hey...

I'm a teeny bit in love with my new boobs...

Strangely calm...

...for someone about to have parts of her body removed. I think my overriding concern is that something will happen to me under anaesthesia and I'll die never knowing I died. I wonder if that's how ghosts are really made, a la Sixth Sense... I really believe that when I die, I want to at least know about it. I want that deathbed confession, the weeping family surrounding me - children, grand-children and, what the hell, great-grandchildren touching my hand and wishing me well on my journey, me saying something incredibly witty at the very end (would you expect anything less, really?) and hopefully just dying with a smile on my face at the thought of a life well-lived. But hopefully, the only things to die on the table tomorrow will be a bunch of my cells - only the ones getting chopped out and being deprived of a blood-supply and oxygen. Not any BRAIN cells, or HEART cells or cells I will need for hopefully a long while into the future. None of THEM. So it's time to (as Andrea Bocelli sings so beautifully) say good-bye to those bits that are leaving me.

Good-bye breast tissue - thank you for being there. No thanks that there was so MUCH of you. "Bountiful breasts" - so poetic to Shakespeare and the fantasy of adolescent boys - and adolescent men, to be frank - not so poetic when trying to be shoved into too tight bras and hoisted to somewhere they wouldn't normally reside unless sheathed in lacy lace and stretchy lycra. But definite thanks for the milk, the gallons of milk that have made my babies strong and smart and beautiful. Thank you for the comfort you gave - thank you for providing a bouncy castle of boobiness that my children have loved. Thank you for adding to the hugginess of me, the squooshiness of me. That was not a bad thing. Thank you from Sam for being so much. He loves you, he really does. I love you too. I just need less of you.

Good-bye uterus - thank you for being such a wonderful home for my children. I love your work. Keeping them safe and warm and fed and nurtured. You and Placenta - no place like womb. Thanks for the reminder every month that there are cycles in nature that we are still part of despite the crazy denial that we are above it, beyond it. It's not really your fault. You are the fall guy for those little fucker ovaries. It's their fault I have to get rid of you. But I need them more than I need you. Sorry, I know that's harsh. But true. I need those little bastards to keep doing what they do for a few more years. Otherwise I will turn into a man-beast. With more hair on my lip and chin that I know what to do with. Not ready for that just yet. I was not able to tame them. They had me in the palm of their hands. Squeezing hard. Too hard. So you gotta go. Sorry.

Good-bye leaky bladder - goodbye wet knickers when I sneeze, jump, skip, hop, bounce, scream at Duran Duran concerts and cough. Although you may revisit me later in life...Depends. [Get it? See what I did there?] I will not miss that. That is yuk.

So what's the worst thing so far? The anxiety? The knowledge that I have left things undone? The fear that I will have made a mistake? Bah - done all that. Don't need having multiple procedures to go there... that's my modus operandi for my life. No, it was really the waxing. Sweet Jesus. I had a pretty close wax today. Not a Brazilian. Not even an East German, really. But a little more of a mow than usual. The waxer, aka Sadistic Sadist Grrrl, took a strip off the top of my map of Tassie, right under the leftover pregnancy spare skin I've been hanging on to just in case anyone needed any ["Skin? Anyone got some spare skin and a little fat?" "Yep! Over here!"] and I was thinking, as I broke out into a sweat and almost hit the ceiling, "If that's what it feels like on my tummy bits, WHAT THE HELL DOES WAXING LABIA FEEL LIKE???"

And you know what? I will NEVER find out.

Ch..ch..ch..ch..changes...

Yep. The only thing you can rely on in life is change.

Things that are changing:

1. My tolerance for the crap in my house. While it hasn't made it off the porch, there's been a bunch of stuff to leave the house recently. While it was almost easy to get it out of the house, the paralysing indecision that arises from "whether to sell it/whether to donate" is negating the good feeling from making the decision to put it out the door. Given my inability to organise a garage sale and given all the fires and floods, maybe the stuff should just get taken to a donation bin where hopefully it will find a grateful home. Or at least be someone's answer to what to wear to that 'bad taste' party.
2. My house itself. We have met with an architect and have a 'concept'. Whoa - I don't think you actually realise what a big step that is. Someone else is now involved in my dreams - literally an architect of my dreams. Now let's take that next step and turn a concept into a plan...
3. My daughter's life. New school, new rules, new dress... I wonder at what is happening in her head and am simultaneously pleased and horrified at our decision to move her from her chrysalis and out into the world. She seems different and maybe, and just maybe, to assuage my guilt, I think the change is for the good.
4. My relationship with my husband. Seems more grounded. He is more determined to live his life and I have gotten over my resentment (kinda, sorta) and actually am acknowledging his right to do so.
5. Me. Bits will be removed and reshaped and I'm again swaying between horror and delight at the thought of actually being physically different. Saying 'goodbye' to a chapter in my history - or should that be herstory...

Happy Birthday Dad

Yes, I know. I do go on about my Dad a bit. For someone who's been dead for almost 11 years now, he still tends to occupy my thoughts a lot. He is my Dad, after all. So I'm not really apologising but even when there's been a bit of a 'Picky Bitch' drought, it's usually my Dad who'll get me posting again.

So today would have been my Dad's 78th birthday. Wow. Born in 1933. A long time ago although to my rapidly ageing self, 78 isn't that old. My Mum has a friend who just turned 96 and she's pretty amazing - still making cakes and gnocchi by the truckload.

I have to wonder what kind of 78-year-old my Dad would have been. Would he just look the same but wrinklier and have whiter hair? As he already had white hair at 67 I suppose it couldn't have gotten much whiter so maybe that's a dumb thought.

If he hadn't died of cancer, would he have died of something else by now? His heart wasn't good. Would I be in the fresh throes of grief, mourning my father for having just died from a heart attack? Would my children be devastated at losing their Nonno, having known him for only a few short years instead of being oblivious not knowing him at all? What would have been better, really? I was 25 before losing the first of my significant relatives. My kids would have been less than 10.

Of course, he might not have died of something else in the meantime. He might have been still alive, pottering around the house, driving my mother nuts. I wonder how patient he would have been with this noisy mess of kids.

But he died at 67 and he's gone and my kids don't know him that well. I still remember though. And I still love him and I still miss him and I will forever and ever and ever.

And somewhere as I remember my Dad on the 78th anniversary of his birth, somewhere in Arizona is a family mourning the loss of their nine year old daughter. Their daughter, only two days older than mine. I am so sorry for their terrible loss. I wish she would have lived to 67. I wish she would have lived to 78. I wish she would have lived.

Ding Dong The Witch is Dead...

Predictably, here I am. The 1st of January. All filled up with hope and renewal and such. Making another effort to revive The Picky Bitch, God love her.

What did I learn in 2010:

1. Never take anyone for granted. People can surprise you. Big time.
2. There are still lessons I need to learn.
3. I don't have to do everything on my own. It's okay to lean.
4. I will die someday.

That pretty much sums up the year.

Booyah!