For the first time since being divorced I decided to give online dating a proper go. It doesn’t feel natural or comfortable for me, it’s way out of my comfort zone and completely unlike the traditional meeting people via other other people or meet at work approach that was around back in the day when I was single. (Pre Google and Apps days).continue reading
Aiden nagged to go play putt putt this morning.
I wasn’t ready yet, queue drama. Then I was ready he wasn’t. Queue more drama. Throw in some “my head hurts, I can’t move my legs, Mommy is the worst, mommy is the best, pick me up, I’m hungry but not for food, for sweets, I AM dressed for the beach (in thick black tracksuit pants and black high tops sure buddy sure) … blah blah blah” It went on like this for most of the morning until finally we hit the road after 1pm. 🙈 It was all going great (ish) – play any sport with Aiden and your definition of a good time is that the kids are still alive and you haven’t been arrested for using indecent language at an unacceptably high level in a public/family area.
Then I went and got a hole in one. Faaaark. 😫
And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Ava, his baby sister went and got a hole in one. Seriously! 😩😩
McEnroe had nothing, nothing on this lightly. We were running out of holes, time, patience (where are those little white pills when you really need them?) However, the tears and drop lips were plentiful. The evening flashed before my eyes like Nighmare on Elm Street.
Yes it was sunny, but the wind was nippy. I had goose bumps and yet I was sure I had sweat beads on my forehead.
I had been trying my best not whack him with a golf club but rather explain that, with his current attitude, of course he wasn’t going to get a hole in one. It was about having fun, enjoying the game. And if he did want to “beat us” – and we are talking about me who couldn’t care less as long as kids are enjoying it and mostly purposefully trying to throw my game, and Ava, who was holding the club like a croquet mallet and only connecting on every 4th attempt IF we were lucky, kicking the ball and sometimes just walking up and pushing it with her hands. (yes she really did get a complete fluke hole in one)- then he would need to change his attitude, stop dragging his lip and club on the floor and really give it best.
First shot… shit.
Ok Aiden, practice shot out the way. “Do it properly this time my boy. Love u 😁” – that fake smile parents get when they want others to think they are really enjoying an afternoon of putt putt with an 8 year old and a 4 year old, who by the way is now desperate to turn 5. Wtf. 🤷♀️
Can you effing believe it? He actually managed a hole in one on the last hole.
OMFG for small miracles.
Of course we had to make a huge song and dance about it even though when I did mine all I got was a death stare. Ava got a stomping-off-to-sulk reaction and some mumbling about how unfair life is.
Can you imagine what life would be like at home where his Mom and little sister both got holes in one and he didn’t. Either way it doesn’t matter, he pulled a shot out his ass and freaking did it.
I was more relieved than proud I have to admit.
Phew… I gotta tell ya, I am looking forward to the working week. Much less stressful.
First thing on my list will be to arrange play dates and back up play dates for all the weekends until the end of the year.
Heelllooo Monday 😀
Putt-putt perfectly sorted
Any potential play date parents reading this, it’s ok. Aiden is lovely, promise. He’s only like this with me. Apparently it’s because he feels safe and comfortable and some other warm and fuzzy bull that I have totally bought into. There’s even a motivation quote being reposted on Facebook about this kind of thing. Let me go find it quick. I promise, for reals.
Pictured Below: Ava and I on the beach chillaxing. Then the kids having a lovely swim. Nothing of our Putt-putt Arvo activity.
As moving goes, be it houses, towns, Provinces, County’s and countries, I have done it all. 17 times to be precise. Yes you heard right. 17 moves in 17 years.
At one point I was going to make a scrapbook of all the homes I’ve lived in, as if it were something to be proud of, like some kind of accomplishment. It wasn’t. Well not for me in any case. Being a homebody who loves nothing more that to put down roots as quickly as possible and get entrenched into the community and routine, moving is somewhat counterproductive. Unless it’s a move in the area to a specific estate or house you had your eye on that would further entrench your life there and make even more convenient and comfortable. On the positive side, I can count having expert relocation skills and experience under my belt that’s for sure. (Note to self to update my LinkedIn profile with that!) I have learnt to execute the logistics pretty seamlessly. And for the most part, the majority of the moves were pretty much like the other, from one house, flat, duplex, semi-detached, cottage to the next.
Leaving the home where Aiden was born was difficult. And now leaving the home I owned, where Ava-Jane was born, where Aiden spent most of his life and where I not only planted roots but an entire orchid in its fifth year of bearing fruit (It was also the longest I have ever stayed in the same house apart from Spence Rd, where we grew up – was there 20 years), you can imagine was devastating.
A place is a place. You can make new friends. A house is a house, they said.
But it’s not. It wasn’t.
For me, the place and the friends and family created this rock-solid foundation on which I not only built my home, my castle, my life, but my confidence, my happiness, my well-being, and controlled my anxiety. It felt like I knew everyone and everything. Everything had a place, and was in place, and there was a place for everyone and everything. I had tweaked and refined my life to the point that it hummed like a finely tuned engine. This removed an enormous amount of anxiety from my life; Kids are sick and need the Drs – sorted, my Dr was like a best buddy. Need a wax? Sorted, a bestie was on hand. Hospital? Sorted, been there so many times I know what who and where the best parking spot is. Kids dress up day at school? Sorted. Cake for a birthday? Sorted. Feel like hitting a class at the gym? Sorted, I could call on a number of besties to meet me there at a moment’s notice. I had it timed down to the second how long it would take me to stop at Dischem and the KwikSpar before fetching the kids. #sorted #organised #perfectrhythym
This move felt like an earthquake.
It was one of those moments that you have to wrap up carefully with bubble wrap, tape it over a few times and pack it up in a box to deal with later as dwelling on it would prove futile, just get in the way, and render me pretty useless.
That was the problem right there. I packed it away.
The actual move was well-planned and pretty perfectly executed. Schools sorted. House sorted. Removal truck booked. Boxes packed. Flights, car, doggie transport….. everything rolled out in military precision. Even the truck arrived exactly when I wanted it to. 9am sharp.
The labelled and numbered boxes, 48 of them to be precise, kept coming in. And they kept piling up until I felt like there was no more room to move. As I looked around I realised that the castle I had meticulously built was now reduced to bricks, stacked as high as the ceilings. My rock-solid foundation obliterated.
But me sobbing in the middle of Aiden’s room, surrounded by boxes and staring at a bed in pieces wasn’t going to help to get my castle rebuilt. I had to get everything in place and instil some semblance of routine for my babies. I would move mountains for them, or in this case move to the Mountain, to be able to do what I can give my little family the best life I can. I had to start somewhere and the beds seemed like the most logical.
I think the point of all this, for me was to admit that this was hard. That I miss my old home. I miss my old life and all the special people I left behind. I was so busy planning my new life, that I forgot to grieve over the old one. Because, for all intents and purposes, it is gone. I needed to say it out loud so that I can acknowledge it, give it its dues instead of packing it away and bury it somewhere, in order to focus on starting again, building my new life in one of the most beautiful cities in the world.
Yes, it will be hard.
Yes, it will take a lot of effort.
Yes, it is stressful.
But it is not insurmountable.
It will take time.
It will take patience.
It will mean being out of my comfort zone.
Move. Change. Adjust
We will rebuild.
As they say Rome wasn’t built in a day.
Meaning… “A complex task or great achievement takes time and effort and should not be rushed.”.
I would make one small adjustment to that phrase.
“Home wasn’t built in a day”