I’ve been fluffing about, in a big ole slump, waiting for the excitement and motivation to return.
And it hasn’t returned, really. I’m just fucking bored. I tried doing nothing. I’ve done a lot of nothing. And it’s not very exciting or interesting.
So here I am, again. Beginning again. I’m going to try and write my way out of it. See if I can get some movement back that way.
For a while now, I’ve been feeling like something new is coming.
Like a chrysalis waiting for the butterfly to emerge. Or at the very least, a moth. Or just a plain old insect. Honestly, anything rather than being primordial mush.
And now I’ve realised what I’m becoming: parent of a tween, firmly heading into teen territory. There’s been some challenges of late, and it’s taken a lot of time & energy. I feel like I’ve been a really chill mama for the last decade or so. My kids have been a bit of a dream run (once they weren’t babies who didn’t sleep or toddlers who ran away in shopping centres). I haven’t really had to yell, they haven’t needed much redirection, they don’t really argue or fight with each other. We’ve just been in this sweet little bubble of four.
But now… I don’t feel like a chill mama. I’ve felt so much rage and disappointment and like I was going to pop a fucking neck vein. And to be honest, the challenge hasn’t been THAT BAD, ya know? Just the first time my kid has dented my heart. I feel as ill equipped for being a mum of teens as I was a brand new mum of an infant. I feel like I need to uplevel my skills and understanding. And I feel like I need quite a bit of therapy to work through my resultant anger triggers.
Parents of teens: please send me your book recommendations. Or any recommendations, really. Or just send me any whispers of strength and compassion. Thank you. I am grateful.
I’ve been painting again
I’ve been so restless I’ve started cracking out paints and doing abstract pages to put in my journal 6 at a time. I feel wary about even talking about it, don’t want to lose the magic of this little, private time with myself.
Sometimes they become a prayer. I get out our vintage typewriter and I crash-thunk-shink type out loud prayers to myself.
Please let this suffering make me wider, wiser, bigger, braver. Please let it awaken my heart. Please let it make me softer, smoother. Let it make me more like my three elders: Granny, Nan & Aunty Lucy.
I’ve been wondering about awe
How maybe just maybe I’m deficit in awe and beauty after 18 months of pandemic life. That maybe just maybe I need to make this a priority, not a nice to have.
And that’s tricky to do when I feel like each week in life & parenting & the rest of it is a series of large waves of all different kinds, and I’m just trying to keep my head above water.
I’ve started taking photos to try and document the tiny blips of awe & beauty I can find. I am collecting them, hoarding them, like a chipmunk before winter.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
But here I am anyway.
Love, love, love,
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