My Place: Chapter 3

Well it’s been a while since I posted any story of my own let alone a chapter of my book. I must confess I’ve missed writing my own adventures and dramas and am eager to get back to it. I wrote this third chapter a little while back (ok it was almost a year ago) and it’s as far as I’ve gotten with the novel. I’m hoping that sharing this latest chapter with you will produce the inspiration and motivation I need to keep going with it. Feel free to comment below and let me know what you think.

If you haven’t read the previous chapters, you can do so by clicking on a chapter below.

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2


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Going Short: An Invitation to Flash Fiction by Nancy Stohlman

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

CHAPTER 3

Krysta opened her heavy eyes and glanced at the clock to her right. The bright red numbers did little to warm her heart as they read 5.45am, which meant she’d had just 5 hours of sleep, AGAIN. She could have closed her eyes and slept all day if it hadn’t been for the little size fives in ‘Thomas the Tank Engine’ socks, just 3 inches from her face, and the chubby little index finger poking her in the ribs.

   Drowsily, she propped herself up on both elbows. She spotted Davey to the left, asleep face down with his head hanging off the edge of the bed like a sloth on a tree branch. Dylan was perched atop both her legs, grinning from ear to ear at his accomplishment of waking up Mummy. Becky grinned back, acknowledging his achievement but not condoning his inconsiderate act. She didn’t want it to become a habit after all.

   “It’s not time for wakies yet Dylan, the sun’s still sleeping!” she said in a tone much sweeter than her mood.

   “Up” he chirped. His youthful exuberance made Krysta feel just a little sick in the stomach. Memories of her own energy where vague at best, perhaps it wasn’t even a reality but a long-ago dream. Exhaustion had become her everyday constitution. “Up, up, up” Dylan chanted, bouncing up and down on her legs as though they were nothing but lifeless twigs he was trying to snap with his bony little bottom.

   He was completely oblivious to Krysta’s zombie-like state or more than likely didn’t care, and why should he? He was 2 years old and the world was his to command how he pleased. Krysta felt envious of the care-free life her children lived. Their quest was all about exploring, playing, learning, adventuring and mischief making, while their every need was catered for by the great co-ordinator known as Mummy. Mummy however, had gone from being able to organise grandiose weddings with ease, to barely managing to co-ordinate breakfast for her 4 fussy offspring. Hence she often wondered if she was truly qualified for this job.

   Every part of her wanted to lay back down and drift blissfully back into unconsciousness but it took only seconds before that old familiar sense of responsibility kicked in once more and she conceded. “Ok, let’s go have some brekkie.”

   Dylan squealed and chuckled with delight, falling sideways as Krysta tickled him under the arms. His laughter was quickly followed by a screech of displeasure at an equally high pitch as he realised mummy could now escape his clutches and leave the bed without him, not to mention the bitter-sweet tickling would come to an abrupt end.

   Krysta swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat for a moment contemplating the task ahead. It was Wednesday, and that meant Ladies Bible stud. It also meant a 4-hour tactical mission to get herself and her 4 kids cleaned, dressed, fed, 1 child dropped off to school, a quick run to the grocery store to grab something to share for morning tea and a 20-minute drive to the church. It might sound simple and straight forward but with 4 kids nothing was ever simple or straight forward.

   Peter had left for the airport late the night before. The magazine he worked for had sent him to a writer’s conference, so Krysta was on her own for the next three days. A daunting prospect but probably a blessing in disguise in some ways. They’d spent a day in silence after her rant about the joys of domestic servanthood and motherly dilemmas but made up moments before he headed out the door to the awaiting taxi.

   Once upon a time they would have spent hours in respectful conversation and marital negotiations before coming to a mutually satisfying conclusion with both parties making apologies for their role in the argument before “making up” for hours (sometimes all night) in the seclusion of the bedroom. These days they were lucky if the argument was even addressed let-alone reconciled and “making up” often consisted of an agreed upon cease-fire and an all-too-often rain-checked quickie in the bathroom, as it was the only room in the house with a lock on the door.

   Krysta hoped that the old saying was true, that absence really did make the heart grow fonder and that the time apart would reinforce their affections for one another. She tried to ignore the emotional boxing match raging inside her, heading into its 100th round with romantic longing on one side and resentment on the other. She wanted to miss him, to forge bravely into the next few days as a warrior mum, diligently doing her duty without a single complaint, but jealousy hung over her head like a dark storm cloud ready to pour out it’s deluge at the first thunderclap.

    She hadn’t slept through a single night or had one solitary day to herself in 4 years. In fact, the only so-called “me time” she received was the 20 minutes a day she spent in the shower, and she had to get up half an hour before everyone else to get that. It looked like today would be a ‘dry-shampoo, and ten tonnes of deodorant’ kind of day.

   Peter spent all day most days sitting at a desk, doing what he loved and every Saturday he spent 5 hours playing basketball and hanging out with the guys at the bar afterward, and now, he would be getting 3 whole days away from the chaos that was their family, doing what he loved, and three whole nights alone to be his own person. Krysta felt like everything always went his way, like he managed to find that perfect balance of work, play and family life and it was beyond unfair. Why was it that having kids changed her life so much more dramatically than it changed his?


The Almost Mothers by Laura Besley

***

    Aiming to be at the church 20 minutes early, Krysta congratulated herself as she pulled into the car park just 5 minutes late. It was her personal best, so far. Granted, she’d only been attending for a few months, but it irked her that she always lost a good ten minutes or more of sanity time every week because she couldn’t quite manage to get there on time, no matter how hard she endeavoured.

   Krysta glanced at the packet of Tim Tams resting on the passenger seat beside her. She wondered if they’d be an acceptable contribution. She always intended to try and find time the day before to create some decadent, delicious and elaborately decorated sugar-filled treat that would impress even the fussiest of stay-at-home chefs, but so far she’d never managed to fit it into her hectic schedule.

   Five minutes later, Krysta had managed to masterfully assemble the double seated pram and secure two squirming toddlers into its confines. She grabbed the nappy bag and Tim Tams from the front of the car, placing them both in the basket beneath the pram seats and reached out for Chloe’s hand.

   “Chloe” she called out in concern as her hand met only the air. She looked toward the building to see Chloe running toward it across the full carpark, her straight dark locks bouncing in time with her hurried steps. “Chloe, stop” she shouted. Chloe halted right in the middle of the carpark, spinning around to look at Krysta innocently, her hand to her mouth as she realised her error. She knew she wasn’t to run off on her own, Krysta always insisted that she hold her hand or hold onto the pram when they were out and about, for safety. 

   Krysta turned her head as she heard the sound of tyres over gravel and observed a 4WD heading their way. With fear giving rise to her Mumma bear instincts she took off with stealth like speed, pushing the pram over to where Chloe stood motionless. She grabbed her tiny hand and pulled her toward the main entrance of the building where she parked the pram, flicking on the break.

   Bending down so her face was level with her daughters she very sternly reprimanded her. “Don’t you ever run off like that again, do you hear me?”

   “Yes mummy” Chloe responded quietly, a quiver on her bottom lip and tears forming in her teddy bear brown eyes.

   “How many times have I told you not to run across a road or carpark?” Krysta’s voice grew louder as she thought about what could have happened and frustration mounted as she recalled how many time’s they’d been through this.

   “I…I’m sorryyyyyy” Chloe stuttered and began to wail, tears cascading down her chubby little cheeks as she squeezed her eyes shut.

   Krysta’s tone softened as her anger defused like cold water thrown on a flame “you could have been hit by that car and then we’d have lost you. I don’t want to lose you Chloe.” Her heart overflowed with empathy and remorse as her daughter threw her tiny arms around her waist and sobbed into her torso, her warm tears soaking through her pale pink cotton shirt onto the wrinkly tiger-striped skin of her overstretched stomach.

   Krysta squeezed Chloe tight in empathy and gently unwrapped her arms from around her middle. She took a tissue from the nappy bag and wiped the wetness from her tear-stained face. “Just remember next time ok?” Krysta smiled forgivingly as Chloe’s sobs subsided and she swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. Why was it that she always ended up feeling like a villain when she had to scold her child? Wasn’t it what mothers were supposed to do? How could her child learn what was acceptable behaviour if all she ever did was speak softly but assertively like all those ‘positive parenting’ courses dictated? Krysta knew she needed to teach her child to be obedient, but the pain she sensed in her child’s reaction always forced her to hate the person she’d just been, the person who caused that pain in her child.

   Krysta took a deep breath and mentally prepared herself to move forward. “Come on, let’s get you to the playroom so you can have fun with the other kids.” Krysta unlocked the pram and skilfully held open the tinted glass door as she pushed the pram through with her free hand, Chloe following close at her heels. They were met by a sea of faces that had turned in their seats to look at them as they noisily entered. Krysta felt her face flush with embarrassment as she realized she’d forgotten that the front entrance led directly into the main auditorium where the welcome portion of the bible study had just come to a close. 

   She swallowed in regret at the revelation they had more than likely heard the whole incident, given there was a mere glass panel between the room and the outside of the building. Davey gave a loud moan in protest of being indoors again, which echoed around the high-ceilinged room and forced everyone to turn and glare once more. Krysta could feel a hundred eyes piercing her back as she awkwardly tried to manoeuvre the pram through the narrow door into the foyer that separated the kitchen and café area from the playroom. The back wheel caught on the door frame and Krysta had to back it up and push forward twice before it finally went through.

   She heard the worship music start up as the door swung shut behind her with a thud, rattling the windowed wall encasing it. She didn’t even dare look back to see the reaction her clumsy exit had incited. Ignorance would work better to rescue her quickly fading resolve to enjoy what was left of her child-free time. She signed them in at the little table outside the playroom and waved goodbye to two excited children as each bolted toward their toy of choice. Dylan had to be pried off her neck by the volunteers who assured Krysta that he would be fine and would for-sure stop howling the minute she left the room. Krysta had little faith in that, but ordered herself to drop the guilt as she rushed out the door with a dozen “sorry Dylan”s.

   She took a deep breath, relaxing on the exhale and closed her eyes for a moment, contemplating how heavenly it would be to find a quiet corner to curl up and take a nap in. The thought was soon dashed however as her practical mindset took charge of her wandering ideas and chastised her for even thinking about skipping the study and taking advantage of the church’s hospitality. 

   “This is not a day care centre Krysta” she berated herself “these people volunteer their time so you can enhance your spiritual life not so you can shirk your responsibilities.” She rolled her eyes at her own harshness and walked casually and quietly back through the glass doors to the main auditorium, slipping casually into a seat in the back row as the last song came to an end.


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My Place: Chapter 2

Hi everyone. I know it’s been a while since I’ve posted and unfortunately, due to life being a hectic rollercoaster of mumming and business running (news on that coming soon) I won’t be able to get a full-fledged article out for a little bit longer. So I’ve decided to entertain you with my draft (ok, so I wrote it a year ago and have already edited it 10 times) of chapter 2 of my Novel ‘My Place’. If you haven’t read chapter 1 yet, you can click HERE and do that first, or later, whatever suits.

Photo by Alec Douglas on Unsplash


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CHAPTER 2

Becky’s hands were shaking as she tested the firmness of the pasta, gently inserting a fork through the lightly crusted surface. She didn’t know why she was so nervous. She’d made this dish many times before and all but once it had turned out just fine. Cannelloni was a dish that generally called for mincemeat filling inside tubes of pasta smothered in cheese sauce, but Becky preferred to make it with a tuna and tomato sauce filling instead. She found the flavours of the tuna, tomato, and cheese blended together in a combination that was simply divine. Fortunately, her husband Greg was in mutual love with it and requested Becky make it at least once a week.

She closed the oven door, a wave of hot air blowing back her blonde curls, cropped at the shoulders and she returned to the sink to finish washing the dishes. Greg would be home from a long day at work in less than 15 minutes and would be expecting dinner to be ready and on the table by the time he’d put his coat away and washed up. Becky deduced this was not an unreasonable request, as his job was very physically demanding, and he must be horrendously hungry by the time he returned home in the evenings.

She had a lot more time these days anyway. She was not working right now and the least she could do was keep the house in order and get meals done on schedule. She decided another 10 minutes should be enough to cook it through. She took note of the time on the oven, 5.47pm was displayed in bright white lights on the small screen.

As she wiped clean each item in the warm soapy water, she gazed out the window to the horizon where the dark blue of the Southern Ocean met the lighter blue of the cloudless sky. She could only catch a glimpse of the majestic waters as the shrubs along the back fence had grown to such a height that they all but blocked the magnificent view.

There was a small space between the two separate shrubs where the ocean was still visible, and it was this small recess that made the kitchen window Becky’s favourite view in the entire house. She stared at the calm surface that seemed so serene and peaceful. It appeared to stretch on for eternity and Becky imagined how wide and expansive it must be beyond that point where sea met sky.

There was something about the ocean that made Becky feel alive, something that made her heart feel lighter and full of hope like anything was possible. She thought perhaps it was because of its magnificent size, such an expanse that appeared to have no boundaries, no borders, no confines. It was open, limitless, unburdened…free! There were no duties to perform, schedules to stick to, people to please or bills to pay, there were no demands on it other than to keep existing, keep being what it was, what it was made to be, what it was good at.

The same landscape that made her feel uncommonly alive also crippled her with a gut-wrenching sadness. Conflicting feelings wrested inside her. Confusion seemed all too prevalent within her lately. Confusion over what was right and what was wrong. What was good and what was bad. What to say and what not to say. What to think, feel, or do and what not to think, feel, or do. Becky felt the moments of overwhelming emotion were gaining traction rather than fading away like they were meant to. The anxiety was increasing and the Post Traumatic Stress she’d been diagnosed with seemed to be winning the war that she’d taken time off to fight. She’d gone on sabbatical armed with nothing more than household duties and subscription drugs to fight a battle with an unrelenting demon that seemed determined to conquer her soul. Right now though, there was a momentary suspension of hostilities as she lost herself in the serenity of the breathtaking view.

Placing the last pot on the dish rack, Becky flicked a glance at the clock on the oven and nearly passed out as her heart skipped a beat. It read 6.05pm. She’d momentarily given way to her wandering thoughts and lost track of the passing minutes. An irrational fear struck her once again as she anticipated a blackened surface that would give the meal an unsavoury smoky flavour. She pulled the door down and was relieved to see the top of the meal was not burnt at all but was only moments from it.

She quickly removed the dish from the oven with the trusty oven mits her mother had gifted her on her wedding day and after placing it on the stovetop, she turned the two oven knobs to 0. She decided she’d leave the meal in the dish until Greg returned home and then she’d serve it out as she didn’t want it to get cold on the plate.

She crossed the dining room to the living room and pulled the 30-year-old curtains away from the window to survey the driveway. She stared at the empty space and uneasiness came to keep her company once again. He was rarely home later than 6pm, in fact, he was nearly on the dot most days, she could all but set her watch by it. She contemplated whether to return the meal to the oven at a low temperature to keep it warm or if that was a poor idea given that if he was a great deal later, the cheese could possibly burn or the pasta would become overcooked and hard. Anxiety began to snap at her heels as she couldn’t decide what to do.

She paced the living room floor until the wooden clock on the wall read 6.30, glancing out the window every time she caught sight of a pair of headlights. That’s it, she decided she needed to put the food back into a warm oven before her husband arrived home to a cold meal. She walked back to the kitchen at a hastened pace, switching the oven on once more and returning the cannelloni to the top shelf. As she did this, she heard the key in the front door at the end of the hall.


going-short-cover-proof-2-1-1Going Short: An Invitation to Flash Fiction by Nancy Stohlman


The sound of metal on metal as the key was inserted and the deadbolt moving swiftly out of its locked position, used to be of comfort to Becky but lately, the familiar sound brought with it a weight of anxiety that she couldn’t explain to herself let alone another living soul.

She quickly took two dinner plates out of the cupboard above the oven and placed them on the bench as Greg entered the kitchen. The smell of Motor oil and grease accompanied him as it did every day and a subtle hint of cigarette smoke lingered on his beard. Becky pretended not to notice as he gave her a kiss on the cheek. It seemed like he’d had a good day at least since he’d come straight in to see her.

A happy smile reached right up to his well-defined cheekbones and brought a youthful glow to his aging face. Smile lines were beginning to appear around his plump wide lips, which showed his 35 years had been full of many joyful, if not fun moments. The matching frown lines between his black bushy brows, told a darker story of more melancholy times.

“Hey sweetheart, sorry I’m late, traffic was a nightmare” he gushed in a sincere and apologetic tone.

Even though she felt annoyed at the fact he didn’t bother to call or text her that he was going to be late, she shook her head and with a wave of her hand said “that’s ok, I understand”. She was ever so careful not to let her tone show her dissatisfaction. “I’m just reheating dinner so it should be ready soon.”

“Great, I’m starving, I’ll just go wash up and get changed.” He removed his coat, revealing his grey, grease-stained overalls. The black marks that were all too familiar to Becky now, glared back at her as though mocking her, daring her to make a complaint and at the same time threatening her with trouble if she did. It was as though they resentfully held her dark secret, a secret that triggered a plethora of negative emotions within her. There was something unfamiliar however that caught her eye. A touch of red on the collar beneath his left cheek. Greg hastily inserted the coat hanger into the neck of his jacket and hung it on the wooden rod in the hallway cupboard.

Becky heard the shower turn on at the end of the hall as she opened the oven door. She sensed straight away that something was wrong, for the usual rush of hot air was absent. Panic threatened to dissolve her already shaky confidence. She suddenly realised that she’d only turned on the dial that controlled the fan and light, leaving the temperature dial on 0. She quickly rectified her oversight, shut the oven door and stepped back, placing her hands over both her flushed cheeks. She knew it would take way too long to heat up the oven and reheat the cannelloni, so she made a hasty decision to remove it from the oven, serve it up and microwave each plate.

The microwave beeped three times as the second plate finished reheating. Becky heard the shower turn off and 3 minutes later Greg walked into the dining room as Becky placed the dinner plate down in front of his usual chair at the head of the table. He smiled and exclaimed “oh you made my favourite!” Becky felt pleased at his obvious elation.

Her momentary high was short-lived however when he took the first mouthful, contorted his face in a look of disgust and spat the contents of his mouth back onto his plate. “Ah, it’s all dried out.” He groaned “Did you over-cook it again?”

“N…no” Becky stuttered, thinking carefully about how to word her response. “It was cooked perfectly, but I had to reheat it in the microwave as I had it ready for 6pm but you were half an hour later than usual.” She kept her tone casual and apologetic, but it did little to appease his dissatisfaction.

“Oh I get it, it’s my fault” He spat, banging the glass table with his clenched fist.

“No, I didn’t say that” Becky pleaded “just that I had to reheat it, because I didn’t want you to have a cold dinner.”

“But you don’t mind me having a dried-out indigestible meal after slogging my guts out all day to provide you with everything you want?” His voice echoed an all too familiar aggression that made Becky feel small and inadequate. It stirred up a resentment inside her that she struggled to hide.

She glared at him and carefully but staunchly replied “I didn’t do it on purpose, I tried to have it ready for when you got home, I didn’t know you were going to be late.” Her voice was shaky as her emotions overtook her sensibility and adrenalin started to rise. If this had been an unusual occurrence, Becky would have remained patient much longer but because it felt like nothing she said or did lately was good enough, frustration and exasperation were constantly lingering at the door, ready to burst in at the slightest sign of irrationality from her husband.

“There you go again!” He said in a frustrated tone “it always has to be my fault doesn’t it? I can only assume your angry about me being home a little later than usual. Well I’m sorry I got stuck in traffic, I’m sorry I have to drive an hour to and from work every day so you can live closer to your Mother, I’m sorry I can’t be home all day doing nothing like you, someone has to work, someone has to make the money and pay the bills, we can’t all be selfish and take time off to recover from life being shit!” He thrust his hand into the air as he shouted the last sentence.

Becky flinched and took a sharp breath in as his large brutish hand waved passed her face, inches from her nose. Her heart was pounding like the thundering of hooves at a racetrack and Greg rolled his eyes.

“Well you’ve ruined another perfectly fine evening, why do you have to act like I’m a monster and I’m going to hit you or something? I told you that would never happen again. Seriously though, sometimes I feel like your trying to make me do something so you can tell everyone I’m this terrible person that is victimising you.”

“I’m not!” Becky gave way to her despair and sobbed a little. She could tell that it annoyed him more, but she couldn’t contain the angst any longer. “I just feel like everything I do and say is wrong lately, you make me feel so small.”

“I make YOU feel small?” He raised his voice again, getting up from the chair “for God sake, what do you think you’re doing to me?” He threw his beige cloth napkin on the table and stormed out of the dining room toward the hall cupboard shouting “I’m going out, I need a break, and something edible for dinner, I’ll be back later.” He took his coat off the hanger, leaving the door to the cupboard wide open and marched out the front door, slamming it behind him.

Becky’s head was reeling. What just happened? Was she right in feeling that he bullied her or did she inadvertently accuse him with her tone because of her anxious thoughts and feelings? Was he justified in his anger or her in hers? Was he wrong or were they both to blame? Becky felt dizzy with confusion but decided to try and push a few morsels of cannelloni into her stomach for she knew if she didn’t, she’d be starving later, and her stomach would make annoying gurgling sounds all night.

Three forkfuls was all she could manage before dropping her fork loudly on her plate and proceeding to clean up the table and start on the dishes again. She felt anger and frustration squeezing at her esophagus as she anticipated the long excruciating wait to see when and in what state Greg would arrive home that night.

 

CHAPTER 3…


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Accomplish more IN a fraction of the time

The pace and intensity of our lives, both at work and at home, leave many of us feeling like a person riding a frantically galloping horse. Our day-to-day incessant busyness — too much to do and not enough time.

With this ebook you will learn to approach your days in another way, reducing stress and getting results through prioritizing, leveraging and focus!

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My Place: Chapter 1

Ok guys, I’m putting this out there. The first chapter of the novel I’m trying to write. I need feedback, opinions etc on whether it’s readable, relatable and entertaining enough to keep going with the story.

The book is about 2 different women, one a stay-at-home mum with 4 children (in a healthy but strained marriage) and the other, a timid woman in a toxic marriage who’s suffering depression and anxiety. Both women are unhappy with their present situations and seek a place to just forget the world and be themselves for a while. They stumble upon a place together where they can be who they want to be and do whatever they want to do. At first this gives them the peace and identity they’ve been lacking and makes them happier, but there’s a price to be paid for this new freedom. They ultimately have to make a choice between the place they have discovered and the lives they live in the real world.

It’s kind of a combination between a drama and a fantasy with humour and wit. It’s about finding a way to balance the chaos of life with being a strong, healthy independent woman who knows her identity.

Anyway, here it is, the first chapter of ‘My Place’. Feel free to comment in the section below the story.




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Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

Chapter 1

Krysta rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers. Running them down to the bridge of her nose, she applied pressure to the well-defined cartilage. Her meagre efforts to ease the throbbing headache that threatened to reduce her to a sobbing mess, were futile. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, hoping the extra oxygen would at the very least prevent her from launching into what could only be compared to a giant lizard stomping through the city, smashing buildings with its oversized tail. She despised herself when she lost control. When she let her frustrations take her by the shoulders and shake her into submission.

She was envious of the fictitious Godzilla, who would be terminated and lying at the bottom of the ocean by the conclusion of the film he infamously starred in. He deserved his fate, but no doubt welcomed it, for his affliction would be over and his frustrations would be at an end. Krysta on the other hand had to continue living in the aftermath of her rampage and not only apologise for her blatant disregard for others property and feelings but face the humiliating clean-up of the debris, lying scattered all over the city streets.

She obhored this state of mind but found herself raising the little white flag to it more and more often these days. She didn’t want to be this person. She was a Mother and Mothers were supposed to be composed and full of grace and wisdom, blah blah blah. At least that’s the impression she got from the ladies meeting she so diligently attended at the local church every fortnight. To be completely truthful however, her motivation for attending these meetings was not so much the insightful advice and mature fellowship, but rather the one and a half hours of blissful silence she revelled in, while her 3 small children were held captive at the free childcare service they so generously provided. This of course made her feel like an entire shipping container of steaming hot guilt had been dumped on her head.

Krysta felt like the stuffed owl on the bookshelf in her Husband’s study had more wisdom than she’d ever have and remembering to say “quiet please” instead of “shut up” was about all the Grace she could muster these days. She always tried to be kind and polite. Manners had always been of supreme importance to her, but since her oldest child hit preteens and evolved into a verbal flesh-eating parasite with fangs, her 4 year old decided that since she’d be entering Kindergarten soon, she was now too old and wise to need any help with anything from her over-the-hill mother, and her two placid darling twin babies went to bed one night as adorable little bunnies, with fluffy tails and all, and awoke the next day as terror toddlers that could rival the animated Tasmanian Devil known as ‘Taz’, kindness and politeness seemed to be even tougher to manage than a day trip with the family to the over-priced theme park just 2 hours away. 125 pit stops later.

“Right” she shouted, slamming her hands down on the kitchen bench for emphasis. All three kids stopped their rivalry for a moment to look at their overwhelmed mother. Krysta was sure she resembled something that should be hunted down on a snowy alpine mountainside, hairy legs and all (who had time to shave), but her kids didn’t seem to notice. Her long auburn hair was tied up haphazardly with tiny tufts that stuck out at right angles around her face. Her toddlers were nearly 2 and a half and her hair still hadn’t fully recovered from the glorious postnatal shedding. It was noon and she was still in her pyjamas which were speckled with peanut butter from the mornings toast throwing contest and smelt suspiciously of vomit even though she hadn’t actually seen anyone throw up…recently…with her own eyes.

“No more fighting or mummy will put you all to bed.” Her two blond-haired little boys glared at her, cheeky smiles dancing at the corners of their mouths. They’d not taken a daytime nap for at least a month now and even though they had no real idea what Krysta was talking about, their mischievous grins proved they all-but suspected mummy was bluffing.

Miss 4 brushed some of the stray dark strands of her cleopatra-style hairdo, away from her pale round face. Her level fringe was overgrown to the point where she was practically blind folded by it, but that didn’t stop her from climbing everything in sight and unfortunately falling off, including one of the 6 wooden chairs in the adjoining dining room. Que more steaming hot mum guilt. One, For the momentary lapse in constant adult supervision (twin 2 needed a barbie doll shoe removed from his left nostril) and two, for not having the time or money to get her hair trimmed. Krysta thought she could cut it herself but figured there was no point, as it would end up costing just as much, given the amount of paper bags they’d go through covering it up until it grew back to a less embarrassing length.

“Mummy” she said sweetly “we can’t go to bed now, the sun is still awake.”


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The Institute by Stephen King (Buy it Now)


“Well the sun can stay awake as long as it wants, it hasn’t been naughty like the 3 of you.” Krysta pointed to the three dishevelled little people standing in the middle of the kitchen, a pile of choc chips on the floor at their feet.  The plastic packet were the tiny brown buttons previously resided was sitting, torn and upside-down on the peak of the miniature choc chip mountain.

“I was not bad mummy, it was Davey, he took the chocnut cheeps out of the panty.” If Krysta had not been so frustrated by the mornings events she would have had a little giggle at the cuteness and unintentional impropriety of her daughter’s comment, but as she had been dealing with 3 overactive lion cubs playfully biting and scratching at one another for the last 5 hours, her patience was as thin as one of those face masks you peel off once its dried and made your face look like a mannequin’s rear end.

“Ok firstly its chocolate chips, not choc nut cheeps and pantry not panty. Panties are the special clothes that no one sees and you wear under your normal clothes that people do see. Second, I know he took them out of the panty…ahhh…I mean pantry, but you snatched them off him and tore the bag which led to them ending up all over the floor.”

Davey, the second born twin, born just 2 minutes after his brother Dylan, started kicking at the pile, sending the little chocolate buttons dancing all over the kitchen floor. Dylan, seeing the look of glee on his twin’s face and not wanting to miss out on all the fun, starting stomping on the little buttons as they whizzed by, in his socks no less. “Davey! Dylan! Stop” Krysta shouted, running over to the two boys and grabbing each one by the arm.

Krysta frantically searched her exhausted mind for the best solution to this drama. She could take off their socks (remembering to peel off what would now be sticky chocolate discs) before throwing them in the wash and lead them through the maze of tempting stomping targets into the loungeroom to watch ’The wiggles’ before sweeping up the mess, or she could turn this into a lesson and give them the dustpan and broom to clean it up themselves. She would have to go over it again of course as the pile would most likely end up covering a much larger radius than it already did. The second option seemed the most likely to win the parent of the year award for constructive, astute parenting but the first option would mean less stress and anxiety for mummy. Oh, come on, who was she kidding? There was only one option she would be likely to take on a day like this. “Chloe, go put the Wiggles on Netflix please.”

She bent down to take Dylan’s socks off as Chloe scurried into the living room as speedily as her little legs could carry her. Dylan squealed at the top of his lungs as Krysta attempted to remove his chocolate coated tootsie coverings, stomping his feet in a defiant rendition of ‘river dance’, sending more choc chips flying in all directions. Of course, she had to let go of Davey’s arm to take care of Dylan’s socks, so Davey immediately bent down to pick up several choc chips and put them in his mouth. Krysta ignored him, thinking a few wouldn’t hurt as it would keep him occupied while she sorted out the sock situation.

As Krysta pulled off the second sock she heard Chloe yell from the living room. “Muuuummyyy! I can’t find the mote”

“Look on the couch Chloe”

“S’not there”

“What about under the couch?”

“Nuh uh”

“Ahhh, just push the buttons on the TV”

“What one makes the channel be dif-a-runt?”

Krysta sighed, lifted Dylan (still kicking) to her side, wincing as her back twinged. It was that old familiar sciatic nerve that hadn’t been right since her first pregnancy. It seemed her lower back was always aching from the endless bending over to either pick up a child or clean up the trail of chaos they left behind them everywhere they went, but every now and then a shooting pain was added to the discomfort that she’d learned to soldier through. She hurried into the living room, placed toddler one on the couch and frantically searched the entire living room for the TV remote, keeping in mind that the longer it took to find, the more likely toddler one would climb off the couch and return to the kitchen and toddler two would be doing goodness knows what with his unsupervised freedom.

“Uh huh” Krysta yanked the remote from the crowded toy box in the corner of the room along with a half-eaten LCM bar. Krysta sighed once more as she felt the stickiness of her fingers, matching only that of the TV remote. She took a mental note of needing to clean it later in the day and handed it to Chloe just as Dylan slid off the couch and ran in the direction of the kitchen. She returned said toddler to the couch as “toot toot chugga chugga big red car” filled the room in melodious tones and the two children in the living room became entranced to the hypnotizing sounds and images on the screen.

Returning to the kitchen with trepidatious concern at what she might find, she was pleasantly surprised to see Davey still in the middle of the room eating choc chips from a tiny pile in his hand. There was chocolate covering both his little paws but on the positive side there was abundantly fewer chocolate chips on the floor to clean up. Once she’d wiped clean Davey’s hands and face (despite his violent protesting), as well as changed his entire chocolate stained outfit, Krysta deposited toddler two in the living room with both her other mesmerised offspring.

Foolishly she anticipated at least 5 minutes of uninterrupted time to clean up the mess in the kitchen. She emerged from the laundry room, broom in hand to find Davey, now on a sugar high, dancing around the kitchen, kicking chocolate chips in his fresh clean socks. It was at this point she wished she’d been born an octopus, with eight hands to handle all the work motherhood threw her way on a daily basis.

She wanted to cry, surely it wasn’t meant to be this hard, how did other mums do it? How did the other mums at the ladies meeting always look so together, so organised and well-groomed like they’d actually managed to get more than 60 seconds in the bathroom alone? Krysta seriously felt like a total failure as a mum. She was sure that by the time her kids grew up they would end up either meeting her weekly from the other side of a bullet proof plastic screen, their only form of communication being the telephones on either side, or they’d all be full-time managers at various fast food chains around the country, only coming home to borrow cash for their out of control comfort-eating habits.

Her head started throbbing once more as she realised two hours had already passed since the chocolate chip incident had begun and she was now 5 minutes late in picking up her 11-year-old daughter, Mia from school. So, began the frantic endeavour to wrangle 3 children into the car and away from their various life-threateningly important activities. Several painful minutes and a dozen bribery biscuits later, Krysta finally had three kids in the car and was on her way to the school to pick up her pre-teen who would more than likely be sulking at the parent pick up bay because she had to spend 20 boring minutes waiting alone, without her friends or a phone, like all her friends had, to keep her occupied.


9780008194871

Postscript by Cecelia Ahern (Buy it now)


***

The end of the day couldn’t come soon enough. Unfortunately, there was still a good 4 hours at least until her day ended and she’d have a chance to sit down and breathe. It was now 5.30pm and Krysta’s husband Peter arrived home just as she was finally sweeping up the last of the chocolate chips from the kitchen floor. She’d managed to stop and do the grocery shopping, help Mia with her homework, change the twins nappies (twice, as they both had a habit of saving no. 2’s for fresh clean Huggies) pay 3 bills online and hang out a load of washing since doing the school run, but still hadn’t managed to get the dishes done, clean the kitchen or get dinner in the oven.

Peter dumped his laptop bag, keys and wallet on the dining table Krysta had cleared off just 10 minutes earlier and walked over for a kiss. Krysta gave him a quick peck and returned to the sweeping, trying to push down the frustration at his lack of consideration at how hard it was to get time to clear the table for dinner let alone doing it twice in the space of half an hour. “How was your day?” She asked in good wife 101 fashion.

“Yeah not bad, we had to rewrite a whole section of the magazine due to computer problems, so I had to work through my lunch break and eat at my desk, but otherwise it was just the same, same.”

Krysta realised that she’d completely forgotten to have lunch. She glanced over at the island bench where two pieces of bread sat on the well-used chopping board that she’d taken out to prepare a sandwich on, after making sure the kids were all fed. That was when the chocolate chip incident had begun. She’d been ignoring the grumbly sickly feeling in her stomach all afternoon, thinking it was stress and it would go away once she had a chance to rest. It then occurred to her that the headache she’d had all day wasn’t just tension but most likely dehydration since she’d had all of half a cup of water all day.

“At least you had lunch” she said in an exasperated tone, bending down to sweep the pile of dirt and chocolate buttons into the dustpan with the little brush. The same little brush she’d rescued from the toilet not two days earlier and washed, sterilized and dried before putting it back in the laundry where it belonged. She was still annoyed that Peter has used it to clean up the broken glass on the back patio from the beer bottle he dropped and then just left it out there for the twins to find on their morning adventures.

He walked over to the fridge and opened the door casually asking “what’s for dinner? I’m starving!”

“Spaghetti”

“Again? Didn’t we have that the other night?” He shut the fridge and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His dusty blonde hair, still as thick as the day he and Krysta had met, fell ever so slightly across his right eye. Once upon a time Krysta had found his luscious locks extremely sexy and alluring. Now she just felt annoyed that 4 kids later he still had all his hair while a great deal of hers was now occupying every shower and sink drain in the house, not to mention the floor of the bathroom and her pillowcase. It was a good thing she was facing the kitchen cupboards, putting away the dustpan and brush or he would have seen the volatile look of absolute irritation on her face. If her expression even half matched how she was feeling, he would have seriously reconsidered his unbelief in the existence of the devil.

“It’s cheap and quick to make so yeah, we are having it again!” Krysta was exercising all her patience and strength not to blow like a gently nudged cork in a champagne bottle.

Peter didn’t seem to notice how exhausted and frustrated Krysta was. He surveyed the room, hands in pockets, a smile on his face and exclaimed “what have you been doing all day? This place is a mess.”

That was it. The final nudge, Krysta could feel her cheeks burning with rage and she spun around, glaring at him with a fiery gaze that could melt the gold-plating off the watch he’d been given by his father on Uni graduation day. “What have I been doing?” she snapped through clenched teeth. Peter looked like a Roo trapped in headlights and gulped as he knew all too well what was coming.

CHAPTER 2…

CHAPTER 3…


 

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Looking After Number Mum

Ok, so I know the title doesn’t make a lot of sense but I’m pretty sure all my readers out there are clever enough to work out what my fractured saying is alluding to. To be honest I don’t really subscribe to the idea that we (as humans) let-alone self-sacrificing Mothers are ever number 1, in-front of or above any other person, but after many years (16 in fact) of putting myself last when it comes to basic human needs, I do subscribe to the idea that every now and then we need take some time to make our needs a priority.

Sometimes we can get so wrapped up and carried away with making sure every person in our family has been taken care of, that we have no time left for ourselves, so we start to wear out and break down (see ‘Mum Life Burnout: 5 ways it can effect you and your family‘). Our spirits start to wither and wilt like a flower in the noon day sun and then our family gets a watered-down version of the Super-mum they know and love.


Self Care

I read a blog post the other day by Nicole (sorry couldn’t find a last name), Writer of the blog ‘The Mum Reviews‘ entitled ‘7 self-care ideas make you a happier mum‘, which I found interesting. Her suggestions on how to take care of yourself as a Mum are as follows:

1. Buy yourself little treats that help you slow down and appreciate life.

2. Carve out kid-free time whatever way you can.

3. Style your hair, do your nails, wear perfume, makeup and nice clothes whenever you want (or not).

4. Have reassuring rituals and routines, but break them sometimes.

5. Use your skills for something other than parenting.

6. Exercise. Seriously, this is non-negotiable.

7. Don’t sweat the petty things.

I agree wholeheartedly with all these suggestions. Even if you can’t find time for all of them, picking one or two a day can help you feel less like your the wheels on and old-fashioned horse cart and more like your the jet engines on a rocket ship, when it comes to running your household. Was that an odd analogy? Well…too bad, I like it so I’m leaving it in. I do have a few suggestions of my own however which I’d like to add to the list (Making it 10):

8. Have one space in the house that is “yours”.

Whether it’s a boudoir (or bedroom) decorated in all your favourite colours and patterns or simply an armchair in the lounge room adorned with your grandma’s crochet blanket, you need a little space that is just for you. Somewhere you can relax in an environment that helps you to recharge. Whether it’s beautiful materials, a vase of flowers, a little window that looks out into the garden or a family heirloom oozing nostalgia that uplifts your soul, find a few things that really make “your place” an enticing place to spend your kid-free time.

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Personalised Home sweet home farmhouse Decor Sign (Buy it now) 

9. Spend time with friends.

I’m a big believer in community. Whether your a socialite with a thousand Facebook followers or a withdrawn introverted hermit with 2 cats (and the kids), you’ll most likely find that you feel more ‘alive’ after a bit of social interaction. Sure you have one or two or three (etc etc) children with a million questions and irrelevant “facts” to chatter in your ear all day but spending massive amounts of time conversing with the younger (much younger) generation can be exhausting. If your not lucky enough to have a spouse to offload to at the end of the day (or even if you do), spending just 10 minutes or longer in adult conversation with someone who ‘gets it’ can be a lifesaver to an exhausted, strung-out Mum listening to the 10th hour of “we’re in the wiggle house”.

10. Time to think.

So you may say “but I’m always thinking, all day, every day, about everything!” but what are you thinking about? What to cook for dinner? How to make healthier meals for the kids lunch boxes? How to organize your linen cupboard so that you can find the pillowcases that match your doona cover? My guess is that most of the thoughts that go through your head in a day are about everyone else and the house, am I right? Whilst these things are very important, you need some time to think about what makes you happy or could potentially make you happy. Whether you are a spiritual person or not, prayer can also be a great way to unwind and let go of burdens and things that weigh you down. Taking care of your mental and spiritual health is another vital part of self-care.

So those are my suggestions to add to the list of ways YOU as a mum can look after the one who looks after everyone else. If your not a Mum, then these can be great suggestions you can offer a Mum that you know who is feeling worn-out and overwhelmed. I can honestly attest to the fact that not looking after yourself as a Mother can lead to burn-outs, break-downs and poor physical and mental health, with problems like anger, exhaustion, depression and anxiety. You MUST find a way to take care of YOU, so YOU can properly take care of your family.

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How To Accomplish More In A Fraction Of The Time eCOVER WHITE

The pace and intensity of our lives, both at work and at home, leave many of us feeling like a person riding a frantically galloping horse. Our day-to-day incessant busyness — too much to do and not enough time.

With this ebook you will learn to approach your days in another way, reducing stress and getting results through prioritizing, leveraging and focus!

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