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!