Recently I was invited to a social event, that in the past would have filled me with HUGE anxiety. It would have bought up all my body image issues and left me fretting for hours on end.
Thanks to this when I got an invitation to a fashion event I got excited instead.
Clutching my brother's lovely girlfriend as my plus one, we headed out for a night surrounded by models and fabulous clothes. These weren't clothes I would ever be able to wear. But I'm in a place now where I can appreciate their beauty, and admire how lovely other people look in them.
I was also able to enjoy the lovely platters of food being handed round with equanimity, safe in the knowledge no one else was going to eat them!
And I had a brainwave.
Models always look great in photos. Now obviously they have a head start on mere mortals such as myself, with the whole long and lean thing going on. But I decided to ask them for some tips on how to take a good photo. Because sometimes I'd like to be able to email a photo to friends where I'm not wiping food off the face of one of my offspring, or have a bra strap dangling out of nowhere.
 With the help of a kind photographer who is a friend, and a generous minded supermodel (she is pictured with me below) I am able to share the pearls of wisdom I gleaned.

Supermodel Tip No 1.

Hand on lower hip. NOT your actual hip. This will elongate your arm. Now for those who are blessed with extra arm padding like me this tip is actually very useful.

Supermodel Tip No 3


When you're in a group make sure you're in the centre of the photo. Avoid the ends of group photos. This allows one to be, well, covered by other group members. Voila!


As well as meeting fashion designer Ruth Tarvydas of whom I am a big fan, I had a great time with my brother's girlfriend. Everyone we met and chatted with that night was so lovely and friendly. Thank you so much Shaun for taking these photos and Nicole for your generosity in sharing your knowledge on how to take a good photo.
And Bern thank you for inviting me!
Do you have any tips for taking a good photo?

According to someone I was chatting with recently I am a bossy person. "A very bossy person," to use their exact words.
The reason?
I use "To do" lists.
I truly didn't know that being a list maker made me bossy.
Obsessive possibly.
But not bossy.
I just like knowing what I have to do.
In fairness we had gotten together to organise a social event. I'd pulled out my trusty 'to do' list and I could practically feel the hairs on the back of her neck rising as I read through it.
My friend is very laid back. I am not. We know this about each other and mostly, we love each other and get along nicely. I'm not sure if it was the pressure of entertaining for her, or my pressure on her about entertaining, but the conversation went rapidly downhill after that.
Driving home I had a little think.
I like my kids knowing what they have to do as well. So they have little lists drawn up and each morning and afternoon they tick off the jobs they have to do.
Does this make me a domineering horrible parent?
Am I going to be responsible for them being in therapy somewhere down the track?
Though having been in therapy myself I can only see this as a very good thing.
According to my friend my list making is a sign of being a control freak and someone who needs to get things done.
When the hell did getting things done become a "Bad Thing?"
I like getting things done. I like getting to things on time and knowing what I am cooking for dinner that night.
Needless to say I am very confused.
Bossy and confused.
Are you a list maker?
Do you think this makes you bossy or does the satisfaction of the tick make it all ok?
PS If you are here because of the lovely people at Blogs of Note then you are very welcome. I am stoked and thrilled. Please stay and follow along. I can't promise anything, but I'll do my very best when writing for you. My "About Me" page will tell you a bit more about, er, me.

My brother sent me this photograph this week. It's one he took while travelling in Scotland last year. Dark and cold in many ways, but incredibly beautiful as well.
On Wednesday I had a fundraiser to go to. I don't usually go out during the week. In fact I'd gone through three babysitters in order to be able to get out the front door, and at the last minute Mr Large kicked a football through our front window smashing it into spectacular smithereens.
Keeping my voice calm (and resisting the urge to yell loudly at him) I asked him to get me the tape. I knew I'd need to  measure up the window to give the correct details to the Insurance Company.
He rushed off and returned white-faced seconds later, thrusting the sticky tape at me.
My sweet boy.
His hopeful little face that I'd be able to repair the damage done by sticky tape. And sheer relief I hadn't yelled at him, even though I'd really wanted to.
Having established that someone would be out shortly to repair the window I shot out the door. While driving I thought about how late I was and feeling increasingly edgy.
The fundraiser itself is for a cause dear to my heart. Within minutes of arriving I'd calmed down and wandered the room looking at the silent auction bids. Then the speakers were introduced.
The Doctor was first. She warned the parents of the children in the room that this would be hard for them to hear and to hold on while she did.
And she spoke.
I wiped tear after tear as she spoke passionately about the children she works so hard with.
I cried as I looked across the room at a mum who wants her daughter to live a long and happy life.
A mum who is running across the Great Wall of China in a half marathon to raise funds so other parents and families don't have to suffer the same way. Three fellow school mums are joining her in what is considered the toughest run in the world.
For reasons I can't discuss further I know too much about Cystic Fibrosis. It is a cruel and gruelling condition. It turns the lives of families and sufferers upside down.
But listening to a father of three with CF speak about his life journey, which included 2 lung transplants it struck me. It's perspective and the one we choose to have.
The Doctor was there to fight it.
The Mother was there as an advocate.
The Sufferer is Living while living with it.
The broken window is repairable. The petty small stuff we sweat over? It's rubbish.
What's important is how we choose to see things.
Like the photo above there is darkness so much of the time, but the light and beauty is what makes it bearable.
Standing in that room that night surrounded by people who took the time to be there, to cheer those mums on and to donate towards the work they're doing made me smile. Ordinary people doing extraordinary things.

The current craze for the offspring is something called gogo's. Frankly I have no idea what their purpose actually is, but it seems to create animated discussion and entertainment for extended periods. As a parent this is always good news.
Miss Medium came home recently from school clearly flustered and out of sorts. A quiet chat helped me to uncover the fact that her attempts to trade said gogos were being met with utter failure. She'd seen her older brother do it successfully and couldn't understand why the other kids didn't want to do it with her as well.
I died a little bit inside, as one always does when your child faces rejection or things don't work out the way one hopes.
But this is life isn't it?
A recent attempt at bootcamp ended in failure for me. There were 2 other pairs at it and a perfectly nice coach. They were all warm and friendly, but I knew I didn't really belong there. More a 'it's not you, it's me scenario.'
An attempt to befriend some parents in one of the kid's yeargroup last year ended similarly, when it was made clear time and time again that I wasn't part of the social scene and there were no plans to include me in it either. More a 'it's not me, it's you.'
Strangely enough, none of these things wounded me the way they would have previously. Therapy has helped me learn to like me more. I've relaxed and embraced the fact that I don't have to like or appreciate everyone either.
That's life.
It's okay to walk away and to accept that sometimes others won't like us as much as we'd hoped.
So my starry eyed daughter and I chatted for a while.
And she's decided to collect stickers instead. Some of her friends do that too.
And me? I have wonderful friends. From the one who came for a coffee yesterday bearing DELICIOUS slice and flowers with whom I can share pretty much anything, through to those I skype with regularly. There's no sense of anxiety or having to try. It just is.
And it's wonderful.
And bootcamp?
Well I am ever the optimist about finding an exercise group I can enjoy.
It's out there.
I'm just not going to try too hard to find it.
Because it just isn't meant to be so much work.

I read a post about this some months ago and it stayed with me ever since. The writer talked about fuel and filler. I knew exactly what she meant. I refer to them as "mundane" and "magic" moments.
I need the magic to counter balance the many mundane moments. You know, the ones where the constant low grade grizzling of an over tired toddler just grinds you down on an industrial scale, or the tears that flow from a daughter for whom waterworks come as easily as breathing.
The mundane is the after school reading, it's the dinner preparation and the battle to get them to "JUST EAT YOUR GREENS dammit ,"and it's making the lunches for school the next day even though I'm tired but I know if I don't make then it will be even more rushed and stressful than it already is. And so  I frantically scrabble through the fridge to find something to put in the sandwich that isn't vegemite. Again.
The older I get the more I've learned that I need to create my own magic. The effort is often worth the result. The escape with my husband and parents to a Christmas cookery course. It's throwing caution to the wind and enjoying some delicious sparkling wine and toasting a friend's fabulous and richly deserved success.

It's the going for a run when the frustrations with a world I can't control overcomes me. On the run the magic courses through me and suddenly I'm all powerful. I'm in charge. I let my thoughts run riot and words that were swirling in my head magically dissipate and all there is left is calm. Focus and calm.
And I'm not looking at here anymore.


I'm looking  here.

And up there?
That's where the magic is.
And I can go home again to face the mundane and know that there will be magic again.
Very soon.

Mr Small took a tumble the other day. It was a nasty one and not one we could have prevented even if I'd been standing right next to him. Which unfortunately I wasn't.
He came running towards me and Husband sobbing his little heart out. Within seconds, he was settling down. Husband dashed to get his "blankie" and the two of us stood side by side, with him nuzzling in between our shoulders. I felt his heart which had been beating out of its ribcage begin to slow, and his breathing become more measured. We chatted to him about things we knew he liked and pretty soon he was laughing and giggling.
Then he ran off to play again.
And it struck me that most of the time we can't do anything about preventing the "before."
Much of the time we can only watch and wait.
We also cannot change the "before." Whether it is the words I spoke in haste and anger that ruptured a friendship, the mistakes made during the renovations, the hardship endured by family friends.
I wish I could.
But I can see after what happened with Mr Small, the "before" in many ways becomes largely irrelevant.
It is the "after" that counts.
It's being the grown up and continuing to smile politely and say "hello" even when you feel bewildered and snubbed.
It's getting Husband to make a list of "repairs needed" and making sure they get done.
It's showing up and being there for friends even if all they can do is cry and all I can do is pass tissues.
And giving hugs.
They're great for "afters." I can't recommend them highly enough.

We'd booked a date to meet up some months ago. She was coming to Perth for a flying visit. When she'd texted to ask me I almost broke a nail replying "YES!"
It's been a year since we've seen each other.
Yesterday it didn't matter a damn. We might as well have seen each other last week.
That's the kind of friendship we have.
For almost two years she has been living up North with her husband and the kids and it has been very tough. I've admired how she's gritted her teeth and thrown herself into a very different life up there. I've watched her climb the career ladder while coping with a husband who is away three weeks out of four and two small children.
She's done it because she's had to, she certainly wouldn't have chosen it. But she's done it with style and grace.
Throughout the time she's been away we've both endured various crises or disasters. And every single time we pick up the phone and call each other. Neither of us takes the call. We don't need to. Because just the very act of ringing and seeing the familiar and much loved name on the phone makes the problem seem just a bit less insurmountable. Sometimes love and friendship goes beyond voices.
Both of us started out as exhausted mothers who met over a truckload of marking. Our paths have diverged considerably since then, but our friendship has flourished despite, or maybe because of it.
We've shared secrets that we'll take to our graves, we've entered competitions together genuinely hoping the other would win, we've gossiped over weight, fashion and men. We "get" each other and don't judge .
So yesterday, we hugged each other fiercely. We ordered coffee, chatted, shopped and had pedicures together. All the stuff neither of us has the time to do.
But when it comes to each other,
we make time.
I hope we always will.

Sometimes it's so easy to think you're so damn busy. Please note, I said: "think."
I think that alot of the time.
I bore myself with the busy-ness.
And during those times when it seems crazy busy, do you know what I love?
Coffee with a great friend.
The kind of friend you adore because really, she's just sublime.
A chat and catch up where you both marvel at how fast the time is flying. You joke about things that no one else would understand. You "get" each other.
And my friend makes a fabulous coffee.
Then there's the hug from a family member.
He has an amazing life, but is wise enough to see it for what it is.
Just the froth on the coffee.
Looks good but doesn't mean or do much.
A gentle reminder that in the scheme of things
the busy-ness doesn't matter.
Really it doesn't.
Coffee and time with friends and family?
Now that's what I'm excited about.
And that time is so important.
Fancy a catch up anyone?
I'm not that busy it seems ;)

I went to call her today about something and realised she wasn't home. She won't be home for another month or so. She's been gone a couple of days and I miss her. She is my conduit to my family, one of my dearest friends and when it comes to all things offspring related, my first phone call.
I am not sure if I am the only one but I have a range of people who are "my first phone call" for many things.
Marriage counselling a few years back taught me to appreciate the value in that Husband is my first phone call. And he is 90% of the time. But often he is in meetings or on calls, so I leave messages recounting my "news" and then hit the menu button on my phone.
Offspring related calls are usually with my sister in law. Our children are close in age and development so we share notes, laugh hysterically and chatter non stop about random things.
Enriching calls are Carly, reassuring calls are with the Stylist need to stop calling you that now!
Writing related calls are usually with my old editor (for advice) or my new editor (for work) and lately with a fellow freelancer with whom I have struck up a close rapport for both advice and work.
Whenever I hit a milestone or something happens I automatically dial my parents. The insatiable need for them to be proud of me is innate. They are proud of me as it happens, but my inner child can't get enough of their praise.
Then there are the phonecalls to old friends yes I know we must catch up , newer friends sorry there just aren't enough hours in the day , babysitters, work calls where I have to interview people for articles and I still can't shake of the nerves in my voice when I do that.
There are the boring calls to banks, health insurers and making appointments.
One could say I spend too much time on the phone. You would be right. But these days my life is a juggling act of school run, working, ferrying to and cheering on the offspring at drama, ballet, hockey, football and me trying to shove in some running training.
All too often the phone is my only way of catching up with people I love.
So Sister in Law, while I hope you are having a fabulous time in the USA I know you will read this.
Call me, would you?
Who is your first phone call?

One of the interesting things I have discovered about my newly refreshed love of running, is that the pace I go is often dictated by the music playing. If the music is up-tempo then my pace quickens. If the song is a slow one then inevitably I find myself slowing down with it.

A few years ago one of my dearest friend's in the world, suffered the agony of the news that her baby required a liver transplant. Over weeks and months we watched her sweet baby deteriorate. His tiny little body was emaciated because he couldn't process nutrients normally. He wore a naso-gastric tube. He suffered nasty reactions to his medications and his skin often peeled away as I held him. At social gatherings my friend would often lock herself in the bathroom to avoid questions from well meaning friends and strangers asking about how her son was doing.
There were painful phone-calls too. My friend wept as she talked about how she had planned his funeral. Having lost a child previously she wondered how she could go through the agony again. As her friend, there was very little I could say or do. Except listen. I did a great deal of listening.
Her son was very lucky. After a live liver transplant which was donated by his father her son is now a joy filled, mischievous little boy. Apart from an enormous scar across his abdomen which we only see at the swimming pool you'd never know all his family endured.
Recently there has been a media firestorm, I am afraid there is no other word for it about a young woman called Clare Murray. The facts are these. Clare Murray needs a liver transplant. It would be her second one. She has two young children. And Clare is a recovering heroin addict. It is alleged her drug use after her first transplant caused her liver to fail, requiring her to need a second transplant.
She was refused a place on the waiting list because of the return to drug use. The Health Minister said it would be "patently unfair" to put a former drug addict back on a waiting list for a second liver transplant. There are seven people on the current waiting list.
Now the Government has given her family an interest free loan to fly to Singapore. Predictably articles saying: "CLAIRE Murray, whose drug addiction ruined her liver transplant, has arrived in Singapore hoping for a "live liver'' transplant operation that could save her life.
The young mother-of-two, whose drug addiction ruined her liver transplant, arrived in Singapore yesterday hoping for a "live liver'' transplant operation that could save her life.
The trip comes thanks to a $258,000 loan from the WA Government."
Please note the repetition of the same phrase twice in two short paragraphs.
Yes Clare Murray is a recovering addict. I think it has been made eloquently clear.
Here are my thoughts.
Firstly Australia needs to do a hell of a lot more about ensuring there are enough organ donors to prevent this kind of shortfall occurring.
Secondly why wasn't this young woman offered an intensive rehabilitation programme after her transplant? Oh, because here in Perth there is tragically little in the way of facilities offered for our recovering drug addicts.
As I understand it, her parents will pay this loan back. No one will foot the bill for this. They will. They also do this with the knowledge but it may well not work. Instead they may well also be paying for their daughter's funeral. They love their daughter.
Finally, her family have been to hell with this. They've endured media intrusion. Their attempt to portray their daughter's plight and appeal for aid was appallingly handled by our local media.
They've seen their beloved daughter crucified in the press about her addiction, an addiction so deadly that I can't even pretend to understand its grip on her. But as I understand addiction is a disease. It needs treatment. Clare Murray didn't get that treatment.
And now she is in Singapore hoping she can get this transplant.
And as someone who watched parents suffer over the pain and suffering endured by their own child I want her and her family to know, I wish them all the very best.
It's the only thing I can do.

I've had to keep reminding myself that what is happening at the moment isn't a wonderful, stupendous dream. Husband keeps grinning at me and saying: "I told you so," at regular intervals and when I've phoned various friends to tell them what's been happening, they've echoed his refrain.
My writing is being published.
I am being asked to write for various places, on all manner of topics.
I am having glorious fun doing it.
The not so glorious bits of trying to fit in my musings around small, adorable, but totally unsympathetic to my writing children, and a husband who keeps flying away for work are proving a challenge.
But it's do-able mostly.
I'm trialling products and ideas at home. Wherever I go I ask questions about things. My poor hairdresser on Saturday was subjected to a barrage of questions about haircare. I suspect when I next call back to make an appointment she won't be available to see me ;)
I've had amazing support from various blog and internet friends as well. They've been patient and generous with reading my drafts and editing them. They've helped with topics and advice on pitches.
In addition, I'm pursuing my own ideas and pitches.
One of the fun ones is fashion. This pitch is in the early stages but I thought it would be fun to share the process with you. I love fashion. I admit I haven't a clue about styling or the budget to pursue it "properly" but I've applied for a media pass for our Perth Fashion Festival later this year because I intend to blog/write about it.
My idea for that is to write about it from the perspective: “an ordinary woman's peek at an extraordinary world.”
I'm not limiting myself to any particular style of writing or topic, except for the obvious.
I got given some brilliant advice when I posted a question about pursuing a career as a freelance writer in January. I took it and away I went.
I've been rejected as well. But it's always done so nicely I usually end up feeling like they did me a huge favour!
I haven't wanted to jinx it by saying much about it all before now.
But I've gone from: "I think I can do this"
to
"I am doing this."
And it's wonderful.

Walking down the beautifully lit driveway the other night, on our way to a social function I spotted them immediately. The butterflies. The ones in the centre of the room where the light shone brightest. They were laughing, sipping their wine and having a glorious time generally.
This was one of the rare nights where I felt and looked like one of them. My stylista friend had generously spent ages with me helping me find the perfect dress to wear. I'd made an appointment to have my poor neglected locks tended to after my Bronze Exam that afternoon. And I was giddy with excitement at the fact that I'd passed my exam that morning and become a lifesaver. I was tressed, dressed and filled with bounding confidence for the occasion.
So we walked into the garden and saw them. The moths.
The ones who hover on the fringes. It's safer in the shadows of the gardens. The oxymoron of moths avoiding light doesn't escape me. But I used to be a moth. I often feel like one, but I if I pretend I'm a butterfly for long enough I am one, if only by association.
I stood and chatted with one group for a while. One moth stood there. Virtually wordless. Time and time again I tried to engage her in conversation. One word responses. I saw her partner at the other side of the room chatting away cheerily to another group.
I glanced over at the butterflies, where I wanted to be. Where tonight I wanted to be. Just this once.
And so my husband and I toured the house with our hostess. It was beautiful, perfect. I was envious.
And then I joined some of the butterflies.
I sipped my wine slowly. These days I'm a one glass girl.
I laughed and joked. I boasted over and over again about my achievement.
And I kept glancing to the shadows.
Still there.
Still silent.
The strange thing was I didn't end up chatting to some of the butterflies. I worried I might not be witty enough for them. I worried that I wasn't pretty enough to be there.
The stupidity of this hit me when we said our goodbyes and one of the prettiest butterflies said sadly to me: "But I didn't even get to talk to you!"
And I reflected on the fact that not once that night had I felt excluded. Not once had I been made to feel silly or foolish.
Our self perception cripples us so often.
I'm learning slowly not to let it.
And as we left I saw her on the fringes still. Hovering.
Uncertain.
And I knew that whilst I had really enjoyed my evening and that next time I would be braver still.
I knew
I knew how much courage it had taken for her to come for the evening.
And next time this would be butterfly will make sure that moths get taken into the light too.
Because it's fun there.

Having had relatively minor fertility issues myself this isn't a subject I'm unfamiliar with. However, an incident a couple of years back still haunts me, and I really would love to know how I should have handled it. What should I have said, or not said?

My husband and I were at a friend's party. We met up with friends I hadn't seen in some years and we spent the better part of forty minutes chatting about the wonders and joys of our offspring with them. And then I casually started to ask these friends who have been married for several years and have no children: "And are you guys thinking that having children..?"

I got no further when the wife cut me off with a vehement: "Don't even go there! Just don't go there!" and she then walked off. My husband and I sat in stunned silence until I got my voice back. I apologised over and over to her husband who was standing stock still beside us, and awkwardly, the subject was changed. When she returned, we resumed the conversation as though nothing untoward had happened.

I ache for my friends who are trying to start or continue a family. I know the pain of miscarriage and the sorrow it brings. But I know only a little of the fertility quest. Try as I might I probably don't understand AT ALL what you are going through.

I still feel terrible about that night. These days I never ask people about their plans for a family unless they bring it up first. But I do wonder for my friends who are fertility challenged. What do you want me to say? Do you want to talk about your struggles? Do you wish those of us with children would just shut the hell up? Do you think I'm insensitive because I don't ask how things are going? Or do you just not want to talk about it? Or do you want to talk about it, but not with me (which is fine obviously!)

I think a dialogue about this subject is important because so many times I don't know what to say. So I say nothing. But I do care. Alot. There is too often a divide between the "haves" and the "have nots" and straddled somewhere on this delicate precipice are those with the "have a little but not all." That is those dealing with secondary infertility. And I just want to know, what would you like me to say?

I cannot believe I haven't done this before now.
I cannot believe it didn't occur to me before now.
But sometimes,
I'm not very smart.
So earlier this week I asked Carly if my family could come and share Christian's sunset with her.
And she said yes, of course.
So after what I can only describe as a frazzling day, I packed up 3 small equally frazzled children and arranged for frazzled Husband to drive straight from work and meet us there.
And once we arrived it was magical.
I met Carly's wonderful parents.
A little boy who had been grumpy all day promptly stripped off and started prancing in the waves.

My husband and I relaxed

Two dear friends caught up and remembered precious loved ones.

Our two little girls danced through the waves

And left holding hands with a new friendship beginning.......

Thank you Christian for all those precious gifts xxxx

It occurred to me as I was driving home from work for the second time today twice in one day, don't ask! to wonder what Mrs Spit had for lunch. I mean, what do Canadians eat for lunch? I apologise if this is a woefully ignorant question. Is there a national dish? Should I try it?
And then I wondered if The Unproductive One was having a good day, not an okay one, but a good one.
I thought of Stacy missing her precious Isaac.
And I thought of Bec and hoped she wasn't going through OHSS and I hoped that Mr Small hadn't yet found a way to unlatch the front gate and run outside.
I thought about my friend Liz and hoped she was having a lovely birthday and that the flowers I sent her arrived safely
I hoped that word of Rory's Garden was spreading and reflected on some of the beautiful emails we have recieved about it.
Such were the meanderings of my mind today during my drive home.
And this is what I want to know.
What did you do today? I just want a snapshot, a sense of what you did or didn't do. What you ate and how you felt about your day.
And by this I mean you who take the time to read my blog. Because maybe I didn't think specifically of you today, but I probably did yesterday, or I will tomorrow.
And so often I wonder.
Often at bedtime after story time has been completed my small ones will say: "Tell me about your day mummy."
And so my friends, tell me about your day.
I'm listening.
xxx

I should have RSVP'd to my friend's sons birthday party today.
But I haven't.
I can't seem to make my fingers dial the numbers.
I also needed to keep track of my spending, DH even installed a cute little gizmo on my phone so I could do it when I was actually out shopping.
Guess who had to sit down at lunchtime totting up a loooonnnggg list of receipts so it would all be done for THE MEETING tonight?
I know I should have been more patient with Mr J and Miss B when we did "lesson time" today.
I know I shouldn't have had an afternoon snack today, oh, fine then, if I am being honest, SEVERAL snacks this afternoon!
I know I shouldn't be here blogging right now. I should be mopping up the sand Mr L traipsed through the house a little while ago.
I know all this.
Actually I knew all this at the time several events took place.
So time for a little self examination.
Why am I deliberately sabotaging the dregs of a friendship?
Why am I deliberately sabotaging my good spending plans, eating habits etc that I have worked so hard to put in place?
Plain old fatigue.
I haven't had an unbroken nights sleep in weeks.
But I wouldn't change that for anything.
Because at the end of the day. All these things are fixable, the friendships, myself, the tasks I have to do.
But nothing,
nothing,
scares away the frightening shadows, monsters, teething goblin
better than me.
And nobody can wipe the tears away and murmur the soothing words they need to hear better than me.
They trust me.
They know.

ETA: Floors mopped.
Children bathed and fed a nutritious dinner.
Checked points on afternoon snacking, turns out diet and coke and parmesan stuffed olives are not too deadly after all!
Friend texted and told kids will be coming to party.
Yes texted.
Don't judge me too harshly...like one of Carrie's b/fs on SATC said "I'm not ready for voice on voice contact yet."

I felt I had to put this post up, especially after reading this post from Jill http://averittbabyjourney.blogspot.com/2009/01/rest-of-story.html because it is important to balance the good with the bad.
Without the loss of this friendship:(see previous post)
I would never have discovered so many amazing woman in the blogging world.
I would never have regained contact with Carly,http://scarletriver26.blogspot.com/ a former student, who in so many ways, has become a teacher to me.
I would never have received beautiful pictures honouring my baby brother with his name in the sand.
I also need to share this story.
Shortly after I joined Weight Watchers I met a beautiful woman at it. She only needed to lose half the weight I did. She was a gentle, quiet lady, who in many ways reminded me of my friend.
Once, I mentioned a particularly sleepless night with my youngest, and her eyes welled with tears.
"Oh I would love to have that." she said. "I would love to have someone wake me at night, needing me."
As chance would have it, she was on the same journey as my old friend.
Because I wasn't a work colleague, or a friend at that time, she confided in me, and because I had learnt so much by then, I understood.
I listened.
We ended up becoming great friends. We walk together each weekend, we share stories.( We both talk longingly of food, especially our shared passion for nachos and chocolate and how many points it all is!) I was there for her when two rounds of IVF failed, and I was the second person (after her husband of course!) she told when the third round worked.
We will share stroller walks together when her baby is born later this year (Please God).
So the loss of this friendship has opened up a great deal more to me.
It has also taught me not to ask friends of a similar age if they are planning on starting a family, because chances are, if they haven't already, then they are probably having problems and don't want to talk about it. If they do, they will. But if they don't mention it, then I have learned to be sensitive enough not to ask.
I have made peace with myself.
My yoga instructor said I have journeyed a long way in the past year, he has seen me not only find balance physically ( he has seen me transform down several dress sizes and become alot more flexible in the process!) but mentally I am calmer and more focused.
I will go to the party of course.
Because I know what it means to be a friend.

This week a birthday party invite arrived in the mail for my children.