Motherhood. Rhymes with Crazy.

"They" say that insanity is hereditary - that you get it from your kids, and I think I may have to agree with "them".

If it were just me making my little space in my own immediate environment; if it were just me pondering the complexities of life; if it were just my own gases I'd breathe in from time to (far spread) time, I reckon I would be far healthier - on a mental level.

I believe that tripping over toys and rollerblades in the passage; sorting knives and forks in the cutlery tray from Crayolas and fairy wands; staring helplessly at a heaving breathing pile of laundry at the end of every day - these are the kinds of things that make a normal, well-adjusted woman balance on the verge of madness.

Trying to get Play-Do out of the upholstery on my couch; wiping pee seats and flushing forgotten floaters, labeling EVERYTHING in my home with clearly printed labels so that my five year old can learn to read, spraying the especially dark corners of the bedroom with lavender mist to expel the monsters hiding there (everybody knows that monsters HATE air freshener) - these are the things that can push a woman over the edge.

(Probably THE most craze-inducing event for any mother though, is the first time she wakes up at 3am with the Barney theme song cemented in her brain.)

Yip, having children is not a walk in a rose garden - there are bound to be thorns tipped with mind-altering hallucinogens at some point in the journey.

For me, it's been a decently appropriate amount of time since last I was skydiving into a black hole of melting clocks draped on the skeletons of dead trees. I can honestly say that I am here. I am present. I am current. I am together. I do not need to check my pack of birth control pills to know what day it is. I make jokes. With my kids. That's a big step for me.

So here I am thinking - gee, so this is what "normal" feels like - when down the passage I hear muffled conversation from the bathroom. The girls are in the bath. Where I put them five minutes ago. And they're playing. Hide and seek. ? .

I didn't investigate the situation, so please don't ask me how.

I. Don't. Know.

So if I do develop a nervous tic in my old-age, or perhaps I start muttering to myself, please don't look down on me. Please don't judge me.

I am a mother.

The Ten (or thereabouts) Commandments...

... according to my offspring.

1. Always never steal.

2. Don't murder anybody.

3. Don't worship Ben 10. Or Barbie

4. Only worship God.

5. Husbands and wives must never break apart.

6. (E) Always feed your children.

7. You can't worship two gods at the same time.

8. Always keep your Saturday as a resting day - you must NEVER work on a Saturday - save it to do church. (E) It's called the weekings. Is tomorrow Saturday?

9. Love your mom and your dad. (E) And never hit them.

10. Respect other people.

11. Never be greedy for someone else's things.

12. Never kill a policeman.

T-Bird 6 years 7 months; AirBear 5 years.

Should I be worried?

She was staring absentmindedly out of the car window as we drove the wet roads to Hout Bay. Raindrops left perforated trails against her window and she watched them for a while, tracing her finger along their interrupted pathways.

"Mom," she said at last, " have you and Dad ever robbed a bank?"

Choke. What? Stall.

"Er, no, Honey. Robbing banks is bad. We would never do something like that."

Silence.

"No, but like stealing," she offered. "Have you guys ever stolen something?"

"That wouldn't be right," I said. "So: no. We don't do what isn't right."

Then the thought struck me:

"How about you?" I asked. "Have you even stolen anything?"

She looked up from the watery design on her window and rolled her eyes. "How could I?" she sounded almost exasperated. "I have a family who won't even let me go into the front garden on my own!"

So now I asked myself: was that frustration at not being able to go into our unwalled front garden on the main road in our suburb, or was it regret at not having had a chance to burgle?

The mind boggles. Really it does.

And so the Celestial Bodies Spoke

I asked the sun dancer and the moon child how the story ended. What should the guardian angel do to help the little moonbeam princess regain her silver light? How would she get the moonshine back in the sky amongst the stars?

Their answer came without hesitation: The guardian angel must pick the moonshine child up. She must fly with all her might - even though her wings are sore and broken. She must carry that moonbeam right up to her starry home.

"I know the angel can do it, mom," little T-bird's eyes were bright and shining.

She's convinced.

Sniff.

The sun and the moon

I wish I could say something like: You know that old saying? The one about how kids are a barometer for your state of mind? Yeah! That's the one! Well, unfortunately, wherever I look, I can find no history for a statement like that. I really tried, but to no avail.

So I guess I'll just have to put on my big girl boots and say it myself (she says putting her neck out on a limb): My kids are a barometer for my state of mind. When I'm fine, they're fine. When I'm rested, they're rested. When I'm confident, they're confident. But when I'm, teetering, well, the wheels seem to dislodge themselves, and everyone tends to lose the plot a bit.

I guess it makes sense too, right? I mean: if I'm stable and happy and in control, the environment I provide for my children is stable and happy and controlled. They feel safe. They have structure. They know what to expect. They get along just fine.

But when I'm tired slash depressed slash pre-menstrual, I am not stable. My mood jumps around like a popcorn in a popper. So there is no consistency. No stability. No control. Most of the time, when I'm like that, it's a good day if I get to the evening in one piece, let alone the children. So when I have an emotional dip, my children's environment is shaken. They feel more anxious than usual, more nervous, they grasp for the familiar structure that is temporarily out of action. And it shows.

The nagging kicks in. They start to become demanding of my attention. Attention I am unable to lavish on them. They squabble more readily than usual. They dissolve into tears for no reason at all. They become less confident of their own actions. They withdraw.

And when I see them "acting up" like that, I cringe because I know that I am to blame.

So I try desperately to keep it together. Every day. For them. They deserve so much more than I often feel I have to offer. But I refuse to let them have memories of a broken, empty mother - so I put on my happy pants and try to be all I wish I could be for them.

My real concern lies in what has been. It's taken some time for me to get to that point of realisation of how my behaviour affects theirs. So what about all those million times I screwed it up in the past? Those times that I was edgy within my own self. Those times that I collapsed thinking that I would not be able to take another step? Surely they have had an impact.

And I'm convinced of this fact, because when I look at my two miraculous children, I can see which of them had me in my good years and which had me when I was a shadow of that same woman. Post natal depression robbed my second child of a confident, lively, playful mother. That child, bless her, had to make do with a fall apart mommy, a threadbare surrogate, a mother who loved her yes, but gave all she could no. And yes, it does show.

Let me put it this way: Once upon at a time, a beautiful angel was given guardianship of an amazing sunshine dancer. A child who bloomed from one season to the next. A radiant, alive, bold and wonderful explosion of humanity. Bright. Warm. Confident. A life infectious supernova. This glowing sunbeam was rooted in a beginning where her soil was fertile and tended by an ever-present gardener. The angel was a caring nurturer who was intrigued and fascinated by the awesome luminosity of the child she had been given.

Then came the winter. And the angel fell. Her wings were ravaged by an unknown beast.

And another child was bequeathed. A mystical, magical moonshine angel. A gentle spirited shimmer of light who's purity penetrated even the darkest of nights. A delicate crystal ray. A mystifying brightness. This intriguing moonbeam princess was strong and beautiful, mild mannered but determined. A secret whisper of things yet to come. And she was enveloped in the arms of the fallen angel, a tired, broken traveller, an ailing stargazer seeking healing for her tattered wings. And the moonlight child shone on, eclipsed by the affliction of her guardian. Her efforts to shine through were that much stronger, and the fragile moonbeam became stronger still.

The health of the angel guardian improved somewhat, and the sun and the moon shone together in happy synergy, reflecting one another's light. But there were times when beast preyed on the guardian angel, and she would fall ill, for she had little strength left in her earthly bones. And when her weakness grew, the sunshine child would warm her heart and the moonshine child would slip beneath the guardian, her light diminished, but her presence felt beneath the guardian's weary head.

And so it would go.

Until one day. A passing minstrel remarked that the moonbeams light was soft and translucent. And for the first time, the guardian saw how dimly the moonbeam was shining. She looked at the little ray of light and realised that the moon had been earthbound for far too long. The angel cried with great remorse, for she had not seen the moonlight fading.

Was it too late to relaunch her dear tender-hearted shaft of light back into an orbit where she could sparkle and glimmer for the rest of her days? Would she ever be able to reignite the spark that the moonlight princess hid in her heart?

What would you do, if you were that guardian angel?

I love the whole world

Don't know how I quite missed it, but I did. The Discovery Channel's Boom-de-ya-dah Song. Yip. It's new for me. And when I heard it for the first time, it was a complete feel good moment all wrapped up with great video footage and catchy chorus. From the first time I heard it to this present moment THAT song has been well and truly lodged in my cerebrum.

In the last few days I have listened to it SOOOOOOO many times that I know it off by heart, have played it absentmindedly on the piano, have downloaded it off an mp3 site, and kiss my children goodnight each evening with an expected, and now also obligatory "Boom-de-ya-dah!" And my little flock has been caught up in the addictive tune of this song too. You could say that that this little ditty has permeated its way into the fabric of each member of my family. We casually toss around the lyrics in the car. We all join in if one person starts humming it, and correct each other when we fumble over the words. It has sunk its claws into each one of us. So much so that I am starting to really hate the song.

So, a song about loving the world and everything in it, is rapidly turning into a song that makes me hate the song, hate the spiders, hate the rats in the sewers, hate the fireworks and the guy with the bazooka, hate the great white sharks, hate the mummy and the Tibetan monks, hate the fishermen and the people on the beach (who sits on the beach singing in a crowd anyway?).

Aaaaargh, I hate that song!!!!!

If you know the song - I'd love to know what you thought of it when you heard it the first time and got it stuck in your head... If you don't know the song, click on the link, have a listen, and get back to me.

The Whale Tale

In the early hours of Saturday morning, a pod of false killer whales (at first misidentified as pilot whales) beached themselves on Kommetjie beach. There were about 55 of them in total. This kind of mass beaching doesn't happen very often - about once in 10 or 20 years, so we took a drive out there to witness the spectacle.

Quite something to behold - the whales were not all the humungous animals you would have expected - some were smaller than dolphins.

The volunteers and rescue workers battled most of the day to get the whales back into the water and out to deep sea. Those animals that were water-borne didn't stay there for long. They either turned back right there and made for their beach graveyard, or drifted further up the coastline to beach themselves anyway. Many of the land-trapped creatures were stressed, dehydrated and experiencing suffocation due to the great mass of their own bodies crushing their lungs.

The rescue workers were dedicated to their task. We watched their tireless efforts for about 20 minutes before officials started requesting onlookers to evacuate the beach. Euthanizing whales is possibly not the best public display on earth, so they were trying to make it easier for everyone: the onlookers, the whales and the guy that had to pull the trigger. By that time, it was reported that 10 whales had already died on the beach due to stress or suffocation.

As we turned to leave we heard an emotional cry from a concerned spectator calling for another chance for the whales. She so badly wanted to save them.

Today the discussions around the incident are about how the public made the beaching far more traumatic than it needed to be. I actually heard a report claim that some whales suffered due to the fact that there were distressed onlookers in the vicinity. Another complaint was aimed at the media for making a spectacle of the beaching and encouraging people to go to the beach to see the whales.

As for the public: we left before the shots started ringing out, but I can imagine that it would have been a terrible thing to witness. I know of no reports that confirm that any of the whales survived that day. They either perished due to the nature of their predicament, or their suffering was brought to a quick end by some poor soul with a pistol.

 concern is this: This phenomenal event happens so infrequently. It's a natural occurrence. The chances are that most of those visitors to Kommetjie Beach on Saturday will never again see anything like that. Who's to say that the whole event should have been covered up? Hush-hush? I felt a bit annoyed when the workers and police started asking people to leave. Since when did a natural disaster become a privately owned affair?I say nonsense! If people were able to experience that, so much the better! Yes it was tragic. Yes it was emotional. Yes it was difficult. But there is no doubt in my mind that every person who walked away from that beach that day was reminded about the fragility of life. Whether they agreed with the euthanizing of those awesome animals, or were working fervently to release them back into the Atlantic, each individual there that day cannot deny that witnessing creatures of that magnitude give up their lives on that beach is an event that will not soon be forgotten.

The chill factor

A mom in the crowd of the "patient waiters" who gather outside the school gates at 12:30 every day asked me if I still hate winter. She caught me a bit off-guard. 

"Huh? Sorry?"

"Last year you said you hated winter and that you couldn't get up in the mornings," she reminded me.

Wow, I thought, good memory for a lady who's just had a baby.

"Hmmm, I did say that, didn't I?" 

It's true. I hate winter mornings. It's dark, so there's no pressing reason to get up. It feels like my alarm is going off in the middle of the night. Every. Single. Morning. It's cold and my bed is so, so warm. Most winter mornings I will be running late, because I just can't get myself going. It feels so wrong to leave the cosy sanctuary of my eiderdown.

I don't mind the rest of the day, really. It's quite satisfying bundling up against the chill, watching the rain drizzle outside, sipping on hot chocolate. By evening, a fire is lit, heaters are on, fuzzy slippers are the required footwear. Winter, itself is a festive and pancake-worthy season. But those winter mornings! How I wish we could start a normal winter day with a bit of sunshine and flip flops. Even daylight savings would be worth a shot if it meant we could just get the day going a little bit later.

Please, Uncle Jacob! Please can we start winter days later?

Girl Talk

Dear Wives, Mothers, Sisters, Females of the Species

I write to you under the influence of fresh dog turd marched through my house on the shoes of my four year-old, and, as such, I cannot take full responsibility for what I may say now, as the fumes of canine excrement seem to hamper my normal functioning.

Sisters, ladies, sufferers of menstrual cramps and gynaecological examinations. My fellow wearers of tampons and corsetry. Women of the world, you busty and hormonal defenders of the meek, vaccuumers of popcorn kernels and likers of all things pink. Those of you that enjoy the pampering of a french manicure and delight in all things pretty. You who at some point in you lives have appreciated ballet and Hello Kitty. I summon you all closer so that I may divulge a little secret.

(All that gynae crap and lace and frills stuff was to bore the men and shake them off the scent of the knowledge which I am about to impart to my sisters).

You've heard the expression: Men, you can't live with them, you can't shoot them, right?Well, it's true. You shouldn't shoot men. In fact, please don't. Men can be quite useful for cleaning out the litter tray and opening tightly screwed-on lids. So we do kind of need them.

No, I am in no way condoning violent behaviour. Instead I wish to impart a coping mechanism to my sisters who share the burden of trying to see eye-to-eye with the men they share a life with.

We've all experienced that quandry when the charming beast of a man that you note as your significant other let's you down in a nose-dive of chasmic proportions. We've all looked into the eyes of this muscular chunk of masculinity and been completely unable to comprehend the inner workings of that mind that seems to be fueled by Formula 1 and rugby. At some point, we've all rolled our eyes to the heaven's and begged to be understood by the slab of testosterone that sleeps in our beds. And more than once, the cosmic differences between Mars and Venus have lead to disputes, arguments, and in some cases, nuclear jihad.

We just want them to get us. We want them to hold our hands when we're looking at a beautiful sunset, not start a game of tonsil hockey. We want them to put a comforting arm around our shoulders when we're teary, not to suggest we go talk to a shrink. We want them to wink at us across a crowded room, not order another beer. 

Ladies, let me tell you a little secret. And I mean this sincerely. From the bottom of my heart, with the utmost respect for the carriers of the y-chromosome:

Men are retarded.

Now don't get into a flap, everyone! Seriously. I say it with my greatest appreciation for that which is "Man". Men ARE retarded. Say it a couple of times, and suddenly it all makes sense.

Why do they watch a field of sweaty blokes chasing a chunk of dead cow? Why do the burp and fart in company? Why do they consider a beer and pizza as a decent meal? Why do they battle to sort the lights from the darks?

But what I think is most beautiful about this revelation is this: not only does it explain a man's short-comings, but far more valuable than that, it creates a sense of pity for our brothers. When you're pulling your hair out with frustration over the way your man behaves, just think to yourself, "Ag shame, he's retarded," and suddenly you can't be mad at him. Your anger evaporates like the morning dew, and instead you feel a sense of sympathy for your better half. You look at him with affection and mild amusement, and you know, in your heart, that he does mean to do things right, but he just can't quite get it right all the time.

And everything is ok.

A Mother is Permitted to Complain. Once in a while.

Maybe I'm doing something wrong. Or maybe it's them. I dunno.

The majority of conversation directed at my children these days is, "Tidy up this mess!"

Seriously, at least 80% of what I say to my children is about the state of their rooms, the toys littering the lounge floor, the crayons strewn across the passage.

Now, you tell me. Am I expecting too much from these kids? Am I hampering their fun? Aren't they supposed to make a mess, and play and enjoy their childhood? Am I supposed to quietly pick up after them, with a BIG smile on my face, content in the knowledge that my children have had the opportunity and the unlimited space to develop their sweet creative little selves?

But on the other hand, really? No. I mean REALLY? Am I REALLY supposed to have my spawn turn the sanctuary of my home space into a battle field - Every. Single. Day. Am I REALLY supposed to give up the idea of neat living, feng shui, open, tidy home spaces until, gee, I dunno, they move out? Is that how it's supposed to be? Am I fighting a losing battle here? Because it feels like that. Like a battle. At night I fall into bed crippled, exhausted, war-weary.

And it doesn't matter how hard I try, how well I've tidied their doll's house, how neatly the puzzle boxes have been stacked, tomorrow, without fail, the havoc and mayhem that seems to follow these two seemingly innocent young girls, will find a way to demolish my designs, upturn my tupperware, blow up my book cases. I am unequal to the power of childhood entropy.

And the solution? "Let it go," you say. "Roll with the punches." I hear your "never mind" and your "it's just a phase", and I can't, for the life of me, let it be. I can't accept that this phase is bigger than me. If I let this chaos consume me, I will have no control left. I will be like flotsam swept away in a tsunami of Polly Pockets and paper dolls.

I need a full time housekeeper. It's a matter of sanity.

Oh. And a full time gardener to pick up the dog poo. Thanks.

The lighter side of Terrorism

I received this super email today. Made me laugh so much, I just had to share it. Enjoy.

********************************

The British are feeling the pinch in relation to recent terrorist threats in Islamabad and have raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved." Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross". Brits have not been "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies all but ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to a "Bloody Nuisance". The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was during the great fire of 1666.

The French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror alert level from "Run" to "Hide". The only two higher levels in France are "Collaborate" and "Surrender". The rise was precipitated by a recent fire that destroyed France 's white flag factory, effectively paralysing the country's military capability.

It's not only the French who are on a heightened level of alert. Italy has increased the alert level from "Shout loudly and excitedly" to "Elaborate Military Posturing". Two more levels remain: "Ineffective Combat Operations" and "Change Sides".

The Germans also increased their alert state from "Disdainful Arrogance" to "Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs." They also have two higher levels: "Invade a Neighbour" and "Lose".

Belgians, on the other hand, are all on holiday as usual, and the only threat they are worried about is NATO pulling out of Brussels .

The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy. These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so the new Spanish navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish navy.

Americans meanwhile are carrying out pre-emptive strikes on all of their allies, just in case.

New Zealand has also raised its security levels - from "baaa" to "BAAAA!". Due to continuing defence cutbacks (the airforce being a squadron of spotty teenagers flying paper aeroplanes and the navy some toy boats in the Prime Minister's bath), New Zealand only has one more level of escalation, which is "Shit, I hope Austrulia will come end rescue us". In the event of invasion, New Zealanders will be asked to gather together in a strategic defensive position called "Bondi Beach". 

Australia, meanwhile, has raised its security level from "No worries" to "She'll be right, mate". Three more escalation levels remain: "Crikey!", "I think we'll need to cancel the barbie this weekend" and "The barbie is cancelled". There has not been a situation yet that has warranted the used of the final escalation level. 

A number One

I have no idea what compelled her to say it, what little nugget of festering after-thought lead to the growth of the concept, but for some reason, my demure lady-like little 6 year old has claimed ownership of the term: pee-tank. As in, on route to ballet, "Ooops! I better go to the pee-tank before my class starts!"

I tried to determine the origin of the word, but to no avail. "I just thought it up on my own, in my own head," she shrugged.

"Well, there are better things to say," I said, thinking along the lines of I need to visit the little girls' room. The part of the brain devoted to toilet humour at this age took immediate control of all her cognition. She started inventing new options. "I need to visit a private place that gets stinky," she suggested. "If I don't get there soon, I will leak," she added.

"Tinkle," I corrected her. A little lady tinkles.

She thought that was mildly amusing. "I need a private tinkle," she experimented with the phrase.

By the end of the day, her two favourites were I need to sit on the royal throne, and I need to squeeze a lemon, which had some rather dubious and primitive roots which I'd prefer not getting into detail over.

I think she misheard him

Him: What would you like to drink?

Me: Hmmm, do we have Savannahs?

Him: Sure. Would you like one?

AirBear (very, very eager):  Oooooh! Me too please!

A moment of shocked silence passes where I scrutinize my four year old.

Me: You want a Savannah?

AirBear: Yes, I love them! I really, really love them!

Me: Savannahs? You don't even know what a Savannah is.

AirBear (indignant): Oh yes, I do. It's a sausage.

Princess Pepper

This is our dog.

She eats scuba divers for breakfast.

Prostitutes and Purple Pipes

I've been a very bad blogger, I know, but to make up for it, I have two new, never before seen, brand-spanking new, entirely nascent AirBear sayings to make up for it.

*********************

Yesterday we were driving home from ballet, and the news was on. One of the headlines was about sex-workers winning a court appeal against policemen for arresting them for who they are and not for what they do. One prozzie claimed that she had been arrested over 200 times without charge.

Well, the girls always listen to the news when we're in the car. And AirBear gets quite interested in this woman, right. She wants to know why she got arrested. "Because she did something bad," I attempt to ignore the core of the answer. But she isn't satisfied. She wants to know exactly what that bad thing was that got a woman arrested 200 times.

I sigh. "Airie, I'll tell you when you're older, ok?" 

"NO! Mom," I see big eyes pleading at me in the rear-view mirror, "you need to tell us now!"

"Why? Why not when you're older?"

"Because what if we do the same thing?"

"You probably won't," I shake my head - I guess it's a fair question.

*********************

The next story opens with me on the loo. This used to be a regular public performance, but I've cut down on my audience admissions, and try to keep them outside the bathroom when I need to go. It works most of the time, not always, but most of the time.

On the occasions that I have the room to myself, you can be sure that at least one little person is seated just on the other side of the door, having a very important conversation with me that can't wait until later.

So there we were. Me on the loo, and AirBear guarding the entrance.

Things were going pretty quietly until there was a great gasp from beyond the walls of my privvy. It was the kind of gasp that makes you think that the person gasping has just seen a giant spider, or just won the Euro Lotto.

"What is it?" I inquired.

"Mom," she stated, most matter-of-factly, "you're not going to believe this: the pipes in my soul are purple!"

Will someone volunteer how I'm supposed to respond to that.

The more I tried to figure out what she was talking about, the more anxious and excited she became about her purple soul pipes. For a minute or two we chattered back and forth while I tried to make out what the heck she was on about.

Turns out she spotted the superficial veins in her wrist.

Go figure.

Email tracking

I've always hated those emails that you have to send on for good luck and to tell God that you love him. I've always thought that's rubbish. Well, seems my fears were confirmed, and, instead of sending this email on to all my contacts, I'm putting it up here.

Decide for yourself:

E-MAIL TRACKING

 

 Here is something everyone should read and take the advice. If you don't, you’re hurting yourself and your email buddies.

 

By now, I suspect everyone is familiar with www.snopes.com <http://www.snopes.com> and/or www.truthorfiction.com <http://www.truthorfiction.com> for determining whether information received via email is just that: true/false or fact/fiction. Both are excellent sites.

 

Advice from Snopes.com Very important!

 

1) Any time you see an E-Mail that says forward this on to '10' (or however many) of your friends, sign this petition, or you'll get bad luck, good luck, you'll see something funny on your screen after you send it, or whatever, it almost always has an E-Mail tracker program attached that tracks the cookies and E-Mails of those folks you forward to.

 

The host sender is getting a copy each time it gets forwarded and then is able to get lists of 'active' E-Mail addresses to use in SPAM E-Mails, or sell to other spammers.  Even when you get emails that demand you send the email on if you're not ashamed of God/Jesus ....that’s E-mail tracking and they're playing on your conscience.  These people don't care how they get your email addresses - just as long as they get them. Also, emails that talk about a missing child or a child with an incurable disease - “how would you feel if that was your child"....E-mail Tracking!!!

 

Ignore them and don’t participate!

 

2) Almost all E-Mails that ask you to add your name and forward on to others are similar to that mass letter years ago that asked people to send business cards to the little kid in Florida who wanted to break the Guinness Book of Records for the most cards. All it was,  and all any of this type of E-Mail is, is a way to get names  and 'cookie' tracking information for telemarketers  and spammers - - to validate active E-Mail accounts for  their own profitable purposes.

 

You can do your friends and family members a GREAT favour by sending this  information to them; you will be providing a service to your  friends, and will be rewarded by not getting thousands of spam  E-Mails in the future!

 

If you have been sending out (FORWARDING) the above kinds of E-Mail, now you know why you get so much SPAM!

 

Do yourself a favour and STOP adding your name(s) to those types of listings regardless how inviting they might sound!...or make you feel  guilty if you don't!...it's all about getting email addresses  - nothing more!

 

You may think you are supporting a GREAT cause, but you are NOT! Instead, you will be getting tons of junk mail later and very possibly a virus attached!  Plus, you are helping the spammers get rich!  Let's stop making it easy for them!

 

Also: E-Mail petitions are NOT acceptable to Government, or any other organization - i.e. social security, etc. To be acceptable, petitions must have a signed signature and full address of the person signing the petition, so this is a waste of time and you’re just helping the Email trackers.

 

Please read the full story here:

 http://www.snopes.com/inboxer/petition/internet.asp

The way things are now

They say that you should be careful about the things you wish for.

I was wishing for something to happen. Something to change things. Something great.

Well.

Something did happen. Something to change things. Something great. But not in a good sort of great way, more like a big sort of great way.

The 4 month old dalmation puppy, Princess Pepper, who has been in unfavourable repute with the mother of the house for ripping clean washing off the line and dragging it frivolously through the mud, caught, overpowered and dissected Holly, 14 month old Angora bunny.

T-Bird, my heart's greatest beat, discovered the carnage and how I wish she hadn't. She found the mutilated body of the friendly little bunny just before bath-time. Both girls were heart-broken, and wept for three hours flat.

We had a simple burial complete with kind words and offerings of fresh flowers and little trinkets - frugal donations from little people wishing the world were a different place.

***
When T-Bird was born, my mom said that from that day on, my heart would live outside of my body. And she was right. Seeing both of my children so desperately unhappy was indeed an emotionally taxing and physically painful experience for me. How I wished I could have saved them that loss, that pain, that violence. I wished I could keep them safe and ignorant of the hurts of the world, the reality of death, the truth of life. Oh for that elusive bubble-wrap to protect my dear, sweet, innocent progeny!
***

So something happened - my children were exposed to a reality of life in a very violent way. Things have changed - the dog is now the only pet on the premises, and my garden has a slightly better prospect at surviving. It was a great, and painful learning experience. For all of us.

Just had to Share this!

Me: This is a great pic, T! Is it you?

T: Uhuh.

Me: Why is your mouth open?

T: I totally freaked out.

Me: Why?

T: Because I looked in the mirror and saw how beautiful I was.

T-Bird: 6 years and 3 months

Self Preservation

The library book story started with: Mog was tired. So tired she wanted to sleep forever. And so she did. (slightly edited)

Sigh. What sweet release sleep is. An escape. An elixir.

Every day passes, and I place a fragile lid of sleep on each one. Like a delicate full stop. And I know that I can tick one more off until forever.

The feelings have slowed down. I've slowed down. I'm not thinking as much. I'm just getting through this minute, this hour, this meal, this routine. I find it hard to think about tonight. Or tomorrow. Or the weekend. Or Mother's Day. I just need to get through this space right here, please.

I feel like I'm saying "No. Sorry. I can't," all the time. "Jess, can you do this?" "No." "Would you like to arrange this?" "Sorry" "Can we count on you for this?" "I can't." And as much as I'd like to be Superwoman, I don't have the energy to put on that face. For me, it is an accomplishment that I actually get to the evening in one piece. Where did I lose the plot? When did I become not ok? Why am I not holding this simple, beautiful life together?

I'm tired. On the inside. And I'm also tired of being tired on the inside. I have nothing left really to give anyone. If you don't fall within my immediate circle of MIPs, chances are that I will not be able to see to your needs today. Tomorrow doesn't look good either. No. Sorry. I just can't.

Routine is good. It helps define the spaces of time that I float through. Go here. Do this. Go there. Do that. Equals good. Equals helpful. It offers a slightly clearer view  on things.

I'm tired of being low though. It's not nice for me. It's not nice for you either. This kind of tiredness is catchy, and I would stand back if I were you. Well back. Don't worry, I won't hold it against you. It's ok.

My demons haunt me from behind my eyebrows. Thoughts of where things went wrong pester my memory. The what-ifs and the helpless resignation that follows halve each breath I take. I'm drifting. I need my rock. My rock is crumbling. Now what? 

I'm really tired of this. I want sunlight on my face. I want bubbles and butterflies and star- anchored wishes. I want a clear mind with thoughts that march like little soldiers on parade - orderly, neatly. I want the colour back. I want morning.

They say the night is always darkest before the dawn. There are also places on the earth that don't get sunlight for months at a time. It just makes me think that I could do with a decent dose of equatorial living for a bit. Oh. And a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, please.

Waiting

It's like Christmas when you're a kid - or the run up to it, at least. The waiting, the anticipating, the little bit of nervous tummy acrobatics. It's like you can just taste the magic in the air, and you believe, from the very bottom of your soul that something amazing is going to happen. There is an awesome promise, just around the corner, waiting to embrace you in utter pleasure.

And you wait. You tick off the days on your advent calendar. You count the sleeps. You calculate the hours. You just know that every thing your heart desires is about to be materialised. You hold your breath, and Christmas day dawns.

That lead up to Christmas was always so thrilling to me as a kid. You just knew something great was going to happen. You could sense it.

How I long for that to happen now. I feel like I'm waiting for something extraordinary to happen. Something good. Something to throw a splash of sparkle over the ordinary. I wait. And I wait.

And even though Christmas day would dawn, all those years ago, bringing with it lightness and an inkling of magic, I would always go to bed, on Christmas night feeling like I had missed something, that Christmas hadn't happened all the way it was supposed to, like there had to be something more. A sense of disappointment, I guess. A feeling that my expectation had not quite been met. An anti-climax.

And as I sit staring at the pixels on my Mac, I am so aware of that feeling - that one of wanting something great to happen, something awesome, something magical. And while a part of me hopes for thrills and excitement, another part shakes it's head and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Play it cool," she says, "you're only going to be disappointed when it doesn't turn out the way you were hoping." 

So I withdraw. I take stock of what is here, what is now. I am grateful for it all. I appreciate every other thing in my life. I thankfully rock this existence back to sleep, stilling the restless wanderings of my mind. "Shhh. There, there. This is enough."

And yes, it IS enough. It is MORE THAN enough.

I'd just like something really great to happen.

's all. 

Happy anniversary

1 Amazing man.

2 Gorgeous little girls.

3 Cities inhabited.

4 Places set at the dining table.

5, because there's always room for one more.

6 Pets.

7 Cars to take us around.

8 Relocations.

9 Employed positions between the two of us.

10 Years of marriage.

Earth Hour

I'm going to do it - Are you?

If you have no idea what earth day is about, please, please, please go here and become informed. Then, if you care about the planet and are trying to find ways of showing you care, be a part of Earth Hour on Saturday, 28 March 2009 at 8.30pm.

All you have to do is switch off non-essential power (lights are suggested) for ONE hour. The idea is that by so doing, people all across the globe can show their concern for global warming, and thereby urge the people who are able to do something about it, to do something about it.

I know there's a lot of questions about global warming and arguments about if it is or if it isn't, but either way, what will it hurt to light a candle for an hour, sit around your cosy braai coals while you watch the stars, or snuggle up in bed with your lover in the dark? For one hour?

The Bad Guy Wants more Power and more Money

My kids ask a lot of questions. About everything. Mostly, they want to know: Why?

Sound familiar?

Often, their "whys" are focussed on the bad guy in a story. Why did he do that? Trying to understand evil and conniving deceit is something my kids tend to battle with. It's a matter of trying to understand why everyone can't just be friends.

The answer, that I tend to end up with, when asked why someone did something mean, or nasty, or evil, is that the bad guy is always after more money and more power. And it's an answer that has worked for so many whys. 

Why does the queen want to hurt Snow White? She wants to keep her power.

Why were Cinderella's step sisters so mean to her? Because they wanted the prince, and therefor more power.

Why does the butler try to lose the cats in Aristocats? Because he wants to inherit their fortune.

Why did the bankers take Jimmy's money in Mary Poppins? Because they wanted more money.

Why does Count Olaf try to hurt the orphans in Lemony Snickett's Series of Unfortunate Events? Because he wants their money.

And their whys stretch beyond the fairy-tale domain. Why is Robert Mugabe such a bad president? (Yes, my kids are up to date with current politics, and they are aware of the tenuous situation in our neighbouring country). The answer is more money and more power.

And so it was today that a report aired on talk-radio as we drove home from ballet. Three policemen were arrested for selling confiscated narcotics to drug dealers. We listened to the news like we always do. Some questions followed. Why were the policemen arrested? They did something bad. Why? For money, I guess. The bad guys are after more power and more money.

There was a period of industrial thinking as we turned onto our street.

T-Bird, an amazing logical thinker, described her solution to the recently reported problem: The policemen got arrested for selling drugs. Drugs are bad. Why didn't they just sell vegetables? Or lolly pops? Then they could still make money, but not get arrested.

Yes, my darling daughter, why didn't they just do that instead?

Utterings of the Offspring

AirBear: Daddy! Daddy! Granny says she's going to smack my bum!
Daddy: Well, Air-Bear! What have you been doing?
AirBear: Nothing.
Daddy: You must have been doing something. Were you looking for trouble?
AirBear: No, I never looked for trouble. But I did find it.

AirBear: 4 years, 9 months

Go on, Stretch that Riddle Muscle

I'm going away. Can you guess where?

It's cold and desolate. 

A land of snow and stars.

It sparkles and refracts.

It's sort of salt-y.

It's crystal clear.

It's the gateway to the universe.

It's a million pinpricks through black velvet.

It has the freshest air in the world.

A little bit of Good Advice

Today, while helping her dear old mother make toasted sarmies for lunch, T-Bird burnt her hand on the toaster. She was so brave! She didn't even cry! She just got a surprised look on her face and said "Ow!"

We held the burn under a cool running tap for about 5 minutes - well, to be honest, it was more like only 2 minutes, because she gets bored quickly. But the thing  that made all the difference was - YES! Pay attention now, because this next bit of information is for free and gratis and you'll be richer for it - Baby Bum Cream. We applied a glob of the ointment to the affected area, and left it sitting on her skin while we ate our lunch. After lunch it was carefully rubbed off and into the surrounding skin.

For the rest of the day (including bath-time - and bear in mind that my daughters generally enjoy a fairly warm bath) not a mention was made of the burn. There is no blister, no burning sensation, and best of all, no whiny, unhappy offspring!

Baby Bum Cream contains ingredients which soothe (thereby reducing the pain of a burn) and help heal a burn. The zinc-oxide component is mildly anti-bacterial and will prevent a burn from forming blisters.

So we keep a tub of baby bum cream in a cupboard in our kitchen for little incidents such as these.

Oh. Come. Off. It! You've heard of weirder things!

Jess of All Trades

I've been feeling a bit anxious lately. Somewhat unsettled. Here I am at the ripe old age of 30, and what do I have to show for it? No, seriously what?

Nothing hugely impressive to stand and point at and say "That! That there is my profession! My expertise incarnate!"

Hmmmmm. But a little bit of this and a little bit of that are what I have to show for my time. And something inside yearns for a legacy of sorts. Something to leave behind to say, "This was Jessica. There was no-one else quite like her." And the only tool I have to deal with this quandry at present is an embarassingly eager need to rhyme. Pardon me.

I've served, I've slaved, 

I've grown, I've shaved

I've healed, I've sewn

Someone else's, some my own

I've ran, I've sold

I'm getting old

I've cooked, I've dined

I've read and I've rhymed

I've built, I've broken

Some big, some just a token

I've birthed, and I've buried

I've lectured, I've studied

I've taught and bought

And caught and thought

Grew an art out of health

Juxtaposed poverty and wealth

I've driven in the president's car

I've hooked my trailer to a shooting star

I've cared and feared

I've bared and reared

I've travelled some places

I've learnt language, loved faces

I've handled the money

I've tried to be funny

I've done all the things that I ought to

And captured them all in a photo

A master I'm not

No expert, no pro

I'm reading the stars

and aching to go.

A better mom

While I was running my well-baby clinic I learnt that there is one emotion that is shared by all mothers, even before their babies are born: GUILT. Every woman feels guilty about something or other with regards to her unborn child, her newborn infant or her hurricane toddler.

"What if I had a low episode during my pregnancy? Will my baby think I don't love it" - GUILT. "What if my baby has colic because of that block of chocolate I had during my induction?" - GUILT. "Maybe my toddler's acting up because I left him with my mother so I could go to gym?" - GUILT! GUILT! GUILT!

And, one of the top reasons for guilt amongst new mothers is the prospect of going back to work. Because, "surely perfect mothers stay home for 20 years to raise their kids and another 20 to raise their grandkids? And how will my child know that I still love her when I send her to a creche for 8 hours of the day so I can work?"

And I've noticed that going-back-to-work guilt ever so often when the reason to go back to work is not necessarily because of the need to supplement the family income. There is often a tremendous aount of guilt around the fact that a woman has CHOSEN to go back to work. A choice she made for herself.

My sister-in-law, a teacher, told me that she was anxious to get back to work so that she could have some time away from her children. She said, "Teaching, and the time I'm away from my kids makes me a better mother." I didn't quite get it when she told me the first time, but over the years I have seen so many mothers express the same feeling. They had to do certain things, whether it was to go back to work, or hire an au pair, or to send the children to her mother-in-law for the weekends, so that they could be a better mother.

Be a better mother. By not filling the mother role. Hmmm.

Now I get this, really I do. In fact, for some desperate mommies, I have suggested this exact principle: do something that is not mothery so that you can be a better mother. And, indeed, it works. That time away from her kids allows a woman to find herself, to develop her identity, to feel more human. So that she can be a better mother.

I guess the reason I brought this up though is that I need to find that thing. For me. The thing that makes me a better mother. Because the truth is that at some point, when mothering is what you do, you will run out of mother-gas. Your tank runs dry. And you can't break down. You can't press pause on some wonderful universal remote. As a mother, you can't stop. And you run on empty, because there isn't another option. Most of the time, I feel like I live on that edge, that running-on-empty tightrope. I need to fill up on something more substantial than crayon drawings and finger biscuits. I need to find the thing that makes me a better mother.

Suggestions welcome.

Perfect

Today is perfect. As perfect as it can be. There will be no attempts to change the past. To hold regrets about yesterday and what could have been is futile. Today is the only today I have. And it is perfect.

I am perfect in this day. There is not another day like this one waiting for me in the cubby-hole of the future. Today is the only one I'm going to get, and I will be perfect in this day, for this day. 

Tomorrow I will be a different person. A little older. A little stiffer. A little wiser. A little changed. But today I am perfectly me. Today, I cannot be more than I am right now. And what I am today is perfect. 

It is a good day to be me. 

It is good that I am me today.

And today I will make the most of this perfect day, for that is how I can be the perfect me. I will find the joy in each moment, I will appreciate the weather, I will look at the perfect people who call me "Friend", who call me "Lover", who call me "Mother". Together, we will be perfect in this perfect day.

Our perfection is accomplished when night draws a curtain on this perfect day, and this today melts into a memory called yesterday that we have no hold on. And at that very moment, the tomorrow that we could not control today, solidifies into the today that we are given. And what a perfect today it will be! We will live in this today as best we can, and we will be perfect in it.

I can only be the me I am now, in this unique space called today. I will not get a chance to repeat this day again. The trials and decisions I face today can only be dealt with by the person I am today. If I were the me I will be tomorrow, I may not learn from my trials, I may not appreciate a smile, a word or a gesture. I am perfect today to deal with today. It would not be better for me to deal with today tomorrow. This perfect day has called for this perfect me.

I cannot long for the me I was 10 years ago, that carefree, organised soul - that dear young woman of yesteryear would never be able to manage this perfect day. She could never face this perfect day with its perfect trials and challenges. She was perfect for her perfect yesterday. And I dare not long for the me that I will be in 10 years time - that perfect woman would have no care for this perfect day - her world would be so much bigger than this perfect little day. This perfect day would be a trifling splatter on her speeding windscreen. That amazing woman is perfect for her perfect tomorrow.

No. I must not. I cannot. I dare not look back or look forward. This perfect day has only me to tend to it. This me. This one here. This perfect me.

(Manic maybe?)

A bit of philosical blabber

A vague acceptance of life's funny workings seems to creep into one's daily existence as you get older.

When you are young, and unthinkable things happen to you, or around you, you get worked up. You want to know why. Why did that person die? Why can that couple not conceive? Why did that sad old man live alone in that massive house? Why do some people live luxurious lives, and some people suffer quietly in their poverty? Why? Why? Why? Why does life not make sense?

And then as you get older, it seems that those incidents that struck you so deeply in your youth, are happening more and more. More of your acquaintances and friends even are being affected by pain, fear, loss at an ever increasing rate, and it seems that at a point some suffering in life is inevitable. And it is, isn't it? I mean, everyone goes through difficult times. That's life, right?

And because you witness and experience more heartache as you age, you try to block it a little. You stop questioning the reasons behind why some people have to go through some very difficult things. You answer your youths' questions. That guy died because he didn't take care of his health. That couple can't conceive because of medical problems, and there are so many people with those kinds of problems. That sad old man lived alone in that huge house because he was an impatient father and abusive husband and anyone who was ever dear to him left as soon as they could. Some people have luxurious lives and others don't because of where they started due to their family's vantage points and then, of course how hard they worked to keep afloat. And all the cutting hurts are rationalised away by logic. And you find that you don't notice the hurt and the pain as much, and it's easier for you that way.

But getting older, and growing thicker skin, and trying to cut out the pain and suffering so that it doesn't pull you under is also counter-productive. We need to be vulnerable to the hurtings of others. We need to show compassion for those that are anguishing and struggling. We need to look at the difficult situations around us with the eyes of our youth. We need to ask Why? again. If not for the sake of the hurting, then for the sake of our children. We need to teach our children to care about others, to show them that suffering is not a just and acceptable norm. We need to teach them to reach out to make a difference wherever they can.

I have a secret

I wonder what you would do, if you were me?

Let me explain: I am an honest person. I wear my heart on my sleeve. What you see is what you get. Mostly. And I say "mostly" because there is this one thing...

There is this one role I have to fill and I. Really. Don't. Want. To. Do. It. Furthermore, I have to do it with a smile on my face. No-one may know that I. Really. Don't. Want. To. Do. It. And I have to do it regularly. Each time I do it, I take a deep breath, plaster a smile on my face, and get it over with.

I have been playing this masked partaker for a long time. And I fear the disguise is losing it's plausibility. The make-up is cracking. I will be exposed as a fraud. And even though I am so close to giving the game away, I cling to my alias with all the strength I can muster. Somedays my performance is more convincing than others. But even when my presentation is lousy, I cannot let the truth be known.

You want to know why? If the truth was revealed, the repercussions would be far-reaching and disastrous. So much disappointment, hurt, anger, rejection would follow. And I could not bear to be the one responsible for causing the ship to go down. So I play the role, to the best of my ability. I do what is expected. I follow through. But I. Really. Don't. Enjoy. It.

Does it change the way you see me, knowing this, I wonder? Will you question the things you know about me? Will you wonder which part of me is the truth and which part is a lie? Will it make you cautious to come close, thinking that perhaps the enjoyment I display is only a $2 act? 

Would I do more damage guarding my dirty little secret, than letting it go and facing up to the consequences? Common sense tells me the latter will be true. If I gave up my jolly-faced act and let my resentment and distaste out of its cobwebby closet, the damages would be immense. 

So I nurture my deceit. I keep it close. I hide it when the time is right. And while I do, I wonder what your deceptions are?

Potato Alfredo

It wasn't supposed to be. Potato, I mean. But no matter how hard I tried, every time I opened that larder cupboard, there was no fettucini, no tagliatelle, and no, not even a morsel of macaroni.

Potato Alfredo is what you get from a woman who is holding onto her sanity with flimsy resolve. A woman who keeps track of the days of the week by checking her birth-control pills blister pack. What? You mean it isn't Wednesday? Oh-oh!

Potato Alfredo. A suitable metaphor for my life. It's not quite what it was intended to be, but it works. It's plain. In a foreign language. It's filling. Substantial. It would be so much better as a pasta, but there's nothing wrong with this starch either. I just imagine that the flavours would gel better if it was done right. Look. I'm not complaining. Potato Alfredo is different. It's original. A creative take on a common order. It just doesn't roll off the tongue quite right. The sauce is great, really, it can't be faulted. But the foundation is just that much too solid, rigid, bulky. And yet the right base remains elusive. I peer into the cupboards of my past, search the shelves of my upbringing, and I find no pasta. 

There are no stringy strands of spaghetti, no lovely long linguini. These things are scarce. They belong to The Other People. The Fancy People. The Exclusive People. 

I have potatoes. Honest, satisfying potatoes. Plain, grown of the earth, soil-kissed potatoes. I have a whole dress-up box full of potatoes. Potatoes disguised as milkshake. Potatoes pretending to be toast. Pancake potatoes. Potatoes to grow more potatoes from - and you know? You just can't do that with fettucini.

Potato Alfredo. Not what I expected. But it works.  

Things I didn't expect to hear from my kids today:

1. Mom, is my poop supposed to smell so bad?

2. I know some kids that don't love their mothers, but I really love you.
3. I think Helen Zille will make a great president. She owns Cape Town really well. Don't you think so?

The truth about Kids and Dogs

These are the simple truths I have learned in the first five weeks of owning a puppy. And perhaps, whether you are a dog owner or a kid owner, you might be able to relate:

1. Kids and dogs poop. A lot. And while you don't need to pick up kid-poo in the garden, you do still need to wipe.
2. Kids don't pull the washing off the line and drag it through the mud. This is a lucky thing for them, because if they did, they would be in serious trouble.
3. Wet kids don't smell like wet dogs.
4. Both kids and dogs will fart unashamedly when you're watching TV.
5. Dogs get fleas. Kids get lice. Both of them get worms.
6. It is less alarming to find worms in your dog's poop than in your children's.
7. Vaccinating a kid costs about the same as vaccinating a dog.
8. You don't have to put your kids down if they get really sick.
9. People won't question you if you make your dog sleep outside. They might if it's your kid.
10. Kids are more likely to ignore you when you call them. A dog will never.
11. Kids and dogs bite equally painfully. But you can only make one of them let go by whacking them on the nose.
12. Both dogs and children get wet noses. Both types of wet nose will leave a silver slimy streak on your black trousers.
13. A dog will never complain that you've given them the same thing to eat three nights in a row.
14. A dog will wee on the carpet. A kid will wee in its bed.
15. You can't rub your kid's nose in it.
16. Both kids and dogs love going for a walk.
17. A kid will seldom wet themselves if "barked" at by a bigger kid. A dog, will.
18. Dogs should not eat off the table. Kids should not eat off the floor.
19. A dog and a kid can observe each other for the longest time, nose-to-nose, without either of them blinking.
20. Both creatures shed whenever they have sat for any length of time. Dogs shed hair. Kids shed toys, shoes, sweet wrappers and sand.
21. A dog will contort itself to lick its hard to reach bits because this is what dogs do. A kid will contort itself to suck its toes because it thinks it's funny.
22. It is hygienically imperative to wash your hands after handling either your dog or your kid.
23. Even if you yell at your dog, it will love you the next day. Kids are the same.
24. If the truth be told, you are never really ready to have a kid. Same applies for dogs.
25. A dog needs a kid. A kid needs a dog. A mother needs a break. Make it work!

I, the Mother.

I addressed the teacher on an issue that arose in class. Without getting into it, it was an incident which upset my child. It was an incident I was not happy with.

The teacher. Sigh. The teacher. She's young. She's free. She said I shouldn't worry.

I. Shouldn't. Worry.

Shouldn't worry?

What kind of a mother would I be if I didn't worry? Something happened that made my daughter feel uncomfortable. When I heard about it, I felt uncomfortable too. Shouldn't worry? I don't think so!

I do worry. Every day of my life I worry. These two precious people who were born of me are deserving of at least that. They passed through me, a broken chalice, a humble vessel. What miracles they are to shine so brightly! And I do. Worry.

I worry that the world will taint them. That they will be scarred by the ugly things. I fear that the beauty they see in everything will be stained by hurtful, hideous happenings. I am perturbed that, all too soon they will learn the truth of the world. I am worried that they will be hurt. That they will fall and shatter into a million beautiful pieces. I worry that when they pick the pieces up, some will be lost forever. That they will never be whole again. How I wish they could be happy forever. Beautiful forever. Complete forever.

Perhaps I wish for the things I lost, a vicarious attempt at maintaining the innocence. The reality is that these two miraculous creatures, too good for this world, are right here. Right now. They live and breathe in the little spaces of safety I manage to create for them. And sometimes, they breathe their enchanting air into spaces that are wild, and evil, and dangerous. And when they do, I hold my own breath. As badly as I want to protect them from this ravaging planet, I know, deep down, that the world needs these precious jewels.

And if they do fall and shatter, I know I will be there to pick them up and help them find each glimmering splinter to piece back together. So help me. And while their innocent beauty may be marred, they will become more beautiful than before. Because: Blessed are the cracked, for they let in the most light.

Headspace Real Estate

For Sale: One highly cluttered apartment. Narrow views. Built in cupboards overflowing with useless information and copious amounts of guilt. Mostly crowded living areas. Current location somewhere near a toxic power plant which, on the one hand, provides fantastic amounts of power to function on a daily basis, and, on the other hand, fumigates the air with noxious gases (inhaling these fumes may lead to headaches, ravenous hunger, night sweats, panic attacks, inexplicable drops in blood pressure followed by vertigo and nausea, insomnia, confusion and the inability to control heavy machinery).

Wanted: Wide open spaces so I can breathe easy. Air-conditioning is acceptable, however, country air allowing for a fresh point of view would be better. Uncomplicated design an absolute necessity. Open and ample living areas leading to optimal living.  I seek a space where I can think clearly, sleep deeply, laugh loudly, live freely and love uninhibited. Preferably not located within asylum property. Space must sufficiently incorporate both adult and children's facilities. A short commute to reality preferable. Not interested in any renovator's dream - headspace must be spacious, uncluttered and in good working order. 

Just not that into me

I got stood up. This weekend, actually. Yeah, it was a date, of sorts. You know the kind: I bring my kids, you bring yours. Somewhere between the yelling and the wild antics, we'll pretend to have a "grown-up" conversation, then we'll wipe up the mess, pay for damages, and go our separate ways.

It was a once-postponed date, already. One that we had moved on by two weeks, five minutes before we were supposed to meet. I should have taken the hint then, I guess. Silly me! Trying so hard to be pleasant and accommodating.

We moved the date, true. It seemed like it would work out better for both of us that way, anyhow. The day before, I felt uneasy. I sent a message and got an appalling silence in return. And still, I refused to believe that I could be getting the boot. What? Me? But I'm so nice! As nice as a chilled mocha latte on a cloudy summer afternoon. Of course they want to meet with me.

On the day, I tried again. No response. My skull must be thicker than most, because the message just wasn't getting through. It did, however, permeate my cognition, when the date came and went. Just like that. The time, the venue, ignored in the heat of the day. It passed - as though it never happened. Well, it did never happen, but it was like it never did happened in the way of something that was never going to happen.

Ok.

Message received. Loud and clear. In a language I am not all too familiar with, but the cyber gestures assure me of the meanings. I think.

Sigh.

I am a nice person. Really.

My apologies to Queen

Many years ago, a friend told me about how she stalled her car on the highway when her 4 year old started singing, at the top of her voice, a new song she had learned at Sunday school:  

"Jehovah Jireh, my vagina!"

And you'd think that that would be as bad as it could get, right? That nothing could be more startling while winding your way through after school traffic. Right? Wrong.

Cut to today. After school. We're driving home. It's hot. The windows are wound down. The traffic is inching along.

"How was school?" I ask the two little faces staring at me in the rear-view mirror.

"We're learning about the letter "wuh"," whistles T-Bird. She starts whirring a list of 'W'-written words. 

AirBear, out of sorts for not having a wider 'W'-vocabulary to offer to the conversation, starts whining mercilessly.

"We learnt a new song at school," she says.

I'm stopped at a red traffic light. Cars all around. I wink at her in the mirror. "Let's hear it then," I say.

"It's also got 'wuhs' in," she states.

The opposite stream of traffic slows down. My green light is imminent. "Ok," I'm waiting.

"We will, we will, fuck you!" She croons. Loudly.

Green light. I stall the car. Badly. There's a Jeep Cherokee halfway up my exhaust pipe.

She didn't say it, I tell myself, and restart the car. I smile at her reflection, as I pull away in third gear. I wave at the guy in the Jeep. He's unimpressed. I mount the curb. "That's nice," I cringe. "But I think I missed one part of it. Sing it to me again, please."

"We will, we will, fuck you!" She's grinning. I'm rolling up the windows.

"My sweetie pie, " I've swerved into oncoming traffic, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. "I think the song goes like this: We will, we will ROCK you."

"Oooooh," she nods her head. She's quiet for a moment, contemplating. "But it did have a "wuh" in it, hey mom?"

Yes, darling daghter, it really did.

Through the eyes of a child

When T-Bird has ballet, AirBear and I entertain ourselves for the half hour we have to wait by doing anything from playing complicated sick-baby-role-play games, to building puzzles, to taking Pepper for a walk around the school (if we've brought her with us).

Yesterday Air and I had one of these half hours to kill. With the thought of possibly encouraging my child's arty side, I challenged my princess to a live portraiture exercise. We would each take a turn to draw the other one, as we were, right there on the grandstands in the shade. She liked the idea, so I scratched in my handbag for some paper and a pen.

I went first. All the while I'm saying, "Hold still! Don't smile. OK, smile! No, wait, turn your head this way. Oops! Too much!" and she's just giggling, thinking that she has the most bizarre mother on the planet. Here's the pic:

She catches a glimpse of what I've drawn and starts criticising. 

"You made me look like a boy!" 

"I didn't, look you've got that bow on your shirt!" 

"That doesn't look like a bow!"

"But it's all folded - look how your real bow is all folded!"

"But you didn't give me long hair!"

"But your hair's all tied up behind your head! Look, I put your pony-tail hanging over your shoulder. Here, you draw me!"

She grabs the pen, scrutinises my face and starts drawing. I direct her, just for fun. "Remember," I say, "I've just got one nose!"

 She keeps looking up to compare what she's drawing to what she's seeing. I make the mistake of telling her to draw EXACTLY what she sees:

She starts tapping her pen all over my paper face.

"What are you doing?" I asked, "don't ruin your lovely picture!"

"I'm not ruining it," she says emphatically. "These are your pimples and your spots."

Oh.

Then she sticks her tongue out of the corner of her mouth and proceeds to draw, what I imagine are a set of beautiful eyelashes. "Wow," I say, "I've got a LOT of eyelashes!"

"Mom," she shakes her head. "I drew your eyelashes long ago. These are the lines on your forehead."

Oh. Right. Wrinkles. Ouch.

I have a feeling I'm supposed to have this revelation here. Some out of body experience where I am converted from a life-time of frowning and poor skin maintenance, and sign up for a chemical peel and an extra strong age-defying night cream. But I don't. I look at that drawing and smile. Yip, that's me. Pimples and wrinkles. So. What are you going to do about it? 

And anyway, it's not every day you get your picture taken...

After School Dilemma

As far as extra-mural activities go, everyone warns of the danger of "over doing things". For instance: Your five year old does not need to do one (or more) extra-mural activity every day. Don't overload them, the teachers say. OK, I get that. As a mom, I'd be pulling my hair out if I had to dash from one activity to the next, ensuring correct uniform and equipment for whatever it was my sweet angels were getting up to. Not now, anyway. Later. Maybe. But not now.

Look, the list for this age group is ample: art, ballet, brownies, chess, choir, cooking, drama, fishing, golf, gymnastix, hiphop, horse-riding, judo, jui-jitsui, karate, kindermusik, modern dancing, modelling, music appreciation, piano, pilates, playball, pottery, surfschool, swimming, tae kwon do, yoga, so you can appreciate that any parent would second guess what they sign their kid up for.  

But, from all this finger-wagging, guilt-presenting talk, two questions have arisen, for me. 

Question number 1:

Too much is too much. But is too little too little? I guess what I'm trying to say is: how much structured activity, really, should a child be doing after school? And we're talking pre-school here. Pre-homework aged children. Children who have a stay-at-home mom dressing up and doing puzzles and making fairy cakes for teddy bear tea parties. These kids don't have nothing to do most afternoons, is what I'm saying.

From the day she learnt how to walk, T-Bird (now 6 years old) has been a tippy-toe kind of girl (and no, she never spent time in a Jolly Jumper or a Walking Ring). She is just a natural fairy. She flits and flutters wherever she goes. So, naturally, she was a good ballet candidate. For the last 3 years she has been taking ballet classes on a weekly basis. And she loves it. She wants to do it. She gets great exercise through it. She has learnt grace (questionable), self control (doubtful), and poise (when it suits her). But the point is that she is doing something. This year her ballet takes up an half hour slot twice a week. Monday and Wednesday.

OK.

Furthermore, this flitsy little wisp has asked to learn how to play the piano. A) We have a piano and B) I'm not patient enough to teach her how to play, so she has enrolled in piano lessons with a young (and patient) teacher once a week. Half an hour. On a Thursday.

So she has: Monday, Wednesday, Thursday. Sport, sport, culture.

As far as my 4 year old fire-cracker is concerned, AirBear takes part in a sport program aimed at improving eye-hand co-ordination and other skills in most sport disciplines. Once a week. During school time. And that's it. No ballet (she's procrastinating). No gymnastics (although she has expressed an interest). No swimming (I'm going to get moaned at for that, I know). Just Play Ball. She has told me that she would like to learn to play every instrument in the world, starting with violin (emphatically), but her age is against her as far as music teachers in the neighbourhood are concerned. Personally I think that she has a private fantasy involving Andre Rieu, but I might be mistaken.

So AirBear has: Thursday. Sport.

I have dedicated Tuesdays to the Library in the hope based on a faded memory that this will keep them interested in books. Which gives us something to do every afternoon from Monday to Thursday.

But the question is, should they be more sporty? Should they be having swimming lessons? We have a pool, and both girls swim every afternoon (just about). Neither are particularly elegant in their stroke, but I can see how they improve in their own styes from week to week. Also, TV is not necessarily always an option. In fact, TV as is, is no option at all. The kids watch DVDs from time to time. Depending on how their mother is doing, the girls will watch 2-3 DVDs a week, 47 if Mom is taking strain. Usually, there afternoons are spent playing together. Imagination-based games are generally the order of the day, but now, with the arrival of Princess Pepper, games have moved outside and involve a dog (and usually a scraping or two of poo under their shoes - aaargh!) So I can safely say that they aren't couch potato types. They get to run around, breathe fresh air and have those inquiring little minds stimulated.

That's OK, isn't it?

Which leads me to Question number 2:

What, exactly, is the best after-school activity for my children? 

I feel a bit guilty about the swimming thing. Just about every second kid in Durbanville is signed up for swimming (CA's making a killing). Mine aren't. But they are swimming. Not Olympic-style, but they have fun and get from A to B. Should they have better instruction? If they don't have stroke-training now, will it undermine their chances at competitive swimming later?

And that, blogfans, is the crunch of it all, isn't it? If we don't push them to do it now, are we ruining their chances later on? Is that why so many 5 and 6 year olds are exhausted by the end of the week? Is it because they are being given every opportunity their parents can possibly afford to give them? Do they need it now anyhow? And how do you know what field your child will excel at anyway? Do you have to read their Baby Bush Tea leaves before they can walk? Or do you just choose for them and push them to do whatever you, as the parent, have chosen? (I'm thinking Tiger Woods and the Williams sisters here).

Perhaps the real question is: where the hell is that blasted parenting manual anyway? I swear I have two copies rotting away in my womb.