In Rainbows ...

Apologies for the blogging break but ... well, between trying to hang on to my sanity and get a book finished, I haven't really felt up to it.

Today though I do have a story that I want to share with you. It's something that happened yesterday that made me realise that my mum is with me all of the time and she will find ways of showing me.

We need to go back in time a bit to get the full picture, so bear with me.

I lost my dad when I was eighteen.  As a Daddy's Girl, this was tough and I would cry myself to sleep at night longing for him to visit me or, at the very least, give me a sign.

Then I had 'the dream' ...

There were huge fluffy clouds and the most amazing light - pretty corny so far, huh?  Poking through the clouds was a stunningly vibrant rainbow but it was actually an arched ladder and my dad was at the top of it with a paintbrush.  He turned and looked at me - he was really happy and clearly pretty chuffed with himself - and I asked what he was doing up there.

'This is what I do now,' he said simply.  'I paint the rainbow.'

Well, as he was a painter and decorator during his time on earth, this seemed a perfectly logical explanation and - in the time honoured tradition of bad story-telling - I woke up!

But ... I woke up happier.  He'd given me that sign I'd asked for. Even my son, as a child, used to point to the sky and say, 'Look what Granddad did!'

So imagine my surprise thirty-four years later when my lovely mum called us to her bedroom to say her final goodbyes and within the hour a rainbow had appeared in her back garden.  You couldn't make it up, could you?  My dad was there, ready to take her to be safe and he was telling us he loved us.

My Dad's rainbow in my Mum's garden

Then yesterday I was going to a friend's for lunch and I was dreading it.  My mum would always come along with us and sit and chat to his elderly mum and it just seemed wrong going without her.  Our friend had been thoughtful and set the table in a different room to where we would normally eat so that we didn't feel like there was an empty space and we had a lovely lunch - but it still felt odd.

When you're grieving, you become adept at painting on a smile and chatting as if you haven't got a care in the world but suddenly I found that I was smiling and really feeling it.

Because I'd looked out over my friend's back paddock and there she was - only this time with my dad.  His MASSIVE, vivid rainbow ... and later the shadow of a double rainbow by its side, which Mr Misfit joked wasn't as bright because she hasn't been 'up there' long enough to earn her stripes!

She was looking over me, after all!

Thanks Mum - as always, you were there when I needed you and I hope I did the same for you too while I was lucky enough to have you.

I found this song - says it all.

Grief

Grief.
Such a short word.
But it hurts.
Sometimes.
Other times it leaves you numb and feeling like you're looking down at yourself - a bit like you're detached from your body or waking up from a nightmare.

My lovely mum is gone.  How did that even happen?  Silly question.  She was 88, had come to the end of her journey and ... pffft ... passed.  But at 51, I wasn't ready.  There was still so much to say and so much I THOUGHT I could do for her. I was wrong. Time ran out and that stinks.

So what does grief and the stupid grieving process mean to me?

* feeling like my life will never be the same again. And of course it won't.
* hating the fact that my life will never be the same again. And panicking.
* lying in a bath until it goes cold because I don't see the point of getting out.
* forgetting to get dressed. Again, what's the point?
* constantly saying sorry. 'Sorry Mum. I could have done this or I should have done that.'
* wondering when I'll feel 'normal' again.
* not wanting to feel 'normal' again.
* trying to find 'me' in a new routine.
* not having a routine.
* making excuses to myself for not going back to her house.
* (this is a bad one - don't think I'm totally evil, please) looking at old people and asking why they're still alive and my mum isn't.
* contemplating 'What's it all about?' Is she really with my dad now?  Is she really finally at peace and happy?
* asking myself if I'll ever write again.  How can I immerse myself in a world of fluffy fun and frippery when my heart is black and heavy.
* knowing that my mum would give me a good telling off and tell me she was proud of me and FORCE me to write again.
* praying that the 'Oh no' feeling will stop and I'll wake up one morning and see some joy again and a reason to get out of bed.

THAT'S what grief means to me.

On the upside ... I've lost a stone in weight and truly know that I am feeling this pain because I had the best mummy ever.

And she will help me find my way.

Somehow.

With my Mum on her last birthday

Finding your Happy Place.

People who know me and love me would say that I can sometimes be a bit of a control freak and can very often be black and white with my opinions.  I hold my hands up in surrender and admit to both of these accusations.

 My name is Amanda Egan and I am what I am.

There's nothing like life and experience to make you realise that there can come a time when you have to change your way of thinking - you can't always be in control of things that happen, you can't influence people and sometimes you have to 'roll with it' rather than drive yourself nuts.

Over the last few years there have been about four life changing issues that I've had to do battle with.  I won't go into details but, suffice it to say, I've realised that there's only so long you can give 'set in stone' situations any more head-space.

There are two routes:

Madness.

Peace and acceptance.

I tried the first option and it didn't work for me.  Sleepless nights, constant inner turmoil, voicing worries/discussing with hubbie and/or friends - nothing changed.  The worries and problems remained as large as life, refusing to leave.

So ... I booted them out.  I didn't need them.  How were they enhancing my life?  And, if I was totally honest with myself, the misery I was putting myself through would never actually affect the future outcome.

I guess that's what my husband is so good at - being pragmatic.

Definition: dealing with things sensibly and realistically in a way that is based on practical rather than theoretical considerations.

Maybe a bit of the pragmatist has rubbed off on me (no euphemism intended) but once I learnt to let go, I felt a whole lot happier.

My energies are much better being channelled towards the characters who live in my head.  And that's not madness, that's a happy place!

Dear Kate ...

Dear Kate, (or any other new mum)

Firstly, congratulations. You're a mum for the first time and regardless of the spotlight being on you, you'll  be feeling like all new mummies - knackered and bewildered.

I only ever experienced those feelings once, nearly eighteen years ago, but watching your face as you left the security of your hospital room yesterday brought it all back to me.  It's an exciting and terrifying time - hugely rewarding, draining and a constant learning curve.

So here are Mummy Misfit's tips on surviving motherhood.

* He might be a real Prince but every son is a Prince to his mum.  Remember he's YOURS.  He's your precious bundle and what you say goes.  Spend time with him, get to know him, don't let people insist they have a piece of him.  He COULD be your only child - no one can predict that they'll have the 2, 3, 4 they want.  Cherish every minute as if he's your last baby.

*  If you want to breast feed, give it a go.  If you can't, don't beat yourself up.  Some can, some can't.  It's not a competition and you can only do what works for you and your baby.

* You'll sometimes feel like you don't have a clue what you're doing and everything you do is wrong.  You'll ask for advice and some of it will make sense but you'll still want to try to have a go at doing things your way.  Sometimes it will work, sometimes you'll stuff up and wish you took the advice.  That's part of being a mum.  Don't let people give you advice you don't want - tell them politely that you're fine.  Opinions can overload your thoughts to the point that you don't remember your own.

* There will be times that you're cross-eyed with tiredness.  I had a baby who liked to feed every hour on the hour for the first year of his life.  You'll get to the point where you think you can't cope.  You will.  You have no choice.  And it does come to an end.

*  Your body will do what it wants to do, in its own time so be kind to yourself and don't expect too much too soon.  What's wrong with a 'baby belly'?  Wear it with pride - it's much more attractive than the wrinkles and grey hairs they give you as they get older!

*  You'll never sleep the way you used to, pre-baby.  From those early sleepless nights you'll move on to  colic, teething, nappy rash, coughs and colds.  As a mum you develop a third ear - what was that noise?  Are they OK?  Then they grow up, refuse to go to bed, play loud music, go out on the town and leave you awake and worried. Your sleeping days are over!

*  He'll  bring out instincts in you that you had no idea you had.  You'll become a fighting, spitting tigress if you need to.  Only a mum can know this and it will surprise you the first time it happens.

* Your husband is your best friend and ally. Don't fight one another when you're both tired because you both want the same thing - a happy baby and a good night's sleep!  Keep talking and, when you can, have a giggle.

* You'll think that every mum is doing a better job than you.  They're not - every baby is different so if your best friend's baby is sleeping through the night at six weeks, big deal.  Your baby's the best, and you know it!

*  One minute he'll be snuggled on your lap and  the next he'll be a strapping lad with thoughts of his own.  You won't believe the speed with which that happens.  For a while, it passes slowly then ... woosh, they're an adult.

There you go - my Misfit tips on motherhood.  I may have only had one baby, but the feelings are the same and if just one of my thoughts goes on to give a new mummy an ounce of comfort, I'll be happy.

Above all, enjoy your time and sleep whenever you can - that final piece of advice is one I never took.  Why would I want to sleep when I had a lovely baby boy to look at?