whybother?

A little while ago, Mollie sat a scholarship exam for her dream high school. Today is the day the successful candidates get the phone call that will change their lives.

I must have woken up every half hour last night, waiting for morning. As luck would have it, I’m having the day off, so I’m sitting here, waiting, daring to hope one minute, certain the phone will ring with the good news. The next minute, I’m certain it won’t, that I’ll have to tell her she’s missed out.

At 10.30, it became too much, and I rang the school, to ask whether the ‘winners’ had been notified. "Not yet," was the reply. "They may not get to it today, they are still going over the results. Maybe tomorrow."

I went to the library, browsing the aisles, looking for a distraction. I borrowed a few novels, but I can’t seem to get into any of them.

I decided to begin preparing dinner, so the kid can eat as soon as she gets home. She’ll be late tonight, because she is attending Starstruck rehearsals. I chopped and sliced and boiled and mixed. That done, I decided to prepare tomorrow night’s dinner as well! Stress brings out the latent Nigella in me!

Now I have a lasagne and a casserole on the go, and it is still only 1pm, and still no phone call.

What else can I do to distract myself? Mollie wants this so badly. She has a position awaiting her acceptance. I originally told her that if she didn’t win a scholarship, she couldn’t go, because we can’t afford it. Now, I’m willing to make any sacrifice to enable her to accept. This should be an exciting and happy time for her, but she’s stressing out about the cost. I keep reassuring her that we will find a way. We will find a way. But the scholarship would be a big, big relief!

I know, if it’s meant to be, it will happen. There’s nothing more I can do. Mollie has tried her hardest, and no matter the outcome, I’m proud of her for having a go. I just want the waiting to be over… 

Me, cooking!! Tricked ya! Hahahahahahaha

A few weeks ago, I was sitting in the staffroom at lunchtime, sniffing at other people’s food (as you do!), when I discovered something that I have often marvelled at: zucchini slice. It looked delicious. It smelled tantalising (like that word? You know you do). I was impressed.

Last week, I was in Sydney. I don’t think I ate a vegetable all week. Unless baked beans for breakfast counts. Or French Fries. When we were doing the groceries on Saturday, I felt a sudden, desperate urge to buy vegetables. When I came home, I felt a sudden, desperate urge to actually cook and eat them! Normally they sit in the crisper until they rot, then they go in the bin and I tut, tut, over the waste.

What can I make? I mused. I jumped online, and went to my favourite drool-site: Taste. I dredged up a recipe for zucchini slice, and what do you know? Quick, easy, less than 100 ingredients, happy days! Could anything be easier, tastier, or healthier? NB: I ‘tweaked’ the recipe a tad…

Ingredients

2 zucchini, grated

1 carrot, grated

1 potato, grated

1 onion, finely chopped or grated

6 eggs, beaten

1 cup self raising flour

1 cup shredded cheese

salt and pepper to taste

Method 

Preheat the oven to 180C. Line a 2 litre casserole dish with baking paper. Place the eggs in a large bowl and beat. Feels good, doesn’t it? Sorry. Place the veges in and mix, place the flour in and mix some more. Add salt and pepper to taste. Pour into the prepared dish and sprinkle the cheese over the top. Don’t eat the cheese!!!! Bake for around 35-40 minutes. I do recommend testing with a skewer, because if it’s runny in the middle it is not ready and will taste like shit. Seriously.

The best thing about this? You can eat it hot or cold. Mollie has been taking it to school in lieu of sandwiches! Gotta love that! No photos, it’s ALL GONE!
 

When I came home from work last night, we had a pizza and movie night. It has been a very long week, and it was all I was really capable of. That was followed by a couple of glasses of wine. When everyone was certain that I was nice and relaxed, Darren suggested to Mollie that she show me what was in the fish tank.

Now, the fish tank has been devoid of fish for quite some time. It has been gathering dust in the spare room. Why would anything be in the fish tank, I wondered. I followed Mollie into her bedroom. She opened her wardrobe door. Why would the fish tank be in the wardrobe, I wondered. Just before she took it out, she made me promise not to kill or otherwise harm her. There was a sinking feeling within. I promised not to inflict physical harm, but reserved the right to throw a tantrum.

She had the good grace to look sheepish as she revealed the tank and its contents.

Some of you may remember that I have recently been having issues with mouses. Not mice, mouses. Apparently one of the fucktard cats caught a mouse last night. Mollie ‘rescued’ it, as she does, and decided to keep it as a pet. Not what I had in mind. I really wasn’t in the mood to argue, so I let it go.

This morning, she opened the fish tank to feed the little darling, and guess what? It ran away! 

That must be a world record, for shortest length of time a pet has been owned. I might go and ring the good people at Guinness. 

Just a quick note to thank everyone for their comments. I’ve been in Sydney all week, and just got back last night. I’m sorry I haven’t replied to anyone! When I read them last night I could feeeeeel the loooooove! Naturally, I haven’t had a chance to catch up with you guys either, so I apologise for that. As soon as I have the chance, I’ll be visiting everyone. Take care!

Mother’s Day, 2008. I’d already been warned not to get out of bed, and sure enough, breakfast arrived on a tray, with a chrysanthemum,  a glass of juice and a cup of tea. French toast and bacon…mmm, yum. Then it was time for the presents. A bottle of bubble bath, a bottle of body lotion, facial mask, a box of chocolates, a cute little book of motherly quotes, a journal and a special pen that lights up. Last, but not least, the home-made present: vouchers for various special treats.

Voucher 1: breakfast in bed.

Voucher 2: a relaxing bubble bath.

Voucher 3: a facial.

Voucher 4: a hair wash and head massage.

Voucher 5: a back massage.

Voucher 6: a foot massage.

Voucher 7: a manicure. 

Voucher 8: a free hug and kiss with the redemption of each voucher.

The morning was spent in total indulgence. Mollie filled the bathroom with candles and incense. She ran the bath, poured in the bubbles, topped it all off with rose-scented bath confetti. She applied the facial mask, washed my hair, gave my head a massage (mmm, heaven). When I was finished in the bath, she gave me a lovely back rub, followed by a foot rub and a manicure. Then she picked out my clothes and did my hair (???), smothering me in hugs and kisses at every stage.

Was I spoilt rotten? Yes. Did I deserve every second of it? You better believe it! I have never felt so relaxed, or so totally adored and valued. I highly recommend it to everyone!

Thanks Mollie, you’re a treasure. You really made me feel special today. I love you.

Wishing all the mothers out there a day filled with love and devotion.

PS: even Daz jumped on board: I believe he ‘helped’ with the shopping and cooking. He also provided me with an extra box of chocolates. We all know one is never enough!  Thanks, Daz. Love you.

My cats? May not be the useless fucktards I assumed them to be.

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING IMAGE IS NOT FOR THE FAINT-HEARTED!

Is coming home from work to find that the Man of the House (MOTH) is cooking a lamb roast. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? I bought a  winning lotto ticket. We didn’t win the $20 million, but he was so happy with the $40 that he went out and splurged on dinner! I love that man!

When she went to bed last night, she promised to wake me up early so we could do presents before Dad left for work. True to her promise, the wake up call went something like this:

Me: snoring

Mollie: *roars from another room* Mummy! Time to get up!

It was still dark.

Have a great day, kiddo! Love ya! 

On this night, all those years ago, I was lying in the spare bedroom of the Evil Mother-In-Law’s (EMIL), 40 weeks pregnant and full of trepidation. All our goods and chattels had been packed up by Grace Removals, and were on their way to Western Australia. Except the pram, the car seat, the port-a-cot and the nappy bag. And the nappies. And the suitcase full of baby clothes. First thing in the morning, Daz would drive me to the hospital, where they would start the drip, which would induce the birth, which would result in the greatest miracle of all. My very own. My precious. (Gratuitously thieves lines from ‘Lord of the Rings’).

It was stinking hot, and I lay beside my husband with the ceiling fan barely stirring the heavy air. The baby was kicking and somersaulting. I knew that within 24 hours, I would hold my newborn. I would feel his or her tiny fingers grasping mine, I would look into his or her Blue? Brown? Green? eyes. I would feel his or her breath on my face as I smelled his or her glorious baby smell. Would s/he have hair? What colour would it be? How much was it going to hurt? This time tomorrow, I thought, I will be a mother. We will be a family. I will never be the same again.

I began to cry. Darren held me, soothing me, laughing gently at his ‘little wife’. Not so little at that point, I can assure you! ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘I’m scared!’ I sobbed. ‘What if I can’t do it? What if something goes wrong? Look at this pram, this car seat, what if we never need them?’ He laughed again, but not in a mocking way. ‘You’ll be fine. I believe in you.’ 

I cried myself to sleep. I doubt if Darren slept at all, as he kept watch over us. Our last ever night of ‘coupledom’, the eve of discovering the joys and wonders of parenthood. I remember.

Around about 12 years ago, I met my beloved. Shortly thereafter, I had the pleasure of meeting his parents. I doubt if his mother and I have ever had an honest conversation. Too painful.

I don’t know how she feels about me. Care factor? Zero. Not interested. She walks the walk, and is quite convincing, but given my depth of feeling towards her, I doubt if there’s any genuine affection for me on her part. That’s fine. We don’t have to like each other. So why pretend?

Folks, this woman has pissed me off more times than I can count. In so many different ways. There was the time she accused me of child abuse. There were all the times I invited her to something on Darren or Mollie’s behalf and she rejected them, but wouldn’t tell them, would tell me, so that I had to break the news to them. The times that she has hurt Mollie, and I’ve been the one to cop it.

Darren and Mollie choose not to confront this woman. There is a good reason for this. She has a vicious tongue. Even her humour is hurtful. She is intolerant. Towards everybody. She hates Asians, Muslims, Aboriginals, Homosexuals, Catholics, Politicians, Americans. That’s her problem. She hates. She is bitter, and twisted. There is no joy inside of her. None. The precious moments she spends with her only child and her only grandchild are often wasted as she picks at them, criticizing and condemning them until they are silent with hurt. She is incapable of positivity. She sees only the negative. She looks for the negative, and if that’s what you look for, that’s what you find.

Next week is Mollie’s birthday. All she wanted was a picnic with both sets of grandparents, mum, dad and one friend. Here is an extract of the email I received this morning, from Darren’s mother:

Mollie said the party is now at Lake Macquarie not Cessnock, if this is right, we will only come and see her and give her the present, as 6 hours travel in a car is too long for JB and the drive back after 4 hours in the car is a lot extra for me too. Sorry about this, but we can still come up early that day to give her the present or go back to another weekend in Cessnock that suits you all. Judy

Lake Mac is half an hour from Cessnock. They have to drive one hour to Cessnock, half an hour to the lake, half an hour back, then another hour home. That makes it 3 hours, not 6. Additionally, if it was that much of a drama, they could stay overnight, as they have been invited to do, but declined. They are in their 60’s, not their 90’s. This is not the first incident of such a slap in the face.

On reading this, I fired off a quick, ‘ok, no worries, we’ll have another talk about it and let you know’. Then took myself quietly off to my room to fume in solitude. Then thought about it some more. Then got angrier. And angrier. 12 years of anger and pain went round and round my little brain. I came out of my room. I mentioned the email to Darren, and was asked ‘what did you expect?’ This hurt too.

Mollie isn’t here at the moment, so she doesn’t know about it. When I tell her, which I will have to, because she won’t, she’ll be angry and hurt too. And she will take it out on me. Which is natural.

So I sat down and composed an honest email. I took my time. I read and re-read it. Then I hit ’send’. Fuck it. Fuck her. 12 years is a long time.