I tell you, one of the most horrifying things you can do is write down where every scrap of money goes in a fortnight. Did you hear that thump? That was me hitting the floor in a faint after realising how much crap I spend my money on.

I keep all my receipts and write down the little things of life (like $3 for a Diet Coke or $3.80 for a large latte). Oy, that was an eye-opener. Yes, I could very well make my own coffee at work, and I certainly do at home or on the weekend.

The things I have to work out is: what are my *essential* luxuries, and what can I do without?

Under the heading of essential luxuries (go on, laugh at me, it’s a stupid term to use but the best I can come up with) are:

• Waxing. Seriously, I can’t work out how to wax my underarms myself without causing extreme pain, I’m allergic to those magic hair-dissolving mousses, and the hair grows back like crazy after using a razor. Other parts can go without a wax.
• Eyebrow dyeing. I am a klutz. Easier in terms of pain, shrieking and eye solution to get an expert to do this for me.
• Hair colouring. I have a weird amount of grey mixed with brown-red hair that hasn’t been its original shade for umpteen years. I’ve tried to get a professional look myself. It used to work fine before I got more than 50% grey coverage at the front, and now, oy, the mess, the horrible colour, and the waste of home-colouring kits.
• A latte now and then. Yes, I can make a coffee in a bodum or maybe instant coffee. But when it comes to the ability to perk myself up in a simple, and relatively non-fattening way, a latte is worth every bit of the $3.80 for a large cup.

So there you go.  I suppose in a way it’s a sort of cost benefit analysis. I’m not sure how to put a dollar value on intangibles like frustration over not getting the hair colour that I really want, but I can work out a cost of time cleaning up the mess of hair dye from the bathroom sink and towels and (most likely) my clothes.

The adrenaline rush that I seemed to run on for two weeks after DH died seemed to disappear. Then I became sick. The one thing that seems to make a difference between me being sick for ages and recovering well is sleep. Ah, blissful sleep! But also elusive. While I was recovering, that was when DD became ill and started coughing all night. Cue trips to the doctor trying to make myself taken seriously.

Strangely enough, when DD was given asthma medication, her coughing decreased very quickly. Not that I’m saying that I’m an expert on my child’s health.

I will refrain from going on about my work here. I come to work, I do work, I leave. I wish I had more exciting stuff to do but not in this financial climate and not under my current financial circumstances. They have me over a barrel and they know it.

I’ve gone through some more paperwork. I have to give myself a cheer every time I get another thing done. I figure no-one else will.

No?

Seriously, I *am* here. I am hidden behind the ever-expanding piles of paperwork that have grown like topsy since my DH died. I had no idea of the huge amount of work that was involved, and that’s even with a solicitor dealing with the legal side of things.

A little part of me thinks that some things have happened faster because I have got off my tush and bravely phoned some places to get the paperwork for funds releases, etc. I have a knot in my stomach each time I do this. Why? I am not going to be judged by the bank or insurance representatives and it’s their job to give me the correct forms and information. So why am I, a grown woman with a professional background, shilly-shallying around when it comes to phone conversations?

I became ill last week. Bother. Asthma came out of nowhere and hit me for six. I am not a fan of prednisone normally but hey, something that means I can breathe properly is cool by me, even if I end up putting on weight again. Fat butt versus breathing. No competition. Not even with my butt, which looks like two Poll Herefords fighting in a tent.

DD is now sick, poor little thing. After I recovered (mostly) from my endless coughing, she has now got an asthmatic cough. Typically, my darling daughter will not use an inhaler to quickly get the remedy where it can do the most good. Instead, we had to go to the doctor’s ($75) and get a prescription for a syrup solution ($16.95).

I have been counting my dollars and cents and trying not to hyperventilate at how I must budget carefully. The annoying thing is that I do not go off spending hundreds of dollars on fashion, make up, entertainment, books, travel and so on. My one trip overseas in the past few years was achievable by careful scrimping and saving and equally careful watching of euros and pounds while travelling.

I’d share my to-do list but honestly, I don’t want this blog to be used for soporific purposes. Well, any more than it already is LOL!

Yes, some days I can see sunshine and make a few jokes, and then the clouds come over and darkness descends. This afternoon was difficult for quite a while, early mornings are still hard, and Sunday afternoons are dreadful.

And bewildered, muddled, sad, angry, sad and confused again.

There’s a reason why I’ve been away for a month.

My dear husband passed away suddenly. A heart attack while he was out on a walk. For several hours I’d worried myself silly trying to find him, phoning hospitals, getting people to drive around the neighbourhood to see if he’d broken his ankle, and finally phoning the police.

Two police officers arrived. They told me. I think I screamed. Thank goodness my DD was in bed.

I had what could be seen as a day of grace before all the relatives and phone calls started. My two dear girlfriends took me to their heart and protected me from having to phone so many people. As one left, the other arrived and we companionably cleared out the fridge and freezer. A mundane task that had waited until a moment of stillness to be completed. No conversation necessary. Just hard work of sifting through yet another packet of rissoles with freezer burn.

Then there was the trip to the morgue. Apparently it isn’t called a morgue anymore, but that doesn’t make it any prettier. I have officially listed it as Canberra’s second least attractive building.

I don’t know what happened at the funeral. I sat as though in a dream or maybe a waking nightmare.

Now I am dealing with the bits and pieces and huge decisions and unwanted and useless advice that come with such tragedies. When I get myself together, I’m going to write a post about dumb things that people say too often and that are insulting or unhelpful or patronising. That can wait until another time.

In the meantime, I am working out what I am as a widow. I liked being a wife to my DH.

I remember Show and Tell from primary school days. It was one morning a week, or maybe a fortnight. Big worry each time – what would I take to school? One kid totally pwnd us by bringing her cat in a cat cage (her mum collected the cat at lunchtime so the poor critter didn’t have to deal with our love all day).

DD has show and tell at childcare, too. Or rather, had. What started off well at the start of the year became simply repetitive. Instead of children bringing something different from home, apparently they were bringing the same toy each week and trying to bring the toys each day, as well. One mother told me that show and tell took 3 hours one day. I sure hope she was exaggerating. I tried to encourage DD to take something unusual or interesting but sometimes it was yet another Dora the Explorer doll.

At some point, show and tell is designed to disintegrate into showing off, regardless of the age group.

Fabulous title, eh? For your delectation and intellectual stimulation, may I direct you to the working paper of that name by Garey Ramey and Valerie A. Ramey from the National Bureau of Economic Research, published in August 2009. (So it’s September and I’m behind in my reading. I’ve been travelling. That’s my excuse.)

This working paper looks closely at childcare usage and trends, linking twelve time use surveys from 1965 to 2007.

We argue that the increase in time spent in childcare,
particularly among the college educated, may be a response to an increase in the perceived return
to attending a good college, coupled with an increase in competition in college admissions.
Importantly, the size of college-bound cohorts rose dramatically beginning in the early 1990s,
coincident with the increase in time spent on childcare.

Increased scarcity of college slots appears to have induced heightened rivalry among
parents, taking the form of more hours spent on college preparatory activities. In other words,
the rise in childcare time resulted from a “rug rat race” for admission to good colleges.

Crikey! Then there’s page 14 which looks at Trends in Overall Time Use of Mothers.

Anyway, read through it all, including the later pages where the authors rebut the usual explanations given, including income effects and selection effects.

DD and DH are both in one piece (respectively LOL!). DD was sick while I was away. DH phoned me across several continents to ask for advice rather than phoning relatives in the next suburb (that one goes in the “go figure” basket).

I am glad I travelled and had that wonderful time with my family. I love weddings and that was one of the loveliest that I have ever attended.

… when part of your luggage is worry.

Since DD was born, I have had 4 nights away from her. Two were when she spent the night at my mother’s over Christmas and I was a suburb away. One was when I eagerly went interstate for a work matter. The other was last weekend when DD had an overnight stay with another relative.

I am heading off on a considerably longer holiday and this time it’s without DH and DD but with my family and family friends. I am really looking forward to the trip but haven’t been able to get as excited about it as I have for previous trips. I know that part of it is because I am a bit depressed and sad after some sad things happening in the past couple of months. Understandable.

But the other things pressing down on me and stopping me from skipping jubilantly? Worry, fretting and more worry. I worry that DH will not be able to look after DD adequately, even though I have written down things in the past and explained and demonstrated things. He doesn’t seem interested in listening or watching or reading. What more can I do? I honestly don’t know. I guess that he will be OK and he has a list of phone numbers of people he can phone for help and ideas, and his family can come to help out. The last time DD and I went away for 5 days interstate, we came back to a filthy house and no minor housework or chores had been done at all. I was furious and even thinking about it now gives me a hot, hard knot in the chest.

He has, thus far this year, spent nearly 6 weeks away from home due to work or hobbies. I lost count of the number of weeks away from home he spent last year or the year before. And yet here I am, spending two weeks away, and I am worrying like he has never worried. I could cheerfully bop any twit who says “Oh, it’s just mother guilt.” Mother guilt, bite me. In this day and age, this is not acceptable.

Yeah, I do carry on a bit about vegies. Something to do with ensuring my daughter has a wide range of foods in her diet and also a nice package of vitamins and minerals and roughage.

The past few nights we’ve had some more success in getting vegies into her. Sure, the vegies have mainly been peas, diced carrot and corn, and it may have only been one or two tablespoons, but hey! That’s better than none at all.

A few nights ago, she demanded three small pieces of avocado from my plate, and then ate two small slices of raw mushroom. Go figure. I doubt that will be a regular feature in her lunchbox, but I don’t mind sharing.

Next step, soup. She has a varied attitude towards soup, whether it be pumpkin soup, vegetable soup, chicken soup, or whatever.

I’ve heard there is such a thing. She is the one who has a sparkling kitchen, no grease spots on the splashbacks, no errant crumbs in the bottom of the oven, and she always remembers to wear an apron so that her clothes are similarly spotless.

She irons her husband’s shirts and he prefers the way she does it. She plans ahead and doesn’t run out of milk or bread or butter or the only type of cheese that works in a quiche recipe.

Even the plants in her garden obey her.

Sadly, that woman doesn’t seem to live around here.

Nevertheless, I’ve given it a red hot go, insofar as I can without driving myself nuts, polishing the cats, dusting my husband, and tidying my daughter into a corner. The washing up is waiting but the clean clothes have been put away. Even DH has been tidying his wardrobe.

Things have been difficult over the past 6 weeks. One of my dearest and loveliest relatives died only a week after a devastating diagnosis. Just when I thought my heart was slowly repairing, there was another unexpected death, and this time it was a lovely friend who was only one year older than me. One such death, I could deal with. Two seems more than my heart can bear at this point. Small surprise that tears have poured down my cheeks, my thoughts have spun round in circles of “what if” and “why” and “not fair”.

This evening, to soothe my hot, jangled nerves and calm my hands, I found myself calling on the rituals of women in my past. No strange teas or chants, but rather the thrifty habits that run deep in my family. Taking an old flannelette nightgown that had finally worn out at the elbows and shoulders, I methodically tore it down the side seams, unpicked the yoke, cut off the buttons for my button tin, and square by square, measuring by sight, I created a new year’s worth of soft cleaning cloths. Nothing grand here. Last year’s dusters were from an old calico sheet that I or my brothers had slept in as children, long since worn thin in the middle but too sturdy at the edges to let go into the bin.

As I tore and turned the soft fabric, my thoughts wandered. Back to my maternal grandmother who had taught this to my mother. My grandmother had grown up during the Depression and knew how to make things last, how to be thrifty and sensible, and how to have fun with a small amount of money. I smiled as I thought of how my acquaintances think that I am being “green” or “recycling” or “eco-friendly” with my funny old habits. No, dear friends, I am simultaneously saving money while connecting with my past, warming myself with memories and taking my place as another grown woman in a long line.