Posts Tagged ‘blogging’

That awkward moment when you hope a new friend doesn’t secretly think you suck, because you wrote a whole blog post about how much she does NOT suck.

November 18, 2012

How are your Sundays going? Oh, good to hear, excellent. Mine? Well, you know, it’s just your run of the mill meeting of a new friend that you happen to LOVE as much in real life as you do in emails/texts. So, really, not run of the mill at all.

About a week ago, though it feels much longer, this woman commented on the blog that she’d been reading for ages (I need to think of a suitable blog name. Her real name screws me up because for a brief period in time it was THE name we were going to name Coconut!), and the next thing you know there’s like an instant friendship. I am a very sociable person, but I have to say it takes a lot for me to become real friends with someone. I can hold back in regards to initiating things, texting,etc.

This lady* was bizarre (in a nice way) because it felt easy from the get go. You guys, I smell real friendship in all its poop flavoured, panini tasting, random conversations sort of way. And she has twins! I managed not to bite, squeeze, or eat her babies today, though it was hard.

Of course, her ass doesn’t live in our town. There is only one of you that lives in our town, and that is the problem. More of you people should move here immediately! We could form a commune of people with free range children, hot chocolate, and puddle stomping. So seriously consider it.

I guess there ends my friendship crush entry of the day. Every time I meet someone I like I just feel a weird relief, I have to say. Hoping to see more of her and her delicious children soon….also hoping I thaw out from our afternoon outdoors sometime soon.

*My kids call all women ‘ladies.’ I feel all gross and not feminist like at ALL, so I am trying to introduce the word ‘woman’ into their vocabulary. Imagine my horror when I referred to someone as a lady accidentally in this entry! Ladies are either older, slightly disheveled cat lovers or women wearing hoop skirts and trying to marry into a good family. I must break this habit. I must!

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Welcome to the jungle.

May 29, 2012

This morning I had an interesting thought. It was: Hey, I’m just dressed the way I’d normally dress. No need to change anything or even have a moment’s worry.

Why is this interesting? Well, today we are hoping to meet another blogger who lives in my area. I’ve known her quite some time, and she takes beautiful pictures of her little girl and everything else. She’s coming over to our house this afternoon – and when I told Coconut a little girl named Ivy and her Mama Lauren might come over this afternoon, she replied, ‘Ivy is my best friend!’ What a great way to approach meeting new people.

I think she gets it from me.

I don’t know where this confidence comes from. Ten years ago, hell, maybe even five, I would have been thinking about what sort of impression I wanted to make. What to wear, specifically, which is totally fucked up because I don’t care about things like that in the least.

But this morning I didn’t think about any of that till I was already dressed. Is this the mythical confidence that kicks in during your thirties? Is this the confidence attached to feeling like a great parent? Maybe both.

I could write a veerrrryyy long post about my views – past, present, and future – and attitudes towards social situations and meeting new people. The short story is I was a child with no friends but a very active imaginative life, and now I’m an adult who has shining social skills. I think camp helped me make the transition. I think coming out did, too – I had to OWN who I was, be proud of it, and take major risks in order to live my life.

So here I am today.

When we open the door, Lauren will have to climb over all the fucking toys that will no doubt be coating the floor* by the time she arrives. My children will probably be mostly naked. We still have moving boxes in the dining room. And you know? It’s okay.

I mean, you readers of this blog, you know my trials and tribulations (and love!) of reuseable menstrual cups, my epic battles with pooping during pregnancy, my deep and fragile emotional upheaval around my father. Compared to those things, what the fuck difference does it make what I’m wearing?! Ha.

*Or more likely, on the couch. The kids had a game before we moved where they shoved all the toys into barracades. Just giant piles that divided the room. Snort upped the game by carefully fitting pieces together – so effectively that I would be trapped in the kitchen and unable to break apart these masterpieces. This evolved into playing ‘rubbish truck’ once we moved. They literally pile anything and everything onto chairs, couches, whatever.

We’re talking toy pianos, books, mini chairs, every toy, shoes, etc. NOW this has changed once more into ‘car ride.’ They pack up the car to go for a ride on our big, red couch. They fill every fucking available space, and stack it up with about three feet of random shit. Every single day. So you know, no one can actually make use of the couch for the use it was intended. Though it more often than not is covered in these shit heaps (aka ‘The very special and important things we need for our car ride’) and I want to encourage them to build and create. It causes no harm.

It’s cute. So I may have forgotten what the couch was originally for, but judging by the faces of those who enter our house, I should probably hang up a warning sign or something.

There’s this one picture I want to show you….

November 13, 2011

I’ve been thinking a lot about this blog. About the blog I used to have before I started this one (and the one before that!). I know some of you followed me here from there, and I imagine there are a lot of differences. For one, I nO loNGer TypE liKe thIs. The backgrounds are not blinding pink, the writing not cursive. Those things are inevitable when you begin blogging when the internet is born, because if you’re my age you were a teenager when that happened.

But there were other things there, too. Real names, pictures with heads and faces. I miss those things.

I debate switching over again. Unlike some people, though, I’ve never been a blog hopper. I’ve been attracted to the idea to starting many blogs, and may have started the odd one or two that fell to the wayside while the number of entries was still in the single digits. The exception to this was a nice little babywearing blog…..which, of course, has now joined all the others on the scrap heap.

I remember feeling confused when I realised many people classed blogging as their job. Some were mothers who needed to still feel like they had a piece of themselves, something to contribute, as they (like me) were trapped in the mindless, wonderful world of childrearing. For a handful, they made a lot of money from blogging.

For me, well, it’s not for me. Not at a place where I want to just have a dumping ground, an old fashioned diary, a place to record some memories or work out some of my mental bullshit. I don’t want to have to write on a timetable, with sanitized topics, to hunt for sponsors. I don’t want the joy of being me to become an obligation. I’m not sure it would, but for now, this is my place. My Place.

And I’m not an anonymous sort of person.

I know a lot of bloggers are witty and fabulous and funny and smart – and I’m always confused when they say how painfully shy they are in real life. Don’t get me wrong. I know the pure pleasure of being truly yourself – which is something the internet does afford those of us who choose to use it in that way. In the 1990s I regularly used primative chatrooms called Talkers. These were places for the geeks, for the misfits, for the wonderful few who knew how to literally teleport into little black screens, adopt a name befitting your personality, and make genuine friends. Perhaps fall in love.

I did a little of both.

But I’m not that blogger. While I may feel insecure and cautious with the best of them, I am really comfortable talking. If I’m somewhere and a new person shows up who looks a bit left out, I always make a point to reach out to that person. It’s how I met Aussie, actually. I love telling stories, I love making people laugh, I become bigger and more grandiose and shinier when I am with other people. When I am with MY people.

And I’ve always been painfully honest online, in whatever form ‘online’ has been. My online persona matches my ‘real’ persona, or at least I think it’s a pretty damn close representation. I talk about poop in real life. I dance in my underwear with (my!) children. I overshare, etc etc.

As a counsellor, I’m also a pretty good listener. And that counselling bit? Well, that’s the reason this blog started. Simply because my other blog was so big, so public, that I was very easy to find online. And I wanted to talk about therapy, oh, I did. It was my love. I still love it. Except I’m not practicing as a therapist at the minute – though perhaps that will come back into my life as I more fully integrate motherhood into my roles – and that makes it difficult to remember why I wanted to be anonymous online.

I’m friends with many people from here and twitter on facebook. I’m shit at replying to emails, I fully recognize and admit that – and apologize to those of you who have waited weeks or months to hear from me. I have trouble leaving comments on other blogs from my phone. But I am here. Many of you have seen my face, know my children’s real names, and two of you have MET my children!

One of you named her child after me. More of you have sent amazing and thoughtful gifts for my children or myself.

The thing is, you know me. So what do I do? Somehow reread and erase past entries about therapy? I think it’d be impossible for anyone who has read any part of this – well, pre-pregnancy, at least – to not understand that I work with other people for a living. With their pains and fears and hopes and pasts and presents. I like it. It’s part of who I am.

So do I acknowledge that and be more me anyway? I don’t know. I feel like going more public is a choice that accompanies a decision to not work as a therapist. Though I also have deep mixed feelings about how much ‘self’ to share with clients – would the world really collapse if they had outside proof I was really human? Of course not.

So, for now, we stick to headless pictures and cute pseudonyms. I don’t link to my blog on facebook, family and old friends don’t know I’m here, I’ve carved this space for myself. I don’t quite know how to integrate the spaces, but I suspect that’s because I don’t quite know how I’m going to move forward in life.

And I’m mostly okay with that.

Splitting.

June 8, 2010

I am split into a million pieces what with all the blogging going on – the babywearing one has ground to a halt as I can’t babywear anymore…thinking of transferring all ‘new domain’ entries BACK to the wordpress one, as there’s no way I want to have to keep paying for a domain name that I can’t really use.

I’ve also just started a weight loss blog to talk only about weight loss, weight issues, and anything associated with it. My personal therapy, if you will. Don’t know if I want readers that ‘know me’ or not. For now, it’s anonymous, though should you fancy a read do leave a comment letting me know.

I think some suprising shit about my past may out itself there. I also am thinking I may just use the most ‘existere-ish’ entries and copy them here, but there is already more than one and I’m all lazy and crazy.

In other news, I have a new physiotherapist. She is a meanie. That is all.

(Except that Snort is trying to pull up to stand and we have no good items for him to do that on. I have a DVD on now and need to go drag him away from the tv as he is up on his knees, scratching at the screen and possibly blinding himself. We don’t DO tv during the day anymore – but today I needed a little friend as we woke up at the crack of dawn and then a mean Chinese lady pounded the fuck out of my pelvis. So my tv friend Dave Gorman was like, ‘Hey, chick, put me on. We can have some laughs!’ I was like, ‘Yeah, okay, I’ll do it. The internet has been out and I’ve been playing hearts against the computer while babies nap, so you’re on, Dave!’)

Kisses to her from him, from them to me, from me to you.

April 28, 2010

Thank you guys for your incredible support here, on twitter, on facebook, by email. Every single well wisher means a lot to me. Blogging is a funny business. It’s so easy to dip in and out of someone else’s life without ever saying a word to them. That you all come here and support me as I struggle to recover (pleasepleaseplease) from this grueling problem? Wow.

And from the babies:

hoah hoah hoah bob bob bob mamamamamam dad DAD babababbababa

Yes, that’s right. Aside from the occasional ‘cat’ or ‘mama’, we’re full swing back into baby babble land. I don’t mind. As cool as it was to hear the odd word, we’re now fully babies again!

The only shit thing is that Snort seems to have convinced Coconut to start saying ‘dad’ as well. Fucking hell, man.

They are such bright bursts of sunshine in my life. As we speak she is headfirst under a chair. He was lying next to her and has just ROLLED RIGHT OVER HER like a steamroller while she giggled. He ended up with his feet in her face – she continues laughing, he cries. Bless.

Just moved him away from her and how her face fell! I don’t know what it means that she enjoys being kicked in the face so much. Let’s chalk it all up to her in utero experience and try not to make this mean anything for her future, hey?

I am not being crushed by pain today, merely plagued and punished. So off to work TMD goes. I am going to try to get a lot of play in with the babies, but it’s hard as movement is a tricky one. Move too little and I hurt, move too much and I hurt.

And on a cheerier note:

kisses.

Therablog.

March 20, 2010

So, the other day I was talking with a friend about sexual abuse. We won’t go into details, because I know some readers have faced this and I don’t want to trigger anything for anyone. (If I write about this more in future, will put a ‘sensitive’ warning at start of post.)

That night, I had a dream that was like remembering things. Not very dreamlike at all, if you get me, more like my brain opening up doors and me saying, ‘Oh, yes, that’s how it was.’ I tried to tell myself it was because of this conversation with a friend – and it probably was – but kept thinking about it.

Then a certain post went up on Violence Unsilenced (a great, great site!) and I found myself having difficulty breathing. Literally felt like all the air was out of my lungs, I felt nervy and panic ridden. It didn’t help that I’m quite friendly with the author of the post, and was completely blindsided by how a ‘normal’ person (like me, of course, like me) can have this whole malignant past and be brave enough to tell people about it.

All of that aside, we went out today and when we got back in I was so sore I needed to go have a rest. I ended up falling into a very deep sleep, and who was there? Kleinette (my old therapist, for those of you who are newish to the blog). Kleinette was there with me in the area where I grew up, driving a car while I was in the backseat. (And had quadruplets in this dream, that TMD handily left for me and Kleinette to drive around- despite having no car seats. Way to be unsafe, TMD’s dreamself!)

We sort of went around different places, had some good, challenging talks, etc.

I woke up feeling like I’d just had a very intense therapy session. It was good, but also bizarre. And can I say, I haven’t had a dream about Kleinette in, what? Years?

The dream had come to a natural conclusion, and then I was properly woken up by two manically screaming babies. I decided to take pity on TMD and hobbled out of the bedroom to help feed. So I’ve lost some of the clarity of our dream discussion, but a few salient points remain. And the emotional feeling of having probed wounds, but knowing I am strong enough to deal with that now, certainly has stuck with me.

Just wanted to get this stuff down in case it was important. And there I go, downplaying it. It is important. And it was nice to see Kleinette! Yes, I know she was a figment of my mind, but she has connotations of safety for me – and it is always nice to see the face of someone you care about, in reality or dreams. Perhaps she has ‘come back’ to help me think deal with things, sort of like Dumbo and his magic feather.

The one thought I had upon waking was, ‘Of course I’ve got a fucking pelvic problem.’ This was the result of thinking about finally writing Kleinette back (ah, you don’t know about her baby gift drama – I sent her a birth announcement, she sent me a fab card and awesome baby slippers, I didn’t write back because I didn’t want her to think I was stalkery, she ended up texting at New Year’s to see if I got the stuff, I felt like a heel for not thanking her, etc) and mentioning the SPD. Then I remembered that it was mentioned on more than one occasion about my – holy shit, I forgot the acronym.

PMDD. Yes, PMDD.

And then I thought (because apparently you can take me out of a paying job as a counsellor and put me on maternity leave, but you cannot take the counsellor out of me), isn’t it innnnnteresting that all my major problems are in that one region of my body. I also thought about how the last time I lost shedloads of weight, I was in therapy – not to talk about weight at all, but the weight seemed to fly off during therapy/training as a counsellor, and I don’t think that was an accident.

If this is a bunch of wobbling, rambling mess, forgive me. It’s late at night, and I’ve already been asleep for like four hours. Just feel like I needed to write something real, and also, well, you know. Comfort blogging. It’s better than your favourite comfort movie, or at least it is to me.

Night, all. Hope you’ve had a good Saturday and will have an even better Sunday.

Thanks in advance.

March 20, 2010

Life is bitchin’.

Aussie just rang to tell me I am famous! On a certain babywearing group she belongs to, someone posted a question on how to wear twins. One woman linked to my youtube channel (that is slowly but surely filling up with demos). A few posts later, someone linked to my other blog!

FAME! I WANNA LIVE FOREVER! etc etc

I’ve gotten two opportunities to write articles (which I now need to do), been informed by some companies that they ‘love my work’, and am getting a steady influx of babywearing questions from other mamas or mamas-to-be.

I feel really excited, because I am madly passionate about babywearing – and nothing compares to wearing two babies at once! It really is lovely.

Aussie was just saying what a valuable thing I am doing, to help other people learn to develop their own mad skillz. In a fit of empowered goodness, I bought a domain name. Now, of course, I don’t know what to do with it. Free blog that you only write text in a box? I’m so there.

Doing other shit now that the world seems to have progressed from my ‘designing’ days of <color=”red”> ? No fucking clue. Also debating if it is, indeed, a good idea to  switch that blog (wordpress, like this one) to a self-owned site. Pros, cons? Advice?

The babywearing site I currently have is rapidly growing in page views, so I’m thinking I’d want to switch before it gets much bigger? But I also don’t want to pay tons of money to run this thing. I do want to give it the best chance of being seen by twin or singleton parents who want to babywear, though,  as the whole goal is to empower others.

Give it to me, you know you want to. All the cool kids are doing it. Slide your big, fat, helpful experiences with hosting your own blog right between my waiting, pink ears.

W.o.w. (No, not any warcraft reference here. Move on.)

January 19, 2010

I know I’ve been sort of quiet here, and the truth is I’m not sure why. TMD asked if the immediacy of Twitter (@existere) was making me blog less – perhaps. Probably, actually. Nothing gives me the satisfaction of writing in my blog, but at the same time the instant feedback and adult interaction make Twitter very, very sexy to me.

Did I say ‘sexy’? I meant appealing. *ahem*

Not too much to say, I think. Aside from the fact the Snort rolled for the first time yesterday – or the day before – twice. Like it was no big deal. That Coconut cut a tooth right after we returned from our trip, and Snort is now cutting the most violently sharp tooth on the planet. I tell you.

You know how I cut Coconut’s thumb that one time (and it is still covered in a weird skin growth from the cut! Oops) and she bled for three hours? She cried for about twenty seconds and was cheerful the rest of the time. Well, TMD cut Snort’s thumb a few weeks earlier, only taking off the tiniest bit of skin, no blood, and he screamed for twenty MINUTES. So you can guess how fun it is for him to be getting a tooth.

I guess my real reason to post this morning is a question. If you have a baby, or know a baby, or …uh…anyway, is it normal for a baby’s hands to occasionally go purple/blue/freaky looking? This only happens when Coconut is a bit chilly, but this morning it actually scared me because they looked like dead people hands. Or the way you imagine dead people hands to look, anyway.

I don’t like typing ‘dead people hands’ in conjunction with Coconut, but am fighting The Crazy that wants me to go back and erase that bit because, well, I don’t control the universe with my writing. She is alive and healthy.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check her breathing.

I am speechless, and that doesn’t happen often.

November 2, 2009

Reading the story of a funky, big hearted lady about to give birth to her baby, who was a lovingly donated embryo – from another blogger!! People amaze me.

So does this video, which I shamelessly ripped off of her website. It made me cry cry cry…happy and sad tears.

When people are united by those things we all want – love, acceptance, hope – how powerful we are both as individuals and as a community.

I really recommend you taking the next three minutes to watch this. Love is stronger than fear.

Can’t figure out how to embed this into this entry. Any help is appreciated!

 

Happy 11 week birthday, babies.

October 27, 2009

Am rereading my blog entries from the point of egg collection onwards. (IVF talk, for those of you who joined our little programme late in the day.) It’s making me nostalgic. So some memory lane walking….courtesy of the numbers 8 and 3.

8 days past a 3 day transfer

The one where we all find out I’m knocked up!!

8 weeks 3 days pregnant

At this point I have been run over by a motorcycle and thrown up more times than the average person would do in twenty lifetimes.  I am also a crabby bitch, as evidenced by this entry.

8 months 3 days pregnant

Well, okay, this is written the day AFTER, but the pictures of my bump on here are my 32 week + 3 days pic.

You know what’s next??? 8 months 3 days old. UM. Is that possible? What will they look like, sound like, move like?

Wow.

(A final sidenote: I realised whilst reading these entries that I had the goal of making TMD throw up from watching/hearing me throw up. That never happened. The best I got out of her was some serious gagging. I guess that settles it. We’ll have to have more babies.)