Winter Splinter in my Sphincter

Winter in the cape, and I am freezing my cajones off. Seriously. They are Gone. As in Not There. I swear. I just checked... twice. Yip. I am officially without cajones. Woe is me. Whatever will I do without cajones? I feel like I am half the man I used to be...

(I have been assured that they will be back later this evening...)

Sigh.

But seriously, I am cold. Today the sun was out and everything, and still my nose has had no sensation in it all day long. My fingers feel icicly (new word, means hard and cold like an icicle, but you figured that out, didn't you?) Typing is just weird, because I can't actually feel my keyboard. Never before has QWERTY meant less to me.

Double sigh.

And my frozen ASS(ets) might need mentioning too. It's like the cold is emanating from inside me. Sitting is awkward when you can't feel your bum, so you don't know if you are actually making contact with a chair, or if your pants are just pulling tight because of the squat. My butt is actually cold to the touch. (I think so anyway, but when you can't feel your fingers, it's kind of difficult to feel your bum.)

It feels like there should be snow on the mountains. I keep checking out the window just to make sure I haven't missed it, or perhaps it happened since the last time I checked.

Before the neighbours start protesting that today was a gloriously warm and sunny day, may I just add that even though the sun did come out, there was definitely a chill in the air. Enough to blow steam spooks around your face each time you spoke.

And the washing DIDN'T get dry. Again. Heck.

How I entertain my husband

The road was long. It was getting late. We couldn't let the kids fall asleep just yet, otherwise bedtime at home would be a nightmare. We'd played "Eye-spy" till our eyeballs were burning. The guessing game had covered every conceivable noun in the Webster dictionary. We were at a loss.

I decided that telling jokes would be a worthwhile endeavour. So I started.

I tried the Viper joke. AirBear was terrified - she had her hands over her ears for the greater part of the joke. And I had to still explain the punch line. The mother of the year swallowed his laughter.

I tried the Rabbit joke AFTER I explained what "revitalise" and "permanent" mean. Blank looks from the back seat. More stifled laughter from the driver.

The white horse named Eric joke - no effect. The frog and the chicken joke- absolutely no reaction. The little red man joke (which I went to great pangs to simplify) also needed further explanation.

In the driver's seat the tears were rolling down his cheeks. He took great pleasure in my failed comedy. At this point I had had enough. "Fine," I sulked, "You tell them a joke."

His offer was "Spooketti - a ghost's favourite food". The children erupted with giggles.

Hmph! I could out do that! "What's a sea monster's favourite food?" I interrupted the laughter. "Fish and ships!"

Silence.

A cricket chirruped.

Damn!

The mother of the year drove us home with a smug look on his face. Jerk!

Giving credit where it is due

So my oven packed up. 

And the stove.

And the dishwasher.

All at once.

After numerous phone calls and visits to the appliance shops in Durbanville, I contacted an electrician.

I was so impressed with the quick and efficient service provided. His manners and tidiness, friendliness and pricing were all first-rate.

If you stay in the Durbanville area and need someone to check out any of your faulty household appliances, I can really recommend:

COBAR: Appliance & Refrigeration Services

Contact: Kobus Barnard (38 years experience)

Registered Electrical & Contracting Industry

Tygerberg Chamber of Commerce and Industry Member

Cell: 083 283 2165

(w): 021 981 4118

Hope it helps.

Something else...

Not feeling very loquacious today.

So.

How are you?

...

...

Hmm.

Well, there is this one thing I can show you, that some of you might find interesting:

Didn't taste too bad, either.

Toodles.

Counting my Blessings

It's become a bit of a tradition in my home that when Daddy is away, the girls all get to sleep in mom's bed. It's kind of a multipurpose arrangement. The kids get a bit of spoiling. Mom gets a bit of extra warmth in bed. And the family is all in one place in case of night-time "activities" (internal or external).

The rule, though, is that the girls have to go to sleep in their own beds, and when Mom goes to bed, she will put them in bed with her. Of course, if I put them to bed in the same bed at the same time, they would never fall asleep, and their would be mild hysteria if only one of them could fall asleep in my bed. So the rule stands.

Last night T-Bird insisted she would stay awake until I went to bed so that I wouldn't have to carry her. Every five minutes after light's out she would call from her room: "Mom, I'm still awake. I'm still waiting for you!"

After about an hour of that, I got a little irritated - she was throwing me off my FaceBook Scramble game. "T," I said, sternly, "I have put you to bed, and I expect you to fall asleep. NOW!"

"But, Mom," she called back, "It's your bed-time!"

I stayed up an extra hour later than I had planned, just to spite that comment.

Eventually I carried two dozing princesses to my bed and tucked them in. I placed them carefully, keeping enough place for me in between them. By the time I had switched off the light and found my way to my pillow, via the foot of the bed (a tricky accomplishment, I'll have you know!), a head that was not my own was resting on the central pillow.

I nudged it over to her side of the bed and snuggled down under the duvet. Under the covers I placed a hand on each of my daughters and thought how lucky I was to be able to have these treasures so close to me.

One of them rolled towards me. A little hand reached up for my face. The fingers smelt like bottom. I gently pushed them aside and turned to face my other child.

In turning my head, I landed up nose-to-nose with my offspring. She yawned into my face. I choked on malodorous morning breath. I turned back onto my back and sighed, pulling the blankets up around my chin. Totally priveledged to be flanked by these incredible beings, I gazed into the darkness.

On either side of me, a little leg lifted itself out from under the duvet and pushed the bedclothes down. I hung on to my piece of duvet as it was tugged towards the foot of the bed. I thanked my lucky stars for these beautiful children. And yanked the blankets back up.

The mini-battle that commenced was not pretty. There were casualties. They were the sleep-tuggers on either side of me. I was strong. My need for full night coverage prevailed. Eventually they gave up the fight, surrendering to the warmth of the duvet.

I lay panting in the night. It had been a tough fight. But thankfully, my offspring lay near me where I could reach out and touch them. Lucky me.

As the tossing and turning subsided, one child started a deep, rattly snore. This prompted the other one to follow suit. I was trapped in the middle. Stereo snoring. Great. I nudged and poked each of them, getting them to roll over and breathe normally. It helped - a little. 

Yip, I thought to myself, these little misses are heaven-sent. 

And with that, somehow, I drifted off to sleep.

*It must be noted, for the record, that when the girls awoke in the morning, they shared a pillow and started talking to each other. One of the first comments that was offered was "Oooh, your whole face stinks!" Which was met with, "No, your face smells really bad!"

So it's not just me...

Never Underestimate the Entertainment Value of LEGO

Keeping it Together

For those of you who've been holding your breaths waiting to find out if I did in fact die in the night through tongue asphyxiation - thank you, your concern is duly noted. 

No, no. It would have been quite an exciting way to go, but, for it to happen, I would have to actually have been sleeping. 

What with midnight loo trips for the clan of the incredibly tiny bladders, as well as the monster-deterring vigil, and last but not least, the 3am brainstorming session to come up with a better dream for AirBear to have, because she apparently was not totally satisfied with that last one, sleep was elusive. The wee hours of the morning were concluded by inviting a cold-footed three year old into my bed so that I could at least get a little sleep.

"Cuddle me, Mommy," she demanded. I acquiesced, my right arm pinned down by a head of fly-away hair. The fly-away hair kept launching up my nose. I sneezed.

"You're bouncing my brains," she complained in a sleepy voice.

I mumbled an apology and twisted my head away from hers so as to avoid inhaling little strands of silky hair. Somehow, arching and twisted, I managed to fall asleep.

A kick woke me. She was sitting up in bed glaring at me. I had my back to her.

"You flopped me right at Daddy," she protested. "And now I'm awake."

I checked the clock: 05h30. The mother of the year was getting up.

"It's too early for you to be awake," I said. "Come cuddle with me." She wriggled away from me. "My daddy is going to make me some tea," she could have stuck her tongue out with that retort, but she didn't.

Only once she had received her tea, pointed out her father's inappropriate clothing choice, and received a shower of kisses from the departing man, did she slide back under the covers beside me, her ice-block toes sucking the life-force out of my midriff. She fell asleep. Just as T-Bird started stirring.

I understood then that I actually had no choice but to start the day. Leaving my baby tucked up in a cosy eiderdown cocoon, I ventured into the house to see to the needs of my five year old. (That's not true, actually. It was more to keep her from waking her sister than anything else.)

And as the sun started to rise, I realised that I was still alive. My tongue had not detached itself in the night, and I had not choked to death on it. It was somewhat of an anti-climax. Almost disappointing.

Losing my Sense of Taste

I am losing my sense of taste.

No, really.

(Comments from the peanut gallery are unnecessary, thank you very much! Especially the murmurings of siblings.)

I really can't taste much anymore.

My tongue is all sore and burny. And, no, it isn't another MSG binge - I swear - I haven't had ANY Salt and Vinegar flavoured anything for ages. In fact, last night at the movies, the S&V flavouring was completely MIA. On all the flavour counters - absent. I checked. We ended up with a dash of cream cheese and chives which the mother of the year insisted would be a nice change. I can't tell you what an unfulfilling experience that was. It was like putting a spoonful of orange sorbet in your mouth, only to discover that someone froze cooking fat in the orange sorbet container. Blergh!

But back to my loss-of-taste-dilemma.

Since my baby was hospitalised, I, the mother, seem to have been afflicted with a mild case of, er, how shall I say? Stress, maybe? Unbeknownst to me the bloody stress gremlins set up fort on my tongue and have invaded individual taste-buds with serious consequences to the rest of the organ. The strongest muscle in my body has decided that the vermin in her tastebuds will bring all functioning to an abrupt and rather inconvenient standstill. This means that eating, swallowing, talking and kissing will from now on be left to the skeleton staff. And since my tongue has no skeleton, I'm in a bit of a pickle. (Not that I'd be able to know I was in a pickle for sure, being unable to actually distinguish a pickle's flavour from, say, the mouldy finger biscuit that's been carried around in the bottom of my handbag for the last millenium or so.)

The burning, swollen, blister-bedecked tongue I am punished with after a MSG binge is bearable. Because I deserve it. But this out of the blue affliction just seems so unfair.

In true nurse-style, I proceed to self-diagnose. Maybe it's gingivitis, on my tongue. I could try an anti-bacterial mouthwash. Or perhaps it's thrush. I'll need to doctor it with some anti-fungals. But there are these strange pock-marks erupting on the tip - like the tastebuds are dying. They are dying. I've got tongue-leprosy. I'm never going to be able to talk again. My tongue is going to fall off in my sleep. I'm going to choke on it. Is my will prepared? Have I got any outstanding "issues" to deal with? Unspoken regrets, unrequited loves, outstanding apologies, longstanding appointments to cancel. My personal matters seem to be in order. Well, enough that I can go to bed, anyway. Maybe we'll speak again. Maybe we won't...

Mother of the Year Award

Without getting all sickeningly drippy on you and going on about how I got the best one of the bunch (those kind of blogs make me a bit pukey), and without any flowery accolades, the Mother of the Year Award goes to, non other than, Mr (Jessica) C. (Please forgive the semi-emasculating title, but without it you wouldn't know who I was talking about).

This week required the splitting up of our family into two functioning teams. Mom and AirBear (in hospital) and Dad and T-Bird (at home/ school/ work). We're talking survival mode - batten down the hatches time.

In this time, Mr C was a better mother than I could ever have been. And trust me, I'm not just saying that, it takes a lot of humility to unpin my super-mommy badge and hand it over. This guy coped like, well, like a woman (without the tearful, moody, once-a-month madness, of course).

By the time I got back, for one, the house was still standing. Laundry was washed, sorted and folded. Beds were made. Accounts were paid (I think...). Bunnies were still alive, clean and fed. Dishes clean and packed away. Overall, home sweet home.

What's that you say? Any man could do those things (if they tried)? Yes, you're right. But, riddle me this: how many men can master the fairly-even-5-year-old-split-plait?

Exactly.

No more arguing. My hubby gets the prize.

(I know of a dad who was left in a similar situation for a week. Tying is daughter's hair up was a perplexing problem, until he discovered, if he placed the elastic band over the nozzle of the vaccuum cleaner, held the pipe over his daughter's head, turned the machine on, and slipped the elastic down over the sucked up hair, he would be able to put most of her fly-away hair into a cute little fountain atop her noggin. Guess these guys can do anything if they put their mind to it...)

What joggers DON"T talk about

I just heard the grossest thing from a self-professed-not-so-professional-jogger. 

Professional runners, the marathonians, can't afford taking two ticks out of their time when racing, that they will respond to the call of nature as they run. This is why it is common to see a marathonian dousing himself (male, because I can't believe a girl jogger would ever do this!) with water as he runs. Gee! And here I thought that the poor guys were just hot and needed to cool off as they ran.

And, the self-professed-not-so-professional-jogger continued, it get worse still. If the call of nature requires something a little more solid, (a number 2, people with kids), they will do that too, as they run.

Er, excuse me? Are you for real?

I was under the impression that more strenuous excretions require a little concentration and some, er, squatting, to help things along. Could I be wrong here?

So, defiantly disbelieving, I googled it. True's nuts! They do. Number's one through two - on the trot.

Aargh.

My first thought was: thank heaven's I don't have to do that laundry!

The benefits of wooing the mother-in-law

There is a little boy in T-Bird's class who blushes if you mention her name. It's the cutest thing, really. Whenever she arrives or leaves, he calls out to her and waves.

She doesn't seem to be too interested in his advances at this stage. She refers to him as, "oh, ja, he's my friend."

That hasn't deterred the little guy though. I think he is very dedicated in his endeavours to win her heart.

His most ardent efforts, however, have been focussed at me! This little guy will spot me out of a hundred moms and wave furiously while calling out "Hallloooo!" Even if I am sitting in my car, and he happens to pass by, on the other side of the parking lot, he will make very sure that I have taken note of his greeting! 

It's quite cute really.

Nice kid.

Meaning in the CyberAge

I just googled myself.

458 results.

Only 2 were for me.

And they're no longer relevant.

Sigh.

I so have got to make a mark. Something meaningful. My legacy.

The options are countless, I suppose. But some suck. Unfortunately, these are the options that first come to mind. You know, the ones that go: Jessica C - unremarkable. Jessica C - most loads of washing done in one morning. Jessica C - nothing terribly exciting, as yet. Jessica C - choked on a bottle of radio-active gherkins (yes, the bottle, not the gherkins).

Ok, so that last one might be somewhat exciting, if not awfully intriguing.

The other options, the ones that don't suck, are elusive to me at present. Um. What is it that I actually want? Am I even allowed to think about that? Isn't it terribly selfish determining my own dreams, when there are desperate people in need of saving? Shouldn't I put dreaming aside, and, er, do some saving? And if I never dream, will I ever find out about me? And how important is it for me to find out about me, anyway? Does it matter? Will it change things? How many google results will it take to make my life worthwhile?

Somewhere deep inside, beneath the superhero underwear and beside last night's pudding, I crave to know this person that I dwell inside of. I need to find me. I want to create a legacy. I want to see the worth and value of this life. And so, in between a little people-saving and laundry, I'm going to dig up a dream (or two).

The lighter side of Melancholy

Ok. So I could have thrown this juicy little morsel into the 100 Things blog, but I had to devote a little more explanation to it than that post would allow. Thing is, apart from being a little screwed up, on anti-depressants and holding my stuff together, I'm in therapy.

There. I said it. Now you can think I'm a complete loser, but I'm working at turning that around.

So why did I mention it, then. Well, something kinda funny has been developing over the course of my sessions. And I wanted to show you that even though I'm classified Depressive, I still see the brighter side. Sometimes. (And hopefully, it will also explain to those who see me during the school pick-up, which is usually half an hour after my appointment, why I look like kak).

So, I'm 3 sessions in, right? You'd think that I'd be making progress, right? That things would start to be ironing themselves out, right? That I'd be getting better, right? 

Well, I've been measuring my progress on the Kleenex scale. This is a very accurate measuring device. The way it works is that after a session with the shrink-lady, I empty my handbag and count the number of tissues I managed to sog through during our discussion. Seeing as I haven't discovered a bin in the consulting room, I discreetly shove each drenched tissue into my handbag, whilst reaching for the next one.

Session one was a hefty 11 tissues. I thought that it would be difficult to match that, but session two left me with a slightly greater tally of 12 icy crumpled tissues in my handbag. I was convinced that that would be my maximum excretory sum. In fact, today's session started with me claiming how together I am and that I hope not to blubber as badly as I did in our previous sessions. But oh, how the mighty fall! I just about dehydrated this morning with the awesome tissue-tally of 16. And one of those was a whopper Gary Player Special Large Men's paper Hanky that was already in my handbag, and I didn't want it to get secondary snot so decided to use it first.

Sigh! Someone pour me a drink. I'm dry. Er, and I could use a drink.

There's a backwash in my gene pool!

These photos are not of the same child:

We have visiting family in town. My cousin, in fact. On my mom's side. She brought her daughter with them. Her daughter is my daughter, 3 years ago. An almost 2 bag of giggles and discoveries. Just like my five year old once was (you know, before she got hard and cynical and disgruntled with world politics and the state of the economy...)

 T-Bird has her very own Mini-Me! The resemblances are frightening! In fact, the little visitor is more likely to be mistaken for T-bird's little sister than the bona fide sibling, AirBear (who, fortunately, doesn't seem to be too put out by the similarities everyone keeps oohing and aahing about).

Another 50 Things about Me

Just to bring it to a nice round one hundred:

1. I LOVE pyjamas. I could wear pyjamas day in and day out. I am happiest in my pyjamas.

2. I hate balloons. They're untidy. They look awful after a day or too. They take up too much space. I secretly pop every balloon my kids get within about 24 hours of them bringing those cursed latex spheres home.

3. I can't tell my left from my right. I have to point the forefingers of both my hands upwards to decide which is which. (The hand whose forefinger and thumb make an "L", that's the left one - try it, you'll love it!). In fact, when I did my driver's licence exam, I nervously held onto the steering wheel with both forefingers pointing at the windscreen awaiting the examiner's instruction as to which direction I should turn.

4. I answer my phone: "Jessica Hallo".

5. I got married when I was 20. My dad had to sign consent for me to do it, and that was so embarrassing! I was doing this grown-up thing, but I wasn't grown-up enough to do it on my own - I actually had to get permission. Oi vey!

6. Whenever I see our national flag, I think of y-front underpants.

7. I am seriously addicted to Terry Pratchett.

8. I had a crisis of faith. Now I don't know.

9. My dad dropped me on my head when I was a few months old. In front of a LOT of people.

10. I can read and write backwards. (But I don't think it's because I was dropped on my head as a baby.)

11. I was born the same year that the first test-tube baby was born. Sometimes I wished that it was my claim to fame too.

12. My butt is always ice-cold.

13. I love walking in the rain, but I hate being wet.

14. I usually snore.

15. I used to get grumpy when I was tired. Now, I'm tired so often that it's too much effort to be grumpy.

16. I puked pretty much through my entire first labour. After 12 hours of hurling I ended up having a Caesarean section. Which I didn't throw-up in.

17. For most of my childhood, my nickname was "Flea". I have no idea why.

18. I love singing under the influence of helium.

19. I like hats.

20. I only wear hats when I'm having a bad hair day.

21. I sort my laundry into colour piles: blues + blacks, pinks and reds, whites, oranges, yellows + browns.

22. I could always have another cup of coffee. Thank you.

23. I've never had an imaginary friend, but I did once see a fairy.

24. The first time a boy really kissed me, I nearly choked. It was awful.

25. I don't mind catching frogs, moths or Christmas beetles in my hands.

26. Stupid irritates me.

27. I usually sing in the car.

28. I doodle whenever I'm on the phone. If I'm not driving, of course.

29. I have never been able to stick to a diet.

30. I don't like how people smell. You know, when they're all crowded together. Hot and many.

31. I will not swim if I can't see what's in the water. This includes night time dips in the pool (there might be sharks!)

32. I hate it when people call me Jessy. It's messy. And it sounds like they're calling their dog.

33. I dislike the word "penetrate". It too is messy.

34. I don't like doctors.

35. Everyday I am afraid that people will find out what a loser I really am.

36. Manners are important. If I fail at everything else, at least let my kids be polite.

37. I am not an animal person. I don't mind animals in general, but just not all over me. It took me a really long time to agree to the bunnies.

38. The only time I have been hospitalised was for the births of my children.

39. Acapella intrigues me.

40. I enjoy conspiracy theories.

41. I was bulimic in my final year of school. Not having the will power to deny myself food, I resorted to bingeing and purging in order to get skinny. Eventually I gave that up too, because it was just too much schlep.

42. I have pierced my belly button. Twice. Neither piercing is currently present. Just a nasty scar.

43. I don't like eating breakfast.

44. I love my Mac.

45. I once greeted an egyptian gardener with a "Shalom" instead of "Sa'laam". My husband dragged me away before the poor  guy had time to respond.

46. I had a huge scrapbook dedicated to Princess Diana when I was a young girl. She was just spectacular, and I was sure I would marry Prince William.

47. I used to frequently jump off the roof of the church into the prepared, or not, arms of my childhood hero. I was 5. He was 15. He was everything!

48. I hit a slump everyday at 14h30 and 21h30.

49. My recurrent nightmare as a child was about a giant panda escaping from the Jo'burg zoo.

50. When I sneeze, I implode. I don't know how I do it, but I somehow swallow my sneezes so that it sounds like I'm sniffing. Backwards.

Dance like no-one is watching

The thought for the day goes: Work like you don't need the money, sing like no-one is listening, love like you've never been hurt, and dance like no-one is watching... and for how many days has that been the thought of the day? Google answers the question with a whopping 1, 540 000!

But that's not my point.

Last week at the James Blunt concert (cough), I watched as fans did just that: dance like no-one is watching. And truth be told, no-one should have been watching, because if they did, they may have diagnosed the scene as a mass epileptic seizure. And no, I'm not a judgmental person. I just don't dance in public because 9 out of 10 times it just looks stupid. It does. It doesn't matter if the jiggling, shaking, contorting individual is having the time of their life, it's silly.

Lucky for me, I married a man who has the x-factor in his genetic make-up. You know what I'm talking about, right? He is one of those (very few) jivers who can actually "get down" without anyone wondering if they should ask if there is a doctor in the house. This boy can groove. He shakes what his mamma gave him so that old man Richter would be impressed! And fortunately, if one half of a couple can boogie, and loves to boogie, then the other half of the couple's contribution to the dance floor (or lack thereof) is never questioned.

Sure, I dance. Me and the kids get jiggy on occasion. And it's ok because they've seen me first thing in the morning with bed hair and morning breath. But take me to a wedding, a party, or a concert, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to go with clapping to the beat and that's it. If this body starts trying to move with the groove in a public place we will have a completely ridiculous situation on our hands. So don't even ask me, ok?

So for me, I will dance like no-one is watching, only because no-one is watching.