Ever have those days, weeks or even months when you feel like you’re up against it all? And through all the chaos, you wonder who you really are? You recognise yourself, but you feel unheard. You feel like you’re in a sea of challenges but drowning in what someone else wants you to be? That’s been my week.
My sister and I often talk about living without mum. Since losing our mum in 2015, we’ve had quite a period of adjustment. We each used to talk to mum at least once or twice a week, but it wasn’t uncommon to talk to her for 4, 5, 6 days in a row and or for 3+ hours at a time. We were close. Very close. And the day we discovered conference call (where we could all talk together) was a pretty happy day!
I’ve wanted to write this piece for a long time now. But I’ve not been able to start until right this moment – when I simply had to write it as it was… well, it was ready to come out. Right now, finally, I’m ready to talk about my third miscarriage.
As mother’s day approaches, the media is flooded with messages of ‘thank mum for this’ and ‘thank mum for that’. But why are we thanking mums rather than just helping them? It’s not that I don’t think mums should be thanked (you absolutely must thank your mum for all she does – her work literally NEVER ends… just ask the laundry pile and kitchen sink). I just wonder why in the 21st century, we’re still letting her do all the stuff we thank her for.
Ever felt like you just had to let something out but you weren’t quite sure how? That’s where I’m at right now. Desperately feeling desperate but not sure what I’m desperate for. Confused, alone, tired and constantly on the verge of tears… thank goodness mercury is out of retrograde from tomorrow. But can I really blame the stars?
Sitting here, watching cockatoos fly past in mobs, my dog at my feet and hearing the sounds of my husband and child chat happily, one could be forgiven for thinking today was just a normal, lovely Sunday morning at home. But today isn’t just any day. Today is my mother’s 2 year anniversary.
Listening to the radio last week, I heard about a ‘Mother of the Year’ competition where people could enter their mother based on criteria that, frankly, made me cringe. So I thought I’d write my own criteria on a fictional ‘Mother of the Year’ award.
I was talking to a lovely friend today about the Myers Briggs Personality Typing. I mentioned that since the very first time I took it as a graduate (far too many) years ago until now, I haven’t changed at all. But is it beneficial to be labelled and boxed into an identity?
The day I was born, when my father held me as I screamed he said ‘this one’s a tiger’. Identified by my lung capacity and feisty nature on day 1, I have been affectionately called ‘Tiger’ or ‘Tige’ by my family ever since.