14km - tick!

Yesterday, after all the waiting, all the self doubt, the anticipation, the surgery, the recuperation, the training (hahahaha!) it was time for the Great Ocean Road 14km run.

There were a few things that were making me anxious. The late start for one, I had never done a 2pm start before and was wondering about food when I usually head out in the morning after a banana and a Hairy Lemon.

The 3 hour drive there.... and the fact, as mentioned previously, I had never run 14km’s before and I had built this up into a HM in my mind.

We arrived in plenty of time and after the initial quandary of what top to wear on the cool and wet day (my nails matched both so I was all good there), I felt good and I just wanted it over with.

I was jittery lining up, I couldn’t get my MapMyRun app to start, my music kept stopping and starting but I practiced my breathing and tried to relax. The gun went off to cheers and the rain came down right on queue.

Apollo Bay is gorgeous but we were heading away from the sea and I was unsure about the hills that we may be heading towards. 

What we did head into was amazingly beautiful and lush farm land. Nothing like the farmland I grew up on, it was so green! As the rain stopped for a little bit and the sun came out we ran along green paddocks, horses frollicked along fence lines (I shit you not!), cows moo’ed and rainbow’s glistened. 

At 1km I was passed by the gorgeous and legendary Cathy Freeman. I had already shared a public loo session with her and was secretly wishing that some of her magical powers would pass through the cubical wall. I’m thinking they must have because for that first km I was running in front of Cathy, in front of! Regardless of the fact I was just ahead of the masses at the starting line and once she passed me I never saw her again...... for that first 6 minutes, I was ahead of Cathy.

The rain came on and off, I swore a few times when my MapMyRun lady told me I was only up to 6km’s, I kept a pretty even pace throughout (though failed big time at having a faster second half), but my biggest achievement was keeping my most positive mental monologue yet.

At 12.5km I wanted to stop/die/sleep, my achilles was killing me but I couldn’t let the OperationMove team down, they would be waiting to hear how it went. Time for another soggy jelly baby.

Maybe it was the scenery, running along a bubbling stream, the lack of hills, the music (which was ace!) or just my sense of achievement. I couldn’t believe this day was finally here, the 18 months of visualizing my beautiful Crazy and MrF at the finishing line cheering me on kept me going. It was soon going to be a reality. 

Crazy about to run the last bit with me

I finished a respectable 1:34 and rewarded myself with the most painful massage in my whole life, it’s done, it’s over, I’m elated, relived and sore and ready to book in my first half. 

Marjorie Dawes thinks the massage is hilarious

I think I can, I think I can

Image source

My mind is playing self-doubting ping pong at the moment.

Like The Little Engine That Could, I have a chuffing big hill to climb on the weekend and I am not sure I can do it.

But the thing is, I think I can, I know I can, of course I can, but I have made a mountain out of a molehill.

Saturday is the 14km run that I signed up for an absolute age ago. I was suppose to do it last year but the whole broken foot and six months in a moon boot put a tiny bit of a dampner on doing the run.

And now, 12 months later - here we are again. I’ve not run 14kms before. I have run 12kms, I have run 10 a few times and last weekend I did the Mother’s Day Classic 8. So sensible me knows I can do it.

But then there is irrational, self-doubting me with her little chisel chip, chip, chipping away.

Years ago I was known for saying I would never run, I would happily “run” playing tennis or netball and occasionally a bus (though that did get me concussion and stitches once, so I am a little wary about that one)..... but I would never, ever run.

It was because of school sports day, 1984, probably a 100m race, who cares as that bit is irrelevant, and some bastard kid/friend told me I ran like a m@*der (if you are from South Australia, you will know the word). 

A M@*DER!!

I was crushed and mortified and due to my stupidly low self esteem, vowed never to run again.

Fast forward 26 years and I thought I would give this running malarky a go, why not? New city, new beginnings, older and not quite so emotionally fekked up and it looked fun. Add in a broken foot and the occasional Crohn’s flare up and it has been a bit of a shaky road, but fark me, I am still going out there and doing it.

Today my legs are tired and my back is twingy. I’m listening to Podcasts for motivation, my legs up against the wall because it is meant to be good for me, I’m sipping on a protein shake.

I just have to keep telling myself ‘I know I can’ because it may not be fast, it definitely wont be pretty but this is something that has been hanging around me for too long.

I need to do this so I can move on and train for my next challenge.

I think I can, I know I can, I know I will.

This goes with that

A sponsored post for Sussan.

On the weekend I went shopping. 

It was a bit special.

I felt a bit special.

I don’t shop that often. I’m not an Integration Aide for the big bucks, I don’t have a credit card, I worked hard to break the shopping-for-no-reason habit. So, I don’t shop much.

But then I got a letter, asking if I would like to visit Sussan with this lovely little voucher, have a bit of a shop then tell my reader all about it.

Er, yes please *gush* *squeals*.

So Crazy and I hit the shops. I have watched over the past few seasons how Sussan has changed it’s wardrobe, adding bright colours and desirable accessories. I used to think it was just for staple pieces and cosy jim-jams, but no...... do you remember the sequined zig-zag dress? Oh my. Hawt.

Crazy was determined to get me something for Mother’s Day, gorgeous tea sets, accessories, actually there was an amazing scarf with neon pink in it I loved. I think I may need to go back for that.

Since changing careers I pretty much wear jeans every day to work, but who wants to wear the same clothes everyday? I don’t want to wear what I wear to the sand pit out for dinner now do I? And I found a pair, a beautiful pair, so soft, a great fit and (amazingly) long enough! 

Then, excited by the jeans, I thought I would buy something that I wouldn’t usually. 

You know the thing, voucher equals going out on a limb. I thought about a great cosy cardi (there is a grey one I love, I may need to go back for that also), or a fabulous animal print, there also was a bright duffle and then I saw this top.

It wasn’t too boobie, wasn’t too hippy, wasn’t too arsey (these are all technical terms used in the fashion industry, dontcha know). It fitted, I could wear it over a long sleeved top, it wasn’t something I would normally buy, I liked it, I liked it a lot and I liked how I looked on me. 

Crazy even gave her thumbs up ...... and she is going back later this week for the Mother’s Day gifts.

This has been a sponsored post - I was sent a voucher to use at a Sussan store & asked to share my experiences. All thoughts are my own. Model used definitely did not get paid and maybe should have done her hair before posing for shots.

Today we climbed trees

Today we climbed trees. 

It is one of those Sunday’s when the sky is heavy, grey, still, pushing down the up and coming week into your subconscious.

After an early morning shuffle (first run with a friend and I loved it) and a weeks worth of washing attacked we needed to take the air.

We walked through our local park and Crazy showed us her favourite tree and before I knew it she was at the highest branches happily telling us of a dare that she had - no hands for over 10 seconds.

Far out she was so high. I was on the bottom branches and that felt high. But she was way up. Neck breakingly high.

I grew up in a house where any dare devil antics were done on the sly, a risk aversive house. I know how the gasps affected me, how it even now stops me from taking risks, having to push myself to show my junior no fear.

I don’t want to stop this daring baby of mine. She is so brave. Not just in her ability to scramble up a tree like a lithe little squirrel then wave her hands in the air like she’s dancing to 80’s hip hop, but in her ability to be an awesome 10 year old.

Braving the ups and downs of friendships, trying new things, being comfortable in who she is.

I know that for her to keep climbing trees, throwing herself into risky situations sometimes I will just have to turn away, hyperventilating privately into a bag.

I’m no food blogger

I thought I could be a food blogger, but I can’t. 

My relationship with food is a bit of a can’t.

Since March I have been on a low FODMAP diet to assist my IBS and IBD (no dairy, no gluten, selected fruit and veg, blah blah blah, zzzzzzz), finding it really difficult to maintain after starting off so determined, I even got through Easter without any chocolate. 

Ay-may-zin.

I could not believe how great I was beginning to feel. Less head aches, less stomach aches, less cramping, less time just hanging out in the bathroom (as you do), more energy..... then I crashed.

Crazy made some crazy-arsed chocolate, marshmallow creation. I tasted a bit and felt a tad dodgy, queue tummy rumblings. We then went out for dinner and I ate a shedload of onion and garlic. Queue the worst pain I have had in years, it was up there with child birth.

I couldn’t move, I could barely breath. The pain was so blinding and I was mentally preparing myself for hospital. After 40 minutes the intensity passed but a lingering pain reminded me why I was doing the old FODMAP malarky. 

Fast forward a month and *crash* - that crash was me this week falling off the wagon and I feel like arse. This is not just my pain, my discomfort, my bitching - it effects the whole family, lets just say if we owned a canary ........ that canary would beg and plead to be allowed to work down the mines rather than hang out at our place.

Joe’s Bar & Diner in St Kilda is launching a new menu tonight - I was honored to be asked to go along and sample their delights. I love Joe’s, Katrina is so skilled and enthusiastic about the food she creates. I wanted to be that food blogger, blogging about all that awesome food in my food blogginess world.

Image c/-  @Joesbar_stk 

But as much as I love great food, it just doesn’t love me. I would love to blog about beautiful wines (don’t drink) that accompanied mouth watering, well seasoned dishes. But no, it's not going to happen, I thought about blogging about my new diet but I fell asleep before I even got to writing about the prep. 

So perhaps you could go for me, go visit Joe’s and enjoy the great food, sample the new menu, try the cinnamon doughnut with caramel dipping sauce and tell me how amazing it was, I am however, off to buy a new canary.

Image source

*This is not a sponsored post. I was asked to try to new Joe's menu but my stoooooopid stomach means that for now I am just drooling over the twitter pics instead and would really love someone to test out the food for me because it does look ace.

#OpMOVE500 day

Today is #OpMOVE500 day and after my last shitty post talking about how shitty I felt about every shitty thing, I wasn’t sure if I could do it. 

It, my pledge of 10km’s for Kate Says Stuff and #OpMOVE500. The last time I ran was 10 days ago and it was only a little jog. It’s been a river of snot and headaches since then.

But I did. Hellz yeah, I did.

I woke up at 5.40am after hardly sleeping (it felt like Christmas I was so excited/anxious), had a Hairy Lemon and a puffer full of Ventilin, gave MrF his phone (in case I had to SOS) and just took off.

It was so ay-may-zin.

I started with AC/DC ‘Back in Black’ and I swear I was about to cry. I felt like I was back.

The air was still and crisp, the sun about to rise and I was moving. Moving at my granny pace but moving for me, moving for a brilliant cause, moving because I said I would.

It was the shittiest 10km’s I will ever do and I think I may have lost a lung around the 7.5 mark, around 9 I had to walk a bit, my feet are a mess, but at 10 and for the rest of the day I felt elated.

I’m back.

There’s this hole

A hole, a total hole.

Sometimes it is quite big.

Sometimes I hardly even know it is there. Skipping over it with carefree and gay abandon. 

Sometimes it is massive, bleak and imposing with The Smiths playing softly from it’s depths. When the hole gets this big I want to jump in with a big doona and just escape for a bit, curl up, away from all the people that want something from me. 

The little people. The big people. Those who seem to need my attention every few minutes, grabbing at me, wanting something from me. I’m pissed off at them because this is when it is the most difficult to give time to me. 

This is when I need my time the most. And they are taking it all.

Then a hole disappears, it might be because I feel good, I am running again and I am so content in my shitty music dome, endorphins popping around me like bubbles that I stride straight over it.

I’ve been surprised that 10 days of feeling ill has caused such a hole, I’ve not had the strength the avoid it, but today it feels a bit smaller. 

Friday, by Friday I will be ready to skip right over it again.

Today I am celebrating....... Pashing

Not passion. Pashing*. 

It’s awesome, it’s fun, it’s sexy and it is not done enough.

I remember my first pash. I was 14 and my friends were polite enough to pretend not to watch. We pashed a lot (me and my boyfriend, not my pals). We broke up. I was devo’ed. Got me a new boyfriend. We pashed a lot. We broke up..... and so on and so on.

During teens and twenties it seems that pashing was the thing to do. Pashing as much as you could. Hellz, there was even the occasional pash n’ dash. 

Then you met the love of your life and pashing was just that bit more awesomer. So much pashing, grown up passionate pashing. Going to work with pash rash and getting a secret “that’s so cool” look from your pals.

After a while the pashing leads to babies.

Then like a cold shower of shitty nappies, the pashing seems to stop. It is too much effort, everyone is too tired to pash. It could lead to something else and that is just too much effort. Sleeping is more appealing.

When you do finally manage a sneaky pash a little person comes and stands between you “what are YOOOOOO doing, get your hands off of her, get ORRRFFF!”.

You start saying good bye with a peck not a pash or god forbid, just a “bye”. A little half-arsed wave, no tongues involved at all. I remember a year after 9/11 watching a program when a widow said how she didn’t kiss her husband goodbye that morning because she had just put her lippy on. The rest is regrettable history.

So I implore you, everyone of you if you have a pashing pal, please show each other some kissy love.

It feels amazing. You’ll feel amazing and there are loads of health benefits like weight loss, skin glow and a relationship sarcasm evaporation** so pash, pash like your life depended on it.

*We love a pash in Australia but you may know it as tonsil hockey, snogging, smooching or sucking face.

**I totally made those things up.

Reality bites

Melbourne still has the ability to weird me out at times, even after living here for over 3 years, stuff will occasionally happen that just freaks me out.

Last night was an example. 

A very ordinary setting, our local DVD shop, getting a DVD, a very ordinary occurrence for a Saturday night.

We walked in, past a local chatting through his choices of movie for the night. 

I did a double-take. I knew this guy. I knew of this guy. I walked straight over to the Australian movie section, talking through in my head if that was the guy I thought it was. The first poster I see is the manically smily face of his movie. The movie about him, his life and his notorious crimes.

Fark. 

I watched that movie, the actor that played him was incredible, but it was a movie about a very violent chap. This chap, not the actor, was standing here chatting about movies.

Fark.

This is when it doesn’t feel real. Australia seems, in my opinion, to glamorize crime especially in Melbourne. But that shit is real, with real people, it really happened..... happens and we watch it at 8.30 like it is some imported cop drama.

We watched the first series of Underbelly before we moved to Melbourne like it was an episode of ‘Getaway’. “Ooooooh, that’s got fabulous cafes, let’s live there”.

This guy. He could be a lovely guy, he’s done his time, but I have seen a movie that makes something very real, very distressing, seem very unreal, almost comical.

Crazy is not a kid who is really into guns or violence (though she will happily play ultimate Nerf gun), she doesn’t play Grand Theft Auto or Halo or watch shoot 'em up movies. But she does love Harry Potter.

Harry Potter unleashing ‘expelliarmus’ is not real, there is no confusion there. As fabulous as it is to get caught up in this action packed world - it is not real. There are dragons, warewolves and giants, they don’t shoot shit, there are no guns. I am OK with this, but what if she did want to watch more violent movies? Explaining the news is hard enough.

I don’t have an answer and I am not going to preach what is right or wrong or what our kids should or shouldn’t do with their spare time, or even what we should watch or not watch. This is not some shit drive time radio station.

This post is purely just me trying to figure out what is real and what is not, because sometimes reality telly is just too real.

#OpMOVE500

I have this mate called Kate. She’s real, not one of my imaginary online friends who I chat with. We’ve met. For real. More than once. And she is a bit of a lady legend.

Kate does loads of awesome stuff, loads, I am not actually sure if she sleeps as there always seems to be amazingness going on and her enthusiasm is infectious. 

One of my favouritest Kate things is OperationMove, I may have mentioned it once, twice or a gazillion times before. I know, I know, I know..... but I love it! 

OperationMove is not a health club or a weight loss centre but an online group of peeps that support each other in basically getting fit and adding exercise to their lives. 

A community to help with goals, questions and advice. Proper serious advice though the running short tips and running mix tracks have been greatly appreciated, however, it does concern me a little how much seriously dodgy music is being played out there.

It is a place where strangers have met and are now friends, achieving milestones together.

Now OperationMove has a new goal and it is a little bit spesh. 

#OpMOVE500.

Whoooop!

Basically we all pledge how many km’s we want to do (run, swim, walk, ride, unicycle, skip) and then on Friday, April 26th we get out there and do it. The genius part is, you could be anywhere in the world. You just have to move, a little or a lot, it is all good.

When we reach the 500km target (because we will), $500 will be donated to the Jane McGrath Foundation thanks to Digital Parents Collective and Wellwoman. I told you it was spesh.

I say ‘we’ because anyone can join in, just jump on Kate’s site to see all the details.

I am pledging 10ks which is just crazy in itself as I cant believe I can actually run 10km’s, but I can and I did the other day and *has Oscar-worthy tearing up moment* I couldn’t do it without the OpMove crew. I love you guys ; )

And I already have the hat (albeit massively too big for my pin head), so how I could I not join in. 

After Run4TheKids - see, told you she was real ; )

This is not a sponsored post, it may seem a bit arse-kissy but I think Kate and OperationMove are ace and I will happily promote it as much as I like.

Who’s the daddy now?

It seems I am many things. If not confused.

The other day I took Crazy to the dentist where she was informed that she would need two (I KNOW, two!!, don’t judge me we brush and don’t actually eat that much crap) little fillings.

She was anxious, upset and scared. I held her foot as she lay in the chair, gently soothing her whilst she got one done. The following filling would have to be done at another appointment a week later.

During the next week she stressed and pondered and over-analyzed her next appointment. During the next week MrF discussed dental hygiene with her. During the next week Crazy told me she didn’t like Dad giving her grief because she felt bad enough. During the next week I was told I was far more understanding.

At this point, even though it is not a competition (yeah, right), I am the clear favourite.

Then it is the day of the dentist, she has to go with Dad. And this happens.

“Mum, I think you need to rethink the way you are at the dentist. You are too solemn and too serious, just standing there stroking my foot. Dad makes faces and makes me laugh. It’s much better.”

Seriously. Are you shitting me?

Now there is a new, clear favourite.

What happened? How does it all change so quickly. One minute I am the duck’s nuts, then it is two against one, a new gang for two. Who knew comforting was so passé?

Are kids really that fickle?

It seems they are because my ‘Number 1 parent’ badge is looking decidedly tatty.

If my parenting was a supermarket....
c/- the brilliant Mr Bingo

Doin' it for the kids

Tomorrow I’m going for a little jog. A shuffle. A stride. And I am doin’ it for the kids.

Tomorrow is my first “official” fun run, The Run for the Kids. The choices are 15km or 5.5km, I am choosing the latter and I am treating this as part of my warm up to May’s 14km. 

And I am bricking it. Excited, buzzing, psyched, but nervous.

It’s a good distance and one I have been doing with ease for a while, so that’s not it.

It could be the fact that I have to leave home at stupid-crack-of-dawn-still-dark-o’clock to be there on time, I’m flying solo or I have to find where my starting line is.

Or maybe the fact that 35,000 other people are also joining in. 

WHAAAA’?!

I know! There are going to be 34,999 others doin’ it for the kids tomorrow. I just cant get my head around it. Even more amazing that I know about 5 of them.

It is going to be pure madness. But I am so ready.

Ready to kick it like a boss. 

Shoe tag is on, bag is packed, time table studied, trusty running gear folded ready to go (I know that there will be no slippage, double boobage, blisters or wedgies), protein consumed, iPod charged and ready.

Jaysus woman, anyone would think you ARE doing the 15!

So if you are doin’ it for the kids tomorrow, say hi, I’ll be one of the 16,000 in black 3/4 leggings. 

Yep - I will be listening to this gem tomorrow : )

I am one of those mothers

Crazy and I have a laugh, oh how we laugh. Laughing, laughing, laughing as we slosh bucket loads of silliness and mayhem all over the seriousness of life.

However, it seems I embarrass her. 

It seems to happen quite a bit and over the past week I have had “muuuummmm, you’re embarrassing me” whispered, hissed, muttered through gritted teeth, quite a few times.

What?!? I KNOW, Crazy’s crazy indeed.

But a younger and more insightful friend summed it up for me as I was recounting how I was singing J-Lo’s ‘Let’s get loud’ at the top of my voice in the car for Crazy and a friend.

It was on our way to their first hockey training for the season and I thought what better way to get them fired up than to play a bit of my running mix, complete with my awesome singing and whooops of encouragement. 

This is when the gritted teeth come into action.

My lovely neighbour simply said, “You are one of those mums’.....” letting the sentence hang for effect she continued, maybe to appease my crumbling face.

“One of those mum’s who Crazy loves to have fun with...... on her own, but with her friends, you are embarrassing”.

Could this be true? 

She love’s balloons, but doesn’t want birthday one’s hanging off the back of her chair at a restaurant. She loves affection but doesn’t want me yelling out “Love yooooouuuuuu” at the school gate (oki, I knew that one, but it is hilarious every time), she doesn’t appreciate public dancing or singing and definitely no parent PDA or public dress ups (for either of us).

She just turned 10 the other day, do they get a dose of seriousness when they reach double figures? What happens to the little people that we can goof about with and dress to make us laugh?

Should I rein it in or enjoy the masses of embarrassment that can be so easily caused? 

Are you embarrassing to your kids? Do you behave or ramp it up for pure entertainment?

She’s a rainbow

Today there were pretty colours everywhere. Rainbow’s fluttering in the breeze against the blue skies of Daylesford.

We spent the day at the ChillOut Festival - a massive queer pride event in rural Victoria - and the atmosphere was fabulous. 

Supporting friends, we also recently marched at Melbourne’s Pride March which was a brilliant, noisy, loud event, but ChillOut was different. 

More chilled out *has a light bulb moment*, more families, more kids, a little less leather and feathers and more couples, friends catching up, warm and open displays of affection..... maybe it was just a bit more rural.

The bootscooters kicked up the dust, drummers drummed, brass bands marched and the dog parade drew a big crowd. 

Community groups spread messages and offered support. There was colour there was noise there was fun.

There were colours in the air. 

I know what I am, but what is this?

I think you may have worked out that I am no longer on sabbatical.

I am now Mrs Once-Upon-A-Sabbatical or Mrs Most-Days-I-Wish-Was-Still-On-Sabbatical which means that I am getting much less time to do this - blog and blog about fun sabbatical stuff.

Now that I am back working everyday I feel time poor. I would love to blog about how I spend my week (Integration Aide) as it is so fascinating, rewarding and challenging but I can’t. Confidentiality rules and these are not my stories to share.

Could I turn this into a running blog? Er, not sure about that, because as much as I am enjoying my little wins this is not the place to seek advice. “Keep running until you can’t anymore and banana’s are ace”, not really marathon winning stuff now is it?

Then there are the parenting blogs, I definitely don't think I should join these ranks. I am amazed Crazy is as balanced as she is with me as her mother.

I had a nice little parenting fail on the weekend when I told her that she looked like she was wearing a top from the Salvo’s bin. I like the Salvo’s and who doesn’t love vintage, but I was being a bit too blunt in telling her that her top looked shit and to a (almost) 10 year old, this kind of chat is not taken too well. 

In my defense, she did ask and you don’t wear wool on a 30 degree day.... and she did ask. 

That is just one of my gazillion examples of ‘how not to win at parenting’.

A craft blog? Nup, I’m too craft-scatty to stick to one project long enough to finesse it, share it and teach it and there is still a stack of 39 granny squares crying out for my attention.

Health? Crohn’s is a pain in my arse and already takes up too much of my thinking and living space. I don’t want to give it more airtime at the moment, nuff said.

Fashion? As mentioned before, my advice often ends in tears, OK if you are Anna Wintour, not so OK if you are just someone on a quest to end socks and sandals.

Sex and relationships? Well, I do like to say root a lot, that could work and my birds and bee’s chat was rather well received (“In..... IN?!! It goes IN? That’s disgusting”). That’s all there is to it, isn’t it?

Are there any other options that could suit? Meh, I can’t think of any.

But in the meantime, until I work it out and find my blogging niche (and stop making people cry or mentally scaring them) this little spot will continue to be a place for my ramblings, mishaps and flashes of rare parenting mediocreness.

What are you?

I am so many different things. I am changing all the time. I have decided to add “I am a runner” to the list.

The other day I read ‘Dr. George Sheehan famously said that “the difference between a jogger and a runner is an entry blank.” In other words, you’re a runner the moment you enter a race.’

The article then goes on to say that you can really call yourself a runner when you feel like one.

I am not sure I feel like one, but I get up early three or so times a week and schlep myself along various local routes. I don’t actually run or even jog, it is more of a sweaty shuffle. 

But I enjoy it. Actually, I really love it. 

I don’t love the alarm going off when it is still dark, that is quite pants and getting up feels like a chore. But I love being outside when the air is crisp, the sun burning a reddy orange reflecting off the CBD in the distance. I love listening to my music, clearing my mind as the hot air balloons float above me. I love increasing my PB’s, it goes back to the challenge thing.

It has been tough coming back after my year on the couch but I am getting there, steadily increasing my distances and stamina. I’m spending more money on trainers than on proper, gorgeous shoes. That makes me feel like a runner.

I have two up and coming entry forms, one easier, one challenging, that is pushing me to keep training. I have an amazing support group that cheers on my wins and offers advice.

It’s not as cute and hipster as my crochet (yeah, I now call myself a ‘hooker’ too), I get stinky and sweat more than I ever thought was possible, I look uncoordinated as my legs kick out like an egg beater, I wobble and I am slow.

But it is mine and I love it. I am a sweaty shuffler runner.

All by myself

The house is so quiet. 

I decided to have a cheeky bowl of ice-cream and I didn’t have to share, I don’t have to make dinner tonight if I don’t want to. Meh, maybe I will, maybe I wont, maybe I will have cereal. We might even go to a moving picture show.

‘What?! Noooooo, that is too crazy’ I hear you gasp. 

Why am I living such a hedonistic lifestyle?

Usually you could just put it down to me being so zany and unpredictable but this time it is because Crazy has gone on camp.

Woooooo! 

It is a tad hard to type as confetti rains down and cherubs trumpet in my ear in celebration and as lovely (lovely, lovely) as it is to have a bit of alone grown up time (if you know what I mean, boom chicka wow wow), the house is so quiet. Other than the before mentioned trumpeting of course.

So, so quiet.

This morning she was so nervous she could hardly eat her breakfast. But she told me it was just nervous excitement. However, waiting at school for the buses to depart sitting in a sea of 150 kids I could see the nervousness sitting fairly and squarely on the excitement’s head. She looked lost, unsure and so young.

It was time for me to say good-bye and walk away. The longer you drag out good-byes the more depressing upsetting it gets. But it is so shit walking away knowing someone is feeling so vunerable. 

It is like when you would drop your little kids at nursery, crying their hearts out with such passion, wiping snot all over your work trousers as you peel their little monkey fingers off your legs. You walk away feeling horrible. I would often shed a tear on the bus, how could I be such a bad mother? Only to find out they stopped crying before you got out of the gate, I see it now in my job, kids recover quicker than the parents.

Because of this I know she will be fine and having a brilliant, grubby, silly time.

And it is just me, feeling a bit lost in this very quiet house.

Pitching the beach tent

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Something weird happened at the beach yesterday.

No, it wasn’t me getting my kit of again (though it was the same beach), but that guess is pretty warm.

There I was sitting in our little tent enjoying a nice thermos green tea (yes I am 70) after a hearty ocean frolic, looking out to Crazy and MrF in the glistening sea, looking to the right of me along the beach at all the families playing, listening to the chatter of happy people floating on the breeze, looking to the left of me seeing a cheeky root.....

Yep. There was beach rooting not 20m away.

Granted they were being, sort of, subtle with a towel thrown over top. But grinding your arse in the air like you are in an Eric Prydz video sort of gives the game away.

I turned away, surely they couldn’t really be doing that. Was I shocked or amused or even a bit nostalgic? I wasn’t ever a day time beach rooter but it seemed they were in a place where their passion knew no bounds. Even if they were in between two 30+ year old women who were pretending not to watch.

I can hardly get a decent public pash in nowadays without a little person crying out “eeewwwwwwww, WHAT are YOU doing?!”

The woman on the other side of them, she didn’t have a tent to hide behind and pretended to sleep behind big sunnies. But I know I saw her looking at me looking at her as we both muttered “SWTF, really?!” under our breath.

I tried to keep reading my book, but I was a little bit intrigued, fascinated and nosey. I sneaked little peaks around the side of the tent (Mrs Sunglasses was still pretending to sleep, but I knew), I wanted to tweet it to the world (no reception - bah!). It was like watching a ‘Black Lace’ story for real. Seriously, have I really become that sheltered and vanilla that this is a weekend highlight?

But they were rooting!

Soon enough the pashing and towel dancing was replaced with adjusting and they were back to sunbathing..... the show was over and in the absence of a cold shower I had to go in for an icy swim.

How would you react to a bit of grown up under-towel action on a busy beach?