gummy eyes
We are dog-tired. Wake up every morning after a full quotient of sleep, red-eyed and lids gummed together.
I wonder how much is down to being underneath the relief, confronted by what is to come, and then conclude that mostly the tiredness comes from letting go.
That after you have held on to anything that tightly for that long, been so attached to an outcome that every little action is scrutinised for what it might mean for the future, spent most idle moments wondering what was to be done and how to do it, letting go of all that is like a loosening of everything. I can happily sit on my swing seat, smiling internally, staring at my plants without feeling a need to do anything, even read. My necessity for distraction is at an all time low. I count that a good thing. I'd like to keep some of that in my new life.
We have been incredibly lucky with the support we have had. A lovely (divorced) friend said to me that I would find out who my friends were at this time. And I have. It's all my friends. Equally family. I count myself excessively blessed that my mother in law says I am still her daughter in law. We tease her to distraction, and she's been one of the undeserving few who took the brunt of my angst over the last few years, but I'd be very sad not to have that (and her!) in my life.
Meanwhile whilst I may have found some peace sitting on my swing seat, I am very busy at work on a couple of projects which are really inspiring me... just at the point I thought I had, after 17 years in the industry begun to bore myself with "been there done that". I'm also living vicariously the histrionics of first time property purchase through two friends. Oh and I am more in love with my daughter every day.
Life post decisions isn't all bad. There's certainly a lot more peace. But it is knackering.
laife...
It's been a while...and as most of you know, there's been a reason.
Richard and I decided back in April to separate. We wanted to let the big birthdays (his mum and mine) be celebrated happily and so decided not to let people know until a couple of weeks ago.
So much of the last 4 or 5 years for me has had a subtext of struggle and misery. Completely a product of my non-functioning marriage. Would I have been happy in Australia if we had been happy together? Maybe. Maybe not, but I would not have been as quietly desperate as I was. Impossible, at the time, to see a way forward, so attached was I to "making it work". I've been wondering how someone so typically decisive, could have sat on the fence for such a long time. But the reality is I wasn't on the fence. Merely committed to an outcome which was not ever going to happen.
I won't bore you by going into the reasons. Anyone who knows us knows why. For so long I have known that the chemistry was wrong and almost certainly unfixable, but had to keep fighting. Fighting because I love him, because I didn't want to be alone, because we'd married each other, because his life is enmeshed in mine, because I was afraid. Every time I thought we might have a breakthrough I was so happy for a while, only to establish it was a product of his great effort, and was making him grumpy, ill and sad.
I really knew underneath that we would always reach this place, but had to allow myself to get there in my own time. On reaching it, it was easy. There has been little or no effort in working out how we will both manage going forward.
It has been described as "amicable", but we both find that word a bit jarring. It suggests slightly gritted teeth - and there are none. Just love for each other, relief and a clear view of how we are going to work together to bring Rosie up going forward (between my lovely house and his flat 10 minutes walk round the corner).
I've had the odd bad week. Wondering how on earth I of the profligate habits am going to work on a budget, going through the long list of people to tell (which is not entirely worked through so I hope you don't see this before I got to you...), wondering who on earth will be suitable to take me on in the future, how I will cope when he meets someone else and wants to take Rosie out with her... Mostly though, I've regained my peace of mind.
I'm dog tired, but happy. For anyone who thinks this is an inappropriate emotion at the end of a marriage, well it's not when it's complete. However if one more person tells me how well Richard is looking these days I might well clock them.
Vocal technique...
Not another blog about singing - although it could be singing's fault...
In time honoured tradition, have woken up to a miserable bank holiday monday. Pelting rain, dark (and truth be told a bit grimy) indoors and only good really for catching up on phone calls. Which as per usual I owe millions of (specially to Australia).
One small challenge is that I also woke up yesterday with absolutely no voice at all. I've had a bit of a cold and refused to miss singing on Saturday, then may have overdone it with the emotion in "Since I Fell for You" in the caff. Or could have been sitting out in the "sun" with the divas afterwards refusing to accept the fact that the weather may not be quite right for a bbq. Or maybe raucous shouting out scores at the eurovision.
Anyway, whatever, the result is that I can only speak in stage whispers, interspersed with the odd involuntary bark. Richard thought he had died and gone to heaven except for the fact that in order to communicate, I have to go right up to his ear and bark into it. I cannot tell you how frustrating it is - what would I do without my voice? Imagine the faces I'd have to pull to convey it all....
Mediocrity or bust...
I'm beginning to understand why performers are usually drama queens.
I've mentioned before how each small improvement in my singing is a short lived moment to be celebrated - its precursor and successor a shameful "I don't want to get up there, I'm hopeless". Many times I wonder if I should just stop because I'll never be good enough, before quickly wondering what I would do without it - it is a source of such joy in my life. And whilst I am (as a friend kindly pointed out) not Mariah Carey, I have made improvements.
I have taken refuge in an "I'll never be brilliant, but as long as I don't disgrace myself" attitude, watching rather bemused as the best in the class suffer far worse than I in taking on board the teacher's critiques. It is obvious to me (but not them) that she gives them more feedback because there is more point in doing so, and where there is not, she just gently encourages.
Over the last couple of weeks, a group of us, egging each other on, have done two open mic sessions, sung in the cafe several times and started working with a pianist who wants to practice with singers. It's been lovely.
One of the girls is also called Heather - I've mentioned her here before as we have quickly become good friends. Whilst she is one of the least experienced in the class, and does not yet have the best voice, her performances are compelling and she's a lady of prodigious talent in so many areas that I find her quite fascinating. I have told many people that I hope some of it will rub off on me - although she seems to find my encouragement useful too.
Today I was asked for her number by a musician who saw her sing in the cafe and thought she would be useful to know because "she swings". I was hugely chuffed for her, until his next (unwitting) sentence came out. "I expect you're hoping to learn a thing or two from her eh" OUCH.
Virtue or vice?
Whilst my temperament is moderate (except when pressed), in some areas of my life I can be terribly extreme. My recent wail over how I was ever going to tackle my weight for good when all I did was think about food, has been followed since Birthday Week with an altogether hideously virtuous new persona. This isn't that new, I've been partway here before, but the all-embracing character of the shift is slightly disturbing.
Not only have chocolate and crisps been thoroughly spurned (ugh mouthfuls of sugar and fat), but having teetered on the edge of Chickpea* style eating, I have now fallen completely into the abyss. My nose, which was curling at the sight of ready prepared, pre-processed meals already, now sniffs at any short cut including buying a jacket-potato at work (what's in that filling?).
From Costco I got all the basics on the cheap (including 40 cans of tinned tomatoes, vat of olive oil, mountain of pasta and rice) but am spending more on the fresh stuff (my veg box delivery and the bargain bucket in the supermarket for on-it's-sell-by-date-nice free-range meat/fish which goes in my freezer). Work lunches are usually a creation made from left overs (a delicious chicken and leek risotto today made of course, with my own stock)
I am clearly not a trend setter here - with recent focus on what we eat from an environmental/welfare point of view, as well as rising food costs, it's a fashionable subject, but when the Guardian focused on how to cut your food bills on Saturday, I only picked up two tips (grow my own rocket and make my own houmous) such is the vigour with which I have become an early adopter. It's also interesting to note the U turn from "too busy to get the mud off fresh veg, gimme pre-prepared and sliced please" (pre-Australia) to horror at such profligate idiocy.
What is interesting though is how virtue breeds virtue. What came first I am not sure, but early nights and eschewing trashy TV have made me less tired and able to do more during my evenings (like cook), doing some big gardening projects which I never thought I could tackle, has given me energy and confidence. Altogether with good food, exercise and good living I am in one of those virtuous circles.
The sad thing is that I know myself , and one or two evenings off the waggon, getting tired again and I end up quickly falling into a hole, unable to scrabble my way out again you could equally find me in a month's time sadly stuffing a bag of chips into my gob.
* note this refers to my friend Chickpea - she of the knitted yoghourts, rather than the pulse itself.
The birdies in my hedgerows are twittering....
As readers of heatherdownunder will know, the idea of having a child whose birthday threatened to overshadow my own was not something I received with the equanimity one expects of a proper caring put-other's-first mother. However at the time I had not grasped the concept of "birthday week".
It is actually slightly longer than a week - more like 10 days, but there is more or less one every 2 days with Rosie, me, my mum, John (uncle flying) and Richard following hot on each other's heels. The result was ten days of complete entertainment. A blast in fact. The fact that there was a couple of specials in their this year (65 and 40) was the sherbert on the top, but I'm sure between us we can always ensure there is one of those...
It started with the "small family and friends party" which got out of hand and ended up being a bit of a do, in a pub, for 35 or so. It was a really happy occasion featuring large numbered balloons, iggle piggle, a trolleyed pensioner and lots of lovely people. My birthday evening was our second thwarted open mic session (they heard we were coming and obviously closed the joint), but still involved ritual humiliation (at the hands of the staff of Galllipoli on upper street).
Beyond fabulous was an impromptu Friday night out with the other Heather and Elise, wedged between the birthday parties, at a club dedicated to the 1940s - where everyone was dressed in the full regalia and the majority could lindy hop too. I gasped when I saw them - it truly felt like going back in time. The band played some of my all time favourite French songs and I was grinning from ear to ear when I rolled in at 2am. By the time we got to John's 40th in BoA I was significantly worse for wear and thought I would take weeks to recover..
However sunshine and birds twittering in the mornings, good sleep and good food plus a new found penchant for getting my garden into glorious shape has meant that I have bounced back pretty quickly. Almost a shame to go to work these days. Rosie and I would much rather sit on our bottoms in the paddling pool (hers is bare - shh call child protection)....
It's a gas...
Rosie is two today. And she is a complete gas. I'd characterise her as happy, vivacious, intelligent, fun, loving, independent and stubborn. I don't have the network to make comparisons these days, which is probably just as well, but the nursery tell us she is well ahead of the game and seems to be getting on top of numbers and counting, copies almost everything we say, is most definitely comprehensible and knows who she is.
That's "Wosie".
Was it really only a year ago that the Cremorne Mother's Group, together with awkward fathers, gathered for that first birthday party at Clontarf reserve? And two years since I sat on the bog with that gas and air? The more time goes by the more I look back in horror ... pregnancy, birth and the first year... I certainly made the best of it and for months at a time I was genuinely enjoying myself, but it never really felt like me - more something I was play-acting at. As time goes on, you grow into motherhood like a new skin which feels very weird to start with - and probably felt specially so to me because of the traumatic circumstances of her birth, and where I was living.
However, there is a huge (and welcome) difference between being glued to a wailing, crawling, incomprehensible bundle and spending time with a rushing, bold, nattering, nutter who, oh yes makes herself understood...
"Mickle; mummy; two-two, now?"
Dearest mummy (well perhaps not the first bit as daddy currently gets all the kisses), please may we go down the stairs (two twos) and watch Iggle piggle in the night garden.. now)
I knew I did languages for a reason....
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