You Stupid Girl!

• February
• 3

The Friday Files continue …

One weekend afternoon, as was her habit, Mum went to visit her parents, leaving the kids in my care. I would have been 14 or 15 at the most.

That week she’d advertised some items for sale in the newspaper, and I’d heard all about how vital the money was to us and how it would get us out of a tight spot financially.

So when the phone rang and a young couple wanted to come and see the coffee table we’d advertised, I agreed for them to stop by. Yes, it probably wasn’t the wisest thing I’d ever done – inviting strangers into our home – but I was young and naive, and felt secure in my own home with all four of us children, and besides, I knew how desperately Mum wanted to sell these items.

I was delighted when the couple agreed to buy the piece and gave me a personal cheque, and could hardly wait until Mum got home to present her with the money and give her a lovely surprise.

So you can imagine my shock when the response I got, was anything but what I was expecting. Instead, Mum immediately launched into a tirade about how stupid I was, not only for letting these people come to our home in her absence – but mostly for accepting a personal cheque! Didn’t I know how risky that was, that they weren’t worth the paper they were written on? That it could bounce and then we’d be left with nothing – no money, and no coffee table either?

To prove her point she dragged me downstairs (probably by the hair) and into the car, and drove me to every business that she could find that was open on a sleepy Sunday afternoon. I was hauled into a chemist shop, sobbing, as she tried to pay for an item with a personal cheque. Of course they refused, which led Mum to continue her tirade about what a stupid, thoughtless girl I was.

The pharmacist and his assistant looked stunned by my mother’s angry display, and the tearful teenager she’d manhandled into the store. (It was certainly not the first time! My mother was the one that you saw in the supermarket, screaming at her child and telling her how stupid she was, then complaining loudly to the checkout operator that what had she ever done to deserve such a wilful, disobedient, annoying child!).

No wonder I needed counselling, prayer and a lot of love to rebuke the messages of my childhood … “you stupid girl”, “a millstone around my neck”, “vague”, “scatter brained”, “ditzy” … the list goes on …

What were some of the negative messages you received in your childhood?

Pardon?! (or … Life with a hearing impairment)

• January
• 31

“Sorry love, what did you say?” I asked my husband for about the tenth time that day.  No wonder he complained that I never seemed to hear him! 

To be honest, it was starting to lead to some tension between us, as he felt I suffered from “selective hearing loss” – aimed solely at him.  His feelings were hurt, because I no longer seemed interested in what he had to say!

But the truth was, unless I was looking directly at him, I really couldn’t distinguish what he was saying. If he had his back to me, or was in another room, or there was background noise such as the television, try as I might I just couldn’t catch what he was saying.

Aware of his hurt and anxious to please, I tried to compensate. Whenever he spoke I would concentrate with all my might, to no avail.  Sometimes I cheated and pretended that I heard – but more often than not, I was caught out when I gave a totally unrelated response!

Lawrence also quickly realised that my non-committal “mmm – hmmm” was an attempt to mask the fact that I had absolutely no idea what he was saying, but didn’t want to let on!

 So I made an appointment to have my hearing checked.  Keen to solve the mystery, Lawrence came along too, and it is just as well that he did or he would NEVER have believed the verdict! 

“Well, the good news is your hearing is pretty much perfect!” announced the specialist, before continuing: “The bad news is, there is one particular frequency where your hearing does drop out.  It’s around this certain number of hertz. You can hear perfectly above this frequency, and just as well below it, but there is one particular pitch that you cannot hear.”

 “What sort of noises have that hertz?” asked my husband (you can tell he used to be in the sound team at our church!) 

“Oh, things like a truck motor idling … and men’s voices!”

We were flabbergasted! Because I am a hay fever and sinus sufferer, over time the blockage of my sinus and nasal tubes has also interfered with the ear canal, resulting in the “dead spot” in my hearing.

Now that we are aware of what the problem is, we are learning to work around it.  Lawrence is much more patient with me now that he knows that I’m really not ignoring him deliberately!  

Sometimes our hearing of God’s voice gets a little blurred too. It could be that there are distractions like the constant noise of the TV or radio.  Maybe we aren’t paying proper attention – we need to look at His face to really catch what He is saying! 

Sin, like a big lump of wax in our ear canal, can block our hearing too.

Or it could be that we are not in the same “room” as He is – you know what they say, if you feel that God is far away guess who moved?!

“ … Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening” 1 Samuel 3:9

Jekyll and Hyde (aka my Mum) …

• January
• 27

The Friday Files continue …

“Sometimes my mother would be friendly.  And then – snap! – she would turn it off, and I’d think, ‘What did I do?’”  – Victoria Secunda, When You and Your Mother Can’t Be Friends.

Perhaps if you’ve a read a few of my posts, you may have an impression of my mother as an altogether nasty and horrible piece of work.

In actual fact, she could be charming and bubbly. She was a wonderful raconteur, amusing and entertaining – the life of the party!

When she was in a good mood, we children would often beg her to tell us stories of when we were small. No matter how many times we’d heard them before, we could never get enough! At times I did feel we had an almost normal relationship. As a teen I would often help her prepare dinner, peeling potatoes and the like, and we’d chat.

Mum was usually at her best in company – vivacious, witty, full of energy and laughter.

But like Jekyll and Hyde, she  had two personalities – one the charming sanguine, the other, angry and violent. Her abrupt changes of mood were usually reserved for family or very close friends. (Not surprisingly, that usually spelt the end of the friendship!) Little wonder I felt nobody would believe me if I told them what really went on behind closed doors.

The odd person who DID learn the truth was quickly expunged from our lives. This ensured that we children were isolated, with nobody on our “side” to understand, support or protect us. The odd time they tried, they got nowhere and only succeeded in enraging my mother further. We felt very alone.

A couple of times my friends were exposed to Mum at her worst. My best friend (even today, now that we are in our forties) came to visit after school one day when we were in Year 12, and as Mum was out for the day, we decided to start making dinner as a surprise – roast chicken with all the trimmings.

Once again, I’d got it wrong. Mum was furious when she got home, to find dinner already in the oven. I can’t remember why. Maybe she had some other meat defrosted that she intended to use that night. Maybe I’d wasted a meal that she’d intended for some special purpose. But I can’t help wondering if it was because such an action revealed my growing capabilities, and that I was becoming more and more independent. She ranted and raved, not even caring that my friend was present.

My poor friend didn’t know what to do – she had never seen anything like this. She was horrified, and watched helplessly, with tears pouring down her face. As soon as she could she telephoned her parents to come and pick her up – and refused to set foot in my childhood home again. I couldn’t really blame her. I wouldn’t have set foot in it again either if I had been given the choice!

Another classic example of the Jekyll and Hyde scenario occurred when I was a 19 year old college student. A friend and I had spent a day at the beach, and decided we’d like to go out that night and meet up with some other friends. When I got home, I ran the idea past Mum. Fine, not a problem.

My friend and I had showers and were putting on makeup and fixing our hair when a completely different woman stormed in. Her face contorted with rage, Mum snarled that I was “pushing the limits”, and that I was not allowed to go out again that evening. A rational parent may have changed their mind also (but with a 19 year old?!), but instead of calmly explaining her reasons, she began to yell and scream at me. Perhaps her outburst was due to jealousy of my blossoming social life and confidence.

After scenes like that, I felt fortunate if any of my friends wanted anything further to do with me …

When is it Worship?

• January
• 24

Recently I heard a story about a large church which fired the worship team because it wasn’t “professional” enough. 

Instead, the church employed professional musicians to play at the Sunday services.  I was flabbergasted!  Although the quality of the music may have improved dramatically, if it wasn’t led by Christians, I doubt that it could truly have been called “worship”.

So what IS worship?  Lately I have been challenged to re-examine its meaning and role in my life.  Perhaps like me, you have been limiting “worship” to singing in the Sunday morning service, or perhaps during your own personal prayer time.

One Christian author, Cheryl Forbes, defines worship as “a service of praise and adoration” and that acts of worship may range from singing hymns, to doing our best at our studies, housework, job …  kinda reminds me of Colossians 3:23 (NIV) – Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men.

Whatever you do … If worship is whatever I do with my whole heart, as unto the Lord, then I am not just worshipping when I sing in church, or even when I am ministering to other women through writing or preaching. It is when I am pegging out the washing, cleaning the toilet, doing the grocery shopping, paying a bill, preparing agenda or minutes at work, or phoning a friend!

Today I challenge you to explore the wider meaning of the word “worship”! Are you living life to the utmost, for the glory of God?    

“Even flinging fries at McDonald’s can be an act of worship if we’re doing it for the glory of God” – Greg Laurie

Not Speaking

• January
• 20

The Friday Files continue …

Although Mum could be vivacious and bubbly when she chose to be, if you ever got on her wrong side then she would hold a grudge – for life.

For as long as I can remember, we were never on speaking terms with our neighbours.  This seemed unfair to me, especially seeing as a couple of them had children my age. But I was never allowed to talk with them over the fence, let alone play with them.

The one exception was Helen from across the road, my mother’s best friend. One of my earliest childhood memories is of the first moon landing in July 1969. Helen and Mum were glued to the TV set, and I remember being distinctly annoyed that Playschool was not on. I was all of 2 and a half!

Helen had two boys roughly the same ages as my sister and I, and we often played together. Our mothers must have still been friends when I was in Grade 3, because I was unable to attend one of the boy’s birthday parties as I had come down with the mumps. Mum must have felt sorry for me because she presented me with my first set of knucklebone jacks and taught me how to play. (Yes, I do have some happy memories of my Mum but unfortunately they are few and far between).

The friendship turned sour not long afterwards and Mum and Helen never spoke again.

“Not speaking” was quite common in my childhood.  Mum made friends easily, and like a school girl she would quickly have a new favourite. They would became “flavour of the month”, but sooner or later they all fell out of favour - and it was never pretty.

Celia was another single mother that my Mother met when I was about 18 and at teacher’s college. At the time my Mum was also studying, completing her Senior Certificate. Celia had a daughter, Charlotte, who was about eight. Celia mollycoddled Charlotte, her only child, and was extremely overprotective, and for some reason Mum seemed to think this style of parenting was worth copying. Needless to say my sisters and I found it extremely annoying, especially as we were quite a lot older than Charlotte! But again, within a year or two, Celia and Charlotte disappeared from our lives (much to our relief !).

There was even a stage where Mum refused to speak to her own parents for a couple of years. My parents were still together, so it must have been before I was ten years old. One day we came home from an outing to find a note from my grandmother and some pawpaws from her garden, waiting by the door. The olive branch worked and my grandparents were back in our lives.

Mum had a love/hate relationship with her mother. Although she would often complain about her, and grumble of how her brother was always given preferential treatment ever since they were small, they would talk on the phone nearly every day, and Mum would visit her every weekend when I was in my teens. Looking back on it now I’m nearly certain my grandmother also suffered from bipolar disorder; I know that she suffered more than one nervous breakdown and was hospitalized at least twice during my mother’s teenage years.

This photo was taken when I was 16. My mother used to laugh and joke about it and call it my “dying swan” look. Can you see the misery in my eyes, the fear and despair in my body language? How puffy my eyes are from weeping?

Mum had a friend in Melbourne, an elderly Salvation Army lady called Gladys. When Gladys came to Queensland on holidays, she stayed with us for several days. During this time Mum had one of her outbursts (I have no idea why). In this photo you might be able to see the wound beneath my eye, from the ring she was wearing when she backhanded me across the face. 

I could tell that Gladys felt sorry for me, as she was extra nice after that. She took this photo and sent it to me once she returned home. Not surprisingly, that was the end of her friendship with my Mum. Gladys tried to help, and I’m sure she prayed for us. I’m grateful for that.

Friendly Fire

• January
• 17

Friendly Fire: Fire that inadvertently kills or injures an ally …

Is it just me, or has there been a lot of infighting amongst the major political parties over the past couple of years?

Of course the most obvious example is when we suddenly found ourselves with a new prime minister WITHOUT an election. How on earth did that happen? I’m sure that’s a question Kevin Rudd was asking himself!

The attack came from within his own community: the Australian Labour Party. A group of people, united by a common belief, passion, and shared vision; like-minded; who had worked closely together for years. Yet despite their unity, their close-knit community – those in the Party turned on one of their own.

Whatever we may think of Kevin Rudd, I think we can all sympathise with the position he found himself in – being attacked by one of his own community, one of his closest colleagues. Sadly, it sounds a lot like the church!

Here we are, united by a common belief, passion, and shared vision; like-minded; working together closely for the Kingdom of God, sometimes for years. Yet despite our unity, our close-knit bond – we can be hurt and wounded or even worse, by one of our own.

It is a sad fact of life that we are all too familiar with “friendly fire” within the church. In case you haven’t worked it out (and I’m sure you have if you’ve been a Christian longer than 5 minutes!): CHRISTIANS WILL HURT YOU. Those who are supposed to love you best, will cause some of your deepest wounds.

I remember the time I was at a women’s gathering many years ago. Four of my friends began planning to meet for coffee and a movie the following week. But they didn’t even look at me, or invite me to join them, although I was sitting right there! I will never know if the oversight was intentional or not. They probably wouldn’t even recall the incident if I was to mention it now. But I went home and bawled my eyes out!

Have you ever been ripped off by a Christian?  Paid them money and received a shoddy deal in return?  It happens all too often – and yes, it’s happened to me and my husband more times than I care to count.

Overcoming friendly fire is one of the most difficult situations we face as Christians. It’s so much easier to understand when we are attacked by those outside the fold, when we are being persecuted for His sake (John 15:18). But when the injury comes from within – it hurts all the more! How can we ever recover?

Perhaps somebody in your church family has spoken harshly to you; spread gossip about you; “kept” (stolen) something of yours; or “used” you in some way. Somehow, we expect more from a fellow follower of Christ, a “family member”. But as Matthew 10:36 reminds us, our enemies will often be members of our own household!

Have you ever been hurt by “friendly fire”? How did you recover?

Estranged

• January
• 13

The Friday Files continue …

So how did our relationship break down irretrievably? I tried soooo hard to make things work. I wanted to be a good Christian girl! I wanted to honour my Mother!  But like any relationship, it takes two. And one of us just wasn’t cooperating …

The first period of estrangement occurred when I left home at 19 after a huge family argument. Understandably, there was no contact for over six months.  But I felt guilty, and initiated contact when I had just become engaged and felt it was the right thing to do, to a: have contact and b: tell her about my engagement.

Our relationship was strained for the next 3 years, until the run-up to my wedding  (to my darling Lawrence - I broke off the first engagement – thankfully realised I was on the “rebound” from my difficult home life before I made a very big mistake!).

Lawrence and I decided to pay for our wedding ourselves.  When it came time to send out the invitations, I asked both my Mum and her current husband, and Dad and his partner. 

All my life I had been forced to “choose” between them (Mum usually won out, after all, she was the parent I lived with), but I was sick of it.  It was MY wedding, and I was the one paying for it, so the time had come to be assertive once and for all.  I invited both, and told them both that they were my parents, I loved them both, I’d invited them both, and THEY had to sort it out.  Greatly offended, Mum refused to come to the wedding.

In hindsight this was probably a good thing, because heaven only knows what trouble she would have stirred up if she’d actually turned up.  When the Big Day dawned I couldn’t help but wonder if she would put in an appearance at the ceremony at least.  I just couldn’t fathom a parent staying away from such a momentous occasion.  I still can’t!  But sure enough, she didn’t come.  After that intial thought early in the morning, I was too busy,  happy and excited to give the matter another thought and it wasn’t until during our honeymoon that my new husband and I discussed her boycott.  Although there was some lingering sadness, overall I was relieved.

It wasn’t until months or even years later that I heard about what Mum did to my brother.  At 16, he was the only one still living at home.  We’d asked him to be a groomsman and my mum told him that if he went to “that” wedding, that he needn’t bother coming home!  My brother had a lot more guts than I would have at that age, and not only came to the wedding but never once let on the turmoil he went through to be there.  He ended up staying with my sister and her husband that weekend.  It took a lot of courage for my brother to do that and keep it to himself, not wanting to spoil our day. Bless his heart!

All was quiet for several years, until around Mother’s Day 1993.  Mum rang me at work, and said something along the lines of, “This is ridiculous, let’s try again”.  I was so happy to know that she cared, I went out to the tea room and bawled my eyes out.

However, I now think it was more part of her act to play “happy families”.  Her motivation was to put on a good front at her wedding (Number 4!) a couple of months later, and have all her children there.

Again, things were strained.  First off, she blamed ME that she didn’t come to her wedding which really, really annoyed me. Hey, she received an invitation - if she didn’t come, whose fault was it really?!  But, I held my tongue, thinking “anything for peace”. I desperately wanted this relationship to work out this time but it was very, very hard.

In February 1994, I was six months pregnant with our first child.  Mum rang one day, and Lawrence answered the phone.  He had a quick chat with her, saying “Janet can’t talk for long, we’re going over to her Dad’s today…..” which was like waving a red rag at a bull.

By the time I got on the phone she was in full rant and rave mode.  I don’t know if it was the pregnancy hormones or what, but I snapped.  I just couldn’t take it anymore so I told her exactly what I was feeling.  Not surprisingly she hung up and that was that.

I sent her a birth announcement when my son was born, and got the plainest, cheapest card in return, just signed “Mum and A (her husband)” – nothing else written on it.

All was quiet for a few more years, when one day I picked up the phone, and again, it was Mum wanting to renew contact.  I sighed deeply, and as gently as I could, tried to tell her that I just couldn’t handle it anymore.  My heart just ached.  A lot of my anger had dissolved by this time, as I consciously tried to forgive her.

Calling out to God silently for help,  I remember saying something along the lines of “I don’t think it’s for the best.  We just seem to hurt one another”. What I was REALLY thinking, was YOU are always hurting ME and for the sake of my own sanity I just can’t do this anymore!  Once again, I found myself listening to a dial tone.

It was the last time I ever spoke to my mother.

Feeling Old and Tatty?!

• January
• 10

I’ve had the same Bible for about fifteen years now, and it’s looking quite a bit the worse for wear.

When Miss 15 was just a bub, she ripped out the front pages (Genesis starts at Chapter 18!); the front cover has fallen off completely and been reattached with sturdy duct tape; and it’s faded, with the pages creased and curling up at the corners.

However tatty it looks though, I don’t want a new one! My Bible has become an old and dear friend. Years of constant use means that I know exactly where to find things when I need them. Scriptures that have been particularly meaningful to me are marked with highlighter, while some passages are underlined. There are explanations and prayer requests scribbled in the margins, and sermon notes on the flyleaf.

To anybody else it might look old and tattered, but if anything it is even more valuable to me than it was when I first bought it and it was shiny and new. A new Bible just wouldn’t be the same!

At a recent Footprints meeting, the girls (okay maybe we’re not “girls” anymore as not one of us is under 30!) were discussing some of the side effects of ageing.

I revealed to the other Team Members that lately I have been feeling a bit “old and tattered”. Everywhere I look – on the street, on TV, in magazines – are the “beautiful people” and the gap between me and them is only growing wider.

Now I’m 45, my skin has lost its youthful glow and there are a few lines and wrinkles appearing. I have a new crease above my mouth, especially when I first wake up in the morning.

My tummy has the dreaded middle-age spread; I’ve developed tuckshop lady arms.

And it seems each time I look in the mirror there is a new grey hair, sparkling defiantly at me!

But as I sat with my Bible in front of me that day, I felt God whispering to me that although I may be showing signs of wear and tear, I definitely haven’t outlived my usefulness either!

In fact just like my precious Bible, He has poured His grace, wisdom and love into me. No matter how I may be feeling or looking, I know that I am treasured – by my God, by my husband, by my children, by my friends and by my readers – and I am blessed!

PRAISE GOD there is no such thing as old and tatty in His Kingdom!

Proverbs 16:31 (The Message): Gray hair is a mark of distinction, the award for a God-loyal life.

Why wasn’t I told?

• January
• 6

The Friday Files continue …

So how DID I find out about my mother’s death, so long after the event?

Ah, the wonders of the internet!

Actually I’d been googling my grandmother (at left in photo below, giving my sister a bottle – I’m the toddler, the woman on the right is my great grandmother, with my dad at the back. Circa 1969).

I knew she would be 96 if she was still alive. I wondered if she had passed away and was looking for a death or funeral notice. Just idle curiosity really. So imagine my shock when I saw a funeral notice listing with “dearly beloved daughter of B” (not a common name) … hastily I clicked on the link and scanned the text in front of me …

X, aged 62 years, of —. Passed away peacefully (date) February, 2007 at — Hospital. Dearly loved wife of A, beloved daughter of B and loved sister of C. Relatives and friends are respectfully invited to attend a Service of Thanksgiving for X’s Life to be held at 2 p.m. on  — February, 2007 in the — Church, — Street, —–. Private Cremation Special thanks to the staff at — Hospital and — Nursing Centre and her church family for the love and care shown to X.

I sat staring at the screen, trying desperately to compute and understand what I had just read.

Then the dates hit me. So long ago!!!!! Stunned, I turned around in my chair to face the rest of my section (I was at work at the time) and they must have seen something in my face because straight away one of my colleagues asked if I was all right.

Gasping for air, I finally choked out the words: “My Mum …. Died ……” and the floodgates opened. Despite our estrangement, despite the pain, despite everything, I was devastated. Why? Because at the end of the day, she was still my Mum.

I have since found out that it was my mother’s express wishes that my siblings and I *not* be told …

However I can’t help  being angry with my uncle. My grandmother is in a nursing home with dementia so I can’t blame her. I’d only met that particular stepfather two or three times so we’d never had a close relationship. But my uncle … that was different. Surely once the funeral was over … After a few months passed by …

Or most definitely, when my cousin – his son – made contact via Facebook and realised that my siblings and I *still* didn’t know about my mother’s death, about a year before I did actually stumble across her funeral notice on the Net!  At the time my cousin suggested that we make contact with our maternal grandmother, as she was in a nursing home and poorly – we hadn’t seen her since the final falling out with Mum. I considered it seriously but ended up letting my cousin know that I thought it wasn’t appropriate with things the way they were with my mum. I closed my email by saying, “Besides, I can hear my Mum’s comments now – you only want to see her so you can get into her Will!”

I can only imagine his face when he read that, knowing she’d been dead for years!

I was saddened to hear that it was my mother who didn’t want us to know. Over the years, I had come to a place of forgiveness and although we no longer had contact, I sincerely wished only the best for her. And I had hoped, that somehow, she would have felt the same for me …

Obviously not.

It was a double blow to know that not only had my mother died, but that she had remained bitter and angry right to the very end. I don’t think too many people can say that their mother hated them!

For years I thought it was my fault … nowadays of course I know better. No matter what I did, if we had stayed in contact, if I had done everything that she had wanted and turned my life upside down to meet her slightest whim, I would NEVER, EVER have pleased her. So it really was for the best that I cut her out of my life so many years ago.

It was not a decision that came easily. I’m a Christian - HOW could my relationship with my own mother have broken down so irretrievably? I was burdened by guilt and shame.

It didn’t help when people judged me and thought I should have “tried harder”. Whenever that happened, I reminded myself of one crucial fact: THEY’D NEVER MET MY MOTHER. Nor did they have to live with her!

Next post I will share about how and why I finally cut ties with my mother … and why I believe that sometimes, it is the best thing to do.

(By the way, I *love* comments – so don’t be shy!)

Priceless!

• January
• 3

Some of the very special gifts I have received from my husband over the years …

The thought, love and meaning behind each gift – PRICELESS!

My husband is a champion in the gift giving department. Long term readers of Footprints magazine may remember how he gave me “The Perfect Gift”  one birthday, long before we were married.

At the time I was a bit disappointed that the two outdoor chairs for my front patio, were not the diamond ring I had been hoping for! But …  those chairs became our favourite spot for a cuppa and a chat … so really, the gift that he gave all those years ago was so much more than two outdoor chairs. Lawrence gave us the gift of communication, vital to any healthy relationship or marriage.

Lawrence just seems to have a knack for thinking of a gift that is especially meaningful to me. Sometimes it may seem a peculiar present to others, but not to us. One Valentine’s Day he surprised me with a new iron. This may seem the ultimate chauvinistic gift to some, but at the time we were really strapped for cash and he knew how much our old iron was annoying me. A new iron made my life so much easier, and I really hadn’t been expecting a gift for Valentine’s at all!

Sometimes, the gifts are for no reason. I was feeling quite low and lonely a few years ago, as Lawrence had exams coming up and was overwhelmed with study. Despite the pressure he was under, Lawrence picked up on the feelings I was struggling to hide and brought home a very special gift – Sophie Snuggles! Sophie is a large stuffed puppy, which he explained was to keep me company and give me somebody to cuddle on those long nights when he had to study. Awwwww!

One Christmas, he gave me a reading lamp and three crossword and word puzzle books. He had taken notice weeks earlier when I’d made a passing comment about how difficult I was finding it to read in the lounge room. Now I had my own little corner of the lounge where I can read or do puzzles with ease. Heaven!

Lawrence isn’t perfect – after nearly 22 years of marriage he still hasn’t learnt that dirty socks go in the laundry basket! – but I really treasure the way he makes me feel so loved and adored all year round, but especially on birthdays and other special occasions. It’s a real gift (pardon the pun)!

Can’t wait to see what he comes up with for my birthday this week!