I Ran To Paradise

I enjoy the school holidays, I really do. I enjoy my life not revolving around 9am to 3pm.

I awoke on the first day of SH Feeling refreshed and excited at all of the things I would get done. All of the things I save for the School Holidays, like cleaning out the linen cupboard, pantry organisation and giving the fridge a good wipe out. These mind numbing tasks are much easier when I have a small army to fetch things for me and race each other to the outside bin.

Also, I don't feel like I have to finish by 3pm.

Found; The Bi term fridge wipe out, April 13.

While it does mean that I do in fact, only wipe my fridge out once every ten weeks, it gives my children the opportunity to earn holiday spending money. I even managed to pay my four year old in stale bread and a promise to go to the local duck pond to feed them with it, in exchange for climbing into the bottom pantry shelf to wipe the back of it.

So much winning.

It goes a small way to making up for the CONSTANT dobbing and fighting, moans of boredom and mess that come with the SH.

I put a ban on dobbing in the house these holidays, after day two, so then my children began dobbing on each other for being about to dob.

My mental state was rapidly deteriorating, by the end of the school break, and whilst my pantry was sparkling, it was emptier than a politicians promise. It became very apparent that I would be visiting the shops, with the kids, on the LAST day of school holidays.

This should always be avoided if at all possible, I know this... But as I couldn't send the children to school with two hard boiled eggs and a stale Sao wrapped in toilet paper, this was clearly one of those unavoidable scenarios, and what started as an innocent trip to Woollies ended in... Well. Let's just say that the last day of the School holidays... It broke me.

We arrived at Woollies, grabbed a trolley and started our assault on the fruit and veg. The two youngest made a beeline for the grapes and began taste testing immediately, after much pretending I didn't see, I discovered Ms 4 poking tiny holes with her finger in the plastic wrap of pre packaged corn. This was unacceptable so I threatened her with confinement in the trolley and rushed off to get some meat.

The Teen moped behind me dragging his feet, asking at least eighteen times in a toneless voice, if we were almost finished, and peered out solemnly from behind his fringe, or as his father and I refer to it, the hair veranda. No doubt adding up the wasted minutes spent at the shop that would be better spent shooting people via Xbox and shouting the word NOOB.

Master eight, who declared himself a fan of the movie Pitch Perfect these School holidays, was doing the cup song, minus the cup, do he was really just clapping his hands and flicking various shelf items. All of these things I could tolerate, apart from the corn vandalism and the grape theft, things were going OK, but I could feel the tension rising. I was racing the clock of child patience, and I knew it.

My cunning parent Witt kicked in and I sent Master Eight and Master Fourteen to pick out school snacks whilst I raced the clock of child patience throwing in everything I could possibly need when I heard it...

I knew immediately it was one of mine... It was a shriek I had heard many times.

"YOU ARE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!!" I tensed and strained to hear, willing it not to be my children, but knowing... Deep down it was. I didn't have to strain too hard to hear the much louder shriek of “YOU ARE SUCH A BUTT MUNCHER, YOU ARE A MASSIVE JERK BUTT MUNCH" followed by a thump and a noise that would have convinced many people that a small child had been hit by a stray bullet, and as it was at Tahmoor, there was a real possibility this could be the case.

I could deny that the butt munching children were not mine any longer and I marched to the checkout to meet them with a steely gaze which I hoped conveyed my disgust and anticipation of...wait until we get in the car...

My gaze must have long lost its effectiveness because Master eight pummelled toward me, arms flailing out at his sides, his mouth dramatically and annoyingly agape letting out the most ear piercing and over reactive wail, accusing the teen of assault with a muesli bar box. It was uncomfortable to watch.

 The teen not far behind him, arms outstretched, eyes wide as to appear as innocent as he could, he began yelling over the top of Master eights shrieking and pointing to his upper arm... "I DIDN'T!! He is LYING, he is such a LIAR, YOU ARE SUCH A LIAR!!" to which I cracked, and instructed them to sit outside and to not even look at each other till I was done or else... "Steely gaze of wait until we at in the car"

The checkout operator gave me a sympathetic glance and assured me that soon they will have moved out and I will miss them and I refrained from clocking her with the dented muesli bar box, which was now referred to as evidence A, and avoided eye contact with everyone else in the store who was now staring at me and feeling like a smugly superior parent.

I wanted to point at them and say, that they too, had left their grocery shopping till the last day of the school holidays, and DON'T YOU DARE JUDGE ME!!

But I didn't. I walked as fast as I could through the car park and into the car.

The three kids sat silently in their seats, waiting for the inevitable barrage that was to spew forth, I said nothing. This made them more nervous, I could tell.

In silence I started the car, flicked on the radio, and drove away with an expressionless face, like a serial killer that had just picked up three hitchhikers.

The three children shifted uncomfortably in their seats, well not Ms 4. Ms 4 was doing her best Taylor Swift impersonation along with the radio.

I slowed down at some road works when the Teen changed the radio station. Run to paradise was on, I smacked his hand away when he tried to change it again, took a deep breath and began tapping in time to the beat on the steering wheel.

Still not saying a word, I began to feel suffocated, the air was hot, and I had a rising panic in my throat. I slowly opened all the windows and put the lock on them, so as they could not be wound up... It was then the Teen turned to me and said...

As if being in this car is not embarrassing enough, can you at least turn the radio down? Or put the windows up? This song sucks and the council workers are staring at us.

This. Song. Sucks. Does it? I am embarrassing you am I? I. AM EMBARRASSING YOU.?? We're the only words I spoke.

I cranked the radio, and began belting out the lyrics as loudly as I could belt.

BAYBEEEH! You we're always gonna be the one..

I accompanied this with some pistol fingers out the window, when it got to the "open your eyes up bit, I began pointing at council workers, stating it was there turn to take it away!

Open your eyes up

Your turn Mr council worker... OPEN YOUR EYES UUUUUUP"

They stared back. The teen and Master eight sat as low in their seats, their fucked up little flat peaked hats pulled low over their faces,  Ms four just looked slightly confused.

I continued doing forty long after the road works had ended, mainly be because I did not trust my ability to head bang, shoot gangsta signs and finger pistols out of the open windows, sing loudly and drive safely at the same time, but also to prolong the embarrassment I was bringing to my children.

When we pulled up at home, I declared that the two boys were to bring in ALL of the groceries, and if they EVER, embarrassed me with behaviour like the kind they showed at Woollies ever again, I would purchase a Dolly Parton CD... *steely gaze

I need to hear your tales of genius punishments, in order to enable mine.

Go.

Em xx

The decade that style forgot.

This post is about a recent event I attended, I was not paid or commissioned to write about it, but I had fun so I did. This post contains mention of brands. If this type of thing hard waters your delicates, you should stop reading now, but please come back, I still love you and I can change..

Meanwhile, On Monday night, I attended a small get together to celebrate P&G's 175th Birthday and the launch of Pantene's new range. I met again with the man responsible for my red hair, Pantene Ambassador and occasional hairstylist to the queen I heard, Mr Barney Martin.

Swoon.

.

As fate would have it I awoke on Monday with the mother ship of all pimples on my chin.

I have not had a zit for weeks, and every one of those blemish free weeks I have spent at home, with nowhere to go, then it seems that all of the cells in my chin read my invitation to this event, posted it as a public event on Facebook, and conspired to erupt in an inflamed puss party, on my face whilst I slept the evening before.

I spent the morning staring at this zit and convincing myself not to touch it, for I knew that the minute I started interfering, the mild get together on my face would quickly become out of control.

By lunchtime, it became fairly obvious that whether I touched it or not, Lindsay Lohan had caught wind of this acne party, and things quickly escalated.. so I did what any one would do in my situation, and I sent out a self absorbed, first world problem tweet begging for a quick remedy.

Twitter did not disappoint, because there are a lot of freaky people out there doing some disturbing things to their zits. I picked those least likely to involve a trip to the ER and I was instructed to squeeze it, apply haemorrhoid cream, ice it, smother it in rubbing alcohol ( of which I had none, but after further investigation, twitter deemed it acceptable to use Vodka as a rubbing alcohol replacement) and finally, add toothpaste.

In an act of desperation, I deemed all of these solutions to be necessary. Like a full on call of duty black ops assault on my chin.

Firstly I squeezed. Not happy with the results, I began the other suggested treatments. I felt the Vodka begin to work almost immediately, then decided to apply some to my face before I drank it all, so on it went, over the top of cream specifically designed to reduce the inflammation and pain of protruding anus veins and toothpaste.  I topped it all off with a good icing, which was refreshing as my chin was now burning from the toothpaste, and I concluded that there was such a thing as mint burn.

It was then I followed the last piece of advice I was given and smothered it in makeup, crossed my fingers and left.

On arrival my face had not fallen off, though it was free of gingivitis and I was pleased to see the familiar face of fellow Pantene ambassador, Mrs Zoe Foster. I made a beeline for her. There was once a time that Zoe and I shared busses to our local blue light discos so that we could pash on with boys not from our school.

Zoe, not deterred by my zit.

Zoe made the mistake of asking how I was, as you do, and this was just the opening I needed to thrust my chin in her general direction and ask her very politely what the Corey Worthington I could do about *THIS out of control clogged pore party* with added pointing to my zit. Zoe took a very knowledgeable look at the problem, well; as good as she could get as I covered in about 4cm of concealer, and declared it immediately to be hormonal. Sadly, there was absolutely nothing other than the hormone pill I could do about it.

We then began talking about hormonal pit falls, namely PMS, and Zoe shared with me a tale of a time that she was struck with PMS so badly, that she almost cried tears of rage that her mashed potatoes were not blending with the peas on her fork. We decided such a level of anger over a dinner plate had to be PMS, and I shared with her the time I offered to pay a parking fine at the local council 5c at a time... from my ass... and was escorted from the building.

There was an awkward silence.

Female bonding at its finest.

After our bonding, it was time to take a quick trip down P&G product memory lane. We laughed, smirked and marvelled at some of the old packaging and sales slogans. It was like opening my Nan's linen cupboard.

My Nan's linen cupboard was crammed full of discontinued products from the seventies, chunky boxes of medicated soap, probably hand whittled by Mr Proctor himself such was its age and other hilarious paraphernalia.

Look what was waiting at my chair. It seems I have been here before.

Next came time to style our hair. This was my before shot.. not so much as a hairbrush had seen my hair that day.

I chose the eighties, because I was born there, and some of my friends still live there.

Noting the hesitation on my face, Barney was quick to tell me that the hair I was to get, was a contemporary take on an eighties style. The eighties were all about no parts, back combing and slick side burns. In his divine accent, the 80's had never sounded sexier.

 After... Hello forehead!! Represent.

So after some mingling I headed home to rock my pyjamas with fabulous hair, I awoke the next morning in a back combing nightmare and overnight my zit had tripled in size and I felt strangely as though I really wanted to wear something with shoulder pads.

Luckily for me P&G had also sent some tools helpful in the removal of back combing... 

Much like my approach to zit remedies, I opened all of the hair treatments and applied them liberally.

Love.

Whilst I enjoyed my trip down hairstyle memory lane, I concluded that some things, like zits and 80's hairstyles, should be left well alone.

Emma xx

Duncan Gay Don't Care Too Much For Money, But Money Can't Buy Me Love.

IMAGE

Almost 44 years ago, this photo graced the cover of The Beatles Abbey Road album.

Since that albums release countless tourists and fans have made the pilgrimage to the St John's Wood crossing to have their picture taken on it.

In a time of war, they sang for peace. Many sang along with them, regardless of Government policy, it's war in Vietnam and race riots, (including my parents, whom often went into long winded and excruciating detail when explaining the meaning behind every lyric The Beatles ever sang) but the point is, the message was delivered. The masses agreed.

John Lennon’s Aunt Mimi was once quoted saying to Lennon, that "his guitar was great, but he would never make a living from it."

 I'm so glad he didn't listen. The Beatles went on to change the world.

In 2009 Westminster Council, alarmed by the increasing number of traffic incidents on the crossing due to increased sightseeing, began talk of removing the crossing all together.

It was met with such outrage that talk soon began of just simply moving the crossing.

Beatles fans however, were already taking parody photos on crossings north of the famous and iconic crossing, because it didn't much matter what crossing in Abbey Road it was, the meaning behind it was the same.

The crossing was no longer just a crossing, it was a message.

“And, in the end

The love you take

Is equal to the love you make.”

Paul McCartney. The End 1969.

IMAGE

In 2013 the Oxford Street crossing in Sydney became a rainbow, to celebrate 35 years of the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras.

In 2013 Bands are singing lyrics of same love, the majority of Australians sing along with them, saddened that after 35 years that the Australian Government are making rules and regulations on who is entitled to love who.

Countless people flocked to this crossing to have their picture taken. Countless people who support a human beings decision to love whomever they love, without fear of ramification or isolation.

Roads Minister Duncan Gay ordered the removal of the crossing, at the cost of $30000, citing traffic and pedestrian safety and the fact that drunken people might lie on it.

I can't help but feel that the $30000 spent digging it up might be better spent improving street patrols and security, and not spent removing a very visual reminder of the massive support behind Legalising gay marriage.

I say it doesn't matter what crossing it is, where the crossing is or who put it there, the message is the same. 

Tomorrow I am off to buy some coloured chalk and I will begin the school holidays by painting my own rainbow crossing with my children in my driveway,  and I will take my picture on it.

It is no longer a crossing it's a message.

They can remove the Oxford Street crossing, stating any ridiculous excuse they like. The masses have already agreed.

 What the government is saying is not unlike Lennon's Aunt Mimi's quote.  ‘being gay is great, but you will never get married'

I'm so glad we are not listening; because we can go on to change the world.

For Duncan Gay might not care too much for money.

Money can't buy me love.

Emma xx

Guess What?

I have a little announcement to make.. So pipe down.

This happened recently.

Writing and maintaining a blog, takes a huge investment of many things, and although it is a labour of love, I won't pretend that I am not a little bit chuffed about being nominated, and am deeply grateful to whoever took the time to nominate this blog. (Even if it was probably my mum)

I would like to pretend that I don't care about winning this award, because that would help me to appear far cooler than I actually am, but the truth is that I do.

Not only would I get to do some very much needed writing courses from the Australian Writers Centre, but the winner gets to meet with the Managing Director of Random House, so needless to say I would like to give it my best crack, and I would very much appreciate your vote if you do read and enjoy this blog and you are so inclined.

(See?!?!... I used three and's in one sentence, SEE how much I need these courses?!?)

I have some VERY stiff competition this year, stiffer than a honeymooners handle, and I will need every vote I can get.

It will only take a minute, I checked, by voting for myself.

I will accept sympathy votes, mandatory family votes; you have to vote for me because we are friend’s votes, genuine votes and votes just so that I will shut up about getting votes.

I will need them all.

You can vote by clicking on this link, and finding my blog, which is located under E for Emmasbrainblogs.

You can vote for multiple blogs, but you can only vote in the survey once. Please remember to click "Finish" at the end or your vote won't count, and voting closes 30th of April.

I will be your best friend.

Emma. Xx

The enforcer or boundaries.

The teen wasn't always a teen, surprisingly enough. When he wasn't a teen he would do things like, hide dog chews under buckets in the back yard and lead the dog around them, pretending he was a sniffer dog trainer.

He now looks at the dog occasionally.

He used to spend hours building great big elaborate structures out of Lego. Now there is a big empty space under his bed where the Lego tub used to be.

It now gets filled with empty chip packets and screwed up bits of paper.

He used to jump on the trampoline, now he lies on it, chatting on his phone.

Things never used to annoy him, now everything annoys him. His brother and sister annoy him, his dad and I annoy him, and the cat annoys him. My vacuuming annoys him, life annoys him.

He has attitude, MASSIVE attitude, it makes me angry, and he gets angry back. He is angry a lot.

I have screamed at him. He rolls his eyes back.

This week I used the phrase, "I AM YOUR MOTHER!!" right in his bum fluff covered little face.

I went to bed hating myself.

He doesn't find many things exciting anymore, trips to the basketball, Maccas, the beach, Easter egg hunts... they used to be met with excited squeals and on the spot jumping.

Now? Nothing!! The kid reacts to NOTHING!!!

He doesn't chat much anymore, not to me anyway, unless he is back chatting.

 He talks to his friends, constantly. I can't help but feel a little bit jealous of them, Especially when I hear him erupt in uproarious laughter from his room, or when I hear muffled conversation from the Xbox that make him happy, and then when he emerges from his room, his smile is gone and replaced with a look of modest disdain.

The conversations we do have consist of me asking questions and him mumbling monosyllabic answers, when he does initiate conversation, it is often while his head is buried deep in the fridge, and usually it is the occasion grunts of "Wsssfrtea"

Which I think translates to "what's for tea” other times he begins conversations accusingly, like "Where is my..?" or "who's been touching my stuff" or” Why I can’t..?"

He was never any trouble as a little kid. He never got a smack, He very occasionally gets a time out, and he would sit there.

Just accept his punishment and sit there till time out was up. It would make me feel sorry for him, that he was so good.

Now, Sometimes.. I want to punch him square in the nose. Like punch him, punch him. I would never of course, but sometimes I want to.

Sometimes he glares at me, and I find myself glaring back, I AM HIS MOTHER!!

The mother who glares at him.

We had an argument recently, I was standing in the kitchen, making dinner, and he stomped out of his room and into the kitchen to call me a liar.

I looked at him, puzzled, and enquired what it is I lied about.

He replied that I said I would make an appointment for him to get a haircut that afternoon, and I didn't, therefore, I was a liar.

I told him to "come off it, that I forgot"

I wasn't apologizing for forgetting either, he could get fucked. I was busy. It was a haircut for crying out loud. GIIIIT stuffed.

I didn't say that but I wanted to.

Instead I told him to make his own flipping appointment if it was that important to him. I marched over to the phone and prodded him with it, I said,

“Here’s the phone, here, take it... TAKE IT!!" I reminded him that he had his own phone even, the phone that I bought the credit for, despite him not doing his chores twice last week.

Well done Emma... FAAARK.

He was so angry with me, I was now angry with him.

He turned on one foot and stomped off only to return with angrier. His face was red; he was speaking to me as though he hated me. He went on to list three other injustices brought to him as a direct result of something I had done, or not done.

I told him that he didn't even know what he was angry about and to get outside and blow off some steam.

In my mind I screamed, NOW!! Before I punch you in the nose.

He did.

I watched him through the kitchen window, pushing the excited dogs away from him in disgust and I sent silent messages of 'wait until your father gets home' to him.

I thought about him, the little him in time out and I wanted to cry. Where did he go?

And then I looked out the kitchen window.

He was sitting in a chair outside, in his time out, like he was told, just like when he was little.

He sat just sat there.

I gave him a minute and I went to him.

I handed him a drink of lemonade and I said I was sorry for forgetting about his hair appointment.

He told me it was OK.

I told him it wasn't OK to talk to me like that.

He began to talk, not to grunt, but to talk.

It was then I realised it wasn't about me. It was about him. Everything was about him, he was fourteen. Of course it was.

 I was taking these things so personally; it had nothing to do with me. Meeting his anger with anger was never going to work.

I told him how I felt, I used me words, I felt like, I thought you..

To my Surprise, he grunted back his own me words.

He felt like, he wanted, he thought..

He agreed to make his own hair appointment, because he was old enough to do that, and then it came out.

 He was old enough to do a lot of things, like make hair appointments, but too young to do many more things. He was in between.

Being fourteen is in between and sucks sometimes. I told him I remembered how much it sucked.

My little boy was still my boy, but he is no longer an extension of myself. He is his own person, an almost man.

I was taking so many of his actions and words to heart, but it wasn't about me.

He still relied on me for so many things, Things he wanted to control.

 I was the bringer of meals, the keeper away-er of younger siblings from his stuff, the buyer of sports shoes, the maker of appointments and the enforcer of boundaries.

He so desperately wants to be a separate person from me; he wants to control his own world.

The world that is just beginning for him.

He wanted to control his hair and, his world.

I promised that I would try my best to remember his feelings, and that he was his own person. He promised he would try to remember mine, and to put his feelings into words.

I promised I'd listen.

This is just the start.

For now I'm strapping myself in, and learning, as he is learning. I have to trust him, and to trust him, I have to trust that I have done OK as his mum so far. That he knows right from wrong, good from bad. That he is no longer an extension of me, or a reflection of me even.

That it is not always about me.

He is his own, and boundaries are still needed, I just have to learn to make them bigger every now and again. Especially when he is butting against them with anger, I need to listen.

I will

have to continue to make the boundaries bigger, and bigger and bigger, and not always when I feel it is necessary, but when he feels it is necessary. Bit by bit, till the whole world is his.

One haircut at a time.

I was never going to need this, then I did...

I was never a very good student. Not when it came to the part where I had to sit still, or wear a uniform, or any of the other conforming that I found ridiculous. My grades were good though, I always did well, well, except for maths.

I would sit through maths, roll my eyes at things like algebra and have a complete meltdown of frustration, and bored hysteria.

 I was NEVER gonna NEED this.

If the x is 9 then call it NINE, asshole.

If I need to find the value of A, I will ask someone whom loves the Shit out of finding the value of A, and wants to marry it and have its babies, and THEY can tell me what I need to know, and who cares anyway, because I don't need algebra to find Dave Grohl, convince him we were perfect for each other and live happily ever after, which, at the time, was my life's only purpose.

Since becoming a parent, I have found there are a great many skills that I never thought I would need, and it turns out I do, the most surprising of which, is maths.

As a parent, you will do a great amount of counting. You will count the steps you climb, pegs you are handed, and you will also find that one, two, and three, will be most commonly used, and followed with either a Go! Or wheeeeeee!

You will also use a counting system to give your child time to stop and reflect on their behaviour, thus giving them the chance to do the "right" thing.

For example;

Your children will be fighting over....let's say, who fucking cares, but it will ALWAYS be something, they will fight and fight and fight... About everything, it will never stop...

But let's say, for this instance, one of your children has been accused of theft, in the form of a siblings Easter egg.

Theft is not cool; you have a moral obligation to correct that behaviour, so you will begin with,

"Did you take your brothers Easter Egg?" When reasonable guilt has been established, you will continue with;

"Give it back"- Then

"Now" - followed by

"I'll give you till the count of three, to give your brother back his Easter egg" & finally

The count begins.

"One. Followed by... two..."

Hopefully, somewhere around two, your child will give their sibling back their Easter egg, by nicely handing it back, and they won't peg it at said siblings head and call them a selfish. 

Thus using the "Till the count of three" for them to reflect on their behaviour, and correct it.

Whether or not you get to three, is a bit, hit and miss. You will be confident of knowing whether or not your child is going to comply by the time you get to two however, and you had better know, that if you get to three, you have to get up and enforce whatever punishment you so graciously tried to help them avoid, before it was so ungratefully thrown back in your face, or pegged at their siblings head.

There are a great many other uses for "Till The Count Of Three" Technique.

You can use the count of three, to buy time to think of a punishment, or to collectively motivate a group of children, for example;

"If any of you are not in your school uniform by the time I get to three,"

OR and most commonly, you will use till the count of three, to avoid stopping what you are doing, or to avoid getting up off the lounge.

One day, you will so desperately not want to stop doing what you are doing, or to get up off the lounge, because you are watching the Game of thrones season two, again, in anticipation of season three, and.. John Snow, whilst trying to follow a crochet pattern.

However your child is past giving a flying about whether they exceed their count limit or not, such will be their Easter egg induced psychosis.

It is then my friends, that you will need fractions.

You need to learn fractions to buy yourself more time from when you begin giving your child till the count of three, and when you actually have to get up and enforce stuff, and as a result, you will not miss a minute of John Snow looking off moodily and determined into the distance.

While you might be tempted, to stretch the count out by using the following technique;

One, two... Two and a half, two and three quarters... Don't.

This is an amateur mistake.

You started at two and a half, cutting out half of the usable fractions that are available to you, straight up, and one day, it might make the difference between seeing John Snow's shower scene, or losing your crochet stitch count, etc., etc...Or not, SO!

I have compiled a list of more useable fractions between two and three, for your future reference, thus giving you more available options. Feel free to use all and any of these, depending on how much time you need.

Two.

2 and 1/12

2 and 1/6

2 and 1/4

2 and 1/3

2 and 5/12

2 and 1/2

2 and 7/12

2 and 2/3

2 and 3/4

2 and 5/6

2 and 11/12

Three. I can help you no more.

Best of luck.

Emma.

Dear Channel 9, RE: Mr Waterhouse

Dear Channel 9.


How are you? Good Thanks.

I am just writing, to let you know that I observed my two sons playing basketball in the backyard recently, my eldest son bet my youngest son that he could not make the basket from back near the chook shed, and for a small minute my gut tensed and I expected Tom Waterhouse's head to pop up from the back fence and offer him ten to one odds on that.

Its OK though, I have also recently started  a therapy class a few weeks ago on the recommendation of a friend. It is a three month intensive class that teaches you to be aware of your thought patterns.

I was given an exercise in which I had to rethink the things that I found overwhelming, and no negative self-statements about my appearance or intelligence were allowed.

I know, I rolled my eyes too, but hear me out.

I chose the email as my overwhelmer of choice, and I had to wait until they were alarmingly and overwhelmingly built up, then... When I opened my emails, I would thank the urge to be overwhelmed very kindly for showing up, and then interrupt its every attempt to come in the door by actually saying positive things to myself like...

 "you really don't care how many emails are there" 

Then I would get up and walk past the mirror in my hall and say things like, "under eye bags mean you are tired not haggard" and "you can't spell tuck shop lady arms, without Lady!!" as well as other ridiculous bullshiznit.

 I had to do it convincingly, whether I believed it or not, over and over again...which... I Must say is actually very difficult, and by some time into it, I really just felt like a massive wanker who sat there breathing deeply at the computer telling LIES to myself, when I was done at the computer, I would walk past the mirror in the hall and say "Hey beautiful" and give myself a wink.

These are not things sane people do and so I entertained the thought of giving up the class, only something magical happened.

I recognised that I was having a negative thought pattern about the class, and that would inevitably end in my giving up, never going again and feeling like a failure.

Still not sold, but Feeling a little less like the class might be bullshit by bedtime, I went to bed, I caught sight of myself in the mirror in the hall and I thought to myself, man I am tired, and it wasn't until I got into bed that I realised I just saw my dark eye bags and my first thought associated with it was that I must have been tired, not anything self-depreciative, but tired.

You following me?

Now, I Know what you are thinking....and yes, this is a long blog post, and yes it has a point, of which I am getting to. 

Now.... If I can train my very stubborn brain into changing negative thought patterns into more positive thought patterns, even when deep down I didn't believe them to be true, just by repeating them to myself, then what. The. Fuck. Is Tom Waterhouse's very disturbing head doing, smearing himself and his gambling over every square inch of your NRL coverage?

I understand the games need to find sponsorship, and I really, could not, give 5/8ths of a sweet, sweet feck ALL If Tom Waterhouse sponsors the game or not to be honest, but surely there are other ways of Tom Waterhouse sponsoring the game?!?

The dude. Only. STOPS giving gambling odds and smiling, just long enough to drag his lips back together and re-lubricate his front teeth.

Give me a break!!

And I know... OK, people in glass houses and all that, and I am aware that I said "I Cant Smell any of that" on the TV every eight seconds too, and it was during the Olympics coverage, and I admit that my voice was annoying, but hear me out.

I don't know a hell of a lot about gambling statistics I am ashamed to say, but I do know of people whom have lost everything and everyone because of it. I know gambling is addictive.

I will certainly do my damnedest to make sure my kids know these things about gambling, I will make sure, that deep down, they know this to be true, but if Tom Waterhouse is going to keep reminding them of gambling, then interrupting everything thought my children have about gambling with a message about how fantastic his odds of winning are, convincingly, over and over, even if deep down, they know it is not right, I have no choice but to remove him, his odds, you and their Much beloved NRL games from their environment.

My beef is not with Mr Waterhouse's contract to channel nine commentating, conflicting with his book making, or what logo is on the microphone he is holding, or whether or not there is a disclaimer EVERYTIME he speaks, or any of that stuff that seems to be overshadowing the actual issue, I know it is probably of some importance somehow, but try as I might to give a shaz I really just can't, I have far too many other things to do, I do care about my kids though, and I will drop ANYTHING to protect them.

Microphone or no microhone, disclaimer or no disclaimer..I think we are all getting a little jaded with the attempt to cloud every real issue with confusion until no one knows what they are angry about any more. 

It's old, it’s very 1990, and it is reminiscent of a tactic that I affectionately refer to as. 'You can't spell Cochran without Cock'

It doesn’t mean OJ was any less guilty, it just means every one was momentarily confused about what guilty was.

You have no idea how much I pain to get my kids to play outside, how much I want my children to be supporting a footy team on a Friday night, but if it is at the expense of having to invite Tom Waterhouse into the minds of my children, it is just not worth it. 

 The words Not Worth it..That very much sounds like a negative thought pattern to me.. Lets replace them with "All will NOT be lost." " It is NOT the end my children learning sportsmanship and playing outside ALL Friday night" "I will find something else my children enjoy" "there are other codes!" "Soccer players are attractive" "I bet Ed Sheeran likes the cricket!" "Go HAWKS!"

Help ME- help you, help me, help you... See how that works?

Sincerely,

Emma.