Veronica Foale

Author: Veronica Foale

  • Living in the moment

    Writing requires that I lose myself inside my own head. I need to sink into the spaces between the thoughts and drift there for a while.

    Mothering requires that I remain in the moment, that I watch and listen and respond, immediately. A litany of cascading thoughts; we need butter, do we have any bread, baby needs a bottle, laundry needs hanging, what’s for dinner? My brain shoots ahead of me and I’m wiping benches, bums and noses in equal measure and not writing a thing.

    This too shall pass. They’re only little, they’ll only be little for a short amount of time. One day I’ll be begging for them to snuggle me and tell me about the flowers.

    I remind myself these things, as I keep myself busy and don’t think about the words sitting inside my soul, bubbling away from behind the dam in there.

    One day, one day I will write and it will flow and I won’t feel like I’m being torn in half every time I drag myself back to reality.

    One day, I won’t feel guilty for spending long moments inside my own mind, tasting the words and playing with them.

     

  • On changes

    Hello?

    Tap. Tap.

    Is anyone in there still? Hello?

    Oh look. There you are. You haven’t disappeared after all.

    The cursor has been mocking me here for days now, little shouts of ‘you can’t write anything, ner ner’ and ‘look at you, looking at me. Go and do something useful already’.

    I should have learned to not listen to a blinking cursor by now. Especially a blinking cursor that spends it’s days swimming in the shark tank that is the Interwebs.

    ***

    There was an explosion.

    BANG!

    And suddenly everything was different. A mini earthquake triggered and the world beneath my feet rocked and things I took as given disappeared.

    I am learning to be okay with this.

    Change is not a bad thing. Change is merely change. I’m wearing my designer shoes and ignoring the breast flaunting happening in front of my eyes, as I move through a new world, shaped and moved by things beyond my comprehension.

    You could say that life is different now.

    Or maybe life was never going to be what I thought it was.

    This is okay.

    We are all going to be okay.

     

  • Finding my balance

    It’s a balancing act, knowing what to write about on the internet. An intricate dance of stories and perspectives, making sure you don’t put words in someone’s mouth and side-stepping the issue of privacy invasion. Knowing when to speak and when to hold your tongue, when to write and when to walk away.

    It’s about more than not wanting to damage your own brand with drama.

    It’s about knowing that truth can be fluid sometimes and not wanting it to be; wanting truth to be truth and lies to remain unspoken.

    It’s a fine line.

    ***

    My son is sad and his warm mass draped on my lap and snuggled to my chest brings to the fore all my maternal feelings. It doesn’t matter than he is dribbling in my cleavage or that I am not able to move, he is warm and sad and I am his mother and I can fix this, this time. When he is older and I cannot surround him with my arms, then he will be sad and my heart will break at how useless magic kisses have become.

    I put him to bed with a warm bottle, knowing that he is tired and listen to him cry anyway. This is hard. This breaks my heart. This is probably best for all of us, that he sleeps now.

    ***

    I send my daughter outside, to play fortheloveofgod go and play. She lies on the trampoline for an hour, not moving and I watch her as I wander around the house. She is tired and miserable and sad and bendy. She comes back inside and we lay together on the couch and I feel the heat of her. A temperature rising, her joints aching. I thank everything that I have panadol handy and I dose her up and lay her in bed. She is limp and miserable and I lay with her for a time.

    Motherhood is hard.

    Motherhood is beautiful.

    ***

    The truth is hard.

    The truth is beautiful.

    With all this talk of authenticity, I can only be myself and this is how I am in real life too. I might not talk about all of it, but I’m honest at the core.

    There are things happening and things brewing and at this point, I’m not sure I’m content to sit back and say nothing, but the drama and the angst, I don’t want it.

    So I’m saying: Watch and listen and see what happens. Sit here alongside me and we’ll eat popcorn and wait for the fallout. Because it’s coming and it’s not going to be pretty.

  • Here’s my tether

    “Can you get off me please? No, I can’t open that, no really, I can’t. Get off. Do you have to sit on me? Apparently so. Yes, I love you too, now can I have my hands back to type with? Yes, I can see that you want that, no, leave that cord alone, can’t you just stop wiggling, no, yes, okay, I’ll squeeze you, squeeeeeeeeze, there, are you feeling better? No? Yes? GOD.”

    “I am trying to type this. I need to get this done, stop clinging to my leg, did you just lick me? 30 seconds, fortheloveofgod 30 seconds. I am busy, I need to write this email, yes, I can put music on for you, what do you mean you’re hungry? I just fed you. No, I will not make you a salad, you didn’t eat the last one. No screaming, GOD, no screaming, please, just let me write this email, I’ve been trying to write it for an hour. How am I meant to get anything done. No, stop pulling on my hands, stop it. Seriously, stop it. What do you want to eat? No, you can’t have a biscuit, or chocolate, and the only apple left is for school. No, I mean it, you can’t have the apple. Do you want a pear? No, we’ve run out of carrots and no, I can’t pick one from the garden, we’ve picked all the big ones.”

    “Get off the bench, no really, get down. GET DOWN. Stop climbing. Okay? No, you can’t have the sugar, put the cocoa back, careful, that cup is going to fa… fuck. Yes, I know it smashed, I can see it. You, stop screaming. It’s FINE, it was an accident. I’ll clean it up. You really want a cup of cocoa? Okay, I can do that. Not that cup, okay, what about this one? No? This one? No? Do you want cocoa or not? In a cup with a lid? The puppy chewed all the lids. Oh god, stop screaming. The pink cup? Yes? Finally. You want a bottle? Okay, go and find it. No, it’s not on Daddy’s computer desk and DON’T TOUCH THAT BUTTO- fuck it.”

    “Just drink it. No, don’t play in it, do you want me to take it away? No, I said, get your feet out of it! Just drink it. No, I don’t care that it’s had your feet in it, you could have thought of that. Your feet are clean anyway, well, they were, until 30 seconds ago. I still haven’t written this email and yes, you can sit on me, but oh, do you have to sit next to me? Yes, apparently so. Can you stop wiggling you’re going to dislocate my ribs – fuck it.”

    “Yes, MyNanny died. Yes, we’re all sad and why did she die? Because she had cancer and she was very sick. Yes, I miss her too. Can we talk about something else now please?”

    “Stop climbing in the cupboards, where did my computer chair go, god, why is it outside? And stop chewing things, you’ve eaten more of my chair than your breakfast. Do you want a sandwich? Yes? No? Stop dragging me everywhere, it hurts, no, here, hold my hand, but you’ve got to stop pulling. Do you want to play outside? On the trampoline? The swing? Something? ANYTHING? Go and get your ball, we’ll go outside. No, you don’t want to? No, we’re not watching a DVD, you need some fresh air.”

    “Put your pants on, no, really, it’s cold, put some clothes on, here, I’ve gotten them out for you, you feel cold, yes, I know you’re cold, stop screaming, if you put clothes on, you’d warm up. Come back here, stop running away, you need a shirt on, jesus but does this ever stop?”

    “Eat your lunch, no, please, eat. No, you can’t have milk, no, no bottles, have you actually eaten anything except my computer chair today?”

    “I still haven’t written this email and I’ve got 100 things to do and I still need to cook dinner and yes, you can help me cut up the carrots … and crap, we’re out of carrots. Anyone want potatoes? And I forgot to get meat out of the freezer, but that’s okay, we’ll work something out, do we want fried rice? I’ve got a lot of rice and frozen peas and plenty of eggs. Yes, you can help me mix the eggs, but please don’t put your fingers in it… never mind, they’re healthy chooks anyway, I’m sure they won’t give you salmonella.”

    “Don’t touch that button! FUCK. There went a day’s work. Please let it have autosaved, because god knows I haven’t been near it to press save lately and of course it hasn’t autosaved. A whole day’s work, gone. Yes, I love you too and you want to come up again? Sweetheart, I can’t carry you around, you’re too heavy for me. Go on, get down, stop clinging, I am putting you down, if you want a snuggle then we’ll sit down, but oh god, stop screaming.”

  • Wanting

    She throws sensibility to the wind as she races through the grass. A quick spin and then laughter and she feels alive for the first time in days. As she walks back towards her shoes, she decides that sensibility is a curse and is not to be inflicted on anyone.

    She leaves with a promise to buy striped purple leggings and wildly inappropriate shoes.

    To wear jewellery simply because she likes it and to buy a whimsical scarf.

    To dress in red and yellow and to stop and taste the sunshine.

    To write about whatever she takes a fancy to, regardless of whether it’s truthful, and to write often.

    These things, she promises herself.