I’ll think of a title later

This morning I arrived at work late frazzled, out of sorts and decidedly cross. Yesterday I had also arrived late, as I was on toddler time: he decided that he wanted more breakfast, after he’d got shoes and rucksack on, when I said we had to leave – he laid down in front of the front door so I couldn’t even open it to get out the house. After negotiating that hurdle, he then splayed his arms and legs like a spider so I couldn’t get him into car, let alone the car seat. He only calmed down after I gave him my banana. By the time we’d got to nursery, they were welcome to him.

Today as I was bending down to help him get his shoes on I sniffed and asked if he’d pooped. ‘No mama’ I checked, not just poop, but poopsplosion. If it had been any other time of day, it would have been a shower. It was a nightmare, including needed new pants and trousers. Instead of leaving early, or even on time, we left the house at time I am normally arriving at work by the time I’d finished cleaning him up.

I hate being late. It is disrespectful. I also hate people being late. If you ask us to arrive at 10am, we are there at 10am. It pi$$es me off no end some people’s laissez-faire attitude to meeting up with others. Standing in my hallway today, gathering my stuff together I screeched banshee style ‘I hate being f-ing late!’ – Peanut looked startled, I said ‘I’m sorry for shouting. I wasn’t shouting at you, I was cross with me’. We hugged and he told me ‘All ok Mama. All ok.’

I am grateful that today after work I am going to the gym. I’ve got the 10km run this weekend, I’m going to get on the treadmill, put a podcast on and just plod away until I get to 8km.

I am grateful that this morning, Peanut woke up at 6am, bright, happy and cheerful. That he gives such good cuddles, particularly when he knows that his mother is fragile at that point in time.

I am grateful for so many things, but this morning hunched over the steering wheel driving to work, my shoulders were up around my ears in frustration. I deliberately changed my route to work after dropping Peanut off today, so I didn’t have to drive past a school crossing supervisor. He waves at cars driving past, but on such a dangerous bend he’s more of a hazard than the road conditions. Yes, this sounds daft. I am fully aware of that, but I chose to re-route myself so I didn’t explode further.

Recognising my touch points is a work in progress, but I know when I am getting forgetful, ratty or swearing, I need to take step back from what I’m doing. This morning there was nothing I could do, I had to change his nappy. But being late two days on the trot is maddening. Did I need to screech? No, but it was a release of emotion that had I tried to swallow, would have eaten away at me all morning.

Leaving things behind me is another thing I need to work on. It wasn’t until I’d shared my morning with the girls at work and verbalised it that I felt better.

I am grateful for the support network my colleagues provide me with. The majority of my oldest friends I either met at work or through work, spending so much time together entwines people’s lives in a web of friendship.

I am grateful the fog has finally lifted, I wouldn’t say that it’s sunny, but being able to see the trees out my window is helping with my mood too.

Vanity Fair Proust questionnaire

At the end of every magazine, Vanity Fair ask a celebrity to complete the Proust questionnaire. Here are my answers (they may change if you ask me this again tomorrow):

1. What is your idea of perfect happiness – a family meal.

2. What is your greatest fear – something happening to my family.

3. Which historical figure do you most identify with – Virginia Woolf

4. Which living person do you most admire – for chutzpa, Hillary Rodham Clinton, go girl. Go all the way.

5. What is the trait you deplore most in yourself – impatience.

6. What is the trait you most deplore in others – ignorance, shown in sexism, racism, homophobia, or just being plain ol’ ignorant.

7. What is your greatest extravagance – books and wine.

8. On what occasion do you lie – when I weigh myself.

9. What do you dislike about your appearance – how long have you got?

10. When and where were you happiest – when my baby son slept on my chest or a pub in Brussels.

11. If you could change one thing about yourself what would it be – probably best for someone else to answer this question, but I’d to quit my iPhone habit.

12. If you could change one thing about your family what would it be – I’d like to be living closer to everyone.

13. What is your greatest achievement – my son.

14. If you died and came back as a person or thing what do you think it would be – a cat, I want to catch up on the sleep I’ve missed over the past three years.

15. What is your most treasured possession – I try to not associate too deeply with possessions, but Dumbo probably.

16. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery – reality TV. I dream of being able to read and watch the news without it again.

17. Who are your heroes in real life – always, Hanno’s Mum, today Ian Thorpe.

18. What is it that you most dislike – I’m fairly easy going, but bad manners pi$$es me off more than you can possibly know.

19. How would you like to die – in my sleep. Nice and peacefully thanks.

20. What is your motto – When people show you who they are, believe them the first time. Maya Angelou

On Ian Thorpe

I cannot let this week go by without putting some words down about Ian Thorpe. We managed to miss the interview with Michael Parkinson (shown on Australian TV Sunday night), but I read the transcript earlier today. I’ve not seen any media coverage of it, as in TV coverage, but there is a lot of commentary in the paper this morning and even more online that I’ve flicked through. Some of the comments I’ve read, make me ashamed to be human.

Hubs and I were listening to the radio yesterday (Sunday) morning before the interview even aired, where they were talking about the interview and how the media, particularly in Australia, have to wear some of the blame, specifically around how Ian Thorpe was portrayed in the media and how being gay would have had an impact on his image. What the actual *insert expletive of choice here. It was an interesting discussion to listen to, the pundit was ashamed of the media. Voicing his concern that someone who was seen as an Aussie icon can’t be gay.

How can you apportion blame? The media certainly hound famous people and their families. But then they also hound teachers, doctors, anyone they can find in an attempt to bring shame on people for loving who they love or just being attracted to who they are attracted to. It is well recognised that there is a scale of sexuality; first developed by Kinsey, ranging from exclusively heterosexual to exclusively homosexual. Since Kinsey’s pioneering work, every shade in between the two has been filled in as well as people identifying as asexual, not interested at all. Most of us will move up and down the scale through their lives, being in a state of flux; many of us are very aware of our orientation, some of us never know, nor neither care. But how many people pick up a magazine to read the salacious gossip about celebrities, gossip about co-workers, gossip about school friends, stir, stir, stir.

Who cares, really and in the grand scheme of things? If I did care about the sexuality of someone else, does it have any impact on my life? No. Unless I want to interact with them in a sexual way, it has no bearing on my life at all. Goodness knows there are a million and one reasons why people don’t want to interact with anyone else sexually; what gender they feel comfortable being could be the least of them! We should all be free to live our lives authentically, freely and openly.

But despite it being 2014, so many people can’t. So many people have to hide, lie, pretend, live in shame. Because they’re abused, verbally and physically for being who they are.

I’m still processing the coverage of this, not the actual announcement. I am more cross and frustrated that for years someone has had the weight of this on their shoulders, all because he is an icon. Let us just stand up and roar for the achievements of one of the greatest sportsman the world has ever seen, let us just support him for who he is, admire him for what he’s done. I’m proud of Ian Thorpe. But ashamed that he thought about telling everyone before the Sydney Olympics, but couldn’t. He said that he wasn’t brave enough to speak out. He wasn’t allowed to live the life he should have been allowed to live, for at least fourteen years, because he was the poster boy of the sport I also gave up my childhood to and he was an icon.

icon

noun: icon; plural noun: icons;

1. a devotional painting of Christ or another holy figure, typically executed on wood and used ceremonially in the Byzantine and other Eastern Churches.

2. a person or thing regarded as a representative symbol or as worthy of veneration.

I think Charlie Pickering put it best on Twitter. So Ian Thorpe is our most successful gay swimmer. Or as I like to say our most successful swimmer.

Foreboding words

Foreboding indeed. If you’re not on Facebook and follow this for the sheer heck of it, you’ll have missed that last week I was diagnosed with pharyngitis (on the Monday morning) and then sinusitis (on the Wednesday morning). Both are painful, I was left in bed for six days, croaking like a frog and texting for refreshments from Hubs as oppose to asking for them. I read a lot, slept more and basically tried to get better. Two lots of antibiotics in, my face is still painful, particularly first thing in the morning, so I rang to book an appointment to see the GP again on Friday (today) just before this lot of antibiotics ran out.

I was really hoping that the second lot of tablets would help and that I could actually cancel the appointment, but no such luck. Seeing the GP this morning, she pulled some gloves on and pressed against my forehead and cheekbones, bringing tears to my eyes (but an improvement of the bout of sinusitis I had over Christmas one year, where another GP did the same to me. The pain was so bad I vomited in his lap). She mused, “They feel a bit full don’t they?” she asked me what I was doing to help shift it along. “Flushing them out?” Yes. “Steroid spray?” Yes. “Taking a decongestant?” I’ve been taking Codral cold and flu for ages, so YES!

I am allergic to penicillin and can’t have gluten, so finding antibiotics that I can take is getting progressively more difficult. When I saw the GP on the Wednesday morning, nine days ago, she spent longer on the computer searching for something I could take than it took for her to diagnose the infection had moved upwards. This was after she told me off for being greedy for having had the cold for over a week already. Ha bluddy ha. When I got the script at the chemist, I had to explain to someone (with no voice) that I couldn’t have gluten. She didn’t understand what I meant, I tried again. She still didn’t get it, so I got my medic-alert card out my purse to show that I was coeliac. The pharmacist then had to call the supplier to make sure the tablets weren’t bulked out with wheat starch as the information leaflet didn’t tell them.

Today, the GP again searched on the computer for something stronger I could take. The problem with sinuses is that they’re a bugger to clear, pun intended. Helpfully, she told me that penicillin would clear it up in five days, she asked me what happened when I took it? I go into tachycardia and faint due to lack of oxygen. Which is not good fun. We agreed that I wouldn’t test this out again to see if I could now tolerate it, what with having a small child, driving and so on. More searching on the interweb. She finally found me some, and told me that this was the last option of antibiotic available to me.

Joy.

The last option. I’m not yet 40 years old and I’m down to two or three antibiotics I can take if I need to take them. Wow.