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Age is but a number? Sure!
But I’m struggling with my age. It does not help that someone asked me if I was K3s grandma (WTF – I almost punched him) and K1 said “mummy even though you are old, you don’t look old.” I’m not sure if I should kick him or hug him tight.
40 is not old people. It is not even Middle Aged just yet.
These are the voyages of the star sprite Kelly – ise, to seek out new worlds and new civilizations, to boldly go where no mentally unstable girl has gone before – Cue muzak Well it goes something like that, doesn’t it?
For 30 longish years I have waded through the the boggy recesses of my fucked up mind, pushing against the tide of blah blah blah, a whole messy bunch of mental failure and drear-some darkness. Sporadically punctuated by a few bright splashes of my real self. All shiny, exuberant and full of fun loving deliciousness. I have frequently and repeatedly been told I should meditate (which I am completely shite at) and do Yoga (with whom I have a long hate hate relationship with) Why? You ask. let me enlighten you…..
Tooooo damn slow.
Too much damn lycra.
Too many embarrassing, creepy (stolen from my current yoga instructor) deep breathing.
The music is too slow
Too expensive
I could go on. In short I would have rather gone to a spin class, with booming house music and sweated my ass off. Which is what I did for 30 years.
I did pregnancy yoga, but I got dizzy and still had to have the cesarean (3 times). I tried floaty, religousy yoga, well I do not believe in god (sorry to all my religious friends, he does not exist) and that may have been helpful. I did the spiritual, incense laden, lets travel to India yoga, all very nice but to much arm pit hair and unwashed pony tails in a room (ahh now I know why there is so much incense). I tried, the fit, hot, rich mum yoga, but in short they are not at all friendly unless you drive a Range Rover and have an account at Lululemon, I drive a big fat Yukon, affectionately known as the Polar bear – she is a white car and I wear yoga gear that are Target specials.
So after those long years of discovery bullshit, I walked in to “The Yoga Lab”. I sub sequentially found my yoga home. The people are friendly, but not obnoxious, the drop in fee is reasonable, they are trippy and enlightened, but not dippy and dull. The class is fast and the instructor admits to his own failures, the yoga is not pretty, but pushes me to work hard and challenges me both in my body and mind. The music is loud and big on the bass, it is hot and sweaty and not at one moment can my anxieties take over and defeat me. There is no time, all my energy is exhausted by my screaming muscles and my focused mind. Yes there is Lycra abound and the deep creepish breathing (I still struggle with that and want to punch the nearest person), no one is posing or prancing like a wanker, but it is dark and the energy is flowing and nothing can escape the room or enter it once that hour starts. We are taught to keep our joy and not give it away, to stand still and be, to not let life rob us of our internalization and freedom, we have to just be and to just be silent and still.
At last my eureka moment. I feel like I have finally understood this practice, or have I found a practice that has finally understood me. In that hour I only feel the sparks of my light, I feel like I am glowing and not hiding in the shade and shadows of the anxiety filled recesses of my psyche.
No one needs me or wants me in those carefully carved out moments, so I can only be who I am, who I am meant to be and that is Kelly.
When your house is so messy, you do not know where to start and can only begin to panic about how long this shit tip will take to look somewhat liveable.
I look, I fret, I rub my eyes hard, I cannot locate the Hoover, I make a coffee, grab my Vogue magazine and hide.
There have always been three constant presences in my life, apart from my parents and brother of course. 1) A love of / obsession with making and eating banana bread, 2) an infatuation with “The Sound of Music” and with that comes the magnificent Julie Andrews and 3) a natural ability to run. 1 and 2 have never wavered in their prominence but 3 has.
I was a pretty decent runner as a child and was heavily involved in athletic training 2-3 times a week and then run meets on top. I did everything, from the hurdles and sprint to middle and long distance. Then at the grand old age of 10, I developed a pretty debilitating eating disorder (anorexia nervosa) and of course the running had to stop, as my body was actually eating my muscles to keep me alive and hence there was nothing left to actually run with. Sub sequentially, I was actually carried in to the local children’s hospital when I was 10 years old and left there for 4 months to vegetate. To sit on a bed and not move and there was definitely no running. Of course this quickly halted my running career and I never went back to it. I am not sure why? Maybe it was because it reminded me of a time when life was easier and achievable, light and free, not controlled and regimented (my own doing I may add). Then anorexia plunged that light into darkness and politely spat out a withered, haunted, less able version of myself. She may not have been who I really was, but I embraced her all the same with her long limbed gawkiness and not a muscle in sight. She was a safe way to look, not fat, but not dying, not muscular and manly looking, but lean and androgynous. I still exercised, but it was mainly walking and swimming, nothing that would require strength to be healthy or actually have muscle tone, as muscle weighs more than fat remember and weight = fatness in my warped, starved, fucked up mind. Years passed and I was happy in my sub existence and then suddenly my iron fist of control of my brain and its failings became weak and old issues gained some gusto and force and ate away at the grip I held. I was crumbling under their weight, but I needed to drive them back and become strong once more. Note; My brain lacks in serotonin and the best way to gain natural, kick you in the arse serotonin is through… ……. yes ……… exercise.
So, due to my mental struggles I discovered my body and mind needed more, it was craving to be pushed and forced away from safety and comfort, to become tired and exhausted, strengthened and liberated from its boundaries, to be crushed and rebuilt (wow now that was a dramatic sentence)
Therefore, 30 years on from pulling them off, 1 marriage and 3 kids later I am yanking on my running sneakers once more. Inspired by my ultra marathon runner husband and an innate need to push my body and earn 2 hours of quiet time, I’ve decided to sign up for a 1/2 marathon in January (baby steps) and then a 25K trail run (through the alligator infested Everglades) in February. Am I decidedly cool and inspired or fucking nuts, I’m not quite sure. As I had always vowed I would never do anything that may make me lose control of my bodily functions and really these may just do it. As in my world there is no hanging on when I need a shit, its now or a whole big mess to clear up. Now when running, I feel this could be a huge issue. So I may just have to take an enema a few hours before. People, this is a major fear of mine, so please be kind if I shit myself “Bridesmaids” style in the middle of Naples 5th Avenue, at mile 11.
My training is to be a cross train affair with 1 x 4 mile run, a yoga class, 1 swim in the week and then a long run at the weekend. Last weekend I completed 9 miles and I felt strong, it was an exhilarating feeling and actually made me cry as I never believed my body could still do this. Note this is the longest I have ever run, in my whole life and I did it alone, with my only company being a blog about cake baking. Did you know that before bicarbonate of soda and baking powder, that a cook may of had to beat eggs for 2 hours to get the same leavening effect. Now that is a a lot of beating by hand 🙂 The continuous pounding of my feet on the road, the slight discomfort of my knees, the ability to calm my breath and regulate it (I have anxiety) into rhythmic, steady breaths was empowering (I do hate this word, its kind of new age wanky), it settled me and pushed me into a space of meditation. Which I find I can never do sitting still with my eyes shut. I was alone, so I could notice the little things and sights, small details were prominent as manicured shrubbery and well built houses bobbed past to the steady pounding of my feet.
One hour and 30 minutes passed and I was sad to stop, the personal achievement overwhelmed me, yes I know its only 9 miles, but that is 9 miles, I never thought I could do. I must admit the amount of calories I burnt appealed to my suppressed anorexic self, the serotonin pumping through me sated the bitch I call anxiety, she is always looming with intent, my muscles were soft, stretched and fluid, when they are usually tightly wound and stiff. I felt good, my body beaten, but my mind rested and I remember my childhood, the need for this, my love of this and the sadness of those lost 30 years. I’ve felt so happy and calm and rested and driven. I am emerging from the years I left my self to fallow, curled up in my shell, protecting myself, scared to push the boundaries and crack that shell. A 10 yr old Kelly Dixon is in there, she is ready to come out and show you who she really was then and really is now in her older 40 year old form. She is no longer frightened or controlled, but open, raw and ready to just be. Not frightened or ashamed of who she is, the kooky, weird kid and now the kooky, weird adult. But you know what? I have missed her, she is resilient, sharp, honest and kind and I am proud of her. She will continue to run and run and push and finally break down everything she has built and reveal her vulnerable core, still 10 and waiting to truly live.
Next I will run 11 miles and then 13 and then who knows maybe I will double that – I had better buy some diapers 🙂
In a million, trillion years I am not a great parent, a goodish one, yes, a moderately passable one, yes-ish. So for me to achieve greatness, I have a long way to go. A super, loooooonnnngggg way. Like 30 thousand miles plus, of an arduous and highly lengthy journey. In reality I totally do not have my shit together in the semblance of any form of an acceptable package.
I swear too much in front of my kids, always with the caveat that, only I can do that and it is not until they leave my home can a “fuck you, you ass hole” ever pass their lips. After 5 pm, it is not the witching hour for my kids, but for me. Excessive noise, screaming and shouting, too much homework, will send me into a whirling dervish melt down, frenzy, maybe a little wall kick or two. I too am a mere human, with an extreme sensitivity to too many people and too much noise> Therefore, technically I am kinda buggered, that I gave birth to 3 boys, hence 2 kids too many and 2 boys too many, if any shred of sanity was going to survive. Swimming, counselling, lots of love, hugs and the occasional bottle of wine, will sooth the pain.
So then, it got me to thinking, would I be a better parent if I lived closer to my parents and family. If all that pressure was taken off my shoulders and I could drop them off for an afternoon or evening and decompress. So I could readjust and just be. Even pee without an audience would be awesome, “mama can I see your poo poo?” the resounding answer BTW is a ” HELL NO”. I feel there are so many positives for being closer to family and not living 5000 miles away. However, is it any easier for those who do live near their folks, are some decisions made for you, without you knowing, do you feel obliged to have to conform to family traditions that you may not like or even agree with? I do think a lot of guilt could also play a part on not wanting to conform, are there too many influences in the kids life, your life, too much can be as tiring as too little? That type of pressure must be immense.
However,I do feel my kids miss out hugely on extended family, cousins and grandparents and I miss out on a web of love to fall back on. I believe, I would parent more effectively and a touch calmer maybe, if the support was there. I know for sure, I would be richer, if we did not have to pay babysitters just to get adult time. Yet on the flip side, my children get all of me, the good, bad and ugly. They understand my humanity and they also know, I am not always right and that I am flawed and love them until I hurt and that is OK, it is OK not to cope and cry and release their emotions, maybe that is why my house is SO LOUD, wild, raucous and emotional.
Yet, parenting is not a walk in the park, no matter what situation you are in. You are perpetually tired, stressed, bombarded emotionally from all angles, no kid is perfect and neither are we. We do the best we can with the village and tools provided to us. People ask how you do it, but the answer for all, is you have to, there is no alternative, if we do not do it, who will? No one ever knows the full situation, of your life, what lies beneath the skin, at the core of you, its still you, a person, a parent, someone who needs love and care as well.
The up shot is, I think I would be a better mother if I were near my family, but I also do not dislike the way I do parent, I am constantly working at it, I have made all my own decisions for good and bad. This was my choice and I live with it every day and every day I do feel guilty for my kids that we are so far away, but, I remember they also have a quality of life, that we could not have provided for them in England. They have so many opportunities that I never had as a kid and I want them to play golf, tennis, hockey, learn to ski, sail boats etc etc, we could never have given them that back home, we just would not have had the money. We get to see daddy ever night, in the UK he would be commuting and never home. So I do not feel sorry for our choices, yet always,a little sad we are so far away, as I miss our families deeply ,their love, laughter and eccentricities.
However, to all parents, I say this. To those who do it alone, the single parent homes, the homes who also look after the grandparents, the homes with help, no help, money, no money, the homes where parents have their own issues, kids with disabilities, illnesses. Remember,we are all the same. Be kind to each other, help each other on this journey we are on, it can get long and it can be lonely, talk to each other, share the greatness and the shitness of your day, as we have all been there at some point.
We love our kids, we do our best, we fail, we succeed, we laugh, we cry, we do the fucking best job we can and then try to do it better and that is what parenting is all about.
Yesterday I quit Facebook,
Today I skipped my Prozac.
2 months ago I abstained from coffee,
Lets hope Mrs Anxiety does not come back.
My heart has not raced yet – Phew
My breathing remains long – Ahhhh
I have not broken down just yet – Woo Hoo
Not sure if I will stay strong.
Last week I thought I was Asperger s,
I think it will be my excuse.
For when I crumble and go nutty,
When I ramble and become obtuse.
The fear is mounting, I push it down,
What will happen with no drugs?
Thank Fuck, I still have alcohol,
Not an alcoholic yet, as I’m not hiding it in mugs.
The peace away from social media is lovely,
Functioning without SSRI s is divine.
I kinda really miss the coffee,
Not panicking is sublime.
I am not sure what I am,
or who I will become?
I never really fitted in to life,
But being odd is fun.
So good bye Facebook, you will be missed,
Prozac I am stronger than you.
Coffee, oh coffee, you are so so loved,
And Anxiety I will beat you too.
Today K1 told me the cream cheese on his toast, was disgusting. “It tastes like butt!, I am not eating that.”
Okaaayyyy. So I am not sure, how he knows it tastes like “butt” or that butt tastes like cream cheese . I’m totally sure I have ever tasted cream cheese that actually tastes like a butt and I have never licked or eaten butt to found out if there lies some similarities between the two.
So we actually have butt cheese in the fridge, so if you want a taste, come on over, or go visit your nearest Trader Joe’s and you’ll find it next to the milk and above the sour cream.
I must admit I like this cream cheese. So I gather that means I like the taste of butt. 🙂 But only clean ones.
He will be eating butt cheese until it’s gone, so maybe he will acquire a taste.
The words parent and adulting or parent and tequila, cocktails and Prosecco should NEVER EVER be uttered in sequence in the same sentence, like ever. Therefore, one must assume that being a parent and pouring the above cocktail down your throat over a period of several hours is the stupidest thing I have ever done… STOP, you there, parent of three rambunctious tiny men, do not partake in the consumption of adult libations. ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY? Yup, yes I am, and the shameful thing is, that through out the course of my currently 8 year mothering phase, I have repeated this mistake a good few times. Each time I want to grab, happy, dancing, drunk, mama off the party train and make that train reverse back over her several time, just too remind that mad bitch lurking inside her… THAT……
SHE IS (OLD) FORTY.
SHE IS A MOTHER OF THREE.
SHE IS AND WILL ALWAYS BEEN A LARRY LIGHTWEIGHT.
SHE MUST NEVER DRINK MORE THAN THREE DRINKS
HER PARENTS DO NOT LIVE IN THIS COUNTRY (no last minute babysitting request for you, you dumb ass, light weight)
AND OH….
YOU ARE A BLOODY MOTHER OF THREE (we never sleep in, we are always running amok and hollering as LOUD as we can, whilst being extremely needy and totally incapable of leaving you alone, while you die in the darkness, under your duvet) BOYS.
BUT….
The big kid, grown up, party in the city was oh so fun, we danced, we drunk cocktails, we danced, we did shots, we danced and we laughed, we went to bed at 2.30 am (gasp, I have only ever seen that time to administer love and attention to a small frightened, occasionally vomiting child), after a tactical vomit, I realize life has just been far too much fun this evening for said, naughty, insensible parent.
However, as the sun blossoms searingly over the horizon. I’m peeling apart my mascara caked eyes, shifting my aching, dancing legs and blearily peeking in to the bath room mirror. I sigh, as I look upon a, not so beautiful now, aging parent, who is hungover and is now painfully regretting her (this mama, does not party often) excitement of last night. The head ache BOOMS, the stomach churns and the room is a little hazy. Flopping back on to the warm bed, staring at the oh so quiet ceiling, I know that a mere, 12 painfully loud, busy, unending hours separate me from resuming this position and getting to shut my throbbing eyes once more.
Survival mode kicks in. 30 minute run (kill or cure time), Bagel, Coffee, Tylenol, sunglasses and a shower. Provide each child with own I pad, and a family sized pack of Cheerios. Another parent fail (I currently do not give a flying F) I let them melt their brains, just so you know they will leave you well alone.
Remember to repeat as needed and chant the words “NEVER AGAIN”.
Well, until next time 😉
I’ll just throw it out there. We may all lie to ourselves and to every human we meet, but deep down in the depths of our hearts , we all know we share a guilty secret. A secret that can never be voiced, a dirty lie we repeat over and over again, hoping that someday the truth will just Rest In Peace in the recess of our soul. But, it will always be there at the edge prodding you, reminding you, I’ll say it quickly and quietly, “we all have a favorite child” … gulp , shit, did I say that out loud, but hey, there, I said it . STRIKE ME DOWN and don’t fucking deny it, we all have that kid that is truly part of you, who gets you, wants to be with you, loves you like no other, who resonates with every ounce of your body, it’s like they are the other half of what you could have, should have been, a far better you, they took the best of you and made it amazing in their own wonderful bodies.
Of course we all love our kids equally but differently and would split the world apart to keep them safe, happy and nourished, but there is that one who is a little cuter than the rest… now be honest !
I dare you to deny it, we all know in our families who has been the favorite, it’s the adult you connected with the most. I adore my parents but I truly connected with my nanny, my mums mum and yes I’ll just say it, I was her favorite, we were similar and familiar to each other and a part of me is forever missing now she has left this world.
Love is so present, but it changes, the love of my husband, K1/2/3, damn cat, friends and my family. It morphs and moulds to the feeling and connection you have with these people and YES we have favorites and I’ll never truly trust anyone who says otherwise .
Bloody liars ..
Let me begin by re iterating that I do not write for sympathy or help, but to provide clarity and space for my tumultuous mind. Its a wild, frenetic land in the recesses of my medulla.
This week has been a mountain of a climb, “no rest for the wicked”, so they say and as a child I was pretty wicked, to all who cared for me, from parents, family and hospital staff. But I digress, remember its a frenetic place I am reaching out from to even verbalize the shit that goes on in my head.
I write today from my perspective, my families perspective and the perspective of Kid 1 (K1). K1 as you may remember or not even care, was diagnosed a year ago with high functioning autism or Asperger’s. Although he is not severely affected, he definitely has traits and tendencies that smack him on that imaginary line of whatever it is..
Sometimes I wonder whether its a good thing we know or not? Yet, it is a very bumpy road, one I often want to get off, to take a smoother path and I am sure he does also. A path where he does his homework without screaming daily (he is now 8), a path where he does not constantly harass his brothers and scream at them, a path that is not always black and white, a path that is not literal but has some bend, a place where he can sit still, or make wild noise, where he can cope with activities, changes in routine, school parties and holidays without imploding and losing all control of his behavior and screaming he hates us.
It is because he gets over stimulated and I have learnt his brain scrambles and he cannot calm it down. Life would be calmer, less noisy and explosive, I would not internally dread every time we go out, or go places as I am never sure which kid I will have? The sullen monotone, willful, stubborn, unresponsive child, or the wild hyperactive kid who bounces all over the place shouting in faces and using baby voices, or I may get K1 where I can see him through the forest of his mind, that amazingly brave, strong, powerful kid who really will take over the world.
My greatest fear is that I parent him incorrectly, as my strategies to help him are very different to K2 and K3. Sometimes I cannot even get to parenting the other two as I am spending all my time managing and helping my eldest. Am I failing, I feel like I am , but I remember that I love them so much and I too am a mentally flawed human, who too deals with her own issues on a daily basis, so I am truly doing the very best I can , all the time. Yes I openly cry a lot, but I think its good for them to understand emotion and that I too need help and love. I have always tried to parent with love, transparency, kindness and honesty.
The hardest thing we deal with as a family is the fact that K1 does not seem different or have this alternative way of learning, unless you are with him 24/7. It is like being beaten over the head with a sledgehammer, it never leaves or goes away it is always there to be dealt with. Learning that people do not want to be touched in the face and that homework needs to be done, that running around at school, because you feel like it, is not what the teacher requires. That he forgets his work every day and we have to drive back to school everyday to get it. Yes he genuinely does not remember, repeatedly, its traits of his HFA. People think he is naughty, insolent, he is always at the Principals office, I get letters home, phone calls about behavior, (its him coping with the demands of his day, its busy and loud and full of stimulus, of course he implodes).
This week, we have had one meeting with the school, I have driven back 3 times to school to get home work, he actually forgot it a total of 4 times, he decided that he would not do hockey (there is never any convincing) he got out of the pool during his swimming lesson as he had had enough, he lost recess for two days at school for something that was not his fault , as the school seems to like to jump to the conclusion, that it must be he who is responsible, he was banned from the school garden because he decided that running and jumping over a bench was a far more exciting thing to do rather than listen to the teacher ( I may have to mildly agree with him here). This has all happened in a mere 5 days and this does not include all the little things that happen. Thank Fuck for the weekend ..
The thing is I totally understand everything he does, yes homework sucks and I forget things, listening to a teacher is not the most exciting thing about a day, yes a kid is a “ass hole” if they trip you over and sometimes you really do not want to play games or swim, so why should you? As adults we do not?!
I am not articulate enough to fully describe what our home life is like, its explosive, we wade through parent hood rather than skip. The little two are frequently waiting for their turn to be seen or heard. It is tough and wondrous and I will not lie, sometimes I do wish he were different and easier, but that is my selfishness and desire for a calmer life. Truly, though I am in awe of him, his drive, passion and ability, he is 100 x smarter than I could ever dream to be. I am exhausted by him and I am scared I will never be the parent he needs me to be. I am reaching out for guidance and help and reading as much as I can. We are looking for groups of parents for support. Its harder because he is high functioning, we are not given help or advice, because he is gifted the school fail to recognize his Asperger traits and coping mechanisms, our medical insurance will not pay for therapy, because he is not fully autistic, but he still needs some degree of Applied Behavior Analysis therapy, to help him cope with the demands, routines and sociability of life.
It saddens me, that with the rigorous, normalcy of life, that is peddled to our kids, we fail to see the wondrous differences. K1 is a beautiful artist, a natural with music, his physicality for sport is limitless, he can add huge numbers in his head and he sees beyond the regular. He is quick to see the beauty in nature and to care for the weakness in others. He is articulate and dexterous, he can build Lego like no other, with patience and tenacity. But school fails to see the way we can use these skills in a multitude of arenas and to nurture them. They see him as a thorn in their side, he slows them down. Maybe I should move him to a smaller, private school, but he loves his school and his friends and he knows the routine.
I am not really sure what I am trying to share here, and I am sure no one really gives a shit. But we do, I do, if any part of this helps another realize, others struggle too, that we all need help and no one is perfect, but what the fuck is perfect? who wrote that manual ? Clearly not me and my family. But if you need to share anything I am here. I am also looking for help and advice if you have any to share?
I will continue to love and learn from my son, I clearly will fuck him up, as I feel all of us were a little fucked up by our parents and in the words of Dr House ” No parent is perfect, we all, ultimately fuck our children up “. Me, I just started early with my genetics.
Entirely Unlike Tea 