Archives for posts with tag: my dad

The weather is pretty miserable round here. Its grey and cold. The wind is starting to hit me on that little bit of skin that should have been covered up and my whole being feels the chill. Regardless, I really do love this weather, I’m pulling out scarves and bed socks. The heater is looking like more of a comfort than a black whole of debt. And when it rains, man do I love when it rains. I park up in front of the window, snuggled in a rug with a cup of tea and just watch as the sky cries.

But when it rains at night, it gets me. I wake to hear the rain on the roof. Some how the rain hits the hardest when you wake to hear it. I feel the grey and the cold and the chill hit me. But its in those moments when the rain hits the hardest, I am swamped with guilt. Always when the alarm clock says ‘are you effing kidding me o’clock’ I wake with a lump in my throat, moments from tears, stiffling sobs so not to wake the house. When the rain hits the hardest, I miss my dad. The guilt hits me like a bullet. Guilt because there has been too long between tears, too long between grieving, too long between the sadness. I know thats not true. Everyday I feel a part of me missing, everyday I feel like there is something he’s missing. But the guilt, it hits you like a wave. Never prepared, it sits on you chest and slowly absorbs into the whole body. There is hot lava burning through my veins, it hurts, the guilt hurts hard. I cry harder when the guilt hits, 2.36 am I curl, face into the pillow and force the howling into the foam. Rushing through the tears, pushing through the the pain, forcing myself to breathe again. And then, thankfully the rain begins to soften. The tears dry, the room gets quieter, and the guilt floats back into the shadows to wait for anothter day. I look at the clock and see 2.39 am. Drive by guilts in the middle of the night, painful and consuming, only when the rain hits the hardest.

Much love peeps xxx


Sometimes I just want to tell my dad stuff. Like


  • I took indi to the beach today, and for once I couldn’t stop her from running into the waves. She loved them.
  • There is a new fish market down on Marmion street, even has live yabbies from Albany. You’d love it.
  • I swam 800 m the other day, and didn’t die afterward.
  • Brought Aidan a rash shirt like yours for his birthday.
  • I made the best prawn dish the other day. Soooo good.
  • Did some more man crafting for Indi’s birthday. Getting the hang of the shed.
  • Your granddaughter thinks its hilarious to terrorize the cat.
  • I miss you.

Its hard, but its getting less painful. Memories don’t hurt, but they linger. They float around me and I take everything in, terrified I’ll forget something. I can smile when I think back, I can share stories with other people about how much he meant to me with out having to catch my breath too many times. There is still an empty place, but there are fresh, new flowers growing in front of it.

Much love peeps xxx

It came at me like a roller coaster but it only felt like a whisper.

One year with out my dad. One year of not having the man who taught me about the ocean, the reason I love Jackson Browne, where I got my curls from, where my sense of humour came from, why I nickname everyone, the reason I know lord of the rings so well, the person I ask about gardening. One year with out him.

I woke early on Tuesday, like the wind had slapped me. I literally woke coughing. The sun was creeping in and I could feel the tears weighing behind my eyes. Indi woke early too, only minutes later. Which (luckily for me) is unusual. Not being at home, I went in and picked her up. She snuggled in straight away. As I brought her back to bed, Aidan woke too. Despite the heavy feeling with in, I was surrounded by love exactly when I needed it. The heavy moved back into the shadows.

It wasn’t a day for tears, for that I am thankful. It wasn’t a day for dredging up dark wet piles of grief either. It was just a day. A day that made us think fondly of a man who was our world. So I did. I smiled and loved, I lived and I was still in my moment. I was still enough to absorb the memories, to cherish what I once had.

I was determined to take dads paddle board out. The weather was looking pretty crappy though, and it Aidan was trying to convince me otherwise. Quoting disgraceful 90’s songs I told him ‘Aint nothing gonna break my stride’ I was going paddle boarding. It was happening.

My dad always said that you can always find a beach that fits the purpose, you just gotta look. He was a surfer who knew more about swell and tides and waves and wind than anyone I know (although I don’t know any weather men personally, I’m told my dad was a bit if a whiz at this stuff). True to his word, Albany handed me that beach on a silver platter.

Aidan carried the board down to the beach (have you seen the size if a paddle board? They are huge. I can’t even reach the top of the car to touch the board let alone get it down). I was totally prepared to fall off and make a giant idiot of myself. A few of the other people on the beach must have thought so too because they decided to call out a few non encouraging words. Just to make them feel bad, I didn’t fall off. And had I not been focusing hard on balancing I would have yelled back some if their not so nice things and pulled fingers as I did it. Up your bum old bitter beach goers, I totally got this shit!

Indi crawled into the water, fully clothed. Not really what we were prepared for. She also climbed up on to the board and then proceeded to dive in to the water head first off the board. All this was unassisted mind you. The kid is part mermaid. She loved the water, crawling and splashing about. Not too impressed with her salt rash though, but easily pleased once more by sitting under the tap as I washed the sand off my feet.

I feel whole again after taking the board out. Feel like I spent time with my dad. It was nice to do something that we would have done together, had he been here. Comforting almost.

So the day didn’t suck. It was nice, good, normal even. Which in itself feels weird and brings a wave of guilt. But for now that is enough. Just enough so I can hang up my big winter grief coat until I need it next.

Thank you for your kind thoughts, all received with a grateful heart.

Much love peeps xxx

It seems that I have a small patch if black. What I mean is that there is a small amount if time I can not actually remember much about. Before you freak out and tell me to go to the hospital, let me explain.

When dad passed away, I switched off. Things were happening, people were moving, on the outside I was moving too, but in reality I was just getting washed along with the crowd. I did what was expected, I acted the way your supposed to, but really I just kept floating.

I was going through the motions. It was a survival method. I needed to ‘be’ normal to ‘feel’ normal. I was just trying to survive grief.

Being pregnant was possibly the best thing for me. I shudder to think how I would have coped otherwise. Knowing I had a sweet little button growing inside me kept me afloat. So inside my survival shell, I focused on her.

Between ‘attempting’ normal and growing Indi, I must have turned my attention switch to off. I can not tell you what happened in the news, what songs were playing on the radio or what was happening on home and away. All I can tell you is, I went back to school for two weeks, people were overly gentle with me, Christmas sucked and I felt like a walrus. That there is the entirety of what happened between November 20th – February 10th.

Then came life with the tiny human. May as well wipe the next two months out too. Routine and learning, and trying to sleep was all that happened in those months. Needless to say, I had some catching up to do.

I really only figured out I was out of the loop because I started listening to the radio again. The only superpower I have (besides crazy mamma hormones) is music, being a dance teacher I had to be up to date on as much music as possible. To my absolute disgust, Aidan knew more about the songs (who sung them and what the words were) than I did. Then and there I knew I had to pick up my game.

About mid August I figured out who 1 direction were (yes, I’m pretty grateful to be behind the times on that one). Thanks to bad tv promos and constant advertising I think I’m as up to date as I want to be on this boy band hysteria (I was a backstreet girl myself, bouncing around with a hair brush singing at the top of my lungs. Fee I know you remember :p).

The enormity of my black out period really only hit me about a week ago, as Aidan and I sat down ready to watch the new season of Sons if Anarchy. Pretty excited, we put the baby to bed and broke out the chocolate. The ‘previously on sons’ began to roll through and both Aidan and I sat up straight. ‘What the frick was going on?’.

Being in a cocoon means you miss out on everything, bad and good. In this case I missed the whole of series 4 of Sons. To be honest I was super pissed. Everyone was raving about how full on this season was and how good the story line was. Luckily I don’t mind couch time watching telly, so I pushed through. We have spent the best part of the last week trying to catch up. Between a teething, Olympic crawling, sooky mammals girl, a husband on night shift and lack of sleep we have finally caught up with everybody else. I. Am. Drained. Who said watching tv wasn’t hard?

You know that feeling when you go back to work after a nice relaxing holiday? You took the holiday because you were stress and needed to unwind, only to find that you have twice the amount of work to catch up on. That’s how I feel at times. I have a box of presents that need to be posted – past birthdays, engagements, housewarming gifts. I have a list of things to do that date back to when I was pregnant. I have to google things I read in the newspaper just to know what they are talking about. Sometimes I feel like I was in a coma and only just woke up!

I’m slowly catching up. I doubt I’m going to get there anytime soon, but I’m getting there. Knowing my luck, I will be just about caught up then decide to pump out another tiny human, screwing up all that hard work. Can I play the exhausted mamma card permanently?

Much love peeps xxx

On sunday it was pretty nice weather, the sun was out and so was lady heff pots chubby little thighs. Aidan really wanted Indi to have her first beach experience in WA, and as we are off to Bali next monday (yes thats only six sleeps) it was a perfect opportunity for those little bubba feet to touch down on the sandy whites of the beach.

My dad was a surfer and the beach ran through him. It was where he was most comfortable, where he felt whole. Before I had Indi I dreamed of the day when my dad would show my kids his world. Teach them about the swell, tell them stories of surfing and fishing and teach them to swim and surf. I always wanted him to be there when they first set foot on the soft sand, and dip their wee little feet into the wet, cold white wash.

I had avoided this moment for a few weeks. I didn’t think I was ready, but like all mums my head switched and I saw it from Aidan and Indi’s perspective. And then I thought about what dad would want. So when Aidan suggested it again, I picked up the camera and jumped in the car. Brave face and all.

Oh it was hard alright. The ocean itself is where we lost dad, so anxiety was pinging through me. Then I had to watch a father introduce his little girl to a new world, (cue about a million memories of me and my dad). In that moment, my heart flew in to the air, watching Aidan, full to the brim with pride and smiling as big as the sun, show Indi all the different things along the shore line (the swelling of my heart with love is a feeling I can not even begin to describe).

Its hard when your expectations don’t translate into reality. But you can’t grieve for dreams, and you can’t let those expectations stop you from experiencing whats in front of you. So that’s what I did. I let myself be in that moment. Sun setting, soft breeze through my hair, sun on my skin, salt in the air, surrounded by two of the people I love most in the world and adding another first to our memory banks. I know how happy dad would have been, just knowing how much we want Indi to experience his world. He was there, sort of anyway. in the swell, tickling her toes as the small waves washed over her feet. He was there to tell me it was ok, and he was there telling me not to miss out on these moments. Thanks dad, I needed that.

That last picture. That there is my dad. I told you he was there. Miss you dad xx

Much love peeps xxx

Its no secret that I love music. I have loved it since I was little. All my memories come with a soundtrack, I wake up to a radio playing in my head and I’m a dance teacher (you kinda need music for that).

I inherited my love of music from my Dad. I can remember being about 4 or 5, on a rainy day doing jigsaws with my dad, with Neil Young playing in the back ground. I remember it clear as day, but I remember the music the most. My Dad introduced me to the music that I now love and live by. When I was about 14 my Dad brought home a Ben Lee CD, two weeks later that CD had a new home in my room. I stole his Nirvana CD, his John Butler CD, I copied his Santana CD, I can sing word for word the songs of Dire Straits because of the CD’s in his collection. He was my music library, such amazing stories and such endearing memories.

When my Dad died last November I ceased to exist. 7 months pregnant, trying to suppress the grief so that it wouldn’t choke me, I dug a massive hole inside me to hide the music. Music was a world where only Dad and I existed. It was ours, we would talk for hours about new stuff and old stuff, concerts and CDs. I taught him about Ipods and itunes, he would tell me what music to buy, I would call him every time I went to JB Hifi, he would call every time the Hottest 100 was on, music was ours.
But after he was gone it hurt to listen, it hurt to remember, it hurt too much. I was barely getting through each day, tears felt like knives, I couldn’t bare to be hugged any more and I wanted/needed to breathe for life I was growing. So I hid the music. I hid it, so that I could be, even if if was just a shell of who I was, who I wanted to be.

I don’t have specific tastes in music. I don’t have a favorite style or genre of music. I can’t play or read music and I don’t know anything about Bach or Mozart. I just get it, I get the stories behind the songs, I get the emotion, I get the love of it. Music makes moments, it shapes dreams and it builds people.

Choosing music for dads funeral was one of the hardest things to do. The funeral home told me I could only have 6 songs, and that was at a stretch. They told me I couldn’t choose sad songs, because they didn’t want people to leave hurting more. I was raw from hurt, reeling at the utter devastation littered in my life and forced to live with in boundaries that cut me deep. I burst into tears in the office. With no one but the funeral director, I broke down, I had no idea what to do, all I wanted was to make him proud. But how could I do that? How could I fit such love, such admiration, memories, pride and loss into 6 little songs.

On top of all this, I could barely stand to hear more than 10 seconds of each song. My heart would jump out of my chest and the thought of his favorite music. I didn’t want to remember him sitting on the verandah, beer in hand humming to Pink Floyd. A treasured memory, tainted. The feelings of guilt, heart ache and jealousy. Yes, those memories would make me envious of my mind, why could my mind go back there and I couldn’t? It wasn’t fair. Music made me want to hug him, tell him I loved him, and tell him to look after himself. It made me want to sit on that verandah with him, and ask him all the questions I didn’t get to. Music made me angry that he wasn’t going to meet his grand daughter, and that he would miss his sons wedding. I didn’t want to feel that way. I just wanted to feel love. I wanted to be surrounded by love. My love for my Dad.

So music stayed hidden.

The radio stayed off. The CD player gathered dust. The Ipod got hidden in a draw. It was easier. Music couldn’t hurt me this way.

Then Indi was born. Lost in a completely new form of love, I forgot about tickets I had brought for Dad and I. Nine days old and the poor little thing was taken to her first music concert. It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. A complete mess of hormones, I sat through as much of that concert as I could bare. I fought off so many emotions, but I did it.

I decided that I didn’t want Indi to miss out on music because my heart was broken. So the Ipod dock got set up in her room. Set on random it played her to sleep in the early days. I would go in, unprepared only to be floored by the sounds of Bob Marley, one of Dads favorites.

Bit by bit music crept back into my life. Pop music in the car (channels would be changed if I couldn’t handle it) and the little Ipod was used in the building of person, the making of my Indi bum.

The dock eventually got moved into the kitchen. We play it every night when the three of us are making dinner (can’t say that Indi is very helpful in the kitchen yet). Dads music is on the Ipod.
I can now listen to certain songs the whole way through, I can handle some songs better than others, I can hurt for just that little bit longer now. Because its him. I make sure Indi knows that its ‘his’ music, I always tell her ‘Thats Poppy Pete’s Song Bubba’. Oh it hurts like a bitch, but its the only way I can feel him still here. I like to think he purposely puts ‘his’ songs on so I know he’s still hanging around, checking in on everyone, watching my little chickpea grow up. I want/need to believe that anyway.

I actually brought music the other day. That’s a pretty massive step. Oh dad would have hated pretty much all of it, but I would have made him listen to it, just to piss him off. He loved that.

I miss him every single day, and it hurts imagining how life would have been if he were here. So I am reuniting with music. So I can keep a little piece of him forever.
love you and miss you daddy xxx

much love peeps xxx

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