Mom's Day Off

Today I don't feel like being a mommy.

There. I said it.

If today had been the day that I was to decide about becoming a mommy, I would have chosen the corporate ladder or stock-taking instead.

I don't want to wipe pee off the toilet seat.

I don't want to fix the dolly's leg.

I don't want to negotiate a peace treaty between my warring offspring.

I don't want to make sarmies to fill the gap between lunch and supper.

I don't want to be the human jungle gym.

In fact, I don't want to be touched at all.

I don't want to wipe noses, fingers or bottoms.

I don't want to listen to anybody count to one hundred.

I don't want to make sure anyone is warm enough.

I don't want to make sure the favourite teddy is always on hand.

I don't want to ensure that no-one gets square eyes from watching too much TV.

I don't want to park the little plastic motorbikes out of the way - I want to kick them into the street.

I don't want to encourage healthy brain development with Mozart and puzzle-building.

I don't want to dish out multi-vitamins and cough syrup.

I really don't want to listen to the Bare Necessities. Again.

I don't want to tell you that you coloured your picture beautifully. Please don't ask me.

I'm not in the mood for snot wiped on sleeves.

Today I have very little affection for God's creatures, and this would include fluffy bunnies and little girls.

I'm a bad mommy.

Sniff.

Inflatable Fun

So seeing as our president has been displaced, and the economy sucks, and some kids got swept off into the ocean off Mossel Bay, I'm not up to much inspirational discussion. I'm taking a bit of a wait and see what happens approach. So, we'll wait and see. Ok?

In the meantime, the school holidays loom ahead. I have no idea what the weather is going to be like next week, but as far as I can see, we will have summer on Saturday, and possibly Sunday. But thereafter, there are no guarantees. So I've been trying to come up with a couple of fun (cheap) things to do with the girls, and I thought that I might share a couple of the things we've tackled so far with you. Just in case you're short on ideas too.

Seeing as T-Bird has been on holiday for a week already, and what with the rain we've had this week, we had to come up with something to do indoors (again).

The girls enjoyed this activity. On a scale of 1 to 10 for fun, it probably scored about a 7. And it was easy enough for both of them to get into without much guidance from me.


I drew templates for feet, which they coloured and cut out. They each blew up their own balloons with a little hand pump, and decorated them with faces. Balloon knotted and slotted into a tiny hole in the foot print, and... Voila! Balloon pets.


The only downfall is, because they were so easy to make, the girls each made several, and I now have little bobbing, bouncing balloon animals ogling me from just about any perch left in my house (the ones that don't have piles, of course!)


And I do actually hate balloons...

Kids say the Darndest Things

In sharing the joy and daily delights of parenting, it gives me great pleasure to relate a tale of my relations. Since the party in particular wishes to remain anonymous (due to fame-related issues), I will refer to the parent in question as Rob* (*may not be his real name).

Rob has children.

Rob's children like silly sayings.

Like: See you later, aligator!

So.

When Rob said: "See you in a bit!"

His offspring replied with: "You're a little tit."

Which all goes to show that if you're going to encourage literacy and poetry at a young age, you should never be surprised by what you get out.

Keeping them Busy

Step 1: Make popcorn in secret so as to avoid the arguments over who's going to heat the oil, who's going to put the kernels in, and who's going to salt the popcorn when it's done. Shew!

Step 2: Thread popcorn onto cotton. Have plenty plasters ready to wrap around little pricked fingers. And plenty moral integrity to deal with the whining when it starts. As it does. Air: "Mommy, you must help me!" Me: "Come on, I know you can do it!" Air: " I can't. you must help me." Me: "I am helping you by making you do it by yourself. I'm teaching you to manage on your own. One day I won't be around, and you'll have to do this by yourself!" (Don't mock. The need for threaded popcorn might be really big by the time I peg, who knows?) T: "Yes, you must learn how to do this so that you can show your children one day." Air: "But, I'm not going to have any children!" Me: Just breathe.

Step 3: Loads of praise! See, you can do it. 

Step 4: The finished product. Wearable. And edible! Whoohoo!

Out of the mouths of Babes

T-Bird: Mom, which is your favourite princess?
Me: Lady Di.
T-Bird: Who is that?
Me: When I was a little girl like you, Lady Di was the most famous princess in all the world.
T-Bird: And was there an evil witch?
Me: Um. I guess so. (Images of Helen Mirren fill my mind)
T-Bird: And did she live in a castle?
Me: Uhuh, she lived in a place called Buckingham Palace. It's in England.
T-Bird: Wow. That's so cool. Hey, Air?
AirBear: Yip. And you know what?
Me and T: What?
AirBear: If you fart, it keeps you warm.

Shocked silence.
Talk about changing the topic of conversation.

What I've been up to lately

Not bad for a start, huh?

A to Zzzzzzzzzzzzz

Whenever I sit down to metaphorically put pen to paper, the first thought that springs to mind is "I'm tired". But I always seem to push that aside and focus on things less mundane than that to express per my keyboard.

But, I just have to say it. Just once, and then, maybe, it will be better. 

I am tired. Dead tired.

...

And I'm tired of being tired.

...

Nup. It makes no difference. Still tired.

I wake up tired. I plod through my day tired. I answer my mail tired. I make sarmies tired. I drive tired. (Yip, that's me swerving just ahead of you!) I get to the end of the day and fall upon my bed, you guessed it, tired.

For the longest time (Ok, 6 years and counting. Pretty much since I became pregnant for the first time), anytime someone has asked me how I am, I have had to fight the urge to reply, honestly, "I'm tired."

It's not for lack of sleep. I get my 8 hours as often as the next mother. It's just that I wake up tired. Sure, I went through those torturous nights with new babies, colic, and three-hourly feeding schedules, but surely I should be recovered by now?

It's not my iron. Last blood test showed it slightly low, so I swallow a tablet whenever I remember. But I'm still tired.

I'm not pregnant, before you get all diagnostic on me. That option was taken care of a long time ago.

It could be insufficient aerobic activity. Yes, I am a gym deserter. And one of the reasons for that is that gym made me feel tired. Go figure, right?

It could be my cipralex. So I changed the time of day I was taken that little happy pill. It didn't seem to help much. Over the last 2 months I have halved my dose, hoping that that would help too, but no luck. I'm still tired.

It's really not my kids. They are generally a dream to care for. Sure there's the whining and the bickering that can get to unmanageable levels, at times, but for the most part, they are easy kids and a pleasure to have around.

And while we're on family, it is definitely not the mother of the year either. That poor guy has had so little of me due to my flailing energy-levels, that he doesn't even try push his luck for more than dinner and clean underwear. Now don't you feel all sorry for the bloke. It's not like he don't get none. It's just that I'm kinda in a bit of a slump right now, and he maybe doesn't get none more often than he'd like...(?) Anyway, I mean it on a greater level than sex alone. Poor baby has had to do with dwindling levels of enthusiasm on all fronts, from affection to paying bills. Pretty much, I have been lousy company.

By tired, I mean depleted. I have to dig really deep to get my get up and go to get up and er, go. If I could, I would sleep wherever I happen to be. And sometimes I do - much to my daughters' amusement and my embarrassment (my apologies to the other ballet moms last week. Yes. I did. I know. How embarrassing, right?)

I don't even have to be excessively comfortable to fall into a near-unconscious sleep. I've lost count of the number of times I have tended to a restless child at night before I've gotten to bed, and ended up sleeping through the night in that child's bed. On about 30cm of mattress. With my belt embossing my belly, my underwires piercing into my chest cavity, my trouser legs twisted like climbing ivy around my legs and with only a smidgen of blanket to keep out the cold. Hmmm. I just read that again and a little light went on in the back of my mind. Briefly it flickered, but then the batteries gave in. Yip, still tired.

If you want to do something really nice for me, give me a pillow and a blankie, close the curtains, take everything and everybody away and leave me the hell alone for, say, three days!? That'd be a start, anyway.

Womankind vs the Entire Arachnid Species

It was around a heavily laden coffee table that the conversation took a turn for the worse. A complicated collection of mothering souls were drowning their Monday morning blues in bottomless coffee and carrot cake. And somehow, the topic of spiders crept into the bleary eyed gabfest. A sudden hush descended upon the group, and the volume was lowered, almost imperceptibly, as each matriarch lent forward to offer wisdom and take of that which was offered.

"I can't stand spiders," admitted one. "I'll take a barrel of snakes and a room full of rats, but don't give me spiders."

A nod of agreement traveled around the table and stopped at a young, and fairly new addition to the group. "Spiders. And pray mantises," she almost choked on the words, and hurriedly washed them away with a sip of her cafe latte. A moment of quiet reflection followed, and then the roving nod continued on its way.

One by one, the mothers offered hair-raising stories of their personal encounters with the eight legged demons. As the stories unfolded, each woman perceptibly drew her shoulders up and tucked her legs underneath her - well, on the inside anyway. One mom started nervously biting her finger nails.

The next in line to offer a story of breath-taking escape and bravery above and beyond the call of duty was a roly-poly mom of two.

"I've heard that if you don't have Doom," she proffered, "Hairspray will do the job too."

A muffled sigh of amazement and bemusement evaporated out of the huddle.

"Shew!" smiled a beautifully made-up blonde. "At least that's something I always have around!"

Now I wish to stop this story right here.

Can you humor me for just one moment? Can you imagine the scenario that led to this fantastic discovery?

A woman gets up in the morning (it has to be a woman, of course). She plods into the bathroom to wash her face. Eyes closed, water dripping off her eyelashes, she reaches for the towel next to the basin. The same towel that a huge (and by huge, I'm thinking at least the size of a full toilet roll) rain spider has been lurking on all night long. Her fingers brush against three spiky legs that immediately crimp away from her groping reach. Water or no water, she opens her eyes to see what she would only expect in a bad dream. The monster watches her with eight glistening eyes. She screams. If he could, he would too. She is definitely the scariest thing he's ever seen.

Still screaming she starts grabbing at anything she can get her hands on. She pulls the handsoap off the basin. It smashes to the floor. She opens the bathroom cabinet. Cough syrup, toothpaste, Dettol all get ripped off the shelves and tossed into the basin.

The spider watches with eight wide eyes. He feels nervous. Making plans to prolong his life, he decides it would be best to find a new vantage point to this hysteria. He lowers himself on a strong single thread down to the tiled floor.

Dripping wet woman is engrossed in finding something useful in her cabinet. She is still screaming. For a moment she glances back at the perch above the hand towel. Her nemesis has disappeared. A moment of silence follows. In which she takes a deep breath. And then. She scream swears. It is at this precise moment that a large shadow passing over her foot grabs her attention. It is also at this moment that her hand still scratching wildly in the cabinet finds purchase on the cool, reassuring cylinder of hairspray. A primative instinct equates the shape of the can of hairspray to a can of Doom. Screaming and swearing she places her finger on the trigger, and in a nano second of irrational violence, she fires.

The unsuspecting arachnid is covered head-to-toe-to-toe-to-toe-to-toe-to-toe-to-toe-to-toe (only seven because he lost a foot in a minor altercation with the neighbour's wife and a broomstick the previous afternoon). He is immediately held in place by sticky globlets of complex polymers. Unable to take a step due to the never-ending shower of alcohols and silicone, the spider takes his final breath and succumbs to that overpowering cloud of fumes that tends to fill your lungs whenever you fix your coiffure.

The woman stops scream. She still swears a bit. Taking a huge step over the lifeless exoskeleton on her bathroom floor, she starts shivering and shaking. She can feel a million bugs crawling all over her skin. And despite how awful she is feeling, she has made a truly helpful discovery to all womankind henceforth.

Now put that in your back pocket!

Martian Mother

I'm thinking of moving. I've got my eye on Mars. I figure it would be just about right. Considering that one day on Mars is 24 hours 37 minutes long, I am particularly turned on by the thought of getting just over half an hour extra sleep every day. That's a pretty big selling point for me. That, and the fact that one year takes 687 days. That would instantaneously (just about) half my age, giving me the opportunity to explore and enjoy my youth better than I did the first time around.

Sure there's the fact that the atmosphere is about 95% carbon dioxide. I've survived many a night in bed with two farting offspring, so I figure I could handle that. I'm told that the radiation that hits our neighbouring planet tends to be a bit on the wild side too, but I'm up for wearing thick suits and masks. What better way to avoid a bad hair day than to just slip a mask over the whole toot and call it a day? And on the upside, Mars' gravitation is only 38% as strong as the earth's. Can you just imagine how perky these boobs would be in that kind of atmosphere? I could toss out my WonderBra collection and go commando! Woohoo! Some serious scientist guy pointed out that because of the lack of air pressure on Mars, your blood would boil if you went there without a pressurised suit. I say, whoopee, it's not like any mother I know has never experienced that before!

There is some suggestion that Martian weather sucks something awful, but I figure there's not a lot that could be worse than what we've been through in the last two months. So, bring it on! Besides, if you get yourself a size bigger on the anti-radiation suit, you could stuff all kinds of thermal insulation goodies in there with you to make yourself a pretty snug set of togs. I'm also kind of interested in the gale-force winds that blow for months at a time. It really er, blows my hair back. I mean, can you just imagine how many loads of washing you could get dry in one afternoon? I'd be completely stoked!

So, anyone interested in a little travel?

Wash day blues, and pinks, and whites.

Yay for me getting my arse in gear for this full blown sunny spring day! 

Before the sparrows were farting, I had three loads of washing, done and damp just waiting to be hung out in the beautiful sunshine! I think I even saw the bottom of the washing basket! I haven't seen that for about 3 months, so I can't be sure, but I'm hoping.

There's something incredibly uplifting in vanquishing dirty laundry! Like some rumor of good days to come and the unbelievable lie that you might never have to do washing again.

I wish.

Holy Roses

My daughters have several bad habits. The kind of habits that make me a) want to hurl b) want to yell or c) pretend that I don't know them. I hope that at some stage they will grow out of these lousy quirks. And for that reason, as well as in the hope that one day we might actually be friends, and they might actually read what I have written (I doubt it, truly, but you never can tell) I will refrain from naming the specific child over whom I wish to vent.

It would seem that this little person has an obsession with holes. And, more than that, she has a propensity to absentmindedly investigate these holes with her fingers. Without a thought as to what might be lurking in, for instance, a knot hole, she will slip a finger in, give it a wiggle, and be on her way.

The holes she explores come in all shapes and sizes. Naturally, her own orifices have had a good old delve around in. (Much to my utter disgust, mind you!) In fact, I lose count of the number of times a day that I either tell her to take her finger out of her nose, or just pull the offending digit out myself whilst offering her "The Look".

(So much for trying to protect her identity, right? Those of you who know her, will know her. Know what I mean?)

But self-exploration aside, as mentioned, this madam of pokery investigates nature with a scrutinizing finger. Knot holes, gaps between bricks, the hidden rim of the windowsill, the hollow cylindrical handle of the wheel barrow, (meanwhile my spider-radar is bleeping just mentioning these things!), the bunnies' ears, a suspiciously perfectly round hollow in the sand-pit sand. The list goes on and on.

Fortunately the electricity speech seems to have taken root somewhere in that sponge-like head of hers, and we have not had any shocking experiences with regards to fingers in sockets.

There are times were I just cannot sit next to her for prolonged periods of time. If I do, I'll get a bored finger wiggled into my sock, or my ear. It's like she just can't help herself.

Now, I've spent some time thinking about this inclination of hers, and while I hope like blazes that she will outgrow it, I can't help but speculate if this is a window into her future. They say that nursing is hereditary, and with her being subconsciously drawn to dark holes, I have to wonder whether she might end up as a midwife.

Just a thought, really.

Spring is in the Air

Crowning Glory

All my life I have had to deal with thick, coarse, unmanageable hair. My mother, bless her heart, after dealing with three boys before me, hadn't a clue as to how to address the bush of wild, dry tumble weed atop my head. And through her resignation to manage my tresses, I adopted a similar no stress- no mess- no caress attitude in handling my mane.

The results, of course, have been mostly boring, stupid hair. Thick and miserable (except under periods of extreme stress and depression, in which case it just falls the hell out).

Well, I am in the enviable position of being able to re-invent myself, and not quite knowing where to start, I figured that I might as well choose one area and move on from there. So the hair got my vote.

Not that you'd really care about this mumble, but do you have any idea what a difference it makes to just spend a little more on your hair products? I'm talking about the difference from tossing the Colgate 2-in-1 and forking out a small country's annual debt on a separate shampoo and conditioner made by the salon of Pierre and FancyRoy (or someone else, like Loreal, for instance). But, wow! I'm like awesome, all of a sudden (3 treatments down the road). I have sheen. I have shimmer. I have straight, uh, ruly locks (?) I feel like a pedigree in the making, a poster-child for super serum ultra conditioning creme with Nutileum.

Yay for me with terrific tresses!

Almost.

Birthday suit Bulges

For a change, we had a beautiful warm spring day. It didn't take much persuasion to get the princesses outside and up to their eyeballs in mud, sandpit, bunny fluff and snails. I cast an eye over the horizon and quietly noticed a mountain decked head to toe in snowy overalls. This warm weather may be too good to be true, I thought to myself.

After a little rabbit chasing, snail hunting, tree pruning, shrub transplanting and general activities of the garden variety, I called the troops in for a communal shower. Before I could say "Hop in, ladies!", my little girls were stripped and were performing ABBA in front of my over-size bedroom mirror.

"Do-n't go was-ting your commo-tion!" they crooned, back to back and involved in some very complicated wrist maneuvers.

I slipped off my garden scriubs and made for the shower. T-Bird caught sight of me in the mirror.

"Mom!" she screeched.

I turned, wide-eyed, expecting to find a missing limb, a giant spider or God. None of these things were waiting for me. Just the astonished face of my five year old, and my naked reflection in the mirror behind her. Having my kids standing before me, and seeing myself behind them, the reality of what 25 years can do to your body was clear. I winced. The walk of shame did not end there.

"What's the matter?" I asked the screecher.

"Your skin twirls!" she said, and traced an icy finger down my side, from just under my bra-strap to my waist. "When you bend, you twirl," she seemed pretty delighted with the discovery. "Do it again!"

"Er, I'd rather not, thanks," I was well aware of the fat-roll she was so excited about. I've had my eye on it for about 5 years.

We hopped into the shower, and I was grateful for the water splashing into my children's faces, blinding them from the extreme close-up of me, their mother. I used to have a better body, I thought to myself, and then these little people came along and somehow, in the chaos that ensued, I misplaced that nice bod, and have had to do with this one. And it saddened me to think that my kids will never know what I looked like when I looked better. And I could not have kept that better looking body AND have had kids. I had to sacrifice one for the other. Sigh.

And no, I don't want any advice on exercise and diets, thanks all the same. I choose to wallow in self-pity for a bit. Ta.

Tempus Fuggit

Is it just me, or does anyone else have a problem with time? Not the there's-not-enough-hours-in-the-day kind of time - I mean, that's a given - but the whole telling time thing.

Ok, brothers, back down! Yes, of course I can tell the time! I'm talking about the whole AM/PM thing, and the irreverent twelve o' clock on either side. Now do you get me?

My problem is with adding the suffix after 12. Here I am happily wading my way through 9AM, 10AM, 11AM, and then suddenly, my alarm clock/ iCal diary rejects my 12AM, and I resign myself  (disgruntingly) to a stupid 12PM.

If I say to you "Twelve in the morning" versus "Twelve at night", you picture noon versus midnight, right? And I'm thinking AM versus PM. So it makes sense to me to talk about the middle of the day as 12AM, and the middle of the night as 12PM.

Look, I did Latin (a bit), and I know that AM is ante mane and PM is post mane and ante is before and post is after and mane is noon, but I don't see any little Latin time-keepers floating around, so can't we just go with the whole see the 1 to 12 AM routine through before getting going on the PM's? It just makes sense, doesn't it?

And that, dear reader, is what comes from scoffing a whole bag of Diddle Daddle (Popping since 1993) Caramel Gourmet Popcorn on your own.