Gabrielle Gassin

A mother’s musings on life

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  • Holly Clark: an AWC assignment

    “…arms come up, and exhale.” Through the slit of her left eye and with her nose wrinkled, she sneaks a peek at the laptop screen and wonders for the hundredth time if she’s doing the posture right. She’s alone in the room, inhibitions as dormant as the desire to continue with her scheduled zoom meetings for the afternoon. Living through the corona virus lockdown in Victoria has helped Holly realise two things: 1. yoga is better without other bodies to accidentally fall on and 2. she wants to be a writer.

    Holly Clark is the sort of woman you can picture nestled in a cosy cafe, cappuccino cup empty but notebook stuffed as she drafts her third journal entry for the day. At this stage, journal entries are coming out as thick as her newly feathered eyebrows – her longstanding desire to have them done finally won up against the cost. After all, she has been impassively earning a living within the marketing and public relations arena for too long to not spend a bit of that hard earned cash on herself.

    The desire to make some bank was the drive behind Holly’s choice to divert from her original path. She studied journalism at Uni and was always an ambitious student – writing her 24000 word thesis on the hashtag ‘clean-eating’ and body image representation was a simple task. She strode toward a career in writing with intention and the feedback on her thesis confirmed that choice. But alas, Holly fell into the trap that captures many graduates; work for money, not for love. She slid into a job doing marketing with a tech start up, which ticked all the boxes except the one labelled “passion.”

    The work was enjoyable enough and in this role she certainly learned a lot. Interestingly, Holly was the sole female employee for the entire two years of work there – qualifying the stereotype that we need more gender diversity in the technology sector. This might have been a novelty for the friendly geeks, but sharing a unisex toilet certainly wasn’t. Their attempt at embracing gender diversity outside of work was endearing, though “they didn’t even have enough females to run a mixed netball team.” Holly laughs as she says this – indicative of her affable personality and making it easy to believe that she made “some really strong friendships that remain today.” Her extroverted nature and full face of perfectly applied makeup was not misplaced in this male-dominated-tech-nerd workplace. “I taught them social graces and they taught me to code!” Pretty cool.

    Now, Holly’s competency in communications translates through her work as a manager within a program that brings startups and government together to solve a variety of social challenges. The work is gratifying. She likes being the bridge between different worlds and as a woman previously in tech, Holly finds joy in bringing innovation from that space into the public sector. In the last 12 months however, things changed for Holly as well as the rest of the world. She became conscious of her deeply outgoing nature, and decided that working from home was not her thing. The social gatherings at the water station were non-existent as she refilled her bottle at the kitchen sink, and her exercise routine – once a stop in at the local boxing gym, cancelled altogether. Instead, the end of her day alone saw the closing of her laptop, a quick search for her joggers and the selection of a terrifying crime thriller audiobook, in order to make her run faster.

    Horrifying crime thriller audiobooks are not the only thing that scare Holly. Despite being a proficient writer with a distinctive and amusing tone, Holly has been reticent in sharing the words she writes in her personal time. Recently however, those paragraphs have begun to make the rounds through friends and family with positive reception. As she comes to her fourth week of completing a feature writing course, her confidence to serve the world with her expressive genius will no doubt grow.

  • define: tired.

    It’s 5am and I’m considering dragging myself out of bed for a fifth time since 10:30pm. The thought of it hurts my body in a way only the very sleep deprived know how. Every inch of tissue feels like it’s had it’s own sleeping tablet; clogged in the cells, lodged. The ends of the body can’t be reached through a habitual morning stretch; they feel dull – unwilling to switch on like an ignition refusing to fire.

    My limbs are the heaviest they’ve ever been. They will not be lifted from the warmth of the covers: the fog of an early morning dream is weighing them down. My head pounds – not with the affliction of alcohol: it’s the endless minutes spent awake in the dead of night that cause my brain to weep.

    And yet, there is another day to face. Another piece of toast to butter, another load of clothes to wash. There are too many phone calls to field, too many problems to solve and not enough time to breathe. Everything continues as it does each day whilst my body and brain quietly suffer, firing not quite as quickly with emotions that aren’t quite reasonable.

    The gaze of my spouse mirrors my own, the fatigue is tangible and visible and it wounds us both. There is nothing to do but to accept the forward propulsion, and hope for salvation on another day.

  • Corona Virus Cover Up – Mask McGowan rules in favour of false positive

    It’s day three of a snap five day lockdown in Perth – glory land throughout the Covid19 saga as every other city in the world struggles to keep it under control, people dying in the hundred thousands and everyone wondering when this crap is going to end.

    Here, we have been marching along to the orders of Premier Mark McGowan: ruler of the state and upholder of persistent and strict border controls, which disallow entrants into Western Australia without a police approved pass. Perth has remained an outlier; not a single community case of transmission in ten months of mayhem… and Marky McGee is not about to let one single test stuff up his record.

    Sunday the 31st of January. Word on the street is spreading quickly; a hotel quarantine security guard has somehow contracted the Rona. Macca acts fast – all of Perth will go into five days of lockdown. People who have absolutely nothing to do with anything anywhere even remotely close to the places this infected man has visited, must shut their lives down. We have to SHUT. IT. DOWN. The super spreader’s housemates are tested…they’re negative. 600 close contacts are informed of the grave danger they have been exposed to, and they’re all tested. They are negative. Mums all over Perth are planning McGowan’s usurpation after six weeks of school holidays is prolonged by another five days of care-for-your-own-children but no parks, no playgrounds, no play dates.

    Every single western Australian is compliant. Yes sir, yes sir, how many days should we stay home for, sir? Five days he says. And masks everyone! Don’t forget your mask! DO NOT FORGET YOUR MASK! Also there is no singing allowed, anywhere at any time.

    Toilet paper is gone within hours and there is no room for walking in the supermarkets. Masks are compulsory as well as check ins for contact tracing. No mask, no entry. But never mind being pulled up by the Covid marshals – the vitriolic stares from other civilians will pierce your soul and make you feel like an outsider, if there ever was one. We won’t step a foot outside of our limits; we aren’t allowed. Yes sir, yes sir, we’ll march in line to your orders, sir. Unquestioning and unequivocally trusting, the people of western australia stand united against Coronavirus yes, but too, against both the rest of their own country and certainly the world.

    Days go by and testing numbers remain stable – negatively stable. Not a single second positive test is reported. The law abiding citizens of Perth are doing all the right things…staying home, doing one session of exercise per day and only going out for “necessities.” The people are exercising their acquiescence; masks are being worn in ridiculous scenarios – people are alone in their vehicle, masked. People are out walking, alone, masked. People are masking their children when it’s not one of the rules to do so. People are utterly compliant and their compliance is unnerving.

    The final stages of the snap lockdown creep around. We are waiting and watching for announcements to tell us we can resume our state of incomparable perfection. Unexpectedly, the negative test results keep coming and many presume a false positive from the original germ-man. We wonder what we have endured this stay-home and mask-wear rubbish for. Why have we had to keep our children home, why have the parks been taped in plastic?

    Sunday arrives and restrictions are lifted. Kids can go to school on Monday, parents can sigh a breath of relief though many still work from home – wary of being in the workplace with potential microbes hanging about.

    Some rules still apply, however. Mr. Premier wasn’t going to let us off so easy…after all he does have a façade to maintain. As we moved further away from the first “positive” case and no further eruptions occurred, the love of his people faltered slightly. There was one man who tattooed Mark’s face on his arm, but he remains the sole idiot to date. We had to continue with the mask wearing, and it became the “strictest in the country.” For one case, guys. ONE. Thousands of people had to have their breathing obstructed by a stupid piece of cotton (if you’re fancy) for two entire weeks, FOR ONE CASE. When leaving the house, babies had to look at half the face of their mother and wonder where the rest went. Confused, bemused and continually grabbing at the thing hiding mummy’s smile, their mothers wondered if kids were experiencing effects for the long term. Maybe not for just two weeks of this annoying directive, but more of this would certainly see it.

    At 12:01am on Valentines Day 2021, the mask rules were to be lifted. The Fringe Festival was on, and obtuse regulations were to be adhered to until EXACTLY one minute past midnight. At 9pm the same evening, the people were masked and not allowed to remove the sheath, unless to take a sip of a beverage. Immediately to be replaced, however and with not a moment to lose. The Mask Police were rife, lingering behind those who dared to dwell too long with their drink, or take a desperate sip of fresh unimpeded air. The Mask Law seemed more stupid than ever, when in just a few hours the people would be free to remove the face cover and continue living normally.

    And that is precisely what happened. Most of Perth were snoozing when the veil was lifted; not only the mask rule but too the pretense of rampant coronavirus in Perth. The question became clear: what is the true agenda of Premier Mark McGowan? Are his directions those as advised by the Chief Health Officer…or the polling office?

  • the nature of passing time

    I see the days falling away as my eldest child grows and changes and matures and we get closer to the end of babyhood for the littlest one. I feel a low level of stress – almost like I’ve got to meet a deadline I am unprepared for. In the little moments with each of my boys I wonder how much I’ll remember of this time… The urge to somehow capture it all consumes me, as in my mind I desperately repeat phrases, questions and gestures in an attempt to keep them all close.

    How soon Arlo has moved into boyhood, how incomprehensible is the size of his heart and his emotional mind. He’s taking on so much; the reflective and absorbent brain and its trillion firing synapses such a wonderful, beautiful thing to witness. And how careful one must be right now – the evidence of influence so obvious as his vocabulary expands and so too his understanding of the life he leads, and that which surrounds him.

    And since recognising this desire to keep something tangible, to catch the words and even the actions and store them somehow outside of me so that they are real, I have made peace with the reality that it is unnecessary to burden my heart with such a task. Instead I realise now that I must just “be” in every single second I spend in the presence of both of my boys, so that each special moment is engraved upon me, burned beautifully into my soul for all of eternity.

  • the things i want

    i want to write

    but there is no time.

    there are children to feed, a kitchen to clean and a house to keep tidy

    there is exercise to be done

    that doesn’t get done.

    there is sleep that needs to engulf a body

    but there are too many things

    clouding the list of desires

    so that all I really do in my truest reality

    is look after everybody

    but myself.

  • A mother’s lifeline.

    I’m standing at the breakfast bench typing this and my eyes are flicking to my one o’clock every few seconds. The baby monitor is in the corner there and I see a sleeping face in black and white amidst the tschhhhhhh sound of white noise. The little face is no longer sobbing; it’s been a while and he’s in a deep sleep now. Seeing that calm, peaceful face is what reminds me that having children is not entirely what I expected, but at the moment I need more reminders of the good side among the rest of the chaos, to make everything seem okay.

    The last six months has been madness. When you have a dependant infant that regularly wakes at one and two and three hour intervals, the repercussions of sleep deprivation make themselves known to your everyday existence. At a time that could be seen as “prime-of-my-life,” I have found myself sinking further and further into the well of a deep existential crisis, where time moves very slowly and there is no horizon. The clouds and the ocean meet and blend; an ominous storm seeking to stifle me – challenging me to break the shackles that bind the limbs of my mind. I feel that each day, I am simply surviving.

    I struggle to think like my well slept self. It takes my mind precious seconds to locate files, to categorise and to create. I start sentences with intention and with minor distraction find myself lost, unable to remember the target of my diatribe. There are times when it doesn’t return until much later on, once the lights are off and the friends have gone home to their full night’s rest, uncountable in number.

    Each night before bed, I manifest a reality that tonight will be the one that everybody sleeps uninterrupted and we all reunite at seven AM. And then at eleven thirty I groan inwardly, disappointed yet not surprised that nothing has changed. In the minutes that tick by between two and five am and wake up after wake up, I wonder if this will ever truly end. The sour pessimism that coats my mind is difficult to control with un-slept, unregulated emotions.

    The cries of my baby used to tear me quickly from the sheets, but now my heart does little more than drag my body upward and forward; the call of duty of a mother unyielding. The skills acquired from five months of sleep destruction are refined, even amongst the fatigue that plagues my brain. Changing a baby entirely in the dark from nappy up to sleep suit is easy. Throw a swaddle across a bed with one hand whilst safely holding a sleeping baby in the other arm? No help required. Wrap him swiftly and gently, and replace in cot…done. My body remembers exactly where to step, even in the pitch black of a room desperately encouraging consistent sleep. The stairs are not obstacles, only the wind trapped in my baby’s tummy is the true enemy.

    For some this might seem dramatic, but I’m sure there are others that know the place I frequent in the corners of my mind. Seemingly relentless, no end in sight, can’t give up, can’t have a break. Must simply go on. I am waiting for someone to rescue me, to tell me the secrets and answers, to whisper the advice that will be my salvation. As each day dawns, however, a second little boy climbing into my bed and kissing my hands and face reminds me to stand boldly up. The sun has risen, we are alive and I have two incredible children to care for. Despite how gruelling this is now, one day it will all be a distant memory, when my boys will no longer be babies. They won’t sleep in my bedroom, they won’t rely on my body to comfort, to feed and to nourish them. And then my longing will be for another realm I’m sure, though I’ll feel relief that I made it out the other side of this one. It seems that after all, like always and for ever, it is this love between mother and child that is the true lifeline.

  • Shower Thoughts

    Shower time is thinking time. And time to pause, strain my ears and wonder if I can hear a baby screaming outside or just in my head.

    Last night I pondered something that I’ve never spoken with anybody about. It’s the use of a bath towel. Usually you use your towel 2-3 times before washing it, or even more (is this just me? What is the normal amount of towel uses before washing?) however my issue is this. You dry your body with your towel. Your whole body, including your bottom and V or P is exposed to some part of the towel. You dry your face with it and in between your toes. Behind your ears. Your underarms. Then you hang it on the rack to dry, ready for use again in the morning.

    The morning comes and you do your routine. You need to dry your face again because naturally it is wet from the shower, but how do you know which part of the towel you used last night on your bot? Are you happy to dab dry your face this morning with the part of towel you used on your V or P last night? Is this like using the same chopping board for meat as for vegetables? Are we cross-contaminating here? Despite being “clean” from the showering, the skin itself carries millions of little living things on its surface. The more hidden parts of the human body even more so, and the parts that live in underwear, well…

    It would be a ridiculous luxury to fetch a fresh, clean towel for every shower, surely. Until I find a way to get around this perplexing problem, I shall remain thwarted and confused each time I shower. Will post again when a solution is imminent; am open to suggestions or advice.

    Enjoy your shower tonight!

  • The Simpson.

    I am currently in awe of a purchase we made recently, which took a long long time to occur. It’s an item that always seemed a bit haughty to me; it’s The Clothes Dryer. In the years before new neural pathways grew and I realised what a dryer would do for my time management, I would scowl upon seeing one tossing things about on a day that the sky was being blasted with sunshine. Like, what is wrong with hanging clothes outside on a clothes line, I would think. I knew the dryer made your clothes feel soft, but it was an unnecessary luxury for people who cared not for the environment and were too lazy to peg their clothing outdoors. Now, as I type these words I am serenaded by the sweet sweet sounds of The Simpsons spinning drum; its third load today. I’m 30, and I have come to my senses.

    The exact foundation of my very stern frown toward the dryer is easy to pinpoint and that location is definitely within the realms of my childhood. Our clothes line was always full and still to this day I have never seen either of my parents put a load of washing on and stick it straight in the dryer upon completion. The dryer was always an extreme last resort; used when washing had weathered the start of rain or a late winter afternoon and needed a few minutes of heat to get the damp out. It was expensive to run and “bad for the environment.” Without looking any further into this, it was my contra-dryer theory for many years.

    Recently, however, I became a mother of two, and I am all about convenience now. Any parent knows that laundry is a huge part of, um, life, when you have children, because of how feral kids can be. They play in sand, dirt, mud. They pee themselves. They poo themselves. They vomit on themselves, and you. They drop food on everything and they dribble, just to name a few of their strengths. So when we increased our household to four people, our washing naturally increased too. We needed a drying mechanism for the coming winter…and holy cow. How my life has changed since it’s arrival. Now, I cannot believe how many hundreds of hours I can look back upon, having spent WASTING my PRECIOUS time HANGING WASHING OUTSIDE, and bringing it in. No. Those days are gone, my friend, gone gone gone.

    Never again will I spend my winter minutes hanging bits and pieces outside in the snippets of sunshine, only to dash back at the onset of rain. Never again will I hang stuff outside and leave it out there for days and days due to recurrent rain and intermittent sunshine. My washing basket will never again overflow due to weeks of rain. Rain, rain, rain. Causing havoc for clothes washing slaves everywhere. But now, my life is complete. Who knew you could be best friends with a piece of machinery?

    Rant over.