I became a new mum, but I didn’t have a baby…

Last weekend I became a new mum.

But I didn’t have a baby!

My youngest daughter, and last child still living at home, left to head overseas for 7 months to perform on cruise ships.

I am so proud and so excited for her, but it hit me hard. Harder than I was expecting.

Yep, my nest is now empty, but it was for half the week anyway. It wasn’t like she was home every night and she was always busy, so I’m used to her not being physically here.

But she was always coming home at some point. Or calling to ask something, or calling to check on me and find our where I was (yes the tables do turn!).

What has hit me is that I am a new mum.

I am not the same mum I was this time last week.

I am now a mum who has raised her kids and they have left home.

Now I feel like someone who is a mother, but not a day to day mum.

I am fully aware that raising strong, independent and courageous women was always the end goal, but that doesn’t mean I am ready.

I feel more unsure of myself right now than I did the day I brought by first baby home from hospital.

I remember placing the capsule in the nursery,  looking at Scott and saying “What now?”  This is exactly how I felt on Sunday.

I held it together at the airport but when I got home to my quieter, cleaner and emptier house, I looked at the same man, 22 years later and whispered through my tears,

“What happens now?”

I feel empty. And yet my life is full.

I feel unsure of my identity. And yet, I have a life where I am Lisa, not Mum.

I feel this ache in my soul for every minute I didn’t appreciate or the minutes I thought I would have more of.

I keep wondering if I did enough. Have I sent them off with enough life skills, memories and advice?

It’s not a logical process, it’s a gut wrenching physical one. I have loved being a mum and I have been bloody good at it.

I have put a lot of thought into who and how I would be when the time came for my nest to empty out, but it didn’t prepare me for the actual event.

I won’t come home and see 16 cups, 10 plates and 9 forks on the sink (not in the dishwasher) and many bodies on the lounges.

I won’t hear arguments and singing from the bathroom, which has taken on a golden glow from the fake tan and bronzing powder.

I will no longer be called on to fetch more toilet paper, settle a dispute over clothing ownership or help with life’s big issues, like wedges or stilettos.

My washing basket will no longer be overflowing, my house will stay cleaner and I will not have to fight for the remote as much.

We will also be able to holiday on the Amalfi Coast in Italy each year with the money we are saving on sanitary products.

It’s actually sounding OK……

I did calm down (much to Scott’s relief) after an hour and a half of really ugly crying. Like U.G.L.Y.! I tried to eat an omelette to distract myself and nearly vomited. You get the picture.

Poor Scott, he probably wanted to have a quiet moment, maybe a tear and reflect on how his life would now be different (in reality, he probably just wanted to get back to his football reporting), but he was really supportive.

He walked at a steady pace around me, not making eye contact, like you would walk around a wild animal when you’re not sure if it’s going to strike. He empty bins, cleaned things and did really random chores.

When my crying had calmed to that hiccup breathing, with moderate sniffing, he approached cautiously.

“Why don’t you do some writing, do something for your blog?” Bless, he was trying to offer a distraction, trying to be positive. Did it work? You be the judge……

“I can’t write my fucking blog because I don’t have a fucking computer. That’s right everyone else has one but Paige just left, Morgan doesn’t live here anymore and you use yours all the time. So, yeah, thanks for that!”

Insert more crying here.

The following sentence proves what an amazing man my husband is and how much he has learnt by living with 3 women for many years,

“Let’s go and buy you a computer”.

The poor bastard would’ve bought a new car, moved house and I think I could’ve milked it for a new puppy.

He was desperate. There was a crazy lady in the kitchen and he wasn’t convinced she was leaving any time soon.

Soooooooo, I’m writing this on my new computer. I may have been distraught but I am not stupid!

Life is getting back into routine. I love FaceTime and I can see that my baby is doing well.

I also have my oldest daughter living about 20 mins away, so I will now put a lot of pressure on her to see me more. I will bribe her with brunch and shopping. I will cry if needed.

I say thank you to the beautiful people in my life who saw through my bullshit façade and knew I would be a wreck. Your support, messages and advice have been invaluable.

To the man who helped fill my nest (sounds weird but I’m going with it) and now gets to share it with me while it’s empty, I thank you. You are my rock and I know the group message we have added you into is confusing and foreign, but you persevere. We will even let you use the thumbs up emoji.

I’m getting used to having more free time. In fact,  I’ve got to go now.

I have Pilates, then I’m getting a mani-pedi,

I had to fit it in today because the life drawing class I’ve signed up for was overlapping with the interpretive dance group I’ve joined. I’m just trying to figure out when I can fit in “Drumming and chanting for sexual growth”.

Oh and of course the house is now empty so Scott and I are nude all the time!

Lisa XX

 

Our baby as she left to take on the world. XX

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hair today, gone tomorrow.

Back in October last year I published a blog about the horror of getting ready for Summer. And by getting ready for Summer I mean, removing enough hair from my body to feel comfortable wearing shorts, a skirt or for extra torture a bathing suit.

Since 2017 is the year of “Lisa gets her sassy on” (only referred to as this by me, no-one else knows and it’s never left my head before now), I decided it was time I did something about the body hair situation in a more permanent way.

I often refer to the bikini line region on my body as the follicle party region. All other areas of my body have a light to moderate amount of hair. Nothing too over the top. And then Pow! Follicular overload.

If you’re a visual learner imagine that small triangle they use to depict pubic hair is now a full-sized caution road sign, that stretches from hip to hip, belly button and beyond.

avviso
No go zone!

So, laser hair removal. I felt that it was my only option.

Because……sensitive to wax and creams, prone to in grown hairs from shaving, scared I was going to catch my lady lips in the emjoy not so gently and the lady at the threading place looked horrified when I asked her if she did bikini lines.

“Oh hey, do you want to put some cotton in your mouth, get really close to my vajayjay and rip some hairs out?”

Obviously did not think that one through beforehand. I get her horror. I mean she would need to wear a metal mouth guard to reinforce her teeth before attempting it.

So off to the laser clinic I go.

I had rung up to make the appointment and purchase the 10 session pack they told me should be enough to notice a significant result. I laughed inside because I knew this girl was on her way to buying a new car. 10 sessions, as if!

I also decided to throw in the underarms while I was at it. Why not?

I was told to shave the areas I wanted hair removed from. I had to block out time in the calendar for this, it was a big job. It had to be done the night before so the skin was freshly hairless.

I purchased a 5 pack of disposable razors, I didn’t want to get stuck half way through with a blunt razor.  I was picturing myself, bent over, hacking away at my pubic hair with blunt, rusty nail scissors. You know the ones you find in the bottom of the junk drawer?

So the day arrives.

I arrive at the clinic and am taken into the treatment room.

It’s explained to me that they will be using a highlighter to mark the areas that are to be treated.

Easy done.

The lovely young lady confirms that I am indeed having my underarms and my bikini line done.

Yes I am.

I am told to remove my clothes, use the wipes provided for the treatment areas and just pop up onto the table.

Can do.

All done, settled myself up on the bed, quick intake of breath as my body hits the cold paper. It’s at this point that I realise how vulnerable I am. Completely naked, on a treatment bed about to have a laser pointed at my most private of private parts.

** I was also concerned that I had taken off too many items of clothing. I have been known to stop listening at,  “Please remove your clothes”, and not hearing the last bit of, “Just leave your underwear on”.  It’s an important sentence and has seen me shock a number of practitioners! 

The therapist comes back in and I can tell straight away that I’m not meant to be nude.

She does a quick, high-pitched “OH”, and then says “We normally do one area at a time, next time just leave your underwear on and we can do the underarms first.”

As she approaches me with her highlighter I see her face start to distort. Oh god, what’s wrong with me?

She is looking at my bikini line and she says, “Didn’t they tell you to shave before you came in?”

“I did shave, I’m keeping this bit”, I say.

“What, all of it?” She looks slightly horrified.

I then go into a nervous, verbal diarrhea, justification,

“Oh this is nothing you should have seen it before, I’m old school I believe we should keep some hair down hair, I once tried to wax it myself and it looked like a patchwork quilt, I’m happy with that amount, do you really think it’s too much?”

She just looks, tells me it’s my choice and starts highlighting.

Then comes my favourite question.

I’m equal parts jealous and horrified.

Jealous that she get to ask people this everyday and horrified that I have to answer.

“Sooooooo, are you doing labia to anus?”

Say what?

Yep that’s right LABIA TO ANUS!

I tell her I am probably just going to stick with the bikini line for now and I will work my way up to it. Concern then floods her face as she looks deep into my eyes to tell me,

“You might want to consider getting it done soon, once the hairs are grey they aren’t affected by the laser.”

Thanks for that you labia ageist.

I finish the treatment, labia and anus still untouched by the “laser beam” and I get dressed.

All up I was in that little room for no more than 15 minutes. 15 life changing minutes.

I walk out, smile, make small talk, book my next 67 appointments, buy a scrub, a cream and a lotion to stop ingrown hairs. I’ll be honest, I was just buying everything she recommended in the hope that she would be so happy with her sales that she would forget about my nudity and not laugh with her friends about my amount of downstairs hair.

I leave my first laser experience with the following information-

  • I thought I had left a “landing strip” type of pubic set up, turns out that’s only if you’re landing the new Airbus 380.
  • I obviously have visible grey hair on my labia, which if not removed ASAP will leave my lady parts looking like the mad professor in Back to the Future.
  • I must leave my underwear on unless asked specifically to remove it.

The positives I take from this experience are that it didn’t hurt as much as I was expecting and that I will be reasonably less hairy by next Summer.

Lisa XX

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Santa Claus is coming!! Ready or not.

Oh Christmas!

That time of the year when the pure joy on the faces of your children, far outweighs the irreparable damage to your bank account.

You don’t mind that it takes your child 5 seconds flat to rip the beautifully wrapped and colour coded paper off the present it took 3 weeks of searching for.

You don’t mind. Not at all.

Insert wine, all the wine!

Now as I look back at the Christmas memories I made with my own children, I remember what my favourite thing about Christmas is………

It’s the easiest celebration/holiday to be really inappropriate and the kids don’t ever know.

Christmas itself and the wording used by thousands, is a gift to an immature, dirty minded, sick sense of humour person like myself

You make jokes about Santa’s sack. Your husband tells you that there is a surprise for you in Santa’s sack if you are a good girl. But you know he really wants you to be a naughty girl.

Someone (normally me) sticks the mistletoe to their belt, or wears it as a brooch just above their breast.

Because tradition!

Kiss under the mistletoe. Classic.

Luckily the kids don’t realise until they are in their teens that when Mummy uses the really low, serial killer voice to say things, they are usually rude.

If this is sounding nothing like your lead up to Christmas, please don’t judge, read on.

Picture this;

You and your significant other are out at a Christmas function. Grandparents have the kids over night, at their house! You’ve dusted off the undies that don’t reach your belly button and you’ve shaved your legs (front and back).

The champagne is flowing and the Christmas songs start playing. Jingle bell rock, cute, silent night, slow dance, but then it happens. The Christmas song, that when mixed with alcohol and no kids makes you dance like a stripper.

Santa Clause is coming!

You look across at your man and you give him the sex eyes. Which to anyone viewing this exchange from a distance looks like you have an eyelash in your eye, or an eye spasm and you are in pain. But he knows.

You throw out your imaginary fishing line, lead with your pelvis and jump your way across the room to him, to reel him in. Classy.

All the while you are singing “Santa Claus is COMING” at the top of your lungs, really emphasising the coming part. The people on the dance floor part and you assume it’s because of your spectacular dance moves and sexy vibe, but in truth they are scared and they feel really sorry for the man you are heading towards.

When you reel your catch in, you grab him (possibly a hand to the crutch here) and whisper in his ear, “Santa Claus is coming tonight, am I right????”

He nods and plays along, knowing full well that you will be asleep as soon as you get in the car. You will sleep in your bra, makeup still on and he will be collecting the kids from the grandparents tomorrow while you lay in bed groaning and swearing you will never drink again.

We’ve all been there.

Fast forward to Christmas Eve when you are stone cold sober and playing the role of perfect Christmas mother. You imagine a soft lens is capturing lovely pics of you all night as you make beautiful memories for your children.

I sometimes add a fireplace into my Christmas memories. Just feels a little more authentic. 

As you are sitting down with your first wine of the night, the 7 sips you had while cooking don’t count, you look across the heads of your beautiful children in their new Christmas PJ’s and you make eye contact with your gorgeous husband. It’s a beautiful scene.

Until…….

He intensifies the gaze and mouths the words, “Santa Claus is coming, tonight”.

What! As if.

Has he forgotten what Christmas eve is all about?

Put carrots out, find some non broken biscuits for Santa, get milk, oh shit forgot to get milk, Santa is having beer again.

Get kids into bed, threaten to call Santa 189 times before they finally go to sleep. It’s now 1.30am and you’ve added 3 more wines to your tally.

Move around the house like a silent gazel finding all presents that are hidden.

This is of course on a good night when you have pre-wrapped all of the gifts.

It only takes one year when pre-wrapping is not done and you get a surprise dose of gastro at 7.00pm Christmas Eve, to make you be more organised for life. It took 5 hours to wrap all the presents, in between visits, urgent visits, to the bathroom.

Stop every 15 seconds because you think you hear a child moving around. Grab a wine.

Eat carrot, chewing the end and spitting some bits back on to the plate in a reindeer like way. Go to drink beer but it’s already empty. No surprise there. Eat 1 biscuit only because Santa is on a diet.

It’s now 3.00am. and you realise you have seen the other “Santa” for about an hour. Typical.

Just as you are snuggling down in bed, room spinning a tiny bit, you are reminding yourself to look rested in the morning and be perky, because you went to bed when the kids did. Santa did all the work.

You get comfy, start to drift off and then you feel the tap on the shoulder. He’s still on the “Santa Claus is coming” train of thought. Good bloody luck.

The sleep deprivation, wine, stress of 4 months of organisation, wine, wrapping a ridiculous number of presents, wine, attending 3 boring Christmas functions and smiling your way sober through a school concert suddenly catch up with you.

“If you don’t go to sleep and leave me alone they will need to re-write the calendar because Santa will not be coming until March!”

Keep making those memories.

I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a safe and Happy New Year.

Lisa XX

images

 

 

 

Say what you mean.

As we charge head first, at high-speed towards the silliest of seasons, I plead with you all to please read between the lines a little bit this Christmas.

Families, old wounds, alcohol and food comas can be a disastrous mix, resulting in severely crossed lines. Add to that, families that don’t see each other very often and a rug that is filled to overflowing, with the remnants of Christmas past, that have been swept underneath, and you have got the perfect storm.

What I’m asking (begging) you to do this year is to stop and think “What do they really mean?” before you respond in a less than positive way.

For example, you turn up at your mum’s place and you are 20 minutes late. You cop the “Why are you late, everyone’s here, we are waiting on you”. You instantly get your back up, have 3 quick drinks (10.30am) and spend the rest of the day being just a little bit pissed off.

But what if……

When you got the door 20 mins late and your mum had a go at you, you stopped and you thought, “What does she really mean?”

Of course you are actually 20 mins late so she means that. But why is she reacting so badly to something that happens all the time?

What she really means is “I miss you, I’m so happy you’re here and when you are late I worry that you are not as looking forward to seeing me as I am to seeing you”.

If we stop and think before we react our reactions would be very different. You would probably have given your mum a hug, apologised for being late and had a really good day.

Or there is the grandmother who wants to cook her desert that no-one really likes. Let her cook the dessert. What it really means is-

“My mum used to make this for me at Christmas. My childhood memories are fading and this is my way of connecting with her and them.”

Have a spoonful of the desert!

It’s the present your Aunt buys you that would suit a 15 year old. You cringe every year and then throw it away when you get home. What it really means is-

“This present represents the last time I got you something that made you smile and I felt like we really connected.”

Say a gracious thank you and then donate the gift to charity, so your Aunt can make someone smile again.

I have learnt over the years that when people react negatively at first it’s usually fear based. I’ve had to stop myself from doing it with my own kids as they have grown up.

The first time my daughter came home and told me she was travelling overseas on her own, my first reaction was to try to talk her out of it, until she could find someone to travel with. But that was my own fear coming to the surface. I was proud of myself for sharing in her excitement instead and letting her know how brave I thought she was.

As a parent it is sometimes a hard thing to do, to catch yourself before you give a reaction that may bring conversation to a standstill. You want so badly to protect and yet you have to let go.

It’s bloody tough.

My eldest daughter recently moved out of home for the first time. I’ve struggled with gaining a balance between not letting her know how much I will miss her because I don’t want to dampen her experience or expressing all of the emotions at once.

I’m torn between attaching myself to her leg to stop her from walking out the door and packing up her stuff with joy as I envisage my new meditation space.

Being so conflicted made it hard to approach things in a calm and non emotional way so I went with –

“Come over and clean out your old room, it’s a pig stye and I’m sick of this stuff lying around.”

Of course what I really meant was –

“I really need to move forward and embrace the new situation. But when your room looks like you are coming home at any minute it makes me feel like I’m in limbo. Let’s clean out the space together so we can process the changes that are happening.”

She will wake up this Christmas morning in her new place, without us. We are happy for her, but still a bit sad for ourselves.

I will however not be having a go at her for not being at home on Christmas morning. Instead I am taking my own advice (for once) and letting her know that I am proud of her for being independent, I will miss her bed hair and sleepy eyes around the Christmas tree in the morning and she is always welcome to watch Love Actually and drink Bailey’s on Christmas eve.

I’m not perfect and I certainly don’t get it right all of the time but I am gaining a better understanding of the feelings you get when you are no longer the most important part of someone’s life. There is a delicate balancing act going on at all times between your logic and your emotions.

I will be a more understanding towards other people in my life, who may not have the words or be comfortable enough to say them.

Let’s make the effort at this crazy time of the year to say what we mean, in a thoughtful and sensitive way. Easy!!

Lisa XX

 

 

 

What is the dress code? (For an over 40, mother of 2 adult children, who doesn’t want to look like a cat loving spinster or a 17 year old pop singer?)

Cameron Diaz and I are the same age!

Random I know but it will make sense soon.

I want you to picture her and what she wears as a 43 year old woman.

I would describe her style as casual chic.

Jeans, a white shirt or a cute dress. Some nice ballet flats or a heeled boot.

Easy right?

Disclaimer – I am not delusional; although we are the same age we look absolutely nothing alike, except maybe the blonde hair.

**Cameron on the left (just in case!)

Here is my dilemma.

As the mother of 2 daughters in their late teens/early twenties,

“What do I wear?”

I don’t want to look like mutton dressed as lamb but I don’t want to look like I’m ready for the bowls club either.

Apart from being too young for this look, I can never keep white clothes clean.

When the girls and I go shopping we sometimes find that we  like the same clothes.

But who gets precedence?

Who gets to keep the item we both like?

I’ve figured out the way it works in our house.  

They tell me it looks good on me so I buy it and then I never see it because they “borrow” it for 3 years.

They’ve been bloody playing me!

I was so happy for them to tell me I looked fashionable that I didn’t even care.

I was so desperate for compliments from the young and trendy (does anyone say trendy anymore) that I let them convince me  I looked good in clothes just so they could steal them.

To their credit they will also let me know when I look completely hideous and shouldn’t be allowed out of the house.

I recently tried on a top which I thought looked O.K. Didn’t love it but thought I’d see how it looked on.

The top sat a little weird around the bust area but put it down to the old bra I was wearing.

You know the one.  

It’s the bra you can wear when you really want to be in your pyjamas but visitors pop in at the last minute so you feel the need to have a bra and lipstick on.

It doesn’t do any heavy lifting, it just meets a social rule.

As I emerged from the change room my suspicions were confirmed with comments like,

“Oh hey,  great art smock Lisa.”

“Nice mono-boob Lisa.”

Luckily these comments were from the girls and not random strangers.

Top was taken off  and never spoken of again.

I still have the bra though! It’s just too comfortable to get rid of.

I often pray to Cameron (she has become my spiritual guide even though she is still very much alive and has no idea) for advice on choosing clothes.

Can I still show cleavage? And if so how much?

I figure a glimpse of belly button makes it too much.

My legs are good so can I just wear short skirts all the time?  How short is too short?

I do know that if hair removal is required then the skirt is too short.  Der!

Is it still ok to wear my top off the shoulder with my bra strap (good bra) showing? Or will I look like a flashdance tragic?

I can remove my bra without taking my top off. Thanks lady from Flashdance. #lifeskills

Off the shoulder is so in right now, but am I too old?

Or is the fact that I have shoulders like a male triathlete a turn off?

As seen in photo above, I’ve given it a whirl and I bloody love it. I have had pyjamas made “off the shoulder” to maximise on this flattering style.

I tried on a pair of jeans recently and I thought to myself;

“These jeans are so comfortable, I could sit for hours in them without them cutting into my waist”.

What the actual fuck!

Am I 70?

When was the last time I sat for hours?

As I looked at myself in the changeroom mirror I was equal parts shocked and surprised.

These jeans had magical powers but it was an evil form of black magic.

They had taken my arse and magically repositioned it behind my knees.

I am fully aware that I am not blessed with a Kimmy K style backside but I have enough roundness to distinguish my arse from my hamstrings and lower back.

Not in these jeans.

Comfortable denim is a trap to be avoided at all costs.

It will lull you into a false sense of security. You will imagine that this comfort makes you look relaxed and easygoing.

It doesn’t.

It makes you look arse-less and frumpy.

The stretch in the denim will change the shape of the garment within the first ten minutes of wearing it and your body shape will disappear along with it.

I once, unknowingly, made the massive error of wearing junners (jeans & runners).

When the girls saw me, thankfully according to them, before I left the house, they said “No Deal”.

Hanging a boob out and leaving the house would’ve received less of a reaction than wearing Junners.

Why are a pair of straight leg, dark denim jeans paired with some Asics not the same as a pair of 3/4 skinny jeans with a 1950’s inspired white sneaker?

Is this not technically junners?

Who makes the rules and how do I find out about them?

For now I will trust my own instincts and wear what I feel reasonably attractive in and I will be on the lookout for a sign from Cameron.

But trust me if I could, I would still be rocking the shit out of a mid drift top and a pencil skirt.

Lisa XX

For those playing along at home-

Skunners – skirt and runners   Lunners – leggings and runners

Drunners – dress and runners  Shunners – shorts and runners

 

Summer is coming!

Summer is on the way people.

It’s happening, the countdown is on, there is no more avoiding it;

YOU ARE GOING TO BE WEARING BATHERS SOON!

Worse than that, or better, I am heading to Hawaii at the end of the week and need to expose myself.

If like me you are completely freaked out at the thought of uncovering more flesh than a maxi skirt, skivvy combo reveals, then reading on is not going to make you feel much better. But keep reading.

As I sit here writing I am contemplating applying for some long service leave. It is going to take pretty much my full time, undivided attention to get my body ready for Summer.

I have been doing well over Winter with my exercise routine, I know I feel much stronger and a few kilos/inches have moved on. A mixture of Pilates and getting sweaty with Sam* have done their job.

*you may also know this as 28 by Sam Wood. I like to call say “I did Sam this morning” just to see who really listens to me at home. The answer is no-one.

Since I have sorted the exercise component what could possibly be bothering me I hear you ask.

Well, I’m going to throw this at you and I want you to google it.

Side Vag.

Yep, you read it correctly.

Side Vag.

Last Summer was apparently all about the side boob. You know that side view of the breast, visible with some tops with big arm holes. I’m sure they have technical names but you get the picture.

My girls could wear this big arm hole singlets and the side boob looks perky and a little bit sexy. My side boob happens when I lay down and the boob falls of the side of my chest and lands under my arm.

Same, same but different.

It is apparently also a great way to show off any side boob tattoos that you might have. Celebrities were also loving the side boob in evening gowns.

Can you do side boob and cleavage? Or is that just being pretty much topless?

Sorry, got sidetracked, back to side vag.

If anyone remembers the Olivia Newton-John, let’s get physical film clip (a personal favorite, god I loved O.N.J.) you would remember the outfits that were worn for aerobics. Those rally high cut leotards with the shiny lycra tights on underneath in a multitude of neon and pastel colors. Awesome right?

Well, brace yourselves, you know those leotards? They are now bathers and they’re skimpier than anything we thought was high cut in the 80’s and they are not wearing the tights underneath.

Oh no, because that would cover the side vag.

It’s that section of skin between the crease in the groin and where the bathers start.

So basically if you imagine a really skinny piece of material that covers the “business” and then makes its way straight up towards your belly button but then flares out at the last minute to head over your hips.

My poor husband will be having kittens when this trend hits our family camping holiday!

What happened to the bloody boy leg short?

The low cut, hipster, bikini, with a ruffle to cover any mishaps?

My question to the people who make the fashion rules is-

Is it ok for your side vag to have a fringe or a comb over?

Because even with my long service leave used up, a personal laser machine pointed at me while I sleep and a daily bath in hair removal cream, I fear I may still never be ready to reveal my side vag to the world.

The trends that are being invented by the young and hairless are discriminatory to those of us that have the pubic hair situation of an 80-year-old European man!

It is going to be ok.

I have the CFA out supervising the back burn, but now I need to start thinking about tanning.

I’m exhausted before my holiday even begins.

Get to work, Summer is coming for you.

Lisa X

 

My first bird is leaving the nest

I was reading back through my journal that I have been keeping since I had my children and it is entries like the one below that make me glad I have written consistently over the years.

Today has been a day for reflection.

My first born is moving out. I know as parents we joke about this day and the party we will have when it happens but in reality that’s not quite how it has felt today.

I am beyond proud and excited for her and I know she will be more than ok, but she will be more than ok without me.

I find in our busy lives we have little time for reflection.  With my journal I can reflect at any time and have a fantastic reference book of my own life’s experiences.

I look forward to being able to share these stories with my girls and then with their children. I know I would’ve loved a book filled with stories about me as I was growing up.

I fear that had I not kept this journal my memory would not have served me as well as I would have liked.  This is highlighted for me each week when I forget half of what I need at the supermarket.

09.11.2000

Today Morgan lost her first tooth.

It has been loose for about a week and I can’t believe it lasted as long as it did. 

The tooth fairy has just taken it from the fairy box she had placed it in and replaced it with two dollars. 

Two dollars seems so trivial an amount to place in the box for her tooth.

How can you put a price on the love and growing up and joy we have given and received from her since that tooth first came at the age of 3 months.

The sleepless nights as it formed in her gums, the red cheeks and constant drooling as it decided when to appear and the gorgeous grin with the dot of white when it finally came through.

How has one small piece enamel really made me think about my time mothering and about how fast this precious time is going?

It has been such a big month for Morgan (Not to mention the emotional turmoil for me).

She is into the 3rd week of her orientation program for primary school and she absolutely loves it.  Just to see my first-born going off to school like a little girl ready to face the world makes me want to wrap her in cotton wool like her tooth and put her away for safe keeping.

She is a full head taller than the other kids and she is just so smart that I am proud and sad at the same time.

I am so proud of how she handles situations and how she reacts with the other kids.  I wonder some days if I was that sure of myself at that age, then I remember how painfully shy I was and I am glad of her confidence.

 I try to be supportive of her and yet I just want to protect her forever from the world and anyone who would dare do the wrong thing by her.  If she is at all as worried as me about going she hides it well. 

She is excited by all she is learning as she should be, yet she asked me why the other kids didn’t all talk to her.  I asked her had she made the effort to talk to them and she just looked at me and said no but they should talk to me.

Paige is really going to miss her big sister when she is at school and I think Morgan will miss her too.  She feels so grown up being able to tell Paige all about school. 

I am looking forward though to having some one on one time with Paige and giving her a chance to develop her own personality with out her big sister monitoring her every move.  She is so funny at the moment and we are having some interesting outfit choices as she wants to dress herself more often.

Nana is convinced she has no nice clothes and that everything in her wardrobe is mismatched, but that is just the way she likes it.  She told her kinder teacher she likes to dress like the rainbow.  Who wouldn’t?

I never for one minute thought that being a mother could fill me with so many conflicting emotions, I am so joyously proud and in love with my girls but, like a mother in the jungle should any predator try to get near my young and hurt them, I will tear them limb from limb.

Everything I wrote in 2000 still resonates with me today.

Do yourself a massive favor and keep a journal or just note things down over the years. You will never regret having these memories to look back on.

Go and take on the world my gorgeous girl.

Lisa XX