Clever cost-cutting Techniques

It's holiday time, right? So the Mother of the Year has taken some leave, and we get to do all sorts of fun touristy things (which is easy when you live in Cape Town).

Yesterday we arrived at the V & A Waterfront, tried out the fun fair and went for a tour of the harbour. We ate fish & chips on the wharf and enjoyed soaking up a beautiful Cape Town day. On the way home, we stopped by at Century City, just to check out the toy store and make sure Father Christmas gets the right order. Ahem.

A cute Toyland train was huffing and puffing around the center court, taking lots of excited little people for a festive ride. T-Bird was enchanted. But it was late, and we were in a hurry to get home.

T-Bird: Please can we go for a ride on the train?

Me: It's time to go home.

T-Bird: Just a quick one?

Me: We're leaving now. And anyway, it's expensive, you know.

T-Bird: How expensive?

Me (I don't know the answer to her question): T, all these things we've done today, they cost money, you know. We've been on fun fair rides, boat rides, we've eaten out. A train ride will cost more money, and in the end it all adds up and becomes expensive.

T-Bird (mulling it over): Hmmmm. Well then, I have a brilliant idea!

Me: Hey?

T-Bird: A really very brilliant plan! (She starts bouncing up and down) What we must do is this: Air can stick to Dad, and I must stick to you. Then we must pretend that we don't know each other when we go on the train. And then we won't have to pay as much for the ride.

Me: Hey?

Nothing

There's nothing. Like standing on the edge of a precipice and looking down into a whirling navy depth. If I look down I am teased by the dark mystery of what fades away there, even though I know there is nothing.

I am not shaken or jittered walking this fine line. I can do it. I am strong. I don't need a rope, a hand, a pill, a friend. I am strong. I can do it. And anyway, there is nothing there.

I can't help but look down where it is dark and quiet. I wonder what that silence sounds like. I wonder if it would fill my ears like some cotton wool or putty. I wonder if I could touch it, that deep nothingness. Could I put my arms around some solid substance of nothing, pull it over me, dress myself in it? Sometimes I wonder what it would look like to look back from that pit of nothing and see the ledge that I stand on. Would it be like looking though a frosted glass window? Could I see myself in black and white? Could the nothing place reach into that real place somehow, and steal little bits of real, leaving little bits of nothing in its place? I think it might be possible, because sometimes, in the real place, I trip up over little bits of absolutely nothing. Sometimes I think absolutely nothing, where once I had very real thoughts. There are times where I look at familiar objects, people, places, and see absolutely nothing. Could there be another me in that black pit that takes these small bits of real from me? Sometimes I believe there might be.

Girl Talk

It sort of sucks, being a girl. Sort of.

Girls have got a lot of girl stuff to deal with. And big girls have got a lot of big girl stuff to deal with. And big girl stuff can be pretty off putting and uncomfortable at times.

Like, for instance, the annual pap and pelvic. I mean really! The price we have to pay! I don't know one person who actually looks forward to their gynae visit. And it's not about the gynae either, it's about assuming the position and having this person that you're paying a lot of money to, have a good ol' squizz and fiddle around your nether-regions. Bedside manner aside, no matter how professional or at ease the fanny-checker may be, there are a million and one things I would rather be doing than having the cells on my cervix collected for testing. (Like weeding. Yes, I would rather weed a soccer field than have that procedure).

I have a lovely lady doctor who is on a first name basis with my privates. Once a year they get together, shake hands, and wish each other well until their next appointment. I'm not really part of this exchange. I just take the goods for checking - I'm the delivery girl, really. Kind of like chaperoning a play-date. In fact, when my girly bits and my doctor get together, I look the other way while they do what they have to do. I'm not all too keen on witnessing the entire exchange, anyway. Having been on the speculum side of these little social calls myself for too many years, I really feel like my presence at my own check-up is sort of irrelevant. In fact, if I could courier my vagina to her office and pick it up when she was done, that would suit me too.

I guess the main reason that I would rather not be there is that my doctor, bless her, really tries her best to put me at ease before, during and after the procedure. If she only knew how much I just want to get this thing over with, she would refrain from making polite conversation. Especially asking friendly questions about my family at the moment of speculum insertion. At this point I have my eyes locked on a sliver of paint curling off her ceiling, and I'm thinking happy thoughts, like rainbowfairiesbunniesamongstthedaisiesflyingponies.

There I am, eyes fixed, fairiesbunniesbutterflies, when she switches her lamp on somewhere between my knees. Even though I can't see it (a cloth is discreetly placed over my well and truly raised knees), I know it's on because the heat of the bulb is toasting my inner thighs. Bunnyrabbitsstrawberriescrispapplestrudel.

"The kids on holiday?" she asks.

I'm pressing my lips together in preparation for that nasty little tunnel funnel. "Uhuh," I breathe. Daisiesponiesrainbowskak.

"And how's your hubby been?" she asks it as she slips her speculum into position.

I want to be polite, really I do, but now's not the time. "Er, fine!" I squeak. Daisiesdammitflowerscraprabbitspoodlesinpastryfarkingrainbows.

A moment passes as she collects the cells she needs. I relax a little. I clear my throat. "Oh," I say, in as normal a voice as I can manage, "actually it was a rubbish year for him. He nearly died of Salmonella poisoning, and since then he's not been a hundred percent."

The playdate is over. She hands me a paper towel to clean up with. She's got what she needs. The friendly chatter changes to focus more on medical stuff.

She wants to know how I've settled on the pill she prescribed to bring those polycystic ovaries under control. I think I'm ok, I say. It's just that my boobs are really sore for about 10 days before my periods. I'm getting dragon dementia for two days before my periods. I'm bleeding for 7 days, and I'm very aware of stabbing pains in my abdomen somewhere in the middle of the month.

She nods wisely. She tells me that ovulation pains and PMS worsen as you get older. And PMS is especially aggravated in cases of melancholic or depressive personalities. The boob tenderness, spotty skin and general crap associated with the menstrual cycle is all within normal limits. I'm really bummed.

"So what you're saying," I squint at her, "What you're saying is that this is the price I pay for being a girl, and if I get 3 days a month to feel normal, that's the way it's gotta be?"

She smiles and pats me on the knee.

"You don't get it," I continue. "I never used to be like this. Sure I was as regular as a tsunami, but I never used to want to set my husband on fire, drive over the nagging newspaper seller or put my kids on the edge of the driveway with a great For Sale banner floating above them. For the better good, I mean, really, if you love mankind at all, for public safety and possibly even the future of the human species, you have got to give me something to keep it together!"

And so I left my annual check-up with a wad of prescriptions tucked into my handbag, and a fanny that would prefer to go unnoticed by my acquaintances for another year or so.

Sucks being a girl, I told you!

Adding to the T-shirt portfolio

The Heart Wreath

Monkey Hanging on my Heart

Cacophony of Hearts

Rainbow Splat

A little end of year ADHD

So what do you call it again when you just can't quite focus? You know, when you're a little distractable. Geez, it's getting hotter at night, isn't it? Ok, so maybe it's a little bit more than slightly distracted.

I think I'm having a case of Decemberitis. No jokes, folks. (Didn't mean for that to rhyme, but I will be grateful for all I get). Novemberitis came and went as of 9 days ago. Now it's time for the next step. Wow, I really feel like candy floss right now. Yip, that would be awesome!

I think it has to do with the infinitely slippery slope to the final curtain of the year. I just can't seem to get a grip on anything. I've got so much to do, and I just can't seem to get going. And talking about going, I'm inspired to think about the gas price, and that leads me to wonder why the garden service haven't dropped their prices since the price of fuel came down. Anyone else notice that?

You have to wonder why the end of the year feels like such a great big full stop though. It seems as though there won't be a chance to address issues once the drunken revellers have done that countdown and kissed in champagne flavoured embraces. It's going to be too late when that fat lady is done singing "Aulde Lang Syne".

Every year feels a little like the Y2K syndrome. Everyone seems to hold their breaths as though time itself will come to an earth-shattering halt at 1 second past midnight. And things left unfinished are not destroyed in that magical moment, no matter how much you might hope for it. No. The morning sun of January 1 rises over all the undone odds and ends of the years before. And chances are that these incomplete projects get added to a growing pile of things to do.


It's a shame, really. It's these left over bits and pieces that lead to the making of new year's resolutions. So you're still spilling your morning coffee on the gym registration form? After 5 months of having it on your kitchen counter, you add it on the New Year's Resolution List - Number 1: Join a gym. A pile of unread novels consumes valuable shelf space. You just didn't get to finishing them. Add them to the list. But make it sound fancy: Like - Number 2: I will read at least two books a month. (That should get through the pile of books next to the loo by about August.) Still not fitting into those pre-kids jeans that you just can't get yourself to toss out of your cupboard? Despite the fact that you've been out of those jeans by 3 sizes for the last eight years, you still add to the list - Number 3: Lose weight. Wouldn't it be better to say something like - Number 3: Clear out wardrobe. Accept the way things are?

Look, I'm not being a cynic here. All I'm saying is that the sun will come up again. There will be another day, and another after that, and even more thereafter. This wild race to the end of the year is a bit farcical in my mind. Why the rush to cram EVERYTHING into the last 31 days?

And does anyone else know how long a baked birthday keeps for?

Sorry Story

I was raised with a guilty conscience.

A guilty conscience and a low self-esteem.

I'm sorry about that, really.

Do you have any idea just how debilitating a guilty conscience with a side order of self-loathing can be? No? Well, pretty debilitating is the correct answer.

You see, the problem with this little accidental glitch in my ingredients is that I always end up apologising. I apologise because I feel so damn guilty about everything. And feeling guilty about everything makes me feel like an idiot, which just goes to fuel my low self-image. A vicious circle, really.

My days are pockmarked with me feeling bad about stuff. I'm sorry I couldn't do more. I'm sorry you got stuck in traffic. I'm sorry I missed your call. I'm sorry I forgot your card. I'm sorry I didn't invite your kid to my kid's party. I'm sorry I parked so close behind you that you had to do a 15 point turn to get out. I'm sorry I smell like I've been working in the garden all day, it's just that I've been working in the garden all day. I'm sorry I can't help you next week. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my disease. I'm sorry I can't lend you something to wear. I'm sorry you sneeze every time you come over. I'm sorry for snoring, hope it didn't bother you too much. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Pretty lousy, no?

So why is it, then, that I can glibly analyse this maladjustment from the safety of my keyboard and still harbour it as a crucial part of my genetic make-up? I guess the difference comes in what you know with your head, and what you believe with your heart. These things can be so vastly different to each other, and the truth is, you tend to go with what you feel, more than what you know.

What you feel inside is a remnant of your creation. your forming. When you were being built up, bit by bit, in the early years, processes and ideas fell into the cement of your youth and became so embedded into your system, that they are still the things that help to define you.

When I was 12, I asked my dad if he thought I was pretty. Now this man, God love him, picked the wrong moment to flex his funny-muscle. He said to me, at that terribly insecure and vulnerable age, "There's nothing wrong with you, Daughter. Nothing that a panel beater couldn't fix, anyway!" What he said has stuck with me till today, and I have picked his answer apart so many times and have seen and understood it for the poor attempt at humour that it was, and yet it dwells in my foundation as a warped whisper constantly pulling at my certainty and security. I battle to see past my flaws. I struggle to accept that others see past my flaws. And I fear that this affects my relationships over time.

So why do I mention this? I don't know. I guess I wanted to remind myself of how impressionable my children (and yours) are. I want to remember that my kids will value everything they are told by me, whether it be the truth, or a joke, and my words will dissolve into the brick and mortar that builds them, and live on in them whether they are factual or false. My words are my gift to my children. I hope only that they will unleash incredible potential in my offspring instead of anchoring them in irrelevant concerns and angst.

Already I feel like I've failed more times than I care to remember, for which I do apologise. And I'm sorry I'm saying sorry again. It's really pathetic, I know. No-one wants to read stuff about people feeling sorry for themselves - so sorry!

See what I mean?

The Question Not To Ask

"I'm pregnant," I giggle over the phone.

"What?" says my husband, knowing how impossible this statement just is. He thinks a little and says, "With whose baby?"

"The hairdresser's." I'm bent over double. I start to relate the following story.

I'm not a fancy girl. I'm low maintenance. No frills. Plain Jane. I haven't had my hair cut in, like, forever. I needed a little spruce up before the holidays - just so those Christmas photos aren't totally disturbing. Not being a regular at any salon, I flit freely from place to place. No commitment. Just drop in, trim the edges, fly off. I like it that way. Don't start making me appointments six weeks in advance, thank you. I'm good to come and go as I please.

I drifted by a seemingly quiet salon - they looked like they might be able to mow the lawn before school came out, so I asked for a quick cut. They could do it - great!

All washed and waiting at the mirror, the hairdresser approaches. She has a tender, almost motherly look in her eyes. "Would you like a cupcake, dear?" she croons.

"Er, no thanks, just a trim, that's all."

She smiles.

"So how far is it?" she is dripping honey.

"Excuse me?" I ask, thinking that she may be talking about the length of my hair.

"Your pregnancy," she insists, "how far along are you?"

I just crack up on the inside, but then I'm faced with a bit of a dilemma - do I lie to make her feel better ie "4 months, thanks for asking, and I'm feeling fabulous!", or just come out with the truth. I can't lie like that.

"Er," I break eye contact with her reflection in the mirror, "I'm not pregnant."

Of course this ruins the rest of my visit with outrageously awkward silences to follow.

At one point she tried to make up for it by saying that she just thought, you know, because of the shirt I was wearing, well, it's such a lovely shirt (liar! it's a crap shirt!) and where did I get it from? I lie back. I can't remember where I got the shirt, I say (Pick 'n Pay on the half price sale rack). I lie because the truth would just make her feel more stupid about saying it's such a nice shirt. And anyway, are you completely dof? What kind of 'very lovely shirt' makes a slightly podgey woman look pregnant? Only bad shirts. That's it! NOTE TO SELF: burn shirt with immediate effect!

Of course, I got a pretty decent haircut out of the deal - I think if she'd screwed up it would have been a really tough pill to swallow.

But that question: How far are you? or When's your due date? These questions should be banned in ALL unfamiliar company. Even if the overdue woman is puffing and panting through her contractions and she's standing in a puddle of amniotic fluid in the queue at the bank, any strangers in the immediate vicinity should make light conversation only. Talk about the weather, for Pete's sake. Look the other way. You really can't be sure she's pregnant, can you? Whatever you do, don't ask the question until she drops the baby on the floor. Because the day will come, dearhearts, when that puffing panting woman is actually having an athsma attack, or that puddle of amniotic fluid is the result of an incontinent bladder, and wouldn't that be embarrassing for all concerned?

When I got home I changed my shirt. I stood in front of the mirror for a bit. I turned to the left. I turned to the right. I even turned my back to the mirror and wondered if the new shirt made my bum look pregnant. After all that self-examination, all I can say is: I have a tummy. Sure. My pelvic bones which used to proudly poke my waist band pre-kids have long ago been buried. But appearing pregnant? No! My tummy is way too weird shaped to be housing a bonny baby. Unless that baby was shaped like a Toblerone and half a BigMac, and the Toblerone had melted a bit.

Sigh.

Rule number 6

Welcome guest blogger MOTY:

I listened to world renowned speaker and conductor Ben Zander today who talks about Rule #6.
He tells the story of 2 statesmen in a serious political discussion. The door bursts open and a minister from the host president's parliament bursts in shouting wildly about some crisis. The president raises his hand and says loudly, please sir, remember rule #6. The man calms down and exits quietly. This happens a second and a third time with different ministers and different crises, each time calmed by the reminder of rule #6. Eventually the bewildered guest asks, "What is this rule #6 you speak of?" Says the host president, "Rule # 6 - Don't take yourself so god-damned seriously!"
"And what are the other rules?" "There are no other rules, only rule number 6!"

And so I pass on rule number 6, when someone gets themselves in a tizz about you, or someone or something else, or is all offended and self important, remind them of this crucial rule - which would go a long way to bring balance to the universe, life, love and la di da - Don't take yourself so damned seriously!

Go forth and spread the word - Rule # 6!

Warning the Chicken - a poorly paced poem

My dear little chicken, don't stir the pot
If you get too close, you'll just get too hot
And when you get heated, well, you know what that means
It means you get grumpy, and nasty, and mean
So dear little chicken, don't stir the pot.

It sounds like you're angry
You get angry a lot
You think the world's against you
But really, it's not.

You make mountains out of molehills
Mud puddles from a spot
Dear little chicken, please don't stir the pot.

This pot has been brewing,
A long time me thinks
Much longer than you, or I've used our inks.

It's bigger than us, this pot on the fire
You can't control what it cooks - just admire
There's plenty of time and even some folks' lives
That make up the stew that that pot gives

And if you start a-stirring
that big cauldren pot
Well, things may start happening
And I fancy them not!

Those people's time, their strength and their stories
Their pasts, and their lives have no roofies or floories
Only that pot can contain that huge volume
and when you start stirring, it boils like a mushroom.

It boils and it bubbles
It splutters and splats
And you, my dear chicken
will get caught in all that.

The stuff in this pot, this wonderous brew,
Is bigger, and hotter, and stronger than you.

Don't mess with the pot
little chicken, please learn
When you play with this pot
Well, this pot's sure to burn.

And this is the way things are.

You know, I love men. Really I do. Especially my man. Having a tall, dark, handsome person around is good for the ego. And it's convenient - you know, for when you need to put stuff away in hard to reach places. Having a man is good. Just like having electricity and running water is good. Life is so much more comfortable. Happy. Sorted.

Except if the running water is a leaking washing machine, or a drip in the back of the toilet. No. That's just messy. And annoying. Sort of like a man can be too.

Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't change my man for a whole bag of drip-free toilets. Not at all. I lurve the guy. I do. Couldn't breathe the good air without him. He is my rainbow sky. My adonis. My muse. I love being with him. I love talking to him. I love laughing with him. And I love to just look at him. He is my eye candy. For me, he is a chip off the ol' good-looking block. I think he looks great first thing in the morning. I think he's hot when he steps out of a steaming shower. I love watching him potter around.

But there are times... a day or two every month (by estimation) that I can't stand the sight of him. On these days I find him completely unpalatable. He. Just. Turns. Me. Off. He may try his silly cowboy stagger to get me to smile adoringly at him, but it won't work. He might toss me a nonchalant wink (with crooked eyebrow included), but I'm not buying it. He might just 'accidentally' flex a muscle in my general direction, but I am resolute in my unimpressed state. It is on days like these that I think how much better he would look if he were covered in an horde of rampaging army ants with his head on fire. I think how much I would rather he spend the night in a cage of pythons than share my bed with me. And quite frankly, I'm pretty sure, that on days like these, my long suffering husband would prefer the company of a venomous snake than that of the prickly wife he has back home.

Poor guy.

It only lasts for a day or two, of course. Then it's all fine again. We find each other again, and it's all a bed of roses for another 26. But the explanantion for the disruption of our happy equilibrium for those two days is hard to come by. But I have a senaking suspicion that it's all his fault really. Let me explain...

By day 25 something strange happens to that (mostly perfect) man of mine. While he's being all charming and pleasing and perfectly affable towards me, I start to notice a rapidly widening white ring around he's pupils. Like a deer in the headlights. Like a criminal at the gallows. And I can't be sure of this, but I get the feeling that he starts a frantic internal search. Like he's looking for something important.

On the outside he's all, "Hey, Honey. I made you a cup of chamomile tea. Would you like a foot rub?" But on the inside he's all, "Where did I put that chest plate? I know it was with my running shoes. Oh. Wait a minute. She did say something about always leaving those blasted shoes lying in the passage - doesn't she get that I might need them in a hurry? Think, man. Just think! Last time I used that chain mail, I had my head chopped off, gobbled up and regurgitated into the toilet. Right. There was bloodshed. Blood. Hmm. Did I get it back from the cleaners? Drat! Urgent Note To Self: stop by cleaners post haste! Oh, and maybe the hardware store for some spray-on fire-breathing-dragon repellent."

And back on the outside he suddenly becomes suspiciously animated. "Hey, my love-muffin," he croons with a slightly pinched edge to his voice. He starts to pick up the usual debris of poisons, chemicals and broken glass that is strewn across the lounge carpet. "I need to go to the hardware store, you know, for stuff to, er, fix the roof. Yes. The roof. I know, you've been asking me for months to check into that, and today's the day." He is placing padlocks on the gun safe, the fire place and the tin opener. "You need anything? No? OK then. You just put your feet up and stay right there, OK? Don't stress that pretty little head of yours now. You will stay there, right?" He's packing away kitchen knives as he speaks. I notice a flame thrower and a welding torch discreetly tucked into the back of his trousers.

"You alright, Sweetie?" I asked sipping on an heavily tranquilised cup of chamomile tea. "You seem a little um, distant." My tongue is feeling heavy and I have to wipe a river of dribble off my chin. Also, my back is starting to ache. I wriggle in my chair. I'm starting to feel very uncomfortable in my own body. My skin feels too tight. My hair is too straight. My toenails are too long. My fingers feel too much like, well, fingers. I stretch. Something pops. I look around and notice I have a horn on my left shoulder. Pop! Another one on my right. Pop! Pop! Pop! Several more burst out of my back. I stagger to the mirror to get a better look at what's happening to me. I look awful. I hate myself. Good grief! I'm thirty and I'm still getting pimples! The pimples explode. I am hideous. I run my awfully finger-like fingers through my hair, and catch a sulfurous whiff from under my armpit. I stink.

I'm ugly. I'm sore. I'm pimply. I'm oily. And I stink. Oh. And I have horns all the way down my back. This is not the way I woke up this morning. No. I was in a happy place. I was just fine. What happened? What made me like this? I spin on my fat swollen hobbit-feet and scan the room. And then I see it - that tea cup. That tea. He did it to me. It was him! Bastard guy!

I scowl. I growl. I howl. And I realise, too late, that the bugger has disappeared. He is outta here. I'm so mad I could... I could... well, I might just do something drastic. And to top it all off, that jerk has packed away all my poisons, my chemicals, my broken glass, my kitchen knives, my flame thrower, my welding torch. Dammit! I'm gonna kill him!

See? His fault! He's so lucky that I love him enough to forgive him all his shortcomings. Sigh. What a guy!

Me according to FaceBook

So, I didn't give this exercise much thought before I started it, but the idea behind it was to trace back my status updates on Facebook for the year, and decide for myself, according to these little descriptions of brief moments in my life, what kind of a year it's been altogether. I've listed my status updates oldest first. Here goes:

(JANUARY)

Jessica awaits the arrival of a little princess with great excitement.

Jessica wishes she could be in the desert playing dolls.

(FEBRUARY)

Jessica tried pilates.

Jessica loves her Mac.

Jessica is blogging. Check it out!

(MARCH)

Jessica is a dedicated blogger.

Jessica is trying to skype face-book. Ouch!

Jessica is a blog addict.

Jessica is freaking out a little. On the inside.

Jessica has arrived - safe and sound.

Jessica is torn in two. Again.

(APRIL)

Jessica is back to reality.

Jessica is bravely going where no mom has gone before... naaa, maybe tomorrow.

Jessica really likes her friend wheel.

Jessica is having fun with her new toy.

Jessica has found her wall!

Jessica is a jungle-gym. Apparantly.

Jessica wants everyone to go to www.freerice.com.

Jessica is willing for her baby to come home.

Jessica is back to being a nurse.

Jessica wants to play scramble!

Jessica has hit a mental block.

Jessica is sunburnt.

Jessica is www.midwife-crisis.blogspot.com

Jessica is wondering what family actually means?

(MAY)

Jessica is bracing herself.

Jessica is soft and fluffy

Jessica is turning the page.

Jessica is covered in blue!

Jessica is finding direction.

Jessica is wondering who decides week to weekend ratio...

Jessica is planning.

Jessica has repacked the toy box. again.

Jessica has a sore tongue.

Jessica is so so.

(JUNE)

Jessica is boiling...

Jessica has a new baby. Apparently.

Jessica is back home after a gruelling 3 days in hospital. Yay.

Jessica digs her fully connected friend wheel.

Jessica is alone. With kids. You trust me?

Jessica says "Trust me!"

Jessica is contemplating holiday strategies for the kids.

(JULY)

Jessica is inviting anyone who would like to, to come for tea tomorrow afternoon.

Jessica says the invite for tea and birthday cake is still on!

Jessica had the best birthday. Thank you everyone for making it so special!

Jessica has got a cake hangover.

Jessica feels funny. Funny huh? Not funny haha.

Jessica hasn't received an email in a whole week - what's going on?

Jessica is TIRED.

Jessica says it's all good! Cold, but good!

Jessica is blogging. Again.

Jessica had a great weekend away!!!

Jessica is finding herself.

Jessica is content.

Jessica needs a friend who has super interior decorating ideas.

Jessica is tired again. What gives?

Jessica is regarding the bills. Skeptically.

Jessica knows chocolate makes everything better.

Jessica is thinking about how some things change and some things stay the same.

(AUGUST)

Jessica is finding the distinction between business and personal relationships tricky.

Jessica is an aunt. In French!

Jessica is smug. Hmph!

Jessica thinks L's boobs are great!

Jessica is wondering how?

Jessica won tickets to a show.

Jessica is bracing herself.

Jessica is not school ready.

Jessica has dot a cod. Sniff.

(SEPTEMBER)

Jessica is frizzing!

Jessica is grateful for the little things.

Jessica is weekend-ready!

Jessica is scratchy.

Jessica has a cactus in her froat. Ow :-(

Jessica is mulling.

Jessica can't believe it!

Jessica is peanut butter and syrup.

Jessica is allergic to cats. Yuck.

Jessica is stupid without sunshine.

Jessica has faced her demons.

Jessica is TIRED. And uninspired. Funny how that rhymes, right?

Jessica is curling.

Jessica is bracing herself.

Jessica does not want to be a mommy today.

Jessica is just breathing.

(OCTOBER)

Jessica is red-eyed and scratchy.

Jessica feels weird now that the kids are back at school.

Jessica wants to donate her eyeballs to science. Or the garden.

Jessica is typing and skyping.

Jessica knows what insomnia feels like.

Jessica is crispy. Er. Make that well done.

Jessica is up to here.

Jessica has received a double dose of perspective.

Jessica is planting.

Jessica is tired again.

Jessica is addicted to Caramel Choc Digestive Biscuits. Oh dear.

Jessica is fighting with the sandman.

Jessica is feeling strange.

Jessica seems to taste nice to spiders. Again.

Jessica wants to let it go. Really she does.

Jessica is still reeling from a prostitute's proposition. Oh. My. Word!

(NOVEMBER)

Jessica is glad to be home. And boring. Once again.

Jessica thinks the new frog display at the aquarium rocks!

Jessica is loving MSG. Yeah Baby, yeah!

Jessica is planning a perfect party.

Jessica has the kids in bed before 7:30; hubby's out for the evening. Hmmm. I might just indulge in a chocolate!

Jessica says: scratch that! I'm home alone with two sick pukey kids!

Jessica is full.

Jessica says: If you really love me, you won't give me chocolate.

Jessica is painting a fire hydrant.

Jessica is having potato salad for lunch. And for supper. And probably for breakfast as well.

Jessica is missing my other baby.

Jessica has to choose between Tertia and Deepak.

Jessica was a bad mommy, and now she's paying the price...

Jessica is quilting. What gives!?!?!?

Jessica is wondering how my babies got so big so fast.

Jessica is another day in the garden - another spider bite. When are those super powers going to kick in?

Jessica needs her pal.

Jessica is arranging and planning and sorting and organising.

Jessica would rather be eating peeled grapes in a luxurious milky bath.

Jessica wants a flying pony and a castle in the valley too.

Jessica is scratching for crumbs in the bottom of the 2008 bag.

Jessica wants to have fun.

So that's me according to Facebook 2008.

What this exercise has taught me is that my life goes in cycles. Things repeat themselves. And also that I am fated to be arachnid fodder for a long long time.

The most beguiling status updates have no blog posts (L's boobs/ prostitute's proposition) - that must be infuriating!

Oh. And I talk about food. A lot. I should stop that. 

And Jessica says. Again. A lot.

Ah well. Signing off. Again.

Now I'm just showing off...

These quilts have been half finished in the back of a cupboard in the (dreaded) study since April. They are now finished and in the possession of two picnic-loving little girls. It's such a relief to be able to tick these off the To-Do List.

Phew!

Oh, and the other thing is...

That there is a month to go to Christmas.

Eek!

Hanging with the Girls

We sit on the couch, my girls and me. We kiss and we cuddle and we giggle about silly things. We stroke each other's arms. We whisper, "I love you" into each other's necks. We watch cartoons, all tangled together in a tight complication of arms and legs. My AirBear puts her hand on my belly and grasps a fat roll between her thumb and her forefinger. She doesn't look up. I feel funny. "Air," I say, "please don't play with my tummy." "Ok, Mom," she puts her arm around my neck and places her cheek over my heart. There she lies and watches the TV. I feel her misty breath sweeping over my cleavage T-Bird has wriggled her toes in under my backside. Every now and then she shifts her feet, and I am uncomfortably jabbed. I grab her arm, swivel her around, and tuck her little shoulders in underneath my arm. Her temple rests against my armpit. Suddenly I am very self-conscious, "Do I stink?" I ask her. She puts her nose right up against my wrinkled armpit skin and breathes in. "No, you're fine," she is absorbed back into the animated movie that we have watched a million times together already.

I am a mommy hen. I have my chicks. We sit like this, my girls and me. We are happy. We are in love. We can be like this forever.

Except when we don't. Because sometimes we aren't. Sometimes we can't stand being so close to each other. Sometimes we yell. Sometimes we roll our eyes at each other. Sometimes we ignore each other, hoping that one of us would disappear. We cross our arms over our breasts, daring the other one to surrender to our demands. Sometimes we shut ourselves in our rooms, closing the others out. We grab at our self. We want to be alone with ourselves. We are tired of each other. And irritated. And bored. And we breathe in our own lonely spaces. We breathe and we remember. We remember that we chicks have got to stick together.

Eventually we swim away from our islands. We look for each other. Sometimes it isn't easy. Sometimes it is dark and lonely. But it never takes very long. We do find each other. We hold on to each other. We say we're sorry. We say: Sorry. And: I love you. And then the world is alright again.

I am NOT a camper - sorry!

We've been talking about going camping during the December holidays. I was actually even starting to get into the camping vibe with self-speech like: it'll be sooo good for the kids; it's healthy; it's stress-free; we'll just get away from it all.

Part of the pre-planning planning stage of going camping, for us, was to erect the tent to see what bits and pieces we may be missing (another item on that end of year to-do list - CHECK!).

When Friday afternoon arrived, our four-man tent was erected in our back yard. We discovered that we were, in fact, missing two tent pegs for the shade cloth that fits over the whole contraption. At least we know - shew!

But an erected tent in the backyard - let's just get back to that statement right there, shall we? It was all the kids could do to not explode with excitement. Excitement which spilled over into anguished pleas to sleep in the tent.

What the heck, right? We might as well get a bit of camping practice in while we can, before we set out on a trip only to discover that we were not made to camp.

So we set up camp; the kids sharing on a spare mattress, and the mother of the year and me on the blow-up double mattress. With all the essential necessities (duvets, pillows, reading material etc), our whole family went to bed at 20h30 - but only because we couldn't put the kids to bed outside by themselves now, could we?

Sleeping in your garden poses a couple of, shall we call them, discomforts. Firstly, we live in South Africa. Secondly, our house is fully secured by burglar alarm, but sadly, our garden is not. Thirdly, we live in South Africa.

So the first thing I become aware of, is how bloody loud the traffic is when I am not surrounded by the volume control of brick and cement. I swear there was some kind of drag race down my street. All. Night. Long. No kidding. I woke up about six times due to speed freaks zooming past our house throughout the night.

The next minor irritation was the size of my shared sleeping space. I am accustomed to a king-size bed. I like to be able to toss and turn until I find my comfy-position, without rolling over into an elbow, an armpit or a forehead. And another thing about blow-up mattresses is that when more than one person is lying on one, the lighter of the two tends to roll towards the heavier one who is demonstrating far stronger gravity effects than the less heavy of the two. So I spent most of the night clutching onto my side of the mattress, trying to anchor myself and avoid slipping into the valley of the elbows.

There's that, and then also the fact that whenever your sleeping partner moves on a blow-up mattress, you tend to get bounced around a bit. And this is not conducive to good sleep.

And did I mention the bit about living in South Africa? Well, we do. And with that comes the constant awareness of crime. Every South African has some degree of cognizance of what kind of a target you may represent to a lurking criminal. And even more so when you're sleeping in your garden. Outside of the protection of your burglar bars and laser beams. Every little noise raises the hair on the back of your neck. Even the bunnies munching grass sound like ominous creeping feet.

So all in all, it was not an easy night. And by 4am when T-Bird had a bad dream and yelled out: "Daddy, look out! The bad guy's behind you with a gun!", I can honestly say I had had enough. As you can imagine, my adrenaline levels sky-rocketed. My heart was beating so fast I thought my sternum was going to disintegrate!

I settled my T-Bird, and placed her next to her (deeply sleeping) father. I climbed into (the single mattress) bed with AirBear and tried to while away the next couple of hours.

The discussion the following morning between my darling hubby and myself revolved around how much I do not want to go camping. That, and how flipping stiff my neck was. He assures me the problem lies with the mattress. But would you blame me if I turned down the invite?

Unfinished project number 2

Anyone for blueberry muffins and tea?

Getting started on finishing off

In the interest of sorting out all that unfinished business I just mentioned, I completed these two shirts that have been lying on my art table, er, I mean dining room table for the last 6 weeks or so. (Click on the pics if you want a better look. Or not. I'm just saying)

Oh, I didn't get to those muffins. Think a day will make a difference?

Unfinished Business

So I'm a really good thinker of new ideas. I've got plenty perfect plans just boiling away in the back waters of my brain. You want a new idea? I've got hundreds. And they're original too! Just don't ask me to implement them, ok?

I've had so many fantastic ideas that bubbled over into novel action that fizzled out somewhere between conception and final product. Implementing is really not my strong point!

And because of this unhappy marriage of excellent ideas and poor application of them, I find myself surrounded by so many unfinished projects, things that got off to a super start, and then faded under the weight of another new and exciting idea.

There's the turquoise roll-neck jersey I started knitting in highschool that is serving as fertile breeding ground for a family of fishmoths in the back of the cupboard.

There's the candy stripe blanky I started crocheting at the start of winter. It was supposed to be my first crochet project adorning one of my daughter's beds. Well, winter is over, and the "blanket" or first third of it anyway, waits patiently in a Mr Price packet behind the bar.

Behind the bar... now those are dangerous words! If you're looking for uncompleted projects, behind the bar is a positively high-yielding area to begin your search.

There's the twin fabric collages, in their virginal state, meant for the children's bedroom walls, untouched. There's a ballerina cross-stitch in demi-pirouette sandwiched between half a penguin mask and an unpacked first-aid kit in mid-replenishment.

There's the cupboard brimming to capacity with sample paints to determine what colour is going to work best on the braai-room wall. The braai-room wall is still the mouldy gray it was the day we arrived in these sacred hallows.

There's an overcrowded bag of CDs waiting to be reclaimed into the CD cupboard or dispensed of - just a couple of moments needed to sort them is all they need.

Let's squeeze our way out of the bar, and head outside, shall we?

There's half a veggy patch that was intended to contribute to our daily salad requirements. Well, I got as far as spinach (that actually took!), and the rest has sort of, I dunno, been offered to the bunnies as a sort of nonchalant peace treaty, ie: here have a green pepper and stop growling at me!

There are several other projects in mid existence that are currently floating between my garden walls. Hmmm, garden walls... well the first half of my garden boundary wall is painted, and, well, then it started raining, and the plants grew in front of the other half, so the rest remains unpainted.

Sigh.

There's a bench dying for new cushions that I keep meaning to get.
There's a sand pit dying for fresh digging tools that I'm in the middle of recycling.
There's a shed that I keep meaning to repaint. I got as far as the fascia board. And then. Um.
I removed half of the crappy old lighting wires stuck all over my patio roofing. Yes, there are two bits of lights and wiring that remain behind. And I don't know why I didn't get to them. I think the kids...I don't know.

As I'm typing this, I'm thinking about the other undertakings that I've undertook, and I realise, ashamedly, that every room in my house holds some suggestion of an unfinished project of mine. Jeez.

Ok, so that's that then. This is my end of year resolution: I'm going to dive head first into all my unfinished projects so that when 2008 breathes it's last, I will be released from as many of them as I can, and all the guilt that goes with that.

So excuse me please. I have a crap load of things to do. (Starting with baking a box of muffins I just found in the pantry. The expiry date is tomorrow. See, these things are just everywhere!)

What I learnt today...

Today I learned, the hard way, that spray painting in blistery-blustery winds is not recommended, and also does not mean the same thing as Use in a well-ventilated area like it says on the back of the can. Wish I'd thought a bit about it before I hopped on the ol' spray-painting band wagon. If you see me soon, No, I do not have some weird tropical disease.

I'm just saying.

Then the other thing I discovered, and this is also a fairly useful little tidbit, is an easy peasy time-saving trick.

Last night I made a whopper pasta bake meal for dinner. You know the kind, right? The sort where pasta, mince, veggies, a variety of dairy products, a nail for added iron and a dash of cod-liver oil because it's good for you get thrown into a huge casserole dish and stuck in the oven till it smells nice? Yes, that kind! Well, for the first time in a long time, there was so much food left over, that I figured I would do Leftovers for supper tonight. Which means.... I'm free to fanny about all afternoon. I keep finding myself stressing about what's for dinner, only to pat myself on the back and say, "There, there dear. It's all sorted. Remember?" Phew!

Note to self: Make more mega-meals to manufacture more much-needed me-time.

Now why haven't I thought about this earlier? Duh!

On Pets. Real. And, er, not.

It's not true that we only have pet rabbits. We have another, er, pet or two. You know, like the Adams Family have a Cousin It? Well, we have a pet Gloopy, and a pet SuperB.

Some of you have met Gloopy, danced with her even. Some of you have received gifts of fresh apples and celery from Gloopy. There are even some who receive a daily visit from ol' Gloops. There may be, amongst you, one or two who might even have noticed variations in Gloopy's appearance from week to week. Apart from her outfits (cute as they are!), her home and even her fur get a make-over from time to time.

What makes Gloopy and SuperB particularly important to our family is that they probably receive (estimation here) about 15 times more love and attention than our angora bunnies, Holly and Jasmine. In fact, once a day, there will be some kind of squabble over who's going to feed them, who's going yo change their clothes or who's going to give them a bath.

Gloopy and SuperB are virtual pets, created through an application on FaceBook called Pet Society.

So why am I telling you this again?

Well, since the creation of these multicoloured creatures resembling something in the species of Dog, my children's computer skills have taken a huge leap forward. I have noticed improvements in both their basic understanding of PC working, as well as mouse control. My kids are using words like "Logon", "Download", "Timeout" and "Internet" in intelligible conversation. They know how to start up a session of Pet Society, as well as see to all the requirements of the virtual pet's day to day care, and then logout when their session is over.

Now, maybe that doesn't seem fancy in most Japanese kids' resumes, but I think it's pretty nifty that my girls are creating a relationship with the PC like this. Yes, it might be another computer game, but a virtual pet offers more than your usual levels of game skills in most computer games. Week by week new objects are offered for the pets to interact with, or purchase. Part of playing long term involves building a home for your pet that increases with size as you progress from level to level. While interacting within the Pet Society framework, your pet earns coins which can be accumulated to purchase clothing, trinkets, furniture or make-overs for your pet.

Watching my kids playing with Gloopy has also raised my awareness of how money-unsavvy my girls are. I'm talking: Hide the Credit Card! On the upside, it has given us a platform from which to address issues of spending, saving, and wasting money.

All in all, I have to say I am grateful for our virtual pets, and I would recommend those of you with kids (and FaceBook accounts) to try it out too. If you don't like it, you can always get rid of it, but I dare you to give it a try.

Frenetic Genetics

I just ate a slice of chocolate-peppermint cake off the same plate I had my anchovy toast off, and inevitably got the flavours mixed up. And while that was a pretty traumatic experience in itself, it got me to thinking about the differences between men and women.

(Ok, so no, it didn't, but it was a good story, right?)

Men and Women. The battle of the sexes. The toilet seat up or down? Beauty versus Braun. Mars and Venus, bras and penis. No matter how you call it, we're Just. Plain. Different. My suggestion is: Don't waste your time trying to understand it, just accept it and go forth and multiply. Or something like that, anyway.

So God made Man and Woman. And when he made Man, he used frogs and snails and puppy dogs' tails. And muscles. And fish gut. And screwdrivers with magnetised ends. And string. A very useful commodity in any home. And the string was a bit longer than he had planned it to be, so he left a little bit. Dangling. And Man was useful.

And when he made Woman, he used sugar and spice and all things nice. Like Chanel No 5. And cashmere. And rose petals. And lace. Not useful stuff like fish gut and potato peelers. Just pretty things that ought to look nice when you dust them off and hold them up to the sunshine. And while God was busy putting her together, he discovered that the lace was just a little bit too little. So he left a space. And Woman was pretty.

"Go forth!" God commanded. And the man and the woman got a little sheepish look on their faces. And man said, "Is there a bog around here? You know? When you gotta go you gotta go!" And the woman nodded and said, "Please could you show me where the little girls' room is." At this point she was doing an uncomfortable little shuffle, and the man was grabbing wildly at his crotch.

And God, in his infinite wisdom, seeing Man's obvious discomfort, handed him a pill to swallow. It was the gift of being able to pee standing up. And the man immediately took to peeing on tree trunks and fire hydrants and off of bridges, straight into the wind.

The woman, still pinching, eyes watering ever so slightly, but looking fabulous, quietly found a discreet bush and awkwardly squatted behind it to take a leak, anguishing over not getting anything on her stilettos. Once she was done, the woman pulled herself together and, noting the man writing his name in the snow with his own urine, went to talk to Management.

"It's not fair!" she insisted (whining ever so slightly) pointing at her partner who by now was having a pissing contest with a chimpanzee. "He gets to wee standing up. What do I get?"

God looked a little uncomfortable and fumbled around in his pockets. "Er, I do have this.." he said holding up a flaming pill.

The woman said, "I'll take it!", snatched it out of his hands and swallowed it. At that point Multiple Orgasms entered the woman's intrinsic make-up, and never again did she complain about the standing to wee thing again.

The Pet Dilemma

Ok. So let's review the bunnies, shall we?
You haven't heard much about them for some time, and it' s really not because they died and I was quietly hoping that no-one would notice.

No, the bunnies are alive and well.

Rewind a couple of weeks.

I started worrying that something was dreadfully wrong with the rabbits. They seemed aggressive. They would scratch and bite and even growl everytime I came close to them. Which was every day. Yet I persevered and touched them and stroked them and bunny-cuddled them despite the welts and grazes the left all over my body.

Deep into the night I would puzzle over their changed behaviour, when one night it struck me, I need to let them out of their cage!

Now their hutch is quite a large home. Bigger than most bunny cages around, but lacking in natural vegetation, if you know what I mean.

So about a week ago, the bunnies were released into the garden. And what a change! They really did become happy. I could approach Holly without any problem and stroke her and cuddle her while she munched on lush green lawn grass. And, may I just add, that two sparkling white balls of fluff hopping around a currently GREEN garden, is incredibly aesthetically pleasing.

But aesthetics only go so far. At what point, I wonder is a happy bunny more important than a happy green pepper plant, for instance. Or a happy daisy bush? Or a happy Sweet pea? Or a happy lawn without big fat burrows tunneled through it? That's right, the bunnies are doing what comes naturally. I've lost a number of veggie and herb plants, there's a tunnel under the roots of a recently moved palm that I've been very careful with for the last 4 weeks, and my daisy bush is without daisies all of a sudden.

So my garden is in grave danger of an overhaul, but the rabbits are on cloud 9.

What to do? What to do?

Key to Enlightenment

Fire = Depression

Water = Sex

Air = Yesterday, today and tomorrow

Earth = Faith

Just so we're clear.

Tired

I've said for a long time that "I'm TIRED". In capital letters. Big. Capital. Letters. After months, even years of introspection, medical testing and self examination, I think that today I stumbled on the cause.

No low hemaglobin here. No vitamin deficiency. No exercise insufficiency. No lack of sleep (most nights, anyway). I even discovered that by weening myself off my Cipralex, I am surprisingly far less sleepy than before (damn anti-depressants that work by sedating the crap out of you!). Yet TIRED I remain. What else could it be?

A voice at my elbow asks for a drink. Another voice down the passage asks for a wipe. A voice in the garden asks me to negotiate a truce between it and its sibling. Someone asks for a hug. Someone else asks for sex. Someone asks for a sarmie. A little voice requires assistance to dress her Barbie. He asks for razor blades. She asks for a turn. She asks for a swim. They want to go to the park. They ask for attention.

Please.
I need.
I want.
Can we.
Give me.
Come here.
Fix it.
Bring me.
Fetch.
Please.
Get me.
Can I.
Will you.

I think I've become all asked out.

We've all heard the analogy of motherhood being like a pouring jug and how at some point the jug is empty, and yet the mother pours. This is what I'm talking about. I think I'm empty.

The realisation hit me like a labour pain - I can only give so much. I'm not complaining, mind you, this is the life I chose after all. It would just be nice that when people talk to me they don't ask me for stuff. Please. Let's talk about stuff, all kinds of stuff, just not the stuff you want from me.

I realised that every time one of my offspring opened their mouths, it was to ask me for something. So I addressed the issue promptly, a feeble attempt to prevent maternal burn-out.

It's 17h00 - the dawn of suicide hour. The girls are playing with our virtual pet while I start preparing dinner.

T: Mom?
Me: Yes, T.
T: Can I have some juice?
Me: (sigh). (pours juice)
Air: Also me!
Me: (pours another)
T: Mom?
Me: Yes, T.
T: I'm hungry.
Me: I know. I'm making supper.
T: But I need something to eat now.
Me: It won't be long.
Air: I want something to eat!
T: Mom?
Me: (just breathing)
T: Mooooooom!
Me: T, are you going to tell me something, or are you going to ask me something? Because I don't mind if you want to tell me something, but I think I might burst if you ask me for another thing.
T: Oh. Ok.
(virtual play continues)
T: Mom?
Me: (raised eyebrows)
T: Nothing.
Me: (smile suitably satisfied)
T: Mom?
Me: Yes.
T: I need....
I want...
I.
Oh.
Me: (high fives myself)
T: I need to tell you something!
Me: Sure?
T: I love you. (She smiles at her accomplishment)

And I smile too. Because it's nice to hear, even if it was a bit forced. Still, it filled my jug a bit, so on I go.

I said, She said

(Alternative title: Because you're tired of the New Age mumbo)

It became clear to me, a while back, that AirBear is lacking on some crucial four-year old information. In particular: names of baby animals. So I dedicated the half hour that she and I shared yesterday while T-Bird was at ballet, to rectify the matter.

This was our conversation:

Take 1:

Me: Airy, what do you call a baby cat?
A: A cub.
Me: No.
A: I don't know.
Me: Starts with a 'k'.
A: A cub.
Me: Rhymes with 'mitten'
A: I don't know.

Take 2:

Me: Airy, what do you call a baby bird.
A: An egg.

Take 3:

Me: Airy, what do you call a baby cow?
A: A cub.
Me: No.
A: Yes.
Me: No.
A: But Aunty B said so.
Me: No. Aunty B would not say so.
A: Then it was Oprah.

Take 4:

Me: Airy, What do you call a baby frog?
A: I don't know.
Me: Starts with a 't'...
A: hmmmm...
Me: 'taaaa'....
A: A tampon!

Sigh.

Earth

I was planted in tired soiled. A muddled heritage. Deep below the surface lay pot shards and decomposing roots. This ground sustained me, sure, but one day something changed. A tremor. A quake. And all of a sudden I was uprooted.

No more nutrients to soak up. No more steady land to secure myself in. For a while I wilted. A drought overcame me. No water, no food, no certainty.

Now I find myself in a new field. No more tired clay to cling to. I find new sanctuary. New stability. My roots spread out into this virgin loam. Crumbs of old soil mingle with the rich loam. There will be new life here. I lean against another, older, stronger plant. The branches spread out over me. The roots make a place for me. I slip deeper into this sheltered ground.

The first rains come and dust is rinsed from my branches. I extend myself deeper into this ground. I can find anchorage here without understanding how I got here. A fresh green shoot pierces the surface of the soil. And then another. My branches bend to embrace them. They are part of me. I am growing.

Air

From the very first breath, I have inhaled an uncharted future. I have suckled on this air. It has sustained me.

More than sufficient. One day blends into another. An endless sky of opportunity. It is so vast that I cannot possibly grasp it. I cannot capture the end of it. I cannot see where it will lead me. Rolling clouds obscure the route ahead. And yet, I walk on, treading tentatively on a path that no other has explored. This is my air. My sky. It is my future, and it will change as sure as the clouds expand and diminish in an everlasting blender.

Behind me violent winds have blown my memories away, like leaves swept up in heaps beneath the autumn oaks. I can see them all, but I don't know which are mine, which came first, which I chose and which chose me. They tumble together in a confused vortex, and I am unable to claim even one from the mayhem. I leave them there. What use are they to me now?

A breeze turns my head to the east. Always to the east. The horizon is glowing orange in anticipation of a new day. I breathe. In. Out. It is a wonder how this air keeps me. Always enough. A life offering a life.

The sky is tattooed with pearly clouds. They swirl in gentle synchrony, guiding me, calling me. I am reluctant to step out onto the invisible pathway. I breathe. In. Out. The clouds billow and beckon, growing heavy and grey in their urgency. I wish I didn't feel afraid. I am buffeted by strong winds blasting at my back. They push me forward. Forcing me into a frightening uncertainty.

I choke. The air has become thick. It presses on my chest. My lungs are heavy. I falter. I fall through the heavens, and the heavens break my fall. There is no escaping this air. This air is my life. It holds the past in windswept troughs, and presents the future in mutating cloud formations. I cannot adequately describe just how big and completely inescapable it is.

I breathe. In. Out.

Tomorrow there will be more.

Water

I am tentative. And nervous. Even though I can swim, I hold back. I place one toe in the water. It feels cool. Refreshing. And still I hold back. I seem unable to dive right in, like you do. I might get wet. I might get cold. I might enjoy myself too much.

You splash me with cooling beads of salty liquid. We laugh. We watch. We wade in a little deeper. I have goosebumps. I am wet. You pull me deep into the waves. We sink under blankets of liquid. For the first time, I feel alive. Here in this pool. I am energised. I feel cleansed.

The water covers me. I feel new. Here I am not me. Here I am anyone. I drink in a new persona every time I slip into these waves. I am moistened. Here I can grow. Watered at the root.

We swim in the twilight, quietly, lest we disturb the little fish. We keep our ripples small and silent, straining to hear what we might have disturbed as we cavorted in our private pool.

When I emerge from the tranquil silence trapped beneath these breakers, I am naked. I am reborn. For a short while, I live in a moistened cloud of ecstasy. The sweat and the tears are dissolved in these bubbling waters.

Too soon the water clinging to my skin evaporates in steamy droplets, mini memories of our underwater frolicking. And suddenly I am dry again. It's just me.

My lips are parched and blistered. My skin is burnt and cracked. I am not beautiful away from those tranquil waters. I want to feel the splash of those waves again. I want to stand beneath that waterfall, and be engulfed in a soothing rain. I long for the spray of cool mist against my thighs. I will be replenished in that oasis.

Sometimes I stroll along the streams on my own. I dabble in the shallows. A toe. A foot. Up to my knees. It's a cathartic and rejuvenating experience. But I see those surreal ripples spreading away from me, and I wonder what effect they might have on the shores across the oceans. Could I cause a tidal wave upon someone else's conservative beaches? I gaze over a never-ending sea, the water supporting thousands of floating bodies. They come here for different reasons. Some to rejuvenate, like me. Some to escape the shore. And some come looking for themselves.

The air is humid and clammy. I see dark shapes gliding in the deep waters, and it makes me feel afraid. There are things in this carnal ocean that I cannot understand. Things lurking in the muddy depths. Watching. Waiting. Preying on the seekers who swim out too far. I take a step closer to the shore and shudder. For a while, I am worried about entering these waters. I wait for you to come and take my hand. To pull me into the alluring azure deep where I can find myself again.

Fire

I walk through the fire. I step on the hot, demanding coals. I expect some relief, but it comes in short blasts of steaming air. It stings. It burns. My lungs are aching.

A burning sensation rises through my body. It is a radiating pain spreading over my abdomen. It claws at me, sending long thin fingers of singeing pink malice up my sides, ripping at my chest. I keep moving, treading an unseen path through the burning embers. If I stop, I will be engulfed in hungry flames.

It wants me, this fire. It chases after me. It wants to flow over me in hot billowy waves and leave my empty ashes in its path.

I keep running.

My eyes are burning. My feet are barefoot and raw amongst the cinders. I don't feel the searing intensity of these flames so much anymore. It doesn't hurt to let them lick at my legs and twirl in a manic dance across the palms of my hands. In fact, I am mesmerised by this enchanting hell. Whimsical sprites flit through the conflagration in a crimson ballet. I am enraptured. For a moment I feel drawn into their dance. I swirl and leap with these fiery nymphs.

As I dart and prance with my imaginary partners, a hazy mirage catches my eye. I squint through the sweltering blaze and imagine that there is relief beyond the inferno, a kind of dry oasis, a place where there is nothing left to burn. That desert beckons to me. I want to be there, away from this insatiable flood.

And still I endeavour to escape the fire. Even though it can never be outrun. Always lapping at my heels in wispy orange waves. The heat is immense. My cheeks are hot and flushed. I am tired from trying to flee this blaze.

Let the fire consume me. Let these flames eat their full of my tired body. Engulf me. Envelop me. Finish me. I am brittle and dry. I will incinerate quickly. I will not fight it.

I stand still, awaiting the refining power of this daily blaze to swallow me.

Then. Crack.

A spark.

Beside me two small shrubs wilt in the heat of the approaching inferno. Their sap is boiling. Their branches droop and bend away from the bulldozing warmth. They are dying. They must not die! I cannot allow it. They must grow and provide refreshing shade for others. I am yanked out of my dull stupor. I must keep moving. I turn from the affected saplings and entice the waves of flame away.

Today is a premature tomorrow

It's late on Sunday night. I'm really tired. No specific reason, really, just that it's Sunday night and tomorrow's Monday. And Monday means that it all starts again, this funny 7 day carousel that we ride over and over.

I don't have a job that I have to obligingly arrive for at 7am, fresh and ready to trade a service for an income. I don't have pressing meetings to prepare for, business trips to get through, corporate ladders to climb.

My Monday is no different from my Sunday, really. I don't dress differently. I don't put on any more make-up on Monday than I do on Sunday. Sure, I have obligations and commitments tomorrow which vary very slightly from my obligations and commitments that I had today. There's a little more driving around, and I do have to wake half an hour earlier tomorrow than I did today, but the work will be the same. Dress, feed, wipe, answer, cream, pack, rush, drive, drop off, kiss, tidy, fix, sort, mend, plan, collect, feed, wipe, pour, rush, drive, provide, educate, wait, entertain, negotiate, explain, answer, wash, feed, brush, wipe, kiss, cuddle, tuck in.

And even though tomorrow is the start of a new week, I wish, for some inexplicable reason, that the weekend would stay around a little longer, and I'm not sure why. It doesn't make much difference. For some reason, I'm not ready for this ride to be over and the next one to start.

Vrot

I feel vrot. Annie, my dear American friend who I have lovingly taught naughty Afrikaans phrases to, vrot means yuck. Blergh. Sicky. Snotty. Puffy eyed. Blocked eared. Concrete in the head. Rotten.

Lekker vrot is not a good combination, unless you're referring to compost, which you really want to be lekker vrot.

Vrot is a lot like kak, in a way. If I said, "I feel kak," it could infer the same experience as I feel vrot," except kak would include that morning-after-the-night-before, drunken hangover feeling that I have never ever in all my life felt. Er hum.

Vrot is the state of existence that has me putting the milk into the linen cupboard, and throwing my soggy tissues into the cutlery drawer. Vrot makes me a hazard on the road. It is a known fact that you cannot sneeze with your eyes open, right? It is also a known fact that you cannot drive (well) with your eyes closed. Thus there should be some kind of law about driving while sneezing. (My apologies to the guy in the red beamer who flashed his lights and threw a bird at me after swerving to avoid the red faced, eyes closed, oncoming vrot woman who seemed to be having an epileptic fit in her car this morning. I was just sneezing. Sorry.)

So, being vrot is lekker kak. Wish you were here to make it all better

Couldn't help myself

Good Days, Bad Days

As I sit here trying to get my head around, well, my head, I hear my daughter snoring and rolling around in her bed. She is unsettled. She feels insecure. I know it's because that I was unsettled today. I was insecure.

Sometimes the day starts with the wheels loose, and it doesn't take much to get them to fall off. It can be as minor as serving breakfast only to be whined at because she didn't want that one. Or having them jump on my bed while I'm trying to get dressed, and despite me telling them to stop, they carry on, until one of them takes a flying leap into my chin causing me to bite my own lip.

Days like these are tough. The girls feed off my emotional strength. Or lack thereof. If I'm shaky, they will act up. They will whine a little more than usual. They will squabble and bicker with each other, and fuss when I drop them off at school. The worst part of it all is that I am so aware of it as it's happening.

Pushed to my limit with a child throwing herself all over me while I'm trying desperately to dress her so that we can leave on time, I want to yell and shout and shake her into co-operation. And at the very same time, another voice in my head says: "She's only being a silly little girl - she's entitled to not feel pressure to be on time. Besides, be grateful for her - can you even begin to imagine your life without her? And you know that if you react badly, it's just going to set the tone for the rest of the day, and you're the only one who will be to blame for that, and the only one that will have to bear with it till bedtime - don't do it to yourself, it's just not worth it!" And while I'm having this self-involved conversation with my inner-mom, a little finger is needling me in the rib cage, and a little voice to match is shrieking, "Moooomm!! Did you even hear what I just said?"

And so it goes. The voice inside says, "Just breathe." And I do just breathe. Sometimes it's only after a little rant to vent my frustrations. In the car on the way to school, I apologise for being so irritable. The girls shrug. "It's Ok, Mom," says my sunbeam, "you're our best mom, and I love you one twentity seven hundreds threety six." "Well, I love you more than that," competes her sibling. "Mom, what's more than what she said?" And a new argument starts in the backseat. I turn up the morning news to drown out the battle that ensues. "Just breathe," I hear inside my head. I see my therapist closing her eyes, her nostrils flaring wildly as she demonstrates to me a good, deep, breath.

Despite breathing, the tone of the day has been set. The girls are fidgety and weepy all day long. It tires me rapidly. I feel depleted. I want to lock myself in my room. Alone.

Eventually we have fought through dinner. I've given in to their persistent requests not to eat all their sweet melon. I pat myself on the back for chosing my battles wisely. We argue over brushing teeth, and I tell them they can't watch a movie before bedtime. They toilet under duress. I toss them into their beds and tuck the blankets around their chins.

For the first time all day, I look at them and really, really feel love. Now. When they're going to sleep. When I can really breathe without a weight on my shoulder, or hanging onto my neck, or climbing all over me. Breathe. Just breathe.

They fall asleep very quickly. But they are tossing. Kicking. Talking in their sleep. I feel bad. I feel to blame. I want to give them peace and security. I feel like I've held that back from them today.

I check on my sleeping angels. There are soft sweaty curls clinging to their cheeks and covering their eyelids. They are so beautiful. So perfect. So much better than me. I kiss them and whisper that their mommy loves them. The one replies in her sleep, "I love you, Mom." I bite my lip and back out of her room.

Tomorrow I will be better. I promise.

Breaking free

I have gradually been reducing my Cipralex dose. Slowly. Skip a day. Skip two. Maybe it's a mind over matter thing, but somehow I feel I'm nearly ready to be normal without my anti-depressant.

Truth is, I don't want to be dependant on any medication just to be 'normal'. I want to be normal because I am normal. I want me to be completely normal.

A friend once told me that "Normal" is the setting on a hairdryer. So much for that then. I want to be the setting on a hairdryer.

Ok.

The pill is another thing that I don't like to be on. I don't want to take a pill just to keep my polycystic ovaries under control. I want to have ovaries that are the setting on a hairdryer. I don't want to need a pill to keep my menstrual cycle regular. I want my crazy periods to be the setting on a hairdryer.

Sigh.

So. I'm trying to get off the happy pill at least. Logic tells me I have so much to live for, to laugh for, to give thanks for. It's the emotional side that doesn't make sense of it all, and that's where the happy pill has kept me level. But I want it to be over now. I want logic to be bigger than emotion. I want my head to feel stronger than my heart.

Fresh Perspective

The other day I got caught up in blog-hopping You know, where you go from one blog to the next, clicking on the links that other people find interesting. Well, I hadn't been hopping long, when I reached a really absorbing site. www.kyahsjourney.livejournal.com  got me reading well into the night. Now before you go clicking through, let me warn you that it isn't for everyone. Not me even. And yet, it was the most moving, and thought-provoking site I have come across in an eternity.

Basically, the site is a journal that has been kept by Kyah's parents for just over a year. It documents their ordeal around Kyah's diagnosis with, and journey through neuroblastoma cancer. It is heart-wrenching. So raw are the emotions on a day to day basis, and typed with such honesty and openness, that I just couldn't put it down (or so to speak). It's a terribly tragic story. Kyah is in the final stages of what seems like an incredibly painful and brutally unforgiving experience. Her parents record her every day, reporting the good, the bad, and the obscenely ugly, in clear, yet fragile, terms. Their baby is dying, and they have to live.

Now why I did that to myself needs to be explained. Reading this disturbing tale is not recommended, but I just felt so moved by her parent's honesty, that I was glued to my screen for hours. Mostly I read through tear-flooded eyes, but sometimes all I could do was cover my mouth in utter hopelessness at their situation. The thought at the back of my mind always: what if it was me? What if my baby was suffering such an unfair and merciless disease? What would I do?

One thing in particular stood out for me. In the early stages of her diagnosis, when chemotherapy and radiation therapy were being considered, Kyah's parents were concerned about the side-effects these treatments would have on her (naturally). Among these side effects were growth retardation and sterility. How appalling to have to weigh these things up when considering your child's treatment. A little into her treatment, and as her condition worsened, her mother made a comment that really rang a bell for me. She said something along the lines of gladly accepting the side effects of retarded growth and inability to bear offspring just to have her baby back.

Wow.

Something about that really struck a chord with me. There are so many times when I wish things about my children. I wish they were more obedient. I wish they were tidier. I wish they were more musical. More concerned about punctuality. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I feel really ashamed. I am so so very fortunate to have two beautiful, radiant, happy little girls. I am so so so very lucky that they are healthy, and growing, and bright, and funny, and just like little girls should be. And I have realised, thanks in part to the beautifully honest writings of Jason and Shanell Milne, that I don't need more than the wonderful blessing I have in my daughters. I cannot possibly ask for anything more than these two wonderful sunbeams. I can't tell them often enought how much I love them, how glad I am to spend time with them, what fun it is to be together with them, talking, laughing, singing, playing. It is a drug for me. It keeps me wanting more.

My heart really aches for Kyah's family. I wish that there was some way to make it all better. I wish there was some way to wake them up from this torment and say, "Hey, it was really just a bad dream, folks. Now go on a nice vacation with your little family, and you'll all feel better." But all I can do, like so many others, is to sit by and watch this awful tragedy unfolding, offering cyber-sympathies and digital encouragement as they approach the greatest loss of all. 

And as they face this unspeakable episode in their family, familiarising themselves with death, and the things surrounding death, I can't help but think that this tiny little mite, not even three years old, has reminded me of why I want to live.

Thank you Kyah. Your story has touched me deeply. I wish you great peace.

Photo Infatuation

So here's something not many people know about me: I love looking at other people's photographs. No really, it's true. I do not get bored of pouring over albums that contain the photographic record of a holiday at the sea, or one marking the milestones of the budding family. Sure, anyone who's been to London has the same standard set of pictures (the lion guarding Trafalgar Square, Big Ben from across the road, The London Eye from below, and from inside, hovering over the Thames, the neon lights of Picadilly Circus, and a handful of silly poses alongside the inhabitants of Madame Tussaud's)). I suppose that once you've seen one lot of pics, you've seen them all, and yet I find browsing through these archives strangely engrossing.

I've mulled it over a bit, and there are a couple of reasons why I kind of fancy perusing people's piccies.

Firstly, I like to look for the pictures that work, and the ones that don't. This is a purely selfish reason of course, and all aimed at improving my own photographic ability. It's nice to get ideas for different photo shoots. Everyone has a selection of similar photos: there are the ones with the kids in the mud (or self-decorated with finger paint), the kids in the bath, the kids blowing out a birthday candle, or someone holding up a glass of booze and 'cheers-ing' the camera. But not everyone has a picture of their little girl ogling over a ladybug alighted on her finger, or of their little boy mesmerized by the planes at the airshow, or a picture of the filthy soles of little feet that have been "helping" in the garden. So I flip through albums in a creative research kind of mode.

I also like to check out how silly people used to look. You know, before I met them. Those pictures that you just want to die were ever taken? Well, I get a giggle from rating that eighties perm, those silly sunglasses that you thought were so cool, how young your parents were (Oh. My. Word. Your mom was Hot!), the practiced pose against the family room wall that was the official photo spot for the annual Christmas photograph. It's kind of cathartic witnessing the metamorphosis of the spotty geeky colour-retarded teenager into the fairly respectable lady sitting across the coffee table from me that I will not flinch being seen in public with. Great pal, aren't I?

But I suppose the strangest reason I enjoy other people's photos is this. I have this weird fantasy that one day I will be paging through somebody's archive of pictures from a time before we knew each other, and while I'm flipping through their pictures of their English holiday, or the wedding of a distant cousin, I'll see me in the background. And for once, I will have photographic proof of just how small the world really is.

Give me a break, already!

I thought we had an understanding, Mother Nature and me. Seems like all deals are off.

You heard about the spider bites, right? Well, the last count was right leg: 8, left leg: 7, sundry: 2. But I put that all aside. I thought that hey, maybe I could be to blame. Maybe I should have worn wellies and armor plated leggings while watering my garden. Sure, I suppose I could have.

Then. An overcast, windy day found me weeding the garden. Removing the gunk and muck that threatens to destroy a healthy lawn. And what did that get me? A sunburn. Deep. Maroon. Sunburn. A sunburn that is bullied by bra straps and tank tops. This is the kind of sunburn that begs to be left the hell alone. No clothing. No water. No touchy. No nothing. And somehow, apart from the usual back and shoulder burn, I am sporting a truly strange knee burn too. Both legs. Mid thigh to lower patella. Don't ask me how. Just cry with me every time a little person clambers on to my lap. Damn you, Ozone.

And then, as if that isn't enough, my worst nightmare. No, not the one about the giant tarantula and the melting ice-rink. I'm closing my blinds at the end of the day when something white and fluffy in the street catches my eye. A bunny. Not one of mine. I feel sorry for the poor thing. Lost. Alone. Frightened. Carefully I open my garden gate, a mere 3 meters from where it sits nervously munching on the weeds in my lawn. Leaving the gate, I go all the way around the house, through the front door and out into the street, to encourage the poor dear into a safe harbour, namely my back yard. Well. Number one. The poor dear has scampered up the road in the headlights of a Fiat Uno travelling at a snail's pace so as not to ride over the creature. And number two, in stepping out onto the grass of my front lawn, eyes locked on a fluffy white tail bounding up the hill, I step, barefoot, into a massive dog turd. I mean, come on! What more?

So I figure the old gal's got it in for me. Just what else she has hidden up her sleeve, I have no idea. I guess if it can't kill me it will only make me stranger. No spelling mistake.