Air

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

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

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

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

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

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

I breathe. In. Out.

Tomorrow there will be more.

Water

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fire

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

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

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

I keep running.

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

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

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

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

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

Then. Crack.

A spark.

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

Today is a premature tomorrow

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

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

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

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

Vrot

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

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

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

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

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

Couldn't help myself

Good Days, Bad Days

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow I will be better. I promise.

Breaking free

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

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

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

Ok.

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

Sigh.

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

Fresh Perspective

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

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

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

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

Wow.

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

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

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

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

Photo Infatuation

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

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

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

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

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

Give me a break, already!

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

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

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

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

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

Kiss the Girls Chapter 2

So, that AirBear really is quite something!

The rules have been set in stone: A boy may only kiss you if they've asked your daddy's permission.

By the way, I ran this past their daddy who has added fine print to the contract:

You may only kiss my daughter when it is proven that you can wee a hole through a rock.

So my youngest, bless her wanton little wellies, has a a mind that works like a Swiss watch. Tick, tick, tick. As the Stay-at-home-mother that I am, it is my responsibility to do the school run. Tick, tick, tick. This means that the friends at school get to see me. Not daddy. Tick, tick, tick. So how do we make the whole: "Ask my daddy" thing a little easier? Tick, tick, tick.

True as taxes, my four year-old pipes up with this gem from the backseat on the way home from school today.

"Mom, I really want Daddy to have a turn to take me to school tomorrow."

I see through your conniving, unscrupulous plans, my darling youngest. I own you.

That painting thing, again.

Kiss the Girls

I collected Air-Bear from school. She was on the swings with some of her friends.

AirBear: Mom, you know what?

Me: What?

AirBear: Michael and Liam kissed me today.

Liam was on the other swing. Smiling sweetly. His freckles shimmered in the sunshine.

Me: Liam? Did you kiss Airy?

Liam: Uh -huh! - His smile was melting.

Me: You know, if you want to kiss Airy, you have to ask her daddy first!

Liam: Ok - his smile was unwavering.

We headed towards the car.

"You know you shouldn't let all the boys kiss you," I said. "You should have some restraint!"

"Restraint?" she scrunched up her nose. "What's that?"

"Exactly!" I bundled her into the car, where her sister started lecturing her.

"Airy," she berated her sibling, "You can't just let the boys kiss you. You have to first ask them if they want to kiss you. And then, if they say 'Yes', you have to ask them if they are sick. If they are sick then they can't kiss you, because you'll get their germs."

AirBear was taking all this in with wide eyes. "What if they aren't sick?" she asked, almost breathlessly.

"Well," continued her coach. "If they aren't sick then," she caught my eye in the rear-view mirror. "If they aren't sick, then they still can't kiss you. They have to ask Daddy."

See? Indoctrination does work.

Human Evolution

Today on Talk Radio, it was mentioned that human evolution is pretty much coming to an end. Some clever scientist has figured it all out, and suggests that this is about as good as it's going to get for the species homo sapiens. 

How disappointing!

I have so many great ideas for improving on the standard model human. For instance: the third hand. As a midwife the need for a third hand somewhere around my belly button became apparent early on. Just to hold onto things like stethoscopes, catheters, umbilical cords and kidney bowls. It was when I became a mother that the need for a third hand became more urgent. You know, to hold a nappy bag while steering two kids across the road, to catch the cup that your toddler knocks over while you're busy cutting their chicken into bite-size pieces, or to scratch around for your car-keys while hanging onto your sugar overloaded kids after a party.

See? The third hand evolution is still an important development in perfecting the human.

More recently I have become more concerned with another flaw of the average person, namely the opaqueness of the head. It is becoming more and more frustrating for me to guess at what's going on in a person's mind. I find myself second guessing every move and word and action, trying to work out what people are actually saying. Just when I think I've got someone figured out, they completely pull the carpet out from underneath me, and I'm left back at square one, no closer to understanding this individual than I ever was.

So. The solution, I figure, is a transparent head. One that you can see deep into and get to the core of what's actually making the wheel spin. Oh yes. And coloured thoughts. And a key to decode them. Like pink thoughts might mean: gee, I'm really craving marshmallows. And a brown thought might mean, you're a complete idiot, you make me sick, but because we're in the same lift club I'm just being polite and putting up with you. Blue thoughts may mean I'm not a total moron, I'm just not very good at showing you I care. Orange thoughts might mean I like you, but your body odour is pretty intolerable right know. And yellow thoughts might mean, it's not that you're boring me right now, but I need to pee so badly that my eyes are watering and I can't stop wriggling in discomfort.

You know. Something like that.

Ply-te of the Little Girls' room

The kids are at that stage where taking care of their own ablutions is the next step up the evolutionary ladder. And who would have thunk that self bum-wiping would be such a skill? And yet, I have learnt that it is, in fact, a great talent. But in encouraging them to take responsibility for this essential activity, I seemed to have failed at some point in demonstrating that a quality wipe can be so much better than a quantity wipe.

The day I found the toilet bowl overflowing with toilet paper, I tried to flush it all away. The first flush made no impact on the piles of Twinsaver Toilet ribbon  curled in the bowl. I flushed again - there was a slight movement. The third flush resulted in the level of loo-paper dropping by half. It was the fourth, and final, flush that lead to the all-clear. I knew I had to take action, or run the risk of being made bankrupt through an overwhelming toilet paper budget.

So back to the drawing board.

Four blocks of 2-ply per wipe was the immediate instruction. Meticulously we counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Tear. Wipe. One. Two. Three. Four. Tear. Wipe. And so it went.

Victory! No more overflowing toilet bowls!

Every so often I would hear a dedicated little voice drifting up the passage, carefully calculating her allotted supply of loo-roll. I was proud of this accomplishment, of course.

While patting myself on the back, the inevitable happened: the public facilities where only one ply tissue paper is available. I yanked out a length from the dispenser and handed it to my seated offspring. The look of shock and horror I received was priceless!

"Mom! That was, like 20 blocks!" she reprimanded me.

"I know," I admitted, "but this is 1-ply, and four blocks would not be enough."

She gave me a dubious look, trying to figure out at which point her mother had crawled out of cheese. How could she possibly begin to abide by the rules if they keep on changing? She shrugged her little shoulders, wiped, jumped off, and flushed.

"Mom," she said as we finished washing our hands, "I think you had better explain to me what a ply is."

Isn't it Ironic?

There are few things in my life that I find more satisfying than:

1. Eating something I have grown in my own garden. (We're talking veggies here, ok Rob?)

2. Vacuuming over something that goes all clinkety in the machine as it gets sucked up into black hole oblivion.

3. Getting into a bed that is dressed in fresh, clean linen.

And on the other hand...

There is nothing I find more tragic than to realise the very satisfying things in my life have all got to do with getting the housework done. How sad am I?

Bug Food

This last week has been just louse-y. I am seriously only half the woman I was last week Thursday. In the space of five days, I have been savaged, guzzled, gnawed upon by nasty little creatures.. I have nine spider bites! NINE! WTF?!?!

All of these war wounds were picked up in the garden while I was doing my bit for mother nature and tending to the plants of the earth. These buggers have trespassed into the confines of my clothing, and munched away on my tender flesh. Damnit!

By the looks of the bites, I would have to conclude that I am particularly palatable to those bloody creatures. We're talking more than a mere flesh wound here, people! These bites swell. They blister. They ache. They ooze. (Hmmm, attractive picture I'm painting here, I know).

Last Saturday, I had to dance an evening away on a right foot that had swelled to twice it's normal size. My cankles had cankles. And bruising. And pain. But anything for a little getting down on the dance-floor, right? And then, surprise, surprise! The following morning the bite had healed, and I had suitably shaped ankles again. Guess those ballerinas hit on something after all in the Tarantella...

So I figured it would be just another notch in the belt. Me versus the arachnids. But, Tuesday comes along, bringing suitably outdoorsy weather with it, and another ravenous arachnid somehow manages to creep its way into my clothing. My shirt, this time.

Now I have a third breast. Seriously. It's quite perky and curvaceous, and it juts out of my ribcage just under my bra strap. It's also tender and inflamed. And it's beneath and slightly behind my left arm. So. Whoopee! I'm deformed. I can't even recruit this knob to some serious WonderBra activity.

The Chef suggested I go to a doctor.

"What for?" I was grumpy. And itchy. I shouldn't have snapped at her.

"An injection, or something." At least she cares.

"What? To make me taste worse to arachnids?" Seriously, that would be the only thing I'd go for at this stage. Seeing as they seem to clear up after a couple of days without an anti-biotic, and stop itching after a buttering of anti-histamine ointment, I'm good for now, thanks.

And to make matters worse, my spider bites now have spider bites. I have been double bitten on my leg. The original bite was not severe, and didn't even swell, but those buggers came back and made a right flesh feast of me. Now I have three new bites around an old one.

So I was thinking.

If this is how I am to get my super powers, should I complain?

But truthfully. I. Hate. Spiders.