Being One with the Weirdo

Yeah, so it's taken me a long time. Three decades or so. To accept that I am rather a different sort. And when I say 'different' I don't mean 'let's celebrate your individuality, you're going to be a star' different. I simply mean that I am bat-shit crazy. It used to be a source of great angst and I tried to hide it, which was futile and exhausting. And now I just let it all hang out. I own it. The hipster way of saying pretty much the same thing. Also I'm nearly 40 years old ffs. It really is now or never. I've come to a place where my weirdness and I can coexist. Not always happily or in complete harmony, but we bump along together.

• I only read books, that are, like, actual books. With pages you can't zoom in on, but spines that bend. No screens. Ever. I associate screen reading with work. Reading fiction is anything but. The library, therefore, truly is my happy place. More so really than anywhere else in the world. If they sold good coffee, I'd be there every day. I'd likely move in.
• I've yet to see a single second of a single episode of Game of Throes. And I don't intend to. Ever. Medieval fantasy just ain't my vibe. 
• A few months ago I had a hernia repair procedure. I woke up in a ward with a lot of women who'd just had laparoscopic surgery for endometriosis (or other stuff I shan't share) in efforts to fall pregnant. We had to wait for the general anaesthetic to wear off and we couldn't move. So we did what women do when they're off their faces on drugs. We drank tea, ate toast and chatted up a storm. In deference to their various fertility issues, when I was asked if I had any children, I avoided the question altogether by asking a question in return. Lying by omission I think they call it. This worked very well and I was rather chuffed with myself. Until it came time for me to be discharged and instead of meeting my husband at reception which I'd specifically requested, he thought he'd form a happy-to-have-you-home committee and burst into the ward with all of our children who threw themselves at me like a pack of puppies. I offered a feeble "Oh yeah, these are my kids. I forgot about them!" before bolting as fast as a freshly-stitched abdomen would allow. It was not a good day. I still feel shame thinking about it and the scar is a searing reminder that I should never pretend I don't have kids. It always ends in pain.
• Speaking of painful. I like hot things scaldingly hot. I literally microwave my hot drinks before I drink them. And cold things freezing cold. Except sparkling water which I like at room temperature because it helps keeps the bubbles bubbly. This does not apply to alcoholic bubbles. These must be arctic cold.
• Recently on an uncharacteristic night out. At an actual pub. Not just a PTA meeting or a parents evening at school. These sadly also count as nights out in my life. I went to the bar to order and said to the bar lady, "Could I have a bottle of Prosecco please. And can it be very cold." To which she replied "Certainly. And how many glasses would you like with that?" I said "Err, just the one, please." I smiled. She smiled in complete understanding. She turned out to be an Aussie. Obvs.
• I once took the entire biscuit tin to school when I was running late for pick-up. My children expect a snack. It's the stupidest thing I started years ago and now I can't get out of it. I usually bring them a sandwich, fruit roll, Tupperware of strawberries, something. It's the first thing they say when they see me after 6 hours at school. I go: “Hello sweethearts, how was your day?” They go: “What did you bring us to eat?” I brought the biscuit tin in a moment of desperation and tried to discreetly open it so they could grab a couple and we could get on our way. But they pulled it out and brandished it for all to see. They chorused. I cringed. Not my first cringe in the school yard. Likely not my last either.
• I push my trusty old double-pram-steed to school every day despite the fact that my children are 7 and 4 and don’t need a pram. But I need it. It carries the school bags, the bike and the scooter and the helmets. I also get a childish kick out of wheeling the pram into town after I've dropped them at school. And when people worriedly enquire: “Er, where’s the baby?” I scratch my head and pretend I can't remember where I left it. And just before it gets too awks, I announce: “Just kidding. My children are at school. I brought the pram for myself. I need it to carry my wine.” Some people think it's genius. Most make a hasty retreat.
• I like to do personal gifts for the teachers for Christmas. In December I decided that making a cake was a great idea. An entire cake each. Except I couldn't just make for the three class teachers. I felt I needed to make for the teachers' assistants, the head, the deputy head and the office staff too. This meant 12 cakes. I bought 4 springform 6-inch cake tins figuring I'd do three baking sessions. Badda boom. Mmm, what cake to bake? Orange and polenta was my current favourite, so I reckoned that would be a goodie. Except I failed to realise that each cake required an entire packet of ground almonds and polenta which cost a small fortune, plus the zest of two oranges which was a bitch on the fingernails, plus a saucy syrup that I had to boil for hours and reduce. Less badda. More broken. And one teacher has a nut allergy so I needed to make that cake separately and be sure not to confuse it with the others. A simple cake offering became Cakegate 2018. Never to be repeated. Apparently the cakes were lovely which is good because I laboured longer over them than I ever did any of my children. 
• Speaking of broken. My daughter broke her arm while we were hosting a playdate with two other children. She fell out of a tree at a park. There was a lot of screaming. I went running. Only to check that the other children were ok. Not for her. She screams a lot. There was no blood. Her arm looked fine. No swelling. No visible damage. I then made her pose with her friends alongside the lake with her broken arm that we didn't know was broken. I asked her to please stop crying because she was ruining the photo. It was a full 24 hours before we realised her arm was broken because she couldn't move it and she was still bleating that it was sore. We didn't even give her pain relief because 1) we didn't have any 2) we didn't think she needed any. Yeah. Another parent fail. I succeed at parent fails. 
• I've decided that I really like to help at the school disco so that I can dance The Macarena, YMCA or pull moves from Grease with a horde of pre-teens and any teachers I can drag down with me. My son does not like it as much. He says my dancing is the cringiest he's ever seen. And he says he watches a lot of bad dancing on Youtube so he's well informed. Regardless, I will continue to attend discos with the young uns. It is the best fun. And who knew you could dance without being rat-faced? I certainly didn't. It's great exercise, makes you feel fantastic and there's no hangover. Bonus. The fact that my son doesn't want people to know I'm his mum - well, that was bound to happen eventually.
• I still think wedges are pants. I still accost any random stranger Saffas I encounter. I still overshare to any random stranger I encounter, Saffa or otherwise. I still use the word dogshow for anything not remotely related to an actual dogshow. I still dream of big South African skies and the view of 'Maritzburg as you make your way down Town Hill on the N3. I still feel 25 until I try to do a cartwheel and then not so much. Or until I look in the mirror. And then again not so much.
• A million miles from normal I am. Today. Tomorrow. Always. And you know what, I'm totally ok with that.

Cakegate 2018

Using a pram to cart the children cricket equipment. As I do.

For Love or Money

Do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life, they say. Well that's bollocks. Codswallop. I never dreamed it possible that I would one day write for a living. Until now. Until I started writing for a living. And it's hard. The hardest work in fact. Why? Because I care so much about doing it right. I guess so that I can continue to do it. Also, no one except perhaps Piers Morgan gets to write exactly what they want. Or possibly Ian McEwan and his ilk, although I'll bet that even he feels the pressure to produce another bestseller. Professional writers write to get paid. No matter the brief. No matter the client. It's only the unemployed writer who can afford to write what they want. And I can't afford to be unemployed.

This blog is the perfect case in point. I love to write here. I love the fact that I can, and I do, ramble on and on about everything and nothing. It's a digital diary of a life lived. I sometimes scroll back and giggle or gag, mostly gag, at the overshare from years gone by. I rarely have the time though these days to do what I love. To express myself within the relative sanctuary of this screen, knowing full well that there are only about five regulars, including my mum, who read my latest rant. I resolved today that there would not be another week that goes by where I write a whole lot of stuff for a whole lot of people, but I neglect to write something about myself, for myself. And the five people who'll read it.

So here I am. Work notwithstanding, it's been a whirlwind for us lately. We've begun the process of applying for dual citizenship. This deserves a blog post all of its own. But I will wait until we are further down the road in this journey before I share all of the details of how one acquires dual citizenship and the organs paperwork required in order to do so. For fear that what I say can and will be used against me. This exercise has been an epic undertaking in human perseverance and bureaucratic tenacity. But then everything about this journey has been epic. We've been here six years. It feels like a lifetime and yet feels like just yesterday that we sat at the Spur at the King Shaka International Airport with our family having a final drink before we boarded a flight that would take us to Heathrow and the start of our adventure, a million miles from normal.

We're older. We can see it. We can feel it. Our children are older too. Taller. With more words and less teeth. My 10-year-old can wear my blazers. And does. He's virtually my height. Lithe and pointy-featured. Confident, compassionate and kind. My daughter is tall and leggy, a tip-toeing little waif with a mega-watt smile and a constant stream of chatter. My youngest, a fearless four year old who is the age now that our eldest was when we first moved to the UK. A solid build that belies the softest, most tactile nature - a sensitive soul who shines in the light of his siblings. They're a remarkably strong and resilient trio. As all children are. But more so because they live with little extended family structure. And this is tough. I know so because it's tough for us and we're adults. Special milestones and Christmases remain heartbreakingly bittersweet and I don't foresee this getting easier to cope with. This too will not pass.

What has passed though is that I have finally acclimatised to the British weather to the degree that I now not only speak about it incessantly, like I did here, but I feel it less acutely. 10 degrees I now rate as rather mild. 14 degrees is positively balmy. This revelation may have a lot something to do with the fact that I have discovered the delights of down outwear. I'm totes down with down. Layering is so last year. This is massive progress for me. Feeling perpetually cold is not a happy place.

So back to where I started. It's sad that society deems you successful at something when you make money from it. It shouldn't be that way. But it is. Ricky Gervais said it best. He says a lot of things best in my opinion. He said "Happiness is the only success that matters and the one that your critics are the most jealous of." Of course he said that though. He can afford to. Until I can afford to say life affirming stuff that they make into memes -  I will write words for the money. And I will love this blog for the words.

Hemingway I am not. Bleed I do.

Ricky Gervais - writer, humanitarian and a lot that is right with the world

A Bluster of British Banter

So it’s happened. After 6 years of life in the UK. After moving into four different houses. Birthing our third child. Settling three children into two different schools. Settling myself into a social circle of new friends. Getting indefinite leave to remain status on the long road to citizenship. Learning to drive through the eye of a needle along narrow roads. Navigating buttock-clenching four lane traffic circles. Parking three miles from anywhere to avoid having to parallel-park. Driving a lot less. Walking a lot more. Getting used to the constant drone of living under the Heathrow flight path. Working for myself. Cleaning for all of us. Learning to survive homesickness that hits the solar plexus. Learning to survive camping. Learning to enjoy camping. After a complete transformation of lifestyle/culture/family/friends/career. After all this time. I am now someone who talks about the weather. A lot.

My European work colleagues have dubbed me “the weather girl". In my email intros, I not only make small talk. I make small talk about the weather. It’s become my weird little trademark. I look out of the window and write about the 50 shades of grey (both rubbish), that it's cloudy with a chance of meatballs or perhaps as Pooh says "it sure is rather a blustery day". When there's actual sun I bring out my jazz hands. It’s cringey. But I can’t help myself. I have become incapable of starting any sentence without: “Greetings from a gloomy Windsor” or “A sunny hello from southeast England”. I can’t remember how I used to do email intros before. I draw a blank. In the same way I don't know how I filled my time a decade ago before I had kids. I honestly couldn’t tell you.

If there was a barometer of Britishness, I guess weather banter would be pretty up there. Along with drinking two litres of tea a day, popping to the pub for a pint and listening to the Queen’s speech at Christmas. It’s a safe topic. It changes every five minutes so there’s plenty of subject matter. It’s inoffensive. It’s impersonal. It’s perfectly British in every way. I even engage in a wee weather chatter with the checkout ladies at the supermarket. “Brrr...by golly, it’s cold today. We’re in for some snow apparently.” Sometimes they run with it. And I get a little “Yeah and it’s cold in here and all.” Sometimes not. And I get a raised eyebrow, no eye contact and my groceries are scanned in record speed and I’m sure there’s mumbled nuance of “nutter” directed at my derriere.

The weather here is not just a conversation starter. It stops traffic. It closes train lines. Roads. Schools. It gets under your skin. In your bones. Obviously, I’m used to a more moderate climate down south, where unless it’s kak hot, kak cold or there’s a kak load of rain, it’s not something we spend a lot of time talking about. Weather chat is a first world privilege. Apparently the average Brit spends the equivalent of four and a half months of their life talking about the weather and it comes up in conversation three times in a typical day. An actual study was conducted. Someone took the time to research it. It's a hot topic. A hot mostly cold topic, if you will.

Oscar Wilde said: “conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative.” So there I go. Or perhaps I’ve already lost it? Along with the age-defying chub that apparently used to cushion my cheekbones. Who knows? All I do know for sure is that for the last couple of days I’ve been working on my couch with my coat and scarf on. The radiator is on max, but the arctic breeze that creeps up through the suspended wooden floor takes my breath away. Yesterday, I looked outside and typed: “Greetings from Windsor! Today we had 20 000 or so people visit our town. Along with the inimitable Jack Frost. He snuck in overnight on a cloud of ice, snow and slush. The bastard. I hope you’re enjoying warmer climes wherever you are and you’ve received a less frosty reception to the start of your day.” And then I made myself a cuppa. As is just as customary in these parts. Where it's currently cold. Kak cold.

Snow flaming cold 

Loved. Calm. Happy. Peaceful. Brave

Raising a child is a lot like baking a cake. You gather all the ingredients, put them together and hope for the best. Well that’s I how bake anyway. Hell, that’s how I parent. Nothing is guaranteed. Sometimes the cake rises to the occasion and sometimes it’s a complete fuck up flop. It’s never fool-proof, no two cakes ever come out the same and you never quite know how you’ve done until the cooking time is complete. You can’t open the oven door halfway through and add in the baking powder, or mix it a little more thoroughly or remove the nuts you shouldn't have added. You simply have to give it a jolly good go and wait it out. And you only ever get one chance with that cake. This is exactly how I feel about being a mother. Did I over mix it? Is it completely cooked through? Will it sink in the middle? Will my kids look back on their childhood and think ‘hell yeah, we had a good one’ or will they need to breathe into a paper bag and work through all sorts of neuroses that a therapist will tell them I was responsible for? Too much squawking, sarcasm, passive aggression and perfectionist tendencies – my arsenal of arsehole attributes that are kryptonite for my kids. Any kids, really. But mine mostly on account of them being mine. And by then it’s too late. And I’m a lush because our children are emotional train wrecks. It’s a sobering thought.

A thirteen year old South African girl who was badly hurt in a car accident on Christmas Eve got me thinking about all of this. She sustained terrible head injuries and it looked like she wouldn’t make it. She has though. She woke up. She breathes on her own. She lives. She’s got a long road to recovery ahead of her, yet every day she’s defying medical odds. It's a remarkable story.

Sitting at her bedside in the hospital, her mum recently asked her to point to a set of emotion cards that reflect how she felt at that very moment. She chose the cards: Loved. Calm. Happy. Peaceful. Brave. This is a young girl who literally has part of her skull stored in her abdomen for safe keeping because it was so badly damaged. And while she’s faced with some big obstacles, she’s still able to reflect with such positivity and gratitude. There’s no blame, anger or pity. Just those five wonderful words. That’s one extraordinary child. And those are a set of extraordinary parents.

I’d give my one clean-ish kidney for either of my children to look back on their childhood and say, "I felt loved. Calm. Happy. Peaceful. Brave.” What a gift that would be. Not just for them because they’ll be delightfully self-aware little souls ready and able to conquer all of life’s challenges, obvs. But also for us as their parents. Until then though, we try. Hard. We lovingly watch the cakes we’ve baked. We do our best. And we hope for the best. Because only time will tell how they turn out. Well, time and my daughter, she’ll tell the world. Inspired by an amazing young South African girl a continent away, I asked my daughter to choose just two words to describe how she feels about her life. She looked me straight in the eye with all of her seven years and sass, and said: “Mmmm, I feel unsure and um, weird. Why would you ask me that? How much wine have you had?" Sobering thoughts indeed.

I'm very grateful for all the cake in my life. And my children. Not in that order (well some days) but they're worth every burn in every sense of the word, every catastrophe cake-related or otherwise - and all the sass. And to that warrior young woman down south, I promise I will strive to love bigger, keep calm(er), be happier, foster more peace and be braver so that my children learn to do the same. Big-ups to not being a bad mamabaker. Big-ups to being a bad-ass mamabaker - in the making.

Me, My Sass and I

From Kiara's Mum's Blog

A Decade of Motherhood - A Lifetime of Memories

Yeah, so it's that time. The annual birthday auxiliary input. Our middle child has just turned seven. Our youngest, four. Their celebrations can best be described as a touch of magic with mayhem en masse. Literally. We hosted a magic party for 45 three to seven year olds. The magician even had a rabbit. A live one. It wasn't harmed in the making of the magic. It wasn't harey at all. Yeah I couldn't help that.

This year with my routine ramble, I'm going to try and embrace that elusive little thing called brevity. Even though I'm celebrating a milestone. It's a big 'un. Our firstborn is 10. And I could talk for days. About lots of things. But mostly about our son. The fact that he's 10. And I'm hoping that one day he'll read this. And if it's rammed to the rafters with text, there are no pictures and it's not attached to a controller in front of a game that starts in F...and ends in nite, it's a non-starter. I figured the best way would be to write him (and myself) a wee letter. Note, the wee. Yes and I note the guffaw.

Dear Oliver                                                                                

So on Monday the 8th of December 2008 at around 10am, I held you for the very first time. Ever so fleetingly mind as you were whisked off to an incubator for the next five hours. But that little cuddle was enough to seal the deal. I was smitten. I didn't know you were an Oliver. I thought during my pregnancy that you may be an Olivia. I'd never have admitted it then, not out loud anyway, but I really wanted a son. And there you were. I could scarcely believe my eyes. You didn't cry. You didn't fuss. You seemed rather unfazed by it all. You were completely bald. A long, lean fella. You looked to me a little like your Dad. And a lot like Gollum from The Lord of the Rings. And when you opened your eyes for the first time, those crazy blue eyes, and you looked up at me as if to say "So, what's up Mum?" - Oliver I can't describe to you that feeling. I felt like an absolute rockstar. So proud. And elated. I hope you are fortunate enough to experience this feeling one day. Meeting your firstborn for the first time. It truly is a pride and joy like no other. A moment that I will never forget.

So ten years eh bud. Through a rather rough first year of life. Spinal surgery and ICU and a lot we won't dwell on - because mum already has here. You nailed it though. Smiling through some testing times with that big smile. A happy toddler with a halo of blonde hair (that finally arrived), your favourite place was outdoors with a stick and your beloved Labrador Graham. The arrival of your sister you accepted with your trademark laidback vibe. A move to a new country was a crazy time for all of us, but you adjusted to an entirely different life remarkably well. A new little brother joined the fray and you've taken on the big brother role effortlessly. Being the firstborn isn't an easy gig. It's hard not to feel responsible for everyone. I know it all too well. It made me kind of more psycho. But you're totally relaxed about it all. When they maul you. Which is often. You're kind Oliver. To your siblings. To your friends. To everyone. And what a tribute that is. To you. To the boy you are. And the man you're becoming. Carry on with the kind. Ok, so missioning to Mars with NASA would be pretty cool too. But your kindness is a special gift that defines you. And it can make someone's day. Or change a life. I know. It has done both for me.

So here's to the next decade and all the adventures that lie ahead. There will be many. It's you. You're quite a fan of adventure. Climbing on the roof at two years old, letting the air out of the tyres on your Granny's car, running naked in the bush, stunning a snake with a plastic spade, squealing with joy on the back (and front) of your dad's Harley Davidson, fishing with your shoe as bait in a dam with your grandfather, always climbing high, riding fast.

Being a mother for ten years is a milestone for me too. Keeping you sort of nourished, mostly clean, mildly sane, alive and kicking. Sheesh. What a journey. Thank you for guiding me through it all. Because let's face it, you're a lot more sensible than I'll ever be. Big love to you. And booyah to the brevity. Hashtag half nailed it. In 8 short years, you can pour us both a drink and we can cheers together. Today though, I raise a fizzy glass to you. The beautiful boy who made me a mum. Who made me softer. Gentler. Kinder. Who makes me smile every day. Happy Birthday. And thank you.

Love, your Mum

How to Change a Life

We all know that Facebook can be a festival of fake. It can also be the best way to find out who's on holiday, having a baby, got a new job, new house, new shoes. And who's leaving South Africa and emigrating to Australia, New Zealand, Canada, the UK, the US, the UAE. Pick a place. Any place. In the near 6 years since we left the sunny shores down south, many of our friends have also packed up their families to pursue new adventures in parts elsewhere. And I've watched. Through the Insta-filtered frames of Facebook. Revelled in their resettling triumphs and wondered about the parts that no one shares. The lonely, ugly side of resettling. The raw reality of rebuilding a life. The faces that will never feature on a Facebook newsfeed.

I walk a lot. And while I walk, I make lists in my head. One of them is a list of the things that I wish I'd known before I left South Africa about what life would be like here. What would've helped me. Yes, hindsight is 20/20. Yes, there's no handbook for life. And there's certainly no instruction manual on how you and your partner drag your kids across the world and make familiar with foreign. It simply doesn't exist. Perhaps this is so because the experience is different for everyone and we all have our own ways to cope? But I wouldn't be me if I didn't over share so here are a few of the lessons I've learnt about moving a million miles from my normal.

1) Use Facebook as a force for your own good. It's not just good for flowery family photies, although it is for that too. Join the local parents groups on Facebook and ask questions about areas, schools, doctors, parking, municipal services. Ideally before you leave. Also join the "Saffa Mums in the UK" Facebook equivalent in your country. There will be one. If there isn't, start one. It's a great platform to bring together mothers from the motherland who're going through the same and in true South African style will tell you all about it.
2) Your children's school is your foundation for building a social network in real life. Get involved. Host playdates. Meet other parents. Parenthood is a great leveller. We're all the same really. Kids make us see that underneath it all, there's more that unites than divides us. And then - and this is a biggie -  lean on the friends you make. You simply cannot do it all. And you certainly cannot do it all alone. No one can.
3) Don't try and replicate your South African life in another country. It's not possible. Your new life is here. Your new life is now. Don't look back. Focus on forward.
4) Your kids are just fine. They will cope way better than you. They're wired for resilience and their settings for survival haven't had any interference from self doubt.
5) These things take time. Finding a house, a job, a group of friends. And then finding the right house, the right job, group of friends. It's a process. Don't rush it.
6) Watch your other half. He'll hide his strain while you both look after the little ones. Talk about stuff. All of it. Even the stuff that sucks. Or it festers. And then it's a freak show.
7) Nothing is forever. You will not be the new people for long. You will soon be old news. And there will be new kids on the block. Feeling alien won't last. You will all settle. It will all work out. Not always how you think. But exactly how it should.
8) It's ok to have doubts. It's ok to fall apart. You've made a massive move. You're going to feel the repercussions of the change. For a long time. But you'll learn to adapt. We're built to do that.
9) It all carries on back home. Without you. And that's ok. I've said this before, but it's something I really battled with. Your friends in your homeland will continue to have their bi-weekly breakfast brunches, they'll do dinner and host New Year's parties. Your families will enjoy Christmases, they'll have braais and get togethers. It sounds the most arrogant of all assumptions that because this way of life has stopped for you, that it'll stop for everyone else too. Not true. Obvs. It carries on regardless. You're just not a part of it. And it's fine to feel bleak about that.
10) The missing never ends. You just learn to deal with it better.

I read this once on Facebook, "If you don't like where you live, move. You are not a tree." Well, I think we're a lot more like trees than we realise. We grow roots. We branch out and intertwine with those alongside us. We need nurturing to thrive. Uprooting is traumatic for us. Uprooting a family is a bloody shit storm. A tree weeps when you cut it. So do we. We're severing the roots that bind us to...well, everything. But we do it because we believe it's the right thing to do. We do it because it's life. And we're humans doing life. The best way we know how. And most often, the best way we don't know how.

Word.

Hey Thirty Eight... it's a Date

I don't date much. On account of, well, being married. So I've decided that for my 38th year of life, I'm going to make a date with a series of 20 things to know for sure. And spend the next 364 days trying to be wiser to their wisdom.

1) I'm certain that I'm uncertain about what I want to be when I grow up.

2) I'm certain that it's ok not to know what I want to be when I grow up. There is so much pressure to achieve. To succeed. I need to just be me. It's enough.

3) When things are going well, I must not anticipate a disaster. Just bloody well enjoy it.

4) When kak happens, remember that it's not forever. It will pass.

5) My children are growing up. Lightning fast. I need to treasure the time I have with them. They will be gone all too soon - following dreams and chasing their own adventures. And their father and I will no longer be the centre of their world.

6) I am ageing. It's a fact. I must stop being constantly surprised by it. My face is like the crinkly tinfoil that's been used to cover a lasagne. It's ok. It's life. It's a life lived. A good hearty life and a good hearty lasagne.

7) My health is important. It's a privilege. One of my biggest. I need to take care of it. Say yes to everything in moderation. Lovely floury carbs, oily samoosas, rich cheeses with buttery reds and lovely crisp whites. Oh yah and hearty lasagnes.

8) Not everyone likes me. Yeah, that blew me away too. But it's ok.

9) I need to be gentle. To others. And myself.

10) I don't need to earn time to myself. I shouldn't feel guilty about making more time for the things that interest me.

11) Keep singing in the car, dancing in the kitchen. Even when my children beg me to stop. Especially when my children beg me to stop.

12) As they say, the only certainty in life is change. I can't control change, but I can control my reaction to it. I need to be less of a psycho when change happens.

13) I must walk when I can walk. Note, I didn't say run. I'm not drunk. I need to walk. No matter the weather. It's great to be outdoors. It's great for the state of my mind. It's great for the state of my joints.

14) I should be a better friend. Be more engaged. Listen more. Speak less.

15) I don't always need to be right. Sometimes I just need to be kind.

16) There is no shame in falling apart every now and again. It's not a sign of weakness to admit I need help. And then to accept the help when it's offered. I'm really bad at that. Asking and accepting.

17) I'm a work in progress. It's why I'm called a human being. Not a human complete.

18 I should write more, but less, in this blog. It's highly entertaining, mostly for me, to have an actual record of all the crap  thoughts I've shared for over half a decade.

19) I should travel more. With my family. With my friends. With myself.

20) I need to remember that perfection is an illusion. I should strive instead to be imperfectly fine. And happy. With everything that I have. Right here. Right now. Because it's a lot.

*the person behind the lens of this picture is just as important
 to me in my 38th year as the three little people in it.