Put Your Oxygen Mask on First

I’ve been on hundreds of plane trips in my almost 45 years. Hundreds…maybe more. For work, for pleasure for family. Lots of planes. My first one was at about 3 months old when my parents decided that Australia would be a better place to raise their newborn than smoggy London town. But I don’t remember that plane trip. So I probably slept through the safety demonstrations. In fact, I still sleep through those. Which is why I still don’t know how to put my oxygen mask on first.

They tell you to put your oxygen mask on before helping others. This is so you don’t put yourself in danger as you forget about your own needs and focus on the needs of others. Focusing on the needs of others first is a common practice for women. Not all women and not only women…but a lot of women. And many mothers. As mothers we seem to have an inbuilt nurture function that means we feel compelled to attend to life and home (family and house) before ourselves. And it is so easy to leave ourselves off of our own ‘to do’ list. So so easy.

I run out of oxygen frequently and it’s my own fault. I let it run out. I’m the one that puts every other bloody thing before myself. Housework, errands, grocery shopping, meal planning, cooking, working, mothering, wife-ing (which is effectively being a personal assistant!), even the bloody cat needs medication and food before I’ve made my morning coffee. My day gets jam packed with close to nothing that’s all about me and before I know it I’m gasping for breath and on a downward spiral to a depressive episode.

It’s actually hard work to put yourself first. It means planning and some level of structure or routine to your day. Which isn’t a bad thing, but it’s hard if you want to be flexible and still respond to the needs of others. My single biggest challenge at the moment is getting out of bed at 6am. This would mean I would quite literally put myself first in the day and spend about an hour with just me to worry about before my day’s to do list takes over. My 3 year old can now toddle out of bed and get her own breakfast (don’t worry…she’s not making eggs and bacon, it’s just Weetbix and milk folks!) and she’s known how to work an iPad since she was a week old. She is a genius.

So why don’t I get out of bed when my alarm goes off at 6am? Why don’t I take a deep breath of oxygen before the day starts? I’m tired. I’m old. It’s cold. I’m full of excuses. I used to do really well at getting up early. In my life BHC (Before Husband & Child) when my life truly was just about me, I had no problem kick starting my day. But now that I have all these other responsibilities in my life, that of course make life fuller and wonderful and all that shit, I just want a bit more sleep.

Maybe I just need to reprogram my mind and self-talk to convince my lazy backside that exercising, moving, stretching or reflecting first thing every day is actually better than an extra 60 minutes in bed.

Yep – mind over matter and oxygen mask on first. I’m going to get right on that…just as soon as I drop my child to daycare and get some milk and bread…oh, and I think we’re out of Dijon mustard …and did I see some branches that need trimming back from the letterbox, the postman would appreciate it if I attended to that…but I’ll need to drop the garden shears in for sharpening, which I can do after the shops, but I should probably sort a few things out the garage when I get the shears out, because it’s a mess too…oh and…

 

The Flawed and The Fabulous (with cheese)

Platters with Love (true and the actual business name…look them up and eat them today!)

This is a photo of a totally insane tabletop cheese, chocolate and charcuterie bar that greeted me at a Winter Solstice party I went to last night (Yes, mama was out past 8.30…just).

Despite spending a good portion of my night chatting to this smorgasbord of the devil’s temptation I did also manage to catch up with three women who I haven’t seen in years. Mama got social IRL (as the kids say).

These were three separate conversations with three totally unrelated spunky women all of which I started with a hug and a genuine greeting of “You look fucking fantastic!” I probably varied it up a bit but I most certainly used the word ‘fuck’ every time because it’s my favourite descriptor when I’m dead set serious.

And no word of a lie, these women absolutely did look fabulous. Smiling, dressed up for a fun night and I thought given the years that had passed since I’d seen each of them…just the same as I remember them. Awesome – in other words. And do you know how they all replied? Every single fucking one?

“Oh no I don’t. I’m fat. At least [insert number] kilos overweight. But thank you.”

It made me sad and then it made me mad.

If you can relate to this story and you reply to compliments like that then STOP IT. Just FUCKING STOP IT.

STOP BEATING YOURSELF UP! Go to the mirror right now and say something positive and wonderful about yourself because I know there’s a long list but you’re choosing to present the flaws before the fabulous. And that’s a very mean way to talk about yourself and a totally BORING way to talk to me about yourself.

Now I’m not suggesting that you don’t acknowledge if you’re feeling a bit overweight or unhealthy or whatever. I’m the first person to slay myself over excess baggage. So by all means, sort that shit out but reality check… YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL RIGHT NOW and start with that and then let the flaws come up later in the chat if you want. Of course it’s OK to talk flaws…that’s what sistas are for. Just don’t START with that. OK?

The original and still the best…

It’s no secret that I’ve not been the most active member of the family lately. This is for a myriad of reasons excuses but I refuse to beat myself up about it because LIFE. Oh, and also…I’m goddamn Wonder Woman slaying my own demons and dragons at the moment, so my energy is focussed on that thanks very much. Despite the things I know I need to improve I can now look in the mirror and say “all in good time dear Kim, use your power for good not evil self talk.”

Now excuse me while I get in my invisible plane and find something else to feel awesome about.


Tell me one awesome thing about yourself in the comments. If you want…totally up to you, keep it in your head if you like. But for fuck’s sake SAY IT would you sista? You’re worth more than a fat comment, especially when it’s coming from your own mouth! I love you and you’re awesome, from me who is simply flawed but over apologising for it. X

My Mother’s Hands

Mother’s Day is a bittersweet social religion that I’ve never really fully grasped. In my opinion, it’s a path full of potholes because motherhood is never all sunshine and light. Yes, it’s lovely to be recognised for being an awesome care giver and an integral part of the family unit but it’s bathed in established criteria for what a mother is and does and should be. There are so many ways to be a ‘mother’ and while I do enjoy the social niceties of being a traditional Mum, I can’t help but feel for those that want to be mother but can’t (which was very nearly me), those that no longer have their mother at their side (which is me) and for those that fall into a different category altogether like two-Dad families where a day like today can be cause for a quiet retrospective instead of the burst of cheap carnations our world throws up.

So, I’m thinking about all of those things as I’m brought tea and toast in bed and swathed in the love of my small family. And I remembered this. Something I wrote a few years ago when I was a new mother thinking about my own mother.


January 19, 2014: My Mother’s Hands

When I was a young child a friend was sleeping over at my place. She complained of a headache during the night and my mother came to comfort her. From my bed I watched her place a hand on my friend’s forehead and gently soothe her back to sleep. In the morning when my friend was feeling better she told me that my mother’s hands had taken her headache away. “Your mum has lovely hands,” she said.

She was right. My mother’s hands were gentle when they needed to be, firm when it mattered and always there to catch me (or at least help me land gently!)

My mother died 10 years ago.

In my mother's hands. July 1972. London, UK.

In my mother’s hands. July 1972. London, UK.

It feels like just yesterday and yet it was a lifetime ago. She fought a terrific battle with cancer (like so many do) and finally succumbed to it in August 2003, five years before I met my husband and well before we created our daughter, and her granddaughter, in October 2013.

I could so easily talk about her death and the pain that we all endured with her but it’s her life, her familial legacy that actually brings me solace when I’m sad about not having her around at this time in my life.

My husband and I met on mother’s day, which is ironic as he too lost his mother to cancer in 1997. So not only do I not have a mother or mother-in-law to confer with, my daughter won’t know grandmothers either. At times this makes me incredibly sad. Particularly in the early days of my pregnancy and in recent months as I nurse my perfect newborn daughter.

With all those helpful hormones running riot inside me I have found myself crying more for my mother since the birth of my baby than during the time my mother actually died (I think I was too busy being angry with the world that she was dying!).

But amidst all the tears and longing ache for my mother something wonderful has happened. I’ve realised just how much my mother has left for my daughter and me.

Physically, I’m genetically more like my father but emotionally; I am a lot like my mother. So much so, that when she was alive we fought frequently – both frustrating each other in equal measure with our determinedness and pragmatic approach to life.

My mother taught me to be practical. This has seeded a common sense and a calm approach to newborn baby conundrums, which I’m certain, has helped me manage being a new mother at 41.

I find that my mother’s tenderness in times of emotional upset has also taken root in me. She used to call my sister and I ‘darling heart’, as a term of endearment. Not long after my daughter was born I found myself reaching for the right words to soothe her and, without consciously being aware of it, began calling her ‘darling heart’. It wasn’t until my husband mentioned how lovely the term sounded that I had to think about its origin.

My mother.

There are so many of my mannerisms and life skills that originated during the 31 years of my life that I had my mother here beside me that I don’t truly feel like a motherless mother. Sure, she may not be at the end of the phone or actually here to help me negotiate this whole new world of my new baby but I hear her words of wisdom whispering in my ear from time to time. She tells me to stay calm and listen to my baby. I see her pause to reflect on the wonderment that is the new life I have created. It makes me slow down and reflect myself.

The thought of how she would interact and love her granddaughter makes me smile. I miss her everyday…especially now, but it’s true what they say; loved ones don’t ever really leave you. They’re always beside you. In the lessons you learned from them, the stories they shared with you and the memories you keep. I’m reminded of Carol Mirkel’s poem, After Glow:

I’d like the memory of me to be a happy one.
I’d like to leave an after glow of smiles when life is done.
I’d like to leave an echo whispering softly down the ways.
Of happy times and laughing times and bright and sunny days.
I’d like the tears of those who grieve, to dry before the sun.
Of happy memories that I leave, when life is done.

There is no doubt that my mother’s after glow surrounds me.

These hands that my mother gave me will raise my daughter.As I reach to caress my baby I catch a glimpse of my hands. The characteristics of my hands are just like my mothers, right down to the fingernails.

They are the same hands that I see in my baby as she discovers the world around her.

And in her hands the life of the grandmother she’ll never know will always be treasured. In her after glow.

I’ve Got Nothing To Wear – a true story

If I clocked all the steps I’ve ever taken as I walked into a clothing store and then wandered aimless around it and then meandered right on out of it having purchased nothing, I reckon I’d clock 10,000 steps in a day. Easy.

I am a hopeless shopper. Actually, correction…I’m a hopeless CLOTHES shopper (I have an unhealthy enjoyment of supermarket shopping…but that’s another story). I have no idea what I’m doing. I gravitate to black. And if that doesn’t work I look for something blacker. And stretchy. No zips or buttons. This is especially true since taking maternity leave from life three years ago, I have little need for structured clothing. When does maternity leave officially end by the way? Anyway…the point is my wardrobe (and I use that term loosely) consists of cheap and highly mass produced items that some poor underage worker from a country I know very little about has no doubt slaved over in order that I might avoid the real issue at hand.

And when I do shop I don’t buy clothes for my actual size, because, you know…I’m going to lose that weight ‘any day now’ so it’d be waste of money. Yeah, that budget saving mindset has been saving me money for close to 10 years now.

I don’t know how to shop to suit me. Not just my body but ME. The person that I want to present to the world…when I do in fact venture out into it, ‘cos let’s face it, mama tends to favour the couch and Netflix these days.

My husband thinks it’s hilarious and that it’s just the old clichéd cry of “I’ve got nothing to wear” from the wife who’s just maxed out her credit card and so she’s probably got a zillion options that she can pull out and at least say “this old thing?”.  But this is not me. Hand on heart. I know because I’ve just done a big clean out in preparation for moving day in a week’s time. I donated anything I hadn’t worn in over a year. Anything that I looked at and said to myself “one day I’ll make that outfit work” and anything that I didn’t feel instantly comfortable in. It didn’t leave much. I also threw out a bunch of stained, ripped and ruined crap that no one deserves…not even for free.

Have you got this in black?

Being uncomfortable with your body shape or weight doesn’t help either. Nothing fits, or feels like it should and you’ll believe any old bullshit the sales person tells you to make you feel good about buying that floral print dress with the side sash (Ok, so that’s probably a vision I had from a John Hughes movie because I’m pretty sure that such a thing does not exist on a 2017 clothes rack).

One of the main reasons I start fitness or eating programs is to just feel better about myself. Not to simply lose weight and get fit but to actually FEEL better. Most of the time I can accomplish that. I’m feeding my family and myself better and I’m moving more and doing more activity.  But try as I might I simply cannot package up my ‘feeling better’ when the choices in my wardrobe tell the world I’m a couch potato who has most likely given up on life and is happy about it. The biscuit crumbs and wine stains probably don’t help.

I’m in a constant love/hate situation when I pass fabulously put together women in the street (and some men for that matter!). You know the ones…they look relaxed and comfortable, they’re always fucking smiling and have a handbag swinging from their bent elbow. Yep. Basically your standard #winningatlife look. The only thing I have swinging from my arm is an over-burdened supermarket bag and my teetering self esteem …while I hitch up pants that don’t fit properly and clutch at my shirt which was never a good wardrobe choice for someone as well-endowed as me.

So, with a few work/life projects on the go at the moment I’ve decided that the time is right for mama to get her shit together. I’ve decided that I want to be that person on the street with a #winningatlife look. Basically, Mama needs a makeover and if that’s going to happen then she’s going to need some help.  Before I make mistake number 78,469 in my sorry history of clothes shopping I’m investing in a little personal development.

Some may say that my wardrobe is ‘on target’

Initially I thought I’d get myself a stylist and she can come and look at my collection of Target Essentials and then take me shopping and I’d feel a million bucks after probably having spent close to the same to feel that way. Yeah…that plan didn’t really resonate with the household budget so instead I’m joining a dozen others who are also lost in wardrobe malfunction land at a two-day workshop this week.

I’ve signed up for a workshop that promises to help me to “get me and my truth out there confidently, so I can make a difference in the world”.

Among other things I’m going to get a step-by-step guide on how to detox my wardrobe, learn what my body’s assets are and what 53 pieces of clothing I actually need in order to be ready for anything. I assume that means anything other than walking over to the supermarket in my Birkenstocks and trackies…’cos I’ve got that look sorted.

Apparently I won’t be learning how to get “dressed for success” because sadly that notion, along with Roxette’s rocking tune, belongs in the 80s with its mates shoulder pads and scrunchies (dammit). And, get this; I don’t even have to worry about being trendy because “authentic personal branding has nothing to do with transient trends”. I’m not entirely sure, but my much-loved capri leggings may deem me ahead of the curve on this one.

So I’m a little bit excited even if the pre-work has me worried. We’ve been asked to bring up to five items of clothing, shoes and accessories that we love to wear and believe they best represent our personal brand. Hmmm…I doubt turning up a with a dozen of Wolf Blass’s finest is what they meant. But honestly, I think I’ll be lucky to bring one item! OK, probably two: a pair of boots and my ray bans. We’ve also been asked to create a vision board of looks we like. Again…crickets. I have no clue where to start. Apart from this gorgeous photo of Princess Diana from 1990…see? I have no clue!

We were also asked what we hope to achieve by the end of the workshop. Aside from a wardrobe that doesn’t hate me, I expect I’ll be able to leave the house wearing anything I own and feel like a Goddamn rockstar (of my own making). Is that too much to ask?

Time will tell.  Stay tuned for my full report back.


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