How To Love Your Body

Loving and accepting yourself, especially as a woman, is not always as easy as it sounds. In fact for most of us it feels near on impossible. We spend a huge amount of our lives obsessed by our bodies and by the numbers that we allow to control our worth in society. Like the numbers on the scales and by god those damn scales never get it right do they. The numbers labelled onto our clothes which dictate our ‘size’ and categorise us into petite, average, plus-size. Numbers ‘scientifically’ extracted from foods and then labelled as calories – good calories, bad calories – don’t eat that, do eat that. Success. Failure.

It’s like a never ending rollercoaster ride that you never wanted to get on in the first place.

STOP I WANT TO GET OFF. Yes, I know, you’ve also been begging this for years.

These numbers consume us and torture us. Yet they really mean nothing. They are just numbers. They hold no power. We give them power and then we compound those numbers by surrounding ourselves with images of what we ‘should’ look like. Reading articles about other womens bodies. Being financially and emotionally invested in the toxic magazines that decide if someone is too fat or too skinny. Constantly our bodies, bodies of all women, are picked apart. Judged. Treated like ornaments. Why have we, why do we, allow womens bodies to be up for discussion? Why do we enrol ourselves in this way of living? And why the fuck do we become our worst critics when we should be protecting and nurturing the only body we have!

For decades I had decided my freckles were ugly. My nose was too big, my legs too chunky and my tummy… OMG my tummy was fucking hideous. All these things combined made me disgusting. Gross. Unlovable and unable to succeed at anything. Everything bad that happened to me was always because of these physical things. I decided from a very young age that only the pretty girls were successful and I was never going to be one of them. My life was a hate-fest – directed purely at myself.

Today I see me differently. Today I know a lot of women and young girls are also seeing themselves differently.

Why do they? How could this happen? Where’s the magic pill? You ask.

There is no pill. You do not need to put anything in your body or take anything out of it to make it loveable. To make it worthy. To make it beautiful.

It already is.

Seriously.

So how can you believe this to be true? How can this happen?

Embrace.

Embrace happened.

If you want to love your body you need to see the film Embrace by Taryn Brumfitt. You need to see it. Your mother needs to see it. Your daughter needs to see it. In fact your son needs to see this too. I saw this last night and I witnessed the transformation of so many women. The break throughs. The acceptance. The tears. The conversations. Oh my god the conversations! It absolutely breaks your heart to hear so many women have suffered the same thoughts and feelings for so long. So many have suffered in silence with nobody to talk to. Last night the flood gates opened. Last night body love and acceptance became a topic of conversation.

The message is constant throughout the film which is uniquely delivered by every size, shape and skin coloured woman. The message being that we waste so much of our time, so much of our lives thinking about our bodies. Critising them, wishing they were different, punishing them for being the way they are. Yet we should shift our focus to our psychological health because self acceptance has nothing to do with how we look. Self acceptance starts and finishes with our mind. Acceptance of where you are right now. Acceptance of your body as is.

Body love and acceptance starts with us!

We are blessed to be able to teach our daughters to love their bodies any which way they come. We are so lucky to be the generation in history that starts this movement to educates girls that their bodies are not items up for discussion and nor should they compare themselves to anybody else. We are the privileged generation that gets to teach them that gossip magazines and social media sites do not represent all the unique and fabulous body shapes the world has to offer and that photoshopping is wrong on so many levels and that realness is right!

The body image movement and body loving starts with us. Right now.

Watch the film. Take action. And one day in years to come our kids kids will be wondering what the hell this body image movement is all about because body loathing just won’t exist any more. Imagine that.

Seriously. Imagine that!

All my love,

DRK xxx

Are you still doubting? Well let me reaffirm that you, yes YOU, are beautiful just as you are. This means that you now have the right (as you always did) to be present in your life. You also get to be happy. To feel loved. To put on a swimsuit and splash around in the water with your three year old. You are fully entitled to buy that dress in the fabulous size 14 that you are right now and NOT in the size 10 to motive you to lose weight.

DO NOT waste a single day of your life from here on in thinking that you aren’t good enough, pretty enough, slim enough. There is no definition of the perfect body… NONE. You define it just by being YOU! Now go and love yourself! xxx

Click here to TAKE ACTION

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Embrace 2016 – You changed the way of thinking for a room full of women and young girls. Taryn Brumfitt, this movement is a gift that will be shared over and over again. Your sacrifices and your commitment to this film is deeply appreciated. #ihaveembraced

How To Tell If You’re A ‘Nice Girl’ & How To Be A Queen Instead

I believe on a deep level that I am a genuine person and my intentions are good. I, like most other people, have had predominantly good intentions throughout my life – even as a rebellious shithead teen.

My daily intentions now are to be a patient, kind, nurturing mum, hey, I said intentions not real actual shit that happens. Intentions to be a hard worker, a financial wizard, stylish, successful (and by successful I mean just not a failure) and intentions to write a novel…

The good news with that is I’ve actually written 50 pages …

Bad news is there are 50 different novels in those pages – 1 page per novel – winning! Or. Not. Winning…

Confused

I’ve also had intentions to say sorry more, to love harder, to be a flawless daughter from hereon in, I repeat I was a shithead rebellious teen, and to stand up to others when things aren’t right.

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My intentions recently have been super pure coz I am a super fucking sparkling woman after all. They have been genuine and they have been for the greater good. But my intentions have not matched the actual outcome. Someone forgot to tell Mr or Mrs fucking Universe that I was doing things for all the right reasons and to come to the party with his or her blessing. I’m not asking for accolades or for the Gods to come and sing my praises I just wanted things to go smoothly and not be fucked up the arse at every turn. Ouch!

I play life by the rules, I dot my “i’s”, I cross my “t’s”, I try not to step on anyone else toes in the effort of getting what I want and I always consider other peoples feelings before my own. This is somewhat like the “Nice Guy Syndrome”. NGS is where a guy is super nice to all potential future partners (aka every girl he meets) and so therefore no girl wants him even though she whinges about wanting to find a decent nice guy. Because I am not a guy and I am kind of sick of having syndromes I’ve come up with my own version of NGS… I call it – Nice Girl Soshitonme – [soshit-on-me] NGS. Same-same but different.

The “Nice Girl Soshitonme” has a few symptoms typical of this disease syndrome illness life choice. Symptoms are:

  • You are polite, like really polite and you won’t step on peoples toes to get what you want… ever.
  • You ensure a smile is plastered on your face no matter how pissed off you feel at someone and you say sorry far too often for all the little things – even when it was the small-man-syndrome dude who bumped his trolley into yours.
  • You prefer to sit on the fence about controversial subjects and you never willingly try to upset anyone and if you do, accidentally, you spend the next 100 years feeling guilty about it and trying to buy their forgiveness with cheap arse gifts coz you can’t afford the real and expensive stuff and…
  • You avoid confrontation with anyone and everything and you backdown at the cost to your soul, your withering defeated soul…

Any NGS with me?

Now let me explain a little thing called “Getting Screwed” and see if anything stands out to you:

  • People who get screwed (PWGS) are scared to ask for what they want, most would say they’re too polite
  • PWGS are nice. To everyone. Pretty much all the time. Even while being screwed.
  • PWGS keep themselves safe and secure and rarely step out of their comfort zone. They like to obsess over things that have gone wrong in the past when they have ventured out of their bubble. They are scared of change and how those changes will be accepted.
  • PWGS won’t fight. They won’t fight for what they believe, for what they want and will settle for life as a screw.

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Anything standing out to you?! Any clear collisions? Well of course there is because I wrote this purposefully to be a complete collision course to get my message across! Why? Because I am a nice girl and I am not going to continue to be screwed over. I won’t sit on that pretty picket fence any longer I mean that shit isn’t comfy anyway there’s a full picket up my arse. I am not going to stand in the pouring rain any longer at the expense to my health and well being. I will no longer stop, drop and roll at any sign of confrontation because I do have my own valued beliefs and god damn it they need to be heard, listened to and put on the register of ‘don’t mess with this chick’. Yes that is a real register. Really. Ok .. so not actually real but let’s just go with it, ok?!

Are you a NGS? You sick of being one of those PWGS? Well, put those abbreviations aside and pull those awesome shoulders back girls. Dust off those dirty sucking-arse knees you have there and wipe that shit from your mouth. You were not put on this earth to please every tom, dick and harriet. You were put on this earth to shine like a diamond. We don’t need to cause chaos or become evil bitches we just need to stop allowing ourselves to be screwed – unless it’s going to end in an orgasm! We need to be real to ourselves. Stand up, be heard and believe. Believe in who you are. Believe in your importance on this soil. And damn girl believe in your ability to speak up!

You will never be able to please everyone and by pleasing all of them you are forgetting the most important person of all – yourself! Those dirty red knickers were born to ride high. That cape was designed to fly and by god that crown was created to sparkle. So sparkle you sensational, perfectly-imperfect queens! SPARKLE!

One love

DRK xx

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A Note To My Teenage Self

Don’t hurry. Life is longer than your young 14 years – if you’re lucky. And you are lucky because the time travelling ‘you’ knows this to be true.

Don’t worry. You are beautiful just as you are. There is only one you. Be proud of that and make the most of her.

Don’t regret. Choices are made and mistakes happen. Put the perfection bat away you are not a failure – you’re still standing right? Well then, walk on.

Don’t hurt. The self inflicted pain must stop. You would never hurt someone else the way you hurt yourself, would you? Be your own best friend and stop the physical pain.

Don’t give so much. You give yourself away so easily. Trust me if they love you they will wait. And while they wait love yourself it’s the most rewarding love you will ever find.

Find peace. Peace in your moments. Peace in your days. Peace will always bring you back to yourself. Stay centred. Stay grounded. Find peace.

Find faith. Not in a godly sense but in your own capabilities. Believe in your goodness. Believe in your future. Believe in who you are, right her right now, no matter what the situation.

Find joy. Breath it in. Swim in its innocence. Dance with it. There is a lot more joy than you can ever possibly imagine and once you find it treasure every second with it.

Find love. Not from a man, not from anybody else but from within. Nobody will ever truly love you until you fall in love with yourself first.

Be authentic. You are the one and only you. This is the most fucking magical thing ever! When you are authentic you never need validation. You never need someone else to make you feel like you are a good person. When you’re authentic you are 100% the most beautiful version you can be and that type of beauty cannot be measured, compared or captured! It just is.

One love

The Older Version of You xxx

Change

Sometimes to move forward you need to change. Change things about yourself. To change the situation you are in or to make major life choices that are guaranteed to change your future.

Change is fucking scary. Yep, it really is. Change ignites fear from deep down within especially when change comes at the cost to your security blanket. Your comfort zone. Change makes your stomach churn, turns your fight or flight response on high and can give you some serious loose bowel movements … No? That’s just me? Oh, ok then.

Change makes you emotional. Angry. Impatient. Because with change comes new learning. A whole new way of having to think. Change puts you on a different level. Sometimes change makes you start again – at the beginning as a beginner.

Change makes you feel like you are standing out, centre stage and you are surrounded by people. People who are all on the outside facing you, watching you. It makes you feel vulnerable. Exposed. Weak even. But sometimes vulnerability is good. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that it is a sign of weakness. You are not defenceless. Vulnerability during changes means you are just asking to be seen and are open to making real connections. Vulnerability shows your authenticity – who you really are.

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Change is sometimes, most times, if you let it, out of your control. This is a good thing because with change comes growth and with growth comes more life experience. And isn’t that what we are here for – life and experiences?!

Change can sometimes make or break you. But most of us make it. Change will quickly put things into perspective and you get a choice with change – you can let it make you a better person, parent, employee, boss OR you can let it turn you into a sour motherfucker. I’m digging the first choice, how about you?

Sometimes change wasn’t your choice and some prick has backed you into a corner and the only way out is through a secret door behind you that has a flashing sign saying “CHANGE”…. Ok, so if it’s flashing neon it’s probably not that secret. This door gives no clue as to where it is going to take you but you either suffocate in the corner or you take the risk. Here’s a hint: OPEN. THE. FUCKING. DOOR! Change is always risky and risks don’t always pay off but that’s the gamble in life. But life is a gamble anyway – every day.

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When going through the process of change it is so important to remember the positives. You are still moving – forward, backward, sideways – it doesn’t fucken matter which – if you are still moving you are still alive and that’s good, right?!

Accepting change is accepting your responsibility in the change. To some degree, even with a cactus involved, we all have a part to play. Accept it. Own it. Hug it and move the fuck on because holding on to resentment and anger keeps you stuffed in that little corner even if you exited through the not-so-secret door.

Change is something that brings you out. If teaches you more about yourself then you knew a few years earlier. It can feel like a tunnel and make every stress receptor activate on high alert. Change will make you anxious – whether you recognise it or not. The fear and the excitement go hand in hand because change is both fearful and exciting. We fear the unknown and we are excited about the possibilities.

Sometimes change will make you feel like you have fallen to your knees. BUT you have got to stand up. You have got this. You. Have. Got. This.

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Change doesn’t define you. They way you deal with change does. Embrace it. Accept it. Grow from it. Don’t look at what you are giving up look instead at what you can gain from change. Oh and let the cactus go – they aren’t the kind of pricks we are into anyway!

One love,

DRK xxx

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The Fat, Mean Mum

I woke up this morning and consciously decided to speak nicely to myself. You know, manifesting good things by thinking good things. Tapping into that kind and forgiving inner voice that I know is in there somewhere. Turning the volume of my Devil down and telling my Angel to speak up. Flipping the negative talk into positive language. Slapping the bitch in me to give the belle of the ball a second to stand up and curtsy… You get what I mean.

So I showered and let positivity rain down on me. Cleansing the negative thoughts away as well as showering to be all hygiene and shit – seems as though some people skipped that memo from The Universe. I let the water warm my body and my soul on the cold autumn morning but of course, I’m a mother so I’m doing the whole showering thing while parenting at the same time. I call it Shower-Parenting.

Shower-Parentingbetter known as yelling from the shower to a bunch of minors who know you’re not really going to get out of your nice warm shower to follow through with any of your threats so they continue to completely ignore you. Arseholes! Just wait til I’m outta here!

So I’m yelling and I’m showering and I’m washing negativity away. I know, I know I’ve totally got this shit sorted, huh? I’m just about done when my six-year-old son wanders into the bathroom because mothers, as we all know, never shower or shit in peace. He plonks himself on the toilet and begins his morning cleansing process. First, the passing of gas, then the smile and then me screeching “Are you doing a poo?!” To which he sleepily replies “Mm-hmm.” Affirmative confirmation. I try to stay in my positive state while the hot air and gases combine.

Eventually, I admit defeat with the hot stench being too much to bear. I drag myself out of the shower and begin the drying process. Continuing with the positivity I thank each body part as I go. I dry my legs and thank them for doing their job. Thank them for functioning properly. How lucky am I to have legs that work, I say to myself. I wipe my rounded tummy and my voluptuous hips and thank them for carrying five children into the world. I thank my gluteus maximus for all the jobs that it does which I don’t even know about. Then in between my positive self-talk and my six-year-olds stinking plops he sweetly says….

You’re fat Mum.”

It was matter of fact.

The truth.

A bomb.

Slightly harsh.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Three words from a child who doesn’t have a filter but he doesn’t need one because he’s just calling a spade a spade.

I felt the need to clarify, or maybe for further punishment, his judgement so I asked, “What makes you say that?” While thinking, praying, it must have been the way I bent over? Maybe the angle I was standing at? It definitely wasn’t my outfit – well actually thinking about it now I guess it was because there’s nothing more honest than a birthday suit.

He looks me up and down confused by my confusion and reaffirms, “‘Cause you are. You’re just fat Mum.

Bam! Right next to my reflux pain I feel something … Oh, yep that would be my heart shattering into tiny pieces. 

I’m fat. 

My kid thinks I’m fat. 

He’s being honest not mean. He’s using a word I hate to hear as a description of how he sees my physical body. It’s a word he knows and understands that he can relate in describing me. Yes, I know I’ve put on weight and yes, I confidently tell everyone that I have while really hoping people don’t actually notice that it’s there and all the while praying to the Universe, God, the Weightloss Fairies that it will just disappear overnight. But it won’t because it’s not bloating or fluid retention or ‘just a good shit’ it is actual fat caused by over-eating.

Clever clothes may hide my rolls, I can paint my face pretty and I can do positive affirmations the fuck to death but underneath it all the Pope is still Catholic and I am still fat. It is what it is. I get to either be ok with it or do something about it. But first of all I’ll cry. That’ll help. Foetal position, on the floor and cry.

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Really?! Aww hell no! You ain’t gonna to let a little three letter word bring you to your knees?! Bitch really?!

While temporarily in the foetal position, memories from only a few days before of my teenager informing me that I’m known as the ‘mean mum’ to his mates came to mind. So with these flashbacks rolling and from the comfort of the floor I define myself as the fat, mean mum. Damn girl! You used to be the hot, fun mum. What the fuck happened to you?!

Seriously! What the fuck happened to me, my body, my care factor?! And more importantly, what am I going to do about it? I took myself off the rollercoaster – or so I’ve said. The cycle of diet-eat-starve-eat-diet-eat-starve-eat … Oh, fuck it you know what I mean. I’m out of that cycle, aren’t I? I’m happy with who I am? So why did those 3 little letters bring me to my knees?

In all honesty and with a little bit of dignity remaining I can say that I actually didn’t curl up in the foetal position. I just said that for the benefit of my internal breakdown. I didn’t even cry. Almost, but I didn’t. Why? Because of two things.

1) Fat doesn’t define me. I know that. I am not less of a person, mother, friend, stylist, lover, life-giver just because I carry 10kg more than I should and,

2) I do not want to teach my son that the word ‘fat’ is another f-word that he can’t say. You have fat and sometimes too much of it but you are not defined by fat and no this isn’t an excuse to be carrying extra fat either – maybe I will pull my finger out, maybe I won’t. It just doesn’t define the person I am – unless I let it.

b8e9d3875bd6239dafe0db0c08165db7I did give my six-year-old some life advice though about using that f -word because let’s be realistic, he is going to be somebody’s husband one day and I’d like my son to live beyond their first year of marriage. Honesty here can take a back seat. I really tried to make sure he didn’t feel bad about saying it but unfortunately either my face gave it away or he can read me well energetically because for the rest of the morning he was all like, “Hey Mum can you help me put the toothpaste on my brush because you’re so strong.” And “Can you help me put my shoes on because you’re so clever.” So he may see me as fat but he also sees me as strong and clever. I’m happy to take that on.

One love

DRK xxx

Burn Those Mo-Fo Scales

A few years ago my weight made my day, literally.

If my weight was up my mood was down and by down I mean down in the fiery pits of sooky-la-la-hell. Picture hyperventilating, tragic tears, snot everywhere, kicking stuff like a tempered two-year-old and eventually a hurt toe or two, it’s a pretty sight huh?!

On the other end of the scale (pun intended) if my weight was down I was up. Up in the clouds, high on happiness and full of confidence. Seriously though the only difference between a good and bad weigh day was a cheat meal and a decent shit.

One particular down day, of which there were many as it seemed just breathing my own farts could make me gain, my husband threatened the life of my scales. So when my tears didn’t dry up after the umpteenth time of him describing how he saw me and that the scales couldn’t rate sexy or awesome he honoured that threat by taking it to the next level.

He kidnapped my scales!

Yep, kidnapped that silver-tongued weighing machine without so much as a ransom note and he threw it powerfully over his head and directly at the driveway beneath our first floor balcony. He then pulled out his keys, threw himself frustratedly into his car, turned the ignition and proceeded to drive over them. Not satisfied with the crunch he ripped it into reverse, drive, reverse – you get what I’m saying? And then when he felt sure the scales were unusable he parked his ute on it as a final triumphant winning move.

I was devastated. Silly I know but I really was! How was I going to judge my day from now on if I didn’t know how fat or not-too-fat I was? Did I really have to wake up and just be happy? Is that what the rest of the world did?

I’ve told this husband-car-smashing-scales story before but now I’m out the other side, not completely cured but living better than I have before, I see this story differently. I also see it as a must for all women, everywhere, who choose their mood in a negative way because they listened to this mean girl machine! She is a mean girl compacted, digitalised and she doesn’t even have to speak to make you feel shit about yourself. Who are you giving your power away to?!!! If you must give your wonderful womanly power away at least make them living breathing humans! And by ‘if you must give away your power” I mean DON’T FUCKING GIVE ANYONE YOUR POWER EVER! Living, breathing or machining.

It does not matter how much you paid for those scales. It does not matter what excuses you come up with. If you weigh yourself every day or as in my case back then three times a day then you go NOW and you get that mother-fucking number thingy and throw them at the driveway and reverse, drive, reserve, drive, repeat and park on them! And no I won’t pay for your punctured tyres be smart about it ladies cover it in cardboard if you have to. If you don’t have a car, get a hammer, don’t have a hammer, get a bat – but not the perfection bat because that’s imaginary. Throw them in a bonfire if you can’t beat them to death and stand there triumphantly watching them burn! DO something significant to those little gravity defining mofos!

Was my pep talk not enough? What are you still doing here? Can’t let go? You want more?

Well, here’s ten reasons why you should amputate those fuckers from your life:

1. The scales WILL NOT tell you who you really are! That bitch will never give you the answers you are looking for! No. NOT. EVER.

2. The scales will not tell you how your genetics influence your weight/height/body shape. They will not tell you whether you are a petite dainty babe or a complete glamazon or some beautiful specimen in between. It only gives you a number. JUST A NUMBER! Like this – 67 – or this – 84 – or this – 72.47567296 – …. Numbers! NOT genetic make-up. You’ve got your Dad’s legs, your Mums waistline and apparently your Great-Aunties nose … A scale can’t calculate that whole bundle of gloriousness!

3. The scales will not tell you how funny/smart/creative you are. They can’t tell you that you have a killer backhand in tennis, that your kids/husband/dogs think your laugh is the one of the best sounds to hear ever in this world or that, if there was such a thing, you would have earned a Masters Degree in parenting/kicking arse by now.

4. The scales just stress you the fuck out … Don’t they? Then why do it to yourself? We are smarter than that. We are worth more than that! Life CANNOT be defined by that!

5. The scales cannot tell you your ‘correct’ or your ‘ideal’ weight. Why? Because it’s a stupid fucking machine! A stupid fucking machine that someone invented to make you feel bad about yourself! And they continue to do so and they win! Why let them win?!

6. The scales tell you nothing about your actual state of health. Nothing! It may give you your body fat percentage or your hydration level but can it really? It doesn’t take your blood and then calculate your cholesterol. It doesn’t evaluate the arteries in your heart, your pancreas function or tell you that you have a fatty liver. Other machines do that. Let them make you feel bad – but only to make you do something positive about it!

7. The scales can actually hinder your efforts! How? Well, I’m sure you’ve heard the statement, and probably, like me, scoffed at it too, that “muscle weighs more than fat”…. It actually really does! So if you are exercising and eating well and your weight is not shifting (or it is going up) then could it be possible your shifting fat and building muscle? Could it!?! But no you see you’re weight has gone in the wrong direction and you throw in the towel, sit on the couch, crying into a bag of caramel popcorn and chocolate. Don’t worry I’ve done that too a billion times over!

8. The scales can’t and won’t tell you that you’re due for your period, if you ate a cheat meal last night or if you haven’t been to the toilet in a few days. It cannot tell you that you are retaining fluid or if you’ve lost centimetres off your waistline. A tape measure can, your clothes can but not that mean girl machine.

9. Weight is your gravitational pull. Your mass is your matter. But none of it matters if you’re healthy and balanced in life. Your scales will only tell you your physical earthly mass. Not the depth, the intensity or the worthiness of your mass. It cannot tell you that your laughter is contagious, your smile lights up the room like sunshine or that you look totally fucken hot right now even though the scale says a number that isn’t socially acceptable to you.

10. The scales will only confuse you, haunt you and give you reasons to whip out your perfection bat. It’s a mean girl disguised as a helpful health machine and it will take away your power – if you let it.

Who’s the one in charge of your health? 

Who’s the one in control of your body? 

Who is the only one who can change who tells who what to do?

I’ll give you a clue: it’s not the scales!

Wear it. Own it. Be it….. And by ‘it’ I mean YOU!

One love,
DRK xxx

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Five & Three Quarters

Tonight I heard my 5-year-old son crying in his bed. Actually, if you ask him he’s 5 and 3/4’s, which is nowhere near 5 at all I’ll have you know! It was passed his bedtime and I had assumed he was crying because a) he was overtired or b) he was in denial about even being tired. It was neither.

I asked my crying child, sternly, what was wrong… You know stern, right? Hands on hips, firm, deep (cranky) voice…. Yes stern and I did this stern-thing twice! I know, I know ‘parent of the year’ and my only defence is that I had already been in 5 times to his procrastinating two-year-old brother who had wanted a rug, he’d wanted a drink, he wanted another drink and another and then finished off wanting to tell me he loved me – in his not-so-verbal-way … Of course, this part only ever comes after I’ve gotten really cranky – always gets the mummy-guilt really activated! Well played son, well played! After the second stern-hand-on-hip-accusation to my upset child, I noticed he was sobbing more so than crying so I sat on his bed and asked more gently, like the good nurturing TV (and Facebook status) mummies do, what was wrong. He sat up and looked intently at me and I knew right then and there it was going to be deep. Deep for a 5 & 3/4-year-old and deeper for a 30-something-year-old who’d just trialled a new tequila drink in preparation for New Years Eve… It was sickly sweet by the way and tequila, no matter how you mask it, still tastes like the tequila slammers you had in your 20’s with lemon and salt at 4 o’clock in the morning. I drank it though, waste not want not – as my good mother educates me!

His crying wasn’t about missing his Daddy who was at work or about not getting a second turn on the Wii. It was about death. He didn’t want to die. He said to me in between his hyperventilating sobs that he had only just realised that when you die and you go to the hospital they can’t make you alive again. Argh… Insert heartbreaking sad emojis here!!! Seriously, my heart split into tiny pieces and I had to control myself so that I didn’t curl up in the foetal position and hyperventilate too. This is one thing I’m not good at… Oh and cooking. I also kinda suck at parenting too, along with sticking to diets, keeping my own secrets secret and keeping on top of my huge washing piles – I super exceed the suckiness at that!

But I managed to restrain my own tears and fears of death and I sat with him for a good 10 minutes to try to calm him down – with the help of his 2-year-old brother who had come to console him with hugs and kisses too (all together now… Ohh hh hh). Initially, I tried to console him with the idea of Heaven, something I have had to believe in regardless of my religion because that was the only way I could deal with the thought of death as a child. I used to cry myself to sleep at night grieving my parents or my brothers or anyone I cared about who were all very much alive simply so I could prepare myself if it ever did happen… My theory? Well, then it wouldn’t hurt as much… Strange huh?! Anyway, I told him that when we die we go ‘up there’ to hang out with all the people we love and miss now and we all have fun together while we wait for the rest of our loved ones to join us. But my description was vague and he, being the bright 5 & 3/4-year-old, wanted more info…

“What happens to our bones, do they come with us? I thought we died and got buried and we never moved our bodies again?” 

“No, it’s like magic Chevy. When you die your Earth body stays here but you are still you in Heaven.”

“Even my eyes?”

“Yes, even your eyes will go to Heaven.”

“What about my bones?”

“Yes even your bones, you lips, your tongue. All of you that makes you Chevy will go to Heaven.” Then he wanted to know if someone chopped his head off would his head still go too?

“Yes. No matter what happens to you or your body here on Earth you will still be Chevy in Heaven.”

At this point, he had stopped crying. *Winning* We had a huge hug and I finished with a prize winning speech about being grateful for being alive now, how we have to live life to the full and try our best to be good people. I should have recorded it coz I’m pretty sure it would have ended up on a Pinterest board somewhere but as with all good children and good advice it went straight in one ear and out the other before he had to clarify for a final time – chopping off the head would not mean no head in Heaven. Time to turn off all the dreadful news stories I think!

Poor bugger. I hope I helped the situation… A little! I tried my best to be inspiring and comforting. I think it worked seeing as he’s asleep now, with no more tears so I must have done ok!

It reminded me, even though I had complained all night about how loud they were, that I need to hugs those little ratbags tight more often. You too! Not my kids your own of course! Tell them you love them too and please, please don’t take any of my other heavenly advice on board! But feel free to share your own stories in the comments below!

One love,

DRK xxx

child at the beach