Leap Year

The very last day of February was the very first day of the rest of my life.
It was, to say the least, not what I expected. In fact, I'd go so far as to say I'm glad it only happens once every four years. What with being bitten by a spider on the heel of my right hand (which itches far more than you'd think), and squirting lemon juice in my left eye while preparing dinner (which doesn't burn quite as much as you'd think), I was glad the day came to an end, eventually.
I had planned a whole bunch of "me-time" in celebration of my new beginnings, and ended up doing everything but celebrating.
But in between the mad rush to the shops for cycle gear for tomorrow's big race (read about that later), testing the pool water for an on-going algae infestation, doing the school run (which is always difficult trying to be at two different schools that both end at 12:15), repairing the badly frayed pool net, measuring cupboards for add-ons, doing three loads of washing (no exaggeration, I promise) and a play-date, I got to thinking a little bit about Leap Year (oh, and I also wondered about what I had let myself in for, stopping work and all...)
But, about Leap Year. It's an odd thing to think about, first of all. I mean, when you're sitting around a coffee table, how often do you hear someone say, "I was just thinking about Leap Year, and..."? Well, perhaps after this post there may be a few more people who might give it a little consideration.
But back to the point: Leap Year really sucks. And Leapies (the term given to people born on 29 February - After a quick google search, I was amazed to find out how many of them there are!) must be the most unfortunate individuals on the planet! And I mean that in the nicest possible way. From what I gather, these guys have to put up with so much rubbish - computer systems that don't register their birthdates, problems with issuing driver's licenses, only being of legal drinking age when they're 72. It's a shame, really.
If you know someone born on 29 February, be really nice to them. For three quarters of their life their birthday doesn't even show on the calendar. If you're expecting a child at this time, close your legs, close your eyes, put your bum in the air for the day and pray like mad. If you happen to go into labour, breathe in, and whatever you do, don't breathe out - let alone push! If you cannot avoid birthing your baby on 29 February, be prepared to let them get away with just a bit more than you would usually allow your kids to get away with for the rest of your life. Leapies are special. In a superhuman kind of way. Some heros are born with a gift, and leapies are definitely born with something special.
Other heroes acquire their powers, like, for instance, through being bitten by a radio-active spider.
Which very neatly brings me back to my itching palm. This Leap Year could be the start of great things for me, after all...

The End

So it's over.

Without getting overly dramatic, my clinic is finished. Game Over. No reboot. I left there this morning 5 minutes too late. I just had to hang around a little longer to prolong the anguish of leaving. I took a photo over my shoulder as I drove away. No tears. No remorse. No emotion. Only memories.
Now I have TONS of STUFF filling my study (which, thankfully, has a door that I can pull shut) and then there is the other little matter of the LOADS of STUFF in my car. The TONS of STUFF in the study will not allow the LOADS of STUFF from the car any residential space. And so I am stuck with the quandary of what to do with all my STUFF. I may have to drive around for a while with LOADS of STUFF keeping me company, until I have had a chance to sort out the TONS of STUFF and somehow arrange a suitable storage solution for both.
So I have my work set out for me for the next while.
As for how I'm feeling... I'm feeling 'Unemployed', which, I believe, is a pretty common emotion in South Africa, so I am not alone. Unemployed, but by no means jobless. A mom's work, after all, is never done. (Oh, and did I mention the LOADS of STUFF I have to take care of?)
It was remarked that today would be the start of a new chapter for me, a turning over of a new leaf. But really, it feels more like something has ended. There is no beginning here, just the completion of a season. The rest continues, and I am able to focus my attention on that which has not been my primary absorption for the longest time. I am relieved. This is the right thing for me.

Two more sleeps

By Thursday afternoon, I will no longer be small-business owner, midwife, lactation consultant, childbirth educator. It is then that my role of chief cook and bottle-washer will resume in ernest. I feel everything: scared, exhilarated, sad, delighted, angry, relieved, envious, at complete peace, worried, convinced, stressed, satisfied, surreal, alive. Confused? A bit.
It was suggested that my new role be titled "Domestic Goddess" - sounds so exotic! I may have to pierce my belly button (again) and wear chiffon, burn incense while I scrub the bathrooms, have perfect make-up for the ironing drill and keep a crystal crown balanced on my forehead while I concoct gourmet meals for my little family. Must say, I still prefer the label: "Stay-At-Home-Mom". That title doesn't expect excellence or day-long radiance, a challenge I am sure I could never keep up with.
I am planning a low key Friday - I had hinted at staying in bed all day and getting this whole letting go of my work thing out of my system, but that was met with a fair amount of dismay. Will get up, dress and feed the kids, take them to school, drive past work out of habit and then... I will go watch a movie. On my own. Alone. With a BIG box of popcorn.

Through a child's eyes

Yesterday was a fairly standard weekend day for our family. We lazed around a bit, popped in at the shops a bit, painted the garden wall a bit (falls under home maintenance which happens on most weekends), watched videos a bit, swam a bit. Really nothing glamourous or overly exciting. Bedtime is also usually a low-key event in our home.

Which is why it puzzled me so when I tucked my kids in bed last night and found my eldest with tears in her eyes.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

She bit her bottom lip. It was quivering, tears spilling over her gorgeous long lashes. Seeing her like that what absolutely heart-wrenching. Everything in me ached and longed to fix whatever horrible problem had thrown her into this emotional state. 

"I wish," she sniffed, "that today would still go on some more." Her body shuddered as she buried her wet face into my shoulder.

I held her close, rocked her and said "Tomorrow will be another day. Why are you so sad?"

"Because," she whispered, "today I had more fun than I have ever had. It was my nicest day."

To me it was just another day, to her it was her nicest one ever. What she had seen in it, I will never know, but she didn't want it to end.

I seldom long for a never-ending day. When supper's done and the dishwasher is whirring through its load, I am only too relieved that the day is over. All I want to do at the end of the day is fall into bed - don't talk to me, don't look at me, don't touch me - this shop is closed.

What T-bird was doing, I realise, is something beautifully characteristic of little children - Living In The Moment. Not caring about the exhaustions of yesterday or the responsibilities of tomorrow, but enjoying each moment in its perfect entirety. Holding onto the seconds, minutes and hours that make her happy.

Wish I could be more like that.

Feeling French

After years of failed musical acquirement due to animated audio-visual purchasing excursions (Translation: walking into a CD shop with the aim of buying a CD, but leaving with a Disney DVD), I have very recently (Translation: yesterday) become the proud owner of the Edith Piaf Platinum Collection (Translation: lots of songs by a frenchwoman with too much phlegm in her throat).

I am pleasantly surprised. Not only by her powerful talent, but by how much I am enjoying her deeply emotional music. Who would've thunk that I would be hip-swinging and toe-tapping to lyrics (and melody, of course) that I don't understand? 

In broadening my knowledge on my latest commodity, I was pleased to see that "La Vie en Rose" a movie depicting the life of The Little Sparrow, is soon to be released (June 2008). 

Have been inspired to go a little french. Will start by gargling with honey to improve my articulation. Also need to get me a baguette now and then. No more straight coffees for me, thank you! I prefer a cafe au lait! 

Might also start "ey"ing words ending in "et". The obvious french words that are not pronounced the way they are written are, for instance: ballet, fillet, buffet, caberet. You with me? I shall now use a few newly "frenchisized" words of this nature in a comprehensive sentence - brace yourself: 

I regrey to interprey this snippey of news: an ultravioley bulley ricocheted off the cabiney causing your pey ferrey to forgey the pickpockey who stole your clariney from your jackey.

Adieu.

Leaving work

I am confronted with a bitter-sweet anticipation. I have one week left at my current "official" place of work. I am standing on the edge of a cliff, only, unlike during dramatic changes in one's life where you feel that you are about to jump off into the great unknown, I feel like am facing the other way. Instead of preparing myself to plummet out into the vast abyss, I have my back to the chasm. I feel like I have spent the last four years pulling myself up this impossible rock and have reached a level and grassy, and somewhat unchallenging plateau.

I am relinquishing my responsibilities as small business owner, health advisor, dispenser of baby-know-how and giver of (more often than not) pain-free injections to humans in the 0 to 2 year category. 

4 years! How do you give up your "baby" after 4 years? 4 years of walking a road with clients who have become dear friends.  4 years of crying with parents over the unbearable loss of a stillborn child or the frustration of infertility. 4 years of anxiously waiting for pregnancy test results. 4 years of watching little bumps swell into radiant full term pregnancies and welcoming the tiny little bundles that grow and change so incredibly rapidly over the next few weeks, months and years. 4 years of nurturing the breastfeeding partnership of mother and child. 4 year of adapting/ adjusting/ advising/ alternating/ alleviating/ answering/ arguing/ assessing/ assisting/ bandaging/ breastfeeding/ breathing/ bruising/ calming/ campaigning/ caring/ carrying/ challenging/ changing/ cleaning/ collecting/ co-operating/ cradling/ creaming/ crying/ daring/ diagnosing/ diapering/ disinfecting/ educating/ embracing/ encouraging/ evaluating/ failing/ feeding/ fighting/ finding/ giving/ giving-up/ growing/ guessing/ healing/ holding/ implementing/ joking/ knowing/ laughing/ learning/ losing sleep/ loving/ massaging/ measuring/ meeting/ monitoring/ needing/ not sleeping/ nursing/ phoning/ planning/ pleading/ praying/ pricking/ promoting/ protecting/ recording/ repeating/ researching/ reupholstering/ rocking/ serving/ soothing/ sterilising/ suggesting/ swaddling/ testing/ tickling/ treating/ trying/ vaccinating/ visiting/ watching/ weighing/ winding/ winning/ worrying. 

Leaving this behind me, in part feels like giving up a child for adoption. A sense of guilt over abandoning this little business I have nurtured and grown for 4 years. And yet, as this season in my life rapidly draws to a close, I await what lies in store for me with some relief and excitement. I expect the next season to be relatively quiet and unobtrusive. A time of mothering, after-school taxiing, school outing accompaniament and general home management awaits.

I hate the term "Home Executive" - it sounds so like I'm trying to mask the fact that I scrub toilets and wipe noses and sort 4 people's underwear. Like I'm trying to make scratching mildew out of the tile grouting sound sophisticated. I think "Stay-at -Home-Mom" really covers it far better. Everyone knows that a mom does the dirty work, but everyone loves their mom for doing it. I don't need a fancy label. I will be knee deep in housework and and elbow-deep in homework. I will have mud under my cracked fingernails while I pull weeds out of the lawn. My wardrobe will not have anything that requires heels. I am a mom. And proud of it. 

(She bites her lip as she publishes her post)...

About Blogging

It has taken me just too long to get into blogging. When I was first invited to view a blog, I did so with a little curiosity and forgot to return. So the idea became a neglected seed at the back of my mind. But now that I'm here, at last, I find it rather addictive - a bit like Facebook without the throwing of sheep and brain-dead-fruitless-friend-finding-missions; you know the kind: you get poked by somebody you don't know. It was probably accidental. But you wonder how they know you, so you start scrolling through their list of friends. You see a couple of names that either look slightly familiar, or have intriguing profile pictures. You click on their friends. Before you know it your scrolling through friends of friends of friends and all of a sudden you're late to fetch the kids from school - aaaargh! Mad dash! You get home and sit right down again picking up where you left off. Next thing you know you're actually filling in answers to the never-ending movie quiz...

And so it goes.

But back to blogging. In blogging I have found an ever present friend ready to lend an ear to my woes and sorrows. Sometimes my friend is quiet, but sometimes he offers me a couple of responses (which are always nice!).

Blogging helps me vent, helps me put my thoughts down in language. I find this very therapeutic. Plus it's cheaper than therapy, so I can't complain!

As a way of practicing my literary ability, I'm finding blogging helpful. A bit pressurising at times - the thought that there are readers lurking out there quietly critiquing my work and possibly vowing to block my blog for future reference is somewhat intimidating.

The other pressure linked to blogging is coming up with new ideas. Nobody really wants to hear about my day (on a boring day. Of course, if the neighbour's house is on fire, that's another story!) Mostly my day is pretty standard. So to post a "Dear Diary, this is how I spent my morning..." would be painful, to say the least.

So I find that I sit pondering over ideas and events, figuring out what would entertain as well as alleviate my inner-turmoils. I find that if I try too hard, I get nothing, zip, blank slate. I figure it's best to just let it flow.

Perhaps a little alcohol would help to loosen things up a bit?

Which brings me to a point I have been mulling over for some-time: substance-assisted performance. Have there been any specifically prominent and outstanding artists who have excelled sans some mind-altering substance? I guess the question I'm asking is: would the afore-mentioned artists still be as good without the drugs and booze?

Every flourishing pop group on the planet is smoking/ spiking/ sipping something. Writers, sculptors, dancers, athletes. Sure they may have an initial talent, but to really be the best, are they not artificially-enhanced to a degree?

Do you think MichaelAngelo could paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, lying on his back for 4 years working on a project he was not even interested in doing but being forced to by the pope without the assistance of some magic potion he kept tucked in his sock? He claimed to be a sculptor, not an artist, so the ceiling was not really on his list of things to do. (There now, you've learnt something new!) Looking at the results today, can you think for one second that he did all that without a cocktail of paint thinners and clay precipitate coursing through his bloodstream?

How about Stephen King? What normal, unintoxicated human actually has those kind of bizarre thoughts floating through his head just waiting to flow out of the writer's pen? I'm not a Stephen King fan, but I gather he's a fairly popular author and is quite good at his craft.

I'm telling you, the good ones are on something!

And we all know about top athletes and steroids, so I'm not even going to go into that one.

All I'm saying is, perhaps there is some extraordinary ability locked up in each of us and to set it free, to actually enjoy the fullness of one's potential, perhaps illegal substances can be a quick kick start? I'm not condoning drugs and alcohol abuse here, I'm just musing on what I see. Feel free to disagree.

And then keep reading my blog, because there will always be something more...

The price of beauty

Once upon a time (say, like, Saturday) a young(ish) mother - let's call her Irene, or I for short -  decided to take some time for herself and booked a facial. It was the first facial I had had for years. The beautician took one look at her desperately unnurtured, early wrinkling skin and tutted under her breath. She set to work. I cried. It was a deep cleanse facial. It hurt. Her husband didn't get it later that day when I tried to explain to him how painful the whole event had been. He believed she had been pampered and spoilt all morning.

The next day I woke up with teenage skin. Not in the plump, moisture-rich, elastic sense of the word. More like the oily, pimply, hormone-bedevilled leprosy break-out definition. Now she feels miserable and sore. Plus I may be on the verge of an impetigo infection. Drat!

I hates beauticians.

(What's the bet the grammar check is going to get quite constipated about that last sentence!)

On saving people

Sunday. The Plan: 1.  Sleep-in. 2. Late breakfast. 3. Argue about what we plan to do today. 4. Start doing what we argued about - probably tidying up the study/ toy box/ kitchen counter/ bar (we have a lot of places that easily get cluttered). 5. Late lunch. 6. Take girls for a bike ride. 7. Early supper. 8. Early bed.

What really happened: 1. Tried to sleep-in. Girls awake at 6:30 and arguing about who was going to dress up as a fairy and who was going to be the bride. Yelled at them to keep quiet because we're still sleeping. They repented at 7:00 by bringing us offerings of leftover sweets and chocolates from yesterday's party box. Great! Now they've started the day on a sugar-high. Ignore the chocolate marshmallow graciously placed next to my head on my pillow. Girls' volume increases as sugar sets in. Roll over and pull duvet over my head to block out the noise. Squash chocolate egg. Open eyes for real this time. Notice husband has already surrendered to the demands for attention and breakfast from the offspring and hear him busy in the kitchen. My hero. Could sleep a little longer. Feel guilty that he's up and I'm not. Pull my self out of bed. 

2. Earlier breakfast than planned. Comment on the mess. Which very nicely wraps up 2. and leads us straight into...

3. A bit of bickering over who makes the greater mess and why it takes forever to clean it up. I complain that I can't tidy a place because of all his stuff and he says the same about me. Very unoriginal. Decide today will be the day for sorting out the study, the great black hole of our home. The place where all things, important or not, vanish for varying periods of time. It is the customs department of our house. Anything coming in or going out has to pass through the study. Many things get confiscated, never to be seen or heard from again (it happened to a house guest once, I swear! We filed a missing persons report and everything...) Sometimes it takes a day to retrieve the groceries, sometimes more. But mostly it's the paperwork that gets delayed the most. Post, junk mail, birthday cards, accounts, newspapers. So today we set about taking on the paper monster.

4. Approach study with caution. Get distracted (as one does when finally getting around to doing something you've been procrastinating about for ages). Hubby's busying himself deciding how to hang a shelf in Air-Bear's bedroom (OK, VERY distracted) and I'm concientiously attacking a new load of washing. Cue the doorbell. And this is where the day takes a very interesting turn.

4a. Lady at the front door: "Have you got a hose-pipe? Your neighbour's roof's on fire!"

4b. Hubby runs into nearby telephone booth, sheds his DIY home maintenance alter ego overalls and reappears as Blade - Super Hero In Training. Hops over neighbour's wall with garden hose rolled over his shoulder. Hops back 30 seconds later to get tap nozzle connector. He hops back over. Now, people, we're talking 2m high wall here. (Go go gadget pogo!)

4c. Neighbour's lovely thatch roof smoulders happily in gorgeous summer breeze. Little orange flames appear for brief moments to prove that the spark from their Sunday barbeque was quite potent indeed.

4d. Hubby reappears over the wall asking for a ladder - no hopping this time. After a few moments he comes to the front door to collect his order. I follow him back to the fiery inferno. The reassuring sirens of the approaching fire brigade are heard in the distance, but a wailing and gnashing of teeth is apparent in the garden. The neighbour's daughter is wailing and her full grown bull terrior is gnashing his teeth - there are just too many people in his yard.

4e. Crowded chaos indoors. At least 3 garden hoses are aimed at the burning roof. The furniture and appliances are showered with spray. Many people. Tons of smoke. Try to clear stuff out of the falling water. Daughter becoming hysterical. Also note a small maltese poodle making a terrified poo on the stairs. The firebrigade have arrived and the maltese poodle is nearly crushed by large fireman boots. (Husband wishes he had large fireman boots and cool tough guy jacket instead of cargo pants and gym t-shirt I find out many hours later).

4f. Figure the Super Hero In Training and fire crew have things under control. Keeping calm I do the mother hen thing and scoop up the now diarrhoetic maltese poodle, hysterical teenager and rabid bull terrior and march them all next door for a cup of sweet tea. On arrival discover that I have mysteriously acquired another soul in need of rescuing - a 6 year old who happened to be on the premises at the time too. Oh well - give them all sweet tea. The maltese poodle seems to be leaking. Put it outside.

4g. We watch the proceedings from over the wall. T-bird and Air-Bear, not quite understanding the situation decide that these visitors need to be entertained and start pulling out every show-off party trick in the book. The visitors smile politely.

4h. The bull terrior manages to jump into our swimming pool. Through the pool net. First time all morning that I start sweating. All I can think is that this hyperactive canine is going to drown in my pool while he's mistresses house burns to the ground. Rush to open the pool net. Bull terrior clambers out the pool, phew! and runs straight into the house to shake off excess water, damn!

4i. Maltese drops a load on the threshold of the kitchen door. Not called poo-dles for nothing! I'm gonna kill that dog. Look for a hose to spray the offending parcel into the garden. Hose next door. Crap.

4j. Check on next door - firemen packing up. The problem is in check. No more fire. Great! Can send the visitors back home. Hysterical daughter - check. Wet bull terrior - check. Mystery 6 year-old - check. Endangered maltese poodle - missing. Check pool - no poodle. T-bird spots the rat under a delicious monster - try to collect him, he runs, terrified. Dammit. Spend next 10 minutes chasing after leaky dog. Eventually corner him and pick him up like a baby, but carefully pull his tail up between his legs to serve as a diaper of sorts - must deliver this thing quick...

4k. Safely return all of my charge. Try and collect Super Hero In Training. He's being neighbourly. Return home alone.

4l. Get home and realise that it's almost lunch time, and remember we were expecting guests, who arrive as the fire truck pulls away. Luckily this makes the excuse that lunch-isn't-ready-because-the-neighbour's-house-was-on-fire-and-we-were-helping pretty credible, phew.

5. Very late lunch - we order pizza.

6. Take girls for their bike ride as well as a stop off at the park and a swim to make up for not being more available in the morning. All's great, but it did mean...

7. we had supper late. Hubby starts to feel a bit woozy. Says his head feels thick (translation - he inhaled too much smoke) and his butt aches (translation - no more leaping 10 foot walls in a single bound for some time).

8. Not as early as planned, but we all will sleep very well tonight.

Where did the romance go?

My husband presented me with a big jar of Chocolate Body paint for Valentine's Day. He had a twinkle in his eye. So did I. The first thought through my head was, "I wonder if the girls would like this on their school sarmies?" Shouldn't have thought aloud though, because hubby-dear was greatly offended. 

We spent Valentine's in a family restaurant watching the girls getting their faces painted, chasing after them to finish their fish fingers, and worrying about being home so that they didn't get to bed too late as it was a school night. It sounds like a miserable attempt at romance, but we did manage to savour a few quiet moments between the girls running back and forth to the play area and the waiter taking his time to take our order. 

OK, OK - so we didn't go to a huge effort in the first place to actually plan something for V-day, so I really can't complain about it being a non-event. Not that I view it as a non-event, because I do value the time I spent with my soul-mate over a banana milkshake and the chips the girls didn't finish.

But it got me thinking about how the romance in our relationship seems to have waned over time. Our first Valentine's day together (12 years ago) started at 4:15 am. We were making out on a small hill just outside of Pretoria with coffee and croissants as the sun rose and the morning sounds of the nearby farmstead  filled the air. We stayed up there until about 7am watching the golden clouds evaporate into the sky. The local farmer and his dog interrupted our daybreak romp. But it had been so romantic and so exciting! 

A couple of years later, my beau cooked dinner for me. Small round table set for two. One red rose in a vase.  Candle-lit venue. 3 course meal. Gourmet. I was sold on this man.

Even after our first born arrived, we managed a romantic, indoor, candle-lit picnic (OK, so we shared the event with 2 other couples, but it was a lovely evening). But something about the passionate romance of young-love had started to fade.

By now, the nervous sparks have long since been replaced with steady flames. The discovery of things unknown replaced by comfortable familiarity. The need to smother the object of my affections with erotic kisses is replaced by the need for sleep to retain my sanity. I do want kisses, but I would rather shower and get the stickiness from lollypop fingers out of my hair. As for gifts, I'd love jewelry, but I'd appreciate far more having the car valeted as it's so full of crumbs that the seats go "crunch" when you sit down. The Kama Sutra used to be the book on my bedside table. Now it's Dr So-'n-So's guide to diagnosing Childhood rashes. This year my secret admirers are waist high and urinate on the toilet-seat. Sigh. Where did Valentine's Day go?

For me Valentine's Day is when he comes home from work, knowing my day sucked, and presents me with a bunch of flowers just to make me smile. Valentine's happens when we put a movie on for the kids first thing in the morning and creep back into bed for a late morning lie-in. Valentine's is an impromptu sunset walk on the beach, hand-in-hand, watching the waves wipe our footprints into the sea. Sometimes it's locking eyes and feeling so much love for this other person that it's hard to control the emotion. 

The fact that the Valentine's Day card I received this year is bright pink with wonky hearts and a smiley faced butterfly drawn in black permanent marker is fantastic. I view it as a step-up from the gold-edged calligraphy-embellished Hallmark card I got 10 year's ago.

As for the chocolate body paint - it has been stored in the cupboard alongside the peanut-butter and the Marmite. It's waiting for Valentine's Day next week to make a re-appearance.

Where babies come from

Today, when I dropped my T-bird off at school she took me by the hand to the book corner and took out a book called "How Babies are Made". "Come and read with me," she insisted.

I sat beside her and looked at the pictures with her. 

It started with flowers, went on to chickens (real birds and bees stuff), briefly looked at dogs and ended with human babies. The illustrations were clear enough whilst being suitably modest for the average 5 year old reader.

On the chicken page I asked her what was happening in a scene where a puffed out rooster was mounted on top of a hen. 

Air-bear piped in first, "He's going for a ride!"

"No!" said T, "They're laminating!"

I mulled over that one for a couple of pages.

We got to the dogs. "How about these dogs?" I asked. "What are they doing?"

"They're also lanimating," she answered.

That time I got it. "Oh, you mean mating?" She nodded. How did she know about that?

The morning at work I thought a lot about where my little princess's quest for knowledge had led her and realised that The Conversation was approaching us at a fairly rapid pace.

The Conversation. The one my mom had had with me where she asked me if I knew where babies came from and I said "uh, huh" and made a strange gesture of sliding the index finger of my right hand back and forth through the ring of fingers made by my left hand. I had hoped, at the time, that she would leave it at that, but she insisted that I explain what that meant - I realise know she was checking the accuracy of my facts.

My facts had been pretty above board for a 6 year old. The reason being that my best friend in nursery school had a dad who was a gynaecologist. In fact, we could even say "gynaecologist" which was quite a feat in itself when you're at an age where not losing your shoes in the wendy house is an accomplishment. So we knew where babies came from: mommies' tummies. We knew how they got in there and how they got out. Some days we would pour over her dad's obstetrical textbooks taking in each fascinating illustration: sketches of naked grown-ups (wide eyes!), an erect penis (giggle!) with a picture of a tadpole. Then little suns traveling through tiny tubes in an outlined woman's pelvis meeting up with a tadpole that disappeared into it. There in a watermelon pink cavity a multi-eyed pomegranate began to grow. The pomegranate disappeared after a while and was replaced by an amphibious alien with T-rex arms and a fishy tail. A couple of pages later the alien metamorphosized into what we were obsessed with at the time - a tiny little person doing miniature cartwheels in the belly of the outlined woman. Gradually the little person got rounder and fatter and we oohed and ahhed over the cherub that inflated the outlined woman's silhouette. Then the infant slid out of a grey sock stored in the woman's side-ways profile and mother and child were united at the breast (another giggle!). We were 5.

And this is where my passion for midwifery began. A fascination for the miracle of life.

Over the last few years I have thought back to that time and tried to imagine my precious sheltered children gaining the knowledge I had at their age. I shuddered every time. How was I going to teach them about reproduction? Surely they don't need to know about these things until they're 30?

So when we got home I broached the subject. "Tell me about the book we read this morning..." the conversation started. The rest of it went pretty well. She pulled her nose up to me saying yes when she asked if people "mated" too (that's good, right?). I said that we call it sex when we talk about people. She practiced the word a couple of times as though she was saving it for future reference (that's not good if it's in an unsuitable place - drat! should I have mentioned the "S"-word?). She didn't need a lot of information in the end. Just a couple of facts: Boy meets girl, boy MARRIES girl (I'm all for long-term commitment), penis and vagina, baby, and yes T, it does hurt to push a baby out. At which point Air-Bear said "Then I'm never having a baby!" 

Which is fine by me.

Busy people

They say that if you want something to get done, you should ask a busy person to do it. And it's true. A person who isn't busy doesn't have the same drive, momentum, or inspiration to get the job done as a busy person does. A busy person, well, they always seem to be able to cram that little bit extra into their already bursting programs.

Everybody knows what I'm talking about. If you yourself are not a busy person, you definitely live or work or put up with or, sometimes, idolise a busy person.

Busy people. You know the type - they can't sit still for 5 minutes. Permanently taking on new enterprises. Not enough hours in the day type of people. Running large corporations (in 36 hour a day kind of management positions) whilst maintaining a home full of children, animals and appliances as well as supporting needy charities with blankets (they knitted themselves) and volunteer work in soup kitchens (the soup, of course, an old family recipe passed down over generations and home-made in their pristinely tidy kitchens). They juggle an inordinately large number of balls, and never seem to drop one. Busy people have very full lives.

I do not fall into the busy genus. The number of tasks I complete in any given day cannot begin to compare to a busy person's daily schedule. Even so, I like to think that I might be a closet busy person. Whilst not appearing to be noticeably busy on the outside, I am quite busy on the inside. On the inside I have a permanent jumble of plans, ideas, to-do lists, and blueprints happily (and busily) bubbling away in my little melting pot of schemes and dreams. Sometimes these inner broilings are so complicated and elaborate that I feel quite exhausted after a full day of, well, what? Is the day over? Already? I'm the kind of person that doesn't get around to doing things because I have a lot on my mind. 

Fortunately I married a busy person. And this has made all the difference. My busy husband is a go-getter; which is useful since my get-up-and-go got-up-and-went a long time ago.

I really admire busy people. Busy people emanate a warm energy that I for one am addicted to. I seem to have surrounded myself with busy people as a sort of survival mechanism. When you're around busy people, you can't help but be caught up in the turbulent warmth of accomplishment, the glow of the job well done, the satisfaction of ticking off the to-do lists. 

Busy people don't say "No". To themselves or to others. Busy people are "Yes"-people, "Sure I can"-people, "I can squeeze that in between dropping the boys at karate, playing the organ for my little sister's wedding and addressing Parliament with my proposal for an earth-friendly, sustainable answer to the power crisis"-people. And it's not that they CAN'T say "No", it's just that the thought doesn't ever strike them that they might not be able to do whatever it is.

I'm not like that. If I bite off more than I can chew, I gag. I do well with small bites. Delicate mouthfuls of activity. I'm the slow and social eater and not the grab-a-bite-on-the-go kind of girl. 

My sensitive gag-reflex has cured me of taking on more than I can handle. I am sensible and responsible. I don't like to stretch my boundaries. I don't need to test my abilities. I am not a busy person. Besides, there's got to be some balance, right?

Moonstruck

We went to the Moonstruck concert on Clifton beach on Saturday evening. Perfect weather. Perfect evening. Made me glad to live in Cape Town. Once again.

Think pink

My little T-bird asked me what my favourite colour was. I said "Purple" just so we wouldn't get into an argument over who owns the colour pink. The truth is that, like my 5 year old princess, I do love pink. Pink, pink, pink and then some more. Pink that smells like strawberries and cream. Pink that makes the roses bush blush. Beautiful, girly pink!

I can really relate to pink. Sure, I don't decorate with it (much). (Yet). But I feel like pink understands me. There's the pink I feel when I'm happy (tickled pink!). It's the kind of pink that you find on the very inner bottom bit of a white rose petal.

There's the pink I feel when I'm tired. It's kind of dusty and dirty. Like the soles of AirBear's feet when she's been running around in the garden all afternoon. It's a pink that needs a good soapy soak and a gentle scrub.

There's my love pink too. It's the pink that hides just inside his lips before he kisses me. It's a beautiful deep rich pink and I feel marvelous around it.

There's my hungry pink too. It's the pastelly swirly strawberry milkshake kind of pink that reminds me a lot about marshmallows and cotton candy.

When I'm angry, it's the throbbing pink tip of my nose as I frown and all the blood in my face collects on the tip of my proboscis trying desperately to escape my furrowed fury.

The other pink is for when I'm sad. It's dark and greyish and collects in puffy rings around my eyes. It gets blotchier when I've been crying and takes a good deal of begging and pleading to clear off if I'm in a hurry to get going somewhere I need to look half decent.

There's my excited neon pink that flashes jittery butterflies in my stomach. It glows and fidgets and puts my whole psyche in a bit of a spin. If my neon pink hangs around for too long I get a fantastic headache. Ouch.

I do love pink. I feel personally done in that it is not an official rainbow colour. Perhaps more countries should have pink in their flags? Pink is great! 

Don't you think?

Living without regrets

Ever wish you could go back in time and change something you did or something that happened to you? The question I'm really asking is: is it really possible to live without regrets? 

I've tried. Really. I even made it my motto for the longest time "Live without regrets" (I had a theme song and everything - "I'm every woman": Whitney Houston), but I just can't seem to get it right. (I realise, of course that this may be due to the theme song. Am looking into something more Buble-ish at present).

 I do something every day that I regret. Often it's the same thing, like: not getting enough exercise. But sometimes it's something unique like forgetting to phone someone for their birthday, or saying something without thinking, or giving in to buying something hopelessly overpriced just because I was caught up in the thrill of the moment.

I think that people who live without regrets are not necessarily living perfect lives, but more likely, have come to terms with their own inadequacies and accept that  the past is done. Move on. Period.

I have really struggled to get to that point of acceptance.

I constantly have the "What if" scenario playing out in the back of my mind. What if I had been an only child? What if I had had more opportunities? What if money wasn't an issue? What if I had followed a different career-path? Would I be a different me? Would I be happier? Would I be more secure and self-confident? What if...

Now don't get me wrong. It's not that I am unhappy with my life as it is. I have it pretty good. I know that. I'm healthy (-ish most of the time), I have unarguably the most devoted, generous, understanding husband on the planet, I have two beautiful, intelligent, healthy daughters who make me laugh at least once a day. And I live in Cape Town - voted one of the top places in the world to call home. So what am I complaining about? What am I what-iffing about?

Today was a milestone for me. I started an antidepressant for the first (official) time in my life. As I gulped down the little white promise of salvation, I what-iffed all the way back to my childhood and Daddy's business went belly-up and the universe cracked in two. What if Mr Stubborn-Genius-with-a-brain-the-size-of-a-planet had just accepted a normal job, with a normal salary, with a boss and a quota and a fixed income? What if we were never homeless? What if Mom never had that emotional breakdown? What if I had been protected from all that confusion? What if I had seen a shrink 15 years ago? (Has it really been that long?) What if I hadn't felt so heavy for so long?

The little tablet slid into me and I waited with my eyes closed for 10 seconds. Nothing. One of the girls called me from the bathroom to wipe her bum. I didn't move. I breathed out. Slowly. Ever so slowly I opened my eyes. I was still me. Still the same 75kg balancing on a chair. Same slouch. Same sunburnt shoulders. Same me. Same midwife. Same university. Same dysfunctional history. Same sadness. Same person.

Ok. So I realise that this drug is going to take a good 2-3 weeks to start working, so it was a little unrealistic to hold my breath for life-changing results. But, and this is the Oprah ah-hah moment, as I sat on that stool waiting for my salvation, it struck me that this tiny little chalice of hope could never change the past. It was my crutch for dealing with the days to come. I could what-if till the cows come home, and sure, if I had been an only child, indulged to every whim and fancy, steered in a financially successful career path, well, I would be a different person. I would have different things in my life and be with different people.

The truth is that I am me. Here. Now. I can't change what has happened to me in the past to get me to this point. Yes, it hurts when I think of the injustices and sufferings, but I'm in a good place now. I am loved. I have friends. I have family. There is no guarantee that tomorrow will be a good day, but at least I know that tomorrow will come. And hopefully, with my faithful 10mg of SSRI cruising through my system, I will be happy to be just me.

A great sadness

Well last week I went for a scan and turned out my ovaries were riddled with cysts. As I lay on the examination table twisting my head to get a better view of the sonar screen, all I could make out were these grey oval slices of swiss cheese. 

That was last week at the sonar place. Today, 9 days later, was the first time I could get to see my doctor. 9 painful days of wondering, of what iffing, of googling the damn things trying to figure out if I would make it through winter. So many conflicting opinions - I hate the internet, really. I was just about in stage 4 cancer by the time I walked into the doc's reception area this morning. 

She did put my mind at ease. "It's not so bad," she explained, gently. "These are your options..." I burst into tears.

What an idiot. Felt like that one moment became a point of concentration for years worth of supressed agonisings, self-searching, and, yes, the big D.

I've known all my life really that I suffer depression. Never had it properly addressed though. Different reasons at different times in my life. When it first came out, my family was in the midst of financial collapse. My parents were barely able to keep their own heads above water, let alone understand the impact of that turbulent time on their 12 year old daughter. And from there on, I just got swept along in the stream of life trying desperately to be a floater, not a sinker. 

In university I approached a doctor friend for help. He laughed at me and said I could choose to overcome my anxiety.

Well. I first felt hurt that he hadn't helped me, but after a while I persuaded myself that I could be bigger than what I was feeling. So on I floated. Through life. Through marriage. Through two pregnancies. A small business of my own. Until today.

Today somebody saw through my celophane confidence. Somebody realised my inability to make myself happy. Somebody saw my great sadness. And this is where the bus stops.

The road leading into the future for me is signposted along the way with anti-depressants and oestrogens, and I for one am feeling a lot lighter than I have for a long, long time.

Here goes

So, at the age of 29, I feel like I may be going through my midlife crisis. If this is the case, will I only live to be 58? And if this is the case, then I feel that this may be far more serious than at first I thought it might be. 

What with moving in to a new phase of life, the kids starting school and the hormones acting up, the tide definitely feels like it may be turning. Trying to reach back to a time in my life when things were easy, uncomplicated and irresponsible, and yet feel like I am making a valuable contribution to the state of the nation, or at least the state of my family, how insecure and shaky things feel!

I need some light distraction - a brain-dead movie, perhaps, or an easy-level Sudoku to mull over while I sip on a hot coffee... The java bean is calling.