It is beginning to dawn on me exactly how powerful the stories we tell ourselves become.

They can become the difference between a successful day and a disastrous one, a bitter life or a flourishing existence.

We had a rough start this morning. Dave had to leave extra early and I was abruptly awoken by a far too chirpy Hudson peering intently into my face and poking me. I eventually staggered down the hall to find Eli and Ivy screeching with laughter in her cot, playing with her teddies. The day had started without me, it would seem.

A quick toilet break turned out to be a disaster as I came back into the kitchen to find pink paint smeared all over Hudson's face, hands and clothing. And the bench, drawers and cupboards as well. I snatched bites of breakfast in between breaking up fights, preventing injuries and shouting instructions at children not inclined to listen. It was a runaway train heading for destruction.

"It's barely 10am and I feel as if I've already used my energy quota for the day." I wrote to Dave, in between other more colourful descriptions.

After putting myself in Time Out for the third time that morning (pointlessly it turns out, as somehow fleeing from the room seeking alone time is translatable to pre-schoolers as 'please follow Mummy and do somersaults on the bed over her'), I sent an SOS to the girls for help.

"Arghh, this morning has been really s&%! so far- I really need help changing my narrative!"

Monica shared emphatically of similar difficulties and gave some suggestions of ways to cope in the meantime. Naomi offered perspective and encouragement and I was reminded of my usual coping mechanism of writing furiously in my Gratitude Journal, a method that had slipped my mind in the chaos.

It turns out that my subconscious and insular 'woe is me, no one else must be having this type of morning' perspective was very toxic and only succeeded in sinking me further into the quicksand of despair. I found out that another of my friends was having an even tougher morning than I and actually needed some practical help.

These realisations and the importance of changing locations to reframe the story, actually ended up bringing me completely out of the funk and we had a memorable and beautiful day. With picnics at the playground, staring into the sky sharing a net swing with Ivy, making stories out of the dragon shaped clouds in the sky, painting Stormfly and Blades on enchanted faces, fish and chips on the trampoline for dinner and adventures in the garden with the boys. I also soaked up Dave's generous offer to duck out for some leisurely reading time at a cafe before dinner. Even three quarters of an hour turning pages over savouring a piccolo latte is more than enough to reset the energy meters, I find. 

I've been reading Bob Goff's book 'Love Does'. His life is littered with inspirational examples of powerful gestures and experiences, as he fully engages with life and embraces the whimsical nature of the world in which we are placed. From taking his kids on slave rescue missions in India to sending flowers (of forgiveness) to the very apologetic elderly lady who T-boned his jeep at an intersection, to wooing his wife with life-sized cards and peanut butter and jam sandwiches under her windscreen- he chooses to seize each moment with reckless abandon.

It is far easier at times to succumb to the chaos and feel as if the day is something to endure or just 'get through'. Yet, when we are able to rise above the emotions controlling this narrative and choose a different story, reaching out in solidarity with others, we somehow tap into this bewitching undercurrent that has the power to transform us and those that surround us.

Gus has recently decided that he is an outdoor dog.

After a decade of lounging on various cushions, beds or rugs, he has suddenly regained his youth and spiritedly races around the yard issuing stern warnings to all who could possibly hold any ill intent as they pass peaceably by his vantage point in the fence. It could possibly be an escape attempt from the levels of craziness that regularly escalate within these walls, but we'll go with the rejuvenation story.

I'm beginning to admit to myself that I would like to be a writer.

After a decade of dulling down the creative elements to my character, resigning myself to the fact that law, motherhood or teaching would be the only realistic outlets to pursue as an adult, I'm now growing more and more unsettled with restlessness.

For Dave and I, our interactions this week could more aptly be described as 'handovers'. Blessed with cognitive ability first thing in the morning, Dave rises with the kids and throws together his daily salad while I blearily attempt to adjust to the haze outside of dreamland. As I stagger unsteadily into the kitchen, he blows farewell kisses to us all, leaving me to gather my wits and struggle to parent.

The days have admittedly reached a better rhythm since Eli's foray into Kinder. We have regular reasons to venture beyond the walls which results in better mental health opportunities for us all, and Eli is relishing his newfound discovery that making friends is not as hard as he had thought. He comes home daily exclaiming with wonder at the conversations had and connections made. 

Following the whirlwind of dinner being served to 'suddenly full' tummies, the commotion of bathing three wriggly bodies, and the mountains of books unravelled to spellbound listeners; we begin the process again- one heading out to various social engagements or planned meetings, one manning the fort at home.

Dave channels his energy like one possessed as soon as I close the front door- thrusting his mind into ideas of virtue ethics, narrative identity and mimesis. He is consumed by the heady nature of ideas coming together, forming intriguing new angles in the field. He follows the White Rabbit wherever it leads. Sometimes, my arrival home barely registers as he has waded inextricably far into the rabbit hole to return with ease.

I wish for that kind of inspiration. It has not visited me lately.

I've practiced avoidance with expert skill, in the pages hurriedly skimmed over, the shows devoured, the short fuses exploded and the glasses poured. The conversations glossed over and the weak offerings of 'I'm just tired'.

My personal YouTube Yoga master, Adriene, exhorted the affirmation for today as 'presence'. It was the very last thing I wanted to acknowledge... 'I am present...in my frustration....in my dissatisfaction....in my lack of inspiration...in my wallowing'. The act of accepting these squirm-inducing feelings surprisingly releasing some of the angst.

I haven't been 'fixed' necessarily, or caught up in the throes of inspiration, but I'm learning to accept the discomfort of being in this realm. I'm a stay at home mother of three pre-school children, each of whom have very distinct ideas of how they think our day should proceed. The majority of my waking hours are spent in diplomacy, yelling, maintenance, huffing, catering, exhorting free spirits to put clothes and shoes on, swearing, cuddling, dealing with human excretions, medicine administration, sorting, teaching, explaining, chauffeuring, encouraging and applauding little steps of progress. It is an incredibly rewarding (and frustrating) vocation, but one that has little to 'show' for it right now.

Writing helps me make sense of life and my own convoluted mind. My fingers etch characters onto the screen and revelation hits mid sentence, almost in spite of me. I hope that one day I will be able to craft something of significance, even if it is unrealistic to think that such a project could be endeavoured now... in between drop offs, pick ups and PhDs. And in the meantime, I'm so thankful for this blog, for the opportunity to sift through chaotic thoughts and hone my skills, connecting with others who resonate with ideas of authenticity and vulnerability.

I guess I'm choosing to be present in my restless gratitude.

I'm sitting in a cafe, tears streaming down my face.

I've just finished 'Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Someone Who's Been There' (Cheryl Strayed). It is a hauntingly beautiful and redemptive collection of advice 'columns' written in response to heartbreaking letters to 'Sugar', the author's pseudonym at The Rumpus.

My tears are for Brandon, the boy at the center of the response entitled 'Ten Angry Boys',... and for myself.

A mother with a chequered family history of her own writes asking for advice when she witnesses herself flying into uncontrollable rages at her two young children. Echoes of her past ring in her ears, despite her best efforts to craft a childhood experience worlds away from her own. She begins to despair that the change she hopes for will never eventuate and that she is doomed to become trapped in the generational cycle of pain.

In reply, Cheryl recalls her experience as a Teen Advocate, running Tuesday dinner nights for angry, 'at risk of expulsion' teen boys and their families. It is heart-rending and brilliant.

I am 'Helpless Mom' at times. So horrified by my failures to be the mother my children deserve. At risk of defining myself as the 'angry mum' or hey, even the 'Very Cranky Mummy'. Flying off the handle over something trivial and ludicrous. Except that at the time it seemed to hold crucial and exceptional importance.

And yet. If I allow myself to become defined by these failures, I become Brandon's mum instead. Believing that we are helpless to an irreversible fate simply pushes the story in that direction.

To another reader, Sugar writes: "The narratives we create in order to justify our actions and choices become in so many ways who we are. They are the things we say back to ourselves to explain our complicated lives".

"When it comes to our children, we do not have the luxury of despair. If we rise, they will rise with us every time, no matter how many times we’ve fallen before. I hope you will remember that the next time you fail. I hope I will too. Remembering that is the most important work as parents we can possibly do."

These words are now reverberating in my heart.

I really doubt that anyone feels qualified or prepared for this crazy, exhausting, beautiful, shattering, heart-melting, mind-bending role that is parenthood. I sure as hell do not. But we have to keep picking ourselves back up, dusting off the debris of failed decisions, and trying again... and again. The alternative is simply not an option.

"Parenting is serious business. It brings out the best and the worst in us. It demands that we confront our brightest and darkest selves." 

And when we do choose to participate in that confrontation, the beauty that is formed out of the shattering of the 'false' self is breathtaking... and so completely unexpected. 

The letter came a couple of weeks after my crisis of identity last November. At first reading I was convinced it was a scam, one of those seemingly magical deals that hook you in and later reveal all the damning fine print.

It was a purported initiative from the 'Emma's R&R Awards Team' and I was the lucky winner of a (very generous) treatment voucher for the Peninsula Hot Springs, a dinner for three at The Epicurean in Red Hill and a night away with Dave at Mantons Creek Estate. It turns out that the incredible girls of Open House (thanks to Kerrie-Anne's exceptional organisation) had secretly pitched in to send me off for some relaxation and recuperation time!

There is something very humbling about accepting such generosity. I would vascillate from feeling anticipation and excitement to being overwhelmed that people would contribute towards such an amazing experience for me. As the holidays continued and I again had the benefit of Dave's help and assistance with the kids, I began to feel as if there were so many more deserving recipients that could do with recharging and guilt reigned.

At the same time, I knew that to waste such a once in a lifetime opportunity by being mired in self-doubt would be to squander the benevolence of kind-hearted friends, so I chose to be in the moment and just go with it!

I felt like I may as well be the owner of a yacht as I slipped on the white robe and tiptoed down the corridor for my treatment. Apart from an awkward native smoking ceremony that had me repeating to myself with a poker face 'turn off your brain, just turn it off!', the remainder of the massage was very therapeutic. I can't even remember the last time I have been able to lie still during the day for more than a couple of minutes, let alone over an hour with someone actually attending to me and using expensive products on my skin. It was bliss. When I met up with Naomi after the treatment, I was thoroughly relaxed. 

The best part of the day was being able to kick back and relax with fellow friends and mothers. Naomi, Monica and Kerrie-Anne all joined me for various parts of the day, and it was rejuvenating being able to have deep conversations without interrupting ourselves constantly to bark orders or tend to the seemingly desperate pleas of our children. We wandered through antique warehouses, indulged in expensive starters at The Long Table, sampled a large assortment of cheeses from Red Hill Cheese, lounged on the chesterfield couches at Mantons Creek Estate and enjoyed a sumptuous feast at The Epicurean for dinner.

We discussed philosophy, theology, our wayward (or uptight) youth, idiosyncrasies of our children, marriage, babies, friendship, the Enneagram, dairy farming practices and countless other issues. I'm beginning to realise that friendship of this depth isn't actually that common and it must be pursued and reinforced by vulnerability and authenticity of both parties. We are each so different in our outlooks on numerous areas of life, but our commonality isn't derived from similar views, but by our shared experiences and values in the fundamentals.

 

After our epic feast, Dave joined me at the accommodation, having soloed the kids the entire day and put them to bed ready for his parents to perform the overnight (and morning) shift. We had the entire Lodge to ourselves but ended up crashing pretty early as a solid night's sleep sounded pretty alluring to both of us. Morning came, and with it an entirely brisk climate, though we still managed to enjoy a fresh breakfast on our balcony overlooking the leafy vineyards. We made the mistake of calling the kids on our way to Mornington and Eli's morose pleas for us to come home were hard to shake off. We still made time for a visit to the Coffee Traders and a mandatory jaunt through an op shop before making our way back to the chaos zone. 

Perspective is such an elusive thing. While I was enjoying the peace and freedom of a day with the girls, it was hard to even recall the tough side of the everyday struggles with the fragile emotions of young children and their shifting demands. As soon as morning hit, it was difficult to just kick back and enjoy the break, knowing that we were homeward bound just made me want to get back early to surprise the kids. Their 'phone voices' just sounded so little and fragile, and every conversation just made me teary.

Then, deep in the chaos of nap time that afternoon, with kids popping in and out of each others' rooms like yo-yo's, I had the opposite problem. How far away those soothing hot springs felt, with people just lying back on their banana lounges and relaxing. Where signs requiring limited noise actually beheld obedience and where leisurely conversations could be entered and continued at length. Did I squander my opportunity by heading home early?

And yet, despite the unpredictability and anarchy of these four walls, it is good to be home. To be in the zone of intense significance again, where keeping kids alive is the main game. If heading off to the spa or to a long lunch was something I had the freedom to indulge in daily, I suspect it would hold a fraction of the meaning and rejuvenation that it had for me at this stage of my life. And the fact that my friends were willing to gift such an experience and opportunity, while it still makes me squirm, is one of the most overwhelmingly incredible realities, and the thought of it will hopefully get me through many crazy moments this year. Because it means I have company on this journey. That fellow friends and mothers 'get' the struggle and are walking it alongside of me. That, more than any sensory experience, has had an incredible impact on my soul.