I'm standing in my kitchen trying to escape from the carnage surrounding me. Hudson and Eli are tearing around the house, playing some form of chasing game to which Eli is endlessly outlining the rules. Ivy is cackling at them hysterically, thinking they are hilarous. I'm annoyed and angry.

This afternoon it was my turn for Kinder duty. I roped in my Mum to help out with Ivy and Hudson, thinking it would help if I subbed them in and out, rather than trying to solo the lot. It turned out that they would be the least of my worries.

I'm not sure why this happens, but whenever I volunteer to help out in a group of kids in which Eli is present, it turns into a disaster. His face becomes shadowed with surliness and the darkness consumes him. For the most part he just did naughty things right in front of me, skipping to the front of the library line and refusing to wait like everyone else, stepping purposefully into the 'Staff Only' section, stomping around after me while I was cleaning, trying to hit me, and saying 'No!' loudly, every time I admonished him. There were no clear options for sending him to 'Time Out' and I wasn't even sure if I should be disciplining him in the midst of the Kinder structure. Suffice to say, it was a disaster.

In the midst of it all, Hudson was helping himself lavishly to sunscreen, and de-robing his upper half, and I barely managed to clean up one table before deciding it was high time to escape early with a shred of dignity (barely) attached. Dave ducked down to herd us all to the car, though even with his help, and our brother-in-law Ivan ushering us to the carpark, it was still a sorry sight of Eli's tears, screaming and barely suppressed anger. Seriously, how can it be that even OUTNUMBERING the kids, we still lost!? To make matters worse, Ivy was overtired and wailing in Mum's arms and when all limbs were finally buckled in, the entire 25 minute trip home was accompanied by a constant, ear piercing banshee shriek. The heightened atmosphere did not lend itself to peaceful, nap-inclined children when the garage door clanged shut.

It would be so nice if my children would cooperate with my subconscious desire to be seen as a 'capable mum'. At home, parenting is more of a known quantity. There are rules, routines, activities and expectations that, on the whole, seem to be adhered to. Whenever I have to straddle the experience of parenting in an external space, however, I fluctuate wildly between wanting to make sure I'm 'seen' to be doing a good job as a mum, and actually 'being' a good mum for my kids. Often the actions attached to those desires are poles apart, depending on the particular pairs of eyes surveying the drama. Even in family gatherings I've gone home simmering when (well-meaning) Aunties and Uncles feel it is their duty to step in and 'tame' our kids, despite my presence a mere two feet away.

Even today, it probably didn't help that I went into 'capable mum' mode, helping children find their library bags and tuck their books inside, sweeping sand off floors and washing brushes. Eli's expectations for my visit were clearly slightly different to my enacted reality. The invisible strings were pulling me too tight in either direction and I ended up dangling helplessly in the middle somewhere.

The kind of mother I'd like to be is calm, fun, carefree, creative, patient, spontaneous and one who laughs easily. The reality is often more like tightly wound, controlling, easily upset, frustrated and too busy 'doing' rather than 'being'. I'd really like to get better at that second quality. 

Man, this mum thing is such a brutal and constant lesson in examining and processing your most vulnerable fears and insecurities. Lucky it seems that the kids are too young to fully realise the depth of my emotional wrestles. At the moment the boys are playing outside on the wet trampoline, shrieking with glee, probably stark naked again. Ahh well. At least they will have some happy memories from today.

Last night I made the decision to fish out my old journals and peruse them. Wow. It is hard enough reconciling who you think you are from the limited memories that haven't been swept from your mind in the tired haze of parenthood, but reading the words that 'younger you' wrote more than 10 years ago... that's pretty hard to ignore.

Some of it is hilarious in its naivety but also sobering in what it reveals about the former 'me'. I was pretty much the world's worst flirt it would seem, as page after page is dedicated to the interactions I pursued with the males in my life. Elation at being noticed, complimented, pursued... then the flip side of being devastated, frustrated, depressed when those interactions didn't go to plan, or when teenage relationships couldn't stand up to the lofty ideals I had levied upon them.

As I progressed through high school to university, it didn't get any rosier.... my insatiable need to be noticed and adored broke out at every opportunity. Even when in the midst of a (fairly taxing) committed relationship, the pages of my journal spoke excitedly of (platonic) liaisons with other guys and of the self-worth I gleaned from these experiences. Damningly, I wasn't completely unaware of my flaws, even to the point that I embraced the descriptor of 'flirt' and feigned puzzlement when the other parties attempted to bring things to the next level. Unfortunately, I would have left a trail of confused hearts in my flippant wake, failing to appreciate the depth of character beyond the flirtatious reception I enjoyed. Should any of those (assumedly now whole) hearts be reading this, I am unreservedly sorry for my glib behaviour.

When the aforementioned relationship ceased amidst a web of mismatched expectations, values and callings, the resulting fall-out moved me to passionately declare the next six months to be a 'guy free zone'. What I really meant by that was that I wanted to be free to be single again, and not to feel the pressure of having to consider marriage at my tender age of 18. But then I met Dave.

It couldn't have been better timing for his entry... and my reform. Three days after we first began to hang out (as friends) he 'laid his cards on the table' and declared I matched his ideal woman list. Due to my self-imposed guy fast, however, we were forced to pursue friendship instead. This arrangement delivered on all the 'thrill of the chase' moments without the pressure of escalating relational pressure. It was four months of freedom to flirt and figure out whether we were indeed an ideal match. At 1am on December 1, 2003, we made it official and have never looked back since.

Looking back at the shallow mess that I was, and the change in my journalling after we started hanging out, it is clear to me that I was able to leave behind a lot of the traits that had been crafted to mask insecurity and fear of rejection. I felt perpetually unable to delve deeper past the initial coy discovery stage, and would become paralysed with fear that someone would see the 'real' me, and walk away. Thankfully, with Dave I found the safe place to break out of that mentality, and be brave enough to let him in to witness all the mess and chaos that writhed inches below the polished exterior.

It's been over 10 years that we have been married now, and I still feel pretty lucky to have scored Dave. His drive to continually push himself to create new things and improve struggling ones jolts me out of my pull to maintain routine and bury my head in the day to day tasks. His 'hobbies' are reading philosophy texts and wrapping his head around the intricacies of virtue ethics and the power of communities in shaping values. In some ways, though, my own vision and passion for music and creativity that was poured onto the pages has dimmed, and I'm convicted by that. I've allowed myself to settle into a one-dimensional support role, part of which is necessary to the season in which we are in, but also because it is safer and less scary than facing my own battles. In other ways, perhaps the passion has morphed into other areas, such as cooking and hospitality, which energises and inspires me and plays an important role in our community.

I still have a lot of processing to do, but I'm enjoying the prospect of figuring out the 'narrative identity' - the story that I tell myself about my own life - that will be so powerful in shaping my future thoughts and actions. Perhaps there might even be a book or two in it... I guess only 'future me' knows...

I'm devouring books whole like a ravenous beast at the moment. Philosophical fiction ('The Alchemist' - Paulo Coehlo), memoir ('Wild in the Hollow' - Amber Haines), inspirational exhortations to celebration ('Cold Tangerines' - Shauna Niequist) and last week's life changer, 'The Gifts of Imperfection' by Brene Brown. I love that each collection of pages has now been subsumed into my being and has become part of the internal library of my mind.

I breathe two lives- both rich, colourful and fulfilling- and each inform the other as I travel through, gleaning insights and riding the wave of tears when a truth penetrates deeply. Time has slowed to a plodding pace, rather than a whirlwind race and I'm noticing more of the incredible world around me.

Last week we started up a marriage course 'date night' in conjunction with Belgrave Heights Christian School and it has been so worthwhile. On the opening night, the school Chaplain and his wife got up to share some insights and tips from their relationship of twenty years. They used visual cues richly and the sight of Nick in a frilly pink dressing gown with hobbit ears is one that is unlikely to dim for a long time. Yet in the midst of the peals of laughter and moments of vulnerability, I felt a familiar ache spreading.

Open House has been so great and rewarding, but there are distinct disadvantages of starting a community with 90% of the group in the same stage of life. These days, I'm lucky to be involved in any conversation on Sunday that doesn't end quickly in "sorry, just gotta find my kids" or "excuse me again, sorry... no, you can't take your pants off here!" When exhausted eyes are mirrored back everywhere, and schedules are ruled by tired toddlers, it can feel a little like we are all thrashing our way through the same fog. The thought of families that have conquered this haze and are striding around with children old enough to scoop food onto their own plates and walk around without sustaining another head injury, does send thoughts of longing through me. Not that these magical families would even have to 'do' anything, necessarily, other than just show me that the next stage exists and is tangible...

We went on an adventure today to Heronswood, a beautiful heritage house and garden shop on the coast. Eli and Hudson delighted in playing hide and seek amongst the vine-covered tunnels and enthusiastically pointed out different vegetables ("Look, Mum, a purple cucumber!" "YELLOW raspberries!") and we somehow managed to keep Hudson from toppling down the cobble-stoned stairs. Inspiration hit in the midst of hyperactive children popping up like rabbits amongst the seedling displays, and we somehow managed to squash a large lemon tree, Tahitian lime and Valencia orange and a couple of heirloom tomato seedlings into the MPV. Passionate voices implored us to visit the beach, despite the threat of grey clouds swooping in, breathing a chilly wind over the aquamarine water. We sat on a wooden bench, overlooking the vast ocean, surrounded by hordes of squawking birds and savouring the crispy, salty chips and chicken together. Dave mused that at the very least, living by the ocean would give you incredible perspective as to your place in the world and the magnitude of some of the problems we obsess over.

Perspective. It's the word I tag all these posts with and the gold I glean from the pages. It's the tug of hope I feel when I catch a glimpse of parents further along the journey and a pivotal part of why I write in the first place. It's the spur of the moment visits that turn into deep conversations as little hands dig covertly in the dirt. It's noticing the tiny violets and the discarded, rusted reel mowers and the heady sting of salt when you take a ragged breath of air. It's pleading for the eyes to see and meeting new friends in unlikely places... and perhaps most of all, it's the sobering thought of what my parallel life might have been, had I not set off on this journey towards vulnerability and settled deeper instead into the anger and bitterness of thwarted ideals.

“Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable." - Brene Brown