Life

Black Cats and Dress Ups

I’ve just been to my little boy’s kinder disco, dressed as a cat. A black one, with some white bits included (because black and white cats are just a little bit less evil than pure black cats, wouldn’t you say?)

We advertised it as a dress-up disco, which of course would mean that upon arrival there’d be a sea of adorable little muffins dressed as Disney Princesses, Queen Elsa’s, Spidermen and all the rest of the Marvel universe— and indeed this was the case. ALL the adorable little people.

ALL the adorable escapism.

And then there were the adults. All very there for their children, and all very kind and lovely and ready to chat. But all very dressed as… Mum and Dad. I was the only one dressed as a cat (meow, by the way, thanks for asking.) And apart from the entire fundraising team, who made the effort to dress up AND run the whole thing like absolute champions…none of the other adults were brave enough to come in costume. ALL the sad faces.

I really do feel so sad about that. Not because we were the only ones dressed up and we looked silly or anything, nothing at all like that. The actual reason for my disappointment is that we’ve broken each other, us adult humans. We’ve judged too much. We’ve labelled too much. And by the time we reach adulthood, the general rule is that we are sensible and that we obey the rules of what it means to be a mature adult.

Bugger-that.

I won’t be silent on this issue any longer, guys. I just can’t—because it makes me way too cranky to think of how much we limit ourselves because of how others might disapprove. I’m going to make a vast call and say that beneath the sensible of most adults lies an authentic human being who is screaming to have just a little more fun than this. 

If you are like me, I’m sure you’ve felt this kind of pain before, and If you are like me…then let this be our war cry. Let’s choose not to care about judgment. Let’s show the ones who are a little afraid, that it’s okay to be exactly who they are.

Please don’t misunderstand me on this. I am absolutely sure that some adults really just do-not-care to dress up, and do not actually want to let the inner child off the leash. I have no judgment at all toward these people— this is them, expressing their authentic selves, and no one could ever ask more of them than that.

It’s the rest of us I’m talking about. Those of us who receive the invite to the dress up party and instantly see ourselves dressed as a Minion.

Seriously.

Let’s do this, guys. Let’s take our power back and let’s be the Minion!

Come on.

You know you want to 😛

boston terrier wearing unicorn pet costume
Photo by mark glancy on Pexels.com

 

 

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A Blog a Day in May

The Soft Girl Again

The soft girl spoke to me again.

She was quick, as usual, so quick I almost didn’t notice she’d come. But I caught her. Yes! And when I did, she spoke to me in moving pictures and silhouettes: a projected future scene, playing like a movie on the blank screen of my mind.

When her ‘flash’ of advice came I was on the couch, hugging my pink blankie and gobbling up leftover pizza. What songs might I play on my walk when it came time to brave the cold, I wondered. 80’s pop? Musical theatre? List by eclectic list rolled over in my musical mind’s eye, but a solid decision was yet to announce itself.

That’s when I heard her. Saw her.

Felt her.

And what did the soft girl whisper to me, you ask? She whispered a change of plans. Not an outright change, nothing drastic. Just a tweak. A slight nudge to move me into better alignment with the makings of a greater day. A greater me.

The soft girl showed me a vision of my walking track— the one I’d be springing along in the not too distant future, whistling up fat-armed gum trees, crunching along a pathway of pebbles grey, red, and brown.

But things were different in the soft girl’s version of events. In the soft girl’s version…I wasn’t alone. My little baby elephant— my adorably delightful five-year-old boy—had come along for the pebble crunch of it all, and it-felt-good. It felt…right.

It was that feeling, the feeling of rightness I experienced upon mentally viewing my little mister striding along beside me that confirmed it. The soft girl. Her subtle, intuitive language had whispered it’s quiet hello so that I might use it and make this life of mine better.

An hour later I walked out the front door, trailed by an ever so excited little boy. An hour after that…the two of us bounded back into the house, huffing, puffing and smiling from our Super Mario ‘star run’ down the street to home.

The soft girl got it right again today, the lovely duffer

And my goodness, I’m grateful.

person wearing shirt standing near tree
Photo by Alex Smith on Pexels.com
A Blog a Day in May

Fairies

Life is too short to dismiss the possibility of fairies.

I’ve never seen one.

And the imposter within me doesn’t even believe.

But I’ll never stop looking.

I’ll never stop pestering my children to look.

And when we find such magical lands as this…

I’ll look harder.

Ps: This is a public garden about twenty minutes from my home. Isn’t it the most beautiful place?

xx Brooke

Twelve Days of Christmas

The Twelfth Day of Christmas

On the twelfth day of Christmas, her sleeping babes warmed her heart from their beds.

What joy might tomorrow bring for them, she wondered, remembering the magic of being a child on Christmas eve.

She remembered lying in bed, listening to the lullaby of her heart, hoping and wishing to meet the morning sooner.

She remembered such lovely things—

and she smiled.

Because on the twelfth day of Christmas, the girl became a woman in love with the dream all over again.

But this time the dream was for her sleeping babes.

Sleep tight, my little ones.

Sweet dreams, until the morning finds you.

celebration christmas cup dogs
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Ps. Thank you so much for coming on this heart-filled journey with me, these past twelve days. Merry days to you all, my lovely friends. Here’s hoping the magic of the season finds you and chases you well into the new year.

xx Brooke

 

 

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Twelve Days of Christmas

Mary’s Boy Child. And Mine.

On the first day of Christmas,

all my Mum pieces melted into puddles of sun.

It was the boy child who did it.

‘Mummy!’ he shouted, the moment he saw me smiling

from my place in the front row…

where I simply had to be.

Because

I mean

how could I be anywhere but the front row when it comes to matters of him.

How proud I was of my precious little

camel.

Yep.

Bet you didn’t know there were camels at the birth of Jesus.

Well. You do now.

And today, at kinder, my little boy was one of them.

Today, for the billionth time since he became mine…

I loved that little boy.

And he, well—

He was a camel.

A camel who clung to his Mummy, so happy she came.

It was a good day, today,

this very first day of Christmas.

Yeah.

It was a really,

really

good day.

child in black jacket blue yellow old school print fitted cap riding skatebaord
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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The Darling Blog Of May

Darling Day 29: Dance.

Dinner time arrives and the darling of the day is yet to find me.

Yet to whisper its sweet melody into my ready ear.

But…wait.

Darling, in an instant?

Music blaring from the iPod dock.

The story of my youth—

The eighties in a splash of pop and rock?

YES!

Absolutely yes.

And then it all begins. The hopping, the bopping.

The chopping, the stirring.

Dinner for fun, singing as I go. (Of course!)

And the little boy I made? Well. He’s all wide eyes and wondering…

Has Mum finally lost it?

Is this the moment her scrambled brain says…

Meeeeeeeep. Booooooop. POP!

Nope. Mum hasn’t lost it, Son.

She’s just…

A little bit in love. 

With the eighties and all its wonderful SOUNDS.

Because darling is a good eighties bop along.

And darling is the way it makes you feel.

photography of a woman listening to music

The darling blog of May