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Hey.

HEY!

So, we're back. We've been back from our trip for three weeks now, and it's taken a while to adjust.

We tore straight into term 4 like it was a train we had to catch on the run, like we were hobos and we were racing after that thing with our bootlaces flapping and our hair in our eyes. We leaped on, and have been rattling on the rails ever since, looking at each other like, "Dude, why are we on this train called Reality and not still on holidays in Western Australia and looking at the sun setting over the sea?"

We're, all of us, shaking our heads a little in surprise. Or maybe that's just me. I don't think the kids mind. They got into a reading and writing rhythm while on holidays that just hasn't quit. All they want to do is write and read and read and write and so that's kind of all they're doing. Meanwhile, I keep looking around and trying to come to terms with the fact we aren't on holidays any more and the sun isn't setting over the sea.

So, how was it?

It was awesome. Awesome, then more awesome, like an cake made of awesome, with icing made of awesome dolloped on top, and more awesome on the side!

It was one of the happiest times of my life, actually.

But I took a lot of photos. Like, 1,400 photos. And when I got back I thought, "I need to blog about our trip!" But then I looked at ALL the photos and thought, "Ohhhh. Maybe tomorrow."

Which turned into "I will blog about it, but not today and tomorrow we're busy. So I'll do it the next day, or whenever I can sort out one thousand and fourteen hundred photographs."

Which turned into, "It's too hard. Maybe I'll start in November."

Which turned into, "How will I ever blog again??"

And that, of course, morphed into that classic existential question of:

"WILL I ever blog again?"

Well the answer is, Yes.

YES!

I have decided to try and write a little bit about our trip, then write about life, then write a little bit more about our trip, then more about life, and so do it in manageable pieces, like a home-made quilt. It might be funny shaped and have frayed edges, but it's my quilt and I already love it to bits, as unformed as it is.

Our Trip to Western Australia

Story #1.

I got on that plane.

It wasn't easy; actually it was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Over the years I seem to have built my fear up until it has been extraordinary—this sturdy castle where I've holed myself up like a girl in the tower, or the grimy bearded dude in chains in the dungeon, or like the Beast. Whatever the analogy, there I had placed myself, more and more stuck, from the time I was 16 'til now.

It took a LOT of work, months, just to book the plane. I'd been working on this solidly with my counsellor and my naturopath and my doctor for the past 9 months, and booking the plane was a huge step. A big healthy leap forward in managing my depression and anxiety.

But then it turned out I had to actually get on the thing.

On the day of the flight, all was mostly well…just a little tangle and jangle of nerves, until I was actually on that gangplank, walking towards the door of the plane.

Oh. My.

Fear rose up and nearly swallowed me whole.

I walked and slowed. Slowed, slowed, until my kids were up ahead with their Nana, and people were streaming past like trucks on the freeway.

I kept looking at my husband. "Are we really doing this?"

"Yes," he said, firmly, gently.

Slower and slower we went down the gangplank. Almost to a crawl.

"Really? Are we really?"

"Yes," he said.

At some point, he slid his hand between my backpack and my back. And we kept moving forward.

All I really remember is the urge to stop. The urge to sit. The urge to turn and run away from the plane.

And I remember my husband's warm hand between my shoulder blades.

At some point, my kids were at the door of the plane. Their Nana could get on, but they needed boarding passes. I had those, in my hand. My kids' heads turned, and they searched for me. I waved.

"They're with me!" I said, brightly.

And time sped up.

There we were at the door.

There we were handing passes to the flight attendant.

There. We were. On the plane.

In all the visualisations I'd done with my counsellor, nothing quite captured the metal-in-the-mouth, cold-skinned terror I felt then.

This was my worst nightmare. I was on a plane.

And my husband stood nearby.

He told me later that he'd kept a pressure on, with that warm hand of his, kept his hand firm on my back, knowing how much I wanted to turn and run.

He kept me moving forward. He steered me onto that plane, with love, so that I could face my fears, live through a moment I had built into a monster, and go have an extraordinary holiday with my family.

We flew, and I only cried three times.

And I told myself I was safe. And I smiled at my kids. And I noticed when my thoughts tried to sabotage me. And I gave myself a good stern talking to once, in the bathroom. And there was turbulence and a bumpy landing, but we were fine.

And when I got off, for the first time in years, I didn't swear I would never do that again.

I thought, We have landed.

And I took a photograph.

And I felt grateful and I felt excited and I thought, I am glad that's over, and then… I let it go.

And went and had one of the best holidays of my life.

it is a beautiful day today

Spring is here. You can tell because the peach tree has erupted, quite suddenly, with bright pink blossoms.

Yesterday I sat in the sun on a bench with a lizard in my hands. He sat so quietly on my finger, his little heart beating. He didn't try to run; he simply soaked in the sunlight. We named him Maximus before we released him on to the grass. At some point I looked up into the peach tree and could see bees by the dozens, buzzing from flower to flower to flower, gathering. 

Yesterday, I went to my naturopath, and together we finally flushed out the seed of doubt laid by a doctor about 6 weeks ago. This doctor (not my usual), really pushed for me to get some Xanax for my upcoming flight. When I told him I had a natural supplement that worked well with anxiety, he said with a little smile, "Well, it's always nice to have a placebo." And when I said again, I would rather not take Xanax if possible, he said, "Well, once you're on that plane, it's hard to get off!"

I left his office, and let his words seep in as the days passed. I let his words grow inside me like a weed. I let them take root and I gave them power. And I felt fear, real debilitating fear, for the first time in months. That was my August, filled with beauty, busy-ness, laughter, and creeping, creeping fear.

Meanwhile, other things happened recently to try and trip me. Two other potential triggers to depression sprouted up like companion weeds. As though they saw one weed allowed to grow, and they thought, "Oooh! Open weed season! Cowabunga! Here we come!"

I watched these things build around me. Over there, one trigger. Over here, another, and right here beside me, my fear of flight. I could see how easily they could pull me under. The conditions were all there, ripe for a perfect storm.

But as my hardest day hit on Saturday, and as I saw the storm roil and ready itself, and as I named it and called it "Perfect" and spoke of it to a friend, I realised that wasn't what it was, at all. 

A truly perfect storm is nature's anomaly. It exists in science, or—as some see it—in the hands of God. It is completely out of our control.

But this—my situation—isn't. Words and triggers and history and loss are often out of my control, but my reaction to them is not. I don't have to let the storm rise, because I don't have to give it power. I literally just have to keep moving through the water. Just keep moving. Forward and forward and forward again.

I just have to breathe and watch bees gather pollen from the peach tree. I just have to plan for a trip and let sorrow pass through me, and listen and be a friend, and love always and be kind, and walk. 

I just have to watch my boy juggle and listen as my girl has drum lessons with her dad.

I just have to hug my mother when she walks in the door.

I just have to kiss my husband and put my hand on his back.

I just have to run my workshops and watch how the kids' voices tumble over each other, so excited to share.

I just have to have a cat on my lap.

I just have to see my counsellor and have him remind me how well I am doing.

I just have to skip rocks on the water.

I just have to see my naturopath and talk through treatment and feel calm and whole and hopeful again.

I just have to keep moving. Make my way forward, with my eyes wide open, noticing and finding the joy, always.

And the waves can't help but ease. The storm can't help but settle.

It's spring here.

The blossoms and bees are out. It's a beautiful, beautiful day today. 

fear held and let go, held and let go

credit

When I am quiet on here, I'm usually busily working stuff out. Thinking and thinking and thinking.

Well, I should say, When I'm quiet in general, I'm working stuff out! In real life, I sometimes start twiddling my hair, gazing off into space, and thinking deep thoughts. My husband always notices, always asks what I'm thinking. Sometimes I can tell him, sometimes, I haven't figured out what exactly I'm thinking, just that I am! My thoughts come in all these colours, kind of like drifting into a cloud made of paint bubbles, as well as snatches of music, books I've read, photos I've taken, moments I've lived, and fears and joys I've felt and carried about with me like trinkets.

It's busy in this mind of mine. Busy good, busy sad, busy afraid, busy planning, busy dreaming, busy hoping, busy taking it all in, this extraordinary life.

We're flying to Perth for a big family holiday in three weeks today. If you've read my blog for a while, you might know I have a fear of flying. But I don't know if I've been that clear about this fear, certainly not recently: my fear has been profound and debilitating, and in January, when I tried to plan a trip to the US, it was the main thing that brought me down.

If you don't have a fear like this, it must be hard to believe. This crazy fear—it's been like the monster in my closet, and whenever I look at it and give it energy, it comes roaring into my bed, sits on my blankets, curls up inside my chest and sings terrible songs that keep me awake for days.

So I've been working with a counsellor for 8 months to deal with it, and with all the related monsters and monster babies that come along with something like this. Because the fear feeds other fears, unsurprisingly, and brings up all sorts of memories. The fear lives inside my history and who I am. I've been trying to figure it all out. Try and accept the fear and move on, have a life that isn't pinned down by it.

I'm doing really, really well. This flight is our test run, and from there, I'm hoping I can get on a plane to visit my husband's family in the US. We have friends and family over the sea, such dear, dear people, and I want to see them.

One of the things I've said over and over is how important I think it is to be up front about my issues with depression and anxiety, so that it isn't a hidden illness, something to be ashamed of, so that anyone with a history with this illness might feel less alone.

But I write that I am afraid of flying and I feel a bit silly. Like, I've been working with a counsellor for this long about something this safe? Really?

I'm not afraid of heights, but some people are. It's hard for me to imagine how that might feel. I'm not afraid of small enclosed spaces, or sharks, or dogs, but some people are. I don't feel their fear, but I get it. Some fears seem to come and swallow you whole. You can't explain it. You just try your best to live.

Sometimes it doesn't work so well. But sometimes, with hard work and words spoken and thoughts thought and with lots of writing and looking for beauty and checking in and having the best mental safety net in place, it does start to work. It starts to get better. The fear loses its strangle hold.

The last three weeks have been crazy busy with amazing, wonderful, happy things.

At the same time, since the beginning of August, I've been getting this wild panicky feeling in my chest. It hit me around about then, in this, Oh Wow, way. Oh. I'm getting on a plane. Wow. I am getting on a plane. And if I give any space or air to the feeling, up comes the wild fire of fear. What if? What if? What if?

I feel like a motorcycle daredevil then. I'm heading towards the burning hoop. I am going so fast. I have done this before, I am in my flame-retardant suit, there are people standing by with fire extinguishers, the crowd is moving me forward with goodwill and prayers, my family is standing by, my children are hopping up and down with excitement. It should be okay, but you never know for sure. All you can do, is let go. Surrender to the movement of the bike, of your path forward and through.

And when I surrender—because I really want to jump; I want to leap through that hoop—I suddenly see.

There is no burning. There are no flames. The fear makes pictures only I can see.

There is so much beauty. Beauty on this side of the hoop and on the other. I am pointed at the hoop, moving forward, surrendering, accepting. Letting go.

stuck and unstuck

I didn't mean to not write for five days. Usually I have about a thousand words ricocheting around my brain at any given minute. Usually they pour out…

but my brain got stuck.

Do you ever have that moment when a fear hits so hard it actually leaves you breathless?

I had that this week. A 25-year-old, recurring fear reared its head, leaving me unable to write here (or anywhere much else for that matter) for days.

I felt quite paralysed with it. I was okay if I was around people, and thank goodness for my children, for friends meeting up, and children playing, and the laughter—all around—of kids and grown-ups I treasure. Then I could float serenely on their company.

It was during any downtime that the fear would slide up soundlessly. Tap me on the shoulder. Lean forward and whisper:

I'm still here.

I had all these words to write—especially about the comments in my last post. Right there was a conversation I really wanted to have. I've been writing my replies in my head all week (really!). Been going to the computer, freezing up.

Because right then the fear would whisper:


come feed me, won't you? Or at least try to battle me. Make this interesting. 


It sure takes a lot of energy feeding or battling fear. And when you hit the wall, and think you'll never be free… ah. The hopelessness that hits. It takes a lot out of a soul. A lot out of my mothering, my living, my loving, my laughing, my Being.

But.

While the fear has been splish-splashing around in my brain,

SO many good things have been happening.

SO many.

I've been watching, as though from far away, but sometimes, in moments of relief, blessedly close up and present,

my life.

My daughter

who last Thursday, joined this year's Lego League team with her brother. She listened to the coach's presentation, listened to me as I detailed the work that would be involved, what might be asked of her. She said, I want to do it!

She went off to do the team building exercise—she got tangled up with other kids, who were then told to untangle themselves. Which meant physical closeness, the potential for getting hurt, a huge sense of not knowing what might happen. All these things have completely blocked her before. But this time? She was in the thick of it. Smiling, but even more beautifully—laughing. It made my heart sing.

My son

who painted a painting in Art class that blew my mind. His art teacher said, "You get it. You have it. All that's left to do, is get even better." He looked like he might rise from the ground and float away.

My kids and others

who met up for homeschool group and frolicked (yes, frolicked!) in the indoor swimming pool for hours. I loved that they had the time to play for hours. I loved that these kids, ranging in age from 6 to 13, played completely together, making up games, supporting each other. They were friends without boundaries. I thought, so clearly then, I love homeschool.

And all through the week,

my children.

Who played and made up stories, and created and read and spent days pealing with laughter. I saw that we were so lucky.

My kids get to live a life where the creative arts—their passion—take centre stage. They get to truly explore visual art and music and writing and reading in their day to day lives, be fully immersed, be Artists. It's what they love, and how they learn, and nothing blocks that. That is beautiful.

My children

who all week have given me kisses, cuddles, talked to me, kept me company. They've asked for my attention and given theirs—wholly. They have been kind, loving and so gloriously interesting!

Which means…

I've been frozen and unfrozen, both.

Trapped, in quiet time, in a determined battle with a fear so old, and so useless it's a wonder it hasn't shriveled up by now. Ah, it's a tenacious little sucker. But today I have the upper hand. Today. Today, this moment. Now. The Upper Hand. You listening, Fear?

And free, in busy time, to watch, and love, and learn. To see how it's possible to overcome fears (thank you, dear girl. You are an incredible inspiration to me). To delight (in the music! the art! the imagination!)

To remember. To see. To feel blessed.


Today, I am going to go and watch my son busk in the downtown shopping mall. It's his first time. He was invited by some high school kids to play with them. Kind of excellent! He's quietly, completely, chuffed about it.

Today, I'll be hanging out with my husband and daughter. We're going to get hot chocolates and watch the buskers. But only a bit. We won't hover—we know that would be uncool!

But I'll be watching, and noting. Delighting. Keeping my Upper Hand the hardest and the best I can.

Misson Unknown

My kids did a holiday workshop at the local Science Centre today. It was called "Slime Chemistry" and sounded awesome.

It was their first workshop at the Science Centre, and for my girl,

her first independent class since leaving School (stressed, fearful, and weakened), over two years ago.

Independent meaning:
not run by me,
not run by a friend (with me there), and
not run by a teacher (with me there).

It hit her just as we were driving to the Centre.

    "So can you stay?" she asked (as she'd asked when I booked them in).

    "I'm not sure, sweetheart," I said (as I'd said when I'd booked her in). "There may not be space for me in the room."

    "What will you do?"

    "Well, if I can't watch, I thought I might go to a coffee shop," I said.

    "Oh… I don't know… (pause for worry to sink in)…I'm not sure. I don't think I want to do it."

    "I think you'll have a really good time, sweetie. It sounds like a great workshop. And if you want…I could stay just outside, if you like. I brought a book."

    "But what if I need you in the class? What if I don't know what to do?"

    "Well…You could ask the workshop people for help?"

Which is when my beautiful boy said:

    "I'll be there. You can ask me. I can help you."

My girl held onto that, for a while. (And I quietly let go of my coffee shop thought, which had only been a thought, after all.)


We got their name tags at reception. I asked, "Can I watch?" and they said, "It's a really small room. There's probably not enough space." My son's friends had come for the workshop too, so he wandered off, through the Centre, with them. My girl stuck close to me. Then, suddenly, it was time to line up. Kids started to file into the workshop room, great confident loads of them.

There she was, little fish, caught in the stream. She turned. Headed back; looked up at me.

    "I don't think I want to do this any more."

Her brother paused. He could have gone in with his buddies, but he waited.

    I said to my girl, "I really think you'll have a wonderful time." I smiled.

    I said to my boy, "Would you get a seat with her, make sure you're sitting together?"

    "Yes," he said. He seemed suddenly bigger then. Big brother. Mission Possible.

And so she turned, again, and went in.

The door to the workshop was open for just a minute or two more. Enough time for my girl to bolt out, like the dudes do in Star Wars, with the doors closing vertically, barely a second to spare, doing that awesome forward roll as the laser bullets shoot past.

But she stayed!

And the rest of the workshop, for me, looked like this:

She stayed, and when she came out, slime in hand—with all that doing done, and learning learned?

She smiled.

    "I made a friend!" she said.

Of course you did, I thought. How proud I feel! I thought. How big this step was.

And how simple it seems on the other side. Like when you ski down that slope. Eat that slimy new thing. Jump off that rock. Play your first concert.

You think, Oh, that wasn't bad at all!

After all, you've got your slime. Your brother stuck by you. Your mother waited outside as she promised. You made a friend. You are proud of you.

Mission Accomplished.

taken as they opened the doors after 90 minutes…

my girl and boy completely, happily,

Immersed

facing the fear

A new bike!

With gears!

Oh my!

It's big, and beautiful and bold, and, well, right now?

Just a bit scary.

Yesterday at the almost end of a glorious ride to the beach
saw a small girl on one side of a busy freeway crossing,
stuck,
with her mama on the other side.

She just couldn't get started in time, and by the time I'd got two other kids across, there she was, like a little duckling on the other side of the river. Alone.

(and silly me; why didn't I have her get off the bike? Why didn't we walk? Ack)

It meant I had to wait the entire course of lights, 'til I could go get her and bring her safely back. Not long but sooo long…watching my girl as she wept on the other side.

When she got to me? Floods of tears, her helmeted head against my chest, crying and crying it out.

And then?

Well, I said, Let's get going again, shall we?

No! I never want to ride again!

Yes you do, I said gently, and turned her bike to face home (which wasn't far, but must have seemed so far to her). I knew she didn't mean it; I knew she'd be okay, and she knew she didn't mean it, and I suppose in that moment she trusted she would be okay too.

Because she rode home. (And cried a bit more. And walked, but only a little.) And then we talked, arms wrapped around each other, when we got home. About practising the things she is afraid of (like starting! Stopping! Crossing roads!) and about the things she had already accomplished (like riding a much much bigger bike! With gears! All the way to the beach and back!).

And somewhere in the conversation, she smiled, and we talked, together, of the next beautiful ride we'd go on, hopefully tomorrow.



Ah. It's a crazy life, isn't it? You teeter between fear and faith, always.

We're all trying to find a path through, aren't we. From accepting fear, then going ahead anyway, trusting, somehow, that we'll be okay. (That is, if it's not entirely crazy to go ahead—like jumping into alligator-infested waters. Don't do it!).

You want to be able to say, I am afraid (and be heard, comforted, held). And then keep going. Somewhere in the fear-fueled pool of you, you really do want to let go, and risk Everything. Because the reward when you do?

Wind in the hair! Speed at your feet, the path whizzing by! And one day? Arms outstretched and flying.


I feel fear every day. I do. It's not easy, being an often wobbly, always sensitive person who could easily lie down in the face of all the things I'm afraid of, taking on the persona of the Strong, reliable Mama.

It's amazing they buy it, so much of the time.

Sometimes, in the spirit of solidarity, on a hard and afraid day, I fess up. I say, Guess what? I am afraid sometimes, too.
But I only fess a little and I don't go on, because the truth is,

there's a worry person inside me always.

She's tiny but tenacious. She says, But how do you know it'll be all right? How can you make sure everyone is always safe? What if it all goes wrong? What if? How? What if? When? What if?

My worry self tries, sometimes, to rise above the rest of me. Cheeping, bleating (and sometimes, on Big Worry days, roaring). If I was to let that self take hold, I'd probably just stay in bed forever, and order in.

I wouldn't be much of a Mama and I wouldn't have much of a life.

So in the worst moments, I march in on my worry self and say, That's enough now. I have to be Firm and No Nonsense, then. I shut the door tight and hard, put a chair against it, to stop the worst fears from sliding back in.

And then? I live.


I've tried Firm in the past with my girl, on her worst worry days. I've said, Stop Now, and That's Enough.

It doesn't work.

It doesn't fit her (or the Mama I want to be). It can only fit if she says the words. And she isn't ready yet.

She is my little girl, still. She still needs my arms, my closeness, my voice saying, I know it will be all right because of reasons A, B, C, and D. (And E for good measure.) I know it will be all right because I am here, protecting you.

She might need my protection for a while.

But I hope that one day, when she is facing her fears by herself, she can be brighter and lighter than I have been sometimes. And kind and patient because fears come to grown-ups too. And she will walk boldly into new things, in her own brave light, because that will bring her so much joy,

just as it has for me.

What creates resilience? What does giving bring?

To all the lovely people who responded to my last post, and even emailed me with incredible support and advice—thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, the tips of my toes, the length and breadth of me. I am so grateful.

One of the things you've all said is:

Loving your child and helping them feel supported and safe is what helps banish the fear.

This is what creates resilience.

This is something I agree with and feel so deeply I want to shout it from the rooftops! Every time someone uses the word 'resilience' to justify leaving kids to their fears, I want to shout. Every time someone uses it as a reason for kids to go to school, I want to shout. Every time people used that word at our old school as a reason for my girl to stay, I wanted to shout.

My throat is sore from holding the Shout in.

I've sat with women who have talked of their child having complaints and fears about school, and saying their kids needed stop complaining, that they needed to tough it out—specifically to teach them resilience. But I've done a lot of reading, and the psychologists and experts talking about resilience aren't talking about kids going it alone, toughing it out, sucking it up. They say, instead, that supportive, nurturing relationships with teachers and other adults are what help children feel safe. That it's safety kids need to feel, to become resilient. Not feeling alone and abandoned.

People asked me when I pulled my girl out of school: But how will she learn resilience?

Well, quite simply: From helping her to know she is not alone.

That she won't be abandoned. That I am there for her. That she is heard. That she matters. That she is so important to me I am prepared to do all sorts of bold, riding in on a white steed, sword-waving, cape flying things to keep her steady and keep her safe.


How does this translate to our Sleep Issues, and Facing the Worry Monsters?

Well, this is what I was struggling with yesterday. I have given so much, reassured and loved so often and consistently. How much more do I give? How much more do I do…?

She has been sleeping in our bed now for 6 months, every night. She asks every night, When are you coming to bed? If I say now, she is thrilled. If I say soon, she stays awake until we're there. If I say, It might be a while (because I have a movie date with my husband, or simply want to sit with myself and Be), she cries and paces the floor upstairs. Keeping her brother awake until he comes down in tears and says, Please make her stop.

If I go to bed and go to sleep with her, she does, eventually go to sleep. But these days, it's not quickly, or easily. Right now, it takes time, and patience, and talking, and giving. A lot of giving.

The giving that is needed now has a bunch of parts.

We will get into a bedtime routine that is steady, and filled with cuddles and lying down with her, and relaxation exercises. I plan to find a kid version of the herbal remedy I take for sleep, lots of lovely things like Valerian, Magnesium, other sleep-easy herbs that float through your system with no side effects. I've been given a podcast link by a friend to help with relaxation. (And other great night-listening suggestions from blog friends too). We'll start some meditation, and we'll talk and cuddle, the way we have been, but more.

More. More giving, which in turn brings so much good, so many smiles. So much love and security.

But I have to let go of some things. Some of my own worries and wants, so that I can give without reservation, fear, or resentment.

Like that feeling of, "My girl should be sleeping by herself now; she's almost 9."

And, "If I give more, she may always need more. Am I feeding the fear, not banishing it?"

And, "If I go to bed, to sleep, every night with my child, what about my time? My time to write. My time to hang out with my husband. Our time to talk, watch movies, decompress from the day. What about us, and something outside being parents? What about me?"


Yesterday, around 4pm, I felt all Gived out.

I went to bed. I slept, with some breaks, for 13 hours. THIRTEEN HOURS. I think I was a little weary. And a lot full.


This morning, with the clarity that comes from rest, all the jumbled thoughts began to

sort themselves into order. I began to see the Good and the Way Through.


Like how last night, I woke long enough to bring my girl to bed, and hold her cold hands between mine.

She said, "I'm finding it hard to breathe." She said she felt afraid.

So, I talked about fight or flight response. I talked about what she was feeling, that she was like a bunny sensing danger. I talked about adrenalin. And muscles tightening. She said, I didn't know that! She held on to every word.

She became the bunny (at which point she giggled), and we relaxed her little bunny body, from her feet, ankles, legs, knees, upper legs, hips, on up. Slowly, softly, she loosened what was being held tight. With lots of deep breathing, she relaxed, until she was curled up in her bunny burrow, with her brothers and sisters and her mum bunny nose-to-nose, all close by.

She liked that story very much. She still took a long time to sleep, but I held her close and she knew, with every bit of her bunny self, that she was safe and she was loved.


This morning she came downstairs with a sweet, big smile. She had slept for 10 hours. She was rested and she was happy. The beginning of the beginning. The start of something New.

It was a good, fine moment!


This morning I thought: I could do this again, and every night, until the fear loosens. Until this passes.

I could go to bed early, then wake early, in order to write and have time for myself.

I could find time in the day, on the weekend, to be with my husband. We could have movie afternoons, while Nana or friends hang with our kids.

I am sure there will be nights in the future we can curl up on the couch. It will come.



This morning (and yesterday too, a little, through the fog)

I started to see how Giving, giving wholly and purely, comes from

Acceptance.

If you let go of the shoulds and wants (especially the ones that block the giving that is needed),

and accept what is needed in the moment,

accept what Is, in the moment,

truly, absolutely, give in and accept and embrace what IS,

then the giving is easy.

The giving flows.

It doesn't feel hard at all. It actually feels a lot like freedom, and a lot like flying.

And a whole lot like joy.


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And because the last few blog posts have been all about my boy, here is what my girl, who had hardly slept the night before,

got up to yesterday:

created a kitten collection

made egg carton cats

made playdough

and planned and helped make a playdough stop-motion animation with her brother.

So I think,

in fact I know,

that if this much joy and love and creativity can come, even after a hard night,

we're going to be all right.

:)

from the sublime to…

the just plain

HARD.



My daughter isn't sleeping.

Just. Not. Sleeping.

She was up until midnight last night, weeping in my arms, so, so tired and yet completely unable to go to sleep.

This has been happening for weeks. Months, really. Nights getting later and later. My girl pacing the floor upstairs after we've said good night. Us going up. Her coming down. So many tears.

If we go to bed with her, she is all right.

If we don't, if we say good night, and go downstairs (like I've heard many parents do!),

the Worry Monsters come.

And they are BIG. They involve spider bites, mostly. Images of huge, furry spiders lurking in the corners of her sheets, waiting to pounce. Or there is a fear of appendicitis, fear of what headaches might mean, fear of hurricanes, fear of death.

And the Worry Monsters have started coming in the day too. Because when a girl routinely can't sleep, and gets insanely overtired, then they come when it's light. They come in all sorts of forms, sneak up behind her—often just as she's having the most fun—and trip her over.

Then she comes and tells me the Worry. She whispers it in my ear.

She looks at me so intently.

She says, "Will I be okay?"

I say, "Yes, sweetheart. You will be okay."

And then she says (and says always), "But how do you know?"

And I explain, and explain again,

and again

and again.

Because these Worry Monsters are tenacious. They stick. They are like burrs, frustrating, overwhelming, prickly, stickly things. Burrs that simply will not leave.

And as I'm reassuring her, and looking up 'anxiety' online, and planning ways to help (lavender baths, meditation tapes, warm milk, appointment with a naturopath, possibly a psychologist?), I am being

pricked and sticked
by Worry Monsters too.

This is why.

We began homeschooling my girl because she was incredibly anxious and unhappy at school. It has gone so well. Homeschooling has provided her with days of intense happiness, time to do the things she loves, and a growing realisation of who she is as a person, and the pride and confidence that comes with that.

But she is growing incredibly anxious again, and after nights like last night,
I think, Oh. Did I make a terrible mistake?

By removing her from school, did I stop her from finding her own feet, facing her anxieties head-on, becoming that word: "Resilient"? Did I create a warm space for the Worry Monsters to breed? Should I have been the mama the school wanted me to be—the one who could (or feels forced to) leave a crying child at the school gates, trust that strangers would take care of her, trust that she would be "fine" and walk away?

The thing is, I know logically that none of these things are true.
I didn't make a mistake.
And I could not be, and never will be, that mama.

But I worry. I hold myself responsible. It's as though I take all the tough, the hurt, the hard that my children face and say, "Ah. My fault." Or I think, "Homeschool. It's because I strayed away from the Path More Taken."

I fret and blame the one thing that has consistently brought my child joy. I fret and think, If I were tougher, and had more rules, and Consequences, and didn't cuddle, and listen, and talk things through… if I was more Seperate… would she rise to the challenges herself and become stronger?

In other words, if I was the opposite to who I am, perhaps my child would thrive.

It's ridiculous.

See how these Worry Monsters work? They take what is real, and true, and good, and bend it until you can't recognise it any more. They launch imaginary spiders at you and make you believe you are in danger, that you've made a mistake, that what is real and true and good is not actually there at all.

They aren't nice. They shouldn't be allowed to come over to play. They don't play fair and they don't play kind, and I'd like very much for them to leave.

I tried to be firm last night. I got cross, and I sent her to sleep in a different room than ours. I said there would be Consequences. I left her to the dark and to her tears because I thought, The other way doesn't work!

But the firm way didn't work either. I felt just terrible. And I wasn't true to myself at all.

She ended up downstairs again, despite all the Consequences that had been threatened. She was simply, and absolutely, unable to sleep. Simply and absolutely, in that moment, ruled by the Monsters. My poor, poor girl.

She ended up in my lap, wrapped up in my husband's big plaid jacket, weeping in my arms. She ended up drinking warm milk and honey in my arms. She ended up pouring out her fears and her feelings. She ended up coming to bed with us, back in our bed, my hand on her back. She ended up sleeping.

I don't have answers. I just see there is another journey to take.

And I am not going to leave my child to it. Leave her weeping at the gate. I am going to take a

deep,

long,

breath.

And face the Worry Monsters with her. Hand in small, dear hand.


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