Tag: family

the click of the knee

My mother used to say that the noise of our house was peace to her.

And, when we’d all moved out of home, and it was just her and my dad at home, they used to busy themselves with a noise. Or they’d wallow in this weird silence that felt just like the ten seconds after a houseparty, when the last person’s left, the music’s turned off and you need to wash the dishes.

I think I understand her now.

You see, I live in this crazy noisy house, where there’s always someone talking, someone in the kitchen clattering around (usually me), something playing on the telly and someone, someone is *always* creating something, somewhere.

Whether it’s a drawing or a sandwich. Or someone’s staring at a screen to accomplish a challenge or finish up a detail.

It’s funny. We used to know, despite the noise, when my mum was walking down the passageway, because her knee had a distinctive click that was borne from years of ballet dancing. I’ve had problems with my knees for years, but thanks to a course of collagen supplements, I’ve not had issues for a while. I try and remember to keep at it with the collagen supplements when I need to but, sometimes I forget. Whenever my knee aches though, I think of my mum and wonder if maybe we’re all just genetically destined to have bad knees, because I sure as hell didn’t dance for years. I’ve always been grateful though, that my knees don’t click, they just ache when I’ve strained them.

My siblings and I used to have this regular noise competition – where we’d all play “our” music in our rooms, so as my parents walked down the passage, past our rooms and towards the kitchen, they’d be greeted by this cacophony of noise. And my mother would laugh and then yell at us to turn our respective music choices down a little.

Just before my mum moved out of our family home, a few years after my dad died, she walked down the passageway and heard her knee click. She told me, the evening I went to see her just before she moved, that the noise being gone from the house is why she wants to go. She said all she can hear is her knee when she walks down the passageway.

0-0-0

I’m alone in my house today. There’s nobody making a noise, there’s no little hum of voices, or the clattering of keys. There’s nobody asking a question, or flicking through channels.

No machines are running (except, obviously, this one that I’m typing on), so the sound of my typing fills my ears.

I got up to pop downstairs and get some apple juice just now.

And as I

Walked down the stairs.

My knee clicks.

 

 

Funny thing, life.

Three years ago today, I went out to dinner. I laughed so much, discovered a mind that shared many of my common interests (including Weird Al and required phone fiddling timeperiods during dinner) and didn’t care that pasta shouldn’t be eaten the first time you share a table together.

The next morning, I got on a plane and went to Cape Town for a week. That week changed me, reminded me and is the place I go back to in my head when I need quiet and a semblance of calm thought. It showed me friends I didn’t know I had and places in my head that were actually home beyond my own.

That dinner and that week was the nascent beginning for my new life. An absolutely unexpected surprise. A 360 kickflip that led me here. To this life. The one I live today, right now and right here.

a ridiculously appropriate post-it.

All I am is grateful.

finally, I write.

Dear Blog,

Feeling neglected much? Sorry. And that will be the last apology from me.

I’m tired. The good tired. You know the type where you’re busy doing good that you lose your head and learn a lot? Yep, that’s me right now. I have some thoughts on this…

I’ve not been very open about a few things. So, here I go.

I’ve learnt how to focus, finally. And that focus has rested on two things – doing what I love and loving who I love. I’ve learnt that I’m not invincible or infinite. I’ve learnt that it is totally okay for me to say no to the things that do not ignite my heart. I’ve learnt to say yes to the things that do. In many respects, I realised that I needed to burn out to ignite the true flame of me.

So, here I am, realising and remembering, over and over again, what I really always wanted to do and be. The greatest part of it? Is knowing that I’m not alone in it.

I’m in the process of changing career focus, lifestyle and perspectives. In many, many ways, this is the life I know my mom and dad wanted for me but they were too overwhelmed by my often blinding determined character to say it out loud. They knew they needed to let me lead myself to this path, and they trusted that I would be supported along the way. That trust, that determined character I inherited and that passion…that is why I will always be infinitely grateful that they were, and are, my parents. I know, somewhere, in my DNA, there lives within me their hope and guiding light and…even moreso…their blind determination to do the right thing for the family they created and nurtured.  You’ll spot me soon in unexpected places and it’s interesting and exhilarating how it seems to be rolling out.

Being honest about my limitations, my expectations and my flaws has been liberating. I’m not afraid to say no anymore, and I’m excited to say yes…to the right things.

So, yes, I’m busy…busy creating the life I always wanted but didn’t know I desired. Suddenly, in a variety of ways, that life has presented itself to me. So, I’m taking it, grabbing it and loving it. To the point of utter exhaustion. To the place where my focus is so sharpened I can see nothing other than the path I know I need to travel along. I need to do that now, and I’ve never been more sure of it in my life.

It’s meant I’ve lost people along the way. It’s okay – the people who are meant to be with me on this journey already are. They’re the people who see the holistic me. They’re aware that I am not just one segment but an entire whole. They accept me as such and celebrate that notion with me. It is with those people that I feel unafraid, untempered and real. Some of them live very far away from me, and some of them live in my house. Some of them even live in my road, round the corner or in my heart every day. It is those people I focus my energy on. It is those people who accept my nature, my family and my commitment to what I need to do. It is those very same people whose courage has inspired me to change. To develop and to try to do the very thing that makes my heart happy. It is their courage I lean on, and their love I listen to. They believed in the dream long before I did, and they keep on believing long after I have fallen over with exhaustion.

Through this, I’ve learnt that it is okay to put your put family first, always. In fact, it’s not just okay…it’s an essential. I am finally, finally able to, and I’m overwhelmingly excited that I can. I could not do this without my unexpected love and my ridiculously wise child. The creation and magnificent transition we’ve taken into familydom has been, and is, my ultimate touchstone. I am, every day, grateful. I am, every day, incredibly blessed.

I am, every day, me. Finally. 

Seven Years.

Dear Dad,

Seven years. My daughter has grown from a mewing infant into the tall, gregarious child I see before me as I type this. In the same time that her life has progressed, your life with us has been over.

There have been a million times I’ve wished for you, wanted you or needed to hear your voice. I have craved your guidance, your support and your love. I’ve wondered out loud if you know anything that’s happened and, sometimes, in my happiest and weakest moments, I’ve hoped you were watching. I’ll never know whether you are or not but I have felt my heart come home when I remember something you once told me.

One evening over books and tea, I had my feet tucked under yours as usual, we talked about life, the universe  and everything in-between. You expounded upon your own theory of how life carries on once someone passes on. To you, people carry on through their genes and the funny quirks we all inherit from our parents. You said it was like your DNA left a trail that muted over time, but was always there. Even when generations have passed and children grown, the faintest trace of your genetic code lives on within the generations beyond you.

It is this very theory, and the thinking over it, that’s drawn me to a place where I am okay today. It’s strange that as the years have passed, I’ve seen your theory come true. And that evidence has given me comfort.

When you were ill, you would keep a picture of one of my baby scans next to you, at home or in the hospital. You’d refer to Cam as “your little friend”, and you’d tell me that she was the future and that’s all I needed to worry about. We’d talk about it and I’d tell you I was scared of this parenting notion. You’d remind me that a child needs four things – good health, infinite love, the ability to trust and the opportunity to learn. I’d doubted myself then but, you believed in me. You believed in my motherhood more than I did and you trusted that I’d do it with love. You taught me what you could and told me to go with my gut when I didn’t know what to do.

I have missed you most in my motherhood. I have missed you most in my family life. The family life I have been lucky enough to be able to build, with love and memories being made every day. It is those times, over dinner or when the house is full of people and sounds suspiciously like a Jenkin household, that I wish you and Mom could witness. I wish you could be there and laugh with me. Smile with me. Squeeze my hand and tell me you see it and it’s wonderful. Marvel with me over how I got so ridiculously lucky to find love in a man who loves Cam and I as though we were made for it. Laugh with me over the times I’ve been confused and wound myself up inside my head. Berate me for my sometimes grumpiness and celebrate with me every time I got it right.

But there again, I find my comfort. I see you carry on in the expressions of my child. I see your toes in her toes. They’re the same shape. I see your hands in her hands. And that mischievous glint in her eye just before she pulls a prank on me (this happens often), that glint is the very same one you’d have when you were pulling my proverbial leg.

They say it takes twenty-one days to break a habit, thirteen months to grieve and seven years to digest chewing gum. Whether any of that is true, I have no idea. It is also said that it takes seven years to work through the loss of a loved one. Whether or not this is true, I don’t really care.

But what I do know is this… In these seven years, I have missed you. In these seven years I have built my life up, taken it all down, started again and made it better. In these seven years I have grown, been anxious, been scared, been amazed and been sad. In these seven years I have learnt friendship and trust. In these seven years I have hurtled through loss and fallen into love. In these seven years I have missed your speeches and pored over finding the right words to say them myself. In these seven years I have been able to move beyond feeling the loss of you, to feeling the part of you that carries on. In these seven years I have learnt to see it when it’s in front of me, and find it when it hides. In these seven years I have discovered the parts of me that are so typically you, and seen those same characteristics of you reflected in my siblings.

In these seven years I have seen you carry on in the eyes of my daughter and I’ve noticed a spark of you in my nieces. I’ve seen your tenacity in myself and I’ve felt the infinite love of a parent in my own heart. In these seven years I’ve learnt that the cornerstone of being a parent is that infinite love. In these seven years I’ve learnt that the cornerstone of being myself is found in the places and spaces where I am ultimately much like you.

 

So Dadadadadad, I guess what I’m saying is…

 

Your theory is correct.

 

And my life is the proof.

 

Thank you.

the changing definition.

And, here we are. On the very cusp of change.

The very facet of life by which I have defined myself changes within the next twenty-four hours.

And change…this change is good.

The selfish ways of my life are ending. The one where I focus entirely and only on two things, now become three.

Today, I sleep for the last time in a home I have created and forged and cobbled together alone, with the cheerleading and pom-pom shaking of my daughter.

When I became a single parent, she was still in diapers. Nowadays, she’s choosing curtains and reading books at night.

From tomorrow, there won’t just be me to investigate things that go bump in the night. From tomorrow, there will be two people to dry tears, read stories and run bubble baths.

I’ve done this on my own for more than five years…I feel like I’m graduating.

As I walk towards the greatest of our life changes, I am grateful for the strength that has guided me through it. I am thankful for the love that this life change has created. I am fall-upon-my-knees grateful for the daughter I’ve been blessed with. It is this experience that has moulded me.

I’m overwhelmed that, from tomorrow, two become three.

Change. Beginnings. Strength.

Dear Daughter of Mine,

Well, you’ve done it. You’ve taken the first step into the big, wide world. You’re flung, headfirst, into big school. And how you’ve grown. I am sure you will soar. Just remember, whenever your wings feel weak, I am here to hold them up, and an army of family of friends are here to love you and support you, right the way through. We’ve got your back, your front, your middle and your heart.

Don’t change. I know life is throwing change at us right now. So. Much. Change. It’s good change. We keep swimming, keep moving, keep making every day beautiful. Good change. We morph from two to three. Love multiplies.

I know school is sometimes scary, sometimes fun and sometimes…hard. I have to confess, I loved the first two years of it. After that, I loathed it. I hope it is different for you. My loathing for it had more to do with the people in it, than it did the learning aspect. Don’t be afraid to learn. Don’t be afraid to express. Don’t be afraid to show the world the gigantic beauty that lives within you.

And I know this song is one that you know the words to…well, no, you know the parody version pretty well :P…but, this is for you today…

I made you, I grew you within my belly, and I raise you, every day. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing to be scared of. Mama loves you…

…don’t hide yourself in regret…just love yourself and you’re set…

My first thought for the year.

1) Platitudes. I realise this is weird but, I loathe saying the following things: Happy New Year; Happy holidays; Happy Christmas; Happy Birthday. I know that sounds mean, but I can’t stand platitudes. I’d rather say something a little more creative, which makes me think that you’ve actually put some thought into it. Like “I hope this year is the one where your dream about that house you want to buy comes true”. It’s pointed, it’s personal and you can tell someone’s really thought about wishing YOU a happy time. Just a random thought, whilst we’re just emerging from the season of festive platitudes.

2) This year, is an attempt to get less irritated with myself. Seriously. I mean it. That’s what I want to try and achieve this year. It may seem absolutely banal to you, but it’s huge for me.

3) This year is also about much change. I will, after five years of it(aside from that good old Sheena invasion :P) be giving up my loner habitation habits. Weird, good feeling. Lots of change this year, all of it progressive and moving forward.

4) I am so lucky in love. So blessed with magnificent people in my life. This holiday has reminded me of that over and over and over again. I am infinitely rich in love.

 

Random fact for the day.

Here’s my random fact for the day. I’m not a touchy-feely person. Yes, I am emotionally intense, and I get insanely passionate about things but, at the face of insincerity or glib platitudes, I steel up. I hit the “monosyllabic route”, as a colleague of mine says.

Yes, I admit though, I am thoroughly emotional. Everything rides on how I feel about something, and I am not afraid to express that emotion. I’ve learnt, over the years, to control my temper and channel my energies into positive emotions, as best I can. I’m still prone to the occasional throwmyshoesgetyourheadoutofmyway rages, though. And, with those, you just need to let me be, blow my steam and it passes soon enough.

The thing is, though, I do not respond well to insincerity. I think you know what I mean – when someone is constantly woe-bedrivelled (I love that word, I made it up!) or so insanely set on being positive that it falls flat on its face and comes across as a desperate, pathetic attempt to grin, when all you want to do is sob.

I prefer honest emotion. I don’t enjoy anger, and I loathe confrontation. But, give it to me if you must, and I will deal with it in my own way.

In all honesty, there are actually very few things I am passionate about – justice, honesty, love, family and friends. Money, fame, whatever you want to call it – I don’t give a flying kahoot about. I’m less likely to respond to you emotionally if you care about different things to me. Sorry, I will try and empathise but, please, don’t come to me with a “ohmyword, my fake boob fell off and I don’t have money to fix it because I just bought these Prada shoes” problem. It won’t get you far. Seriously.

Yesterday, I had a bleak moment. I was watching my kid swim (and if you know me, you’ll know how big that is in my world) and I wished for my parents. I spoke about it online, and I was pretty awed. I don’t ever want pity that I don’t have my parents with me anymore. I can’t stand pity because it stamps its foot on my pride. I don’t want to be told “I know how that feels” by someone who still has their parents (and, sorry, but if you haven’t been through the loss of your parent/s, you, buddy, have NO cottonpicking clue how it feels, but thanks for your thoughts).

The grief experience, especially in relation to family (and by family, I also mean pets, because our animals are our family!) is not a journey that starts and ends. It is a pathway that enters your life at some, usually unexpected crossroads and then adjoins your life’s path, for the rest of it. It does not leave, it does not deviate and it does not end. It simply becomes part of the hills and valleys you travel through life. Sometimes, you don’t see it at all, and other times, it arrives in your face and it’s all you can see for miles around. The grief experience immutably becomes a part of you, and it’s not something you cope with – it just is.

Yesterday was one of those days where all I could see was my own grief, and child-like longing for my parents. So, I took out letters my parents had written to me (I am most humbly blessed by the fact that my parents wrote letters to me. I endeavour to do this very thing for my daughter. It is one of the reasons I began to blog), and read bits of them.

So many things jumped out at me. So many things that they’d written to me, as a child, as a teenager, as an adult. So many of them so glaringly relevant to my life as it is now. Whilst I miss their voices and their wisdom at the table across from me, I have it in the letters and emails they sent or gave me throughout my life.

I see so much of my mother in myself now. And I longingly wish that my father had been able to meet Shmooshy. I know, without a doubt, he would’ve adored him.

I realised, again yesterday, that all they lived for, honestly, were the same values and principles I find in myself. They are the same morals and intricacies of life that I work very hard to pass on to my daughter. Sometimes I wish they were here to help me explain them to her – I think in some ways they’d have been better at it. Like how it was often easier to do my homework with my dad than it was my mom because he had the patience to explain things in a way that worked for me, and my mom was better to talk to about real-life stuff, because she always put the person first, and the situation second.

It’s funny how I realised that that exact situation is about to start playing out in my life too, as Shmooshy and I have decided that he and my brilliant child will do her homework together, whilst I make dinner. I realised, fully, yesterday, how terrifically lucky I am to have him, to help us all along in life.

I wished for my parents to see this, to know this. To experience the joy of their grandchildren. The familiar noise and crazy, constant conversation. I wished for them to witness the creation of a family of my very own, founded solidly on love and peppered with honest conversation.

I’m thankful for the emotional paradigm they raised me within, because without it I would feel soul-less. I just miss them, especially on big days, birthdays and as I’m about to take a big life step. I’d love for my dad to just squeeze my hand and say “are you sure?” in that way I know only he can. I’d love to fight with my mom about some life decision I’ve made, just so that I can be totally sure it’s what I want. I’d swoon over the idea of a family lunch, that would probably extend into the evening and be wrapped up with dinner and lying out on the lawn under the stars. I wish I could just show them things that I know they would be proud of. Much of that emotion comes from the fact that I secretly worry I did not make them proud enough, but I know that that’s just emotional rubbish of my own.

With grief, you can never expect it, be prepared for it. It just is. It rears up, it gears down, but it will always be with me.