Party Politics

I brought the girls back from a fabulous party at the nature reserve where they explored the natural flora hunting for fossils and dinosaur eggs. I got seriously reprimanded when I took two tiny dinosaurs out of my handbag and was told that they had to stay there as that was their home. 

Er, I don't think so.

But it got me to thinking about the whole aspect of kid's birthday parties.

I can remember only two birthday parties that I had as a child. The one I remember because there are a couple of photographs stuck in an old photo album proving that it happened (6 candles on the cake), and the other I remember because I got into trouble after one of my invited guests smeared ketchup on the dining room wall. I don't remember how old I was.

I guess that it is because of this vast gap in my memory and photographic history, that the presenting of birthday parties for my own children has become such an important aspect of my own parenting self-evaluation criteria. Perhaps it's a little crazy, but I feel the need to host memorable parties for my children and have at least 100 photos of each event to prove to them that I cared enough to celebrate the anniversary. I realise that the only person who is stressing about the next birthday party is me, and half the time the kids haven't got the slightest idea of how much effort has gone into the preparation of their festivities. And yet it is so important for me that my children don't have "just another" birthday party that could have been anybody's party. The party HAS to stand out. They HAVE to remember it. And if they don't get it now, one day when they have kids of their own, they'll understand just how much I wanted to make their birthdays special for them.

Not that I'm trivialising the run-of-the-mill birthday party either. My kids have had tons of fun at very simple parties where there was no theme, no organised party games and no take-home treats. So why then do I labour and obsess for months in advance about the next birthday celebration? 

My children celebrate their birthdays in July and December, and believe it or not, on the evening of the last birthday bash, the next party's theme is decided and the mental planning commences as I lay my head down to sleep off the after-party hangover. 

I know. It's bizarre. But it's me. And the truth is that I love it. I love making things for the parties. Butterfly wings, fairies to hide in the garden, Spoonfuls of sugar, marshmallow mermaids, magic castles to make believe in. And each birthday holds a new idea, a new craft, a new challenge. Being creative helps, and I find that having a party to plan for provides  me with an outlet for my creativity. So, party planning becomes a bit of a hobby for me, keeping me challenged and productive throughout the year.

The downfall of fancy festivities is that the invitation lists are generally inflexible as I have to know well in advance exactly how many tutus and tiaras I have to make. 

Which brings me to the other aspect: Girls vs Boys.

The party themes so far have been: Pretty in Pink, Bubbles, Butterflies, Fairies, Princesses, Mary Poppins and Mermaids. Next on the list is Ballet. As you can see, generally the themes picked are really girly. The problem of accommodating boys to, say, the upcoming Ballet Party, really has me unsettled. If each of the little girls at the ballet party gets to dress up in a ballet skirt, dancing ribbons and satin slippers, and they get to dance to their little hearts' content to the Nutcracker Suite, what do the little boys do? Not having any boys of my own, trying to cater to boy interests while keeping the feminine theme really floors me. I don't even have boys stuff for the boys to do while the girls play Swan Lake (unless  they're into paper dolls and dress-up). And in that case, why are they invited to the party? 

Guilt. It drives the party industry.

You have to invite the people that invited you, right? Or, if they invite you, and you aren't planning on inviting them, do you not accept their invitation?

I have told my kids that they can invite 10 people to their parties (with the two of them it makes twelve, and twelve is a manageable number to cater for and to manage on the day of the event). The problem with this restriction is that once the cousins and extended family are invited, there isn't much space for anyone else. And you can't not invite family - they know when the birthdays are and sort of keep track of approaching anniversaries by inquiring how the preparations are coming along.

Recently, the whole issue of party politics has raised it's nasty head making it very clear that party invitations are actually remote control devices which can potentially set off little parent land-mines if aimed in the wrong direction. People seem to be really concerned about who gets invited to who's party. Which kind of puts a lot of pressure on the next party thrower who just about has to send around an approval list to make sure the date, theme and venue are suitable to everybody's liking.

So I stand in awe of the mom who nonchalantly extends an invitation at the last moment. "Come if you can," she says. "The kids are so welcome. There's plenty for everybody!" I couldn't do it. Jessican't needs the plan. Stick to the plan. Don't jump anything unsuspected on Jessican't.

Perhaps my obsession is ridiculous after all.

Porn to be Mild

Have you ever been minding your own business out there in cyberspace, browsing through virtual malls, smelling the digital daisies, when all of a sudden your PC is bombarded with the sort of things that you would never admit to your mother that you have even heard of? Of course it's happened to you! If you are reading this right now, you would be lying if you said that cyber-porn had never crossed paths with you.

So there I was thinking that my sweet little blog was floating around in a sea of equally sweet and polite collections of ramblings from around the globe, with the odd horrific incident or blasphemous retort thrown in, when all of a sudden I tripped up on a 9 inch dildo and fell face first into somebody's very naked crotch. 

Now I'm a nurse. I am not shocked by the human body. I have seen it all. I've had plenty of very intimate encounters with all manner of anatomy. If you want stories, I could regale you for hours with descriptive, sometimes disgusting, often hilarious tales of wobbly bits and other important body parts. And yet there is still something intrinsically disturbing to me about cyber-porn that floats around just waiting to poke it's horn into my Internet Explorer Cookies Folder.

Call me old-fashioned or naive or whatever, but really, couldn't they just keep all that stuff in a little Pandora's box that isn't lying around for any John, Dick or Hairy to trip over and drown in? Look, I'm not being a prude. If you want it, by all means help yourself, but please don't leave it lying around in between my blog and my kids' school's website. You know what I'm saying?

I mean there really is no value to the cyber-surfer who isn't actually looking for it, to find it. There are enough free porn sites out there that you could get so completely submerged into it without another single person actually even making a cent out of it. So where's the value of slipping a leaflet under every single virtual windscreen wiper then?

I guess that the truth of my gripe is that I'm really moaning about real estate. If you have ever spent an idle hour reading blogs, you will know that you can generally skip from one blog to the next at a randomly generated order, never knowing exactly what the next page holds. And if it all comes down to LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION, then it concerns me that in a brief moment of binary calculation I may end up next door neighbour to a Barely Legal Teen doing something Exceedingly Acrobatic to a Very Lucky Cowboy. It's just not the reputation I'm going for at this point in my life, see?

So I guess what I'm saying is, if you happen to drop in for a browse around and then shuffle on to the next site and it turns out to be a Lonely Housewife amusing herself with a Vacuum Cleaner and a Candle Snuffer, well, I had nothing to do with the town planning. OK?

Salmonella sucks

Just when I was thinking that life without cell-phones would be impossible, my hubby goes and gets deliriously ill on the other side of the world (with a perfectly good cellular telephone in his possession) and switches the gadget to silent. Now I know that it's not the presence of mobile technology that actually makes life bearable, but the presence of an accompanying and competent individual to operate the device. So answer your phone! 

Dammit.

Trying to get information from this particular person when he is pyrexic is a lot like asking a 3 year old to help you with your algebra. Pointless.

Here's me trying to find out if he's ever going to come home (alive), and here's him passed out in the emergency ward of a hospital miles away from home. Oh yes, and here's the cell phone on SILENT!

I don't know where he is. I don't know how he is. He won't answer my calls. Maybe he's angry with me. Maybe he doesn't love me any more. Maybe he's dead! I don't know if I'll ever see him again. I don't know how to access his life-insurance policy. 

Here's me again crying, wailing, gnashing teeth. Here I am yanking things out of my wardrobe looking for suitably mournful attire. 

Eventually he returns my calls. It's well after I've started preparing the memorial service order of ceremony. He's going to come home on a different flight. Seems they might have saved his life. Doctor Wonderful said something about Salmonella poisoning. He missed his flight home and will be back the next day.

I breathe. Stupid silent function! Stupid business trip! Stupid multi-city country! Stupid miles and miles between him and me!

When he came home, I killed him.

(Just a bit.)

A good omen

So today I woke up thinking it might be a good idea to be a red Indian with an intense superstitious side. Reason being, as I opened the bedroom curtains I was met by this sight:

It was a giant bird of prey having breakfast in my backyard! OK, so maybe it was just a medium-sized hawk, but he was still bigger than the average Maltese poodle, and I do think it calls for some sort of fabulous incredulous feeling to the day. 

Which brings me back to the red Indian comment earlier: I should be so lucky as to host a hungry hawk having a hefty helping of hors d'oeuvres. Wouldn't a red Indian be made for life if he was graced by the presence of an awesome winged beast such as this banqueting in his backyard?

So I'm feeling lucky. What brilliant gifts await me this day? I can think of a few that I could really do with, like the safe return of my ailing husband who got a bad case of food poisoning while on a business trip on the other side of the country which landed him in hospital with a ridiculously high fever and delirium and resulted in intravenous therapy to address his dehydration and the need for a massive bolus of antibiotic. Oh, and shorter sentences would be good too.

I guess though, that the visit of the vulture was a sign that I am indeed lucky. I am lucky enough not to own a dog or a cat which would never have allowed the bird to munch his brunch for well over one uninterrupted hour on the lawn. And this goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway just so you can keep up: I am thus lucky enough not to have to pick up dog poo everyday, and sneeze my way from sunup to sundown because of allergy provoking hairs floating on the breeze. Yay for me!

I am also fortunate to have been able to expose my kids to a whole episode straight out of the Discovery Channel when we don't even have satellite TV! 

So hooray for the eagle alighting on my lawn. I have a good feeling that today will be fantastic!

Plus, I am grateful that all the raptor left was feathers, and that bits of bird brains, intestines and skeleton were well and truly munched! Er, hooyay again?

Filling Cyberspace with Crazy

Welcome to this space in my head. I'd like to take you around and show you what I've done with the place. If you're in a rush, I'll save you the time and let you know, right now, that I am completely and utterly insane.

Pick up a happy meal and join me in my inner sanctum, why don't you? Er, that happy meal is mine, see? It's got extra happy in it. Thanks.

Prrring! Prrrring! 

Excuse me one moment while I get that.

"Hello? Yes, this is Jessica. You're who? My life? Oh. Ok. Hi. What? What do you mean I have no idea what I'm doing right now?"

Sorry about that, er, prank call.

So as you can see, things get a little crazy around here. "Hectic" is the word that gets thrown around most. Oh, and don't trip over all the good advice that is lying around the place. Sure you can take some, I'm not using it. If you want, you can take a batch of good intentions too. They do sort of compliment one another, don't you think?

Please. Follow me through this doorway and let's head over to that couch for a little heart-to-heart. So, really, what would you suggest I do with this place? I reckon it could do with a lick of paint and a revamp, but I just don't seem to have the guts to tear off this grotty wallpaper and try something new. I've seen a couple of things that I would love to try - if I could muster up a bit of courage. Wild, fun, carefree, complete, cup-cakes and cross-stitch. Maybe a bird of paradise and an organic veggie patch. I'd love to reupholster that putrid cynacism, but it is rather hard to move it on my own. Oh yes, those glasses would do well to be rose-tinted, I agree. They could do with a clean at any rate, I think those sticky fingerprints have been there since I took my first job babysitting.

Look, apart form the odd stain here and there, and the fear-lint mutating in the corner where the dog pees, the place does get a bit of a clean out every now and then. And it's not like I have to accommodate a lot of people. Sure, family drop in from time to time, but it's usually just me and these thoughts flapping around and alighting on the curtain rails. It's cosy. It's homely. Yip, I would say I'm in the prime of my senility. And it's a good place to be.

Scattered Ramblings

Today I toyed with a couple of ideas I have for my third decade celebrations which are in the not-too-distant future. Thirty! Wow! Who would have thunk? While musing over this upcoming anniversary, I was reminded of my recent wedding anniversary (our ninth - copper, I'm told), and had a pang of guilt because, on the actual day, I was off galavanting in far off deserts while my darling husband was left home alone with the children. To deal with the flood of shame, I sat down and let the feeling pass. And while I was innocently reminiscing over years past, I seem to have been hit by a great big slab of perspective. I realised that I can very nearly divide my life into three equal parts. And each third of my life seems to be quite clearly packaged and labelled in the filing cabinet of my mind.

The first ten years I recall in bright shining images. I was happy. I remember piano lessons, ballet, being carefree. It was easy, fun. There was swimming, safety, puppies and kittens, roller-skates, searching for the man in the moon, pink candy floss, protection. I remember school plays and Christmas trees packed with prezzies. I shone. I excelled. I sang and danced my way from one birthday to the next. I had an easy abandon to the cares of the world. I was blossoming.

The middle third of my life is like a confused memory of a bad dream. I can't seem to remember things clearly, and the things I do remember are warped and strained like the view from a carnival roundabout going too fast. I feel like I'm trying to remember a nightmare in the groggy-head state of early morning. I can't always place the faces or the places. It's a blur. A somewhat disastrous recollection of survival, adolescence, panic, desperately trying to hang on, bunnies being eaten in the middle of the night by neighbourhood cats, homelessness, keeping it together, loneliness, moving, dysfunction, skipping gym class, fighting, falling into a deep hole, moving again, bunking school, DEBT, crying, losing, sinking, moving again, darkness, pimples, and a whole big dose of melancholy.

The most recent third has been a very different picture. I feel like it has been more about me and the circumstances that I have been able to control. Things have been pretty stable. I've been supported, comfortable, dealing with the chaos of the middle third of my life, looking for meaning, balancing. The best things that ever happened to me, happened during the last ten years: Him, Them, my beautiful cherubs. Me finding me. Home Real Home. Growth. A type of acceptance. A fragile closure.

Putting it into groups like that is sort of weird, because it makes me feel a little apprehensive about the next ten years. The pattern as it stands is 10 fine, 10 not fine, 10 fine. What will the next 10 be? Does life really flow in waves? Does there have to be a down after an up? A valley after a rise? Can't I just plateau out here for a little bit? I really do feel tired of climbing this last hill, and I would just like to enjoy the view for a while. Let me at least catch my breath now that I seem to have an even footing. Besides, in another 10 years time I'm going to be the mother of two teenage daughters, so surely it would do everyone a heap-load of good if I could just use this time to prepare myself for THAT stage. I am clueless about parenting pubescents, and I'm guessing that ten years preparation time would put me in good stead to handle that challenge with confidence.

And when the mental ambulations set in like this, I wonder if it wouldn't help to mull this over a glass of wine... I  feel like I might be three glasses behind already.

Three-year old logic

There is just no way on earth that anything is stronger, more powerful or unequivocally air-tight as three year-old logic. You cannot explain it. You cannot define it. You cannot argue with it. It just is, and that's the way it is.

My three year-old asks me to explain things that aren't as if they are, before I've even had a chance to explain that they aren't. I know, I know! It's pretty complex, but stick with me and I'll see if I can help you achieve the same minimal understanding as I have.

Today AirBear posed this question to me: "Mom, why MUST people lick their lips?" Just out of the blue like that. No warning. No provocation. No pre-question lip-licking involved. And not just why do people do it, but why do people have to do it?

So I take up the challenge of this little curve-ball as best I can. I explain that people don't HAVE to lick their lips, but sometimes if your lips are dry, or if you've spilt some ice-cream on your lips, you might be inclined to lick them.

Cool. End of story. I thought so, anyway.

We fetch T-Bird from her Monday extra-murals. The in-car chattering starts up almost immediately.

AirBear: "T, you know what Mommy said?"

 - Of course my ears prickle at the mention of Mommy - and I'm dying to know what wisdom is about to be imparted - 

T-Bird: "What?"

AirBear: "Mommy said that everyone has to suck on their lips so that they don't fall off!"

Er, excuse me? Which Mommy would that have been then? Who said anything about sucking or falling off? Which conversation are you referring to after all? Was I even present during this educational dialogue?

There are two obstacles which arise at this point. The first hurdle is to defend myself to my five year-old who can't believe I would be as stupid as to tell her little sister something so ridiculously untrue. The next complication is that, in my defense, I happen to point out that perhaps AirBear misunderstood our earlier chinwag, which brings the poor dear to a flood of tears released because her mother obviously doesn't love her and is unfairly reprimanding her.

Sigh. I need a drink. 

Talking to myself

When I was younger I used to have audible conversations with myself all the time. Sometimes I would be talking to myself, telling myself about what plans I had for the day, but sometimes I would practice a conversation I would have or should have had with someone. You know that whole, I-wish-I'd-said-that-at-the-time kind of feeling? Sometimes these little arguments would get quite loud and vehement drawing all kinds of unexpected attention from family members who happened to be in earshot at the time.

Well, one day, someone quipped that the first sign of madness was talking to yourself (as was growing hair on your palms, as was actually looking for it). Being quite concerned about the well being of my mind at the tender age of fourteen (and not wanting hirsute hands), I immediately ceased with the private chats.

Years have passed without me even politely greeting myself, and I think the situation is getting to a point of just plain awkwardness now. I mean, after all, I live with myself every day, and it just seems rude not to exchange words with someone you are in constant contact with. Doesn't it? Look, it's not been a completely silent relationship, of course. There are those days where things just seem to be going awfully wrong and I end up swearing at myself, but that also just doesn't seem quite right. I mean, surely if the only verbal exchange between people is cursing and cussing, then there's bound to be some kind of resentment, right?

So in the interest of preserving a happy connection with myself, I have started talking to myself again. It happened sort of out of the blue, like the words had just been dying to be spoken, but my consciousness was holding them back. Then one day, while my mind was focussed on something irrelevant (like which shopping center would provide me with the closest parking to the main entrance so I didn't have to lug my groceries very far), the silence in the car (fortunately it was there and not in the queue at the bank), was disrupted by a voice that is always a little uneasy to actually listen to - my own.

"So, since you're thinking shopping, are you sure you've remembered the loo rolls?"

And so started an easy conversation around household consumables.

Now the question arises: IS this a sign of madness, or is it healthy? I find that being able to audibly converse with myself, I get a better perspective on how I feel about things. I LISTEN to what I'm feeling and it makes me feel more balanced. Like I know myself a little better. And that can't be unhealthy, surely?

And if it is a little crazy? Well, what then? Couldn't I argue that everyone is a little crazy in some way or another? And what is normal anyway? NORMAL is the setting on a hairdryer.

So how normal are you?

Rude food

As far as eating is concerned, have you ever put something in your mouth expecting it to be one thing, and it turned out to be something else? What's that called anyway, when your expectation of something is shot down in a hale of gunfire? And what about that disappointment you feel just after the moment you close your mouth and realise that this thing lodged between your teeth, is not the morsel you were hoping it to be?

I have a bad habit of cleaning up my workspace in the kitchen by placing my finger on the spilled foodstuff, and popping whatever it is into my mouth. So sue me, alright? It might be gross, but I figure that if the countertops are clean to begin with and the food that spills on the countertop is the same stuff that's being served in the fancy china, what's wrong with tasting the food on the countertop?

This unflattering little quirk of mine has it's drawbacks of course. Every now and then I am subjected to that great regret when the thing in my mouth turns out to be something I would usually not be nibbling on.

Like last night, for instance: I was roasting slivers of sweet potato and carrot in a terracotta baking dish. As I placed the dish back in the oven after a quick check on the roasting procedure, I noticed a crispy looking orange sliver resting on the chrome of the stove top. Without hesitating I picked up the toasted fragment and popped it into my mouth. Expecting crispy carrot. What I got was a shard of terracotta baking dish wedged well and truly behind my top incisor. It's disappointing, really. And embarrassing.

And talking of embarrassing moments of incorrect tasting, let me share another delightful little story with you. 

The story happened about two years ago when my dear little cherubs were barely toddling. We were all sitting around in the lounge partaking of a wonderful fettucini alfredo. The children were testing the meal out of their parents' bowls (as little children do). It was quite a busy scene with little people scrambling up onto the adults' laps and hopping off again the moment they had had enough of what was on offer. The meal was tasty. The sauce particularly so. At one point during the meal I looked down and happened to notice a gloop of alfredo sauce dripped on my blouse. Brain has no say in the matter as Jessica gathers up her blouse and licks the spill off.

Sensitive readers would do well to look away now.

Turns out that in all the clambering up and down, one of my precious darlings had wiped their nose on my blouse. And I leave that sad story there.

Other deceptive mouthfuls I've come across are the following: a cube of apple flesh hiding in a salad appearing to all intents and purposes to be a block of feta cheese; wasabi camouflaged as guacamole; the top of a red chilli pretending to be half a baby tomato; cold porridge posing as mashed potato; a plastic bead in my blueberry compote.

So be careful little teeth what you eat...

Being a Mom is the hardest thing in the World

I have always said that becoming a mother did two very important things to me. It showed me the very best things about me that I never knew about, things like strength and patience. But it also has brought out the demons within. The worst character traits I never knew I possessed have raised their evil yellow eyes out of the swamp of my darker side. I have scared myself sometimes with the things I have said, I have felt, I have thought of doing to other people, to myself, to my kids. And these two extremes seem to wage war over the possession of my very fragile state of mind every day of my life.

Today I question whether the better half of me has the upper hand. I somehow don't think so. I suppose it has something to do with the fact that I just don't seem to be seeing eye-to-eye with my offspring. It seems that I have become as unimportant and as distasteful to my kids as dog poo on the sidewalk. I speak. I beg. I plead. I beckon. I call. I ask. I reason. I beseach. And they don't batt an eyelid. They ignore me as if I wasn't even there. I could stand on my head and whistle the national anthem from my arse and all they might do is say "Mom, I'm hungry. When's lunch?"

I am tired. I'm exhausted. What more must I do? I feel like I've been doing everything I can to raise respectable, sensitive, polite little princesses, and all I can say is that if you could hear the conversation coming from their bathtub right now, you would know just how awfully I am failing.

AirBear: "Let's say square words."

T-Bird: "Ok, Shut up, shut up, shut up."

AirBear: "And poo-poo head."

T-Bird: "Shut up, Poo-poo head."

AirBear: "In the toilet!"

T-Bird & Airbear in delighted chorus: "Shut-up Poo-poo head in the toilet!"

Over and over and over again. And sadly, I have to say that the demure 3-year old that I treat with great care because of her dear sensitive little soul, seems to be the instigator of this vile ode to the lavatory.

What am I supposed to do? I ask you with tears in my eyes - is there something I have missed here, or have I been seriously negligent in setting standards? Will my kids ever get clean in the bubbles that froth around them, or am I to resign myself to the raising of blemished, imperfect individuals?

Nothing to Pooh-pooh

 Today, once again, I am grateful that I was able to leave my place of work to be a stay-at-home mom.

My little T-bird woke this morning with a bad case of the runs.

I was able to stay home with her and rush her to the loo every half an hour, sponge down her fevered brow, and lie her in my bed so that she would fall asleep as I played with her hair. How completely wonderful! Not the squirts, of course, but that I could play nurse to my ill child. Without great inconvenience.

If I had had to go to work, the situation would have been completely different. I would have fed her a ripe banana and some other bulk-forming cereal, disguised her fever with a double dose of paracetamol and sent her off to school with a pat on the bum (that I scotch-taped closed for the duration of the morning). OR, I would have dragged her to work with me, giving her strict instructions not to say anything, do anything, breathe on anybody or touch any of my equipment. The  child would have had to fend for her poor self while I pretended like she wasn't there so as to give my clients a mildly professional service. OR, I would have had to take leave from work, phoning my booked clients to tell them "Sorry about this little inconvenience, and the arrangements you've made with your employer to take off work for our appointment, but my child has a runny-bum, and I can't make it." So professional! Yuck to all three! Yay for me and for T-bird who got to stay home together!

Of course it wasn't all just lying in bed/ the bath/ the toilet. No, I undertook a supermom challenge this morning of mildly epic proportions.

While nursing my squittery offspring back to health, I also invaded the roof gutters with a handy trowel and removed buckets of fantastic compost from the rain drains. Of course this took some time, because just as I had gotten my balance on the edge of the roof, a wailing cry would bring me running into the house to get the pooper on the loo as fast as was (in)humanly possible.

But I reckon that, for it having been a well-interrupted exercise, it was pretty successful nonetheless. And in this case, success means that I did not fall off the roof, I did not get crap on my hands at all, and I get to tick another "To Do" off the list.

(She gives herself a rusty noddy-badge that she found in a drain-pipe).

The value of Modern Education

Everyday I ask my children what they learnt at school. And almost, without fail, I get the same reply: Nothing. 

Nothing? Nothing? What am I paying these schools for if my children are learning nothing?

OR sometimes I ask what happened at school that day. Same answer: nothing. So, am I to assume you sat on the carpet looking at the ceiling for 3 1/2 hours? In silence.

I have considered giving up even referring to school so as to save myself the exasperation. 

Which is why, today, I was pleasantly surprised by a new and opposite answer to the daily interrogation.

Me: How was school today?

T-Bird: Great! We learnt a LOT!

Me: Really? What did you learn?

T-Bird, pauses for effect: Our teacher taught us how to breathe!

She seems completely chuffed with herself.

I'm speechless. I'm thinking, well, what have you been doing for the past five years then?

Me: What do you mean she taught you how to breathe?

T-Bird demonstrates, most dramatically. She closes her eyes and LOUDLY breathes in through flaring nostrils. As she does she raises her arms to the sides and up above her head. Her exhalation causes the air to whisper out between her lips in a controlled (but also LOUD) blow. Her arms lower like the wings of an exhausted butterfly.

T-Bird: It's pretty cool, hey?

Yip.

Three-year old theology

So through the thick sinus - cement-in-my-head feeling that I've been carrying around with me all morning, a little voice penetrates the fog:

"Mom, how do elephants fly?" Air-Bear is tugging at my sleeve.

"What?" I was sure I hadn't heard that properly.

"Elephants," she insists. "How do they fly?"

"My Baby," I smile thinking of Dumbo flapping his way through the night sky. "Elephants can't fly."

She looks disappointed.

"What flies then?" she asks.

I'm not really in the mood to teach-in-the-moment. "You tell me," I suggest.

She thinks for a bit.

"Ponies!" she cries.

"Er, no, not exactly."

More disappointment.

"But my pony has wings and can fly," she is referring to the soft toy she sleeps with at night.

"I know," I say, "But real ponies can't fly."

"Then horses!" she pleads.

"No,not horses."

"Donkeys!"

"Also not. Horses and ponies and donkeys really can't fly," I'm tired. My head hurts.

Then silence. I begin to think the conversation is over.

"Mom?" her eyes are bright, like she's just discovered electricity.

"What, my love?"

"I know what can fly!" she's bursting with the delight of her convictions.

"What?" I'm expecting planes, birds and butterflies.

"Jesus!" she's super-impressed with herself. "And God!"

I don't know what to say. She sees that I have not congratulated her on her discovery.

"They fly in the sky and the clouds!" she tries to sell the idea.

"Er, no..." I'm not quite sure where to start with this one.

"Well, Mom," she has become exasperated with her obviously uneducated mother, "They do fly! Otherwise they couldn't get to Heaven."

And that was that. She didn't even stick around long enough for me to get theological on her.

Sigh.

They shoot horses that have what I have

While I was off galavanting in my nostalgic sandpit, my hubby and kids stayed home and got on with things. Part of getting on with things for my dear darling spouse was to undertake his yearly dose of tonsillitis. Without fail this poor guys tonsils flare up at least once a year, and usually at the start of winter. His was a delicate year, ok? So be nice.

Now, as awful as it may sound, I was sort of relieved not to be around when his inflammation got underway. Relieved but dreadfully guilty too - just so you don't think I'm a terrible wife. But I figured that two weeks of me avoiding his sicky germs, a doctor's visit and a course of anti-biotics would have sorted the dear man out by the time I got back to him.

Of course, when I returned, little conversation was spent on the state of his tonsils. An epic match of tonsil-hockey, however, made for a memorable reunion. Ok, ok! So I know you don't peep into my blog for all the juicy little details (you don't, right?), so I'll leave it there. The point is, that four days after my return to glorious South Africa, my husband's nasty little gremlins have spread down my throat and planted a cactus patch somewhere between my tongue and my voice-box. Also, it would seem, they are painting out the inner walls of my nasal passages with copious amounts of gremlin lava. Bottom line is: I've got a bad cold and feel completely sorry for myself.

The kids continue with their verbal diarrhoea (I swear that is how we are supposed to spell that word in South Africa - 4 years of Nursing Science at a renowned South African university can't be wrong!), but it's the mental constipation of their utterings that is rather tough to bare with in my morbid state. On the upside though, I can deal with even silly prattlings, because my ears keep blocking up, shutting out even the highest, squeakiest whine. Hhmm, this head cold thing could have it's advantages after all...

Becoming Mum

Everybody freeze! Stop world! Halt time! Nobody move! I need a moment here.

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I said don't move!

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Ok.

It's official.

I've become my mother.

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Just breathe.

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Cold winter air is sneaking through the branches of the trees in my garden and stroking my children's noses, fingers and toes with long spindly icicle fingers. My kids are running around having a complete ball - absolutely oblivious to the attentions of Jack Frost (my mother indoctrinated me with warnings of him from the time I knew how to undo my buttons). My children too have heard of Mr Frost, but they think he's something more visitorish like Father Christmas, instead of the bogeyman-like intruder I have desperately tried to convey him as. Why? you ask. Well, that's what my mom told me...

...

But, the real nail in the coffin is this: I have just called my kids (still having fun in the garden) inside to put their jerseys on.

"But Mommy," they implored with rosey cheeks and shining eyes, "we're not even cold!"

Without thinking, the words flew out of my mouth. I couldn't stop them. They were formed and created before I even realised I had said them. "You will put your jerseys on because I am cold," I shuddered the moment the words left my mouth. That's so my mom.

...

So, please, I really just need a moment to deal with myself.

Home again, home again!

My adventures are over, for now. I have returned home to my beautiful family and reality has kicked in, as of 6pm last night.

I wanted to tell you all about the loooong flight home, about the picnic in Johannesburg surrounded by Egyptian geese (how ironic!), about the corrupt airline official at the airport, about the marvelous welcome home. But what stands out for me more than anything else right now is how NOISY it is to be home.

At first I thought it was just because they were all excited to see me. The babbling and sharing of news. The singing of the latest song. The "Mommy, this!" and "Mommy, that!" The non-stop commotion! I'm suddenly quite lethargic! And I have realised that it's not actually because they have more to tell me because I have been away. It is just how my kids are. They have always been this way, and I have only now realised why it is that I am tired ALL the time!

After 24 hours of being back home I have come to understand why it is I was feeling so completely finished just before I left on this trip. It is emotionally exhausting having to pay attention to little voices ALL day long! And not only pay attention, but respond appropriately, because if I don't, they accuse me of not listening to them. 

For some reason my kids feel it is necessary to fill any gap of silence with a question, a song, or a whine. I, on the other hand, would love to be able to fill a question, a song, or a whine with a gap of silence. Too much noise makes me restless. Overstimulated. Edgey.

Driving home from a little family reunion this afternoon, I thought I might put the radio on to avoid the endless barrage of questions coming from the backseat (am I a bad mother?) The Pussy Cat Dolls started pelting out their high energy hit Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me? Ok, so not the most peaceful music to drive to, but it did briefly interrupt the verbal diarrhoea emanating from the backseat.

I became aware of a little voice singing along to the music - word for word! I was horrified - my 5 year old was spewing forth dubious lyrics! I switched the radio off fast and gave her a quizzical glance over my shoulder.

"That's my favourite song, Mom" was the reply my raised eyebrow elicited.

Now that the radio was off and silence tried to infiltrate the vehicle once more, my children started up their chattering to ward it off. I gave up. What a choice to make: loss of peace and quiet versus the corruption of my children's minds with tarty music. I settled for the former. This time.

Tale of a Taxi

So. At the risk of alarming you, I'll just come out and say it so it's out there and before I even say it, just know that everything is fine. I'm still alive and kicking. Well, alive anyway.

Yesterday I nearly died. I completely took my life into my hands and placed it, without much thought, into the grimy paws of a TCN taxi driver. What on earth was I thinking? I should have at least asked to see his driver's license before seating myself in the Taxi-To-Hell-As-Long-As-We-Don't-Get-Lost-Along-The-Way-In-Which-Case-We-May-End-Up-In-Zimbabwe-Which-Is-Probably-The-Same-Place-So-Buckle-Up-And-Let's-Go!

As the door closed behind me, a fly that had been flapping around some long-forgotten crumb on the carpet, flew up to the dashboard and took a look at where we were going. I tried to wave him out of my line of vision.

The engine started. The driver looked nervous - had he not expected something? I tried not to read anything into the slight look of panic in his eyes and the beads of sweat growing on his forehead.

We jerked abruptly into motion. My head hit the back rest. I put my hand up to give it a rub and had to pull strands of hair out of the velcro-like pillow cushioning the headrest. I didn't dare turn my head to have a look at what other organic things might be trapped in the tiny hooks. My eyes were locked on the road ahead. Our turn approached in abrupt jolts. We passed it. Also in abrupt jolts.

"That was our turn," the driver was informed. His trembling knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. The fly started to flit nervously around the radio controls. The driver actually tried to do an instantaneous u-turn (in a one-way only road) to take us back to our turn. The action was called to a halt when a large car zoomed past on the right. He found a detour to take us back.

My neck was starting to ache from the stop-start driving. The fly was also looking a little worried.

We were heading for the highway. I suddenly felt very anxious. I braced myself. The driver seemed to develop instant highway dread, and slammed on the breaks. The fly found himself flat up against the windscreen. I tried to exchange glances with my fellow passenger in the back seat, but she was prying the driver's seat out of her eye.

The driver worked up his courage and stepped on the accelerator. We shot out into highway traffic. The fly flew to the window and banged his little fly fists against the glass, begging to be released from this capsule of death.

I realised that I had been holding my breath when I started feeling slightly woozy. I gulped taxi-tainted air deep into my lungs and turned to check out the driver. Was this guy actually for real?

The driver had his eyes closed and seemed to be murmuring something under his breath. He was praying. That's when I realised I should probably be doing the same thing.

I closed my eyes. My life started unfolding in a movie-like manner on my mental screen. The thought struck me, somewhere between watching a kitten being born and a traumatic dentist visit, that neither of the people in the front seat of this vehicle had their eyes on the road. I pressed PAUSE and looked up into the glaring red break lights of an SUV. My gasp woke the driver from his supplications and he slammed on the breaks. Again.

The fly had given up and was lying on his back on my lap, wings crumpled. That, or the impact of banging into the windscreen for the umpteenth time had rendered him spiritless.

Fortunately our destination was just off the highway. When the driver pulled into the parking lot we threw open the doors and tumbled out into the dust and dirt. It took all my presence of mind (of which there was very little by the time our trip was over) not to kiss the ground in absolute gratitude.

As the vehicle pulled away, I had to steady myself when I noticed the dents and scratches that the body of the car sported. I don't think any of those blemishes were thanks to our little adventure around the block. A fly landed on my shoulder. I waved it away.

All I can say is that, on any normal day, I am grateful for being able to drive myself around.

Defending the Blog

It has come to my attention that some people are not happy with the recent state of my blog. I have received complaints about how sparse and uninteresting it has becoming over the last week.
I shall now defend myself and my blog:
Firstly: I'm on holiday! I'm resting and and reviving and regenerating so that by the time I return to my precious family I will be energetic, enthused with vigour and ready to do supermom-type stuff.
Secondly: I'm living with other people at present. Now I know how entertaining it's been (for me) to write and (for you) to read about all the goings on in my little unkempt abode. But it would be kind of rude for me to start writing about other people's STUFF (and trust me when I say I have some serious competition on this level), and other people's PILES (although I have a feeling this may be an infectious condition that you get from your visitors, because if I survey the room I am currently sitting in, about three of the five piles I can see belong to yours truly!)
Next: I currently find myself in a country that regularly gets doused in a seasonal sandstorm, so anywhere I look I see dust (for lack of a better word). There's dust on the streets, dust on the trees, dust on the cars, dust on the stray cats, dust on the people. All this dust sort of affects the levels of inspiration an aspiring blogger can muster up. I mean how stimulating can a greyish sky be, really?
Also: back home I enjoy the mental debate triggered through people-watching. Here people-watching is a tricky activity. Firstly it's pretty hot outside, so the number of people I'm likely to see just by looking out the window is minimal, so I would have to set off to an airconditioned mall to discover some homo-sapiens to research. When I do find a group of people going about their daily business, it's pretty difficult to be inspired much as everybody wears exactly the same thing and, when it comes to the women, well, I can't tell you much about them except that they mingle in groups of floating apparitions and that's about as much as I can see. Being covered head to toe in black makes further investigation very tricky.
So please parden the lack of exciting information or entertaining life quirps at this point in my vacation. If it makes you feel better, I will hopefully be resuming the good ol' blog you've been familiar with pretty soon. So please bear with me.