Veronica Foale http://veronicafoale.com I tell stories. Wed, 14 Jun 2017 10:16:59 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=4.7.6 Pining for sunshine http://veronicafoale.com/pining-for-sunshine/ http://veronicafoale.com/pining-for-sunshine/#respond Wed, 14 Jun 2017 10:16:59 +0000 http://veronicafoale.com/?p=1085

It has been a long week. Long like I’m moving through treacle and the tired has hit me. Slammed down, there’s a weight in my shoulders. My feet are heavy with the kind of bone tired you only feel in winter, when the temperatures stay low and you wake in the morning with the world frozen solid. Winter white and sunrise through the fog. It’s beautiful but you’ll freeze to death watching it. Or maybe you won’t, but I might.

We went away for a big market in St Helens, and it was amazing and exhausting and brilliant and it nearly killed me, but I’m still going to do it again next year, because fuck it. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, right? Or maybe it makes me bendier, but hey, who’s counting that part anyway. We chatted to customers, both returning and new. I got to rave about my products, because I honestly love what I do, even when the cold is in my bones and I am hurting, I love how my soap smells, and how the hand cream feels, and how I feel when I share that with people. I love brightening people’s days, knowing that something I made with my two hands can make them happy, even if it’s only a little bit of happiness. It all counts, adds up, means something. To me at least.

Winter is in my bones, and it’s June again, which is always a month of remembering, of hospital rooms and death and funerals. Nine years on, you’d think it would be better, but it’s only different. Some things stay with you, like the trauma passed down through our DNA, making its mark on us all years later. Muddy boots on white carpet, you can clean it up, but you’ll never erase the memory of what happened. Nothing is ever gone, which is both blessing and curse really, love and loss, light and frost, the strength you get from putting one foot in front of the other.

My children are sick, and so there’s the incessant whining of “Muuuuum! I’m huuuuungry!” from the smallest one, and it’s inside my head. I hear it when I’m sleeping and it makes my shoulders bunch, because you. just. ate. five. fucking. minutes. ago. and if you’re hungry, maybe eat your damn crusts, and have a glass of water, and you can get your own yogurt out of the fridge, there is a whole fruit bowl available, why can’t you make your own sandwiches yet?

Then I feel ungrateful, because I am so lucky to have these small fragile creatures relying on me, but five minutes without needing me and get your own spoon, is it too much to ask? Really? I am not your slave, pick up your own toys, come and get your sandwich I am not a waitress and fortheloveofgodstopfuckingwhining.

Four is an interesting age, and it’s not my favourite, but it’s not my favourite in a slightly better way than 18 months old was not my favourite. Maybe. I’m not certain. So much of babyhood is foggy and lost now.

I am tired. Worn down and worn out.

[“Mum, I need a drink.”

“You can reach the tap, go and do it yourself!”

Heavy sigh. Huff. Stomp.]

And I remember this feeling from last year, but each year is a little worse, as I get a little older, as my collagen fails a little bit more, and I hold out hope for a short winter and the return of warm sunlight. The solstice is a week away and I am pining for the sun, for the light, for the warm.

I have filled my house with seedlings, in hope and new beginnings, in the germs of new life. I am hoping it helps to watch peas twine towards my roof and parsley grow wild on my kitchen bench.

We’re so close to the solstice tipping point I can taste it, as we slide down into the darkest bit of winter, the coldest bit, the hardest bit. August drags, but not in the same way June does.

One week left.

 

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Writing as self indulgence http://veronicafoale.com/writing-as-self-indulgence/ http://veronicafoale.com/writing-as-self-indulgence/#comments Sat, 11 Mar 2017 01:24:00 +0000 http://veronicafoale.com/?p=1081

I stopped writing, and I have a thousand excuses for why I stopped, but none of them hold any weight anymore. Not when the words press down on me because I’ve lost the habit of dropping everything here (or there).

There’s no quiet inside my head any more. No space, no peace.

My youngest baby started school /where does the time go/ and here we sit, with a pile of school clothes to wash, and market boxes to pack neverending. Soap piles up everywhere, along with paperwork, and wholesale clients, and joy and I love it. I love bringing something tangible to people’s lives, something real, with the power to make them smile.

But.

I miss writing.

(So do it more, you idiot, just start again)

My children grew up. The mummyblogging died in a haze of advertorials and sponsored trips. I was tired, so so tired. Tired of justifying myself, of the side-eyed-glances at the school gates, of talking about my feelings. I just wanted to write without having to mention it ever again. Cone of silence. I don’t want to talk about my latest blog post, jesus christ, I wrote it, you read it, isn’t that enough?

But no, it was never enough. Everyone wants more. People want to know why you don’t mention anxiety/dislocating joints/pain in public, and it’s like, I have to live this. I don’t want to rehash it over and over. I just want to send things out into the ether and have them disappear. A weight off my shoulders. Gone.

“I didn’t know you felt like that.”

I didn’t know I felt like that until I typed it out and there it was.

This then, is the damage done when you write under your own name. When there’s nowhere to hide. When you just stop instead of finding a new tribe. The RSS feeds die and no one knows you exist anymore. When there’s too much criticism and not enough acceptance. When your children grow up and can’t be fodder for the stories anymore.

This is what happens.

The odd dichotomy of wanting to be listened to, and wanting to fade away into silence under the weight of everything I can’t talk about any more. Stories which aren’t mine. Stories which are.

I used to be funny and poignant and sad. Now I’m just tired and anxious, buried under a stack of paperwork and a need to make something real.

Who am I? What do I even want.

God. So self indulgent. Yet here I am still.

Is there anyone out there anymore?

 

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A tale of jelly. http://veronicafoale.com/a-tale-of-jelly/ Mon, 07 Dec 2015 03:35:00 +0000 http://veronicafoale.com/?p=1076

My youngest child wants jelly.

“You will make it for me Mummy? You will make it?”

She waves the box around in front of my face, as I attempt to run stocktake on essential oils.

“I can’t make it right now Eve. And anyway, even if I make it now, it will still have to go into the fridge to get cold.”

“Does the jelly needa get cold Mummy?”

I nod, distracted.

“Yes, sweetheart. I mix it with water, and then it goes away to get cold and set.”

She looks at me, smiles, and walks away. I hear the fridge open and shut, as I run my eyes over my remaining stock lists.

Five minutes later, Eve stands in front of me again, brandishing her box of jelly.

“Mummy! The jelly is cold now! Can I eat it please?”

Three year olds are chaos walking. Everything happens at high speed, high intensity. They feel things so deeply that it can be heartbreaking to watch them bounce around their day, like the silver balls inside a pinball table.

They’re the happiest they’ve ever been, right up until their heart breaks and everything is ruined forever. A broken banana is the end of the world. A stolen sock; a tragedy.

Three year olds are also hilarious. It’s why we don’t eat them.

“But MUMMY, the jelly is cold! You said we could eat it when it got cold!”

 

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Spring, grief, and success http://veronicafoale.com/spring-grief-and-success/ http://veronicafoale.com/spring-grief-and-success/#comments Sat, 29 Aug 2015 07:34:40 +0000 http://veronicafoale.com/?p=1072

The rain fell wet and heavy as I dragged myself out of bed. First light peeked over the hills and I was grateful for it, grateful the light appears earlier each day, grateful that while it rained this morning, we’ve had a little sunshine lately, and spring is coming.

I dragged myself out of bed, double checked my market boxes, forced myself to eat toast. Tired children sat around the fireplace while I got ready to leave.

If I hadn’t had a market, I might have spent the day curled up in pajamas, with netflix and pikelets and hot chocolates. But there it is. I have responsibilities, and so I left my family at home while I headed out to work.

I have markets most weekends now, and when I’m not at a market, I’m frantically trying to keep up with demand. More soaps, more orders. I’m not complaining – success was the whole point of this venture, but sometimes I miss lazy weekends, and whole days spent in a patch of warmth with a good book.

My youngest child is three now, tall and gangly, running around like a maniac, demanding things. I have this idea in my head: if I can just hold on until she’s in school, maybe there will be time to do everything I want to do. Soap, writing, reading. Maybe.

I’m lying to myself, I know this. Things don’t get easier as your children get older. The questions just get more complicated and involved. “Mum, why do people have sex? Can dogs feel sad? Why do you look so tired?” At the very least, the three year old is a simple child. She wants milk and cuddles and cartoons. Hot cheese sandwiches and peanut butter on apples. She wants to know why she can’t draw on the walls in sharpie, and where her purple baby is, and can she share her breakfast with the dog. Simple. Intense, but simple.

Someone asked me today if soapmaking is all I do. No, I write things too, I replied. And then realised, that’s almost a lie now. I haven’t written anything in too long, I’m all full to bursting with unspoken words. I miss it. Success is never to be complained about, and yet …

My brain is breaking again. I can feel it. I’m holding it at bay with vitamin D and music and hot chocolates drunk in an almost-spring garden. But there’s grief as I head into the spring – grief worse than last year, and the year before. Or maybe I was medicated last year, the year before. I can’t remember anymore.

It’s been six years since my grandmother died, and I miss her more as I head into spring this year. I miss the unconditional love – when so much of my extended family barely likes me with conditions attached, I miss her. I miss her delight in my children, and her love of spring, and the way she showed up whenever we needed her.

It’s a funny thing, grief. Less linear than you’d believe, but there you go. It’s nearly spring, I’m full to bursting with words and emotions, and my grief is harder to deal with.

Outside, the world is full of muddy puddles, wet chickens, and cold crisp air. The warmer weather will hit soon, leaving the plants pushing upwards as fast as they can. I plan to join them, standing in the sunshine, stretching as high as I can.

I have work to concentrate on. Soap to make, orders to fill.

And spring is coming, soon.

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Broken and disjointed http://veronicafoale.com/broken-and-disjointed/ http://veronicafoale.com/broken-and-disjointed/#comments Sun, 19 Jul 2015 01:43:57 +0000 http://veronicafoale.com/?p=1068

I used to write every day. With music in my ears and words spilling out of my fingers, I would write and write and write. My heart was soul slick, bubbling over, unable to be tamed.

Now I’m a bottle with a cork it; a well fast running dry; a knotted ball of yarn. I know how this works but I’m angry and my fingertips have run dry. There’s no words as I navigate an almost three year old having a meltdown, a six year old with home reading and a desire to have me watch all the video games, an eight year old who needs to know the why of everything.

I am lost in a haze of no words, of chemistry, of fatty acid profiles and caustic experiments.

Who would have thought that making soap could run the word well empty so fast.

My three year old screams in the background, angry again.

The weather is ice and wind.

I can’t send them outside.

There is sharpie on the walls and someone has stolen all my notebooks and unpinned my scribbled notes from the cork board I use to organise my life. I frantically hunt for a pen while I take notes on the shaving soap cooking, but someone has stolen them, my pen cup removed from its home amongst the high shelves and left scattered on the floor.

Now there are two children screaming.

Please just shhhhhhhhh.

I can’t believe there are eight pairs of scissors in the house and I cannot find one of them.

Find a playlist. Turn the music up. The dog is chewing headbands again. Shaving soap cooks and I stir stir stir the caustic mix, waiting for it to come together, to trace, to be soap rather than a messy collection of liquids.

Business is good. I love what I do. But sometimes I feel like a shaken bottle of soda, ready to explode if the words don’t come out. I need to write. Making soap is my passion, but writing saves my sanity and god knows there’s little of it left.

School goes back tomorrow, and the almost three year old will spend the day asking when we can pick up her siblings and screaming because she doesn’t want them to come home and ruin her games anymore.

I can feel a splash of lye on my finger and I should go and wash it off, but the pain reminds me that I still exist in this tornado of business and screaming and need.

Everything is too bright, too dark, chaos whirlwind, around and around. My hands are soul slick again and I wash them off, down the drain with the bubbles, there go the words.

I used to write. Stories. Books.

I’m drowning in a desert of no words and I can’t find my way out.

The soap cooks in the slow cooker and I make notes, ready for markets next weekend. There are twenty weekends until Christmas and 16 markets if I get into everything I want, and don’t get sick, or have my body fall apart. I take vitamin D, magnesium, fish oil, slow release opiates. I sleep when I can, but sometimes find myself sitting wide awake at 3am, wondering what I’m doing.

MUM MUM MUMMY MUM MUMMY MUM MUMMY!

I am not hiding in the bathroom. No, I’m not. Go away. I need to pee. Just, I’m working.

You’re always working.

Yes. Because you need new clothes and our house needs a new bedroom and a dining room and money doesn’t just fall from the sky kid. As much as I would like it to.

The soap is almost cooked in the time it takes me to write this, broken and disjointed.

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Six long years. http://veronicafoale.com/six-long-years/ Tue, 23 Jun 2015 10:12:35 +0000 http://veronicafoale.com/?p=1064

I spend the day in bed.

A mild virus, combined with the middle of winter blues, and a shoulder injury all conspire to see me feeling shitty and getting shittier.

I spend the day in bed, a warm toddler snuggled at my back and crappy TV on my netflix. I cry, and cry some more. My shoulder hurts. My soul hurts.

Death anniversaries are always hard, but this one is hitting me harder than I expected. Maybe because I didn’t expect it. Maybe because after six years (six long years, tomorrow, six years, six years, it’s a litany over and over in my head) I expected to be okay, finally.

I am not okay, and everything is not okay.

June is hard. The puppy chews all my books, stealing them delicately from the bookshelf and shredding them while we’re out, while we’re distracted, while we’re sleeping. She pulls out the books I like most and destroys then. Roman Mythology. Alice in Wonderland. Zombie Survival Guide. They’re all dead and I am so so tired as I pick up pieces of my books from all over the floor.

It is hard enough I had to pack away most of my books to make room for business, squishing down the pleasure of reading all day, of researching and learning and writing, in order to work and make money, in order to improve our lot in life, without a puppy chewing all the favourites I lovingly left in the few remaining bookshelves which do not hold soap.

There is shredded paper everywhere and I spent the day in bed, pretending tomorrow isn’t the anniversary of anything, pretending my shoulder is not damaged, pretending everything was going to be okay.

Tomorrow will come, stay, and pass, like it does every year. Like every day before it, and every day after. I will try to distract myself, but my broken shoulder is making it hard, and I suspect I will spend the day in bed yet again.

Six years. Six years and so many missed milestones and events.

The sharp knives of grief might ease, but the missing never truly does.

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It’s a quick slide down into winter http://veronicafoale.com/its-a-quick-slide-down-into-winter/ http://veronicafoale.com/its-a-quick-slide-down-into-winter/#comments Fri, 12 Jun 2015 22:21:49 +0000 http://veronicafoale.com/?p=1058

It’s a quick slide down into winter. The mornings and my fingers ice over, frozen solid, moving slowly. We wait for the frost to burn off, the fog to burn off, the wood in the fireplace to burn off. Life is cold chaos and we’re moving through treacle again.

I tell myself: No. Not this year. You are too busy to be sad this year.

But there it is. The sadness cannot be willed away as we slide into June, the icy runway slick under our feet. A little voice in the back of my head sings, it’s June again, June again, we all know everything is terrible in June.

The vacuum cleaner breaks, and the woodbox of the fireplace splits a little further. It’s June again and everything is breaking around me.

It’s been six years this year, since my grandmother died. Since we walked the year-long cancer journey to its close, a whirlwind of appointments and hope and treatments stopping dead in a palliative care room in South Hobart. One half of my support team cut free forever, as the masses within her lungs and bones shut her body down forever.

Almost a year (eleven days, eleven days, eleven days and a few hours and how are you feeling Veronica? how is that ice in your bones today?) to when we stood around her, a circle of family and love and light and watched her go, the world a lesser place for her passing, a better place for her living.

A part of me will forever be standing in that room, watching her die. Over and over again.

The wound is less raw, but the missing never fades. Grief is an interesting concept, a fluidity to the sadness and the tears. Maybe you’ll feel differently tomorrow, maybe you won’t.

My children grow ever bigger, and my grandmother isn’t in this world to watch them grow. That is a tragedy all on its own.

We were five generations of women, then five generations, missing our fourth, then three. Three generations of women left. It seems unfair. There was so much family here and now … nothing. Maybe that’s the worst bit about death, it cuts families up into pieces, slack hack slice. You over there, you here, now there.

People don’t like to talk about death and dying. There is a discomfort about it, a recognition of our own mortality. If they died, then we might die and everyone dies OH GOD.

The grief of my grandmother’s passing irrevocably changed my life. Set adrift, missing 50% of my matriarchal life support, awash in a sea of grief.

Death, dying.

It’s June again. The ground and my fingers are frozen equally, as a clock ticks down the days to Spring inside my head.

Six years, six years. Here we are.

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Disadvantage and education in Tasmania http://veronicafoale.com/disadvantage-and-education-in-tasmania/ http://veronicafoale.com/disadvantage-and-education-in-tasmania/#comments Tue, 02 Jun 2015 03:59:00 +0000 http://veronicafoale.com/?p=1049

I was in year nine when the girl sitting across from me during mathematics matter of factly told me she was living with her twenty nine year old boyfriend. She’d left home after her father raped her. She was 14. A few weeks later she disappeared from the school. Her name was called out for a few more weeks of attendance, and then that too stopped.

I don’t know what happened to her, whether she moved away or simply disappeared. I can’t even remember her name, although I can remember how intense her eyes were as I listened to her talk about how family was fucked and you can’t trust anyone.

She was not an unusual case.

I went to a disadvantaged school, in a disadvantaged area. In our uniforms, we were a rabble, often loud, with plenty of swearing. There were teen pregnancies and drama. When someone finally got around to teaching a sex ed class, two thirds of the class were already sexually active and had a better idea of how to get a condom on in the dark than the poor teacher showing us on a banana.

The classes were rowdy, full of angry teenagers and angry hormones. I took my work home each night to complete it, rather than fighting with the chaos, the noise. We laughed and teased and made the support teachers cry.

It wasn’t a good educational environment. Between the teenagers drinking and doing drugs, the raped and angry girls, the couch surfers and the foster kids, our teachers did the best they could, but there wasn’t a lot of privilege to go around.

On paper, I am exactly like my peers. I dropped out of college to get an apprenticeship, which quickly fell through under the pressure of work AWAs and subtle sexual harassment. I got pregnant at 17, was diagnosed with a degenerative disability at 20, ended up on welfare. I’m second generation welfare. At 26, I have three children. On paper, this is who I am. Teenage mother, dole bludging scum, college dropout.

But I am more than the sum of my disadvantage. The man I fell pregnant to, we love each other. We were married after our second child was born. I bought my house at 19. I freelance. I own a small business. I work around my disability.

It isn’t that easy for everyone.

At the end of the day, when I was a teenager, I had family who loved me. I had a warm safe place to go if I needed them, with plenty of food. People cared about my survival, about my school results, about my successes.

But then, I moved out of home when I was fifteen. I made bad choices, fixed them, made bad choices again. I lived in share houses, renting bedrooms from other people on welfare, all of us trying to eke out a living. I ended up in shitty situations over and over again before I met my partner (now husband).

I don’t know what the rate of teen pregnancy ended up being in my year 10 class, but I’d wager it was high. A lot of the girls I went to school with are mothers now, some single, some happily partnered. Some of us clawed our way upwards, some of us didn’t.

The things that separate the people who succeed and the people who don’t are often entirely insurmountable, an accumulation of things, one atop another. This person stayed in a stable home. That person’s mother walked out. This one here, that one there, a giant chess board shuffling us all around, grist for the mill.

I credit a lot of my successes to simply moving out of the suburb I was staying in, and the fact my partner had his drivers license. His driving opened up options for us which would never have been there. We moved into a tiny rental in a better suburb. We bought a house rurally. We moved away from the daily dramas, removing ourselves from the cycle of poverty.

Privilege is most often, at its core, good luck. The child who is lucky enough to be born to affluent parents in an affluent suburb has better chances than the child who is born into poverty and parents who are struggling to make ends meet.

My children are privileged now, even though we continue to fight the tyranny of distance when it comes to education. When you live rurally, your options for schooling are already limited. I’m hoping that having intelligent parents who love them will go a ways towards bridging the gap. But I also know that because of where we live, they won’t get the same quality of education as a child living in the centre of Hobart, with parents wealthy enough to send them to  private school.

The schooling system here in Tasmania is flawed. When it is easier to drop out of year 11, you know you have a problem. Some days there would be a two hour wait for the bus to take you home. There aren’t enough colleges for rural students. Housing is an issue. Getting to college if you aren’t lucky enough to live within the suburbs is hard work. Finding the energy to attend, day in, day out, despite poverty and no support system.

But the biggest problem lies with trying to pretend disadvantage faced by rural and low socioeconomic students doesn’t exist.

There is a problem if half of your students are going to school hungry, or unable to buy lunch. If there’s no support at home. If there’s no money for good food so you’re eating two minute noodles again because at least they’re cheap.

You can’t treat educational problems in a vacuum. There are societal problems everywhere, impacting on kids ability to engage and learn.

And if a good percentage of your teenagers see college or university as a waste of time because there’s no work anyway, well. What do you think is going to happen?

Disadvantage is a multifaceted thing, impacting on every part of life.

Shame won’t fix it. Privileged people refusing to listen won’t fix it.

There isn’t an easy answer to any of these issues, but we can’t pretend they don’t exist anymore.

We can’t keep refusing to see the poor people under our feet in the hope they will just go away.

And we can’t pretend that this issue is a simple one with children who don’t want to learn on one side, and children who do on the other.

 

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A steep learning curve http://veronicafoale.com/a-steep-learning-curve/ Mon, 30 Mar 2015 09:34:58 +0000 http://veronicafoale.com/?p=1041

WARNING: TMI enclosed. Please for all that is good do not read if:

You are family and it’s going to make you feel awkward to read about my vagina.

Your kids go to school with my kids and you’re going to be unable to look me in the eye at school drop off and make polite conversation when necessary.

You’re not interested in my writing.

—–

I am too uncoordinated for this I thought as I tried to juggle the soap, my new electric bikini trimmer, and my labia, twisting and turning to get the best angle.

There is a learning curve on a new razor – I’d forgotten this in my loyal years of only buying one brand of razor.

But here I was trying to juggle the soap, a brand new electric razor, and my labia, while trying not to turn myself into ground meat.

It wasn’t working and I was starting to believe I actually needed four hands to do a good job.

My hands slipped and I narrowly missed dropping the razor on my foot trying to save my clitoris, while swearing vigorously.

“You ‘kay Mummy?” a little voice piped from just inside the bathroom door.

I pulled back the curtain just a little bit, poking my head around the corner.

“You are meant to be in bed.” I grumbled, looking at my smallest child who was pretending to be innocent. I’d given up morning showers as lost a few weeks ago after my two year old decided no one was to shower alone, not without her to splash in the water.

“No. No bedtime.” She looked at me gravely. “You ‘kay?”

“I’m fine. Go back to bed.”

“No. I sit here. You shower Mummy. I sit.”

And so she did, sitting on the bathroom mat, looking up at me.

I had a moment there where I thought seriously about giving up. My bikini line was barely trimmed and my two year old sat on the other side of a whisper thin shower curtain, no doubt wondering what the hell Mummy was doing.

But Internet, I am not a quitter. I am many things, but intelligent in the face of too great odds is not one of them.

I pulled the shower curtain back, hiding myself as I prepared to battle on, holding my soap firmly in one hand and my razor in the other. Trimming pubic hair never sounded so easy; sleek, shiny, and downright modern. Gone were the days of scissors and ingrown hairs – I had a shiny new toy and a promise it would do the job or my money back.

Bzzzzzzzzzz, I turned it on. Louder than a vibrator and less useful too, I set it to work.

It did not go well.

Between contorting myself into awkward positions (1: leg on the side of the bath. 2: the awkward cowboy. 3: oh god is this a yoga pose. 4: please just let it be over soon) and having to make small talk with a chatty toddler, it was … interesting, and rather like rubbing a fine cheese grater between my legs.

By the time I’d cut myself for the tenth time, I was sort of getting a handle on the angles needed and how much soap needed slathering on to make things work. (related: this soap makes great shaving soap.)

I rinsed off and washed my hair quickly, wincing a little as the shampoo hit my nether regions. There were cuts, and snicks and little driplets of blood beading everywhere.

It wasn’t pretty.

The toddler passed me a towel as I turned the water off, declaring herself to be “vewy helpful, look Mummy, I helping you” before running off as I dabbed gently at my labia and waddling to the bathroom cabinet in search of post-wax soothing wipes.

I haven’t been this cut up since I tried to shave my bikini line when I was 39 weeks pregnant.

I’m not sure I’m prepared to risk my labia again. Shiny new trimmer or not.

Personal care is hard.

Upside: I now have a reason to make an even better shaving soap and post-shave soothing gel. Excuse me while I go research some stuff.

 

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Spinning in circles http://veronicafoale.com/spinning-in-circles/ http://veronicafoale.com/spinning-in-circles/#comments Sun, 29 Mar 2015 09:05:47 +0000 http://veronicafoale.com/?p=1038

I am spinning in circles inside my house, around and around. Kitchen, office, bedroom. Kitchen, office, bedroom. I keep forgetting what I’m doing, but it’s okay, there’s always a child available to shout at me when I forget their drink/clothes/lunch.

“Make it for me, Mummy! MAKE IT!” the two year old implores as I look at her all curly haired and strangely angelic as she stomps her foot and demands a bottle. “Make it! I tired! I lay down. Make my bottle Mummy! Make it now!”

Around, and around.

No one sleeps for days, least of all me, and I am a frazzled nervous wreck. We’ve got markets on the horizon and stock is coming ready but where’s the time to pack and sticker everything when there are three children who need to be fed and clothed, and more soap needs making so we don’t fall behind.

The overwhelm is high and I’d rather just crawl into bed with a book, or netflix, both of which are ruining any productivity I may have had.

And so I spin, around and around. Was I making a cup of tea? Where is my notebook, has anyone seen my spatula, hey kids where is the puppy, god I think I microwaved a cup of tea an hour ago.

My sugar scrub refuses to thicken seven hours after I melted the blasted oils and I tweak the recipe on the run before deciding it’s probably the weather, the sunshine, the heater which has been running incessantly in my house because the eldest child is fighting with an eating disorder and spends all her time cold and getting colder.

Winter is coming, winter is coming. The rain has ice in it and the sunshine feels like a blessing from the Gods when I can stand in the sunbeams, silent and remembering to just breathe. Right before I remember the tea in the microwave and the oils in the mixer and the puppy tries to kill a chicken.

My calender is full, but we need another market because money is tight. Starting a small business is a labour of love, blood sweat tears all streaming down my face as I count the dollars and wait anxiously for tax time and the relief of bills paid and everything caught up on.

Until then I am spinning in circles, surrounded by the confetti made out of a thousand lists and chewed to pieces by a puppy and a toddler working in tandem while I look in another direction.

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