Too bad, So sad!

The playdate was over, and the guests made to leave. Said the eldest, "This wasn't a very fun house!"

Ouch! Cut like a knife, it did.

The danger of putting it off

One of the principle differences between  adults and children is the ability to delay the gratification of their needs. Er, the adults, that is. Well, mostly anyway. Children become frustrated when what they want is not presented to them momentarily; while adults generally go on seeing to the children's needs for, well, for ever and don't actually get around to addressing their own wants, desires, cravings.

But sometimes, the adults among us neglect, or ignore, our inner cravings, children or no. Take the dedicated dieter, for instance. The Dieter is a perfect example of an adult denying the longings and desires of their inner skinny person. The more the internal hungry entity screams for chocolate, the more the outer adult shuts them up with loud music, gym classes and celery. Until, one day, the two of them happen to trip up on a KitKat and land head first in a big bowl of Gino Ginelli's Chocolate Milano. And this, I believe, is the danger of postponing the gratification of the adult's needs - the longer you do it for, the harder you fall.

This is my story about my monosodium glutamate dependency:

For sometime now I have been craving the MSG fix I get only from Ster-Kinekor's movie popcorn. Sure, I have several bottles of salt and vinegar flavouring in my larder, but they just don't seem to have the same effect as cinema purchased popcorn. On researching my addiction, I came across a very interesting theory that the only "natural" foodstuff that has the same effect on the taste receptors which respond (in my case) so exuberantly to MSG, is caviar.

Seeing as I had been quietening my inner monster for some time, and not having any caviar lying about, I was desperately seeking my fix. Unable to contain the beast any longer, I arrived at the Tygervalley Mall first thing this morning to get my hit. Like a zombie I handed over the exorbitant amount of money required to purchase the staple food of most poverty-stricken African countries, and headed over to the flavouring counter, unaware of the extortion I had just become victim to.

The jar of Salt and Vinegar flavouring glowed in the reflection of the flourescent mall lights. It called to me. I could not resist it. Generously, I sprinkled the miracle powder on my popcorn. I could not bear waiting another moment, so I shoved a couple of morsels into my mouth. I was disappointed. Being the first customer of the day, I had been given an overflowing box of last night's popcorn. Too anxious for the MSG buzz to take hold, I saved the time it would have gone to complain to management, get them to make up a fresh batch and get me tripping, that I took the matter into my own hands: I assaulted the popcorn with another bountiful sprinkling of magic powder. Again, I sampled my drug. The popcorn I put in my mouth was now yellow with flavouring, and tasted super! I shook the jar a couple of times more, just for luck. I was ready to feed the beast that had been crying out for so long. 

Seating myself in the cinema (oh, by the way, I went to watch a movie by myself which I just haven't done in years and that was sort of nice), I was ready. I had my box of Salt and Vinegar flavouring with popcorn on it, and thus armed, I started to polish off my poison. The first (real) mouthful should have been the "head's up" for me, but I was too intoxicated to take note. As I brought the popcorn to my mouth, I breathed in. A cloud of flavourant settled in my lungs and I started to cough. Violently. 

The lady behind me leaned forward. "You ok?" she asked.

"I'll be fine!" I gasped. I gulped down a swig of water from the bottle I had thankfully brought with me.

I was cautious with the next handful. "Don't breathe in! Whatever you do, don't breathe in!" I told myself. It worked. For a while. After a while, however, I became so engrossed in the film, that my conversation with myself was put on hold. I breathed in. The next episode of uncontrollable coughing ensued.

The lady behind me informed me she was a paramedic and knew CPR. Just in case I needed it.

I smiled as convincingly as I could and, once again, reassured her that I would be fine. My water was finished. There was no saliva left in my mouth. It had dried up about 10 minutes into the movie. With every fiber in my being I summoned up the strength needed to bring the pulmonary spasm under control - only because it's really hard to eat when you're coughing like that.

The rest of the popcorn was consumed without incident. A cupful of flavouring had escaped the folds at the bottom of the carton and collected in my lap. It took me a good 40 seconds to dust off the evidence of my binge.

I was high by the time the movie ended (can't remember much of it, by the way, so please don't ask), and it was in this euphoric state that I headed off to collect the kids from school. As usual, I brought them home for lunch before the afternoon activities got underway.

Now most days, I join my girls for lunch, but this afternoon was different. Firstly, and understandably, I was full of starch, so not really hungry. But even taking a bite out of the sandwich that T-Bird insisted I test because she thought it was "Yucky", felt weird. I had begun to loose sensation in my tongue.

Since then it's just gotten worse. My tongue, whilst having lost all sense of taste, feels on fire. It honestly feels like hedgehogs have wrestled on it, pinning each other down in violent, scraping maneuvers. On inspection (thanks to the nurse in me), my tongue is visibly redder than usual. It looks like it might be peeling a bit at the back. And it's swollen. I think it's starting to affect my speech too. It actually hurts to speak.

So, what did I learn from quelling my inner cravings for so long? Next time that MSG ache hits, I'm opening me a tin of caviar. Dependencies do tend to become expensive habits, don't they?

All I Have Needed to Hear

It struck me like a wall of water. When I heard the words, the relief they brought was immeasurable. I could go on. I could do this. I felt like I had been waiting for these words my whole life. I was consoled. Comforted. And, as I spoke the  words to myself, I knew that everything would be alright:

"I will be here for you."

Piece of Cake!

With regards to the kids' parties (yes, I'm still going on about that!), something I take great pride in is the birthday cake. I usually commission my cake-decorating-adept sister-in-law (who has a flawless icing technique which I just can't master) to provide the flawless finish to the ceremonial pudding. 

The cake is important.

The first three themed cakes I made for my offspring, however, were as far from a magnum opus as the crayon scrawl under the dining room table (yes kids, I actually am aware that one, or both, of you has been terribly creative under there!) is from hanging in the Tate Museum. 

The first of these monumental failures was a 5 layer jelly something or other. The second cake was supposed to be bubbles. And maybe, on an abstract kind of level, they did look like bubbles. But do you even know how hard it is too make a cake look like bubbles? Try it. I dare you! By the third cake, I was starting to get into the gear of great self-caking. (That's somewhere before Home Industry Acquisition, but well after Kitchen's Wrecked; Let's Move House). The third creation was a fairy mushroom. With fairies on it. The fairies were Home Industry Acquisitions. I could see it was a mushroom, of course, but after I had received the few quizzical glances from the gathered guests, and had to explain that, actually, under this enormous dome of a cake, there is a rather thin and spindly mushroom stalk holding it all up in the air, I realized that my caking abilities were desperately lacking. That's when the sister-in-law became remarkably employable. And since then the cakes have been a pleasure (not always to make, but to serve - always!)

Which brings me to the point of my story - how hard it was for me, yesterday, to let go and let my children "do" the cake. The children competed in a cake-decorating competition which I found highly stressful (shut it, Control Freak!), but they enjoyed immensely. And they even won a prize for... oh boy... the most Cavity Causing Cake... ouch... talk about putting me in my place! 

So much for always getting it right, right?

50 Things about Me

1. For the first 17 years of my life, I was the youngest of 4 children. And the only girl. I always wanted a sister.

2. I have three adopted siblings. Two of them are girls. Both are young enough to be my own daughters. I don't really see them as sisters.

3. My middle name is Charis. Which is lovely. But I hated it while I was growing up, because my brothers often called me "Carrots".

4. I am married to my best friend.

5. Despite being a trained midwife, I birthed both my children by Caesarean Section. The first delivery was really complicated and I lost a lot of blood during the procedure. Which may explain why, on chatting with my husband later that evening, I said, "That was great! I want to do it again!"

6. I skipped a grade.

7. I can say the alphabet backwards.

8. I have spider-radar, and I am usually pretty accurate with pin-pointing the nearest spider in any given area.

9. When Nelson Mandela was president, I went for a joy-ride in his car. In my pyjamas.

10. I have swum with elephants.

11. I have a weakness for sugar. Often.

12. I am on the pill.

13. I hate being on the pill.

14. I have slip-'n-slid on the pitch cover of the University of Pretoria's cricket pitch shortly after a Highveld thunderstorm. Naked.

15. Try as I might, I just cannot eat snails. They always turn around in my throat and crawl back up.

16. I lived in Saudi Arabia for two years.

17.  I love going fast!

18. I was approached by a man and a woman at the Pretoria Zoo shortly before the Gert van Rooyen case became nation-wide knowledge. I recognised his picture when I saw the news reports on TV.

19. I suck at interior decorating and garden landscaping.

20. I have a bad habit of not completing the projects I start.

21. I worked in a frozen yoghurt shop for a year after school before I started studying. I have had my fill of Natural and English Toffee.

22. I only bath or shower in HOT, HOT, HOT water.

23. I studied nursing as a last resort. It was the only thing I could afford at the time. I paid for my studies myself.

24. I Hate (note: capital H) gyming. It hurts. It make me sweat. I would rather spend my time scrapbooking.

25. I cannot see 3D pictures - at all. I have been trying to see them since 13 February 1995, and I have had no luck. I think I must be special.

26. I have no idea how I remember the date in #25 above.

27. I once held a 7 year-old HIV patient as he drowned in his own saliva. When he took his last breath and his body relinquished his soul, I was actually aware of a little extra air in the room.

28. I can play the flute and the piano. Neither very well.

29. I have spent a glorious week on the island of Mauritius.

30. I have polycystic ovaries.

31. If it weren't for Gayle, Oprah and I would be the best of friends. I love, love, love Oprah.

32. I will kiss my own children's feet no matter how sweaty or stinky they may be. If there's a boo-boo there, I will kiss it better.

33. I still climb trees for fun.

34. I love MSG-enriched Salt 'n Vinegar flavouring. The stronger, the better.

35. I try to avoid MSG-enriched anything wherever my kids are concerned. Also: sodium benzoate and potassium sorbate. Just out of principle.

36. I have used laser hair removal. It really does work. If you can afford it.

37. I can't afford it.

38. I inadvertently killed my goldfish when I was 6 years old by lifting them out of their bowl each morning to greet them.

39. I am a stay-at-home-mom.

40. I have a money and meat inadequacy paranoia. This means that I always have to have some money and some meat stashed away for a rainy day. Currently I have more meat than money.

41. I was once drugged with apple tea in a Turkish carpet souk. It ended with me purchasing a 1m kelim for $75, which, at that time was equal to R562.50 - which was a ludicrous amount of ront for rug. So much for getting bargains in middle eastern bazarres!

42. I want to see Andrea Boccelli perform live. And even though he can't see to appreciate it, I would throw underwear.

43. I fear loss above all else.

44. I love photography and beautiful photographs. Few of the beautiful photographs that I love were taken by me. Ok, so none of them were, but I plan to take beautiful photographs in the future...

45. Bovril is the bomb. Marmite is mediocre.

46. I have breastfed somebody else's child. With the mom's permission, of course. It was a matter of life and death. Kind of.

47. I have always loved trampolines. After a good bounce, I especially love that still-bouncing feeling you get when your feet are on solid ground.

48. I saved a woman's life, who would otherwise have bled to death.

49. I am shy.

50. I have thrown myself (alright, I had to ask them to push me) off the Bloukrans bridge and in so doing, have experienced the world's highest commercial bunjee jump of 216m. I never have to do that again.

Scary Hair

For a while now I have been losing chunks of hair. No. Losing is too gentle a word. More like sacrificing. No, that's too obliging. As though I'm willingly giving it up, all charitable-like. Although, in the past I had enough to pay tithes with, house the poor in, dress the naked with, all of a sudden, it's feeling a lot cooler atop my cranium. Doesn't help that winter is Com(b)ing (with a silent "b" just for the sake of the pun!).

No. My hair has been resolutely immigrating off my head and into the shower drain/ under my pillow/ between the bristles of my hairbrush/ between my fingers, if I happen to run them through these rapidly depleting locks of mine. My scalp is steadfastly becoming reminiscent of drought-stricken grasslands: a patch here and there, with ever-increasing spaces in between. I'm having a bad-hair year.

It's like my hair has a life of it's own. It breathes and thinks by itself. And it doesn't like me! It wants to be somewhere else. It's ganging up on me. The shower drain hair is trying to clog up the plug enough for me to drown. The under-pillow hair is regrouping to necklace me while I sleep. The hair between my fingers is planning a sneaky velcro type of entanglement. And the hair in my brush, well, that just quit on principle.

Even though it is quite evident that this malicious behaviour on the part of my hair is disappointingly unsuccessful, another, rather insidious side-effect is taking place. Thinning. And we're not talking Weigh-Less Jubilation thinning here. What if I go bald before I'm 30? If my hair organized itself better, and each strand got with the program, I may well be doomed.

Look, I know there are people starving in Ethiopia and all, but we're talking about something that has been profusely dense and impenetrable for decades. Loosing it, or drastically diminishing its abundance, will seriously alter my life. We're talking differences in weight, here!

So now I sit with my fingers in my hair - quite literally, and I'm battling to type because of how restraining it is.

Just thought I'd share the whine, a little - it's a good year.

 

 

The Fully-Collapsible Mother

I am the collapsible version of a mother.

When unfolded, I am sturdy, bearing the weight of two children, a husband and a home, plus the paraphernalia that entails. I am solid. Strong. Useful. I can support my family, my friends. Elbows lean on me while tea is drunk and conversation sought. I bear advice and kindness, dispensed in large bowls of ice-cream and warm apple pudding. 

I am helpful for craft projects, offering advice and the foundation on which the creations of my children and friends may flourish.

I brace myself against the weight of financial responsibility, I am a buttress for the welfare of the meek. I uphold the atlases and game plans for the wise to solve global disasters. I am important. Needed.

Over the years, hours of use have taken their toll. Bite marks are left as reminders of painful teething experiences. Coffee stains and koki twirls call homework efforts and intense planning sessions to mind. There are brown polka dots all over me, souvenirs of a violent event involving a game of Scrabble and a tin of caramel. 

I have been well used. And yet, there is still use in me. I can bear up, undergird, reinforce countless projects yet. I can be valuable still.

But sometimes, I cave in. Folded up, I am less than half my size. I am crumpled. I take up a lot less space. I serve no purpose in this state, except to lean against the wall, offering an uneven surface for a tossed jacket to be flung upon, or the daily post to be put down upon. Sometimes I fold. I collapse. Unable to bear the weight of my responsibilities, I buckle. Wrinkled and old, I show the stains and scars of my life. Like this I am useless. I am warped and uneven. Pockmarked. Unstable.

Please, fold me out. Lift and secure those battered planks and adorn me with Damascus linen. Hide the creases and unevenness with organza runners that reflect the light of a hundred candles. Set crystal and silver upon me and invite our loved ones nearer. Let me host a meal of nourishing goodness to heal and nurture the ones I hold dear. Give me purpose and direction. Let me shine.

Promiscuous Playtime

(WARNING: If you happened upon this post through a Google search of the same name, let me usher you off on your way, lest you suffer grave disappointment at what you find here.)

Barbie is a skank - I'm sorry, but I had to say it.

Firstly, I have just found a trail of her clothing lying around my house. The last item to be discovered (in my peg box, no less!) was a pair of nearly see-through knickers. Now, what they were doing in my peg-box, heaven only knows!

Gathering her apparel together, I sought that naked philistine, only to find her cavorting with Barney and Strawberry ShortCake (in various states of undress) underneath the couch! It would seem to me that she had also spent some time tainting the innocent minds of Snow White, Belle, Princess Aurora (aka Sleeping Beauty) and Ariel, because when I returned her to her toy chest, I found the above-mentioned harem locked in some strange tryst involving what appears to be a clothing exchange program gone wrong. The girls were half dressed in each others clothing, with all undergarments clearly unaccounted for.

I suppose it wouldn't have been that suspicious, if it wasn't for the audience to this semi-bare debauchery; a newborn baby, a My Little Pony, and a fully-clad groom (with a pink waistcoat) all positioned in various poses ranging from mild interest, to exceptional attentiveness, around the reveling (and revealing) collection of figurines.

And I blame Barbie for this depraved behaviour. Ever since she joined the Toy Box Dwellers, things have taken a turn for the dishonourable. She has brought with her a lecherous aura that seems to be infiltrating the playroom - here's a "for instance": Shoes. Often times, all that the busty little tarts of the toy box are wearing, is a pair of high heels. I mean really, just how slutty is that? And, talking of busty tarts, I swear these girls are in a continuous cleavage competition the way they lie around topless all the time. The fact that they were all cast off the same mould, seems to matter not!

In the past, clothing, although removed now and again, would always be returned. Not any more - it would seem that the latest craze is to strip off any apparel as fast as you can, but for what aim? I am, as yet, still unsure. Baby dolls used to be the highlight of playtime. No longer, unless they are being birthed in a noisy manner by the ridiculously proportioned "Mother" herself!

So it would seem that I have my work cut out for me: policing playtime. If Barbie doesn't pull her act straight and start setting a good example of dress, manner and style, and continues to prostitute herself so blatantly, she's going to be replaced by Raggedy Anne.

I'm just saying... 's all!

Capetonian Drivers

From the start, I have firmly believed that Cape Town drivers do not know how to drive - properly. It was hands-on experience with confused drivers stuck at faulty traffic lights, or even the less-than-complicated traffic circle that led me to believe this. Nobody seems to know whose turn it is, or whose supposed to go next. The result is a long awkward pause, where traffic grinds to a dead halt, then everybody suddenly thinks that perhaps they should go - at the same time! What a mess.

Nowadays, whenever I am stopped at an intersection in Cape Town, the driver in the car to my left, or my right, or even ahead of me, will indicate to me, with their hands, that it is my turn to proceed. What's this all about? I don't remember that part of the K52 driver's training program. I recall the hand signalling suitable for indicating turning when there is a possible malfunction in the electronic indicators of the vehicle, but this whole "giving of permission to proceed" thing is really annoying.

It's annoying when it's the other driver's turn to go, but they are such nervous drivers that they want everybody to get out of a 100m radius from them, so even though you're waiting for them to pull off, as rightly they should, they sit wildly waving you on.

It's more annoying when it's your turn to go, and the other driver waves you on - like they're giving you permission, like they're saying "You may make use of this opportunity to cross the road before me - I will graciously allow it."

And there are times when the other driver's windows are so tinted, you can't make out if it's a "please proceed" or a "please drop dead" that they're gesturing at you.

I used to wave a sort of confused thank-you in response to this granting of consent, but that made the situation that much more annoying for me. Now I just grind my teeth and scowl - I must look like a really angry driver, just waiting for that moment that I can unleash a barrage of road-rage on the first person to change lanes without indicating. It's all in the hope that I might scare off the next generous imparter of intersection thoroughfare.

If you ever see me driving around Cape Town, don't think that I'm angry. Also don't wave me through a four-way stop. I have a legit driver's license. How about you?

Kid Quote

AirBear and The Chef were embroiled in a conversation about vegetables.

Chef: Do you like vegetables?

AirBear: Some vegetables I do like.

Chef: Like butternut?

AirBear: Yes.

Chef: And carrots?

AirBear: Also carrots.

Chef: And baby marrows?

AirBear: No, I don't like baby marrows. I don't even like the grown-up ones.

(AirBear: 3 years, 10 months)

Bunny Banter

Those bloody bunnies!

Today was a beautiful warm autumn day, so, being the kind person I am, I let the bunnies run free. All morning. Soaking up the sun and having the garden all to themselves, they reveled in the warmth and beauty of the day. Also, they got to exercise those hare hocks of theirs which lead to very fast bunnies by the time playtime was over.

Holly was a bolt of lightening to catch. She's been really pleasant up until now, but she has become as dashing and daring as her sister.

Talking of whom, Jasmine really got into my bad books today. The one's that have bookmarks for rabbit stew and rabbit skin slippers. She chose a new hiding place - behind the scrap wood planks leaning against the wall in the shed. I spent one and a half hours on my own unsuccessfully chasing her out and chasing her back in again. Add to that the fact that my spider-radar was on high alert the whole time, so I wasn't keen to put my hands behind the planks and make wild grabbing attempts at her. It was eventually thanks to T-Bird's unfazed take on spiders, webs and dust that managed to get that fluff ball out from behind the timbers. Looking completely innocent, of course. Like it hadn't taken the last two hours to apprehend her. Like I didn't have better things to do with my time. Like I hadn't got my index finger painfully jammed between a tarantula and the shed wall, and broken two nails in the process. I had to bite my tongue to avoid releasing a barrage of curses aimed at rabbits in general, but only because my kids were delighted to have been present at the time of capture, and were dancing and singing around my ankles somewhere.

So, of course, the bunnies have been grounded. No garden outings for a week! (I think I'm stricter on the rabbits than my kids... I can't re

member ever grounding my own offspring...)

While nursing my damaged digits I happened to look out of the kitchen window and caught a glimpse of bunny fluff in the rabbit hutch. It isn't a very good vantage point, I'll admit,  but it's just enough to check on them when there's a reason for not wanting to go outside - like rain, or hawks, or really big spiders. What I (thought I) saw made me choke on my post bunny-hunting cuppa. Two rabbits, inflagrata, bonking like bunnies! I dashed outside despite the rain/ hawks/ really big spiders, only to find the two dears preening and cleaning themselves on separate sides of their cage. 

Am I going mad? Or blind? 

"Did my eyes deceive me?" I demanded from the two shivering fluff balls. "They better have! And besides, you guys are SISTERS. Hellooooo!!"

Someone keep a note of the date please, because I am too busy watching that those two don't get too friendly with one another.

And just in case you were wondering why I've let myself in for the whole pet-schlep thing, it's this:

Hello Out There!

I'd just like to take this opportunity to thank my faithful readers for their support, and er, their reading. Without readers a blog is like a diary, except that you can't lock it and leave it under your mattress so your brothers don't find it.

Really, knowing that you're out there, reading away while you wait for your tea to brew, your nail polish to dry, your internet transfer to go through, your FaceBook instant message to actually send through to your friend who is already offline, your solitaire game to reload, the kids to come home from school, the 6 o'clock news, the housework to go away, your ship to come in, or just because you're bored out of your mind, or I've threatened you with life and limb to catch up with my latest news, or you're just curious to figure this chick out. For whatever reason it is that you end up here (on a regular basis), it's nice to know that you're out there keeping track of my life. Someone has to.

On a more personal note, B, I really think you need to pop around more often. A, don't take things so personally. R, whatever happened to you? Am I dog poo on the pavement, or just not famous enough to keep you interested? M, you should just say "no" - it will be good for you. T, remember to take me with your morning vitamin, or your evening contraceptive, whichever you're more likely to remember. W, nice to know there's someone who spends as much time on the net as me. Other B, you need to spend more time on the net - ask W. L, I hope this serves sufficiently in place of those restrictive text messages.  T, see, I can be a bit funny too sometimes. P, I hope I can provide you with a blog to grow hair by. Other T, thanks for not writing me off completely, even though you really know how crazy I am. G, I'm surprised you care enough to check in! Surprised, but glad. D, whenever you're ready, let me know. And last but not least, Another Other B, I don't mind your comments, just so you know.

Catch ya'll later, blogfans.

A Blog about the Bog

My life is run by poo.

If I'm not wiping bums, I'm scraping dog poo out of shoes (THE main reason for not having a dog!), I'm cleaning overspray in the toilets, I'm sweeping out bunny droppings (can anyone please explain how it is even remotely possible for so much crap to come out of such small creatures in the space of such a short time - at this rate I may invest in some compost franchise - once I have my own lawn nicely fertilized, of course!) or I'm getting the owner of the last intoxicating fart to admit to it, and learn that it would be far more polite to step away from the dinner table/ cooking area/ my bed the next time it's going to happen. I feel like I'm fighting an unending battle here. As long as there is life on planet earth, I will have poo to deal with. Guess we can include it into that whole saying of "The only thing inevitable is death, taxes and poo."

I think that half the reason for my postnatal depression 3 years ago was poo. (The other half can be equally divided between sleep deprivation, anemia and, uh, poo).

I had two babies in diapers at the same time. When the second one arrived, I made it a point to potty train my firstborn as soon as possible. Changing nappies in stereo is a depressing and soul destroying task.

The next fecal challenge I had to address was an infant who refused to crawl. She bum-shuffled everywhere. At 15 months she still hadn't assumed the position, and I was starting to get a little worried, when all of a sudden, my child stood up and walked. But during the interim, what all that bum shuffling meant for me was, a full diaper was in danger of being squeezed out in a snail trail throughout my house as my darling cherub wiggled from one room to the next. Add to that the fact that the child in question had serious tactile sensitivity issues and remained on a pretty much liquid diet until she was about 18 months, so her digestion was relatively uncomplicated and her excretions regular and, er, wet (?). Mopping down my passage twice a day with a solution of water, Domestos and Dettol became the norm. The day that child started walking I felt like a huge load had been lifted off my shoulders.

For a while things ran smoothly. Then, all of a sudden, child Number 2, now on solids and trying to do anything and everything her older sister could do, climbed onto the toilet. I admit, I was relieved. If I could get her on the loo, (skipping the whole potty step, because really, rinsing out potties is a lot like scraping dog turd from your shoes) and out of nappies,  my life would be made! And that's where everything came to a thundering, earth shattering, mind splitting halt. Everything. Her pipes got blocked. Truly. That post natal depression that had been lingering on the outskirts, sort of saying its goodbyes, suddenly returned like an annoying visitor who just doesn't know when they've outstayed their welcome. Only, by now, my nasty little visitor had shed its "post-natal" title and was full blown MrD.

I had a constipated daughter, and my work was cut out for me. We stressed and squeezed and suppositoried and laxatived and massaged and fibred and tried to keep that child regular. At my wits end, I took her to a paediatric surgeon who had it all figured out. He was going to do everything imaginable to my little girl's gut. From the initial x-rays to the full blown rectal probes and oesophageal rotation (to deal with her reflux). I panicked. Surely she wasn't that ill? We didn't go back for the follow-up appointment.

For a year I sat and cried with my baby each time her tummy worked. It was so traumatic for her and so heart-breaking for me to see her go through that. I would embrace her as she sat on the loo, weeping into my shoulder. My body would be wrapped around that cistern, trying to offer her as much comfort and support as she made her painful deposit. It was hell. No wonder I was depressed!

Our saviour was a homeopath who suggested a surprise change to her diet ("Include carrots," she insisted, "Wherever you can!") and a couple of tissue salts. Suddenly her daily toilet trip became easy and a sort of calm settled over our home. Between my two offspring, I would wipe a bum here and there, but, in general, poo was not much of an issue anymore. Phew!

The seasons changed. The moon waxed and waned. Christmas, Easter, New Year's and Mardi Gras all came and went (though maybe not in that order). After some time, and countless responses to the all too familiar yell of "Mom! I'm finished!", I started wondering when it was that children are able to wipe their own derrieres. My eldest had started at a 'big' school and I was a little embarrassed to actually admit to the fact that I was still doing paper duty to my fellow-mothers. So I approached my little princess herself, while she sat on the throne.

"Tell me," I asked. "Do you go to the toilet at school?"

"Uhuh," se looked bored.

"Who wipes your bum for you at school?" I inquired.

"Me," she gave me a blank stare.

I was a little off guard. I wasn't quite expecting that. I had been hinting and suggesting for the last 6 months that she assume full responsibility for her ablutions, but had never received any acquiescence on her part.

"So why must I wipe your bum if you can do it yourself?" I asked indignantly.

"Because it's gross, mom! I don't like doing it!"

Needless to say, that was that. I promptly ticked her off my list. From then on, I would only be wiping two arses, my own and my youngest daughter's (the latter being on a limited time- frame basis).

(I am still curious to know at what age kids should be toileting completely on their own...)

And now, with the arrival of the rabbits, I have a whole new load of crap to deal with. Just the other day, in the space of 20 minutes, Holly dropped 9 pellets on me - aarrgh! Returning her to her just-cleaned cage where her sister was waiting, I was alarmed to discover that Jasmine had been pretty busy too, and had doubled her sibling's offerings. I'm apalled, really I am. Is there no discretion?

On the positive side, however, I find rabbit feces far more tolerable than the canine equivalent. Yip! Still not ready for a dog...

The Rabbit Joke

* Although some offense may be provoked, no real rabbits were hurt in the making of this post.*

You know that really funny joke that so-and-so told you, but you just can't remember how it goes? And then you give so-and-so a call just to be reminded of the joke so that you can pass on the humour it bares.

I once heard a theory about this problem. The problem being that we tend to remember the stupid jokes and can never remember the funny ones. Well, the theorist in question suggested that laughter (being good medicine, and all) helps people forget.

So, the more you laugh, the more you forget. Thus, the funnier the joke, the least likely you'll be to remember it. Hmm, interesting, no?

Which brings me to a joke I do remember (decide for yourself how funny it is). A friend came over for coffee last night and I felt it was necessary to introduce him to Jasmine. They got along famously, and while she was sniffling in his post-workout armpit, he shared this story of the rabbit and the bear:

The rabbit and the bear were walking through the forest when the bear asked, "Rabbit, do you have that problem where your crap sticks to your fur?"

"Yeah!" said the rabbit, "All the time!"

"Oh, good!" said the bear. He picked the rabbit up and wiped his bum with him.

I'm not raising Princesses anymore!

The day started much like any other. I only realised that the alarm was going off about an hour after it is set to ring. (Thank heavens for that SNOOZE button!) To be accurate, it was the infected bunny scratch on the palm of my hand itching like mad that woke me, and not the whine of that damn digital rooster. Whatever it was that woke me,  it did mean that, once again, we were late.

The breakfast rush, school run completed, I set about making the most of the last of the warm weather, before winter settles in. Three loads of washing hung out early (most of it pink!), aiming to dry out in the sunbeams filtering into my garden.

The day was highlighted for the girls with a long bike ride and a visit from a close friend. The friend's mom, a close friend of mine, and I sat drinking coffee while the girls played outside.

We were embroiled in a conversation about raising our offspring  to be the little princesses we hope they will, when in rushed T-Bird squealing at the top of her voice, "I'm wet! I'm wet!"

"What happened?" I asked, noting wet sleeves, wet pants, wet shoes. I was half expecting a swimming-pool related answer.

"I weed on the grass, and I missed! Now I'm wet!"

Die, I could just die!  No, really. Firstly, what the freak are you weeing on the grass for? Secondly, why do you have to do a completely donkey thing like that when you have a visitor? And thirdly, and this I am quite interested to know the answer to, how the heck did you get wee on your sleeve? (Yes, I did check it with a quick sniff before I actually thought about what I was doing - that whole action without brains thing again!)

The visiting mother was gracious enough not to roll her eyes at my daughter's delinquency, while trying to make me feel better with a sweet smile and light-hearted conversation. I do appreciate that, but oh my word! What monster am I raising? Just put me out of my misery now, someone, please.

I tossed the muppets into the bath shortly thereafter (the visitors made haste to leave - hmmm, was it something I said?), and went to bring in the washing. That bloody on-the-verge-of-winter-sun did a very lousy job of getting my washing dry. Damp armpits, crotches, toes of socks. I HATE bringing in wet washing - aargh! Now I have to sort the dry-enough stuff from the have-to-hang-again-tomorrow stuff - oh pooh!

Dinner was unremarkable until AirBear, sitting on my lap for the last few mouthfuls of her supper became mildly malodorous. I gave her The Look.

"Mom," she resigned herself, "I think I might just poop on your lap." Sweet smile.

Perhaps I have set my goals to high. Maybe I should look at losing the whole princess goal and opt for something more realistic. Barfly? Beachbum? Pop group roadie? Stamp Collector? Organic Clothing Wearer? (Hmm, it's starting to sound vaguely like my extended family...)

I give up, really I do.

A letter to a Friend

You know, you're a really nice person. I've always thought so. That's why, what I have to say now, is so difficult for me. It's going to make you sound like a nasty person, when, in truth, you really aren't. You are surely one of the nicest people I know.

So why do I have to say it then, if it's going to depict you in a bad light? Well, it's sort of been eating me up inside for a long time. I'm trying to understand how our dynamic works, yours and mine. If I write it out, maybe I'll have a better idea of what it's all about.

You see, I just don't understand exactly what role it is you want me to play. On one hand, you say I'm your very special friend, but on the other hand, you just aren't there for me. When I told you I needed time out and you said you would be there for me, you weren't. You didn't call. You didn't check on me. And then you were surprised when I felt awkward around you. I felt awkward because I really didn't know what game it was you were playing with me. Maybe you forgot.

Whenever I ask you if you'd like to spend time with me, you always say "Yes." But I leave it in your court to tell me when it would suit you. And you know, it just never does.

Is it because you're just a nice person that you don't want to hurt my feelings? You just can't tell me that you don't actually have time for me? I know it sounds awful for me to say it, but that's just how it feels - most of the time - it feels like you don't have time for me.

And it's hard for me to understand. I thought I had demonstrated to you, countless times, how I care for you and your family, how much your friendship meant to me. But I never seem to get that same feeling from you. And I really can't imagine that you don't like me or you don't care for me, because you are a super person. But maybe, it's just that you have enough friends as it is? Maybe spending time with me would steal time form you being with the people you really need to be with.

It sounds so, so stupid. Like a whiney child saying "So-and-so doesn't want to be my friend!" But it really hurts, nonetheless. It feels like I keep coming back to you for more rejection (even though that may not be the way you mean it).

But for my sake, and my feelings, I think I should stop that now. Please don't be offended if it feels like I'm not paying you as much attention as I did in the past, I have to preserve myself. And it's not that I don't want to be your friend - I do, really - but you keep hurting me, so I'm going to slack off a bit, OK?

Maybe someday, when our situations are different, when we've moved on a bit and absence has made the heart grow fonder, we could try again? Or maybe before that, when you understand what it's been like for me. Maybe you don't even realise what it feels like from this side.

I miss you. Or the thought of you. I don't know. 

Jx.

PS: I realise it is a little unorthodox to present a personal dictation of this sort in a blog format, but I did it anyhow. The problem I foresee now is that every friend I have is going to think this letter is addressed to you. It isn't. Chances are the person it is intended for will not even read it (soon), and when they do, being the awfully nice person they are, will not realise it is addressed to them. So please don't panic. I still love you (all of you), I just had to get that little rant off my chest. Please don't take it personally.

Bunny Training Begins

Just as people take their new pet dogs to puppy-classes, (and really, it is more for the owners than for the dogs), I think new rabbit owners need some kind of training too. Sort of a Bunny Basics, perhaps?

It's been 36 hours (and counting...) and that Jasmine has nipped me 3 times (although I think it may be her way to tell me she needs to pee, because each time she did it I would put her down and she would flood the lawn... hmmm...), plus I have a 6mm scratch across the middle of my right hand palm due to a particularly long claw. This last injury I sustained this morning, and it has been itching like mad ever since. Maybe it's infected...

So Operation Banish Bad Bunny Behaviour (OBBBB - may have to rethink that name, because even the abbreviation feels way too long!) has commenced. Kohl-eyed Jasmine is the target. This bunny had better buck-up or beware of lambasting.

I thought that exposing the little fluff ball to all the scents of the family would help her become accustomed to her new home. So I instructed her to make the beds this morning. Which she duly did (I must be a brilliant bunny trainer!). She does, however, have a knack of scurrying under the blankets to hide - lazy bugger! Suppose I can't get too mad about this yet since it is her first day on the job.

What better way to be inundated with family odours than to sort the washing? Jasmine ended up in the washing pile for the next load to do. Here too, she scurried away to hide I found her inbetween a pair of muddy corduroys  and a sock. (Oh hello! I just realised why she bit me! Must have been due to sock-intoxication. May need to test this theory again at a later stage. With somebody else's finger, of course.)

After a fairly prolonged stroking, jittery Jasmine started to get antsy so I returned her to the hutch. I could have sworn that Holly rolled her eyes at her.

As I returned indoors, I noticed several clumps of long white bunny hair clinging to my fleece top,  and I realised that I have not yet been subject to the usual allergy symptoms that pop up when cats are around. No sneezing, wheezing or burning eyes. Hooray! I think we have a winner!!!

Guess the bunnies can stay a bit longer, as long as their temperament improves some. My darling husband suggested that if the grumpy rabbit doesn't defrost soon, we may need to get T-Bird another, friendlier bunny; one that can be cuddled and petted to her hearts content. "And what about Jasmine?" I raised one eye-brow at him. "You can have her," he didn't look up from his magazine.

3 bunnies? I don't think so! As it is, we are only assuming the two we have are girls. The odds of introducing a male bunny vastly increases by adding another creature to the batch. I'm not a statistician, so I can't tell you by how much, but I think it could be a bit of a risk I'm not willing to take. 3 bunnies could become 10 bunnies could become 50 bunnies within a few months.

And what would I do with so many rabbits? I don't think I know.

Bunny Love

So the bunnies arrived earlier than expected. Two beautiful white angora dwarfs. One with pink eyes, and one with kohl. Both sporting Himalayan markings on the tips of their ears.

We had to get two, of course. Who would a solitary bunny have belonged to? T-Bird? AirBear? We would have had a full blown war on our hands. So two it was.

Bunny reputation being as it, we opted to go mono-gender in our selection. Of course the girls refused to have boy bunnies, so we had to trust a bunny breeder to sex the bunnies for us. We hope and pray that the two are, indeed, little girls. I suppose that only time will tell.

As for naming their bunnies, the sky was the limit. The name game has been rumbling on and on for at least a week as the girls have debated what they planned to call their rabbits.

For about three days the animals were destined to be called Shooting Star and Shining Diamond. 

When they did arrive, however, T-Bird chose the dark-eyed bunny for her own and christened her Jasmine. I know why she went for the dark one instead of the pink one (which is generally unlike her, as she is usually first in the pink queue). I do believe my five year old is growing up a bit, and was somewhat entranced by an animal that looks like it has make-up carefully applied to it's bright black eyes.

So Holly, the pink eyed bunny, is now the proud possession of AirBear.

They have both informed me that their bunnies may refer to each of them as "Mommy". Sigh.

After a day of Bunnies-Inda-House, the first problem has arisen: Jasmine and Holly have very different personalities. Holly is loving and friendly, and quite happy to be cuddled and petted (lucky AirBear!) Jasmine, on the other hand, is skittish and nervous, darting around the garden and hiding in ridiculously awkward spaces. She prefers less attention than her sister. Now that's all fine and well, but for T-Bird it's a bit of a blow to her little ego. She seems to be taking it a little personally that Holly is happy for AirBear to smother her with kisses, but Jasmine is determined to get far away as fast as possible. 

For now I'm putting it down to new environment jitters, but we may need to have a bit of a Dr Phil intervention with Little Lady Lepus and get her over her rabbit-style pms at some point. (Note to self: google bad-tempered bunnies).

For the most part though, it seems we have a general state of bunny-love drifting through our abode and wafting over the lawn (as well as a growing amount of cecal pellets that I was informed a. would be eaten - they weren't and b. make good fertilizer - we shall see).

Preparing for a new Arrival

So I guess it's time to let the proverbial cat out of the bag. Since I really can't hide it for much longer. Plus, the kids are spilling the beans as I type.

We're expecting.

Twins.

It all started with the inevitable plea: "Mommy, can we have a baby brother?". Well, with the state of my ovaries (not to mention my mind) and Daddy's vas deferens, that would be kind of impossible. So, the answer to that, Sweetpeas, is 'No'.

Then the nagging progressed into canine yearning. "Please can we have a puppy, Mommy?" Every single day. At least four times a day. And a puppy is something I just am not ready for. Not now. And the reason has to do with poo. Which I am also not ready for at this point in my life.

With enough persistence (and nagging) I had to eventually consider what it is I would be ready for. And the answer, for those of you that can't stand it any longer, is bunnies. Two of them.

The kids agreed.

Amidst much excitement and babbling we set forth on a hutch-finding mission, deciding that it would be the right thing to do before acquiring the pets. Our search failed miserably. Can you believe that there are no suitable rabbit hutches for sale in the greater Durbanville area? So it was decided that we (and by that I mean "he") would have to make one ourselves (read "he-self").

Two and a half days, and countless trips to the hardware store later, and the man of the house, Mr DIY he-self, presents a smashing, super, larger than necessary, dual entrance, multi-purpose, fully functional rabbit hutch. Ta-daaaaa!

So now the family is officially expecting. The girls are expecting bunnies. Dad is expecting more than a soap-on-a-rope for father's day. And I am expecting the nagging insistence to be quenched for at least half a year. The things we do!

While waiting for the varnish to dry, we did a little internet searching, just to be sure we all know what we're letting ourselves in for. Amongst the first pages we came upon, was a terrifying story that has sort of got me rethinking the whole bunny-as-a-cute-and-cuddly-pet thing, and the potential of Guard-bunnies is somewhat appealing.

Of course we've been warned of the whole be-sure-you-get-two-of-the-same-gender, and I believe that the gestation time for a rabbit is a whopping 30 days, so I suppose it won't take long to figure out if we've been duped by the pet shop!

The excitement at home, of course, is rapidly reaching fever-pitch, and our children just can't bear the waiting any longer.

So wish us luck. Please. This is going to be the start of a new chapter. Eesh.