Disgraceful Ageing

I am unapologetically middle-aged. And although 48 may be the new 12 I think it is time I started acting my age. But what does that mean?

I like gardening and punk music. I wear skinny jeans and drive a station wagon. I love food, wine, theatre and staying in on Friday night. I may have a mortgage but it doesn’t mean I understand it. I still feel the same as I did 25 or 30 years ago, it’s just that the crow’s feet and tuck-shop arms give me away.

So I guess I’ll go on badly dyeing my hair, listening to Triple J, loving John Green novels and dressing inappropriately til the day I die. The last thing I want to do is have a mid-life crisis and discover tantric sex or turn vegan or join a cult or become a crazy cat lady.

I read an article about how middle-aged women feel invisible in today’s youth-worshipping society and frankly that’s fine by me. Ever since the shiny new megamart replaced my local corner shop I feel that if I haven’t had a manicure, a facial and a nose job before I go out to buy milk I’ll be committing social suicide, because invariably as I’m wandering the aisles vaguely, in my slippers and daggy old pilled jumper, without a shopping list wondering what the hell I came in for I’ll bump into my daughter’s favourite school teacher, the local member for parliament, my sadistic ex-boss, the kid who works in the video store where I still haven’t paid the overdue fine for Eat, Pray, Love and the bloke who fixes my car. Eventually, after I hide in the frozen fish section to avoid the militant wing of the P&C, I’ll end up buying 24 rolls of toilet paper (because they are on special) and I'll forget the milk.

My dad, who is 81, is reading The Hunger Games trilogy. He loves Katniss, Peeta and all the crew. It takes him back to the Depression days when hunting small wildlife and bush survival skills were the norm (not sure about murdering other kids). Only problem is he’s still waiting for the third book to be released. 

He has a saying which I like: “there’s no future in growing old”.

The Crying House

Recently I commiserated with a friend who was packing up her family home as it had been sold. (Cue audible sigh) It’s always hard moving house, physically it’s a nightmare and emotionally it’s just plain tough. So many memories, not all of them good, but all of them particular to the lives that are played out within those walls.

It didn’t help my friend that it rained for an entire week during the packing and detaching process. 

I was reminded of an art installation I saw last year as part of Sydney’s Art and About festival.  The installation, called I Wish You Hadn’t Asked by James Dive from The Glue Society creative collective, was a fully furnished house, erected in the middle of city, that rained on the inside.

For two weeks, furniture, bedding, appliances, toys, artworks, books and clothing deteriorated as 200 litres of recycled water rained down on them – gradually destroying this little time capsule of family life; symbolising a relationship falling apart.

To experience the installation you donned a raincoat and entered through the front door. At the time I visited it had been raining on the inside for over a week. I found the surreal Dali-esque scene of molten belongings - the ruined trappings of a familiar life - and the stench of decay extremely confronting. I couldn’t get out of there quick enough; tears streaming down my face by the time I exited the back door.

Of the project, artist James Dive said: “From the outside everything looks normal – it is only once we go beyond the exterior normalities that we become witness to a private world slowly destroying itself. As the water continues to rain down, and as your shoes fill up, we gain empathy for a private world which time cannot mend.”

I know it's not material possessions that define "home" but after the boxes are filled, and you’ve dealt with the dust bunnies that remain when the furniture is removed, somehow an empty house doesn’t feel like home any more. It took my lot six months to come to terms with our latest move. (Or was it just me?) Eventually we stopped calling it “that house” and now we belong (albeit in a state of flux for the last year - see Cabin Fever), the sounds and smells and chaos of family life - arguments and laughter - filling the spaces up.

Offspring

I may sometimes allude to the fact that I share my life with children. And while they fill my world with joy I don’t want to harp on about them. I can’t imagine growing up in the digital age and having every little success or failure plastered all over the interweb by my loving mom. Thankfully, back in the day mothers were way too busy to engage in banal status updates and children were seen more as a duty than inspirational blog fodder.

It’s not that I don’t cherish them it’s just that I don’t want to be typecast as a mummy blogger and alienate the demographic that choose to steer clear of the mental, physical and fiscal cliff towards which offspring seem determined to drive their parents. I have born and bred two daughters – no biggie – they are long out of nappies anyway so I’ll let them make their own online faux pas. But did I mention they are incredibly intelligent, gorgeous human beings?

I recently had the pleasure of interviewing Carl Honore, author of Under Pressure – How the epidemic of hyper-parenting is endangering childhood. Carl has some sage advice for would be tiger-mums about letting children just be children. (Cue the beautiful Jonsi.) It's all about the slow movement which includes education. Slow education lets children explore via an emergent curriculum that is lateral not linear. And slow schools don’t hothouse or teach to exams - I’m looking at you NAPLAN!

So I’ve decided to take a more hands-off approach to parenting. I’ve always encouraged individuality in my daughters – not that they needed it – and given them freedoms that some parents may feel unwise, but I feel they need to be able to think for themselves and learn from mistakes. Of course they know they can always call home and although it sounds counterintuitive, (my new favourite word), like slow education, hopefully a bit of freedom will help establish sound boundaries for learning and growth.

Blindsided

At a routine eye check-up (I’ll qualify routine later) I was told that I was legally blind in my right eye. Immediately my devious mind thought of any benefit I could claim - financial or otherwise – then the reality of the diagnosis began to sink in. Can I keep my driver’s license? Wow I’ve only got one eye left? Blindness is such a freaky thing for sighted people to imagine. I remember as a kid playing that party game pin the tail on the donkey and how we laughed at the near misses and hilarious places we’d stuck the tail.

Doesn’t seem so funny now.

My eyes are what you might call my Achilles heel. When I was in kindergarten, circa 1970, a routine school check up found I had myopia (short-sightedness) and a lazy eye with a slight turn – just for effect. For a year after that I wore glasses with a patch on one lens to try to strengthen the lazy eye. It’s called occlusion therapy. The cat-eye glasses had cream frames and the patch bore a Disney Bambi motif. Remember that kid at school with the patch? That was me. And though I can’t remember the taunts of ‘Cyclops’ it did make me look at the world differently. Besides, being a ginger I was no stranger to name-calling.

The best part about the diagnosis was that I got to go to a specialist in the city every month for eye exercises. This meant a day off school YES!, lunch at the Grace Bros. (now Myer) cafeteria - chocolate milkshake and a cheese sandwich, and one on one time with Mum.

Years later another diagnosis of congenital cataracts saw me in surgery – a routine procedure for octogenarians but not 20-somethings. But maybe my biggest fail optically was when I detached my own retina chopping wood. I’m too ashamed to go into detail but yes it did hurt and no I don’t fancy myself as a lumberjack anymore.

So here I am contemplating another ‘procedure’ to remove the rubber band that has been holding my retina in place since that fateful axe wielding day and that makes my kids look at me suspiciously when they see a glimpse of silicon in the corner of my eye (they think I’m some sort of Replicant), and trying not to consider the possibility of sympathetic opthalmia. 

Get real

As a rule I don’t watch reality TV – I can’t stand the squirming embarrassment I feel for each and every participant as they try to engender love (but more frequently loathing) through the various traumas and triumphs that take place during their sordid little 15 minutes of fame.

But lately I’ve found it useful.

It has become a way of connecting with my pubescent daughter before she plummets into the abyss of teenage angst and shuts me out completely. We can connect over America’s Next Top Model, The Voice, The Block, Four Weddings and possibly most distressingly Dance Moms. I draw the line at Wife Swap.

And while we don’t always see eye to eye on the content or contestants, at least it opens a dialogue about touchy issues like body image, self esteem, etiquette and most importantly – hair and clothes.

I only hope she doesn’t aspire to appear in a reality tv show or worse still, start living vicariously through these dunderheads.

All the shows are pretty much the same and attract a similar bunch of narcissists who willingly subject themselves to a series of often particularly cruel humiliations in their quest to win, win, WIN. Petulant behaviour, screaming and tears are par for the course. It’s all great fun until someone gets hurt.

And maybe that's the lesson we take from 'reality' tv - real life isn't a competition.

"Ideas are overrated"

So said the brooding badlander Mr Nick Cave in a recent interview. I reckon he’s had a few so I listened up. He qualified it with this: It is the hard work behind ideas to make them happen that is important or something like that.

And I agree.

Ideas are never a problem for me. They come thick and fast, usually around 3am when my brain is awash with anxiety reliving the preceding day’s events and expected outcomes of the next 24 hours. Storylines, business ventures, problem solving techniques all filter through the insomnia. But by the cold light of day those nuggets of genius pale in comparison to the deeds of the real movers and shakers of this world. Because it’s not the thinkers, dreamers or list makers (a group to which sadly I am a card carrying member) that win my admiration but the doers - the activists and volunteers, the entrepreneurs, scientists and community workers.

And so this post is dedicated to the Live Below the Line challenge participants (including my socially conscious teenager). A great idea that not only raises much needed funds for the poverty stricken but teaches a valuable life lesson in empathy.

If you would like to sponsor said socially conscious teen please click here.

Four funerals and a wedding

Not long after the flowers began to fade and list in their permamoist foam containers she began to notice things. Like shafts of light through summer mist after thunderstorms. Or the way the bowerbirds descended on her garden in fleeting olive-green drifts, cocking their hen-like heads, ever alert for the signalling call of the handsome blue-black fellow with his penchant for azure pegs and drinking straws. Maybe it was the bottled-up emotion curled like watchful cats inside her chest. Maybe it was the dreams that woke her with a start in the deep dark of night. But she noticed that the world was lighter and quieter. And she was set adrift in it – reeling and anchorless.

I never realised that losing my mum would make me feel so alone. So insecure. I feel it most keenly as the seasons change, as my girls grow, and our home renovation takes one more step towards completion -  things we will never share. Agonisingly, I feel it in my father's hollow voice down the telephone line.

I’ve been to four family funerals in four years. Each one different and yet the same. So inadequate the send-off for such intricate beings. And such an unfillable person-shaped hole in the universe when they are gone.

Perhaps we need death to make us take stock and dare to ponder mortality.

And then there is always joy. Birth, music, beauty and a perfect day.