Wait - WHAT??

Chalk powdered my tongue after teaching my Primary class today, so I dashed down the hall for a mouthful of water before the Sharing Time class started. Halfway there, I spotted a woman who'd asked me for nurse-type advice during the week standing with someone, so I asked her how she was going. Halfway through our conversation, another woman came out of the loo's and joined us.

"Hey," said the woman joining us, cocking her head as she looked at me. "Are you a teacher?"

"Uh, I'm a primary teacher." I replied, guessing this was going to continue to something about my degree, though a little wary as she'd been in Primary as a teacher just two weeks before and would know my calling.

"No, I mean as a job. I thought you're maybe a teacher."

"She's a nurse" stated the first lady I'd been talking to.

"Are you a stripper?" asked the just arrived woman.

I blinked so hard in surprise that I'm astonished my eyelids haven't bruised. "No," came my startled reply, "I'm not."

"She's a NURSE" repeated the first woman firmly, but the other woman continued.

"Really?"

I couldn't (and still can't) believe my ears.

The woman who'd been standing with the first woman laughed and said "What? A stripper?"

I snorted half a laugh, and said "If I were, I'd have a lot more money than I do."

The woman I'd been talking to repeated herself again, louder. "She's a NURSE!"

The two other women were talking, something about poles or dodgy something-or-others, and I interrupted. "Look, I'm not a stripper, I'm a student nurse, I don't even have one of those stupid nurse's uniform, so I have no idea where your train of thought's been to come up with that idea."

"Oh, I don't know. I just thought... when I saw a fight scene in a strip club in a movie last night - it was Warrior, which was pretty good by the way - that's all."

I looked down at my clothing (baggy olive green shirt, striped green loose skirt ending below my knees, grey flats) and couldn't believe I was having this conversation.

"A fight scene? Well, I'm not a stripper but I do know Kung Fu." I smiled. (Well, my teeth were bared, so strictly speaking that's a smile, right?)

She kind of nodded, then abruptly wandered off with the other woman, leaving the lady (in more ways than one!) I'd been initially talking to and I behind. After a couple of metres we arrived at the water bubbler, I had a drink, said good bye to the lady and returned to Primary.

I can't say I paid much attention to the sharing time activity.

I'm not ending with "And then I woke up." It really happened.

And I have no idea why.

The boyos and I went to Tasha's for dinner tonight, and Arn suggested I should come up with some comebacks. My fave: Why, afraid of competition?

I haven't spoken to the questioner for more than two sentences at a time since I moved here in October. I've not avoided speaking to her, or anyone, though I have been keeping my distance from people. I'm in Primary, which means I don't really have anything to do with other women during my three hours at church, and I'm happy with that. I do like the lady I spoke with this week (even more after today), but I'm not trying to win friends and amaze people.

I'm kind of bewildered how or why she wonders if I'm a stripper though.

And amazed that she would ask that, AND at church, AND in front of other people.

I know it may come as a surprise, but I don't think we're going to be friends.

Murphy Ate My Internet

It's been a big, cranky, crazy month.

And now it's calmed down a little, my internet is being held hostage by my faulty phone line.

I'll catch up. Surely.

Meanwhile, I'm posting at Segullah tomorrow (22nd). And checking my email from Macca's then too.

Hopefully with a new post here as well.

Shut Up, Stupid Heads!

That's a four-word summary of what I'm writing about over at Segullah today.

Of course, now that I've written publicly, getting all snarky with my whole anti-dating and -remarriage attitude, I should probably cue the intro music for the next scene, no doubt titled "In Which Life and God Have a Humongous Laugh and Set Forth To Prove Me Yet Again An Idiot."

Yep. Situation normal really.

My 7 Links, or, Retrospective Introspective

So, my (amazing) friend Queen Marnie tagged me in a meme (my first ever!) way back in... bugger. AUGUST. Totally skipping over the fact that I'm way late to this, here is my response!

Though I will say it feels odd to be reflecting about my own blog, in which I am intensely neurotic, catastrophising and carrying on at the best of times, so to be talking about my blog on my blog seems as subtle as a rugby tackle to the head.

But that's not going to stop me from doing the meme! My first! Woohooo!

Okay, 7 links coming up.*

My Most Beautiful Post

If it's in terms of words, it's Snapshots From A Difficult Day. For me, it's the post that managed to wrap up the huge, conflicting, intense, tiny moments and emotions that make up my life - taken from just one day - and capture them just like I wanted and remembered.

If it's photos, it's Hatro, freshly twelve years old and newly ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood. Feels like eons ago... and he's changed a whole heap since then!

My Most Popular Post

Blogger stats tells me it's far and away the one about getting my tattoo re-inked. (Most of the traffic came from a Segullah post I commented on.)

My Most Controversial Post

I don't really write controversial stuff, though I've noticed some of George' and Jezzie's actions tend to get feelings and comments on the cranky end of the spectrum (cranky towards them, supportive of me which is both comforting and vindicating). In particular when I asked "Guess Who Got Married?" (hint: it wasn't me) and seethed about delusions. My favourite vent would have to be the one with cake.   

My Most Helpful Post

This is a tough one. In terms of help for others (not that I know if anyone has actually done anything with the advice I tossed into the internet's wind) who want to help those who are hurting, it would be 'How To Catch The Pieces Of Your Friend's Broken Heart'. The post to help those who are hurting with music would be providing a 'Soundtrack For the Dumped and Broken Heart'.

A Post, The Success Of Which Surprised Me

Any post which someone comments on. Surprises and dumbfounds me every single time. That said, 'Blanket' affected more people than I expected. I didn't mean to make anyone cry, but turns out I did with that post. Sorry!

A Post That Didn't Get The Attention I Think It Deserved

I'm thinking this one won't get the attention I want it to until my boyos are old enough to read some of my blog and really understand the weight of the last couple of years. It'll be a wait, but I hope it will be worth it.

The Post I'm Most Proud Of

Most I've already listed. Though I am mightily fond of 'Yeah, Happy Father's Day You %&$(%@#!!'.

I'm meant to tag some other people for their own "7 Links", so - with no obligation at all:

The Awesome Angry Baker
The Gorgeous Michelle
Magnificent Mel
Whomever else would like to jump in and play.

And I'm really interested to know which of my posts you like the most (for whichever reason) and how you first got here. Blogger stats don't tell me everything...

*Seven links and plus some.^
^Obviously.#
#Footnotes are a favourite of mine.^

On Being Crumpled, Not Crushed

It's one month until my current uni term finishes. That's one (major monster) essay, and one (two-hour, open-book, oddly questioned) on-line quiz. I've already asked for (and been granted) an extension for the essay. Summer holidays finishes for the boyos on Sunday, then they're back to school. That's when I'll be seriously addressing my essay.

I am trying really, stupendously, incredibly hard to be gentle with myself.

It's...uh. It's not going so well.

Before Christmas I was seriously considering resigning from my new job. The people I was working with were taking it as a personal insult that I didn't know what to do, where to go, where to find things and what happened next. It was happening over and over and OVER and OVER again. Every shift. Warring in my head were two armies, with the generals of each army brawling at each other right behind my right eyeball.  "She shouldn't dread going to work!" one roared at the other, the pitch causing my eye to twitch. "She has to work - she has sons to support and money to save for five weeks of not working!" the other spat back, stomping so hard my teeth snapped together.

"The hours suck - she's not seeing her kids!"

"She has to suck it up, it's called life! It could be worse - she could be working for family!"

To and fro, back and forth the words, punches and arguments flew. Tasha was worried about me, I was worried about me, and I was spinning between the two belligerent (yet compelling) arguments. Until -

"It's just a job, Sel."

Tasha made the simple statement.

"You can quit the job. It's just a job. You're not like George if you quit the job, if you stop trying. You don't have to succeed at everything you do."

Both aggressive, sweat-streaked and exhausted arguments staggered under her perfect punch to the gut, woofing out air and falling on their arses in surprise.

I could quit my job. I don't have to succeed at everything.

I'm not like George if I leave something behind.

I didn't quit my job.

Things got better at work. A couple of shifts with really good people helped enormously. But most help was the knowledge that I could resign, that working there wasn't carved into the face of the planet, visible to the sun, forever.

I'm constantly under pressure. Most of it I've given myself, maybe some fragment of my personality trotting through my unconscious hours, laying freshly ironed expectations and hand quilted concrete assumptions across my shoulders and forehead. I have to maintain my Distinction plus average at uni. I have to get out of bed when my boyos do, even if I've only had five hours sleep. I must be available for extra shifts at work. I will send out birthday cards in advance^. Presents too*. I will get the stuff I was meant to organise in November delivered#. If I don't bake the cake and biscuits for the boys' lunches how else are they going to know I love them? I'll drive the hour one-way to take and collect Hatro and two others to EFY, because Hatro's going to EFY so I have to get him there.

Why high grades exactly? Which scholarships are being applied for, let alone at risk? Why get out of bed so early, when it's holidays and I need (on a mood enhancing, bone deep, nerve-endings and soul replenishing level) to sleep for at least two more hours? Why take extra shifts right now when I am so tired? Why send cards when the internet is available? Why not skip the baking and just sit and hug a son instead? Why not stop and realise that my ward is full of willing and able women with much more time and resources who can take Hatro to EFY as well as the two other young men?

Want to know why? Because I had forgotten I had a choice, or at least an option beyond "If it's going to get done, I have to do it". Truth is, since moving to BrisVegas my options have furled open, twisted and spun, streaming through the air as banners behind a charging war horse. But I'm still used to having possibility tightly scrolled and folded, kept forgotten in an unused pocket somewhere in the luggage train.

I hadn't realised that I was so clenched against dropping anything, to failing, to walking away from something that wasn't broken, to being in any way anything like George. That sword wasn't protecting me, it was giving me something dangerous to fall on when my energy/will/determination ran out.

But it's weight is familiar, it has helped make me strong. And I'm afraid that if I let go of my expectations of doing everything properly/brilliantly/myself, everything will come tumbling down.

But the image I have in my head, whenever I think about letting go, is of a crumpled flag stretching out in the breeze, and cartwheeling on the grass beneath it. And that picture makes my shoulders release a captive sigh, my eyes close in victory and a slow smile march home.


^Sorry Marnie. I meant to!
*Um, sorry Michelle. They're coming... Soon....ish.
# Oops, I'm really sorry Tay! This year - I promise!

The Hole I Left Beside Me

I don't pay attention to my shadow. I just looked down past the curve of my dress and - yep, just as I casually expected - my shadow's puddled beneath me like (I imagine) it always is. For all I know it's been off touring the globe, or swimming through the summer dusk between the husky crickets and darting geckos, but regardless of where it may have been, right now it's licking the balls of my feet.

It has come as quite a shock, and then irritation, that I've been carrying a hole around beside me, and paid less attention to it than I have my shadow. It's been tethered to me, following me in the ebb and tumult of my days and I didn't even know it was there. Not a hole to drop things in, but a blankness, an untaken breath, the wait before the begin. It's less a hole than an outline with dotted edges, "Insert here" in italics across the stretch of it.I had no expectation of it, unlike the unwritten-yet-assumed agreement with my shadow, didn't even know that the hole has been just there to the right. like a dance partner on a half second delay.

A cut-out, a pause, waiting to be filled, to be energised, to have any number of verbs shoved into it and take a  step, stagger, lift a load of it's own. A hole I left beside me for George.

On closer examination, it doesn't read "insert here". I can recognise my own distracted scrawl across the belly of the dull paper, the hopeful words dejected and forlorn. "Insert George's parenting here" it says, leaving plenty of room for races and movies, unchartered reaches for exploration and memories, emotional depths never considered, let alone plunged.

I left space for George to step into the boys' lives. Years ago, still smarting and grazed from the abrupt stripping of my world, I deliberately (and a little grudgingly) picked up the luggage that plainly stated "Single Parent". No Bedazzling on these cases, no soft padding or camouflage greens - just thick canvas with a rough heft and pull to it, the sharp smell of swallowed tears leaking from the pockets, and the knowledge that whatever the contents, they were now all mine.

And in that moment of picking up the load, I must have had a pinch of hope somewhere, that took a scrap of cloth and pinned it just out of reach of both my hands and my shadow, a ragged bit of parenting that I hoped George would pick for himself. Then - full of balancing demands, shifting needs and ragged heartbreaks of three broken people - I took a wobbly shuffle and staggered a bit forward, with a train of luggage chuffing and groaning beside, astride and behind me.

Then fast forward three years, to George's epic fail of parenthood, delivered to my inbox. Officially, cowardly, removing himself from the boys. After the email (or maybe just a couple of sentences into it), I saw the hole I had left beside me. Three years had severely mauled the scrap of cloth. Truth be told, the luggage I originally picked up looks different now too - it's scuffed, ripped in places, some bags are entirely unaccounted for (though certainly not missed). But the weight of my load is familiar now, the cloth comfortable against my shoulders, the smell spicy warm, and I know exactly which box is best to kick and which pockets hold the most cherished mementoes. But the little scrap of cloth, hopefully pinned in my wake? It is still the centre of the hole I left beside me, but time has not been kind to it.

When I read George's email (and reread it the following days), I considered what was left. I had left a hole nearby, a space the boys desperately wanted George to fill. But he didn't. He didn't fill it, whether he wanted to or not. The scrap of cloth isn't even scrap any more. It is a pinchful of thread, stuck by nothing more than the static cling of lost memories and ignored potential.

I had wanted (over the course of the past few years) for George to want the boys' photos, their school report cards, notice of their safety during cyclones and camping trips, postcards from school excursions, the bickering and tussle of having two demanding, intelligent, frustrating, exuberant, astonishing sons.

I wanted George to want the boys.

I wanted my sons to know their father wanted them.

That's why I left a space, just in case George ever stepped up and said "I'll do it." It wasn't to control his influence on and with the boys, but somewhere he could begin, to say "This bit is mine," and stretch out from there.

But he didn't.

He sent the email, and with a few keystrokes the last threads of possibility shuddered, released their stubborn, hopeful grip on each other and spiralled away. There should have been bagpipes, howling their grief and fury at a battle so carelessly lost. It's a war I had - and have - no will to fight.

I wanted George to be a parent. That's what the hole was for. Not for me - not even at midnight, when the weight of my worry crushes all sobs in my throat, and I wonder how I am ever going to be what my sons need. Not for George - not even when the boys are dazzling tumbles of wit and eccentricities, wellsprings of laughter and lessons in humanity and confusion. The hole was for the boys, to fill up the spaces in their own lives where they wanted George to be.

I left a hole.

It wasn't filled.

At least not the way I wanted it.

The threads have pulled apart, lost to the dance and tumble of our lives, arguments held and refereed, family prayers uttered, hugs shared, insults hurled and every day's laughter. The hole isn't there any more. It's been filled. Filled and overflowing with the dust and sparkle, the wild tears and noise, the wounds and victories and crazy journeyings that Hatro, Wong and I have lived together.

Maybe, just maybe, in our own special way, (scarred and pitted from the war thrust upon us, maybe because of those losses and sudden successes, how they've roughly tied and thoroughly knotted us together) maybe, together, we are whole.

This Time Next Year

Posting about time going by too fast over at Segullah today...

I have a huge list of things to write about, hopefully in the next week. Life is - as always - odd. Crazy. Brilliant. Demanding.

This time next year seems somewhere over the edge of the earth.