Setting Up For Success

What is love?  Love is patient, love is kind and all that.  I'm realising more and more that Love sets up for success.

Over the past eighteen months my marriage has gone through a lot of ups and downs and change. One thing I needed to do to help things along was get my husband to engage more with our children.  And another was to take time out for myself. Luckily the two went hand in hand. So Wednesday and Friday mornings became my gym morning, and the morning my husband got the children up, dressed them, gave them breakfast etc so that when I got back nice and sweaty from the gym or a run, all I had to do (on a good day) was give them cuddles and run them to kindy.  Success all round.

This was our 'life coach''s idea. After we'd started the routine I confessed to her that I had been getting the childrens' clothes for the next day out the night before and leaving them ready.  She smiled ; "That's because you care," she said," and you want him to succeed. Setting him up for success is exactly what you need to do right now."  Setting my husband up for success worked for both of us.  So it was good for our marriage. And that was the general idea!

If I'm overtired and really need some extra sleep, the husband, once in a while, takes the children away to another part of the house so that I can sleep. That's an easy way of setting my need for a nap up for success.  I might decide to read a book instead - that's up to me. But he's done what he can to give me what I need to succeed in getting some rest.

If he needs to concentrate on an important business document, I keep the kids away from him and try not to disturb him.  Maybe he'll spend his time playing computer games or distracted by the internet. Up to him. But I've done my part. And that's all I can do.

Same deal with friends. My opposite neighbour was going cold turkey from coffee and suffering horribly.  Guess what? I didn't suggest we go out to the café for a while! If it was me, the smell of coffee would have been too much and I would have caved. I did suggest a couple of headache pills though. I've gone cold turkey from coffee myself before and seriously I've never had such horrible headaches.  It's either cave on the caffeine or take a pill… So to me, taking the headache pill is the best way to get through cold turkey and succeed in giving up coffee.

Let's not be taking friends who are trying to lose weight to the burger place, or out for greasy pizza. If they go there in their own time - so be it, but we've done our bit by guiding them to that fab new sushi place.  You never know, they might just choose to go there again.

We do it for children - set them up to succeed.  When my daughters were one, I didn't give them a shape sorter with fifteen different shapes to figure out, I gave them one with three holes and three of each shape to put in. Once they'd mastered that, we moved on.  We give kids shoes with velcro, clothes without fasteners, then large buttons that their small fingers can manage.  We don't want them to feel it's all too hard and just give up - we want them to feel that it's all possible, that they're capable and want to do more.

Adults aren't so different to children. We want to feel it's possible. I do, anyway. And I don't think I'm odd!  And sometimes it takes a little care and a little love to help us feel that we actually can do it.

When you give up smoking they remind you not to say "I'm giving up smoking," but to decide not to smoke for, say, the next hour. And once you've done that, set another goal. Giving up drinking - same thing.  Bite sized chunks - making you feel capable; making it feel possible. And where love comes in is where your friends don't offer you cigarettes or take you out to the pub! And when you say - "Oh stuff it, I'm off to get some ciggies" people who really care will say "No you're not, you're staying right here." Good friends understand that you're doing something difficult, and that you need their support.  Yes, you can sneak a ciggie when no one's around - the guilt is yours to deal with. But knowing that the people who care about you really do care and have your back, is huge.

(c) Naomi Madelin

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"There's no such thing as 'let's go back'"

It's a bit of a silly motto really.

I mean, there are occasions and situations when going back makes sense, or when it's vital.

When I dropped the ring my husband had given me (no - not an engagement ring.... waiting...) somewhere in the bush on a tramp, I went back.  Hmmm... small chance of finding that in thick NZ subtropical forest!

When realised I'd left my children and my passports in the ladies' loo at Changi airport, I ran like the freakin' wind to go back.  (No, no, that reads very poorly.  I didn't realise I'd left my children, and my passports, but the passports belonging to me and my children. Ditsy? Yes. completely stupid? No.)

I adopted the phrase as my motto on a hike back in 2003.  My family were keen hikers when I was growing up. I was dragged on Sunday afternoon walks every week for years, whether I liked it or not.  Holiday memories include not infrequent images of the kagouled family sheltering behind a dry stone wall to munch cheese sandwiches and pour hot drinks from a metal thermos while the rain drove across the dale. But whatever the weather, however deep the mud, however much I complained, we never went back. In a dire emergency someone might take a shortcut to fetch the car to closer end point, but things would have to be pretty bad for that to happen.

When my then-boyfriend and I moved to New Zealand in 2003 we spent the first few months travelling our new land in a camper van.  It was on a hike in the South Island that I first introduced him to 'There's no such thing as let's go back.' Against the odds we'd found the tree-covered trail head we were looking for and were soon on the hunt for a 'mirror' lake that sounded stunning in the guide book. The trail followed the path of a river and soon crossed a small stream, and so did we. At the next, wider, tributary; my man baulked.

"Come on," he said, "Let's go back."

"What?" I retorted, "Don't be pathetic, it's just water. Anyway, there's no such thing as 'Let's go back' - not in my family!"

We took our boots and socks off. A little further and there was another, deeper, stream; boots off and trousers rolled up.  Deeper again; boots and trousers right off.  Then we hit a small tributary that would require a cold swim. This was getting fun - or was it silly?  We weren't half way to the lake and had no idea how many more crossings we would have to do needing clothes off, find a way to carry them, chilly swim, clothes back on.

"Come on," said my man, "Let's just go back."

I tried to insist. It wouldn't be so hard to swim, I said, we could bundle our clothes and throw them across. It would be fine.

"And what about when the next one is even wider.  All this boots on, boots off is taking a long time too. We really have no idea how far we have to go, either..."

"But theres' no such thing as 'let's go back'." I complained.

He won, we went back. That hike is still on my list of 'things to do' before I die.

So it was with the international move, I guess.  The man insists he hates the UK, was glad to leave, and has repeatedly said he'd never live there again.  Fast forward to 2011 when he returns from a business trip to England, and among other curve balls he throws at me, says he wants to go back to England in six months' time, to live. WHAT?

Well, we'd talked about living in Europe. We'd discussed perhaps in a few years' time - three or five were mentioned. Phrases like "the south of France", "somewhere warm, with lots of sunny days" were certainly prominent in those conversations. If I ever even mentioned England, there was usually a stream of vitriol about the country of my birth, that I sometimes found frankly rude and insulting.  I may not have wanted to live there, but...

Fast forward again to now, and here I sit in my parents' home (sheltering from persistent rain) in a small, pretty, English town (not the large, less-than-pretty English town I grew up in, thank god) with my two young children, scouring the internet for a rental home in a nearby city and an English school for my eldest.

Coming back is weird. I put my foot down and refused to move in the six months the man had stated. Our marriage was in tatters aside from anything else, and it would also have meant two winters on the trot. Not something I relished. And living with a man who professed a deep hatred for cold and damp it was simply a big fat no-no if our relationship had any hope at all. So we came in summer (ha bloody ha. Someone forgot to tell the weather what summer is supposed to look like...) - with me and the girls the advance party. I strongly advocated not moving back to London. If we were going back we wouldn't go back, I reasoned, we'd go somewhere new.  And so we will.

I was pretty emotional leading up to the move. Lots of tears. I'd just found some good friends and a place I love living in; we moved to our lovely seaside suburb only fifteen months ago after eight years out in the countryside. I finally found myself again this past year, and like-minded people too. I had the sea right at the end of my road.  The girls had a beloved aunt who adored them and who had become a close friend. Our marriage was mending. Leaving all that felt and feels like a huge risk. Perhaps a foolish one.

Just sitting on the plane knowing it was a one-way journey felt off-whack. I can't quite explain why. But it was odd.  When I flew out to New Zealand it felt one hundred percent right. I was relieved to be finally going after two years of talking about it.  But coming back?  A little wonky.

I needed help at Heathrow. I packed too much hand luggage, my four-year-old had thrown up the entire contents of her stomach not half an hour before landing and both children were so sound asleep when the plane came to a halt that I was worried about them. Singapore Air staff kindly helped me off the plane, and handed me over to surly British ground crew. They would help, but not with grace and no smile, and only in a limited manner. Had I been less ragged I would have been more assertive. Damn it. But someone wheeled some of our luggage while I cajoled the children through that dreadful place. And smiled.

It was raining when we left the airport.  That was two weeks ago and we've had just one day when it possibly didn't rain for most of it. In what is meant to be mid-summer.  Meanwhile in my old suburb of Auckland my friends are taking their children to the beach in t-shirts, in mid-winter. Hmmm.

I've forgotten how fast you're allowed to drive on which roads. Really no idea at all. But I learnt to drive here, I drove here for years.

So many roundabouts - my head is spinning.

The money looks odd.  Ten pen pieces seem to have disappeared and the five pees look like something from a foreign country. Very small. Very fancy.

I'm trying to rent a home for my family and am told I have no credit rating and will need to pay six months' rent in advance.

But it's lovely seeing my children form closer bonds with their grandparents.

Everyone talks with English accents. Clearly I'm not staying in a very multi-cultural area right now, but the accents are really funny.  I'm really noticing them. And for some reason even the kids who think they're talking in 'hard' voices, sound posh!

Even after ten years in New Zealand I didn't 'get' cultural references on TV shows. Switch on a telly here, and I'm auto-tuned in. Odd.

No one sells seaweed rice crackers. And this is a problem. I mean, in a Kiwi supermarket you have heaps of choice of crackers, and rice crackers in particular. And here I can't even find one.  Well, okay, there were some barbecue flavoured 'SakATa' - no thanks, especially not at two quid a pack. Missing a trick, England....

I think I'm going to like my new city. It's full of huge old buildings. It's old-fashioned, a tad quaint, rather lovely. I took my dad to a bit I liked and he thought it 'rather suburban'. I thought it rather villagey!

It's late, and I should wrap this one up.  The moral of my tale is, I guess, that going back can be an adventure in itself. A challenge all its own. It's not defeat, nor treading the same path or retracing your steps. The journey always looks different in the opposite direction. Things appear new, you view them from a new angle. Sometimes a way that was easy the first time, is harder when you turn around. And sometimes that might be a good thing.

Here's hoping.


(c) Naomi Madelin

Lines in the Sand

I've decided to have my ring finger removed by elective surgery.

No, it's not infected with gangrene. Nor do I have skin cancer. There has been no injury. But logic tells me that once I book the surgery, things will happen.

Like, a ring will magically appear upon it.

The one I didn't get seven years ago when I agreed to marry my husband.

The one I didn't get the Christmas after, or for my following birthday, or the one after that and so on.

The one I wasn't wearing the day I found out he'd tried to start an affair.

The one I still wasn't wearing a whole year later, when he still couldn't tell me he loved me.  When, after twelve months of counselling, coaching, heart ache, depression and a whole lot of soul searching I was just starting to think I might be able to trust him again, I found, among others, that email he'd sent to that same female while on our family holiday just the month before, and the e-receipt for the Christmas present he'd got her.

The ring I still am not wearing.

The fourth finger of my left hand isn't needed, it seems.  So away with it.

A month ago I told my husband (the one who still couldn't tell me he loved me, after a year of hard bloody work) that time was up, he had four weeks from that moment to prove he cared or we would separate. Much as I loved him. Much as I wanted our family together, I deserved better.

Within days I was worthy.  He told me he loved me.  He started looking me in the eye. He became spontaneously tender.

I went into shock.

I really, honestly, didn't know what to think.

Through all this we've been talking about moving overseas. Back when it all blew up the first time, a year or so ago, he told me wanted to move in six months' time. To go back to the UK. Fine, I said, I can do that.  I might even like to do that - to be near my family again.  Especially with all the marriage trouble. But six months was too soon. Too soon, too cold (Southern winter to northern winter? No thanks.), too rushed. No, I said.  If we go, we go into summer.  He had to agree. April sounded good.  Early southern autumn into early northern spring.  Good. I looked into schools.  Our eldest would need to start school in September.  You can't get a place in a school in the UK until you have an address.  I didn't have an address.  Yet.  April would give me time - to find a house and and school.  To settle in.  To get used to things.  The long school holidays are July to the end of August in the UK.  April to July and then the summer.  I could do that.

Sometimes I've pictured the move as just me and the children. Starting my life as a single mum.  I've got my head around that. I've come to terms with it. I've found the positives. Other times I've pictured it as all four of us. I'm ready - either way.

The 'early April' move date moved to late April, and then to early May.  Early May turned to June and I started to feel that I was dangling at the end of another long string. When July was mentioned I said 'enough'.  I drew a line in the sand and said that I would move to the UK with the girls before the end of June, and he could follow when the things we needed to sort for our business were done.  I couldn't wait any more.  That day I found flights for late June - not easy a month out from the Olympics. I was ready to book.

Suddenly I was taken seriously, it seemed. Phone calls were made. Things started to be organised. He had a motorbike to sell. It wasn't exactly news that he'd have to sell it, he'd been muttering about it for ages. Now he was driving it to the place to get it thoroughly cleaned so he could photograph and sell it. Suddenly the cogs were oiled.

Lines in the sand are clearly needed to get my husband to act.

A few months ago, before he decided I was worth loving, before I knew that he'd still been in touch with The Female, he'd said one day that he wanted to buy me an engagement ring. I was moved. He'd never said that before. It was amazing.

Three days later I told him I couldn't accept a ring from a man who couldn't tell me he loved me... now that's a subject for another post! And then when I found out....well... But now he does. He loves me.  Of course he loves me.  Why would be still be here if he didn't?  But the point is he recognises it.  He feels it.  He says it - or has done anyway. I've been without those words for so long I could happily hear them from my man morning, noon and night just now.

Perhaps I have unrealistic romantic notions.  Fact is I long for romantic gestures.  You know the type of thing... You arrive at the hotel and he's swapped you to a posh suite. You get on the plane and he's arranged for you to be served champagne.  He takes you out for dinner and whips out a ring...

He's trying pretty hard, my husband, he really is. And he has been doing things to get this move going, to be honest and fair about it.  He has.  But I'm demanding. And I like lines in the sand - like plane tickets that tell me what day and time my life is changing. And I dream of romance and my man wooing me, winning me back, showing me how much I'm worth to him.

So perhaps it's line in the sand time.  If I book the operation to have the finger removed, perhaps... perhaps...



For other posts on marriage, relationships and love see my posts "Writing My Heart" and "I Am No-one's Wife"

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(c) Naomi Madelin

Holiday Home Instant Upcycled Dolls' House

During a recent holiday at a seaside bach (that's Kiwi for holiday house, beach house, holiday cottage etc) I realised that I hadn't packed enough toys for my children.

My logic had been that a holiday house is an exciting new place to be, and they wouldn't need too many toys.  I could give them pots and pans to play with, they could do a bit of drawing, but most of their time would be spent playing outside or at the beach.

As it happened, the weather decided to be very changeable, and my husband ended up having to do a few hours' work every morning, leaving me to occupy the little people.  It wasn't quite the family beach holiday I'd imagined...

I've always been a fairly crafty sort of person, and as a child I loved to take old boxes and bottles and other useable rubbish, and upcycle it into something new.  There's nothing quite so satisfying as using up leftovers - and to me that includes food AND rubbish or junk.  It's good for the soul, and good for the budget.

We weren't on a completely budget holiday, but I wasn't about to go out and buy toys my children already owned at home, or rubbishy plastic ones from a dollar store that would break within a day.  Besides which, there wasn't a toy shop for miles!

So one evening, when the children had FINALLY settled down, I rummaged through the recycling bin full of cardboard, paper, platic and tin to see what my budget-conscious, creative fingers could upcycle into toys.  A doll's house seemed like a quick and easy thing to make, and something the kids would love.

Here's how I made my holiday home instant upcycled cardboard dolls' house!


You Will Need

• Scissors and/or craft knife or serrated kitchen knife (the kind of budget knife you find in a holiday house kitchen is perfect!).

• Sticky tape or Sellotape.

• A smallish cardboard box to upcycle.

• A loo roll, kitchen paper roll or other cardboard tube from your recycling bin.  Alternatively you can use the off-cuts from the cardboard box you're using for the main house.

1/ Preparation

Remove top flaps from the box, and ensure all remaining flaps are stuck down.

2/ The basic house

Use scissors/knife to cut a front door (a double door is nice), a back door and some windows.  I used the centre of my sticky tape roll to draw a circle and cut a circular window.  Try to cut carefully so that you get squares and a circle - they come in handy later!

So, easy as pie you have your basic recycled box dolls' house.

3/ Dining table

Take the circle you cut out for the window, and two squares.  Cut half way down to the centre of each square in a straight line.  Turn one piece the other way up, and slot together to make a cross.  These are your table legs.

Use sticky tape to stick the legs piece to the underside of your circle, and hey presto - a dining table for your dolls.

As you can see, the table I made was a little too high - how were these dolls going reach to eat their dinner?!

I had two options: cut the table down, or make a few DIY chairs or stools to go with the dolls' dining table.  Well, in for a penny....

4/ Cut four (or however many stools you want) rounds from your cardboard tube.  If you don't have a cardboard tube, make shorter legs using the same method you used for the dining table legs.

Use card from the flaps you removed from the top of the box, or any other recylable card you have lying around, to cut squares or circles for the seats.  I found some nice yellow card to add a splash of colour to my budget house!

Stick the tube rounds to the stool tops using sticky tape on the underside, and you're done.

A house fit for my youngest's budget dollar shop dolls (she breaks things) and her older sister's Strawberry Shortcake and friends. If your kids are into larger dolls like Barbie and Action Man, just choose a larger cardboard box to start with.  

My girls were thrilled to come down next morning and find a doll's house to play with!

************

For more up-beat parenting/child related posts, see "Jumping on Castles" and "Top That: Party Nightmares"

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(c) Naomi Madelin

Writing My Heart

I’ll tell where my heart is

I’ll try to.

My heart is sunk,

sad and slow,

lost and unknowing in a maze

of unknowingness.

It left itself behind

back when it was suggested

it might be required. 

Its presence wanted.

It was afraid.

It hid.

I don’t know where I left it.

Here it is.  In the fluff

under the sofa.

Peeking from behind the cushions.

Squashed into the back of an infrequently opened cupboard. 

Misshapen and small. 

There it is in my children,

a glowing sun.
Huge, immortal, bold and brazen.

Taking itself so lightly it floats

in beauty
we watch it

a bubble

in the sun
amazing

and amazed. 

How it grows and shines and lights us. 

Don’t you
pop it.

Don’t you pop my heart
with your selfishness

or take it down and keep it. 

Delicate it is. 

Wanted it is. 

Wanting. 

Wanting your breath

to coax it, blow it, elate it. 

Inflate it.

Confused my heart is, frightened

and yet fulfilled.

How it struggles
not knowing where to settle.

Pacing. 

Pacing. 

Out and in,

up and down. 

What to do with gifts,

it wonders.
Tentatively takes and queries,

examines and puts aside. 

Heart,

heart,

eat those gifts.

Consume them. 

Dare.

Learn as little ones are

not to beware.

Take love as offered

life as proffered. 

Feed yourself
grow.

Here is my heart,

cupboard door ajar

frightened eyes.

I left it here, simply peeping.

Rhymes safe keeping.

NRM 17/11/11

Nothing

I have a load of ideas and thoughts for a blog post, but not the will to write them.  Much to say and yet nothing.  So I thought I'd put together a short post about nothing.  

"He who is not courageous enough to take risks will accomplish nothing in life."

Muhammad Ali

How often have you looked back at points in your life and thought "I wish I'd...."  If only we'd had the courage to say no, to say yes, to say stop or go...

"Having nothing, nothing can he lose."

William Shakespeare

Aha - but what if you're prepared have lots and risk losing everything (per Muhammad Ali)? Does that make life more exciting, or empty?

"To live a pure unselfish life, one must count nothing as one's own in the midst of abundance."

Buddha

There's our answer - we can have lots, as long as we don't count any of it as ours. Then, when we have the courage to risk it all, and lose it, we'll feel great about it.  

"The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing."

Socrates

I am so wise....cos I know all about nothing.

"Nothing will work unless you do."

Maya Angelou 

Yup, and that's why I'm here, typing away about nothing on my laptop.

"Nothing that you have not given away will ever be really yours."

C. S. Lewis

I really don't want this old laptop... but I clearly have to hold onto it otherwise I'll never be rid of the damned thing.

"In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing."

Theodore Roosevelt

So true.  As I said, this is why I'm sitting here doing something about nothing.

“Those who stand for nothing fall for anything."

Alexander Hamilton

Yes.  It's important not to stand when lying down is an option.

"Be Content with what you have; rejoice in the way things are. When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you."

Lao Tzu

I actually do take wisdom from all these wonderful quotes.  From these wise folk who knew so much and yet so little and thought so beautifully about nothing.

"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."
Ernest Hemingway

Darn it, I've nothing to sharpen the kitchen knives on but my wits...

William Shakespeare wrote, in King Lear, "Nothing can come of nothing, speak again." I feel I have proved him wrong. Though I shall speak again, nonetheless.

(c) Naomi Madelin