Transition

I opened this blog to get away from Xanga.

I wasn't sure exactly what I would do with it, or how. I just knew that xanga wasn't really doing what it used to...

I thought this was the place, the feel of what I wanted.

But it isn't.

It's calm here. It's... not reflective. I've almost been trying to be something I'm not...

Yes, I think deep, and yes I love my God.

But I'm also loud. And funny. And colourful. And completely self depreciating.

And I do so love to laugh. I love to laugh with people.

I don't think this place invited laughter.

So, for the last couple of days, I've been playing around with templates and new names. I threw a couple around, but settled with one that I think explains things... me...my life... a little better.

So, head on over...the party is now officially begun...

GEORGIA

I absolutely LOVE it when people have no idea what they are giving away.

I love it even more when people have no idea what they are selling.

Yes, I'm an opportunist.

I did a quick circuit of a local op-shop on Wednesday while I was there dropping off some stuff, and there, lying out in the open on a table, was a rag doll.

A Kate Finn rag-doll.

In fact, one very similar to this Kate Finn Rag doll.

Please note the price.

I love these dolls. So beautifully and well made. We purchased a doll for Bethany when she went into hospital to have surgery, and we have another on layby for Amy for Christmas. I'll be ordering one to put aside for Cora when she's older.

I don't think I have ever moved so fast, or litterally snatched something off a table at an op-shop before.

I went to the counter, and heard angels sing.

I had another, good quality dolly (who's dress is easily washed) to give to my girls...

For a dollar.

This is the Song That Never Ends

Grace.

Wordless Wednesday

MONDAY MEANDERINGS DOWN MEMORY LANE ~The Make-up Bag

When I was small, about 6, I had a makeup bag.

I remember it blue... mainly because Grover and the Cookie Monster were blue, and the fabric it was made out of had Sesame Street characters all over it.

The first thing that comes to mind, as I recall this old friend, is the way it smelled. I loved the smell. Of course, now I realise that it was the distinct aroma of makeup way past it's use by date, but still it permiates lovely to my nostalgia.

If you had opened my make up bag, and reached inside it, you would have removed your hand all covered over in a pinky-brown film... the sides were coated with it, evidence of missing lids.

Had you been brave enough to use the products in there, you would have had choices between blue and green purlescent eyeshaddows (so beautiful), mini, tester sized lipsticks in coral, (so cute!) purple eyeliner and orange blush. You could have used gluggy nail polish, liquid eyeliner with a brush missing half its bristles, or pressed powder to your face using pads with six different shades clearly visible.

I know now that it was where mum put all her old makeup instead of throwing it out, but I didn't care. I had my own 'war paint'... just like my mummy.

I can only imagine what my mother thought when I came down all "pretty" from my bedroom. I can't remember if she would tell me I was beautiful, or if she said nothing. I know she never told me to wash it off. Mum never curbed my creativity. Never stopped me from being a girly... I was very rarely girly in anything else. I hated to wear pink, loathed having my hair brushed, and could play as hard and rough as a boy.

But I loved my makeup bag.

I am not clear on what happened to the tote full of girlish ideas of pretty. I think it was one of the things that "went missing" when we moved interstate.

Strangely, even now that I have fresh makeup in a glass jar; stuff that smells of new attractiveness and glides on effortlessly, I find I still miss the shades from my girlishness. There is no distinct smell that greets me as I draw it from its place in my bathroom.

No longer do I paint and powder and pretend When I am Big. Now, I conceal and curl and contour, trying to recapture lost youth; a way to find and reclaim the girl with her unchallenged conviction that she is beautiful.

~*~

Join me in my meanderings into nostalgia...

What from your childhood do you look back on fondly?

Srsly?

I turned, um, thirty at the beginning of this year.

I'm ok with it now.

But I've been musing on it. It's a strange age. I'm in a juxtaposition of feeling a bizarre mixture of too old for some things, and not mature enough for others.

I don't feel 30. I still feel 19.

I'm the worship co-ordinator at our church. I'm a mother of six children, and a partner/wife of 13 years. My husband and I own three cars. We pay rent. We have bills. Responsibility.

But I still think it's fun to have sleepovers with girlfriends. I still find farts funny. I'm very rarely serious. Adam and I watch stand up comedians on youtube on a regular basis. I still want to flit all over the globe.

I'm finding it difficult to comprehend that people are actually taking me seriously now. I don't feel that I'm any more mature, really, than I was a decade ago. And yet, I also look at some dreams and yearnings that I have and think that I'm too old for those now. I've wasted time.

Two weekends ago, we had prophets at our church.

Mind. Blowing.

Adam and I were blessed to be prophesied over. I bawled.

One of the parts I have been meditating over has been that we (Adam and I) are called to work with Youth. The Lord spoke to me in such a way that He made me realise in my heart, not just my head, that His timing is perfect.

Joy!

My dreams and yearnings that are still so dear to me, are still God's heart for me. They will happen. I have not wasted years, I have not missed the jump. While I may think that I'm a bit old in years to work with my beloved teenagers, in my heart, I'm still right there with them... but with the added benefit life know-how.

I am not immature... I have a youthful heart.

I am not old... I have a wealth of experience.

ROOM 101

Not the scary one... the funny one.

Adam and I only discovered this hillarious show this morning, and its premise is that "celebrities were invited to discuss their pet hates and persuade the host to consign them to a fate worse than death in Room 101"

A few of the things we came across were the 80's, Disney, Chris deBurgh, short people and Mendelevium.

I asked Adam what would be on his list, and after some thought he came up with

1. social media (like, the people who have a twitter, fb, blog(s), myspace, linkedin, jabber blah blah blah)
2. p0rn
3. curling
4. Steriotypical Americans (of which we know none. Just so you know.)

The show gives the guests 5 things, but Adam had to go to work.

I don't have many things that I have a total abhorance for, but I think my selections would be (keeping in mind that you need to be able to joke about it, so human trafficking and childhood cancer is out):

1. Spiders
2. Prosti-tots (you know, the 12 year old little girls dressed like streetwalkers)
3. Brussels Sprouts
4. Crocs
5. Cameron Diaz

What about you? I'd love to see the things that you would cast into the room.

TOW-MAY-TOE/ TOM-ART-OH

I was watching this hillariousness, and it struck me that there are lots of words that we Australians pronounce 'funny' to Americans.

Like, for example, daughter. We say Daw-da. You say Dah-ter

Or, route. We say root, you say r-ow-t.

We call ourselves Ozzies... you mispronounce it Ossies

We Aussies speak in "text" as one of my favourite comedians puts it. A service station is a "servo", car registration is "rego", a barbeque is a "barbie" and so on and so forth.

A few people have asked for a video of me (and Adam) talking. We're working on it. For some reason, our computer has dumped the web-cam, so we have to get a camcorder and a tripod.

Good thing tax time is only a couple of months away.

But we will, I promise.

So... what would you like to hear us say? What about us would you like to know? It could be anything funny, real, stupid, serious, whatever... I'll write it all down and we'll discuss it all for your viewing pleasure and, I'm sure, amusement.

We'll attempt to deliver.

We're really silly though.

Consider youreslves forewarned.

FOR MY SIXTH, AT TEN WEEKS

Mother, oh Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,


Hang out the washing and butter the bread,
Sew on a button and make up a bed.

Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.


Oh, I’ve grown shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).


Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo).


The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew
And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo


But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren’t her eyes the most wonderful hue?
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).


The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
For children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.


So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

~ Ruth Hulbert Hamilton "Song for a Fift Child"~

BRONZE, POTTERY, LINEN & CLEMANTIS

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose,

topaz or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,

and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:

I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you,

so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

~Pablo Neruda ... Sonnet 17~

Happy 8th Wedding anniversary, my love.

You're still the only one that feels like home.

RED NOSE DAY

As a mother, there is nothing that petrifies me more than S.I.D.S

Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.

Just writing it hurts my heart.

When I was 7, the reverend of our church and his wife, dear friends of my parents, lost their 9 1/2 week old son, James, to S.I.D.S.

It was heartbreaking.

James himself I don't remember, thought I'm sure I met him. You don't think to memorise babies "just in case".

But.

I remember the screaming silence of their house. I remember the "Please do not Disturb" sign on their front door. I remember my mother, devastated... she had loaned them the bassinette James was sleeping in.

I remember Alice... their three year old daughter. So very blonde...

And I remember when Elizabeth was born afterwards... and the machines they had hooked up to her cot that would go off if she didn't draw breath for a certain time frame. I remember the heaviness of unmentioned fear.

Paul Arnott, four years after the death of his only son James, wrote a book to help other parents who have to walk this horrific time. It sits on my bookshelf... a constant reminder of this dear little boy my family knew.

Two decades later, I heard about Angie's nephew Luke, who died at 10 weeks... only 7 weeks after sweet Audrey went to Jesus.

I hate how there is no human reason for these children to die. They just do. And it terrifies me.

Everyday, when I head to the cradle of my babe, I have to ignore the niggle of maybe this time. I know I and my children are not immune to the possibility.

No child is.

And that's why it sucks.

And that is also why there are foundations that are raising money to fund research.

Here in Australia, it's Sids and Kids. Since their conception, and the way they have raised awareness to certain contributing factors to 'cot death', the number of deaths has plummeted.

Awesome.

Their main way of raising money for this research is Red Nose Day. Every year, the last Friday in June is the day you go around looking like a dork with a clown nose on your face. Or on your car. Or, even, as they did a couple of years ago, on your house.

I am not making this up.

Since I don't leave my house very much, I chose not to buy a red nose. However, for the last three years, I have purchased magnets for my car, write James' and Luke's names on them, and leave them on my car all year. By the time the next June rolls around it's just in time... by then they have faded completely :)

It's becoming a tradition for us as a family... the yearly swapping of the noses, explaining again why sometimes babies die, but this is how we remember them and taking photos.


I like it.

For information on agencies and foundations in your area that work in the field of infant death research, click HERE.

SHINER

Eli came a-croppa two nights ago, taking a spectacular stage dive off the couch and landing face first onto a small chest of drawers. Of course, like the good, concered parent I am, I made sure I'd cuddled him and made sure his eye still worked etc etc...

And then tried to get photos, because it had already come up bruised, the foretaste of a wikid black eye.

Adam thought it sick, but I know you all know better.

Anyway, we here round these parts know how hard it is to get Eli to sit still for anything. Especially photos.

So today, two days after he did it, I finally decided to hold him down.

This is the best of two seperate attempts.

Please notice the strategy of Food as Bribery.

Please do not notice the self art.

Then, I had a stroke of genius.

I strapped him into his car seat.

It still took about eleventy three photos to get this one.

I'd say this is the first of many...

But it isn't.

He's already had at least 3.