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.

The place where the colours aren't

I went there again. That place where the colours are muted and the air is thick and heavy. It's really not a nice place to be. But I went.

I know you don't like it when I go there. It makes you feel uncomfortable and maybe even a little embarrassed. There she goes again, you think, off to that awful place. Why does she let herself go there? I don't get it.

The truth is, I don't get it either. And I have very little choice in the matter, really. One moment I'm here with you, and the next thing, I'm in the shadows of high concrete buildings, the heat is stifling, I'm gasping for air.

And it's weird, you know, because I can still hear you talking to me, almost as though you were right beside me, but you're talking through a pillow and your voice is a little softer and muffled. You ask me where I went, and I say that I'm still here even though I know that I'm not. You shuffle your feet and look around you, possibly to find something to hold onto. It's awkward, I know. You feel helpless, like your words aren't quite getting through. And you're anxious that I will make you come and find me in that grey otherworld.

I won't. Because I can't. And even if I could, I wouldn't. There's not enough space in that infinite smokey realm for you. And if you did, somehow, find me there, I would worry about how I would save you from it. For me, I know that my visit in that world is limited. After a period of time, the murkiness spits me out. It will always spit me out. When it's done with me. But I'm not sure what it would do with you. I couldn't bear to take the risk.

I know you don't like it when I go. I don't like to go. It hurts every time. But whenever I go, I find a dull sliver of me resting in the gloom there, and I bring it back with me. When I am expelled from that place, and you see me in colour again, you will notice that there's a little bit more to me; I'll be a little bit bigger, a little bit better.

And sometimes you might worry because I've been gone too long. Don't fret! I just haven't found that hidden bit of me, that's all. Sometimes it takes longer than other times, but I will find it, and I will be spat out once more, and then I'm all yours once more.

You should know that I don't like this other reality, but I've grown to accept it. It's easier than fighting it. I can't expect you to do the same, but maybe, one day, you'll be able to give me the space I need to move in between my rainbow life and my monochromatic animation. It's just easier that way.

My children watch too many movies

AirBear: Mom, I feel sorry for you. Really I do. It must be terrible being the last of your species.

(adapted from Ice Age 2: The Meltdown)

Sometimes you just have to give in to OC

I was overtaken by some bizarre compulsion to analyse my FaceBook contacts. Why? you ask. I don't know, I say. I have no freaking idea what came over me. I just knew I had to go through everybody and find some kind of mathematical explanation as to how my connections, well, connect.

So I started. I drew up each profile and made a list of how many mutual friends I have with each contact. I know, I know. I hear you shaking your head at me in disbelief. I know what you're thinking, and I share your thoughts completely: NUTS!

There must be a way I can organise these contacts of mine, that they make sense, I thought. So I grouped them. Firstly, everyone who shares no other mutual friends with me. Then those of them that I have one mutual friend with. Then two. Then three. All the way up to 24. And my dear darling husband coming in trumps all on his own with 35 mutual friends.

Right, I thought, surely the people I am closest to will move in the same circles as me, share the same bonds... and... nope. It wasn't so. The people I think I'm closest to had in the vicinity of  5-10 shared contacts. Hmmm.

Family members shared an equal number, more or less, as we all know each other, and we know our cousins and they know all of us, so that doesn't really count either.

School friends scored the highest on average, as we spent 12 years of our lives getting to know one another in various classes, so we all know each other through a lifetime of education. No degree of friendship is really reflected through the number of mutual contacts we have. Sigh.

So far, my hours of toiling and sorting have led me to absolutely zero mathematically acceptable conclusion.

A couple of individuals stand out - the girl I've never met, but who I share 3 serious contacts with. The friend who I haven't spoke to for years as we've kind of drifted apart who, next to my husband, has the highest number of shared contacts - I'd kind of think that we would have more to say to each other, or at least more people to talk about!  I notice the mom who has a fair number of mutual contacts, who I haven't even had a proper conversation with. The handful of people in the "No Mutual Friends" group who I have chatted with for hours and hours on end. Perhaps we could have those conversations because they haven't got the low-down on me from anyone else? I can't help but think so.

It makes no sense! And I'm getting irritated. After spending all this time on sequencing and logistics I have absolutely nothing to show for it.

And then it hits me! I am doused in a wave of peace and acceptance: the answer I'm looking for is this: If I ever happened to throw a fantastically humungous party and invited everyone I know, and if FaceBook is a fair statistical reflection of the people that I know, THEN at least everyone will have one other person to talk to, and I'll introduce the O mutual friends to each other, or not invite themat all, whatever, and my hubby and I can mingle between them all. Short sigh - problem solved.

(Nothing)

...

...

I know, right!?!

...

Ok then.

...

She shuffles offstage.

...

And the madness continues...

Just to let you know...

So, I decided, what with all the artsy craftsy fartsy stuff I tend to get muddled up in, I'm going to start a new blog specifically for all that.

Midwife Crisis still remains, and hopes to entertain you for some time yet, but the t-shirts and name boards etc etc will be exposed on another site.

If you're interested, and would like to know what's REALLY keeping me busy, follow the link on the side for ParafinnayLiya, or go to www.parafinnayliya.blogspot.com.

Check you later, blogfans!

And the Unlucky Speculum Award goes to...

Ok, you remember this and this, right? Well, the story continues.

The time had come to check up on those polycystic ovaries. I realised, with mild embarrassment, that I had not yet received my results from lasts year's every-girl's-favourite-annual-outing. So I rang up the Doctor 1's office.

"Hi, I wonder if I could hear about my pap results from December please?"

Receptionist 1 chokes on her pen. "What, you haven't had them yet? I'll check into it right away!"

Click. Line dead. I shrug. A minute passes. The phone rings. It's her.

"We phoned you. It's in our book. We sent a prescription for you. It was faxed. It's recorded in your file. I spoke to you on your cell. I wrote it down."

What? "I'm so sorry, but I never got a call. I don't know about the prescription. Am I sick? I haven't spoken to you on my cell since I was last in your waiting room. Am I gonna die?"

"It's all been noted - in ink. I told you about it. I faxed your prescription through to your pharmacy. I made a note."

"Er, can I talk to Doctor 1, please?"

"She's out. In theatre. I'll get her to call you."

Click. Line dead. I call the pharmacy immediately to check on my prescription. They check their files, their computers, under the tables, between the prozac and the Valium. Nothing. No prescription. No illness reported. 

I do a quick self examination. Heart: pounding: check. Lungs: gasping: check. Stomach: knotted: check. Blood pressure: rising: check. Girly bits: status unknown, I thought I knew, but I didn't, my ovaries may quite possibly be  quietly shriveling up and expiring unbeknownst to me.

The phone rings. It's Doctor 1. She can't understand what happened. I'm upset. Am I sick? Am I going to make it? Will I live to see my grandchildren? She thinks I'm over-reacting. She apologises again.

Click. Line dead.

The phone rings. It's Receptionist 1. She can't understand what happened. She apologises. Profusely. I'm still considering my mortality.

Click. Line dead.

The phone rings. It's Doctor 1. She wants to see me. After I've had my abdominal sonar. An apologetic follow-up of sorts. She says sorry.

Click.

I check the mail. The pathologists have not been paid. They say my medical aid doesn't recognise me as a member. They have incorrect details for me. Crap.

A day passes. I breathe. In. Out.

I have an appointment for an abdominal sonar with Doctor 2. Must have full bladder is typed on the card. I have an hour to get ready. I hop in the bath. It's the right thing to do when you're going for an intimate check-up. I drink a litre of water. Tap water. Not bath water. The doorbell rings. The garden service has arrived. I need to let them in. Hop out of the bath. Wet footprints on my wooden floor. I put on something decent. Open gate. Bring the puppy in - the lawnmowers make her nervous. The phone rings. It's the Ultimate Man. We talk. The puppy squats on my favourite carpet and starts peeing. I yell. The phone meets its demise on the kitchen tiles. Dog outside. Drink some more water. Dry the carpet. Swear. Drink water. Phone. Bath. Drink. Dammit. Gotta go.

I arrive for my appointment. Screw polycystic ovaries, I think to myself, my bursting bladder causing copius irrational thoughts to drift through my mind.

"Is Doctor 2 running late?" I ask, tears welling in my eyes. I can't remember when last I was so uncomfortable. Apparently she isn't. I perch myself on the edge of the seat trying not to think about my bursting pelvis. A gentle rain starts to pitter-patter against the window. I feel an aching spasm stretch over my abdomen. I pick up a magazine and try to focus my attention on a fascinating true-life story of a woman who grew a head in her stomach. Receptionist 2 stands up and goes to the loo. I hear it flush. I wince. The tap runs for a bit. A gentle, but annoying trickle.

I'm starting to do the butt dance. You know the one. Your bladder's so full you can't find a comfy spot to be in, so you shift from one butt cheek to the next. It's an awkward jiggle of sorts.

Doctor 2 comes out. She smiles at me. Then turns around and goes to make herself a cup of coffee. I cringe. By this stage the muscles controlling my eyelids have attached themselves to my bladder, and every time I blink, I have to pinch.

Doctor 2 ushers me into her office. She starts to exchange pleasantries. "Listen lady," I say, firmly gripping her by the arm, "let's just get this over, then we can chat." She nods and squeezes sonar gel all over my belly. A quick and agonising abdominal scan is performed. She shows me the door to the loo. Grateful, I excuse myself. 

If I had died at that point, I would have gone into the next world with a smile on my face. There is no greater pleasure than the relief I felt at being able to empty my stretched bladder. I must have spent a long time in there, because when I returned to the room, the doctor was checking her watch. She eyed me with vague recognition. "Better?" she asked and offered me an examination gown to don. "Bottom's off, please."

Step two to checking out these spongey ovaries was the vaginal sonar. She slipped the magic wand into me and quickly picked up the (much better looking than last year's) ovaries. The black and white image on the screen illuminated the room. She removed the wand. The image disappeared. a look of mild horror crossed her face.

"Oops," she said. "The image is gone, I'll have to do it again. Sorry!"

"Well, it is our second date," I giggled, "and I won't mind as long as you don't charge me double!"

She repeated the sonar.

It was over quickly. I had a device-free vagina. I asked her if she was done with me, and could I get dressed.

"Unless you want me to do it a third time," she smiled, "I'll have to charge you, though. And I may be pushing the goose that laid the golden eggs"

"If it was as good for you as it was for me, " I said, "we'll call it quits"

Anyway, the results show my abnormally large ovaries have shrunk somewhat, and, after a year of hormone treatment I'm not popping out ova at a rate of knots. Guess it's not all bad.

The beast within

The creature stirred again last week. It was jittery. Unhappy. Needing fresh air. Lacking attention, food, calming strokes, it raised its gargantuan head and peered through the walls of its enclosure.

They are weak walls. Not made of brick or stone. They are walls of resolve, determination, decisions mortared together with hope and a little denial. These were the walls made to hold a creature such as this.

The beast had been still for some time. Initially it was sedated and calmed. Rocked in a cradle of soporifics. Asleep. Dormant. Drugged. And this was the best thing for the beast at the time. The walls were flimsy then. Shaky, and in places paper thin.

In time, as the fortifications grew, the beast was released from its pharmaceutical bonds. It was caressed, stroked, petted by a nervous but accepting hand. It would not attack for some time. It had made its presence known, and its guardian took the responsibility of its care very seriously. She could not amputate the beast from its enclosure, nor could she deny its existence. That creature had been born there. I t had grown in that petty coop over so many years, that parts of the beast had meshed with its confines; growing to be a part of what held it back. To destroy the beast would be to destroy the vessel it inhabited.

Its needs were minimal. It needed acknowledgement. It needed room to breathe from time to time and a safe place to cry. But above all, it needed rest. A lack of respite would disturb the creature, causing it to howl and writhe within its measly confines.

For a while its slumber was poor and disturbed. It thrashed around, unable to breathe, unable to call out for what it needed so dearly. The guardian became subdued when she realised just how large a beast was living in the confines of her paltry enclosure. "This thing," she thought, "this thing. It is so much bigger than me! So much stronger even." She collapsed a little, and with that, the creature started to devour her. First her resolve. Her determination. Her hope. Gnawing away at her, the creature grew some more. Its cage was straining beneath its heaving mass. Even splitting at places where a claw would jut through, grabbing at the things the guardian held dear.

Her energy consumed, the guardian released a slow unsteady breath. "Help!" she whispered. Her timid voice collided with an empty space and shattered into a million diamond tears which fell around her like shards of glass. Broken, she lay weeping.

The beast, partially satiated, lay quietly at her feet. She opened her eyes and breathed in. Its eyes locked onto hers, and the two of them regarded each other for some time. She pulled herself up to sitting. The creature remained still, but never broke eye contact. She put her hand out, and placed it on the creature's brow. Neither moved again for some time.

Presently she became aware of a rock beneath and behind her. It was moving. Or, rather, her fallen tears were moving towards it, sinking into it, building it up. The rock grew up alongside her, and enveloped her tired body. It held her. Strong. Steady. Solid. She breathed out and closed her eyes.

On opening her eyes, the guardian noted how much smaller the beast seemed. It had diminished in size. It seemed weaker, almost as though it were cowering. She scanned the enclosure. All the "bricks" were still there, and as she watched, the walls seemed to grow of their own accord. Only, there was more than just her own strength and hope forming the ramparts. There seemed to be little bits of rock filling the cracks in her resolve, the dents in her self-worth. 

When it was completed, the new wall was strong. Steady. Solid.

Weekend News

We had a birthday party yesterday for the kids. It was for a son of a friend. A good friend. She asked me to make his cake. Sure. Like I can say no. After all, I take my friendship - fees pretty seriously. 

The theme was Travel to Toyland, and the kids had a ball! They rode electronic kiddies rides and flew polystyrene jets and kicked balls and played dollies and had more sweets to eat than are currently available in Harare.

The cake turned out quite cute. Here it is:

The cupcakes were from Frostings.