And so you're back....

A lot can happen in two years.

You may travel to the UK twice more and really enjoy time with your family.

On one of these trips you and your husband may decide that you want to try for a baby.

On the next trip, you may be 12 weeks pregnant and really nervous about what the future holds.

During your pregnancy, one of your closest and dearest friends' cancer returns and you may spend precious time being with him and enjoying everything about him.

You may have a beautiful, healthy and wonderful baby boy and can't believe you are finally a Mum.

5 days after you give birth, you tell your wonderful and closest friend that it is time to let go and you listen to his last breaths over the phone. He may never get to meet your precious baby.
He doesn't.

When your baby is six weeks old, you may have a nervous breakdown and be admitted to hospital with post-natal depression and exhaustion. You can stay six weeks. You do.

You may find being a Mum the hardest, saddest, most difficult time you have ever experienced. You love your son with all your heart but have no idea how you are going to do "this" for the next 18, 20, 30 years of your life. You miss your own Mum more than you could ever imagine.

You may cry 10 out of 24 hours a day. You probably do.

You can go back to work part time when your baby is only 4 months old and you may find these few hours are enough to make you feel like Ya-Ya again.

At your baby's six month stage, you may find that he still doesn't sleep for more than 1 to 2 hours a night. You may feel you are going mad. You probably are.

You may experience anger at other people telling you how long their baby's sleep through the night. Or people giving advice when it hasn't been asked for. You may want to yell at them and pull their hair out. You probably do.

You may find yourself staring at your beautiful and innocent son and wondering how you could be so lucky to ever be Mum to this gorgeous and utterly wonderful human being. You definitely do.

After 2 years of absence, you may feel like writing again. A face book entry here. A short story there. You may even feel like writing your blog again. If you can find it. You do. And you do.

You may want to share this blog and enjoy the whole process of writing again. You may feel a incredible closeness with your son, your husband, your family. You may feel you have survived.

You have....and so you're back......

One in Ten

I am a one in ten.

She felt again for the money in her pocket. She could almost count the clean, crisp bills with her fingers.
$290.00. More money than she had ever had in her possession at one time. She felt so frightened.
She was the One.

She stared out of the tram window and tried to get her bearings. The only time she had ever been in this area before was with her parents. They had taken her out to celebrate her exam results last year.
A smart girl. A clever girl -who would go far. But they weren't here now. She felt so alone.
She was the One.

She stepped slowly off of the tram steps, her legs not quite moving how she wanted them to. She tripped on the gutter and grazed her palm and her knee- her school dress muddy, her dark blue tights all torn. She tried to pull her tights higher, so that the hole was covered by the hem of her muddy dress. She held back tears as she tried to dry the blood on her dirty palm by blowing on it. She felt so sad.
She was the One.

She tried not to look at the people milling about the front of the centre - protesting, forceably preventing her from entering the premises. A ecurity guard grabbed her arm and pulled her safely into the building. On her exam last year, she had written a essay about those protesters. She knew all their was to say on the topic - the pro's and con's, the why and how's. Now she knew how to feel too. She was a smart and articulate young lady. She felt so stupid.
She was the One.

She sat very still and very straight. The room was almost full with other people- mothers and daughters, friends together, couples.
She stared straight ahead and held back the aching sob she felt rising in her throat, the tears welling up in her eyes. She heard her name being called and struggled to gather her things. She felt so alone.
She was the One.

She awoke and felt tears drying on her cheeks. She felt a heaviness in her head and an emptyness in her body. She rose from the bed and allowed herself to be walked around, dressed and fed. She was told that someone was coming to collect her soon. She knew she had to get home quickly, so that she was not missed. She collected her things, declined to talk and made her way to the car. She sat by the window and watched the world go by. She felt a part of her die inside.
She was the One.

She felt so frightened, so sad, so alone. So tired.
She lay down slowly onto her bed and hugged her pillow tightly.
She tried to forget all that had happened, all that she had done.
She closed her eyes and made a promise to herself that she would never go through this again.

She was the One.

Wrong number- 9 things about...

My name-

1. My real name is Yasmin
2. My Dad was a postman and saw it on a letter to Africa and decided he liked it
3. My Mum wanted to call me Tracy - Lee
4. My Dad won
5. Ya-ya is a nickname my nephew came up with when Yasmin was too difficult to pronounce
6. Everyone calls me Ya-ya
7. I kinda like being called Ya-ya
8. I have two middle names and they both belong to my grandmothers
9. I think my name suits me

What's your name? Go on - tell me.....

Why can't I be you?

I have a confession to make. I want to be you. Yes, that's right you. The blogger who can do everything. The blogger who has everything. The blogger who updates on a regular basis.

I want your talent. Yes, you talented bloggers. I want your drawing skills and your ability to knit anything but squares and a scarf. I want your sewing skills and softie ideas and hand-designed/hand-crafted clothes that look like they belong in the windows of those trendy shops in the High Street. I want the ability to create something that is SWAPABLE and the ideas to open an Etsy store. I want that talent.

I want your homes. Yes, your beauitful homes. I want your gorgeous abodes that look like a mix between the houses in Vogue Living, Martha Stewart and Oprah Home. I want your quirky ideas and your second hand furniture (especially the ones found dirt cheap or even better - for free!) and your self crafted cushions, curtains, art etc (see above). I want your bits and kotchkes and thingamajigs and stuff. I want how tidy and clean your homes always look in the photos. I want to be able to mix red, aqua and brown. I want your homes.

I want your cute children. Yes, your kids. The ones who have the vivid imaginations and the fantastic wardrobes and the witty repartie. The ones who are home schooled and intelligent and musical and art filled. I want those kids.

I want your energy. Yes, your extraordinary energy. I want to be able to go to work (a job I love, of course) and I want to raise two kids (see before) and I want to bake cakes (that people want to eat) most days and I want to have the energy to decorate my home and create enough wonderful goodies with my talent to be able to fill my Etsy shop and the local trendy shop and enough left over to swap. I want your immaculate gardens that produce enough gourmet goodies for me to cook ever tantalising meals and I want your creative photographic talent, so I can take wonderful photos on my evening walks and I want your energy to blog entertainingly EVERY DAY and I want to never, ever be sad.

Oh, why can't I be you?

Never enough

It has been a long time. Every time I felt inspired to write, I would read a few of my favourite sites and then feel I had nothing to share. There is only so much you can write about grief. And I didn't want to appear morbid. Or constantly sad. Or in need of copious amounts of pity. Because I'm not and I don't want to be and I...just....don't. Want to feel like all of the above. And so I didn't write because compared to my favourite blogs, my life is - well, it just is.

I did do the walk in honor of my Mum and I walked for 8 1/2 hours and I raised $2500 for Kahlilla. And I'm glad I did it, not just because I helped little Kahlilla but because it gave me time alone to think of Mum. And it was nice. Mothers Day wasn't that bad after all.

My art group had our stall and it was a laugh. We still meet every month and our numbers seem to be growing. Some knit, some sew, some paint, some bead and some glue. It's really an excuse to craft and gossip and drink copious amounts of champagne. Some of the art/craft produced has been fantastic and so we are not going to stray from our original formula! If any of you are ever in Melbourne and want join our soiree, you are more than welcome.

My Birthday was wonderful and the 80's outfits were so funny - I was so chuffed that all my friends went to so much trouble and got soooo into the 80's theme. Lot's of drinking (my friends created a cocktail called a "Spazzy Yazzy" which tasted like fizzy cordial), dancing, gossiping and game playing (I will never be able to drink Galliano again!) I felt really loved. If any of you are reading this, thank you hoochie mama's - yes, you know who, fruit tart.

And life is life. I am still working extraordinary hours and I still want to be healthy (said as I am making my way through a Toblerone!) and I still have all my nagging what ifs and I am still trying work out my dreams.

And I still think about my Mum. But it's just never enough.

6 months in a leaky boat

It has been six months since my Mum went on her journey. I like that saying - went on 'her journey', it makes me feel that she is still around just in a different place. I miss her terribly but I have been going to counselling and now feel I can grieve without grieving. I think about her all the time, however now the memories make me smile as well as cry. I wish you could have all known her, and that she could have all known you.

My Mum's journey has left me thinking a lot about my own journey - the one I am experiencing here and now. I am usually a person of procastination - I say I am going to do a lot of things, that I want to try something or that I have always wanted to be some way and then it just passes and I let it. But in the last six months, I have been evaluating what is really important me and instead of talking about doing stuff, or dreaming of what I want to do and be - I am doing it. And being it.

For instance, I have learnt to meditate. I am not fantastic at it but I am doing it and enjoying it. My friends and I have started an art group and once a month we meet to create and be creative. We have booked a stall at a market and are looking forward to sharing our output. And I love it.
I am walking everyday and eating healthy, not because I want to lose weight but because I want to live the best life I can and being healthy is a part of that. And I am excited by it.
I am doing a sponsored walk on Mothers Day, in memory of my mother and to raise funds for Kahlilla, a very special girl who has neuroblastoma and who I will do anything to help (www.kahlilla.com). And I am looking forward to it.
I am having a girls-only 80's themed birthday party because I want to celebrate all that this life and this journey has to offer. And also because I have always wanted to and so I am going to. And I am estatic about it.
I am writing this blog because it means so much to me, to read all about you wonderful bloggers and your wonderful lives and to feel a connection to each and every one of you. And it is one of the best things I have ever done.
My Mum gave me the gift of life. Now she is teaching me how to appreciate it. Thank you Mum - I love you.

What ifs

The thing about my Mum's death is that it has affected me in areas that I didn't think it would. I now am scared about death. Not about the actual process but about not doing all that I want to do in the life that I have left. I feel that I have wasted years and years of my precious life and now I have to make "it" (ie:life) work. So, I have four jobs. Yep, you read that correctly-four jobs. And I don't really like any of them. And that doesn't include my craft creations that I sell or the party-plan- greeting-card-thingy I am looking into. I work not because I feel that I want to fit so much work in my life before I die (God Forbid!) or because any of it is fulfilling (hello - we're talking major boring here) but because there is so much I want to do before I leave this bodily plane and it all costs money.

And we are not struggling. If I wanted to I could stop work tommorow and Big M and I could comfortably live on his wage. But I want so much - and it's not so much the material things. I don't care if we never own a house. Or if we never have a new car (in fact I love Big M's old Holden so much we spend a fortune on it). Or if I never, ever dress in fashion (which I don't).

But what if I never get to visit New York again?
What if I never see the sun setting over a tropical beach?
What if I never experience a gondola ride in Venice? a gelato in Naples? window shopping in Milan?
What if I never drink cafe a lait while watching life stroll by in Paris?
What if I never snuggle with my Big M in near 24 hour darkness in Sacndinavia?

But what if I did give up work? What if money wasn't an issue? What would be my what ifs be then?

What if I never write a novel? Or complete a short story even? (A good one, I mean - that people will want to read)
What if I never make a quilt? Go in a Hot Air Balloon? Learn Yoga?
What if I never, ever get my eating under control? What if I never, ever get fit?

What if I don't find pure joy in my life?
What if I am always pining for my Mum?
What if I can't make my marraige work?
What if I never have children?

What if I never, ever have another what if again?

What if, I just shut up.

And so you're back...

I haven't known what to write for awhile. The thing about blogging is you don't know if anyone is actually reading you and if they are, do you really want to burden them with all your fears, desires, dreams and ideas. So, I continued to daily visit the sites that I love and sometimes I come back to this site. And I sit. And I stare. And I have no idea how to put all that I feel into a paragraph. And so then, I turn off the computer. And go and watch some telly.

A very High Medium

My Aunt B in England is a medium - in fact, she is one of the most celebrated mediums in the UK. She is a minister for the spiritualist church and she is one of the most beautiful special people I know. I stayed with her and my Uncle for a few days when I went to visit and we had wonderful talks well into the night: about religion, politics and family. I never ask personal questions relating to her skills. I always thought that it was too much to ask of a woman I admire and love so much. One night I finally asked the question that I been wanting to ask since September. My Aunt was queit for a moment and then answered:

"She has passed through and told me -I can sing again"

My Mum danced and sung competitively as a young girl and loved every minute of it. Unfortunately, it didn't provide money for her family and she had to give it up and work in the local factory at fourteen. She never gave up though and I have many childhood memories of her tap dancing around the kitchen singing songs from her childhood. As time wore on, her voice grew huskier with age and medication, until she couldn't hold a note anymore.

I now go to sleep each night with an image of my Mum tap dancing her way across the heavens singing at the top of her voice and smiling her wonderful smile. My Aunt B is a wonderful woman and will never know the joy she has brought to me in this sad time. In my eyes, she is a very High Medium.....

Christmas is coming

My Mum loved Christmas. She would run around the house singing;

"Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat
Please put a penny in the old mans hat
If you haven't got a penny, a ha'penny will do
If you haven't got a ha'penny
God bless you!"

We would decorate the tree exactly 12 days before Christmas and she made the best mince pies you could ever know. I didn't think about how much she made Christmas, how everything about the day is her.

We have an angel for the tree that was bought when my Mum and Dad first got married (they celebrated their 39th anniversary on 10th December- my Dad was very strong). It is made of cardboard and has a wobbly plastic barbie-like head, with blonde hair that has worn away with the years and which Big M states now looks like a mullet! It has sat atop the tree every year since I can remember and my brother and I worship it's little being. This year my Dad and brother have decided not to put the Christmas tree up at home. So I asked my brother to find the angel and bring her to me. Even though Big M and I have been together for nearly 11 years, this year marks the first year with our own tree. I tried the angel on top of the new tree but it just didn't look right. So she now sits on my table, looking over all around her and every time I pass her I think of Mum and Christmas. And I smile.

And, sometimes, I ask the little being;
How on earth do we celebrate Christmas without my Mum?

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