Years ago there was a profile feature on Facebook where you could add a little quote or sentence of your choosing. I had no idea what to put there but wanted something that ‘felt’ like me. At the time I was addicted to a band called Bayside and their album The Walking Wounded, but ultimately, it was my husband who suggested these lyrics from the Bayside song ‘I and I’:
If I could choose my own name
I’d choose something that’s bold and fits
Like anger, aggression or cunningly brash
By the skin of my teeth but with timing and…
Feeling like I wasn’t an expert in anything or that I wasn’t good enough was what held me back from writing. I’d start to write on a topic but then question what I really had to offer that hadn’t already been said before — and by people who knew way more than me.
The truth is, there will always be lots of people who have more experience than me on almost any given topic.
There’s one topic I know more about than anyone else, and that is myself.
My experiences and my life are unique. It’s not like I…
I was catching up with a friend when she told me the sad news about a relative who had passed away. I genuinely felt sorry for my friend and for her family. But to my horror, as I was listening to her telling me about how they were all coping, I found that I was kind of … smiling.
Yeah. Can you believe that? If you’re a woman reading this, I bet you can.
And that was not the first time I caught myself smiling at someone while hearing some awful news.
Partly, it happens when I’m feeling uncomfortable in…
We’d been locked down for weeks before I was brave enough to leave the house for a walk with my three-year-old daughter. We started with a short walk to the end of our street before my husband encouraged us to venture a little further. We decided on a ten-minute drive to a local lake where I could walk and my daughter could ride along on her scooter. It helped that it’s always been one of our regular haunts.
My husband had already taken our daughter there a couple of weeks prior but I’d stayed holed up at home with our…
Three dollars for a single rose. Better than the thirty-five I was gonna spend on one at the plaza florist. The kid in line in front of me kept glancing over his shoulder and wiping his palms on his pants. I know how you feel, I wanted to say. But I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself. Curious eyes were already making it clear I didn’t belong here.
When it was my turn, I handed over a fiver to one of the kids behind the desk. ‘Keep the change,’ I said. I could tell they were suspicious…
I used to do that too, Erica!
I had this beautiful colouring book just sitting there because I didn't want to stuff up any of the illustrations. I finally ended up just going with it and forcing myself not to think about what colour would look best and what would match the rest. I pick a totally different colour for each little part and it becomes some kind of fabulous rainbow – not perfect and not like how it's probably 'supposed' to look but I'm getting better at just going with it.
I've also been sketching by copying from a…
Erica Marta Ball
Our household is emerging from two weeks of my four-year-old having almost daily meltdowns and defying every single thing we say. It all came to a head on Saturday night when I felt on the verge of roaring in my daughter’s face like a wild beast. I removed myself from the situation so that that didn’t happen (although I did yell at her on a previous occasion), but it all felt awful. I was tired and done with the lot of it.
The following day I bought the book How to Talk So Little Kids Will Listen: A survival guide…
My 10-month-old was crawl-stomping (he’s kinda aggressive when he wants to get somewhere fast) into the bathroom just as my daughter had emerged from the bath.
‘Fuck the hell!’ she said (translation: fucking hell).
I mean, she gets that kind of response from her parents who are always saying ‘oh gawd, here comes the little beast!’ or ‘arghh, here he comes!’ because he charges in, wrecks everything, then leaves to do the same somewhere else. Not that we usually use a swear word in that instance, but she captured the sentiment, I suppose!
Plus, I don’t usually say ‘fucking hell’…
It’s been two years since the day I was told my father had died. And I still have questions. So many questions that I’ll never have definite answers to. And this time of year has brought them all back up again.
What exactly happened?
Did he know he was unwell?
How did he die?
Why did he die?
I flashback to that day. Sitting on a chair outside in the stinking Australian heat of summer watching my little one and her daddy splash and play in a blow-up pool. I’m sure I looked still and calm. …