things I love about my husband. PT. 1

1. When I fall apart, he stands firm. He never crumbles.

2. He lets me fall apart.

3. He helps me put myself back together.

4. He passes me love notes when we're waiting for stuff.

5. He tells me every day how beautiful I am. I love him even more because that's patently not true.

6. He smells so good I want to eat him.

d is for devastated

Imagine if your heart felt like this:

******************************************

We got news last week that the house we've been renting has been sold.

This is the house I've loved and invested in emotionally for the last 2 1/2 years, and I can't describe to you how I've been feeling.

It's all a ball of mixed-up emotions -- grief at the loss of my dream, to one day own this house; anger and frustration that I can't have what so many seem to have so effortlessly (a home of my own); fear of not knowing what lies ahead; dreading having to pack AGAIN; reluctance to weigh my poor husband down with my dramas; guilt at doing it anyway............
........ it just went on and on.

We finally secured a house and paid the deposit on it yesterday, but the rent is massive, and that's added another level of worry on top. We CAN do it but my husband is not happy about it.

I am still depressed, crying and not able to stop myself, and I'm sick of wanting to be strong, and failing.

I know that life will go on, that I'll settle into the new place, and that despite promising myself that I will never again emotionally invest in a house that's not mine, I know I probably will. I can't help myself. It's the deepest longing of my heart, and I'm powerless to do anything about that. I want the security of knowing I need never move again except by choice, that I need never uproot myself again.

It is said that women flourish from the home, and that is definitely true of me. I can't truly flourish until I'm settled. And I can't be settled until I know I am there to stay. Until I'm planted.

P.S. I'm closing comments on this post. I can't take any platitudes.

caveman weddings?

I was thinking about marriage today.

Not my own, for a change, but marriage in general, as an institution.

And I wondered, when did people start getting married? I mean, it's been happening for a long, long time, and in most cultures throughout history.

Way back in the mists of time, marriages were arranged by menfolk for the purposes of expanding families, acquiring land, and for political reasons. Women had no say in it, mostly, although some cultures did grant equal rights to women as far as land holdings etc went.

(actually, I know a couple whose marriage was arranged by their parents -- they've been happily married for maybe 20 years now? and they say they can't imagine marriage being left to chance!)

But I started imagining a time further back than that -- say, caveman days. Marriage then would most likely not have been for romantic purposes, but more about a 'don't touch my woman' arrangement between men.

I wonder if the women got any say in it at all?

And how did the idea of a ceremony evolve? I imagined a simple statement in front of the tribe.
"Her mine! YOU! don't touch!"
Romantic, eh?

I wonder who were the first couple in love? who were the first people to get married because they couldn't live without each other?

Because, while the times may have changed, humans haven't changed THAT much. Most of us still look for the same things in love and marriage that we always have - security, respect, nurturing, that intangible feeling of belonging to someone ....... and you don't often get that at the end of a club.

C is for CLUB.

Did you know, I belong to a very exclusive club ? -- the membership is strictly limited and there are hideous and painful penalties for anyone else trying to join.

I guess it's not all that secret, because a lot of people know about it, but there is Secret Business that goes on, code words and meetings, a secret knock, and other stuff that I can't tell you about. There's a lot of sacrifice and offerings, some of them unfortunately burnt.
One of us even wears an apron, but, sadly, it has no jewels on it. Just polka dots.

We had to undergo an Initiation Ceremony, to join the club, and now we get to wear Secret Club Rings. They're plain gold, but kinda cool because there are secret words engraved on the inside of the bands.

We have a Supreme Leader, who makes all the Big Decisions, and then there's me.... I keep the clubhouse operating, and I'm in charge of a fair amount of purchasing as well.
And that's it. A Secret Club of just two. Exclusive and inclusive, one and the same.

when you're a mum, you take your happies where you can.

I realised this past week that my kids are all old enough to take tablets (or capsules) now.
No longer do I need to panic when the liquid Panadol or Nurofen runs out.

This may not seem like much to you, but it's a milestone for me.

(Why, yes, I DO lead a very quiet, uneventful life, as a matter of fact, thanks for asking)

They also no longer want Happy Meals, which means we are slowly (but surely) emptying the house of McToys.

Again, might not seem like a big deal to anyone else, but I'm LOVIN it.

I remember being almost delirious with joy when they all finally got big enough to get in and out of the car themselves, and take care of their own seatbelts.

I am thrilled that I no longer have to struggle with putting on Small Persons' shoes (although the Shoe Battle is far from over.)

They can get their own drinks of water and make a sandwich (can't seem to put anything away yet, I've noticed) and they can run a DVD better than I can.

Bit by bit.

b is for .....

.... bodies.

This post has been percolating in my head for a week, or more -- and what led to it was swimming lessons.

There I was, at the pool, doing VacSwim, surrounded by tweens in bikinis and boys in boardies, and in the middle of the crowd was a gorgeous girl, looks to be somewhere between 12 and 14 (I can tell with certainty anymore), wearing a full swimming costume.

I mean, ankle length leggings, and a long-sleeved dress-type top. Clearly it IS a swimming costume, just not the kind you would normally see (at least, not here).

And it got me to thinking, along two different lines.

Firstly, I'm not a fan of this look:

My daughter won't be wearing a bikini while she lives under my roof, and luckily at this point she's CHOOSING shorts and rashies (she's 8) rather than skimpy bathers.

It seems to be that many bathers are designed to point out the tiny areas they're covering, rather than offer any kind of female modesty or dignity, but as long as it's not MY daughter, parading her bits, I remain only slightly disguntled by the whole thing.

But this?

Bothered me.

I have friends who are Indian. I know many Indians are shocked at the 'looseness' of Australian women. They are quite disgusted by Western clothing and choose to dress more modestly, and I understand and appreciate their point of view.

I also know that some cultures dress their women in baggy, hot, ugly clothing as a form of imprisonment, and don't be rolling your eyes, because it's true.
They (the men in charge) believe that all men are rapists and savages, and that women will fall or allow themselves to be tripped at the slightest provocation.

I think it's sad (and worse) that they have such a dim view of Western men, because I truly believe that most men don't think about raping and pillaging the first available woman much at all.
Most men don't walk around with a permanent hard-on, looking for an excuse.
Most men will ogle a pretty girl in a bikini, or a pair of jeans, or even a black sack if they can see her face -- but that's because their brains are hard-wired to notice women.
It doesn't mean they're going to tear off her clothes and have her on the spot.

While this post was getting ready to be typed, I came across this on Facebook.

It added to my confusion.

Are covered women being modest? or imprisoned?

What do YOU think?

a is for....

In an effort to kick my blogs' poor dead carcass back into life, I thought I might try and do a weekly challenge.

And then, because there are 26 letters in the alphabet, and 26 weeks would give me a neat and tidy 6 months of posts, I thought I'd make it an alphabet challenge.

So the idea is that I'm going to find a topic, and post about it.

And if you'd like to join in, you would be most welcome. All you have to do is link your post back to the comments section. No Linky, even.
{and I would SO appreciate it, I really would}

To start the first week of the new year, I'm going to be totally obvious and kick off with A.
Specifically,

a is for alcohol.

Here's something you may or may not know about me.
I grew up with a dad who drank heavily.
And not nicely.

My earliest memory of him is of an old lady asking my sister and I where Daddy was, and we answered "At the pub." (he was at work)

Many of my memories of him involve drunken fights, smashed furniture, cruel words, careless behaviour.... once I watched with my heart in my mouth as he tottered along a dam wall with my baby brother in his arms, certain he would drop his bundle in more ways than one.

There are things that happened in our house that I cannot speak about to anyone but my sisters. If you haven't lived it, you can't imagine the scars it has left on us all.

We (my sisters and I) all enjoy a drink. As teenagers, we did some silly things, but we grew out of that pretty quickly.
We saw so much and lived such weird lives that we could have had problems with alcohol, but we don't.
And that's not because we're special, or because we did some you-beaut counselling course, or whatever -- we are all just lucky.

We are all married to men who enjoy a drink. But our husbands drink sensibly as well, and we have never had to endure the things my mum did.


My dad completely quit drinking about 17 years ago.

Recently, he started having a nip or two of an evening. When my sister told me, my blood ran cold, and she told me she felt the same. Neither of us has forgotten.

Alcohol is the Boss of too many people, and you don't have to be an alcoholic for it to affect you.

I worry about kids today. The binge drinking I see, the schoolies parties, the expectation that social events are all about getting as smashed as possible, as fast as possible...
how have they gotten the idea that's OK? are we failing as a society? or as individual parents?