Nature's Fury.

Imagine, won't you, loading your children into your family car. Pets if you have them. Take what you'll need for a few days, maybe longer. Prams. Car seats. Bottles. Clothes. Blankets. Pillows. Nappies.

How much room do you have left? Not a lot. Me either. Now. Look into your house. What's precious to you? Books? Photos? Your mother's old tea set? That memory box with your son's first lock of hair, his hospital bracelets, or the mask he wore in under the lights to correct his jaundice? The file with his first picture, or the note that he wrote for his Daddy, just last week? The letter your mother wrote for you when she found out she was dying? Phones? Medication?

God any room left? I haven't? I ran out of room not long after photos and memory box.

Well, that's the situation facing one of my blogging friends, Colleen.

She, and countless other Katrina survivors, are once again, compacting their lives into their cars, and fleeing the worst nature can throw at them. Hurricane Gustav is bearing down on them, after it's lethal trail through Haiti and the Dominican Republic.

Gustav has just crossed Cuba, which did little to nothing to slow it down. It is said it will be upgraded to a 5 any moment now. As it bears down on the Gulf Coast, my thoughts are with all residents. I hope that all will follow the advice of the mayor, and comply with the now mandatory evacuations. I hope all will stay safe, and that they are able to ride out this storm, with no lives lost.

Colleen, stay safe. I pray your home is undamaged, but mostly, I just want you all to be safe.

Memories - Nobody puts baby in the corner.

As I drove home from the school run this morning, I sank back into my chair as the voice of Patrick Swayze came over the radio and the memories filled my senses.

Edited: Have taken the song off.Sorry it's locking up my computer everytime I load my blog.

I was 12 or 13 years old, and had been flown to Darwin with my mother for some brain scans. The unpleasantness over, she told me she had a surpirse for me. We took a cab to the cinema, and I remember my heart started beating faster, excitement coursing through my veins.

Surely not. Surely she wasn't actually going to cave and let me see it?
She was. She turned to me, and smiled. I remember that moment, the blue of her eyes shining behind those glasses, and I knew we were going to share a moment. "Come on" she said. "Just you and me. Your father, may I add, is not impressed, but we're having a girls day".

And a girls day we had. We ate twisties and violet crumbles. I leaned into her, in thanks, as the opening credits began, she smiled. I wonder what she was thinking. I listened to the opening credits, loving even the swirly hot pink writing and sang along quietly to "Be my baby". I stared, awed at the dancers, the way their bodies moved together and I wondered if I would ever be able to dance like that.I listened to baby talk about 1963 and chuckled as I knew, in the first minutes I was going to hate Baby's sister (come on, we all have one of them, right????).
Later, I watched out of the corner of my eye as my mother squirmed, clearly wondering whether she should cover my eyes like she used to, when Baby and Johnny finally made love. Rolling my eyes, glad she had the sense not to, and smiling my acknowledgment that she was treating me like a young woman, instead of her little girl.

To this day, it's one of my favourite Mother-Daughter memories. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face the entire day, and went back to school the envy of all of my friends, having already seen the hit movie of the year.

It's almost 20 years to the day, I realise as I sit here, that much loved, almost worn out movie playing in the background as I type this post. A smile, a little sadder though, is playing again at my lips, as I remember that day. I can almost smell the popcorn, and her perfume. I can feel my younger self, and remember thinking I'd always remember that moment.

I do. I remember. And I'm grateful, for another memory created with my mother.






Tell me about yours. Lets make it a Topic tag. Post about a memory you have, a mother daughter moment. I'd love to read it. I'm not going to tag specific people. If you read this, and you can think of something to share, I'd love to read it.

Take My Hand.

According to the ABS, in 2005, 1636 Australians lost their lives on our roads.
That same year, 2101 people took their own lives. It accounted for 20% of all deaths in young men, aged between 20 and 34 years.

At least one in five Australians will experience some form of depression or mental illness in their life time.

In this country 5 people will take their lives each day. Five. Today, we're going to hear a lot about one of them.



Mark Priestly last night, after an apparent struggle with depression, appears to have died at his own hand. It is tragic. It is shocking. It's heartbreaking.

It is happening far, far too often. The overwhelmeing reaction: Shock. Not just that he has died. But that someone 'like him' can suffer from this beast. That someone who 'seemed' so together, so happy, is in fact, battling a terrible illness.

If you never 'hear' anything else I tell you, please, please hear this. Depression doesn't look like you think it does. Depression isn't just the 30 year old woman swishing down zoloft with her vodka cruiser at 2 in the afternoon. Depression isn't just the 15 year old girl with the too-dark eyeliner and the cuts on her arms. Depression isn't just the 40 year who's just lost his job, and his remaining dignity.

It's me, the 32 year old mother of two adorable boys and the perfect husband. Heavily involved in her church and her son's P&C. At the school, every day, surrounded by children and parents, smiling and laughing.

The person that others turn to in a crisis, because she is the 'calm' one or the 'smart' one or the helpful one. She's the considerate one who doesn't know how to say no to anyone, and you know it.

It's my friend, the successful businesswoman with the perfect hair and nails and clothes, the trendy car and the gorgeous home.

It's the 17 year old straight A student, with the world at his feet and his life just beginning. Who's parents come home to find the unthinkable.

It's my fellow bloggers, fabulous and successful, beautiful women, far smarter and more accomplished than I.

If you know me in real life, unless I've told you, you'd have know idea I'm neck deep in the blackest depression I've ever experienced. You'd never know that my good days, my "Up" days are nothing but numbness, swirls of grey and haze, where I almost long for the black and the red. Oh, the red. SO much of it now.

You'd never know that not even a year ago, I wanted to take my life. That I fantasised about how I'd do it. That still, now, I see it in my head, almost a video replay of something that never even happened. That the images of the impact still surface in my brain, unbidden, long enough to take my breath away and make my heart slam inside my chest.

You'd never know that just an hour before the last P&C Meeting (yes, the one where I made jokes, and delivered my report as always) I was in the midst of a massive anxiety attack, over nothing at all I could pinpoint. That my heartbeat sounded loud to my ears, that I was unable to speak, or eat, or focus on anything.

You'd never know that I don't answer my phone because the moment it rang, sweat appeared at my forehead, my legs started moving madly, of their own accord, as they are at this moment and I suddenly am unable to form coherant sentences, let alone deal with whatever drama you are dropping on my doorstep.

People suffering depression can, for a time, function. You won't see us on our blackest days, we simply won't let you. We'll show up for work on time. We'll bring our children, clean and dressed and fed and happy to school, and we'll fulfill all of our commitments. We'll study and shop and clean and work.

You'll not know. And that's not your fault. Hell, sometimes we can't even let our Doctors or Shrinks, our Husbands or our Best Friends know how we're feeling. How can you be expected to know?

What can you do? You can take notice. Notice the people around you, when you can. Connect where you can, you'll never know if you said just the right thing, just the perfect thing to stop the unthinkable.

Blog about it. Talk about depression, like it's not something to be ashamed of. Let people know that this is an illness, not a weakness. And that there is help available. Beat down the stigma. That, more than anything, is taking precious lives.

And stop letting depression be taboo. This is far too common, far too desperate to remain a secret illness. It's taking far too many of our friends and our family members, our workmates and our children. It's time to stand up and be honest. This is happening. THis is happening to far more people than we want to acknowledge. And it's going to take those of us in the middle of the storm, to tell the people who can't see.

Take my hand, we can do it together.

My thoughts are with Mark Priestly's family, his friends and his colleagues.




But my thoughts are with the family, friends and colleagues of the other 4 people who will make the same choice today.












If you are struggling, please, please talk to someone. Call Lifeline on 13 11 14 or Go to www.beyondblue.org.au

Conversations You Don't Expect To Have..

Conversation One:

Some background. There have been some major incidents at Alexander's school in the parking lots. Parents turning into neanderthals, physically coming to blows, and in one instance last week, deliberately damaging someone else's car. They are parking in the teacher's parking lot, and blocking them off, parking in the disabled spots and not allowing access to those who rightfully belong there. They are parking in loading bays and then leaving. They are even parking across the pedestrian (children's) crossings and across the driveways of nearby residents.

Truly embarrassing, appalling behaviour. Honestly, I'm just shocked at the antics that have been witnessed, and are in fact, escalating.

So the principal called an exec (Did I mention I'm an Exec on the P&C now? I've held the position of Fundraising Coordinator since February, but became a Vice President a couple of weeks ago as well) meeting today to discuss the issue. So we arranged for the Police to be in the carpark this afternoon (can you even believe we'd have to resort to that? Idiots!) to right out tickets for anyone breaking the rules.

Anyway. People were NOT happy. I'm not sure who the hell they thought they were, yelling at this poor young police woman, but there they were, setting a terrible example for their children and leaving us embarrassed to be associated with any of them. Jo (President), Jo (Secretary) and I were chatting to her when suddenly she turns and says "Would you mind staying with me. These people are losing the plot".

"Sure" we say, as we help diffuse the situation.

Except, I did find myself asking Jo (Err..isn't she the one with the gun and the tickets????). Bizarre.



Jen - These next two will probably see a little steam coming out of your ears...


Conversation 2.

My SIL calls me. Her 3 month old baby has a cold, sore throat and now the same stomach bug that I have (and that's put my sister, her husband and their 2 year old in hospital!). She calls and says this morning "Luka is vomiting a little. It's mostly just typical after-feed kind of thing, but there is a tiny pink streak in it. Should I be panicking?"

I said that if she was concerned, to call her GP, but since she has such a raw throat (they'd seen him not more than an hour before), I'd be inclined to think that's what it is.
"Yeah. That's what the Dr said, we just wanted to check". Um. Ok then.

Conversation 3

"Luka is vomiting and has diarrhoea. Do I take her to the hospital?"
"Is she still having wet napppies?"
"Yes. Heaps"
"At least 6 or 7?"
"Yeah, easily".
Is she still feeding? Does she seem dehydrated, dry?"
"No. Just has been pooing all day and a little vomiting and she won't stop crying".
"Well, she has a bad cold, and I'd say a viral stomach bug going around. If she's still well hydrated, I'd be inclined to keep her here, away from all of the bugs at the hospital (which according to my Sister, who's been there with her little one, are absolutely jammed at the moment, with this bug). As long as she keeps wanting it, keep feeding her as much as she'll take. Don't force it. If you're worried, offer a little water. If there are still plenty of wet nappies, I'd ride it out at home, and keep the paracetamol up, to help her throat".
"Wow. That's almost word for word what the Dr said".
"Well, I think they'd know"
"Yeah. BUt we feel better if we ask you."




Ok. No pressure.

The one where I sheepishly sneak back in..

I'm ok. Thank You. Thank you for your comments on here. Thank you for your emails. Thank you for your PMs on EB. Thank you so very much. I'm ok.

More importantly, of course, he's ok too. Things were terrible there, for a few days. It broke our hearts, and it broke Alexander. But I'm pleased to report that he is back to his beautiful, sweet, tender self, earnestly going out of his way to please everybody around him.

His behaviour yesterday and today has been nothing short of perfect. Which (no pressure, little man) is what we're used to from him. He is the most wonderful child, joyous and full of "Thank You"s and "I Love You"s. It is such a pleasure to parent him, and we're so happy to welcome this happy son back.

Not sure what sparked last weeks' meltdown, though the general consensus is that he simply was worn out (much of his class was too, last week) and couldn't cope anymore.

We had a very quiet, relaxed weekend, where we gave him lots of positive attention and one on one time with each of us, as well as combined family time. We restricted computer and television, in favour of picnics with us, swings and slides with Sam, Basketball with Daddy and star watching with Mama. Saturday was still rough, but Sunday was blissful.

Are you there, Margaret? It's me..Melissa.

Generally I consider myself to be an excellent parent. Particularly to Alexander. I am incredibly intuitive with him, and it almost always pays off. I am able to pick his triggers, effectively manage them, and avoid those terribly upsetting ASD Meltdowns.

Not today though. I knew he was 'off' last night. We had some pretty bad ones, which included him being physically violent with me. A friend of mine from EB(just about my favourite person on there) commented that I must be strong, to cope. I was feeling pretty good about things. We kept him calm the rest of the evening, and made the decision to keep him home from school today, to give him a break.

Today's meltdowns (note the use of the plural. There have been MANY) made yesterday look like fun. Today's meltdowns have left me bruised (my hand, where I hit the desk corner, trying to fend him off), my back (where he threw a dining chair at me, and connected!), my head and my chest.

In a rage, he stapled his finger, threw things, hit himself and me, screamed hateful things and cried, the heartwrenching cries of a frustrated, overwhelmed and tired little boy.

I've held off so far, but Joel will be home soon. At which point I will allow myself to retreat to the shower for a cry of my own. But I'm not proud of my parenting today. Not even a little.

So. Margeret. I suck. So much for strong, huh? I feel completely defeated. I want Joel. And a stiff drink (I don't even drink anymore). I want an Ativan and 10 hours of sleep.

New Baby Blogger

So, quite possibly the coolest of our blogging gang, Mary, has finally, finally evicted her little one.

Hugh Asher Gibson entered the world (albeit reluctantly, having quite liked having a room to himself at Hotel Marywin)at 7.15am, on Monday 18th August, at a healthy 9lb 6oz. It seems that Mary was able to have her VBAC, and by the sounds of this, it was really a wonderful experience for both her and Greg.

Mary and Greg, congratulations. I'm so incredibly happy for you both. You make some pretty delicious babies, so cannot wait to see pics.

Hugh, sweet little boy, welcome to the world. We're so thrilled to have you here with us. Congratulations on picking such a lovely family to join. Clearly, a smart little baby already.

You're Welcome.

Alexander and I, after our bedtime stories.

"I was a baby. Now I'm a big boy. I'm not a baby anymore. But my brother is. And I'm not".
"That's right. You are a big boy now. But do you know what?"
"What?"
"I loved you when you were a baby. I loved you so, so much. But I love you even more now. I love my big boy even more".

"Aww. Thanks Mummy. I love you to the moon".
"I love you to the moon and back".
We play this for a while, before I finally untangle myself from his delicious embrace. As I leave the room...

"Mummy?"
"Yes darling?"
"Thank You so much"
"For what, Alexander?"

"For making me a person".


Sigh.


It's been my pleasure, little one.

The Audacity of Hope.

I have a confession to make. I'm not a very hopeful person. I used to be, I think. In fact, my best friend used to tease me about being such an optimist. I don't know when it changed. I think it might have been when I lost my first baby. Maybe it was in the weeks after Mum died. Who knows. I didn't even know I'd lost it. Not really. Not until today.

Today, I discovered something truly wonderful. Miraculous even. Enough to bring me to tears. And for the second time, in just a few weeks, I was completely stunned by a good result.

You might remember a couple of months ago, in this entry, I spoke to you about Nicole and Donna. Owners of two blogs I frequent. Both in the middle of high risk pregnancies, neither knowing the fate of the children they carried.

Donna had her son, Jonah Thomas just a few weeks ago. And despite my (and the Drs, I'm not a nutter, just making this crap up, you know ;) )certainty that Jonah would at th very least, have Downs Syndrome, he appears to be remarkably well. No sign of DS, no sign of many of the things they feared.

There were times that Donna talked about this baby, and her desire to believe that he was going to be just fine. And while I admired that in her, I was afraid she was setting herself up for disappointment, if all wasn't well. I was afraid of her 'getting her hopes up' (not, of course, that it was even nearly any of my business, but you know what I mean) and then having them dashed. I care about my friend.

She was right though. He's here and he's beautiful, and as far as I know, he's just fine. Home with his adoring family, and thriving.

I wish I'd been a better friend to you, Donna. I wish I'd shared your optimism, instead of just focusing on how well I thought you'd cope with a SN child, I wish I'd allowed myself to feel the same hope you had.

And today, the news that made me cry. Nicole (she of the most perfect, compact baby belly the world has ever seen - except maybe for Ave's!) has had her latest scan. And wouldn't you know it, things are looking pretty freaking amazing! LittleD is confounding all, his mass not only not growing, but shrinking to practically nothing!

I was sweating on this scan (so I can't imagine how Nicole and Luke were feeling). I was sooo hoping that the news would be as good as it had been at her last scan. But this time, it was even better!

I'm humbled by the faith she has shown in her baby. In her maternal instincts and love, the certainty that he would be ok. Even in her darkest moments (which I'm sure she had, who wouldn't?), her optimism was far greater than any I would ever have shown.

I'm ashamed of my pessimsm all of the times I thought we'd lost Sam. My refusal to believe that the universe wasn't out to screw me over yet again. My adamant determination to 'prepare myself' for the worst. As if that, in any way, would soften the blow of losing my precious child.

So. Nicole. Donna. I'm so thrilled for you both. May you continue to recieve good news about your sons (Yes, Nic. I'm sticking with option BLUE), and be rewarded for the amazing hope, faith only a mother can have, in your children. You deserve nothing less.

New Traditions

Today, I lay on the living room floor, my head on a cushion, my arms wrapped around my eldest son, watching a tiny, nervous Chinese gymnast delicately balance on a 4 inch wide beam, her eyes never leaving it. I hold my breath as she sticks her dismount, and my sons eyes are wide, wondrous and he cheers for her. "That's a great one, Mummy! She's just great jumper!".

And for a moment, I feel her presence. I feel my mother, her arms wrapped around me, as my 5 year old self watched in awe of Nadia Comaneci, on the same apparatus.

We watched so many sporting events together, my mother and I. We loved Rugby League first and foremost. NRL matches (well, ARL first, it didn't become NRL til much later), State of Origins and test matches. We'd get up in the wee hours of the morning, setting our alarms so as not to miss kick off.

We watched Tennis together, Rugby Union, Commonwealth and Olympic Games. We especially loved the Gymnastics, Swimming and Diving. We'd watch the Syncronised swimming and mock the outfits.

I miss you Mum. I haven't been able to watch a State of Origin since you died, without crying. So much so that in the past 2 years, I've not even tried to watch. But I want to create those same memories with Alexander. We're starting with the Olympics. We're watching the diving and the gymnastics together. And, we'll talk about you. I'll tell him all about when you'd come in at 2 in the morning, a warm cuppa in your hands for me, to wake me before the 2.30am kickoff for the Aust Vs Great Britain Test Match in the Kangaroos Tour of Great Britain. How we held hands and silently cheered as Wally scored again, marvelling at his artistry.

Maybe one day he'll look back on these moments with the same love as I do. Thank you for those moments, Mum. Thank you for making those memories with me. I treasure them.

Remember when all we had to do was to keep our ponytails straight and catch fireflies?

She Walks In Beauty
Lord Byron

She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

If only it were always so.

I remember 5. Do you? I remember starting school, getting a new baby brother. I remember conquering my rubix cube and trying to 'walk the dog' with my yoyo. I remember my first barbie doll and skipping with my friends. I had ringlets and big blue eyes and trusted the world.








WARNING: The following may (should) be hard to read. I understand if you can't, but I urge you to try. It's important. It's so easy to ignore, certainly it's distasteful, and difficult. And oh, so sad.




Ever read a passage in a book that leaves you reeling? Even though you know it's coming. Even though you are aware of what's about to happen, and what it means, you are left literally shaking and sick to your stomach. Nervous and drained and disillusioned, all over again.

That's how I'm feeling right now. Was having a fabulous day. Sam's having a nap that has lasted so far an entire HOUR!!!! So I curl up to read my latest book, Infidel. Of course, I've read a bit about Ayaan Hirsi Ali before. I have read of her and respected her, and this is one of those books I keep meaning to settle down with. So finally, this week I am.

Except, I feel sick. I knew it was coming. It's clear, even on the back cover (just in case we didn't know it was coming) that she went through this. But reading it. Knowing these words are real, relaying a horrific, terrifying experience is so hard to do. But couple that with the fact that she is tellign this part of thes tory through the eyes of a 5 year old little girl reduced me to sobs.

How in the $#@$&#! hell do we let this still happen? How are there little girls, still being held down by the women they trust, and subjected to this brutality.

In Somalia, like many countries across Africa and the Middle East, little girls are made "pure" by having their genitals cut out. There is no other way to describe this procedure, which typically occurs around the age of five. After the child's clitoris and labia are carved out, scraped off, or in more compassionate areas, merely cut or pricked, the whole area is often sewn up, so that a thick band of tissue forms a chastity belt made of the girl's own scarred flesh. A small hole is carefully situated to permit a thin flow of pee. Only great force can tear the scar tissue wider, for sex.

I was next. Grandma swung her hand from side to side and said "Once this long kintir is removed, you and your sister weill be pure". From Grandma's words and gestures I gathered that this hideous kintir, my clitoris, would one ay grow so long that it would swing sideways between my legs. She caught hold of me and gripped my upper body in the same position as she had put Mahad. Two other women held my legs apart. The man, who was probably an itinerant traditional circumciser from the blacksmith clan, picked up a pair of scissors. Wih the other hand, he caught hold of the place between my legs and started tewaking it, like Grandma milking a goat. "There it is, there is the kintir" one of the women said.

Then the scissors went dwon between my legs and the man cut off my inner labia and clitoris. I heard it, like a butcher snipping the fat off a piece of meat. A piercing pain shot up between my legs, indescribable, and I howled. Then came the sewing; the long, blunt needle clumsily pushed into my bleeding outer labia, my loud and anguished protests. Grandma's words of comfort and encouragement. "It's just this once in your life, Ayaan. be brave, he's almost finished". When the sewing was finished, the man cut the thread off with his teeth.

That is all I can recall of it.

But I do remember Haweya's bloodcurdling howls. Though she was the youngest - she was four, I five and Mahad six - Haweya must have struggled much more than Mahad and I did, or perhaps the women were exhausted after fighting us, and slipped, becuase the man made some bad cuts on Haweya's thighs. She carried tehs cars of them her whole life.

I must have fallen asleep, for it wasn't until much lter that day that I realised that my legs had been tied together, to prevent me from moving to facilitate the formation of a scar. It was dark and my bladder was bursting, but it hurt too much to pee. The sharp pain was still there, and my legs were covered in blood. I was sweating and shivering. It wasn't until the next day that my Grandma could persuade me to pee even a little. By then, everything hurt. When I just lay still the pain throbbed miserably, but when I urinated the flash of pain was as sharp as when I had been cut.

It took about two weeks for us to recover. Grandma tended to us constantly, suddenly gentle and affectionate. She responded to each anguished howl or whimper, even in the night. After every tortured urination, she washed our wounds carefully and with warm water and dabbed them with purple liquid. Then she tied our legs again and reminded us to stay completely still or we would tear, and then the man would have to be called again to sew us back up.

After a week, the man came and inspected us. He thought that Mahad and I were doign well but said Haweya needed to be resewn. She had torn her wound while urinating and struggling with Grandma. We heard it happening; it was agony for her. The entire procedure was torture for us, but undoubtedly the one who suffered the most was Haweya.
Mayhad was already upand about, quite healed when the man returned to remove the thraed he had used to sew me shut. This was again very painful. He used a pair of tweezers to dig out the threads, tugging on them sharply. Again, Grandma and two other women held me down. But after that, even though I had a thick, bumpy scar between my legs that hurt if I moved too much, at least my legs didn't have to be tied together anymore and I no longer had to lie down without moving all day.

It took Haweya another week to reach the stage of thread removal, and four women had to hold her down. I was in the room when this happened. I will never forget the panic in her face and voice as she screamed with everything in her and tried to keep her legs closed.

Haweya was never the same afterward. She became ill with a fever for several weks and lost a lot of weight. She had horrible nightmares and during the day began stomping off to be alone. My once cheerful, playful little sister changed. Sometimes she just stared vacantly at nothing for hours. We all started wetting our beds after the circumcision. In Mahad's case, it lasted a long time.

It's hard to read, isn't it? In fact, it is one of the main reasons I'd put off this book. I knew it would be in there. She is such a huge opponent of the practice (also of male circumcision, which her brother Mahad underwent at the age of 6), so how could it not be in there? And in reality, this probably is fairly sterile. There are no pictures. We don't have to watch it. Simply read a fairly quick recount.

Any yet. Here I am. Sickened. Outraged. And ashamed. Ashamed that this still happens, and somehow, noone has figured out a way to stop it.

I'm not hear to preach. I don't want to make this political. But Oh please, don't let us forget those girls. Don't let us forget this happens to girls as young as Alexander. It's just so easy to forget about it, half a world away. But they don't get to forget. Ever.






We should never forget the importance of what we're doing here. We're raising the next generation. We're teaching them. We instil them with morals and values and a sense of right and wrong. We instill them with the courage and fortitude to take on the world and make it better.

And we have a responsibility to start the process for them. At the very least, to remember.










Tell me about things you've read that have had a similar effect on you? It doesn't have to be political, or involve human rights or religion. Just what have you read that has left you raw and shattered? Made you face something you'd perhaps tried not to dwell on.

Six choses au sujet de moi

Ok. That was just me sassing Jenn. For the rest of us, this is my Response to the "Six Things" challenge, for which Jenn tagged me.

Here are the rules.

6 Things

1. Link to the person who “tagged” you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Write six random things about yourself.
4. Tag six people at the end of your post.
5. Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
6. Let the tagger know your entry is up.



So. About me.




1. I am an excellent Public Speaker and debater. Seriously. I may not look or seem like the type, but I'm not just blowing my own trumpet here. In high school I was in the debate team. Not once, ever, was my score beaten. I'm told only one other student in the country ever bested my top score in a debate. Bastard. ;) I'd have loved to debate him. I was third speaker, and I loved it. But I rarely (especially when I'd been really, really good) remembered anything about what I said up there.





2. I can't stand the feel of wet wool. I absolutely cannot hang a knitted jumper out on the line, or even touch it. Talk about the heebie jeebies.

3. I rarely feel lonely. I crave time to myself. I would do anything for even half a day with noone home, and to do as I please. I would blog, read and write. I would listen to Van Morrison and watch reruns of the West Wing. I would waste an entire day and be thrilled for it. Or I'd sleep.

4. When I cry, I am guaranteed several cold sores within 24 hours. I get them on my mouth, but more frequently, in my nose, on my eyes and even my chin. My glands swell up and I feel generally horrible. Zovirax cream makes them much, much worse. But the tablets (which I was prescribed when in hospital with Samuel) are incredible and work every time. I just took my last one today.

5. I'm paranoid and vain and convinced not a single person actually likes me. I'm always convinced that behind my back, people are rolling their eyes and discussing how annoying and ugly I am. I realise this is my issue, and that I'm far too old to be obsessing about it, but there you are.

6. Ok. Here's a bit of a wierd one. Might be too much information for some. I was the product (technically) of a virgin birth. I asked my mother once, why she hadn't known she was pregnant with me til she was almost 20 weeks. She said she hadn't known that she could fall pregnant the way she did (bare in mind, she was 15). Upon further prodding, she revealed that it was her first time. He had been a little, shall we say, over excited, and hadn't quite made it to home base before he was err..done. So she had never actually been penetrated.

I'd imagine finding out about me would have quite the shock! I joked and asked her if that made me an immaculate conception and she sneered that it wasn't even good, let alone immaculate. Poor thing. She was 15, a 'good Catholic girl' in a tiny country town. He was a 20 year old man whore, and without her getting anything decent, he still managed to knock her up and leave her to deal with the consequenses.


So. There's my six. I'm not sure who to tag, because we all travel in the same circles, and you've probably all done it. But, just in case they haven't, I tag:
(Bugger. Tagged Donna, Karen and Simone, but they'd all been tagged already).

Caroline
Candi
Alicia
Amberlee
Jodi
Nicole

Please.

I need some space. I need to be alone. I just need to breathe, with noone needing a piece of me. Why can't you let me alone? Why won't you just understand that I need you to leave me alone. Why don't you understand I have nothing to give you right now? There's nothing left.

And Joel. When I beg you not to pick up the phone, because I know it will be yet another person needing my time right now ,when I'm begging, please, please, please listen to me. Please don't pick it up. Or just lie for me. Tell them I'm not there. Today almost tipped me over the edge.

Just give me some space. Let me have a moment alone. I feel like everyone's in my face and attacking me. I know they're not. I know this is my perception, and that it is terribly skewed right not. But it doesn't make it any less real. I honestly, honestly feel like I'm under attack. I want to cower and shield myself, from all of you.

I'm sorry.
















*You guys, my readers. I don't mean you. I'm not just saying that. I need you so much right now, I don't know how to tell you. Help me. Please. Please tell me that I'm going to get better.