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Bummed!!!

I blogged the other day about the i-envy that I suspect I have. Hubby had brought home a new phone (no, not an iPhone, but close enough, in comparison with my current one!) and I realised that I was just a little bit envious. I forgot to mention in that blog post that he had also told me he had been given an iPad a few months ago, and it was sitting in the techie’s office at work. Still in the box.

Yes, I screamed at him (mock scream, of course, BTW) and have been nagging at him for the past two days for him to bring it home so I could have a play. Check it out for myself, sort of thing. He had to find it, of course, but I guess my desire must have sunk in, because he brought it home with him tonight. Put it next to the HUGE box of chocolates that he had also brought home today, part of Miss Six’s school fundraising drive.

And you know when I realised that I really had it bad? When I opened the iPad box first. Instead of the chocolates. And I’m a chocoholic. Sad, really.

But the worst bit was? After ALL that excitement? I can’t really use the thing. No internet out here. No WiFi, no connecting to anything. Hence my purchase of the Telstra USB I’m using right now. Which makes it a bit tough to use an iPad!

So. All in all? I’m bummed. What’s the use of being super-excited about the iPad2’s smart cover (sorry, but I feel the need to include the link again, here. It’s just SO cool!) if I can’t even use the darn thing?!! Bummed.

Maybe hubby will agree to move?! LOL! Seriously though. Hmm…

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Feeling like I’ve finally ‘caught up’ with the world…

It’s a bit of an embarrassing confession, but I’m not, and have never been, a part of the i-Revolution. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that, as my Dad had proudly brought home a Commodore 64 sometime in the 80’s, my older brother’s condescending attitude towards Apple MacIntoshes rubbed off. I remained a happy Microsoft – Windows – PC user, partially aware but mostly oblivious to what was happening in the world of Apple.

Suffice it to say, I never got an iPod. Or any other personal music listening device, actually! Several years ago now, I joined in the laughter at those brave fellow teachers who started swapped across to the Mac, and decided that because I was not into photo manipulation, or the creation and publication of music or film, that I was better off not converting. Even iPhones became a status symbol that I preferred not to have, given that I quickly became marginalised with my LG Xenon non-smartphone (it’s a slider, and I love the keyboard for texting with).

But lately, I’m starting to become envious of those who are part of the iWorld. Seeing as I can’t read QR Codes (I’ve made a couple – as evidenced by the bottom of this blog – but have to use others’ phones to read them!) and seeing as an iPad can apparently do brilliant things like this, I’m starting to thaw. Rapidly!

At a meeting yesterday with a brilliant photographer, I actually saw an iPad for the very first time. Touched it. Held it. Saw a promo on it for the next generation of iPads – magnetic screen cover, or something?!! Was impressed by the fact that his iPad was easily the most used computer in his home. And the price, just $449, surprised me. Then my husband came home last night with a new phone. A MOTOBLUR. And I realised that I had it bad. I have the distinct impression that I’m a convert. I want an iPhone. I want an iPad. I want an iPhone. Heck – I’ll even give an iPod a whirl!

Hmmm… does that mean that I’m a dinosaur yet?! LOL

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Getting ready…

Bit the bullet yesterday afternoon and (hopefully!) bought my last purchase on credit for a while. (With a paycheck on the imminent horizon, it was time to spoil myself one last time!)

You see, one of the problems with my internet-capability over the last 18 months has been the intermittent mobile broadband signal I get out where I live. Forget ADSL or normal broadband – out here, we don’t even get town water. We have rubbish bins and mail delivery, and that’s it. (Not that that stops my local council for charging me for ‘public transport’. Ha! There’s no bus , train etc for miles!!!) We don’t even have a local shop – our closest is 15 minutes drive. Which I LOVE because it’s SO peaceful and quiet (well, when my kids are asleep that is) but I can’t stand when it comes to technology, because my internet has been just so darn unreliable. Especially when there’s any hint of rain in the air.

18 months ago, I bought myself a Vodafone broadband stick. It was going to be cheaper than the others, and I figured that the coverage would be fairly similar to the other networks. D’Oh! Bad move.

So yesterday, in preparation for my NEW COMPUTER that I’m counting the days til (can you tell I’m just a little bit excited about this?!!) I went out and got myself (and I’m quoting the side of the box here) a “Telstra Ultimate Mobile Broadband USB Modem”.

Woohoo! I’m set now! Bring on the computer I can attach it to! LOL

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Countdowns are so exciting, aren’t they?!!

I feel a little like Big Kev. I’m so excited, I swear little bits of me are actually escaping out of my skin. The reason, you ask? I’m SOOOO close to re-joining the world of the internet-capable computer owner again, I can just about taste it! YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, so when I last blogged, I was computerless and jobless. Using hubby’s computer to bemoan my lack of money, my mounting credit card bills and my growing concern over the increasing intensity of demand letters over my past-due bills (boy, they can get rather stroppy, can’t they?!!)

Since then, I’ve got myself a job. Was getting absolutely nowhere with gaining paid employment the ‘traditional’ way, so I mustered as much courage as I could, found a niche that needed filling, went and pitched my proposal to the boss, and he agreed to pay me for the service I was offering. Yay! So now I can say that I’m ranked among the ’employed’ again! I oversee the marketing for St Paul’s Lutheran Primary School, Caboolture. So I’m pretty stoked, and my first pay will go towards purchasing myself my very OWN laptop! Yay!!! So I have around two weeks to decide what I want and where to get it from. I’m actually leaning towards getting a Mac. Never had one before, but I keep hearing good things.

What would YOU recommend?

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Silence… not necessarily golden!

I’ve been without a computer since Wednesday. Even now, I’m stealing a few minutes on hubby’s laptop. First email, then googlereader for jobs, quick moderation of the latest on goodoldtalk, and apologise for the absence of spam deletion, then a quick post on here. No time for twitter or facebook, let alone getting any work done on the project I’m meant to be completing for Uni!

I’m starting to realise exactly how much time I spend online, and how little I can get ‘done’ without it!

In a way, this is an obscure apology for the absence of recent reading material on this blog. Sorry!

Ceridwyn

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When the fun has gone…

There’s a little bit of a tinge of sadness in the air. A greying. Cool mist. It’s as though the laughter-filled ‘honeymoon stage’ has passed, and the vision of ‘hard slog’ has just started to inch towards me over the far horizon. Ho hum.

Today is the 23rd of January. Exactly one month ago, I set up this blog, in preparation for @fionawb’s #blog12daysxmas challenge, which would start on Christmas Day of 2010. So that’s it. Been blogging for a month now. How sad – I can’t really class myself as a ‘newbie’ anymore. Well, not really.

Generally I find milestones exciting. They signify the culmination of something. But that can mean the end of something, too… and in my experience, when something ends it is never repeated again. Which can be sad, I find. Today also marks the end of my 6 posts on ‘momentous events in my life’. It’s been an interesting challenge I set myself… I had NO idea when I started, just how confronting it would be. Bearing my soul and my innermost thoughts at the most emotional experiences I’ve had! And only a brand-new blogger! So this week’s been rather a soul-searching one for me, deciding how to best present the stories of my life, pitting the ‘truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth’ against the ideas of privacy, discretion, and of course a pretty massive word count when I get all rambly!

Still an’ all… today’s event, number six, while still extremely emotional, was one which still leaves me incredulous. It goes like this…

It was the latter half of 2010. August, maybe? Or September? It was a warm day, and it must have been a Saturday because hubby was home. So we decided to swap the baby seats into our Pajero and take the 5 of us to Bribie for the day. So we did. On the way, I noticed that I was still wearing my watch and rings (I never take them to the beach, as I don’t like the potential that sand has for damaging them!) and was about to take them off and put them safely into my handbag, when I was distracted (probably by two fighting daughters in the back seat!) and so didn’t. And it wasn’t until we were actually ON the beach, the car unpacked, the kids changed into their swimmers etc that I remembered that I was still wearing them.

I should probably pause and explain… I’m not into jewelry. I wear my engagement ring and my wedding ring and my gold watch. That’s it. And I only wear them when I’m out somewhere – as soon as I’m home, I take off the rings and store them on the watchband; do up the watch again, and presto! Safe. I probably started the habit when my eldest was born, as I didn’t want the stones to scratch her when I was picking her up so constantly, but now it’s a bit of a habit.

Anyway, we got home from the day at Bribie tired and happy. And the following morning, headed off to church. I opened the section of my handbag where I usually keep the watch / rings… and they weren’t there. Back home, after church, I check the box where I leave them… and they weren’t there. I go back out to the car, check the glovebox, the floor… no. I go to the Pajero, check the glovebox, the floor, the centre console… no. I panic. They’re gone. Completely. Gone.

Questions, guilt, more questions, more guilt. Why can’t I remember! I must have taken them off at the beach… but maybe that was just before my youngest crawled head-first into the water and got knocked over by a wave?

A week goes by. A very very very sad week. I was coming up 15 years married and had lost my rings. Worse – I couldn’t even remember when I had removed them and where I had put them. Hubby suggests calling the Bribie Police Station. Sure, I say, but don’t. (I’ve mentioned how depressed I get, haven’t I.) The following weekend it rains, or we’re busy, or something. Anyway, we don’t go back to Bribie. I don’t think I would have handled it too well, if Hubby had even suggested it. He keeps reminding me of the Bribie Police. I say, ‘Stop nagging.’

Monday after lunch. The eldest is at school and the younger two have gone down for their naps. I can’t put it off anymore. I call Bribie Police. Teary, I tell the constable my story. She asks me to describe them. I do.

She them says, “You’re not going to believe this. They’ve been handed in, not half an hour ago. A lady found them on the beach this morning – well, her husband did – and she wanted to hand them in straight away because she knew that whoever had lost them would be devastated.”

I die. (Well, not literally, but pretty darn close!) I bundle the kids into the car, rush down to Bribie Police Station, and reclaim my beloved watch and rings. Oh my GOD!!!!! How absolutely INCREDIBLE!!! I had been praying, and praying, and praying, all week. And here they were again – back on my ring finger; back on my wrist – without even any extra tarnish for their eight days in the sun, wind, rain, exposed to the salt and the sand!

How awesome is my God?!! Pretty darn! I was completely blown away. Incredulous. And so, so, so grateful. I had thought them gone literally forever, and been in various stages of mourning and denial. But they had been preserved somehow… heck! The watch hadn’t even lost a minute! How absolutely INCREDIBLE is my God!!!

Anyway, that’s it. The sixth, of six ‘most momentous events in my life’. The list is complete. A little sad, in a way. A little grey. But touched with golden around the edges, for a challenge completed successfully. And as for the next? I haven’t decided yet. Might go sleep on it.

As always, thank you for allowing me to share my story with you. And, dear readers, have a lovely night!

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momentous events

It’s party day…

I mentioned in last night’s post that hubby and two daughters had birthdays in the past week.  So today is party day. Yay – I think! (The rain’s just started, and it looks like it’s setting in.) Wish I’d had more sleep last night, rather than waking up every few hours, having dreamt about (yet more!) ant invasions.

Still, the point of this post is to reminisce the fifth momentous event in my life to date. And that was another celebration – much quieter though. MUCH. Internal, as a matter of fact. That ‘want to jump out of your skin because you can’t contain how happy you feel’ kind of celebration. And the reason? Gaining full-time employment for the first time ever.

From memory, it was January 27, 1996. I was in the Principal’s office in Chisholm Catholic College, Cornubia. I had spent the better part of my mental and emotional energies over the past fortnight being concerned that schools were going back. I had been offered the position of Music Coordinator of Mt Isa State High School since finishing my B.Ed a few months earlier, but, being only a few weeks married to a NAB Lending Officer based in Brisbane, had turned it down. So now I had found myself unemployed, with the schools going back. And with nervous energy to burn, had applied for and been given an interview for the position of Music Coordinator at Chisholm, a Term One replacement for Peter Shaw, who was on Long Service Leave.

So I sat in Mike Ashton’s office, explaining who I was and trying to demonstrate how enthusiastic I was to have the opportunity to finally have my ‘own class’, rather than the classes of supervising teachers. I guess it must have worked, because Mike asked me to wait outside while he called my referees. Then he called me back in and offered me the job. I could hardly contain my excitement! I was engaged to start the very next day, and he took me for a quick tour of the school.

I think I may have impressed him that very first day. The students had returned, and he hadn’t yet organised the relief for the Music classes that would start that afternoon. So I offered to take them. To start that day. He agreed, surprised yet probably relieved. And so my first day’s (well, half day’s) work was that same afternoon. What a ride! And what an excellent school! And when I left at the end of Term Three, (a Maths / Science teacher had taken maternity leave in Terms Two and Three, so Mike had rearranged the timetable so the classes were covered internally, and so I could stay there, teaching English and Music classes,) I couldn’t have asked for a better start to my career. I learned so much, grew so much, and gained far more than I thought would have been possible. Even now, I’m smiling.

I’ve been thinking about that quite a bit this week. Again, I find myself in the position of being ‘unemployed’, with the schools going back. And again, I find myself with huge amounts of nervous energy to burn. I need a job. No, really, I NEED a job. Know of one I could have?

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Here we go again…

It’s been a big day. Woke up to discover my dream job for 2011 had been advertised on Monday, with submissions of applications by close of business YESTERDAY! (That’ll teach me for having a husband and two daughters all having birthdays this past week, and so not turning on my computer as much, won’t it!)

So I applied anyway. And then felt depressed all day. Youngest is teething (and whingy), middle child has a rash over her entire back from the neighbour’s over-chlorinated pool (and MEGA whingy) and eldest is… well… she’s just too like me on every day of the week, so we butt heads anyway. A LOT!

Hubby has been out at a staff retreat for the last few days, so he arrived home tonight. Just as I discovered a colony of ants were playing at falling out of the lovely home they had made in my cathedral ceilings, all over my lounge room. Over chairs, over cushions, over the inevitable collection of toys that accumulates throughout the day. Over literally everything. Yay. But thanks to my lovely twitter support group, a #virtualtweetup, and a pretty massive #sugarhit, I feel as though I can focus enough to blog for the day.

Hmmm… that’s right. My topic: momentous event in my life number four. The first time I felt ‘released’ from the emotional prison that was suffocating me. And again, I should probably fill in some details as to how I arrived in that prison in the first place. So settle in… this may take a moment or two…

Well, as I mentioned in an earlier post, once upon a time, I helped to lead a cult. Really? Yes. Really. In my second year of my B.Ed at Griffith, Mt Gravatt, I was sitting on the grass near the bus stop when a girl several years older than me walked up and, out of the blue, invited me to a Bible study. Shocked? Yes! Because how was she to know that, not 30 seconds earlier, I had just finished praying that I might be more committed to my Saviour, and that I would find the way to do this.

Long story short, I ‘studied the Bible’ with her – and her fellow “church” members – for the next ten days, a couple of hours at a time. (Wow! I must have had SO much free time on my hands back then!) By the middle of the studies, I could see where they were heading. Verses from the Bible had been chosen, and were studied in detail, in such a way that the proof was irrefutable – I was NOT (as I had thought all my life) saved, I was NOT a Christian, and only by joining this “church” would I then become a Christian, and be saved. Tell me tell you – I fought this and fought it! What they were saying was absolute anathema… but in all of it, I had to keep going back to the Bible. Seeing the words. And agreeing with their point of view, even though I didn’t want to, because, really, there was no other explanation. So I joined. And a few months later, moved out of my parents, into a “sisters” house, renting with other girls from the “church”. By Semester One of my third year, I was ‘in deep’. I had virtually lost all contact with my non-“church” friends, and my family. By the end of that semester, I was one of the two Interns. As in, the leader of the “church”, Jordie Barham at that time, and his wife, Paula, had one assistant (Intern) each, and together, the four of us led the whole of the Brisbane “church” – almost 200 members at that point in time. I had decided to postpone Semester Two, in order to devote 22 hours per day to my ‘work’, and I joked how I would tell my parents that it was just for the rest of the year, rather than (as I had planned) for the rest of my life.

But by September, I was completely burnt out. I had not yet succeeded in ‘being fruitful’ (converting someone through to “church” membership) and the Internship was stripped from me and given to another. A month or so later, I feigned illness on Sunday morning, and while everyone else was at church, put through a distress call to my parents. They picked me up, drove me around to the three different “sister’s houses” I had lived in and left possessions at, and then took me back to their house, before the others in the “church” were any the wiser. And then we all ignored the phone, which rang off the hook 24 hours a day for the next 4 days or so.

Still, I had left physically, but not left mentally or emotionally. I knew that when I had left their “church”, that I had walked away from my salvation. That I had turned my back on God. That I was going to hell. And I remained utterly convicted of that fact. Nothing could convince me otherwise. After all – I had seen it for myself, in the black and white words of the Bible.

I finished Uni and got married. I then fought constantly with my husband, as he, a Christian, couldn’t understand how I could be that ‘stubborn’ about my opinion. And then the inevitable happened. After just one and a half years of marriage, we split up.

A week later, he came back. To find me as unrelenting as ever. I KNEW that I was going to hell, and nothing he could say or do would change that. He virtually begged me to go to marriage counselling. I agreed, but with the attitude that ‘nothing will change. They can’t convince me otherwise. I know it. I’ve seen it.’

So anyway, we went to counselling. Another couple, Graham Ballam and his lovely wife, the Baptist pastors at Victoria Point (where we were living) had one session with us. Just one. And then said, “You (two) don’t need marriage counselling. No – marriage counselling won’t work. Instead, you (Ceridwyn) need counselling. To get this wrong way of thinking out of your head. Because you’re wrong. What you believe. It’s wrong.”

My response? Sure. Bring it on. We agreed that I would go through ‘studying the Bible’ with them, each and every session, and I knew, I just KNEW, that by the end of it, I would have convinced them that they too, were not saved, not Christians, etc.

So it started. And it continued. And for every SINGLE verse, I explained the verse how the “church” had explained it to me. And then we would go back to the original meanings of the words themselves, in Hebrew and Greek, to the nuances of the verbs, to see whether the explanations provided by the “church” matched up with the reality of the original Hebrew and Greek words. And while the majority of them DID match up, there were one or two discrepancies. Maybe just in the ‘present continuous’ form of the verb being used, rather than what I had been taught, but it was enough. I saw a chink. A glimmer of light. And that was the beginning.

It took the best part of a fortnight. Hours and hours of debate, intense scrutiny of those same Biblical passages that had so convinced me of my hell-bound future. But it was worth it. By the end, I could smile. I could feel a peace that I hadn’t felt in years. And I felt, again, some hope. Again, just a glimmer… but it was a start. A release. I emerged from that prison a stronger person for being in there – and even more convicted of my God, and my salvation. So although I had endured quite a few years of being ‘bound and gagged’ (to quote the title of one of my brother’s movies), there was an end. A wonderful, wonderful end. Which, as it always does, resulted in a new beginning. Phew.

Well, that’s probably it for today. And I’d say that long enough too wouldn’t you agree?! Thank you for reading, and I’m heading back to say goodnight at that #virtualtweetup now…

 

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This has been harder than I thought.

I guess it’s really up to me, isn’t it – where I should draw the ‘line in the sand’, as it were, between sharing my life and revealing too much. What, really, am I comfortable with virtual strangers knowing about me, and various thoughts along a similar vein. I hadn’t found it particularly tough until today. And, being a master-procrastinator about certain things, I managed to maintain a healthy state of denial that the day was passing and I hadn’t yet blogged my third ‘momentous event’ in my  previously mentioned ‘list of six’. But it’s edging closer to 11pm, so I’d better get typing, I guess. Deadlines have always been great motivators for me.

This one’s hard. It’s ‘personal’. Not that the last two weren’t, but more that… well… hmmm… how to explain? Where to start? And yes, I realise that all of this prevaricating is just using up words while I try to build up the courage to type what I had said I was going to.

Ok. Here goes. I’m going to start now.

This event, third most ‘momentous in my life’, was the day of my release. Well, the second big release in my life, actually. The first, I’ll blog about tomorrow. But this one had a longer-lasting impact.

It would have been, most likely, sometime in 2002. (I’ll have to tell you about my EXTREMELY dodgy memory, sometime!) My husband and I had been attending Glasshouse Country Baptist Church for some time, and on this particular weekend, I had decided to attend the ‘retreat’ that had been planned for the Saturday. The topic was ‘Setting the Church free’, and all the attendees were focussing on different areas in our lives where we felt that we had been hampered by emotional (or spiritual) ‘baggage’. My analytical brain (as I mentioned yesterday – ever the dispassionate observer!) was having a very interesting day, having never experienced a retreat of that nature before.

Anyway, the focus shifted from topic to topic, looking at various aspects of our lives. Witchcraft, pornography, drugs, alcohol and nicotine addictions were all discussed… and then came the ‘miscarriage / abortion’ topic.

I was immediately floored, having absolutely ZERO idea that ‘miscarriage / abortion’ could even BE an area in which you could carry ‘baggage’. Looking back now, it is obvious that it would have been included, but at that time, I felt as though I had not only been hit by a train, but that the train involved was the Brisbane – Cairns express, and I was still plastered to the front of the engine.

Seven years earlier, I had miscarried my first child. I had been 12 weeks pregnant, and just starting to celebrate getting over the ‘danger period’. Whoops. And in 2002, losing that child had been my only experience of pregnancy (to that date). And, being seven years earlier, I had thought that I had ‘dealt with it’. “Heck!” I thought to myself, sitting in that hall, “I’d had my teacher interview with Ed.Queensland two days after leaving the hospital, hadn’t I?! So of course I’m over it! I don’t need to discuss it… or think about it… I’m not carrying any ‘baggage’!” But I knew that, for all my denial, there was a massive amount of pain sitting just below the surface. That my experience of miscarriage, as traumatic as it had been, needed a lot more ‘closure’ than all the trite words of friends and family at the time, and the passage of the following seven years.

So I gave in. I’d say that it was pretty obvious, from the tears gushing down my face (as they’re starting to do again now, sitting here at my computer) and the church elders, leading the session, were able to draw me aside, and talk through it. It’s funny… until that moment, I hadn’t thought to seek counselling over my miscarriage. I had just assumed that it had been a problem with me. That my body wasn’t up to the task of carrying a child. That I wasn’t worthy. And the overwhelmingly crushing guilt that accompanied those thoughts was just something I had to get used to, and live with.

Thankfully, I had attended that retreat that day. I heard someone speak to me of another who had had a similar experience. His child had died. Not as mine had, in utero, but as a child. And this person’s thoughts, and reactions, were recorded in a source I trusted implicitly – my Bible. The person was King David, and his son had died. And his response? He tells his servants, “Can I bring him (my son) back again? I will go to him, but he will not return to me.” This is in the book of 2 Samuel, Chapter 12, verse 23.

Wow. God’s Word was telling me that I would see my child in heaven. “I will go to my child, but my child will not return to me.” WOW. This is GOD’S WORD telling me this. GOD! Even now, I am taken aback by the wash of emotions this creates in me. That even though I never got to see my child – my little, 12 week old baby – I never got to know whether it was a girl, as I had suspected – I never got to hold her, kiss her, or gaze into her face – that I can confidently expect to meet her (or was it a him?) in heaven when I get there. Wow. Just WOW. To have that hope again. Just… wow!

Something in me was fixed that day. Not wholly, but a pretty big part that I didn’t even realise was just so darned broken. A part of my life that I had never wanted to look at, touch or probe too deeply for fear of what was there, hiding, that I knew I couldn’t deal with. Even now… as I’ve just written… the emotions are so close to the surface it surprises me. And that’s after 15 years, and three successful pregnancies. Wow.

Anyway, I look back now and am SO glad for that release. I’m also glad because, since that day, I’ve been able to share my story – and that verse – with friends who have also miscarried. And perhaps given them some reassurance that it doesn’t really have to be ‘the end’, even though it feels just so darn final.

Phew. Okay. I’m going to stop typing now. I think that’s enough emotion for one night. Thank you, dear readers, for allowing me to share this small part of my life’s story with you.

Yours,

Ceridwyn

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Finally…! (It took a while!)

It was late in September of 2004. The sun-warmed pebbles of my driveway bruised the soles of my feet as I leaned over my growing bump to hug my friend and offer to help with her bags. She declined, unceremoniously dumping them on the ground, touching my tummy, and letting out a squeal of delight at a corresponding, well-aimed kick at her hand. I was recently 30, and six months pregnant with my eldest. Working as Head of English at Caloundra Christian College left little time to think about pregnancy, let alone the needs of a nursery and a newborn, so Katrina, a girl I knew from our dance ministry team in Nambour, had volunteered to throw me a baby shower at my place. She had arrived early to set up, organise the games, prizes and refreshments.

Baby showers were all new to me. Ever since I could remember, I’d NEVER been one to understand young children. Especially babies. They freaked me out a little. Both my parents had left their entire families in their home countries, so I had zero experience with younger cousins (well, ANY cousins, really!) or friends with younger siblings, and had majored and taught in only secondary schools. “Give me a child after they’re toilet trained and can hold a conversation!” I would always say…

So, there I was. Six months pregnant, and at a baby shower for the very first time. And it was mine! I was interested to see how the day would unfold, and observe the reactions of the others, so I could gauge how I was expected to act. I had NEVER felt ‘clucky’ in my entire life – nor felt anything even remotely resembling maternal instinct. I had been focussed on my career, my relationship with my husband of almost 9 years, and paying off vehicles, paying rent, and then achieving the exalted rank of being a mortgage owner for the past few months.

I turned my thoughts back to Katrina as I had vaguely been aware of her handing something towards me. I expected it to be a bag of Baby Shower items, but noticed with a degree of surprise that it was a present. “I wanted to give this to you before everything started. I saw it yesterday and just loved it… I hope you do too!” Smiling, I thanked her and started to turn around and head up to the house when she stopped me. “No! Do you think that maybe you could open it now?”

“Oh! Okay… sure,” I replied, thinking how nice it was to be given ‘baby things’, as (my pragmatic mind chimed in) it would mean less for me to purchase prior to the mid-January due date.

I carefully opened the wrapping paper, remarking on how I’d made another payment on the cot I’d laybyed at BabyCo, and pulled out the baby outfit. It was a size 000 short-sleeved bodysuit. The top half showed a white background, above horizontal stripes in red, yellow and blue all the way down to its press-studded crotch. But it was the picture on the white background however, that grabbed my attention. It was of a baby tiger, and the accompanying words read “cute little tiger… roar roar roar”.

My reaction was instantaneous. I could SEE a baby wearing this bodysuit. MY baby, wearing this bodysuit. Maybe even pretending to BE a cute baby tiger, and roaring for attention. The emotions that flooded my body were absolutely indescribable. All of a sudden, I had finally ‘GOT’ it! It had taken until I was gone 30, but I finally understood exactly what people were talking about when they said that they ‘were clucky’! I had a sudden, desperate urge to HOLD my unborn baby in my  arms. To know what it felt like to be a Mum. My eyes teared up, and I have no idea how long I stood there, or what I did next. And I didn’t care. All I knew was that I – me! Ceridwyn Bloxham! – was going to be a Mum. For REAL!

Looking back now, I realise that it had certainly taken a long time, but perhaps that maternal feeling was all the more sweet for being so timely. It certainly was a momentous event – number two in my list of six – and remembering that gush of emotions helps me through the more mundane parts of being mother to that same girl that kicked Katrina’s hand that day, ever so long ago now. The covering of what feels like a mountain of schoolbooks this morning, in preparation for next week’s entry into Grade One, when that same little girl will dress for the first time (of many, I’m sure!) in her ‘big girl’s formal uniform’, ironed by me that morning in preparation for the day… yes, remembering that Baby Shower morning certainly gives me that extra spur I need at times!

Anyway… enough waffling. I’d love to hear when YOU first felt that intense emotional whirlpool. Or are you like I was, unacquainted with ‘being clucky’?

Still an’ all… until tomorrow, dear readers, when number three sees me again in a church setting…