It’s interesting how some insecurities never change, no matter how long you’ve known someone. Once upon a time I might have wondered if my husband still found me attractive. There were some extreme years consisting of lesbian hair cuts and flourescent socks that only the truly infatuated could have overlooked. But these days I tend to think if he doesn’t feign a cartoon heart bounding out of his chest whenever he sees me then he’s a frikkin’ moron (coz I am awesomely, righteously schmokin’!) I used to twist myself in knots worrying that he thought I was an intellectual retard. Some might say I’m smart in a stupid way(or maybe that’s just a dumb persons way of rationalising the flukey-ness of getting something right now and then) Now I’m pretty sure when God was handing out brains I was off fantasising over Robert Pattinson and narrowly avoided the “Engineering Genius” gene that The Man Of The House clearly overdosed on.

  Now, don’t get me wrong…this is not a Nikki “pity party”, coz if it was I’d be drunk by now and picking a fight with one of you.  All I’m saying is I’ve accepted my human failings and I think the MOTH has too (much as I have accepted his nose blowing escapades in the shower!).  So, this leaves me with an interesting case of “Can’t put my finger on it” insecurity ( CPMFOII – or Compounded Parchment May Flip Over In Italics – which if I’m not mistaken – and I rarely am- is one of the clues from the Da Vinci Code) 

 This newest insecurity manifested when the MOTH ventured hundreds of kilometres north, eventually settling with family (namely his sister and father).  So here’s the thing.  We’ve been apart ALOT.  Not just a bit, not just every now and then…but frequently and often… ALOT ALOT  ALOT!  So this insecurity doesn’t stem from distance…more familiarity.  He’s gone (soon to return) but I feel like I’ve lost him. Like he’s not mine anymore.  He’s theirs!  I hear them laughing in the background of our phone conversations, adding little bits here and there.  I hear a comfort in his voice, like he’s home.  He is their centre.  With him around their disjointed parts feel whole again.  I don’t resent it.   I guess I can understand it.  They accept him and his crap.  Me, on the other hand, well I  have tried to mold that crap into a fairly decent and respectable human form.  A form I could love and bare to live with. 

A primal part of me – the skanky part that wants to pull someone’s hair- wants to scream “That’s my man!”  To grab him and tie him to me with one of those hideous kid leashes.  “Back off world.  You don’t get to reap the benefits of my awesome wifelyness”.

  Instead, the zen Martha Stewart part of me, sighs, understands, and keeps the sadness to herself.  He wouldnt understand, so my heart breaks a little more everyday that he’s away. 

 

 

 

Through the thick gravy of sleep, I can hear the chattering. “Blah blah blah” says one. “Blah blah blah laugh” says the other. In my mind I hear Sonny and Cher singing “I got you babe” and have to remind myself that while I am stuck in Groundhog day, I am better looking than Bill Murray. I reach over with frozen fingers and hit the snooze button. “Goodbye squawkers…hear you in nine more minutes”. In the haze and softness I assess the day ahead. The pain in my fingers and feet tell me that the next hour will only survived through gritted teeth. I swing my feet out of the covers, gingerly sidling towards the toilet. The doorknob is hard, and the bathroom floor is cold and hateful. I see myself in the mirror. Some days I’m surprised that I look better than I feel…this morning…not so much…the Blair Witch is staring back. After minutes of dozing on the loo, the Worlds Oldest Cat, and her friend, Second Worlds Oldest Cat, push the door open. They see me, and start whinging. To myself I think “Great, now I have a soundtrack to go with the pain”

  Walking on skeleton feet I hobble out to the children.  I attempt a sunny “Good Morning.”  Thankfully the children are not morning people (not at least for another hour anyway) and they virtually ignore me.  In silence I potter around.  School lunches and breakfast.  Fasten top buttons and scrounge through the washing for matching socks…grimaces hidden behind a mask of smiling, and high pitched reasurances.  The news comes on the tv.  I grab my keys and scan the children for food faces and scarecrow hair.  Like an army sargent I march them out to the car, all the while ignoring the pain that sizzles away. Through bickering voices my anger bubbles. ”Yes they are arguing but don’t over react” – just a simple warning will do.  I look at the garage roller door, imaging a way to open it that will not result in more pain.  It weighs more than a blue whale.  I stare at it.  I hate it. 

Second by second the day unfolds.  The ground is hard, hard, hard, but as we walk into school more seconds pass. I am surviving this step, then the next.  I squat to hug my boys, to wish them a great day, to tell them I love them.  And in our embrace, I think “I can’t enjoy this.”  All I want is for it to be over, to take the pressure of the joint, but I stay.  I wonder if they look into my eyes and see what I feel.  I wonder if they think it is about them? 

 As I do a skip shuffle out to the car,  I take a breath, a giant ballon breath. ” Thank you”, I say to myself.  “Thank you for keeping it in”.  “Thank you for not lashing out.”

For now, I retreat.  Six hours and I will do it all over again.  Pretend , pretend, pretend. 

This life, my life is lived moment to moment.

 A string of moments, each seperate from the next. 

 No future,

No past,

Only now.

  

Picture this. It’s 4pm on a Thursday afternoon. Crazy after school traffic fills the streets, and the kids and I are off to swimming lessons.

 My car, packed to the ceiling with swimming gear and schools bags, dodges in and out of traffic.  A feat in itself considering it’s a two and half ton 4wd and does zero to sixty in  three quarters of an hour.

 Silence has descended on the car after a heated discussion between myself and my three boys regarding the lyrics of Britney’s latest song “If you seek Amy” and why it’s inappropriate for them to be singing it.

 ”Just because!”  seems to  be sufficient enough answer…for now. 

I sigh, relieved and enjoy a moments silence as we wait for the lights to change.

  From the back seat I hear,  “Muuuuuum?” 

I reply “Yes matey?”

  “Is there such a thing as a quandong?” 

“Yes mate” I answer. 

 ”A quandong is a fruit native to Australia.  The Aborigines refer to it as Bush tucker and tastes a bit like a mango.” 

 I feel a bit like super mum with all the answers, and a bit proud of oldest boy for asking such an interesting and diverse question (of course he gets his natural curiosity from his mother) 

 Another moment of silence ensues, then Master Nine turns to his little brothers and says “Boys…..always wear a quandong.” 

Frikkin’ heck,  I think I just heard my sanity slam the car door and walk off!

 

 

 Wanted:  One Mother\wife – like person to adopt a menagerie of men children and various forms of pooping\puking domestic wildlife.  Successful applicants will be required to fulfill and undertake the following criteria-

 

• Be an arduous task master when it comes to scraping dried cereal from the floor and kitchen table

 

• Be adept at  scrambling under beds and finding missing school ties and 35 over -due library books

 

•  Expertly utilise an entire weeks worth of towels to sop up bathtub overflows.  Sometimes blaming  it on the kids, but occasionally confessing to  a  few too many wines and a little distraction known as Facebook

 

•  Maintain a grown up, respectable telephone conversation with an “out sourced” Indian telephone operator, whilst silently separating fighting offspring with an expert arm yank

 

• Be able to keep a straight face during the most excruciating conversations with 5 year old boys about testicles and why it’s not a good idea to try and “pop” them!

 

• Convincingly appreciate (and keep forever!) the entire recycled waste of a small country (think Sweden) creatively fashioned  into various forms of art presented to you on Mothers Day morning 

 

• Successfully pretend to be going off to an office job as you go through the McDonald’s drive through for a coffee when in reality you merely going home to blog and Facebook

 

• Successfully  feign interest when the MOTH (Man Of The House)  is extolling the virtues of a square pie over a round pie

 

• Expertly hide yourself and the children in a darkened house as Mormons knock incessantly on the  front door

 

• Be a Maven  of emotional blackmail, frequently making statements like “everything I do for you kids, and I never get a thank you…………………..”

 

• Be  able to forage through knee deep refuse on Xmas afternoon, looking for instructions for toys that were accidentally thrown out, despite the garbage bin smelling like a cat’s died in there!

 

• Happily provide expert medical care to pseudo sick family members whilst bleeding out ones’ own ears. 

 

Clearly an exciting career opportunity for a highly motivated go getter.  Wages are non existent, however the successful applicant will have unlimited access to mountains of cold leftovers.

 

Interested parties, should not bother contacting me, I’ve already left!