fine print of this unwritten rule that by law, the Smartphone can be unceremoniously slapped from their hands if they fail to comply. If their cheek gets caught in the crossfire, so be it.

So. Here is where I discuss the weather for a bit. Now I always assumed discussing the weather was the great go-to topic when you couldn’t think of anything else interesting enough to discuss with another human being. Until I moved to Melbourne that is. Here, it’s not just small talk; it’s a way of life.

And I’ve been here, in Melbourne, St Kilda to be exact, for nearly two weeks and I can honestly say, I do not know what in the fuck is going on. This place fascinates me, scares me silly and makes me wonder if people actually ever sleep. Wherever I look, there is something going on. I have been able to experience it as relatively single lass, a mother, a consumer, a drunkard and an outsider. The best part? There is no right or wrong way to do it.

The thing is, apart from about a thousand trips to Bali in my younger years and various interstate trips; I have never known anything other than the Gold Coast. And I love my home town, it’s part of the reason why I am the way I am today, but to me, right this very minute, it is thrilling to be experiencing something so vibrant.

Having said that, things are different here. Good different, but different all the same.

Example:

There is less fuckwittage on the streets. Now, I know, I’ve only been here for a couple of weeks, but I have driven an insane amount of peak hour traffic in that time in both fabulous and horrific weather. And you know what? People are cool. They let you in, they acknowledge you when you let them merge and as a general rule, just calm. the. fuck. down. I have also come to learn that Punt Road is one letter away from being very aptly named.

Example:

The service. Second to none. The other day, the waitress brought me a latte instead of a flat white which I was happy to take. I mean, one comes in a glass and has more milk, one doesn’t. Essentially. They gave it to me for free and 20% off my bill because they made “such a shocking error”. Um, no, a shocking error would be leaving a decapitated finger in my scrambled eggs. It’s cool. 1000 other scenarios have ensued since I’ve been here. Well not 1000. Sorry, I like to exaggerate a little, but you get my point, 99% of people in this town want you to walk away satisfied. Hmm. I’m not touching the adult stores in that sentence.

Example:

The weather. As I mentioned above, and I know Crowded House wrote a song about it but we all know the minute you can interpret the lyrics to any Crowded House song you have discovered the meaning of life and therefore, your life is over, so this does not help AT ALL. So, I digress, yes, the weather. So far, in two weeks, I have witnessed, without a doubt, winter, summer, spring and autumn. One day, when sitting in the Laundromat, I honestly thought the leaves I could see dropping rapidly outside the window was snow. It got that cold, windy and dark, THAT freaking quickly I started to freak out. Similarly yesterday, it was about 29 degrees. Everywhere you looked people were losing their shit at the unexpected fair weather. There were g-strings on grassy knolls, white legs exposed and dudes who had clearly been waiting an entire year to show off their polished guns, getting about inappropriately in their singlets. We went swimming as the bulk carriers out to sea made their way to Tasmania. It was insane. And lovely.

It isn’t all roses, just yesterday after a tough day, I had my first pang of homesickness and can honestly say I was prepared to pack up, tuck my fluffy tail between my legs and head home. Partly due to the fact that I miss Maddie like I’m missing a limb, partly due to the fact that it’s all just incredibly fucking hard. And I’m not one to complain, I just do, but sometimes, like yesterday, I just wanted to stop doing and go back to the easy.

But tonight, as I sit here and type this in the darkness of my 3 x 3 metre motel room with my family slumbering behind me, adjusting themselves from time to time due to the keyboard noise, I realise this is exactly what we need. What I need. A change. Will it work? Who knows? Is it scary as all hell? Yep. Will we ever regret giving it a go? No.

Aside: Phil and the boys joined me on Sunday. Was incredibly nice to squish each and every one of them after so long. Maddie will be down when she graduates.

Squishing the shit out of Jack. Clearly he’s loving it.

When I started this post, I had been driving for two days straight and could safely say, if it weren’t for my newly acquired GPS, I would not have made it to my destination alive. And, even though I’m pretty sure the GPS lady wanted me dead and was often suggesting I turn down dirt tracks, I can only thank her for my newly found confidence when driving around the totally foreign city that is Melbourne.

Hey, even when she suggested I had 2.5 hours left until I reached my destination on Wednesday and I could tell from the tone of her voice she was really suggesting I go fuck myself, I still wanted to give her a hug. Sure, I was often found to be arguing with her in the car, completely alone but this did not at all seem unreasonable. Often our conversations went a little something like this:

Her: “Take the next right onto George Street.”

Me (out loud): “Um, no. There is no George Street, what in the fuck are you talking about??”

She would then recalibrate and we would get on with it.

After a brief stop in Sydney where I slept on a very comfortable couch lent to me by the very lovely Nicky L, I made my way on to Albury. But not before a stop off at one of only two McDonald’s on the stretch for a caffeine fix. Now here’s the thing. There is absolutely NOTHING to see on the highway between Sydney and Melbourne. The Hume Highway should just be rebranded the LONGEST STRETCH OF NOTHINGNESS IN THE WORLD; at least then people would be prepared. This must be why, when people see a McDonald’s, they lose their shit and treat it like a McDisco. Seriously, people were dressed like they were ready to pick up. Forget Farmer Wants A Wife Channel 9, just set your cameras up at the closest Hume Highway Maccas and you’ve got your next series RIGHT. THERE.

The other thing I noticed about this drive was the radio stations. I mean, I took a stack of music to listen to, but if I had to listen to Adele one more time I would probably have to gouge my own eye out no matter how beautiful a singer she is. So intermittently, I would attempt to get a radio station. There was one in particular – an ABC station that was talking about fleas on dogs. This was one of the questions:

Presenter: “So what is a sign your dog may have fleas?”

Vet: “The dog will be scratching itself.”

Fucking really???

I could also probably debate the subject of corporate tax fairly comprehensively after listening to at least three hours of information regarding this. Any takers? No. I didn’t think so.

I arrived in Albury late-ish in the afternoon and proceeded to check into a non-descript motel with zero Wi-Fi and a studded velvet bed head. One that I could still tune in AM radio from. I’m pretty sure for an extra tenner; I could have secured the suite with a mirror on the roof. I resisted.

What I did quickly ascertain was that I would need a drink that night. No internet, limited television channels. ie. SBS or SBS, I reckoned I’d need some company. My inebriated mind seemed like a logical choice, so I set out into the mean streets of Albury in my jeans, tattered Beatles T-shirt and thongs. Bup-Bow.

See, in Albury, I could NOT for love nor money, find a bottle shop that existed outside a licensed establishment. In turn, this meant that the bouncer at the Albury RSL club I ended up tracking down was NOT loving my jean/t-shirt/thong combination. In fact, I think he was one sentence away from saying “Not in that footwear Miss”, when I walked on past him.

I ate there, the locals were lovely and I went back to my room where I was graciously offered a toke of a guy’s joint on the way up the stairs to my ‘apartment’. I declined.

Tune in next time to find out how FUCKING boring the drive is between there and Melbourne. But wait, there is more. It involves St Kilda, fare evading on trams and forcing people to make eye contact with me on the mean streets of Melbourne. Oh and getting the rest of my family to join me here.

Hope to be writing this from our own place next time and not a dodgy hotel that has blue lighting in the foyer. I think this is where I am meant to say ‘ciao’.

When the post-it note appeared on the fridge with the words ‘Book V Clinic’ scrawled across it, I knew my baby making days were all but over.

It appeared my husband knew me better than I knew myself and even though at that point in time (ie. Three months pregnant with baby number three), I had no intention of having a number four, he knew all it would take was a mere sighting of a cute baby and I’d be back on the newborn express.

See, babies are my crack. One whiff, one sighting, one hold and I am hooked and need a more personal fix. My husband was onto me, hence the post-it note.

He had also done some logical thinking, damn him. Going from a family of five to a family of six would mean more than adding a new name to the Medicare Card. It would require a seven-seater car. It would mean a four bedroom home (at the very least). It would also mean that we would probably not retire until we were dead (although to be honest, we are fairly prepared for that scenario anyway).

Are these reasons, which essentially are material based, valid enough to veto child number four, five or even six? If you had caught me off guard in the post baby haze, three years down the track when the memories of vaginal tearing and sleep deprivation were conveniently forgotten, I’d have said, no, not a good enough reason. In the cold light of day however, knee deep in shitty nappies and having cleaned up my body weight in vomit, I’d probably quite happily snip the offending sperm carrying tube myself. So yes, I guess I’m saying three is the magic number for us.

It almost feels like three is the new two. Most of all my friends have three children and, like us, they went back for more punishment bliss at that comfortable, fuss free time of their lives when their other children were basically self-sufficient. And I can’t even say we had our third child because we wanted a child of a particular sex. We already had a pigeon pair and they were/are good kids. And then, perhaps just to teach us a lesson to mess with fate, we had the now Mr Four, the hurricane on two legs.

This boy came out born ready. He took no more than two hours to make his way out, nine pounds and I didn’t even require a single stitch. This either means I was totally ‘one’ with my breathing during labour or, probably closer to the truth, I was just a total loose goose. I digress, the fact is, this kid was jumping out of trees and breaking his wrists before he could tell me ‘No’. And he tells me ‘No’ A LOT.

Do I still hanker for another addition? Honestly no. I love that my friends are having babies and I am getting to enjoy them in an ‘Aunty Bern’ capacity. ie. I’m getting to give all the hugs, kisses and long holds and then sleep for eight hours. Sometimes nine.

In hindsight, that 20 minute trip to the clinic where the doctor pulled out his glorified soldering iron and burnt the pathways to fatherhood to render my husband infertile was both sad, yet necessary.

Where did you draw the line? Have you?

*Note – I had to google ‘vasectomy’ to find a picture for this post. What I have seen cannot be unseen.

They say getting married and moving are two of the most stressful events you will face in your lifetime.

Let’s just say that I’d dance the funky chicken at my 19th wedding rather than move house one more time. Because this time, we aren’t just moving house, which for some insane reason, we seem to do about every 4 years, we are moving State. Lots of states. We are moving to Victoria.

Have you ever talked so much about something that it actually turned into reality? I mean, like something so massive, so life changing, it will not only interrupt your own life but all of those around you as well? It seems that I may have done this.

A few months ago my husband and I sat down and realised we were getting nowhere. Building and construction here on the Gold Coast has basically stalled. People are sitting on their hands waiting for something to happen. In turn, Phil hasn’t worked a solid week since Christmas 2010. I’m pretty sure this is the story being told by any tradie on the Gold Coast right now. Confidence is thin on the ground, the Real Estate Bubble burst a while back and people are scrambling to sell at much less than they did two years ago. We could see it coming, but we’ve rode this out here a few times before.

The last time was in 2001 and we only had one child at the time. Phil moved to Sydney where he was offered a great job. I stayed behind and it was relatively easy. Well for me. Although to be honest, we were kind of running two households, flying to and fro and what not. And although I was fine working, running Mad to day care and looking after ourselves, Phil didn’t fare quite as well. What should be every man’s dream was his nightmare. I mean, nights to oneself, pub dinners, beers with mates and complete control of the remote control sent him nuts. So he came home.

So this time around we were realistic. The mines were an option, but that involved FIFO and weeks away from the family. No go. So we started to investigate. Before we knew it, Phil was offered a job. In Melbourne. Whoa.

So, in just over a week, I alone, will set off in my little car and drive away from the only place I’ve ever known. Away from my brother and two of my best friends in the world, my wonderful boss, all of our lovely neighbours and other friends and family and drive in a semi-straight line to Melbourne. In the mean time, I have, oh, one thousand, four hundred and fifty nine things to organise and very little time to do so. But winging it has always kind of been my MO, so I’m hoping it works for me this time.

As we sat out on our deck, in our modest little seaside home this afternoon and had a beer, I wondered out loud if we were doing the right thing. The logistics are huge. Phil looked at me and simply said “Mate, if it’s not right, we can always come back, what have we got to lose?” Oh, just my sanity, but apart from that, nothing.

Have you ever made a massive move?

I’m not sure when I first started to follow Carly Findlay on Twitter. I can’t remember when she went from being a tiny picture on my laptop screen to a person I genuinely grew to care for.

I don’t know how we started to chat, perhaps it was a recommendation from someone on Twitter, perhaps it was our mutual love of all things Callan Mulvey. I honestly don’t know, but the one thing I do know, was that when we started interacting I wasn’t aware Carly had a disability. This I guess comes down to the fact that she doesn’t let it define her. Plus, to be honest, Carly was just ace. Is, just ace. Carly is funny, relevant, spirited, is a fantastic writer and to be honest, often more in tune with the ways of the world than what I am.

Carly Findlay was born with Ichthyosis. In her own words Carly explains what this means:

“I am red and scaly. My skin gets itchy and sore. My face is the reddest part of my body because it is exposed to the elements. I get infections easily – generally on my legs, but sometimes on my face. Sometimes my infections result in hospital stays where I am bandaged up like a mummy. These infections can make me very sore.”

Carly as a baby

I had the pleasure of meeting Carly in real life, for the second time last month in her home town of Melbourne and we caught up for dinner. I was able to witness first hand people’s reaction to her. I noticed it, I’m not sure if she did. The stares on the Tram, the looks from the less obvious on the city streets. On the flip side, I saw her interact with people in a way, and start conversations with strangers, that I guess I never usually would. And people were attracted to her vibrancy.

Recently Carly featured on Triple J’s Hack program discussing love and dating with a disability, so I decided to ask her a few more questions of my own:

HAVE YOU HAD MANY RELATIONSHIPS? TELL ME ABOUT THEM:

Four I guess, maybe five, but I can’t define the fifth one. Though I loved the fifth more than anyone before.

I guess they’ve all been problematic – the boys have often had bigger issues of their own than my skin condition. I have been asked if I’ve settled for people with disabilities because of mine. No, but I have settled for douchebags.

There was the guy who lied about his whole life, two unemployed ones, one addicted to painkillers who had an alter ego, and one extremely troubled man. Charmers! But I saw good in all of them at the time, sometimes beyond. Sometimes I think when people have bad attributes, the good shines through, like a silver lining.

And there have been a lot of unrequited loves. I loved my best friend for about three years. I’d watch the footy, bored out of my brain, just to be with him! He and I shared a moment, but he told me I was “too fucking special” to him to take things further. Devastating.

Sometimes when I have had a boyfriend I feel like letting those who doubted I ever would have one know. “I’ve found love! I’ve had sex! And you never thought I would!” hahaha!

WHO IS YOUR IDEAL MAN? WHAT ARE HIS CHARACTERISTICS, BOTH IN PERSONALITY AND PHYSICALITY?

I like a man who will treat me right, is compassionate, understanding and accepting, is intelligent, makes a difference in the world even if it’s just a small thing like helping a stranger, and who can have a laugh.

Physically I like a man who is taller than me, nice eyes and big smile. I like a bit of scruff – a beard is cute.

When I was younger I really liked boys with long hair and piercings, but I don’t know if those characteristics work well now I’m looking in the 25-35 age bracket! I once had a boyfriend with 11 piercings, a chain that went from his nose to ear rings, and had long plaits with a shaved top of head.

Celebrity ideal men – Callan Mulvey! Sam Johnson, Hamish Blake, Brendan Cowell, Caleb Followill from Kings of Leon.

WHAT DO YOU MISS MOST, BEING SINGLE?

Sharing my day with someone.

Being held at night.

Knowing things only “we’d” know.

I KNOW IT PYSICALLY HURTS OFTEN TO BE TOUCHED. INTAMACY IS A BIG PART OF ANY RELATIONSHIP. IS THIS A CHALLENGE?

Being touched doesn’t hurt all the time, except when my skin is really sore. I guess the biggest challenge is being comfortable enough to let someone see my whole body. I’m happy with my shape and size – I got some great assets! But I worry about how they’ll react to my skin shedding.

That’s probably a big factor in me preferring to be intimate with someone I love and trust, and who is understanding, rather than casual encounters. Sometimes I wish I was more inclined to pursue casual encounters, but the emotional effort for me is so great when starting any relationship that I’d rather expend the energy cultivating a more meaningful relationship.

DO YOU FALL FOR WORDS OR LOOKS? A COMBINATION?

Usually it starts with words. I fall for a good vocabulary and articulate writing. I think I had one relationship or whatever it was, based on a year of words (texts, emails, phone calls) and three days physical contact.

Maybe it is because most of my relationships have started with the Internet.

Words are hard though – you only get a 2 dimensional perspective of the person. It is easy to forget they may have values that you don’t agree with. And you can also conjure up an ideal.

I think If I have a connection to someone via words, the physical attraction heightens. With Matt*, I hardly took notice of his looks initially, it was all about his thoughts and words. And perhaps because of our connection I thought he was one of the most beautiful looking men I had ever seen.

HAVE YOU CONSIDERED OR TRIED A DATING SITE?

I have tried many, particularly when I moved to Melbourne. I’m in two minds about them whenever I use them. I want men to get to know me for my fabulousness, but even online there’s a superficiality, and despite being honest about my skin and writing about all the great things I do in my life, if they don’t like the way I look, or don’t like that I have a chronic illness, they won’t get to know me. Even despite their profile listing that they want a girl who is different, and they have a kind heart.

Sometimes I think as ‘open minded’ people say they are, disability and chronic illness can be too confronting for them. It’s like being in a very competitive catalogue.

I have met a few of my boyfriends online though. One on a dating site. The others on ICQ and Facebook – and one at the train station (I dumped him on a train too!). It’s hard to be honest when communicating with someone from an online dating site without it sounding like I’m pleading for acceptance.

WHAT IS THE WORST THING A GUY HAS EVER SAID TO YOU? THE BEST?

The worst:

“Your looks and illness are too much of a burden on me” – an Internet date. Didn’t go past the first date.

“Didn’t I tell you I don’t love you anymore?” – an ex boyfriend.

The best:

My second boyfriend used to be very protective of me and would often be very defensive if people stared or commented. It was chivalrous, but got annoying when he’d be more confrontational than the starer!!

It’s also been nice being told “I love you”. (of course)

“You are the person I admire the most. Not my favourite rock stars or sports personalities. YOU. 99% of the time I see your posts they are very constructive and mostly of some joy. I wish I had the courage that you have.

“I wish you everything Carly. You are the most beautiful person I have ever met. When I see the pics of you smiling, it makes me smile.”

SO YOU HAVE RECENTLY SPLIT UP FROM SOMEONE. WELL, FOR GOOD AND YOU ARE HURTING. WHAT SONG IS ON REPEAT RIGHT NOW?

I don’t know if it’s a break up because as I said, this thing has been so hard to define. (Darren Hayes once sang “how do redefine something that never really had a name?”) But it is certainly I love/d him more than I have ever felt, and now I feel it’s a loss and I feel like I’m grieving.

I discovered I don’t have any uplifting songs. They all feel like they’ve been written about or for me!

Gotye’s Somebody I Used To Know and Adele’s Someone Like You have fitting words for the situation.

Darren Hayes – Bloodstained Heart – it feels like he’s giving me a hug with this song.

Bertie Blackman Television – I can just relate to the lyrics: “where she wants to be like everyone else, she wants to fit in, be loved“.

IF YOU COULD GIVE THE GUYS OUT THERE A WORD OF ADVICE ON HOW TO APPROACH YOU AND/OR ASK YOU OUT, WHAT WOULD IT BE?

Don’t be afraid of the way I look. Take a chance and get to know me to find out I’m more than just a red face. And I hope that they can see my beauty – inner and outer. I am a great cook, love music and will make you laugh. And my boobs are pretty good too!

Below has been taken from Carly’s blog which I highly recommend you read. She captures the essence in a situation in such a way, I could only dream of being able to replicate.

This week marks one year since I began to love him. I remember my realisation – it was after a text from him, telling me he is glad he started talking to me, it feels so easy, and reconfirmed after an after midnight text following a three hour conversation telling me I am the perfect girl for him. I fell quick, I fell hard. I wonder whether I am destined to keep falling in love this way – through words alone?

A couple of months ago I wrote about wondering whether a year will go by with a day where I wouldn’t think of him. The answer is no. There hasn’t been one day in these 12 months that I haven’t felt something for him. Sadness, frustration, and hope. But mostly love.

Just after I wrote that piece, we became in contact more than we’ve ever been. It has been one of the good things to come out of a very bad situation. Long emails and texts almost each day, and one call. The contact is, to an extent, more positive. I’m comfortable talking about things with him that I’d never with somebody else.

I feel a different kind of love for him now. It is more realistic due to the difference and distance between us. I feel it’s evolved from idealism and me wanting to be in a relationship, to lustful, to heartbroken…and now it’s this type of caring, understanding, non judgmental, fully trusting love on my part. It’s the kind of love I hope to feel growing old with someone. Only I won’t with him. It’s a nostalgic love. I feel more sad than happy about it, especially when he told me he wishes he could have our time again.

I don’t expect love from him in return. Though in the past I’ve hoped for it, I’ve never expected it. Just loving him is enough for me. Is that unhealthy? To settle for unrequited love?

This thing. It’s based on words and memories alone. And need. Mutual need. Unconventional love. I sort of want to set him free from my heart. He deserves this love from somebody closer to him, and so do I. And then I get sad at the thought of him no longer needing me.

A month ago I went to see a counsellor. The counsellor asked whether I loved him.

I said yes.

The counsellor asked whether I told him that I loved him.

Only once in person. A few times recently in text, to remind him of his worth to me. But I don’t want to push it. I don’t want to ruin things. Maybe he knows my love for him through my loyalty. I have every right to tell him I love him, the counsellor told me, for I have earned my stripes.

I’ve earned my stripes. I love him.

I find the above a beautiful piece. Settling for unrequited love? You deserve so much more than that Carly.

Thank you Carly, you are a simply wonderful.

I remember being given a copy of ‘What To Expect When You’re Expecting’ when I was first pregnant. On the front cover, sat a serene woman in sensible shoes, rocking away in her wooden rocking chair with a fairly sceptical look on her face. Clearly she’d already read what was going on inside, ie. the very vanilla, straight laced version of what was actually going to happen when she got pregnant, had a child and then raised said child (followed up in the aptly titled ‘What To Expect In Your First Year’ and ‘What To Expect In The Toddler Years’). I can save you forty bucks. Just expect your life to change. Massively.

But here are a few more expectations I personally have found to be true:

Expect labour to hurt – a lot

Pinch that soft fleshy bit under your arm. Hard. Harder. Feel that? Hurt? That doesn’t even come close to the absolute agony that is labour. In fact, go outside, put your foot under a 4WD tyre and ask someone will very few scruples to reverse over it a couple of times. Painful? Nope, still not even close. Shit out a watermelon. Yeah, that comes kinda close.

Expect to never sleep in. Ever again

Look, just think of those last uncomfortable months of sleeping whilst pregnant as training. Training for the Tired Olympics. Believe me, your training will be so intensive you’ll be almost a dead cert for the gold medal. Expect to never sleep in past 6am ever again. Oh, wait, I take that back, *just* when your body is used to waking up at that time and can no longer physically break the 7am barrier, your child will start to sleep in. Until midday. This will enrage you.

Expect to be embarrassed in public

“Mum, why is there a snake coming out of your bottom?” I’ll set the scene. Public toilet at some brightly lit Megaplex in the burbs. Me, in sudden need of a toilet and believe me, if it could wait until I was in my own home, it would have. The 3-year-old, standing in front of me while I try to efficiently do as nature intends. He, when not trying to escape under the door, is peering into the toilet and in his best big boy voice, alerting my stable mates that I am doing a massive shit.

Expect to never see the bottom of your laundry hamper. Ever again

You know, if someone was smart, they’d make a laundry hamper with a big picture of your celebrity free pass at the bottom. Give you some incentive to make your way down there. Mine would be Jason Bateman or Mark Ruffalo. If someone was doubly smart, they would make it your husband’s Free Pass. Therefore I would find Natalie Portman at the bottom of ours.

Expect to feel guilt at code red levels

Mother’s guilt really needs its own postcode. Are we working too much, feeding them too little, not enough? Allowing them too much screen time? Are they eating enough dirt? Too much? It’s guilt central and we are our own harshest critics.

Expect to become the master of empty threats

You will need to find your currency when it comes to kids and threats. ‘Stop it or you go to your room’ rarely cuts it. ‘So freaking what, all my toys are in my room, do better Mum.’ So you have to find what they love the most and threaten to take it away from them. More often than not, these are empty threats. I mean you want to go to Dreamworld just as much as they do, but you can’t let them know that.

Expect to lose your train of thought. Which has just happened to me right now.

We are renovating. You know that. What you don’t know is that we have progressed a little. See, Phil, my lovely, wonderful and sometimes undervalued husband (read about that here) has had a bit of a slack new financial year.

Plumbing, construction in general is facing a bit of tough time. Two years ago, he had more work than he could poke a plunger at (do you like what I did there?), but right now, not so much. Anyhoo, as such, he’s had a few days to work exclusively on our own home and I am pleased to tell you – we no longer have an asbestos fence. I know, right! One more deadly poison taken out of the equation. What a win for our children’s health.

Now, up until roughly three weeks ago, I was working from the dining room table. Did I mention our dining room would be more appropriate in a Barbie Townhouse? All too often, I found chick peas in my notebooks and chicken korma jammed in the printer. The situation was less than ideal.

But, then, one bright day in August, we got a new bathroom and laundry, which made way for a study nook where the old laundry used to be. And by jingo, lookey here, I have found my happy place. It’s nothing more than a long bench and a chair, but it’s mine and I am no longer a nomad in my own home.

Study Nook and Jack using his best table manners.

All we have left to do now is:

Patch Internal Walls

Unfortunately our walls are about 50-years-old and cracked to the shit. Before we moved in, every single one of them was wallpapered. And not in a good way. So eager to start, I ripped it off every single wall. Three years later, it’s like time stood still. I haven’t hung a photo in my house in over 3 years. I realise this is a total first world problem, but it saddens me none-the-less.

Jack showing you the crap walls. Doing his best Captain Hook impression.

Paint Internal Walls

Remember, about ten years ago, it was all the rage to internally paint your house in bright blues and yellows? The beach theme I think it was. Well we got right into that shitful trend. In fact, we went one better and used blue and yellow SUEDE effects paint. Pretty much impossible to paint over that bad boy. Looking back, it would have been like living in a freaking day care centre. So, from that we’ve learnt, less is more. ‘Neutral’ is my new buzz word.

Back Deck

Right now, we have a culmination of three different, 1970-inspired slippery as all fuck, patterned brown tiles leading onto concrete in our back yard. Further to this, as we have just ripped out a concrete garden/jungle, we have a lot of dirt. Whilst the two boys just love getting into this each afternoon and ending up as mud men, we intend to put a timber deck out and create an urban oasis. Or at least stop the kids splitting their heads open each time they run out the back door.

Don’t let the cute kid and dog distract you, killer slippery tiles alert.

A new kitchen

You know what? I seriously think Phil and I sat down and smoked a big crack pipe the day we bought this house. It is the only reason I can feasibly come up with as to why we didn’t see how useless this kitchen would be for a family of 5. Or a family of 1 for that matter.

Not only is it tiny, there is zero bench space. Further to this, there is hardly any cupboard space and more often than not, someone cops an elbow to the face if they attempt to enter when it is being utilised. I know I exaggerate and I wish this time, I was. It’s also starting to fall apart. Something needs to be done before we try to sell it. Either that or we will have to force-feed people joints at the door when they rock up for an Open for Inspection.

The kitchen is even sending Sam bananas.

A new driveway

Bit of concrete. I have nothing funny to insert here. It genuinely is, just fancier concrete than the revolting stuff that is out there now.

Right, all that needs to be done now is a) work to make money to pay for the above, b) find time in between working at our normal jobs, to finish it and c) agree with each other on the details. Guess which bit is going to be the toughest?

And then, after all that, you know what we will do? The same thing we’ve done every other time we’ve renovated the bejesus out of a house. Sell it. And move on. Will we renovate again? To this extent? Ooooh, let me think, did I enjoy living with mould, asbestos, lead paint and one toilet to share between five? Let’s just say, I’d rather paper cut my own eyeballs with a ream of Reflex than attempt this again, so that’s a ‘no’.

Driving the 11yo to school today I noticed another family walking along the street heading to the same destination. They were a little family with mum, dad, child in stroller and school aged child around, say, 7. I was waiting in the (godforsaken) traffic and my attention was caught by the 7yo who was turbo-ing up the grass hill and crawling on her knees above her parents. Immediately I thought “No! Dirty knees, dirty uniform, she needs to be stopped, what are you people doing?!”

Meanwhile, Maddison the 11-year-old, was absolutely murdering Papa Don’t Preach beside me in the passenger seat, earphones tightly in her ears, singing with abandon. I turned to her and with my pointer finger, indicated in an anti-clockwise circular motion to turn it down. I meant her singing volume. She did so, reluctantly.

I looked back at the climber and her family who had now overtaken my crawling car. The complete joy on the little girl’s face when she rolled down the hill gave me pause for thought. Was I just a spoilsport? Did it matter if she had a bit of dirt on her knees? Did it matter that Mad was singing a bit too loud and could possibly make my ears bleed? Especially when she was doing so with such unselfconsciousness? Was I just being a big old wet blanket?

Yes.

Welcome to killjoy city people. Population: Me. When did I become this way? When did I start to care more about the practicalities of a situation and not enjoy it for what it essentially was, fun?

As a child I caught a lot of buses. This was mainly due to the fact that we only owned a car that was drivable sporadically as dad was either a) pissed b) broke or c) pissed. As I fancied myself quite the singer, it was quite common for me to sit on a seat in a bus and sing, in my loudest voice, any song I liked at the time. This was the ’80s, so there I was, belting out a bit of “Hello, is it me you’re looking for” when a teenager sitting in front of me turned around and told me to “Be quiet!” Or he could have said “Shut the fuck up”, I’ve blocked it out. But I do know from that day on I was less of an extrovert. I didn’t dance like no one was watching because there was always someone that was, and they were only all too happy to tell me I looked like a dickhead.

I was the one who was always begging her brother to stop mucking around or he’d get hurt or dobbing to avoid conflict. In short, I didn’t relax.

So now, I’m going to make a conscious effort to let my kids be kids. Stop sweating the small stuff. Let them wrestle on the floor. Not stress when they throw a baseball at to me with very little warning. Play the music a bit too loud. Live a little. Or at least a little bit more.