Veronica Foale

Author: Veronica Foale

  • I guess I was lucky after all.

    I was awoken this morning by the screeching of Elmo coming from the other room. Somewhere around 1am, my son had climbed into bed with me, leaving Nathan to sleep on the couch and my daughter alone in her room.

    Considering Nathan doesn’t watch Elmo and my son still had his toenails jammed firmly into my stomach, I only had one suspect. A certain five year old girl.

    Of course, knowing that my daughter was awake, I panicked that my alarm hadn’t gone off because my phone was plugged into the charger. She never wakes up before me on a school morning. Of a weekend, yes, but a school morning? Never.

    A quick glance at my alarm fixed my panic, but by then Elmo had woken my son, who climbed out of bed and promptly overflowed his nappy, leaking urine all down his legs and the floor. Despite being an hour before get up time, it appeared that we were all awake.

    This is the problem with small children. They are unpredictable and make you panic over missed alarms.

    I suppose I should be thankful, for the urine and the demands that dragged me out of bed, because I’m sitting here now, realising that my alarm never did go off.

    Huh.

    I guess that was lucky afterall.

  • Included

    My daughter says

    :No one would play with me today:

    and my heart breaks into a million tiny pieces and I’ve run out of the good glue, so I’m left sitting on the floor, trying to put myself back together.

    The hardest part about school is not living it yourself.

    No, it’s parenting your own child (blood of your blood, body of your soul) through it and knowing that it gets better and worse, better and worse, like a fucked up see saw.

    Later, during a conversation, I hear that two girls a grade older, with pretty names, played with her at recess and I am grateful to them. So grateful to these two girls who I have never met, that they played with my girl and made her feel included.

    Quirky children are not easy, but I know in myself that we wouldn’t be able to home school.

  • On the issues of food

    It’s not that we’ve run out of food – we haven’t. It’s that we’ve run out of easy food. No bread, no ham, no sandwich meat. No tortillas, no tomatoes, or cucumbers, or carrots.

    This is what I tell myself as I wander around the house aimlessly, looking for something for breakfast. My stomach is flip flopping between hungry and don’t you dare eat or you’ll vomit (again) and all I can think about is avocado on toast, or tomato salad – neither of which I can currently make.

    Obviously this would all be easier if the supermarket wasn’t so far away and if I could actually be bothered to go food shopping today.

    Which I can’t.

    +++

    This is real life. Not prettied up for public consumption, with sparkling skirting boards and perfectly dressed children. My daughter has wildly tangled hair and dirt under her fingernails and my son refuses to eat anything. My fridge is empty looking and the mayonaise is past its use by date. I just found a dead tomato, weeping liquid into a drip tray.

    +++

    There is a pantry full of things to make and eat. Beans, pasta, noodles, rice, canned tomatoes. Staples that we never run low on. There is a freezer containing meat and I have two kilos of chicken feet, that I keep forgetting to make into stock.

    I count my blessings every time I complain that we’ve run out of ham, or there is no swiss cheese left.

    I am so lucky, to be able to complain about this.

  • Literally versus metaphorically.

    It’s wet outside. Cold and grey, the kind of weather that leaves you chilled to the bone, wishing for a warm patch of sunlight, or to be a cat, curled up under the covers of the bed.

    +++

    Writing every day is hard. This is probably why I ought to keep doing it.

    :The hard things are always worth it, in the end:

    – which sounds like the punchline to a dirty joke, but is decidedly not a euphamism.

    Unless it’s a euphamism for life, in which case, carry on.

    +++

    Every time I stand up, someone steals my chair.

    Everytime I sit down, I’m suddenly needed elsewhere.

    I’m starting to suspect that this is the euphamism for life. Bugger trying to be happy in this moment, or taking a second to reflect.

    No, you’ve got to aim for overall happiness, so that you can survive the shouting and the stolen chairs and the moments filled with annoyance.

    +++

    Or maybe I’m wrong and this is just so hard because my hands are cold and somehow, I’ve managed to gouge a hole in my hand and I’m bleeding all over the keyboard.

    Literally.

    Not metaphorically.

    I am literally, bleeding all over the keyboard. The space bar and lower keys at least.

    Maybe that should be the euphamism.

  • I am a perfectionist

    I am a perfectionist, so I bought myself this.

    Sometimes, it is easier to do nothing perfectly, than it is to do something.

    Especially when you’re a perfectionist and the possibility of failure is weighing on your heart with every step you take.

    So I’m wrecking my journal and seeing what happens. NaBlo is also giving my inner perfectionist a run for her money, forcing me to write every day, regardless of quality.

    It’s probably good for me.

    PS, it’s also my birthday today.