Weird allergies

 Look at all the glorious citrus! 

How much I love it. 

Look at the ingredients of your hand soap. Your shampoo. Your eco cleaners. Your tinned tomatoes! Your natural cola. Your hand sanitizer. 

Citrus. Citric acid. 330. 

Whatever you call it. It's everywhere. 

Like two older sisters, my citrus sensitivity has grown as I neared 50. 

Unlike them, I can still tolerate it in small doses. But, if I track like them... soon I'll have blisters inside my mouth, scabs along my hairline, whenever I'm not careful enough. 

There are perfumes I can't cope with. Which means, there are some customers I struggle to serve, because I just can't breath in their vicinity. 

We have a range of cleaning products at work, which are used depending on who is at work that day. 

I can't use the hand soap at work. 

Because of Mum, there is only ONE toilet paper we can buy. One laundry liquid. Close to only one soap. 

And then, they change the recipe / formula. 

I really hope I don't develop the nightshade allergy that runs in the family. No tomatoes. No potatoes. 😥

So, in the midst of the handwashing, always sanitise thing... I didn't. I couldn't. 

Oh, and don't get me started on cucumber and its relatives. No melons. I can eat pumpkin, once its cooked. But I'm getting less and less able to cut it myself. Nausea inducing smells. 🤢

Books as a mental health measure

I spent yesterday reading THIS MANY books! 

Now, at night, I read around the knitting and cat. 

My reading choices reflect my mental health. 

My preference, at the moment, is for non-fiction. 

History and science are my staples. 

Fiction isn't getting a look in. 

When I'm not the best, fiction requires too much effort. Too much social thinking. Thinking and empathy. And, I don't have the mental health spoons for that. 

So, I'll stick to non-fiction. 

If you see me re-reading Anne McCaffrey, LM Montgomery, or Elizabeth Goudge..  I'm falling apart. If I get to Trixie Belden, all bets are off. 

Long weekend, lots of books

I have PILES of books to read. 

But, this weekend, I am focusing on picture books. 

Yes, they are part of my job. 

I tell my teammates not to apologise when I see them reading picture books. It's part of their job, too. 

Picture books are professional reading. 

How else are you going to know that that cheerful looking cover is on a book about dementia or death? 

Or, that a simple book about a bear has the potential to make the grownup reading it cry? 

So far, four of the books have made me tear up. 

Yay?!

Inspiration from small beginnings

 As part of #BlogJune, I am posting my answers to #JuneQuestions. 

I picked today's question out of the list of potentially easier options. Because - inspiration struck. 

Who inspires you?

I hesitated choosing this question to answer. 

Who would I pick? 

A work mate (past or present)?

A mentor?

A friend?

A family member?

A role model? 

Then - I saw them. My inspiration.

The little girl in that photo. In a baby's bath. Smiling. With a book! 

Me at three (ish). 

My past-self. 

The me before. 

Before Dad's nearly fatal accident.

Before Mum's (complete) breakdown.

Before the separation.

Before the divorce.

Before *waves hands* all this. 

That little one kept going and growing. She kept a sense of joy and childlike wonder and enthusiasm (and a love of books). Yes, this was balanced with a sense of adult-like cynicism - even at three. 

This deeply embedded attitude has kept me going - as life moved be on from that little one, to the 50-year-old me. 

Each day is another day that little inner me lives, and inspires me to keep hold of her. 

Inspires me to connect with others - to find other peoples' inner child (whether they're wearing a child body, or an adult one). 

Dearest Little Me

You kept your sense of joy all through that. 

You couldn't contain that joy when your parents reunited. 

You couldn't contain it when you became an adult, only a few short four years later. 

I'm working my way back to you. To your joy.

Dad's death, 20 years ago last week, dampened it down. 

But, the real nail in the coffin has been the rupture of the family. The family that allowed that little one to be so joyful. 

Now, I find joy elsewhere.

At work - in the smiles and giggles and friendships with current little ones (and their grown-ups). 

In being an auntie, while at work. You know, responsible adult that's not a parent, but quite close. Yeah, that. 

Keep shining Little Ones. Everywhere.

I hope that, someday and some way, I can be an inspiration to others. 

(Maybe typing this up at work wasn't a good idea. Glad I'm alone in the office.)

What do you currently do for a living? 

Arrange playdates between toys and a T. Rex 😉. (Seriously! It's happening in July!)

Being an auntie.  

I'm a Senior Librarian - Children and Youth; and 2iC (second in charge). 

 What three words would you use to describe your role? 

Tedium. Chaos. Smiles

What is your biggest achievement to date - personal or professional? 

Surviving working three part-time jobs, over six days a week, while studying for my MA full-time (and achieving Honours). It make working fulltime, while studying (part time and by distance) for my MLIS a doddle. 

 

 

 

Hands

God went to beauty school 

He went there to learn how

to give a good perm

and ended up just crazy 

about nails

so He opened up His own shop.

"Nails by Jim" He called it.

He was afraid to call it

Nails by God.

He was sure people would

think He was being

disrespectful and using

His own name in vain

and nobody would tip

He got into nails, of course,

because He'd always loved 

hands -

hands were some of the best things

He'd ever done

and this way He could just

hold one in His

and admire those delicate 

bones just above knuckles.

delicate as birds' wings,

and after He'd done that

awhile,

He could paint all the nails

any colour He wanted,

then say,

"Beautiful,"

and mean it.

~ Cynthia Rylant. 

This poem resonates. 

I can't tell you how many hours I spent, rubbing hand cream into Grandad F's hands, and Dad's hands, in the weeks (for Grandad) and days (for Dad) before they died. 

Hands are wonderful. 

Every pair is beautiful.