Weekend Grateful: Are we, yes?

To be honest I was tempted to link up my FYBF post from Friday, as in reality it sums up one of my big reasons to be grateful one, two, three.

But then in fear of the wrath of Maxabella, and knowing there is more to it, I decided to post a separate Weekend Grateful.

I have much to be grateful for in my life, and the more I look around at what others face, the more I realise just how much. Think I'll take a leaf out of Ms Maxi's book and make a list for you all to sit and go "Awwwwww" at, m'kay?



Melbourne Cup 2011

1. I have a wonderful husband, Big Boy. Many around us are going through hard times in their relationships for many reasons, many a night we sit on our lounge and ponder. I guess one of the main things we talk about is how very lucky we are to have each other and to agree on so much. Don't get me wrong, we are not perfect and we argue, and there are times I want to bury him in the lime pit under the avocado tree... oh, did I say that out loud? Whoops. Okay, we are human but when it comes to the big stuff we are two peas in a pod.  You can vomit now. 



Madmother house 2011

2. We live in a beautiful part of the world, in a lovely home, hidden away from the world at large. And we are lucky enough to own our property in these times of financial hardship. Alright, the bank shares in owning it but you get what I mean.

Boys Sept 2011

3. Kids. Our kids. What can I say? They are intelligent, handsome, quirky, unique, frustrating, boundary-pushing, wonderful boys. We have the most amazing conversations, and when I say they make my brain hurt I am not kidding! Surely I didn't do this to my parents? I didn't query the world and question the big things? Did I? Oh. That's right. I did. Payback is a bitch.

Me and one of my besties 2011

4. Our friends. So very, very many incredible, loyal, fun, special people in our life. In fact, so many that we never seem to have enough time to be with them! And the circle is growing and growing as we get to know their friends and the friends of friends!

Party time

Home - right here, right now!

5. Life opportunities. One door closes, another opens. Life is change and change is good. Most of the time. Says a woman who hates change. Meh.

I could keep going but I'm not going to. Instead I am going to go cook bacon and eggs for my three fantastic boys, after which we are tackling the Dr Who Board game before going outside to garden and have some fun.

Toodles!

What are you Grateful for? Go, join in the fun... it is good to sit and look at the good in your life sometimes.

Heya!

I have taken down my last post. Not because I do not own my words, but because I have decided it merely spreads the negative and in a way makes me as bad as the one it was about. Nothing will change her actions or skewed perceptions, thus it serves no POSITIVE purpose and honestly, I am the sort of person to vent and it is gone.

Life is good in general, I am surrounded by great people, there is so much joy in my world at the moment. And as someone once said:

"The best revenge is living well!"

Photo courtesy of Zoe @ Nuffnang Qld Bloggers meet. Will put up link after work.

All good here. How about you?

Sunday Sessions - Old Friends

This is a blog hop with Thea. Read her rules and link up on her blog.

I have had a wonderful weekend. Yesterday was spent with some old friends from my Uni days, and their children who I last saw as babies. The great thing was the instant rapport that leapt into being between my Boy 1 and their Boy 1, my Boy 2 and their Boy 2. Laughter rang from our table at both ends, young and old. A friendship hopefully to last as ours has, over miles, years and differing paths.

To celebrate I give you this one:



See the big bloke who features in this? Yep, that's one of my dear friends who was here. And yes, he is absolutely lovely. One of the most endearing people I have ever had the chance to meet. Then again, he is married to one of the most gorgeous women on this planet (who I happpened to go to Uni with many moons ago). Yes, I haz famous friends!

And then today some other friends from my childhood (who we only saw a week ago on our hols, but loved seeing them here again) unexpectedly came to visit. They rang last night whilst the others were here and we leapt at the chance to have them come up. Another day of laughter, fun, frivolity and friendship. Great weekend.

This one is for them - an old favourite.




You are a balm to my wounded soul - all of you. Loved it, really loved it!

How They Grow...

He is twelve. As of last week, he is twelve. My first born, child of my soul, my Aspie son, is no longer a little boy, he is a young man. I watch, dazzled by his beautiful heart and incredible mind; I sit and listen, inspired by his other worldy imagination, moved by his compassion. I laugh out loud, huge deep gurgles from deep in my belly, as he unleashes his wit and profoundly dry sense of humour at the most unexpected times. My son, my child, my love, my lifeblood. My boy.

His is an old soul, it became obvious to all within weeks of his birth. The gorgeous amber eyes seemed to bore deep past the outer image into the very core of your soul.

Boy 1 six weeks of age

And as he has grown so too his ability to put thoughts into words blossomed.

Boy 1 - 15 months

His forthright honesty has affected the most toughened of characters. At karate the then six year old walked up to his instructor at the completion of a class. He laid the palm of his hand gently on her heart, gazed intensely into her eyes and told her "You have one of the most beautiful souls, you are so beautiful on the inside you make my heart happy..." This slightly plump, average in appearance, outwardly stern woman was reduced to tears. She turned to us, all rather gobsmacked by his words, tracks running down her cheeks, barely able to speak. She managed to dazedly stammer out "I have never had such a heartfelt, touching compliment. Your son is an amazing young man" before walking away, wiping the wetness from her face.

 Boy 1 aged 5 years old

I pray he keeps this purity, this honesty and the wonderful ability to see even the deepest, most truly buried goodness in people. I know he still has it now, on the cusp of teenagerhood.

My son, no longer a child, standing poised on the threshold of becoming a young man. One day I am going to tell his story, shout it to the world, write his tale for all to behold. It will not be a story of miraculous cures, of crystals and dogs, of horses and travels. It will be the story of a little boy with a strong heart, and the ability to inspire all who cross his path. The journey of a boy overcoming a dark prognosis, fighting his personal battles with the courage of a warrior, wanting only to become the best he can be.

I love you son, to quote our favourite story:

"I love you forever,

I like you for always,

As long as I'm living my baby you'll be."

Robert Munsch 2003 Love You Forever

A Moment to Savour Christmas

The best of all gifts around any Christmas tree: the presence of a happy family all wrapped up in each other.

~Burton Hillis~

The rain is tapping the windows in a frenzied attempt to enter our home. Its staccato rhythm blends with the joyous laughter of Boy 1 and Boy 2 as they explore the intricasies of new possessions, and wallow in the rare pleasure of not having to be anywhere other than here.

Yesterday was the best Christmas Day I can remember for many years. I think last year served as a huge reminder that Christmas in not about presents, or possessions. It is about family.

Twelve months ago I could barely summon the energy to put up the Christmas tree. Presents were shoved in gift bags, no attempt made to hide or keep surprises, Christmas did not exist in my heart. My mother was deathly ill. She bled every day and the chronic anaemia had taken chunks from her senses: of taste, her ability to swallow, her eyesight (not the best anyway), her concentration and worst of all, her desire to live. She cried daily, exclaiming: "Why do I have to wake up to this hellish life every morning? Why can't I just die."

Christmas day she was so unwell that she didn't even want to see her grandchildren. I packed up her baked lunch into an esky, took it to her, sat and watched as she picked, and fiddled, and ate barely a morsel. I then packed up the dishes and returned to eat my now cold meal, well after my family had finished theirs. And my heart broke a little more, as it had daily in the months since the nightmare began.

Fast forward to yesterday morning. We awoke to the laughter of our manic boys, the house a shimmer with lights, and tinsel, decorations and loudly caroling, jiggling, mechanical Christmas figurines. The boys opened a few presents, but most were kept to be shared later, as we calmly began preparing lunch. Soon glorious smells of roasting chicken smothered in bacon wafted through the rooms. Boy 1 and myself grabbed an umbrella, and set off. To pick up Nanna. My miracle Mum. The rest of the day was one of the quietly happiest days of my life. I floated, wrapped in a cloak of contentment and peace. Mum stayed all day, and when I took her home she was tired but elated. And full to the brim with her huge meal of chicken drizzled with gravy, roast pumpkin, sweet potato, potato, broccoli, corn on the cob, and carrots, consumed with gusto. She even partook of her old tipple of choice, port with lemonade (eat your heart out Esme Watson). A huge contrast to last year's dismal degustation. She even had some of the steamed, alcohol drenched, impregnated with rich, decadent dried fruit pudding.

What a truly wonderful family Christmas day, the way it is meant to be. Full up of love; laughter; life; joy. A Christmas of the heart. God, I love my life right now.

Peace to you all.

 

Drive, Baby, Drive...

Reading a post on my friend kakka's blog brought back memories of how much I once loved to drive. You know -  before it became a means of getting to work, the kids to school, the shopping done. When it was a pleasure, pure and unadulterated, before it became... a chore.

My love of driving was a gift from my grandmother. She had her motor vehicle licence until around twelve months prior to her death at nearly 91. She drove for the pure joy of growing up in the motor era - all whilst still clearly recalling her childhood of the much slower horse and buggy travel. My early years consisted of going for drives after school nearly every day. She would pull up out front of our house, toot the horn, and with a clatter down the timber stairs and a "See ya Mum!" I'd be out the gate and into the back seat.

Usually she would have a snack of disgustingly good tasting, bad for you food such as hot baked potatoes and crispy bacon in a pie dish covered in tin foil. Saturated in salt and dripping with oil, they tasted SO good! Off we'd drive. Sometimes we'd drop in and pick up one of my school chums, sometimes not. All my friends loved Grandma, that's what they all called her, Grandma. One cheeky boy even called her yeehaw Grandma. They clamoured to be included in our schoolday jaunts, or fought even harder to be asked for the Sunday Drive. Her grey Chrysler Valiant was constantly filled to the brim with a bunch of giggling kids, no seat belts, merrily singing at the top of our lungs:

"We don't care who we bump, unless we bump the wall!"

Whilst the weekday runs were shorter by necessity, the Sunday excursions could be far longer. Half or full day trips, off to the city, over to a theme park, wherever our hearts desired. It was always discussed earlier in the week, usually on one of our briefer escapades. Destination decided, plans made, we then organised departure times, supplies and finally chose the lucky partners in adventure. Oh, those fun-filled, free days.

Roles reversed as I grew old enough to drive myself. Grandma herself often taught me, or more to the point was the licenced driver when I had my learner's permit. Never did I suffer awkward days of stumbling, fumbling, or beginner bumbling as I memorised road rules, or took control of the vehicle. Driving was in my blood, ingrained from years of backwoods meandering sitting in the rear seat of her plush, grey sedan.

Then came the days when Grandma grew frailer, and I became her source of escape, her chauffeur, the driver. By this point I was living in the bustling city, studying at Uni, part-time bar work at night. My times at home were briefer, but still as frequent as I could physically manage. Many nights I drove the city, unwinding, deep in thought, music blaring as I sorted through my life.

Until one day came the drive I was dreading, my final trip to farewell my beloved Grandma. I did not lose my love of the drive that night, in fact many times over the next year or so my travels helped me deal with the loss of my elderly companion. It was the onslaught of career, marriage, and then children which made driving my cares away no longer an easily attainable option.

It is only in recent years as the pace of life becomes more and more frenetic that I have completely lost my wandering ways. With children in the car almost constantly, my thoughts are no longer free to soar and my mind cannot concentrate on problems seeking resolution. But I think now is as good a time as any to change all that and reclaim back my wandering, gypsy roots.

This evening I shall go for a drive by myself purely for indulgence. And as I once more meander darkened country roads, I know Grandma will be right there beside me in spirit. And if I listen very carefully I will be able to hear a frail voice singing: "I don't care who we bump.." as we quietly drive through the still of the night.

Feeling Mellow...

I have a friend. A beautiful friend. Well, she is one of my many beautiful friends, and I will get to all of you, but this one is about her. She dropped in unexpectedly early yesterday when we were all still clad in our smelly, sweaty pjs, unshowered, teeth and breath... well, urgh about sums it up.

She brought her daughter with her. I asked her in, pre-warning her of our unsanitory state. She came happily, warmly, smiling as she always does. Seeing her is like being wrapped in one of those balmy spring breezes, refreshing yet so lovely and warm. I am very grateful for her being in my life. I mean, let's face it - I am high maintenance at times! But she is gentle, calm and understanding, even as she is shaking her head and uttering "Oh, Madmother!"

What was lovely yesterday was watching her child and mine playing together. Her daughter is also gentle, quiet, but with an inner strength like her mother (though she would deny that trait). At times she is almost other worldly. Not in a vague, disoriented way, but almost like Boy 1. Off on a higher plane with imagination roaring, slaying the bad, embracing the good.

The two of them went off into the kid haven and were playing eye toy on the PS2. I knew her Mother was a little worried about the boy/girl dynamics, and the roughness of some, but Boy 1 is not at all like that. We walked into the room to watch them just prior to the departure. Boy 1 was telling Dragon girl (her daughter) how great she doing for a beginner, how much better than he was when he started she is, and lots of lovely positive stuff. It was beautiful to watch. Friendship. Uncomplicated, straight down the line, friendship.

*Sigh*. What a wonderful morning, even if I was self-conscious about my odour.

Autism, Asperger Syndrome & Absolute Acceptance

I have a link for you. Another mother of a child on the spectrum posted this in a parenting forum. I could kiss her. I do not seem to have the time or the inclination to troll through pages and pages of literature nowadays, but sometimes, when I follow someone else's research, I find gold. This is one of those times.

An Inconvenient Youth: Raising Children with Autism

It is a heartwarming, hand-holding, tear-jerking, hell of a piece. I could have been sitting at that table, I felt like I was home. I also found incredible similarities to my piece written in 2007.

It was especially reassuring to find like-minded parents, mothers and fathers who do not have some insanely driven need to cure their child. This is the way they are. I loved the terminology of this article. My child is definitely a genetic rubik's cube, uniquely scrambled. Suits him and he himself would embrace this explanation.

This excerpt sums up how I think and feel:

And that leads to a bigger issue—one that really burns this group: the implication that accepting your child's autism is not okay. This attitude is due in part, they feel, to Generation Rescue's dominating and oversimplifying the conversation in America about autism. The simple fact is that not all autistic kids can "recover." "We need to reexamine what it means to be a successful adult," says Erin. "To me, now, a successful adult is a functional adult. We need to give these kids an opportunity to have a shot at meaningful jobs and secondary education. Maybe they'll be bagging groceries, but they'll be paying taxes. They'll be law-abiding citizens. It's not just about the money we'd save, it's about the contributions these kids will make that will benefit everyone. I strongly believe that the energy crisis is eventually going to be solved by an autistic 10-year-old boy who is perseverating on batteries. He's got that kind of focus."


At this point, however, society still has a long way to go in terms of tolerating people who behave in unfamiliar ways.

It could not have come at a better time. This week's Who magazine issue (December 21, 2009) contained an interview which really burned me up. Maybe it was a misquote, or the journalist was utilising the magazines trashy reputation for chequebook journalism and decided to misinterpret a comment. I hope this was the case. If not, the fact that one of our once high profile football players, Mat Rogers, states he thinks his son who is diagnosed with ASD:
"will be a normal boy... He will be a normal boy" is horrifying. And if he doesn't conform to Rogers ideal of normalcy? What then? and how do you define normal anyway? I have yet to meet any one I could call normal. Mat Rogers himself would do well to read the linked article, maybe it would make him realise how offensive his comment really was. Not only to other parents of children on the spectrum, but to his own child.

Boy 1 is an incredible person in his own right, and as much as I wish life let him walk this path a little easier, I do not want him to be anyone other than himself! He amazes me with the depth of his wisdom, caring and compassion. He inspires me. I am humbled to be his mother.

Why on earth would you want to alter this? Could YOU look into his eyes and tell HIM he's abnormal...

Living on the Mountain

I do try and keep things reasonably anonymous here. Having survived the experience of someone becoming a little too keen on being me, I do not wish to tempt fate and open the door to any more slightly obsessive, needy friends. But on such a glorious mountain day it is hard not to sing to the masses about our wonderful life here.

I was born in the country. Spent my first eighteen years there, then moved to the big smoke. It was not until I had my own children that I began to appreciate all I had been blessed with during my childhood. Freedom to run, play, explore and grow.

My boys now have the same freedom with our three acres of heaven, away from bustling roads and noisy neighbours. They run around the lawns with Dog 1 and Dog 2, explore hidden nooks of our 3/4 acre of rainforest, climb the huge avocado in which they and Big Boy are building a tree house - complete with flying fox I might add. They go adventuring to the secret stream, digging in the mud for all sorts of weird and wonderful creatures. Giggles and squeals echo back to the house, which both boys would stoicly deny, of course. Boys do not giggle, they laugh in a manly masculine manner. 

When they tire, they sit, heads together in the shade of an eons old Morton Bay fig. Uninhibited laughter floats over our valley, as do the quiet whispers of awe when they find native animals or birds hidden away.

We are very lucky to have found our own slice of heaven.

Did I Happen to Mention

...that I have an addictive personality? Oh, I didn't? Well, I do. So now, after completing my first challenge from Blog This I am tapping fingers, jigging my right leg and trying to control the twitch above my left eye as I count off the days to the next. I am addicted. It is really not a bad thing. I had lost a lot of my natural Tigger bounce where writing was concerned, become disillusioned with my lack of ability and in serious danger of giving it all up.

Big Boy (DH) was worried, really worried. He knows story words flow through my brain in a constant stream begging to be written and as he has to live with me and my verbal diarrhoea... Well, lets just say he had visions of being drowned under words if my other outlet ceased. So, for my enthusiasm to be revived by joining this site has made more than just me happy, in fact the whole Madmother household is breathing a very loud sigh of relief and there have even been a few loud "OH YEAH!" and high fives.

Boy 2 is especially happy, he is the mini-me, even down to his dream of writing. He wrote a series of stories in Preschool. Yes, you are not mis-reading: PRESCHOOL. Okay, to be completely clear on this, he did not actually do the writing (cudos to Mrs Rose). He dictated, very precisely (and was quite the temperamental little author if even a syllable was altered) every word, drew all illustrations, and followed true to the end, his theme or central storyline. The Johnny series. Twelve in all. Since then he has written plays (two of which he and Boy 1 have performed in the school talent quest), poems, and now even a song. Not too shabby a CV for a ten year old.

Thus, if his Madmother had deserted the written word, his heart would have broken. Okay, I exaggerate, but it would have been severely bruised because he believes his old Mum can do anything and truly is of the conviction that it is only a matter of time before publishers knock on our door for both of us.

Oh dear. I seem to have rambled off the point once again. Just chalk it down to getting to know me and the fact I am battling an affliction at the moment. The common cold. Yes, on hot sweaty days I am even more hot and sweaty due to these temperatures my body is using to fight this bug. Oops, there I go again. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, getting back on topic.

Blog. This. Challenges. During my happy manic phase I am positive I could roll off a blog a day. Of course, during my low or stressed period it would drop to a blog a month if I was lucky. And in one week of the cycle I would be perfectly capable of polishing off a whole murder thriller including a body. If you get my drift.

Sorry, bit gruesome though I would think a few women out there can relate.

Now, how do I know I have an addictive personality? The most recent example I can give (other than my quick entry into the challenge) is on Facebook. Boy 1 and Boy 2 have been desperately lobbying to sign up as a lot of their mates are on it. After much heated discourse, and many set in stone guidelines we agreed. Mainly they wanted to play The Games. You know the ones: Cafe World, Yoville, Farmtown, I could go on and on. So I, in my wisdom, after managing to avoid these applications despite much intense lobbying from so-called friends, decided to monitor by playing too. I am now on level 21 in Cafe World. After a bit over a week. Oops. I did mention my addictive personality, didn't I? Yeah, well. Hang on a minute, I'll be right back, just have to serve some French Onion Soup.

No - not that sort, THIS sort:

See what I mean?

ADDICTED!

Must dash. Boy 2 has been waiting for a little to be picked up from a mate's house. See, even my adored children fade into the back of my mind when my obsessive side takes over. But before I go, a little more self-indulgence...

Had I lost you all? Bored you to tears with my rambling? Probably. But one thing I know for certain,

Madmother is BACK!

I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all.

~Richard Wright, American Hunger, 1977~

Early Morning Rambling

It has been a lovely few days. I spent most of Thursday with my Mum. Well in reality I have spent most of Sunday, Monday and Thursday with my Mum, and to able to say that makes my heart overflow with gratitude, love and joy. She turned 90 last Monday. This time 1 year ago she was in hospital, had yet another fracture in her vertebrae, and the bladder tumour had just been found. And the powers that be (we now know them as the powers that be so wrong) decided she was inoperable. Not the tumour, my mother. She was sent home to die slowly, inch by inch, each day losing a little more of herself, until in February she had a massive bleed, rushed off in ambulance to closer hospital, new specialist, new hope, and now renewed life. Cancer free. I am deliriously happy to be with her, to be able to be with her and not crying, leaning over a plot in the ground. She is a pure bright joyous light in my life.

So after a Mum week, a friend came over on Friday to give me a wonderful massage and some interesting conversation. She had given me the voucher for my birthday last year, but had to also give me a swift kick up the backside to get me organised. I always feel guilty taking time for myself when there is so much that needs to be done. But it was absolutely fantastic! And interesting to hear someone else's opinions on certain situations. I have finally learnt my lesson, I did not instigate or open up any of the doors to the disappointments of the last few months, I merely listened. And felt such relief that I am not alone in my perception of some as having no ability to keep confidences, and their desperation to be liked by all and be a part of the "cool gang". Phew. It is obvious to others, and they too shake their heads at her lack of discretion. Thank God.

And now we have a manic weekend hitting. Off to get groceries this morning, ready for DH's BBQ tonight, then off to skating this afternoon, and then soccer presentation in the morning and off down the coast tomorrow afternoon! Catching up with an old schoolfriend I haven't seen in about 5 years. Better than the last gap, that was 20 years, lol. Life is busy. Life is good. I can float to the surface now the dead weights have been cut away. No more frantically gasping for air.

Bringing back the sun.

Glitter and be gay

That's the part I play.

Here I am, unhappy chance.

Forced to bend my soul

To a sordid role,

Victimized by bitter, bitter circumstance.

Richard Wilbur

I do not remember the day fun left. I certainly cannot recall at what time laughter ceased resonating through this house. When did we stop laughing at life, choosing instead to entangle ourselves in the politics and drama of other peoples' trivia? There are so many suffering real hardship, it is quite embarrassing to admit to being caught up in what amounts to a high school popularity contest. And grounding when you look around at those friends struggling yet still managing to retain wit and whimsy. For all my flaws, a lack of humour was never before one of them.

It was not so very long ago I was running around after my little boys, giggling hysterically being the Mummy Monster holding the secret smelly sock weapon. Now all I seem to do is nag, lecture and worry what actions others are plotting. But I made a decision today: I am going to take back control and relaunch our life of laughter. I am walking away from the small town trash and embracing all that is good in my life. My children, my husband, my mother and my wonderful friends. Be they old or new or, as someone I adore said, imaginary internet friends, I am very grateful to have them in my life. So, to all of you out there in interweb land, I send you wishes of joy.

Oh, and bring back the smiles, I sure as hell intend to. Or at least die trying.