Stripes and neon

Every time we go to the local Chinese restaurant, usually on birthdays, my kids do the same thing. Every. Single. Time.

Here’s a basic callsheet…

They ask for steamed rice.

They ask for water.

They refuse the most delicious salt and pepper prawns.

They refuse the fresh perfectly cooked Chinese broccoli with oyster sauce.

They refuse the green tea.

Then, they take their shoes off in the restaurant.

And they go and see the fish and lobsters in the tank.

They make a mess.

So why do they get so excited about going for dinner here? It really doesn’t sound like much fun, does it?

It certainly isn’t fun for us parents who feel annoyed, frustrated, stressed, and deflated. Hoping that this time will be the one that some nutrients and some flavour is consumed. Hoping that they will sit still and converse with us, hoping that we don’t leave apologising for the mess, hoping that this time it’ll be different. We’ve been to this restaurant numerous times over the years with the kids, they should know better!

But the kids don’t want it to be different. They know that they want. It happens. Every time. Every. Single. Time. Expectations met.

The problem is us. Our expectations are different. On reflection, we are probably trying to fit the kids into a grown up world. We’ve been to this restaurant numerous times with the kids, we should know better!

Yes, we should know better! Albert Einstein might say we are actually insane. Famously saying: “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results.”

I would much rather go to our birthday restaurant and have the kids’ experience rather than mine. So, next time I will be ok with their dress code of no-shoes (it’s not how I was brought up, but we’re not exactly in a hatted restaurant); I will be ok with them racing past tables and wait staff to visit the fish in the tanks (it is pretty fascinating – it’s just an aquarium to them, not the discomfort of death row); I will be ok with the rice and water dinner (hey, it’s cheaper!); I will be ok with the food mess (the other day I saw another family who had made an even bigger mess than us and I felt relief, it happens to us all, for many, many years).

It ain’t worth crying over spilt rice.

Stripes and trees xxx

So dementia. It sucks. Just like any condition. But that doesn’t mean I can’t talk about it as if it’s the most important thing right now, it’s all relative. Literally. My dad has frontotemporal dementia (FTD for short).

I ran 5k today to raise awareness.

I’ve been thinking whilst running and realised that I cannot change the condition, I cannot change that my dad has it, that I may too, but what I can change is me. Change my reaction to it, to him, to others with it, to those that are carers (professional and non). It’s funny (well not at all really) that when someone has a diagnosis we respond differently, we only want the best for them, no more cross words, we want dreams to be achieved…but how many of us have underlying conditions or a tragic accident around the corner…not meaning to be morbid but we are all heading that way. So, let’s really truly try our best, and then some more, to be nice and kind to each other and ourselves, and live in the moment. I’m not saying enjoy each moment, because sometimes moments are shit, but each moment means we are alive.

Whilst running I saw so many trees, plants, flowers, birds, and I just don’t know what they are. I reckon my dad would know some. I wish he could come back to Australia one day ☹️.

At the 5k point, I wanted to take a photo of a tree, but where I ended up was on a concrete bridge. Not my plan. In fact I had thought about my end goal a lot. I could’ve done a 5k run back to my favourite tree, but that is my special tree, not my dad’s tree. I could’ve taken a photo at my halfway-point tree, but today the tide was high so it looked a bit odd. Also I knew that I needed to keep going, repeat what I had just done, and my legs were already feeling heavy. I could hear the words of my sister, and no doubt my mum saying “at least you’ve got legs Stephie.” So on I went. In the end, as you can see, I took a photo of ‘recycled’ trees, turned into story poles, reminding us of the importance of the Cooks river and ecology to Aboriginal people, past present and future. My dad would like that. I liked that.

Stories. Keep talking. Keep sharing.

Stripes and trees xxx

Look at this beaut. The texture, the colours, the stripes – love love love!

It’s a hand crocheted blanket gifted to my son from a family friend. It has one of the best stripes in my opinion – the chevron! Dynamic, bold, movement, direction. The day before I started this blog I saw a chevron pattern on a road sign next to a park – “keep out” it was shouting – yet there was no sound at all. Just visual noise, black and white contrasting loud and proud.

When I see the chevron my mind wanders to many different decades. Mostly I think of the 70’s for some reason, but also the 80’s and 00’s – times when strong memories for me were made. During the 80’s I was growing up with a great colour palette but mostly wearing hideous patterns (chevron was the saviour!), and in the 00’s I was a young adult just out of uni, trying to work out my groove in the big bad world – and chevrons made me feel more grown up, stronger, outspoken even.

But back to the blanket. Whenever I see hand made ‘anything’ I think of my mum. She is as crafty as it gets. So talented, so creative, so innovative, and so content with the process of craft, not necessarily the product. Of course she has pride in her creations, but she doesn’t shout about them (she’s no chevron!), she just does what she does because it makes her happy doing it.

You know, the phrase ‘actions speak louder than words’ is so relevant right now. As my children meet new challenges, so do I as a parent, and sometimes I don’t do so well. As I behave like a chevron with a megaphone, my children converse back to me like that, despite the words ‘no shouting, softer voice, inside voice’ – my actions are chevron. I don’t like it.

My mum never shouted at my and my sisters. How did she manage that? I think the clue is in the blanket. What I need is some craft time. I’m going to take my mum’s advice, even though she never told me out loud, I’m going to get my craft on. Actions speak louder than words.

And what my mum knew, I now know. And I am back where I started. With my mum.

Stripes and trees xxx