Elusive Bloody Balance

I am a workaholic. (we love you Joanne)

Actually, I think the root of my problem is anxiety, which I've chosen to channel into all sorts of unhealthy compulsions and obsessions, but none as productive (or commercial) as workaholism. This problem has been going on for as long as I can remember.

It's made me an adult nail biter (oh the shame), has burnt out my adrenal gland on numerous occasions, has bumped up my cortisol levels to 6x what they should be, has amplified my Maternal Guilt and has made me feel as if I might be well and truly missing out on what matters. It eats into my sleep, screws up my eating habits and nullifies any attempts to exercise, which in turn, makes me less healthy, perpetually exhausted and nowhere near reaching my Big Dream of being Elle Macpherson's successor.

It's also given me self esteem, a channel for my creative energies, a nice income, a network of incredible people, a sense of purpose, financial freedom (which I fortunately don't need now, because my marriage rocks), a deep sense of achievement, potent intellectual stimulation and a good reputation.

There must be a middle ground. So why, as a supposedly intelligent woman, who has spent most of my adult life in therapy, can I not find it? And why, when I come close, does it completely unnerve me.

Am I addicted to being busy, afraid of the space between? Is it all a function of my shite self esteem that leaves me craving outside approval? Am I greedy? Do I have ADD?

I don't know.

What I do know for sure is that I absolutely love working. I've tried (not very hard) to be a lazy wench and I felt like a useless sloth that deserved to be put down.

What I also know is that I also love the idea of playing in the space between; of having the time to breathe, to walk, to read, to sleep, to choose.

I feel under-nourished right now, but the irony is that the busier I become, the more I want to accomplish. (eg. this week, in the midst of my most INSANE project to date, I am going to bulk cook various stews for my husband and kids, in an effort to ensure that they are warm and nourished this winter).

Mad as fucking frogs. I know.





I'm Libran, ergo, I need balance. The problem with this is that I have never experienced balance in my 33 years on Planet Earth, so I don't even know what I'm aspiring to.

The Suckishness of Admin

I have a hangover. My girls Romy & Davina came by last night, and we chased a Missionvale Chardonnay with a merry bottle of Rose, talked til 1am and now I feel like rot.

I have a work week from hell, a medical procedure tomorrow that will hinder pretty much everything in my life for the next few weeks, 4 dinner arrangements this week (how's a girl to remain sober and slim??) and a virtual Tsunami of FUCKING ADMIN:

1. My cell phone bill - need to change my package; paying too much, getting too little.
2. Our Wills and Living Wills - need to read, amend, sign, witness, think about mortality.
3. A quote from a panelbeater - drove into a parking barrier. Fuckwit deluxe.
4. Doctors' bills - need to claim from medical aid.
5. Half-completed meal plans for the kids for the week.
6. Staff schedules for Thandi and Daniel that I haven't even looked at yet.
7. Currency to sort out post our London trip.
8. Shares that I was supposed to sell and forgot to.
9. Six birthday gifts to buy for the next 2 weeks. And gift wrap. And write cards for.
10. A picture to put on the wall.
11. Cupboard handles in my office that need replacing and fitting.
12. Staff food to buy. A week late. Nice.
13. Photos that need to be developed. (this goes back about 4 years now...)
14. A birth certificate to sort out, after the ever-efficient Home Affairs lost it.
15. A perimeter wall that is cracking and needs to be repaired and painted.
16. A geyser that's been rattling for 2 months.
17. Sort out kids' clothes by age...again.

It just all seems so inane and yet, month after month, as items are cleared off this annoying list, new items appear to torture me.

And filing?? Seriously, I do not know a single person on this desperate planet that is up-to-date with their filing. Why did G-d make filing if nobody can be bothered to do it?

Carrie Bradshaw never seems to be doing admin. Ever. Unless you call packing your Manolos in a shoe box Admin. Neither does Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Nor the hot-young-things on Gossip Girl.

I need a PA. And another liver. And sleep.

Fuck filing. It's for the birds.

London - Trend Spotting

Hello da-ah-lings. Just returned from a wicked week in London, which has left my credit card leaner and my thighs...well...not so much.

Despite the fact that we travelled with two male toddlers (which makes us either naive, twisted or sadistic), I still found a good 7 hours to hit Oxford Street to do some Stirling damage.

If you can brave the virtual retail Batmitzvah, Top Shop is always a great place for trend-spotting. I love accessories, so I found myself 3 bargain vintage day/night bags. Vintage bags are still huge and the New Big Colour is royal blue. I found an awesome vintage royal blue baby satchel, with a rusty gold clasp and just enough space for my phone, a nappy (glam), the 245 lip glosses I usually carry, a purse and some gum. Perfecto.

With the UK dipping her tentative toe into Spring Season, the maxi dress seems to be a big favourite. Top Shop has them a-plenty, but I found a beautiful one at Ted Baker - cream with butterflies all over it. Now all I need is an epic spray tan, killer heels and a wedding to go to.
http://www.tedbaker.com/women%27s/dresses/86636-printed_maxi_dress/detail.aspx?pfm=browse#zoom You like?


For those of you that have a permanent tan, small ankles, tiny knees, no cellulite, thin thighs, heart-shaped calves, no visible veins and lots of guts, GREAT news! Shorts are in. And this season's trend makes it clear why they're called 'shorts'. Jislaaik. Denim shorts that your father wouldn't allow you out of the house in. Fuh real. Anyhoo...seems there are a lot of 17 year olds with perfect pins, because they were buying. And buying. And buying. Hateful bitches.

If you're skinny and rock-ish, stone-washed jeans (skinny style) are back with an 80's vengeance. I can't pull them off, but fedora-hats off to those of you that can. Two hats off if you can work them with ankle boots. Hilloooo Alexa Chung.

For those of us on the dark side of 30, three hot trends work:
- nautical (navy cardis, striped tees and a bloke with a yacht)
- military (khaki, structured kick-ass jackets and the bloke from the Hurt Locker)
- pumps (grungy, vintage, bejewelled or two-tone, these pretty offshoots from ballet don't show any signs of doing a final curtsey)

Right. That's that then. A tiny taste of London's trends direct from Oxford Street - officially Europe's busiest shopping street. Ka-ching!

I'm chickening out

May 2010

My best mate Romy used to be a big meat eater. Then she went to Sydney, started drinking soy lattes and became a 'pescatarian'. No meat. No chicken. No eggs ("You're eating a chicken's ovulation"). No dairy.

No fun. Thankfully, she still likes liquor and cigarettes. Even more thankfully, she's back in SA.

So last week, my husband and I ordered take out from a popular chicken place. I was hungry, so I devoured the chicken, but as I was doing so, I started to notice the damn thing's anatomy. I noticed its spine and its spinal cord; it's organs (which are largely used to detox.....eugh); I noticed the little pimply bits where the feathers had been plucked from its skin...and in an instant, I became an ex-poultarian. (ok that's not actually a word)

Then I started reading up, and it seems that chickens are the most abused animals in the world. But the foulest (bad pun) thing is that they are pumped full of antibiotics so that they can survive their shoddy conditions. And guess what? When you eat the chicken, you're chowing down all of those poultry antibiotics. How grim is that?

Wait. I'm not done. An USDA study found that 99% of chicken carcasses are infected with e-coli bacteria, which indicates fecal contamination.

So basically, we're eating chicken shit.

Finger lickin' good.

Fat. Angry. And full of reflux.

December 2008

I have such bad acid reflux that I swear I could lick the Essie off my nails. And for some reason, the makers of Gaviscon Advance thought it would be funny to make it taste like a clotty blend of Cape Velvet and Sambucca. Basically, this means that if I don’t want to hurl out the acetone in my throat, I have to contend with bile-inducing flashbacks of drunken adolescent stupors.

Rock on.

Moreover, it is so hot that the back of my neck is in a perpetual state of clamminess and my now Alpine breasts have a river running through them…and not one that has anything to do with Brad Pitt. Speaking of which, I bet Angelina has none of these problems. I saw the silly wench in that petrol green Grecian dress, belly blooming with twins, ripe and celestial. Bet the bitch never had constipation or hemorrhoids or excessive sweating or cellulite or varicose veins. And which pregnant women didn’t want to slap that trout pout off her face when she spoke about her pregnant sex life? Seriously? With twins? Team Aniston. All the way.

I am hateful. My upper back is aching and I haven’t slept through the night in 8 months. I am listless, restless and in limbo and wondering how I will fit it all in next year. The baby room seemed so containing and familiar a month ago. Now, I walk into it as if I’m walking into a show house. It feels like somebody cut and paste it into our house; like it isn’t a real part of the home. And on some level, it feels scary. Less scary, because I know what to expect. More scary, because I know what to expect.

My mom had Transcient Global Amnesia....fur real!

November 2008

It’s 16h29 on a dismal Thursday afternoon. I am 7 months pregnant with Baby Boy # 2 and have just swallowed my guilt (and eleven handfuls of trail mix) and propped a snot-nosed Liam in front of Barney.

We missed Parents’ Evening on Tuesday night, because on Tuesday afternoon, my mom developed a little something called ‘Transient Global Amnesia’. As the name suggests, it is a complete shutdown of a person’s memory centre for about six really weird hours.

It’s also a good story.

At about 15h00 on Tuesday, I was sitting at the kitchen table doing a puzzle with Liam and psyching myself up for Clamber Club (which is lovely, but I’m increasingly less in the mood). My cell phone rings and the caller ID flashes ‘Mom’.

“Hi mom.”
“It’s not mom. It’s Brenda. We just washed your mom’s hair and she doesn’t know how she got here. She’s very confused. I think you should come and fetch her.”

Transient Ischaemic Attack. Must be that. She smokes, is 59 and has occasional high blood pressure. It’s a mini-stroke. I’ve seen this before. I can handle this.

“Is her speech normal?”, I ask.
“Ya. She’s just confused. She doesn’t know where she lives.”
“And physically okay? No tingles, numbness?”
“Perfect. She just doesn’t remember anything.”

Not a stroke.

Jesus. She’s having a nervous breakdown. Fucking perfect.

I leave Liam at home, promising that we’ll do Clamber Club next week and drive to my mom’s hairdresser. I phone my husband en route.

“I think my mom’s having a meltdown.”
“What do you mean?”

I tell him.

“Shit Josie. Is there anything I can do?”
“No. I’m fine.”

And unsurprisingly, I am.

I am even cool when I arrive at the hairdresser with my seven month belly and my mom asks me when I fell pregnant.
And when she asks me to phone Doug (her late partner, who had passed away in March this year).
And when she asks me who we are visiting at the Linksfield Clinic.

One characteristic of Type A’s is that when we’re in action-mode (which is usually what happens to us in a crisis), we’re capable, efficient and focused. We take the reigns, boss people around and just generally, get a whole lot done. It’s when we have nothing to do (which is next to never) that we freak-the-fuck-out.

Fortunately, that afternoon in casualty, answering my mom’s questions kept me busy (and somewhat humoured).

“Where’s Liam?”
“At home.”
“Who’s looking after him?”
“Thandi.”
“Who’s Thandi?”
“Sweet Lord. Our maid mom.”
“Oh. I’m very confused. How many kids have you got?”“Just Liam. And another on the way.”“Are you pregnant? I didn’t know. I should know that.”
“It’s okay mom. Your memory is taking a break now, so you won’t remember things you should. It will come back. Just try and be in the moment.”
“I’m scared.”
“I’m not. I know you’ll be fine. Trust me. I’m the one with all systems intact today and I’m telling you that you will be just fine in a few hours.”
“Okay. Joanne! You’re pregnant!”
“I am.”
“Where’s Liam?”
“At home mom.”
“Who’s looking after him?”
“Thandi. She’s our maid. She’s new. You won’t remember her.”
“Okay. This is scary… Where’s Liam?”

By now, I’m having visions of Estelle Getty and John Cleese doing the mambo in a new reality series - Monty Python meets The Golden Girls: When Madness and Alzheimers Collide.

Three hours and 814 questions later, we are sent for an MRI. My mom is very claustrophobic and has always said that “my biggest fear is going in one of those tunnels and not being able to move”.

She strikes up instant rapport with the radiographer and within minutes, they’re joking and laughing like high school buddies. (My mom is very amiable) I am now starting to get a little worked up, because she is only retaining new information for about 30 seconds at a time, which means that during the 20 minute brain scan, she may well keep having to re-register where she is. Waking up under that head grid in an MRI tunnel every 30 seconds will be enough to make her (even more) barking mad. Luckily, MRI is safe for pregnant women, so they let me sit with her and rub her feet and stroke her legs. I do this dutifully and because she can’t see me, I cry. Twice. Short blubs, and then I’m done. Incredibly, my mom lasts the full 20 minutes (a 20 minutes she still doesn’t recall) and we walk toward the radiographer triumphant.

“Hello. I know you from somewhere.” (this is my mom, talking to the now-perplexed radiographer)
“No mom. You met her 20 minutes ago. She’s the radiographer.”
“No. I’m telling you, I know you. Have you ever bought clothes from me?” (My mom has a shop)
“Mom! Seriously. You’ve been doing this to hospital staff all afternoon. She just seems familiar because you’ve met her already and you can’t remember.”
“Joanne. I think I’d know if I’d met someone 20 minutes ago. Maybe you were here when Doug was in hospital?”
“Let’s go mom.”

The hospital ‘escort’ (who we’ve been chaperoned by 3 times already) appears.

“You ready to go back to casualty madam?”
“You look so familiar. I know you from somewhere.”“Yes madam. I met you today. Three times.”

Bea Arthur is now doing the fox trot with Rowan Atkinson. And it ain’t pretty.

Perfectionism. Meh.

October 2008

I’m at my most controlling when I feel most broken. When I feel dark and demented, I’m driven and disciplined, sometimes to the point of self-destruction. I had a spoilt, self-involved (hot, bright) boyfriend when I was 20. He messed me around endlessly and broke my heart. I was pathetic and needy and ultimately found myself lying in fetal position on the bathroom floor, swearing that I would never allow this to happen again. He made me feel like my father did: unworthy, unloved, un-pretty.

And so I dieted and ran and weight-trained and dieted more, until my hip bones jutted out and my periods stopped and my mom cried all the time. (My father called me Miss Cellulite, which didn’t help me out much) I remember the high it gave me; the sad sense of pseudo-superiority as I watched everybody else indulge, whilst I drank Diet Something, smoked cigarettes, chose cardio over lectures and promised myself that I would always be The Boss of me.

I know a girl like that. She reminds me of me then, but she’s 30 now and she still hasn’t let up. Her hair is always perfectly flat-ironed and her Sevens barely grip her Pilates-thighs. Her life is seemingly in perfect balance: a career that is loving and that she’s good at; creative outlets for her many talents; grilled white fish and a salad with no dressing. There is a part of me that envies her: her discipline, her skinny arse, her apparently ideal life. But I always feel like I’m looking at her through glass. Like I can’t truly engage with her, because to engage, you have to be cognizant of the dark, the vulnerable, the demented, the desperate. And she has done such an impeccable job of repressing all that.

Therapy has helped me to integrate. Not that the dark wasn’t there before. It’s there in most of us, I think. But Type A’s are masters of repression. We mentally file things as Acceptable or Unacceptable and then we work harder than anybody else trying to squash the Unacceptable; that which we don’t believe serves our purpose. I thought that side of myself was rotten and toxic and needed to be disciplined into submission.

Which is of course, bull.

There are bits and pieces of me that are totally crap. Bits that are shameful and pieces that are peculiar, and not in a cool way. And I’ve almost learnt to love those bits. When I lose track of this and get too stuck in ‘bettering myself’, I remind myself of the people that I love most in the world: they are complex and flawed and imperfect and it makes them so much more real and magnetic to me than my flat-ironed friend.

I have an old dear friend named Daniel. It would take me a library to wordsmith all of his brilliance, but what I love about him most of all are his flaws; his quirks; the fact that while he is always exquisite in everything he does, in some ways, he doesn’t seem to have his shit together. And I love that. At 32 years old, he never leaves his flat without this scruffy backpack and a very 80’s Velcro wallet. He wears pants that seem to be 3 sizes too big for his lanky frame and despite his beautiful mind, he always looks like he has no idea what he is doing or where he is going. And I love love love that about him. It’s what makes him perfect to me.

So fuck the flat iron. That’s what I say.

Life’s too short and apparently perfect people are either totally boring, heavily medicated or on the verge of mental collapse.

Trust me. I’ve been there.

I would rather slam my head repeatedly into the computer than go to Clamber Club

September 2008

Right now, I am not enjoying being a mother. I didn’t enjoy my leftover chicken whilst watching Liam purposefully pee on the kitchen table. I used to have work lunches at Bellinis – chicken salad and sometimes a sparkly pink Kir Royale. I didn’t enjoy having Barney juice spat in my face in front of the ‘perfect-parent-strangers’ at Pick n Pay. I’ve had drinks spat in my face, but somehow, my friend, who’s coke problem invoked all kinds of dubious behaviour, seems more manageable in retrospect. I wasn’t quite partial either to trying to get my 5 month pregnant stomach (and equally pregnant arse, I might add), my tenuous bladder, my handbag, my cell phone (whilst on the phone to husband, complaining about ‘his’ child) and my full trolley into gear, so that I could chase my two year old through Woolworths.

It’s been a bad few days. Or weeks. I don’t remember.

If I were less of a martyr; less hung up about getting this parenting thing ‘right’, I would placate him with sweets and Barney episodes and more time with our maid so that I could run away and avoid it all. But I am hung up. So I say no to the sweets, I say ‘only one’ to the Big Purple Dinosaur (say it with me: God Bless Barney) and despite work deadlines and a trip to London in 2 days, I say, “This afternoon, mom will take you to Smudge so you can do art while mom does some work.”

I know this is a phase. Either that, or he’s some kind of fast-developing sociopath. His teacher, who is lovely and contained, has told me that he is spending the better part of his school days in the Naughty Corner. Apparently, Liam feels that some of the children in his class ‘need a smack’. (I don’t smack Liam – done it maybe five times – zero impact) I don’t have the guts to tell her that the Naughty Corner is just reinforcing the behaviour. Liam feels special in his Corner. It’s his Hood. And he’s quite happily started labeling himself as ‘naughty’ because of it. So comfortable is he with the concept that now, when I do something that he doesn’t like, he threatens me with it. Nothing quite like a knee-high blighter telling you that if you don’t give him your cell phone, he’ll put you in the Naughty Corner. If I wasn’t pregnant and up most of the night itching and peeing and massaging the cramps out of calves, I would laugh. But I’m fat and tired and that leaves little room for humour.

I just feel like a failure today. An angry, helpless failure.

This afternoon, we’re supposed to go to Clamber Club (a baby and toddler stimulation and gross motor development class). The problem is that Liam doesn’t want to sit in the ring these days and sing songs about Jog the Frog. He wants to roll around in the centre of the ring and ‘accidentally’ kick other children. All the while, I get 360 degree filthy looks from the other mothers. They’re probably thinking, “She’s highly strung. That’s why her child is so hectic.” Screw ‘em.

Perhaps he’s punishing me because I’m pregnant, although his behaviour toward my stomach has been nothing but gentle and loving. Maybe he’s angry because we have a new maid and he’s asserting his authority. Maybe he’s a brat. Dear God. Don’t let it be that. Angry is a feeling. Brat is an early personality disorder. Probably though, it’s just a phase. Probably.

I see my more laid back friends handle this sort of behaviour with detached finesse. My dear old friend Tammy (mother of three) thinks I am insane; that Liam is slap-bang in the middle of normal and that my expectations are bizarre. I love her for saying that, but she has a higher chaos-threshold than I do. Being me, I think everything I touch (especially my baby boy) is a reflection on my character and competence. Liam’s rotten today. I must be too.

So be it. This afternoon, this hyper-peeing, porky, rotten mother would rather slam her head repeatedly into the computer screen than go to Clamber Club.

Me, my therapist & my apparent baggage

July 2008

So I went to my therapist the other day, hoping to spend my fifty five minutes blaming my mother for my fearfulness, when He elects to comment on my mothering skills. Eleven years treating me. You would think He would know better. Firstly, I am a perfectionist, thus ragingly allergic to criticism in any form. Secondly, I am 3 months pregnant. This would be fine, had I not managed to convince myself that custard is a food group (hence my rapidly deteriorating arse aesthetic) and that anyone within a five metre radius of me deserves the barrage of obscenities of which they will be the likely beneficiaries.

Never mind. Amidst all this, my therapist decides that now would be as good a time as any to talk to me about how my ‘unconscious’ is driving some of my parenting skills. For those that didn’t have the pleasure of reading Freud, essentially, my therapist is accusing me of depositing my baggage squarely on my two year old son. I am already wracked with guilt because of my short fuse with Liam and now, apparently, he is also the recipient of the sorry remnants of my own childhood.

Fuck.

My therapist is a smart man. And He knows me. He points out the truth.

“Usually, you get defensive when I mention anything related to you as Mother.” (He says ‘Mother’ in a way that sounds as if it should have a capital letter)

Ever so swiftly, He renovates the attack into a palatable compliment.

“You’re too quick. One minute, we’re getting into parenting stuff, and the next, you’ve used your wit to send us off onto a completely different tangent.”

I love Him. He thinks I’m clever and funny.

And so, the conversation is allowed its rightful space.

When a Type A brings home a baby....

I know that I’m Type A for a few reasons:
- I’ve had both academic colours and an eating disorder.
- I cannot read a menu without finding a spelling mistake on it (do you know how many places can’t spell cappuccino? WTF?)
- I have one of those ‘Brother’ labeling machines. And it calms me.
- I entered every breastfeed into an Excel spreadsheet until Liam was six months old. Yup. True story.

For those of you fortunate enough not to be one of Us, Type A’s, at their worst, resemble Ari Gold from Entourage: brash, impatient workaholics driven by deadlines and a need to achieve. At their best, they are articulate, efficient, organised and have excellent attention to detail. Type A’s are more prone to stress-related illnesses like heart disease (two times more prone, or so they say) and stroke. They’re also vulnerable to behavioural manifestations of low self esteem. Eating disorders are a firm favourite, because the precision and control they demand counters the internal chaos the Type A typically contends with. Drug and alcohol use is also common: cocaine manages the crappy self esteem, with the added benefit of super-charged energy (Score. More energy to get more done); depressants help to quell the anxiety.

It was the night we brought Liam, our first son, home from the hospital. David and I were sitting at the end of our dining room table with two bowls of my mom’s chicken soup and a baby monitor. My baby was perfect, my C-section was healing nicely and I was a train wreck. Halfway through salting the soup with my seemingly leaking eyeballs, Liam started to cry. On cue, both my milk and a 30 year store of adrenalin flooded in. My husband was being loving and empathic and supportive and I couldn’t hear a word he was saying. Up until that very moment, I had been completely on top of my life.

And then, over a bowl of chicken soup, everything changed.

The ‘everything’ that changed, in retrospect, was not as neat and tidy as I used to think: as my therapist likes to tell me, I have a lot of ‘very adaptive defenses’. By this, he means that all of my Type A compulsions are merely methods for managing and often avoiding my anxiety. And here I was, thinking of I was just ultra-organised. Go figure.

The Big Problem with motherhood is that your ‘very adaptive defences’ don’t prove very adaptive. And nobody tells you that. Not even your friends.