All posts tagged Letters

Her Mother's Daughter. Happy Birthday Mina.

by admin on September 9, 2010 in with No comments

Right now, there’s a blank page and a cursor staring at me, but that’s not from a lack of interest or not having anything to say. In fact, Mina, it’s quite the opposite. There is just so much I want to say that I am finding it difficult to know where to begin. Because I feel the pressure to be all…insightful. And intelligent. And deep. And write things that impress you and make you think your Mum knows stuff. But, in reality, the way I feel about you can literally be summed up in one single word: awesome.

I have been chomping at the bit to write this post all week. I have been trying to think of the best angle to try and make it all witty and about me and all that… but… you know, as you get older, these posts become less about me and how *I* feel, and more about you, and how incredible you are. Which, for a full blown narcissist like me, is tough to admit… but… you are becoming your very own person.

And I love that. I love that you are growing into this… person. With, like, opinions. And thoughts. And the ability to go to the toilet on your own and put on your own clothes… and play computer games and stuff. I still marvel at this person who has been a part of my life for 9 years and 8 months… that raven haired, intense little baby girl, growing into a beautiful, smart, intense person.

The intensity has always been there, but the one thing that amazes me is your ability to understand things that are so much bigger than other kids your age. I spent a lot of time trying to shelter you from the world, but this last year, you have had to live with experiences that you really shouldn’t have to… especially not all together in such a short time. Watching your Dad go from worker, to injured, to suicidal, to “mother”. Watching your mother sob, in your arms, in a way you’ve never seen her sob before, having to comfort her, because the only person she has is lying in a hospice bed waiting to die. Watching your parents marriage slowly disintegrate, and possibly knowing it was over well before either of us were able to say it. Realising lots of things about the world, and how hard and unfair it can be, on top of being 8 and the world being scary anyway… and… you know… it’s been a remarkable year. A really, really shit year.

There are lots of ordinary people out there, and I think you are starting to become aware of it already. And I think you know already, that you aren’t like the other kids. My heart broke into a million pieces a few weeks ago when you came home, burst into tears, and told me that everyone thinks that you are weird. And I know how it feels to be the weird kid, because I was the weird kid. And my heart broke into a million pieces because I, too, was 9 once. I, too, was creative and smart and saw the world differently from everyone else, including my family. And I escaped into music, and books, and my own head. From time to time, I would meet a teacher who got me, but for the most part, I lived the life of the weird kid… and to hear you talk about it, it’s not what I wanted for you.

But you know, if there’s one thing I am learning, is that eventually you will appreciate it. You are in for a bit of a hard time in high school – there is no doubt about that – but, if there is one thing I can emphasise, it’s that being weird is a good thing. Being different is a good thing. Seeing the world differently to everyone else? Yes, it can sometimes be a curse, but it is actually a precious gift. You may not realise it in your teens, or your twenties, or even beyond, but eventually, there will come a time where you realise that you are special, because you are wise. And wisdom is not something you can learn – it is something inate, inborn, and as sorry as I am for you feeling like the weird kid right now, on the other hand I am thrilled that you are different. You are also lucky, because no matter how you feel about it, I get it. I’ve been there. I understand that constant struggle to try and fit in even when you know you are different. And you know this already but you have me and I understand.

You make me laugh, because you are such a control freak it drives me crazy. You make lists, and notes, and try to plan things down to the finest detail. You requested I make you cupcakes – 10 pink, 10 purple, 10 blue. You made a list. you then checked up on me to see I was making them correctly. And I got a bit pissy because I was being micromanaged by my 9 year old daughter. And then I laughed. Because there is only one thing worse than being micromanaged by your child – and that is the sudden realisation that your daughter is exactly like her mother. You drive me nuts because we are the same and it makes me laugh.

You are like me to the point where I hear Grandma Chris’ little sayings creeping in, like “you are a genius but you have no common sense”, or “that girl will NOT SLEEP”. And I laugh. Because as much as Grandma lives on in me, I like to think that on some level the relationship I had with her, will live on in you and I. And that makes me smile. Because much like me and Grandma shared an understanding that noone else quite got, I hope that you and I will remain connected, even when we clash, at some fundamental level – with you knowing that I get you. And I love you. And I would do anything to protect you from the pain and harshness of the world, even when I know that it is impossible, and even when I know that you are tough enough to handle anything.

The next letter I write to you will be you turning 10. Heading into the teens, becoming someone who is bound to hate me for some of the time. And that’s OK. I find it bizarre that I have a 9 year old daughter, especially one that will help by getting her brothers breakfast and letting the dog out. But I watch you, and it helps me to feel like I am doing an OK job. And as messy as things might get, I want you to know that even when it doesn’t appear that way, you come first. Always.

Always.

And I hope that when I leave this earth, that you and your brothers will mourn with the intensity and gut-wrenching sadness that I do for Grandma. That I can create memories that become your saviour when you miss me and can’t see straight for the grief. And that there will be moments, where you talk to your own children, and you hear my voice. And laugh. And then I’ll know I did OK. And you will laugh, because you’ll be weird and warped like me and that will be a good thing.

I love you Mina and I am proud of you. Hang in there, it’ll be OK.

Rangus McNuggetBurger Esq. IV, aka "Moo" aka Moo Carlin. Confused little fuck.

by admin on February 28, 2010 in , with No comments

Moo.

Holy shit.

Moo!

ONE!

Where the hell did the last 12 months go? On one hand, it seems like so long… and on the other… so fast.

You poor, poor forgotten third child. I need to apologise in advance for bringing you into the world last, because for some reason, you seem convinced that you are our first. You seem to think that you can do stuff – like play – without being harassed by a well-meaning but otherwise utterly boorish 4 year old. You seem to think that you can get food without a cascade of other children nagging for my attention. You seem to think that, you know, giving yourself a severe egg allergy is something I won’t whinge about every time we need to make a cake or something. You also seem to think that if you scream, I’ll actually get up – rather than assess the cry and carry on.

Boy, do I have news for you.

That’s not to say I don’t love you… of course I do. In fact, in many ways, the fact that you had such a horrible start to your life makes me appreciate you just that smallest bit more… because we nearly lost you and I can’t not think about that every single day.

When Mina & Mr J were born, I managed to write out a story about the day they were born… you know… peppered with jokes… that sort of thing. All of my pregnancies & births have been really tough, but with the other two I managed to intellectualise a lot of it as the luck of the draw, in capable hands… and find sufficient distance.

But with you, it was so different. And I want to talk about this just for a little bit because I have never really been able to until now… and I don’t want you to think that the absence of a written birth story is somehow because of the “third child” thing. It isn’t. It’s because I could never summon up the strength to talk about the worst month of my life… because if not for something within me that said things weren’t right, you probably wouldn’t be here.

And I don’t know if that is something that I can ever shake. Partially because now that 12 months have passed, I can no longer pursue any complaints; partially because I just felt so disempowered and humiliated by this doctor for demanding adequate care; and partially because the thought of you, on all those machines, on all that morphine, on all those drugs… is just too much to bear. So I never really processed it because frankly? I spent every single day of the last 12 months just trying to forgive him. I think it might take a little more time.

I will never forget that Sunday morning, when I hadn’t felt you move for a while, when I called up the hospital, went in, and found you were distressed. I will also never forget the numerous arguments with my “Doctor” over the fact that my blood pressure remained uncontrolled, that I felt sick, that I was so swollen I could barely move… and he did nothing. I asked for a second opinion and he lied to my face about the doctor being out of town. I will also never forget that Tuesday, after spending 9 days in hospital, feeling ill, not feeling you move, and hearing “oh he’s just a quiet baby” over and over again from the incompetent, bullying, private hospital midwives, and having my Doctor walk in, and discharge me with a blood pressure spike of 170/110 the night before. I will never forget asking for growth scans (having had 2 hypertensive pregnancies before) and being told “2 weeks won’t show anything new”

I will never forget locking myself in the bathroom from the stress, leaving Dad to argue with the “Doctor” in my hospital room, and finally sacking him, walking out of the hospital, and requesting that he arrange for me to be seen at King Edward by a Doctor who actually gave a crap. 2 days later, we were seen by a Maternal-Fetal Medicine specialist.

I will never forget being right. For being told by an experience sonographer that not only was there no such thing as a “quiet baby”, but that in 2 weeks you had gone from the 50th percentile to the 10th. I will never forget feeling a little relief that my blood pressure seemed to have settled down, but still being told that you needed to be born, because you were under significant stress. I will also never forget being told that if we had left this another week, your chances of being stillborn were significantly high.

But apparently, you know, 2 weeks doesn’t make a difference, and that “Doctor” we had fired, to his face, had instructed me to see him in a week at his office and discharged me. It plagues my thoughts, wondering, if I had been compliant and listened to him and his assessment. And it makes me so angry that he gets to treat women who might not be as stubborn as me.

But you know… I never could really write about it in the same way, with distance, that I did with your brother and sister… because I am still not over it.

But you know, in a way, it’s been the catalyst for me deciding to go to Medical School. All of these cumulative experiences have given me the push I needed to make the decision. Not that I wouldn’t trade that experience in a  heartbeat, but, you know.

Unfortunately you were born in the eye of a storm… because 2009 was an extremely stressful year. After the stock markets crashed at the end of last year, the clients were fairly light on, I was in hospital and your Dad had to take a whole heap of unpaid leave. We had a lot of financial difficulty at the beginning of the year, and it eventually resulted in the repossession of my car. But hey… we recovered. After you were born and I got back to work (I had a conference call at midnight the night after your were born and still in the NICU), things started to slowly recover and I managed to pay some debt.

Then, your Dad got injured at work, was bullied by his employer and the insurance company and, well… that fucked us right up for 6 months, only settling a month ago. I also got really sick, have had to battle with Doctors and all kinds of stress… and basically… we started 2010 optimistic with it slowly proving to be just as fucked as 2009.

With the settlement money not even covering our losses, we are back to square one and its stressful. But, you have your Dad home with you, and he takes care of you whilst I work. All day. Every day. I am exhausted and still quite unwell… but… getting no government support, no family support and, well, basically being on our own, I have no choice really but to make it work.

I write about this now because I find it funny that by the time you are Mr J’ age I will be pretty well on my way to being a Doctor. And by the time you are Mina’s age, I will be one. So I am just taking a moment to remind you that things were hard. In fact, I expect them to stay that way, because, well… we aren’t the luckiest people in the world… and I expect things to get worse before they get better. Because I am tired & sick, your Dad is tired & sick, and we snap at each other a lot just trying to survive.

But we do try to protect you from that as much as possible. We do that with all of you as best we can. We fail frequently but… you know… we try. We just keep on going forward, one foot in front of the other… and hope that someday all the effort pays off. Maybe it ill in the form of tenacious children… who knows what the future holds, but hey… it’s certainly not boring.

So, you know, you’re walking and getting into shit and being basically cute… and I am trying to enjoy every minute as much as I can.  I say that the only good thing to come out of 2009 was you… and I mean it. I can’t imagine our lives without Moo, and despite feeling very unlucky most of the time, I am just so blessed to have you in my life… even if I have to make you special egg-free food.

Happy birthday!

The birthday of the middle child… Happy birthday Julesy!

by admin on December 2, 2009 in with No comments

I opened Mina’s birthday post with the phrase “holy fucking shit balls”, which is kinda hard to beat, really, and I am just going to use that as my excuse for taking nearly a month to write this birthday post.

Yes, it was the pressure of trying to beat that opening phrase that did it, and not at all the fact that you are living in the eye of a complete fucking cyclone right now. And not at ALL because I am lazy.

We haven’t been very good at hiding it, either, even though we try really, really hard.

But I have to say, that with everything else going on, you make my day so much brighter in so many, immeasurable ways, in that way that only Mr Jy can.

Because holy fuck, you are one funny kid. Not just in that way that all kids are precocious, funny and quotable, but in that “Not everybody gets me and I am OK with that” kind of way. You love the in-joke, the repetitive, especially if it involves the “Squirrel!” joke from “Up”

You’ll be having a conversation, sitting there talking to me and you’ll just say “Squirrel!”.

And yes, I laugh every time. And then I do it, and we start again. And that’s our day.

And even though you’re funny, we have been going through a bit of a thing at the moment where we are a bit concerned about those fixations: what is normal, what is healthy and along with some other little things, we are a bit concerned.

Through friends, your Dad and a shit load of watching, I have become aware of Asperger’s. And honestly? Even though I initially thought that you might be Aspergic, after having really observed you for the last period of time, I honestly don’t think it’s the case.

Because you care too much. You express empathy in a way that an Aspergic 4 year old wouldn’t. You are genuinely caring and loving towards me, and haven’t yet learned that that is the expected thing, so I am not inclined to believe it without just seeing how we go.

Because sometimes? Kids are a bit different form other kids. You are shy with other kids, take a long time to adjust to change and really love your routine. But, I dunno… I just don’t see it.

I don’t really know what normal boys are like, to be honest, so I am kind of flying blind here (you can just be a practice run for Moo :)). The male role models in my family aren’t exactly stellar, and your Dad, as wonderful as he is, has issues of his own. But you know what? Honestly, if you are Aspergic, or even if you are completely normal, you would be wise to follow your Dad’s example of how to be a man.

I want to take a moment to talk to you about the person that will be your biggest influence, inform your world view, and hopefully be your guide through the inevitable talk (that I want NOTHING to do with) about male bodily fluids, Playboy magazines and car-things – but also about the good stuff like how to treat girls,  how to talk to your mother and sister and how to take the blame when the Feds hit us up for downloading Dexter.

Your Dad’s ego & spirit have copped a pretty big flogging this year. Actually,  everyone’s has really, but having to watch your Dad be bullied, called a liar, harassed and belittled, simply for the crime of being injured at work, is something that I am kind of glad happened when you were too young to remember.

It sucks. There’s not much else to say about it.

But something that I want you to know (because I honestly don’t know how this is going to end – whether our marriage is going to survive, or he is!), is that your Dad went to work every single day at 5:30am. He came home in the middle of the day for a few hours and helped me look after you & Moo. Then he went back to work until around 6-7pm, sometimes longer, to help support the family. And then he’d come home and help me.

He worked those hours when you were a baby, when I was building a business and only earning $10,000 a year in the process. He worked those hours when I was sick. He worked those hours throughout so much of your life, because I was building a business so I didn’t have to go back to work. And no matter what happens, I want this written here as a reminder of the selfless, caring, honourable man your father is.

He was good at his job. So good, in fact, that when a driver pulled out in front of him with only a couple of metres to spare, he managed to swerve a whole bus away from the car, avoid killing the driver, and injured himself in the process. He was so good at his job mostly because he’s a buttburger, but you know what? He’s the best kind of buttburger. He’s OUR buttburger.

And even if it turns out that you are, in fact a fellow buttburger, the same applies to you. We don’t love you in spite of how you are, we love you because of it… mostly because I never stop cracking up at the burger & butt jokes… but nonetheless… I hope as hell that you are like your Dad. But don’t tell him I told you.

The other thing that I wanted to talk about is the birth of your baby brother. I’ll admit, I had my doubts about how you’d cope with not being the baby, and as usual, I have underestimated you. How you are with your brother is indescribable – like – the initial shock of finding out Moo was a boy, even though I was SURE he was a girl – has melted away. Because now, I have my 2 boys. My 2 boys. Wow, that’s weird to say, but man, it’s something to behold.

You share your CARS with Moo, and he doesn’t fully appreciate how important that is, because your cars are the most important thing in the world to you right now. And you let him slobber all over them. You are such a great big brother, there are no words.

So you start Kindy next year, I am very nervous about it, but all we can do is hope for the best. I have a feeling it’s going to be OK, because I am starting to learn more about you. And you know, as my inevitably neurotic middle child, you’re actually kind of cool and you enrich my life in ways that are constantly surprising. And I will always have your back. Always.

I love the fact that you think haircuts are painful, that anything other than yoghurt is poison, that you run “like Dash” with a superhero shoulder lead-in (hilarious), that every morning I wake up to you running up and down and up and down the hallway. I love that you use half of my internet quota on youtube, that you are already computer and internet literate, and yet still call a drink a “wink” and Frank a “wank”, and Lightning McQueen “Lighting Irene”. I love that you are happy with the simplest of toys, and you like my attempts at cookies and cakes for your birthday, and that you think that me making you a Milo is a miracle to behold.

I love you Mr J, you’re wonderful just the way you are. Happy Birthday Rock Star.

If God is 7… ok those Pixies references are getting old. Happy Birthday Mina.

by admin on October 1, 2008 in with No comments

In case it’s not already abuntantly clear to you by now, Mina, I suck. I suck at writing birthday blogs on time. I suck at paying attention when you’re talking for the twelfth time about Barbie and the Diamond Castle. And sometimes, I suck at making sure you have clean uniforms to last beyond Wednesday and I most definitely suck at remembering to buy enough fruit for school.

But, somehow you survive anyway.

And that’s what is so awesome about being your Mum. You let me get away with being imperfect.

I think by now you have realised exactly how imperfect I can be. The business is at a point where it creates just enough stress to be disruptive, but not quite enough money to justify the stress, which means, well, I am kinda cranky and overworked. A lot. To the point where I frequently fantasise about going back to a full time job, where it was easier, I could Facebook for half my day and still get a paycheck, where the livelihood of the family didn’t always depend on me being productive. I fantasise about not having to bend over, show reams of paperwork, a business plan and a urine sample to get any level of respect from my bank, even though I earn more than most people with a full time job. I frequently fantasise about having that boring, traditional life, where people understand what you do, how you make money, and see it as legitimate. The stress of having a business at home is something that affects the whole family, and sometimes, it really sucks.

But the cost of going back to full time, of course, is that I would not be able to drop you off at school, or pick you up, or have impromptu playdates, or any of those little things that I enjoy being there for. Granted, I don’t exactly go to assemblies, or volunteer in the classroom, or, well, anything beyond paying for stuff, but at least now I have a choice. Being able to dictate my own timetable is the single greatest thing about what I am doing right now. There is very little that I have to do, right this second, that it cannot be done later. Unless, of course, I keep sayig “later” and then I end up barking at the both of you to shut up and then yell at your Dad saying how I get no respect and that…. well…. yeah. That. Which is usually my own fault.

And I am sure you know that being in business doesn’t always suck, when people pay on time, and I am motivated and things are going well, and you and Mr J are playing nicely, and all my work is finished before 5pm, and I am not completely exhausted from growing a new human in my belly all day. In fact, when I hear you talking about how you want to work with me when you grow up (well, a web designer AND a Rock Star), it makes me feel like, despite my glaring imperfections as a human being and as a mother, that deep down, you see me as a role model. And that is the best feeling in the world.

There is a saying that to see a child at 7 is to see the adult. I have been seeing glimpses of the kind of woman you will become: strong willed, kind hearted, practical, intelligent, with a strong sense of the macabre and ironic. I would say that you are a lot like me in many respects, except that you seem to be more meticulous and conscientious than I ever was. Maybe it’s the non-dysfunctional surroundings that help you to be like that – you have more structure than I did. But, you know your own mind, you know what you want, and you have a pretty good sense of the world around you too. And it’s the most awesome thing I have ever witnessed.

And as I see glimpses of the woman you will become, I have remind myself to not fuck it up. I am trying very hard not to repeat the mistakes of my parents, with a hope that when you are an adult, you can come to me for anything, you can tell me anything, and we will have the kind of relationship that I always wanted with my own mother. I think we are off to a good start, because right now, you look forward to a day on your own with me. You want to play guitar like me.

For your birthday you have started guitar lessons, and you have a new Daisy Rock guitar, thanks to Janet :). The teacher seems to think you’re doing really well, and you love it. Watching you play guitar with full distortion, and rocking out, is an inexplicable feeling. All I ever wanted growing up was music lessons, but I never got them. So I am partly living through you, and I hope that’s ok. I hope you stick to it, but most of all, I hope you enjoy it. I have always been committed to providing you with opportunities that I never had, and I hope that when you are all grown up and a part time rock star/web designer, that you’ll be a little bit appreciative that even though there are some things I am bad at, that my intentions have always been to nurture you into the woman that I see you becoming.

Happy Birthday, 3 weeks late. Sorry. :)