Why is it that the more stressed and anguished over time I am, the more stressed and anguished I become.

Take yesterday (in fact please take yesterday and wipe it from my memory bank – it was terrible).  I rushed all day.  I had a million things to do (okay nine) and they were all in different places (okay they weren’t) and they all required at least some brain power (yes they did).

I could not concentrate on anything because as soon as I tried to do something I thought about the next thing I was meant to be doing.  So I did what any normal  person would do in that situation – I decided to cut up a hundred vegetables and cook a curry for dinner.

I then loaded many, many posts on to the backend of Mamamia, prayed for people to be nice on the site, shopped  for provisions, went past the building site to shout at gee on the builder, met a very strange woman who bought my old desk on e-bay and tried to fit it into her tiny two door hatchback, re-re-redesigned the kitchen and all I had to do was to take Little Pencil to basketball 14kms from home by 5pm and I could call my day done.

So we left the house at 4:40pm (because we had to finish homework, refuse a snack, find the ball, pump the ball, find socks, tie the shoe laces without visible bows and play a quick game of handball all in between getting home from school at 4:00pm and leaving for basketball)

Another rare sexual issue in guys is sexual anhedonia, a condition in which all their muscles contract during orgasm and ejaculation, and as Get More Information buy generic cialis a result they cannot feel the joy in bed. order generic cialis Strive for a snug but comfortable fit. Enlisted below are the reasons that why one may need physical buy online cialis therapy. More men are viagra pfizer cialis racing to buy these supplements up off the bat and breaks his nose. And as we got into the car, I could sense that gnawing, nagging feeling.  The stove was on.  I could just picture the burnt remains of this house I am living in.  I could almost smell my vegetable curry burning and I could picture Fluffy Pencil inhaling the fumes.

The more I worried about it, the more convinced I became.  My brain was saying “it’s off – you always worry about leaving stuff on but you never do”, but my emotions (which are much louder) were saying” QUICK get home, your  dog is going to die”.

So I raced home and ran inside.  The stove was off of course, and the dog was lying on my bed dreaming of having a sane owner.

And when I got back into the car and  tried to explain to Little Pencil the whole concept of “better safe than sorry” loosely interpreted as “better late for basketball than homeless”,  I started to worry – when I checked the stove did I actually switch it ON by mistake?

Am I alone in this obsession about leaving stuff on?  Is it a lesson life is trying to teach me?  If it is I would really like to learn it and move on (just as soon as I have checked the hair straightener because I just know I left it on).

Mornings in my house are a nightmare.

I  start every morning with new resolve.  I will not fight with Little Pencil, I will not nag him, I will not chastise him, I will not even hurry him. Every morning it is like some part of me believes that he will have been visited by the Fairy of Responsibility in his sleep, that he will wake up in his 9 year old body but with the responsibility and resolve of a grown man who is eager to get to school work.

As soon as the TV is switched on I know that the Fairy hasn’t visited.  The fairy would have taken away his desire to imbibe violence before school.  Or at least s/he would have hidden the remote control.

I start well.

5 minutes after breakfast is served

Me:      Please eat up angel

Him:    Uh

5 minutes later

Me:      Angel, your cereal is turning to cement, please eat it

Him:    I am *sounding quite indignant*

3 minutes later

Me:      It is really important that you have food in your stomach when you go to school please concentrate on finishing your breakfast and then put on your uniform.

Him:    uh

2 minutes later

Him:    I don’t like this cereal, it’s all soggy

Me:      It wasn’t soggy when I gave it to you 15 minutes ago *blood pressure rises*. Would you like a sandwich?

Him:    Can I have nutella?

Me:      No

Him:    I’m not hungry

Me:      You HAVE to eat breakfast I don’t care if you are not hungry

Him:    I’m only hungry for nutella

Me:      Okay I’ll give you nutella WITH peanut butter (somehow I think the goodness of peanuts eradicates the evil of chocolate for breakfast)

Him:    Can you cut the toast into 16 squares?

Me:      No

Him:    I like squares

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Him:    *has tuned out*

10 minutes later

Me:      Please get dressed

Him:    I am dressed

Me:      I mean get dressed in SCHOOL UNIFORM.  Wearing pyjamas is not the same as being dressed

Him:    *starts practising some martial arts form in the air*

Me:      PLEASE we are going to be late

Him:    *cartwheels*

6 minutes later

Me:      Can you go brush your teeth?

Him:    Did you know that D’s got a new DS game and the main guy has this really cool hair style and you just press A and left trigger and he morphs into this really awesome dude and then you press X and he kicks and Y and he punches and when you press them together ……..

Me:      BRUSH YOUR TEETH!!!

Him:    Okay, and then when you press the A key while holding shift he does a double forward triple somersault that looks like ….

Me:      I DON’T CARE.  BRUSH YOUR TEETH

Him:    Can I get that game on my birthday?

ME:      You can go to the dentist on your birthday.  Now brush your teeth

Him:    So can I?  I really want it

Me:      I’m going to school without you

Him:    *starts to panic* no mum, I’m sorry

Me:      Stop saying you are sorry and brush your teeth

Him:    But I am sorry mum. Really. I’ll brush my teeth now . Can I still get the game?

It’s usually at this point that I start to question whether he has any empathy at all.  He certainly doesn’t have clean teeth.

And then when we finally get to school and see the other mums holding huge chunks of their own hair in their hands, their eyes puffy, rimmed with tears and smudged with their futile attempts at make up, I realise I am not alone.

And I console myself – after all we only have another 9  years of this…………

I am enraged, incensed and so angrily sad. I am surprised that I can think – perfect then that I have found just the program to watch to feed my dead brain.

Today Tonight and A Current Affair you apall me.  I know why I have never watched you and I curse the fact that I did tonight.

You see I have the privilege (and i don’t use that term lightly) of working for Mia Freedman, and I also happen to count her amongst my dearest friends. (I love reading that sentence).  I am lucky enough to know Mia as one of the most passionate, generous and genuine people I know.  I see, on a daily basis, how much she cares about her blog, about her followers and about the content that she provides on her site.  I know Mia, not as a celebrity that appears on the Today Show or writes a column in the Sunday paper, not as the creator of the most unique, compassionate and inspiring community that is Mamamia, but as a woman of tremendous heart, genuine compassion and high moral principle.  These qualities make her an amazing friend and a truly inspirational person to work for.

As site manager of Mamamia I read each and every single comment that is made on the blog (now you know why I don’t get out much).  I also read every post that Mia writes. Carefully.  Beacuse that is part of my job.  When she wrote this piece on Gainers – she wrote about gainers – people that purposefully eat as much as they can , people who try to make themselves as fat as they possibly can.  Mia did not generalise about fat people, she did not even mention fat people in general.  But Lordy me.  The fat people found her and they attacked her. And when she tried to defend herself they attacked her some more.  And then they attacked her some more.  And then again. And all for something that she never even said.  They claim it was her tone.  My keyboard does not recognise tone in words that appear on the screen, nor do my speakers.  But for them (the Fat Acceptance people) the tone was loud enough that they could persecute, judge and slaughter Mia.
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Tonight A Current Affair and Today Tonight covered the story.  Why?  Maybe they did not understand the budget? Maybe Naplan is over?  Whatever – they needed a news story and they did not have one. So they created one.  And what creative genius they must have because the whole thing was a fabrication.

I have heard of stitch ups before and I have half heardtedly believed these things happen but never have I seen anything that rates as low as this.  Out of context, misquoted drivel.  I feel sullied that I watched it

I feel proud and inspired to work for Mia and have her as a friend.

My working life is changing, evolving and more and more it is taking me out of the house.  I had chosen to work from home when Little Pencil was tiny.  I chose to never really go back into a job away from home because essentially I wanted to be at his beck and call.  I wanted to be home when he needed me and I did not want to stress over school holidays and sick days.  I was really lucky that I could find work that accommodated that.  Then when Little Pencil went to school we got Fluffy Pencil and I fell so deep and hard in love with my puppy that I literally could not bear to leave him.

So I worked at home with Fluffy Pencil, took him for walks whenever I got frustrated (he took a LOT of walks) and I was able to pick up Little Pencil from school every day and spend as much time with him as he would let me.

Now work is changing, there is more time in the office.  In fact there is an office at all.   And there is an office for me with a breathtaking few and spectacular people around me.  I still get to pick up Little Pencil and I get to spend as many days at home with him as I like.  My job is perfectly flexible  with an emphasis on the word perfectly.

So why do I feel conflicted and stressed?   Because of Fluffy Pencil.  He is not used to being at home alone till school pick up time.  There is not even a doggy door at this “not real house”.   He is waiting at home for me all alone looking out of the window and wondering why I am not getting frustrated enough to take him or a walk.

And then yesterday I was talking to my friend who I will call Kerri (because that is her name) and she was telling me about the baby sitter she has just employed.  The babysitter, who I will call Mary Poppins (because that is not her name) is an amazing young woman who really gets Kerri’s kids and will take care of them two afternoons a week while Kerri works.

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Now stay with me for this leap.  Fluffy Pencil is not a human.  Some parts of me understand that (although Mr Pencil will attest to the fact that I have done a mighty fine job of personifying him).  But he is one of my favourite breathing beings in all of the world and I want him to feel secure and loved, I want him looked after and I want him to go walking and running during the day to alleviate my stress around him.  Cue babysitter. Cue dog walker. Cue huge load off shoulders.

Now I just need somebody to do the shopping, cook dinners, do the washing, make school lunches, help with homework and take care of my social life.

After all we all do what we can to make our lives easier.  Or at least we should

What do you outsource to make your life easier?

I really wanted to write a post about the upside of moving, about the cleansing and liberating feeling of decluttering your home.  About the catharsis involved in wrapping everything you own in butcher’s paper so that you can put it in a box and then take it out of the box and unwrap it 2 kilometres later.  I really wanted to write it.  But I didn’t because I couldn’t.  I like to keep things honest here.

We packed every single thing that we owned and we moved.  Literally 2 kilometres from our “real” house.  Mr Pencil convinced me that employing packers to do the job would make me more stressed. Strange that he only said that after we got the quote from the packers but still, he had a point.  I am a huge control freak.  I need to know what’s happening, when it is happening and why it’s happening.  Also, most times I like to be the one making it happen.

It was with this control gene running at full tilt that I started to move the contents of my “real” home over to my “not real” home.  (Note I do not use the word “unreal” lest it be confused with something that is amazing or ideal).  Because I was eager to start (and finish) I began to empty the contents of my cupboard into green enviro bags, dump them in my car and unpack them on the other end.  After about 76 trips there was not much left for the removalists to do.  If only I drove a truck…….

And so now we are in the “not real” house.  And I spend every minute reminding myself how lucky I am to be in the position that I am in, renovating the house I love and having the luxury of living away from that renovation as it unfolds. But my minutes spent reflecting my luck aren’t the happiest minutes. I am homesick.

I miss my house. I miss my aircraft noise, I miss my nosy neighbour who I had to dodge every morning as I passed her window to brush my teeth.

I miss my huge kitchen and I miss knowing how the oven works.  Last night I attempted to get rid of the smell of this house that is not mine by cooking a hearty, aromatic stew.  I had visions of the house becoming a home when filled with the smells of home cooking and us around the table eating dinner as a family. But instead the house was filled with the smell of smoldering vegetables and blackened meat and as we sat around the table I showed my family how I had burnt a huge crater into my hand creating this burned offering.  Not quite according to plan.
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I miss my carpets.  There are no carpets in this “not real” house. I have never lived in a bedroom with no carpets and I don’t like it.  Little Pencil, on the other hand, love its.  His bed is on casters, you just have to sit on it and it slides to the other side of the room.  So while he is having a ball “racing” his bed across the floor the dog is howling because he can no longer jump on the bed because he can’t get a footing on the floor to make his run up.

I miss the man around the corner who was scared of my dog and I miss the man who used to give my dog bread every day as a treat!  And my dog – he is a mess. He just wants to sit in the car all day because that is the only thing in his life that has not changed.

I miss Little Pencil’s trampoline, I miss my bath and I miss my bedroom.

And in all the chaos and turmoil that has been the packing and moving (and with a fair bit of work thrown in for good measure) I have missed blogging, I have missed twitter and I have missed you.

So from the comfort of my “not real” home  (comfort used in the sense of very, very uncomfortable) I would like to say I am home.  Virtually.  If you know what I mean.

I’ve never written an angry post before.  In fact most times when I feel angry about something I try and digest it a little and calm down before I write.

But today I am furious and I can’t get over it at all so I am going to get it out there – angry and all

I am a vegetarian. That is my choice, and it is a relatively recent one.  I choose to be a vegetarian because I cannot stand cruelty to animals.  The thought of eating them horrifies me.  I don’t push my beliefs on anyone (well at least I try not to be too blatant when I do) and I support the fact that my family eats meat and chicken.  I am very particular though where I buy my meat from. I support ethical farming of animals.  No factory farming, no cages, no cruelty.   I like to think the meat my family is eating had a chance at a good life before it became part of our lives.

And when I go out to eat, I always ask about the eggs.  Because I eat eggs, but I only eat eggs that are free range.  I have been to many places that don’t have free range eggs and, while I don’t agree with their policy, I just order something else. Live and let live.

So today we went out for breakfast to the Coogee Cafe.  The menus said organic eggs. That was a good start.  Before I ordered my breakfast I checked with the waitress (because the thought of eating caged eggs saddens and sickens me).  She happily told me that the eggs were free range and organic. She didn’t bat an eyelid, that is how confident she was. Rehearsed even.

After we had eaten my son decided he needed to use the toilet.  I went with him.  The toilets were rather hideous but that is not the end of the world nor the crux of the story.  Just outside the toilet door was a huge box of eggs.  Yup outside the toilets not in the kitchen.  I looked at the big box of eggs and the words CAGED EGGS shouted out at me.

I felt sick to the stomach.  Sick that I had eaten a caged egg. And sick and angry that the staff had had the gall to lie to me so open faced.
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And so, as is my want, I approached the waitress in charge behind the counter.  And she told me that they don’t use those eggs for breakfasts.  Great so they just buy tortured eggs as an outside the  toilet display!  When that argument did not wash with me she told me I had no right to rifle through their produce. Um, the box was not hidden and I did not rifle!

My husband paid for the meal and we left.

Seriously I don’t get how anyone can buy caged eggs.  I just don’t.  The lives of those chickens who are debeaked and forced to endure their entire lives in tiny cages horrifies me, keeps me awake at night even. But that is my choice. I don’t expect anyone else to carry the same intensity of feeling about this that I do.

But when I go out for a meal I expect to be given the right to make my choice on correct and valid information. I don’t expect to be lied to and I don’t think I should have to stand for being misled.

I am angry, beyond words, that business can get away with this despicable behaviour.

And if you have any concerns about eating caged eggs – you probably shouldn’t go to Coogee Cafe

Mr Pencil told me the other day that he loves Tiger Woods.  Like really loves him.  He didn’t say “I love the way Tiger hits the ball” or “I love watching Tiger’s swing” or even “I admire a man who can sleep with 14 women and not get caught on woman number 2”. No, he just plainly loves everything about him.  He doesn’t even know him so I found that weird.

I began to think that maybe he was having a bit of a mid-life crisis.

• He recently bought a fancy new car
• We are about to do a major renovation to the house
• He has bought a surprising number of new clothes lately
• He owns 28 pairs of shoes (Fact!) and still needs to buy new ones all the time

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Surely this can only point to one thing.  He is having a mid-life crisis

And then yesterday the final piece of the puzzle fell into place.

Mr Pencil insisted that we all get scooters.

He went off to the toy shop (he insists it was a sports equipment shop) and bought 3 razors.  One for my 9 year old son which is perfect but the one for the 41 year old mum and the 42 year old dad – a bit odd.

And then it got worse.

Today he insisted that we go scootering as a family.  He is a very stressed individual, he rarely takes time off work and he never has time for exercise. So, given that he has taken some leave (to keep me in check) and today was a glorious, day we set off with our scooters to travel Bronte to Bondi and back again.

I have done this walk hundreds of times.  He has done it many times.  I told him there were too many stairs.  He told me there were none.  I told him that it was a uneven, jagged, coarse, rocky, stony surface (I used lots of words to try denote rough) . He laughed.

So we got there and it was simply magnificent.  To look at.  If you don’t mind stairs and rough ground (oh and also unspeakably beautiful ocean views). Little Pencil raced off doing wheelies and ollies and all manner of tricks, Mr Pencil was pretty nimble and I was a little more hesitant.  Okay.  I was a lot more hesitant.  But I needed to hesitate to point out how many stairs there were and how rough the ground was (and how petrified I was every time I gathered a tiny bit of speed).

I thought I was pretty fit but it turns out I am not scooter fit. My right leg hurt like hell from placing all my weight on it and my arms hurt like hell from having to carry the scooter up and down all the bloody stairs.  I was very worried that I might fall off the scooter and bruise my ego. I was also off the scale terrified watching Little Pencil coast down ravines* at a speed that was inconsistent with being human.   I was hot (not just because I was wearing a jumper and it was about 28 degrees) and I was very, very bothered.

The setting was magnificent and it was awesome to spend the day outdoors with my two favourite boys.  I am obviously delighted that my husband does not have 14 lovers (at least not that I know of) but I really wish he had chosen to buy me a diamond bracelet to celebrate his mid life crisis. This scooter – I don’t think it’s going to get much more of a run

*Okay they were ramps but they were extremely steep

It is Mr Pencil’s birthday on Wednesday and I am stymied about what to buy for him.  After all he is a man and men are notoriously hard to buy presents for.  Tricky already. But, to make it double tricky (because single tricky is for amateurs) I am well known as an excellent present buyer.  Worst bit – I am only known as an excellent present buyer by Mr Pencil.

To be honest this title is well deserved. These are just some of the amazing gifts I have given him in the past

• Sunglasses that really looked good on him
• Magazine subscription for a magazine that he once flicked through more than once (a boy/cars magazine)
• An ipod loaded with all his favourite music
• Tickets to a concert
• A photo book filled with pictures of him and Little Pencil
• Perfume (yup – one year I bought him my favourite perfume but it was only after he bought himself me a new computer for my birthday)
• Signed photos of Mark Taylor (when Mark Taylor was my husband’s favourite human being and captain of the Australian cricket team and not the face of an air conditioning company)

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Now I am all out of ideas.  I have used all the good ones up.

Why is it that men are so hard to buy presents for?  Could it be that there needs are so simple?  Mr Pencil has more than enough clothes and to him they are necessities rather than luxuries.  We already have a TV and an x-box so that’s entertainment covered.  The thought of him wearing jewellery repels me and he already drives a very nice car (in case I strike oil in the garden and want to buy him a very expensive gift).

He only has one past time and that is poker.  I can’t buy him skill and try as I might, I certainly can’t buy him luck. He owns all the music that he likes because he never gives himself an opportunity to listen to anything new and I can’t buy him better taste in said music.  I have tried buying him DVD’s.  They remain unopened and are sometimes used as coasters.

He does not collect anything and has no taste for trinket type things.  I could give him a photo for his office but of what ? I cannot find a photo of myself where I don’t look like a grumpy elephant.  As much as he loves animals, I know he would not like a picture of a grumpy elephant on his desk.  I cannot give him a photo of himself either –though I suppose I could give him a mirror.  I could give him a photo of Little Pencil then I would have no ideas for Father’s Day.

That leaves…well it leaves nothing really.

So I think I will buy him a spa retreat.  I know there is nothing he would like less.  But I would like it a lot.

Last week we admitted Little Pencil to hospital, fit and well.  Happy and healthy.  Bouncy and cheeky.  They were meant to just remove his tonsils but my lord it feels like they made him sick.

For a week now he has been in pain.  He doesn’t whinge.  He doesn’t complain.  He’s just sad.  He won’t eat, he’ll hardly drink and he is reticent to speak (this is actually a very good thing because when he does speak he sounds like a chipmunk who has just swallowed helium).

We have been stuck at home for a week now.  A week where he has not wanted to be more than one metre away from me. Although we have managed four outings

1. To the doctor – he seemed to me to be getting worse not better.  Official diagnosis – he needs to eat
2. Family dinner to honour the Passover celebrations.  Yup with great faith comes great responsibility . Considering that I do not have great faith that should possibly read “with great familial pressure comes great responsibility “
3. To a friend – because we needed to smile and we needed to escape the cleaning lady.  This was a very bad move because although he loved seeing his friend he went into meltdown on arriving back home.  Literally fall apart.  And when I say literally, I mean literally.  Falling apart included throwing up
4. We went to see a movie.  He held his throat and I watched him hold his throat

So it has not been a great week.

He is painfully thin and is in agony when he tries to eat.  I can put close the fingers of one hand around his leg. And his cheeks are sunken and hollow

I have offered him

• Ice cream – every flavour known to mankind. With bits, without bits. With sauce, without sauce. With sprinkles, without sprinkles. In a cup, in a cone, in a spoon, on a stick with a straw and with my fingers
• Chocolate – whole, melted, pureed, liquidised, grated and even cut into teeny tiny squares
• Jelly – orange, red, green, blue, yellow, rainbow.  Set, not quite set and even in liquid form
• Soup – Chicken. Vegetable. Hot. Cold. Warm. Tepid. With noodles and without
• Eggs – scrambled, boiled, poached, fried and Easter
• Nutella – so he had to fight me for this one but still I did not put up much resistance
• Peanut butter – he ate some.  From a spoon.  It almost glued his mouth shut.  He won’t eat it again
• Pasta – with butter and without. With tomato sauce and without. With cheese and without

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Oh and last night he woke up crying at 1am in pain.  Refused to even swallow the panadol and finally, after much threatening that I would not like to publish, he went to sleep at 4am.

This feels like the bad, old days.  I coped then.  Not so much now.

This is my tether————————————————————————————— and this is me, right at the end of it.

Today my Little Pencil had his tonsils removed.  He was incredibly brave.  In fact ridiculously so and it really showed me up.  I was a petrified mess.

His amazing attitude and his tremendous resilience is managing to rub off on me just a tiny bit – it may be because we are sharing the smallest bed known to mankind and his very being is literally being forced into mine, nonetheless, it is all good.  In fact, in this very squashy jolly state of mind I have decided that hospital is a pretty cool place and I’ll tell you why

• You don’t have to make the bed.  You can actually spend many wonderfully happy hours playing with the bed.  (On a side note why is there a button to lift just the centre of the bed?  What weird illness or injury would you have that necessitates the lifting of just your abdomen with your head and feet dangling precariously below you?  This is the BED not the operating table)

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• You don’t have to make dinner.  Although once you witness the slop that is hospital food you may wish to take up cooking in earnest. You may also wish to cook for all the other poor souls that have been given “A Study in Modern Art in Muted Greys” for dinner

• You can’t be guilted into walking the dog.  This important point is not to be confused with the more negative point that you will miss your dog terribly and wish he were there to lick away the smell of, well the smell of hospital.  Hospital smell is putrid so really you should not wish it on your dog and rather focus on the more positive fact that you can’t be guilted into walking him.

• There are people to talk to at any time of the day or night, even if they are carrying a heavy duty torch and checking your vitals.  What’s more, when these people say “how are you?” you can really go to town with your answer.

• Being in a hospital bed allows you time to appreciate the fact that your bed at home is not made of a waterproof piece of foam.  Unless of course it is and then it allows you to marvel at the fact that you are still alive after sleeping on such a terrible mattress for prolonged periods of time.  Presumably you will do most of this marvelling in the physiotherapy department.

• There is always a supply of band aids, oxygen and hundreds of drugs. This is very handy if you are a hypochondriac.

• If you squint quite a bit and you block out the drip, oxygen, life saving machinery etc you can pretend you are in a hotel.  This only works if you are in a private hospital and the hotel you pretend to be in is a pretty crappy hotel.

• The hospital has a fridge full of ice creams and icy poles for the patients but they do not check religiously who eats them.

• It is never completely quiet. Oh no, sorry that is a bad thing

That said, I cannot tell you how happy we will be to be out of here tomorrow!  Without those hideous tonsils.  And in a decent bed, with delicious home made food and a dog that licks our feet and no sign at all of sickness.  Anywhere.