Seeing spots

On the morning of the day we were to collect Princess Pepper (our sweet baby dalmatian who is keeping me so the hell up at night I am rapidly losing my grip on reality), we stopped by the local vetshop (where I have been in and out of a number of times before and never ever experienced the kind of reception that we got on that morning).

The shop assistant asked how she could help. We said we needed puppy stuff.

Oh my! Clean-up on aisle 5! Someone give the nice lady a tranquiliser, please.

"Ooooh, a puppeeeeee! Arrrrrrr. That's sooooooo sweetie-peetie-pipey-pie! Let me give you this, and this and some happy little bit of this. You're going to be sooooooo happy! I'm so so so very happy for you." And also some other blubbery stuff along the lines of I-don't-know-you--and-we've-just-met-and-now-we-can-be-best-friends-forever!

Um.

Well, I get that "dog people" might think that other people with dogs are also"dog-people", and that there might be some kind of secret "dog-people" handshake and special "dog-people" language, but I wish to set the matter straight. For me.

I am not a dog person.

Also,

I am not a cat person.

And so,

I think,

I might not be much of an animal person at all.

There. I said it.

Make no mistake; I've tried, really I have, to be an "animal person". But, and it really hurts a bit to say it, I've failed miserably.

I remember once, a tree-hugging-kitten-saving friend of mine said that you can tell so much about a person by knowing how they are with animals. Only people who genuinely love animals are worth the time of day, in her opinion. Wow! Talk about putting pressure on little old not-an-animal-lover-me!

Can I just say this? Cats make me sneeze. I feel incredibly dirty when a dog is around. No, puppy breath is not delightful, it makes me feel a bit queasy actually. I do not get a thrill from being "kissed" hello, by an overly zealous and extremely slobbery hound. I really hate that sniff-in-the-crotch canine greeting. When I've been around animals everything feels dusty, smells a little dank, needs a wash.

If you're into stocks and shares, let me give you a little "heads-up": buy Dettol. 

I am going through so much hand soap and disinfectant at the moment! I think my hands have shrunk, I've washed them so much. Seriously! My wedding ring (which I don't take off much because I'm afraid I'll lose it) has been polished and scrubbed so much that it is shining like it did when it was new - and that was more than ten years ago!

So why the puppy then? you ask. I nod my head slowly. Look, I think she's really sweet, and cute in particular and a very handsome dog in general. It's not that I don't like her. I'd just like to like her from a distance, so I can preserve my  private bubble - keep it smelling like me and not like veterinary formulated puppy pellets. I'm alone at home a lot, and recent neighbourhood events have stressed the need for having an extra pair of eyes on our property - without getting all "ooh-the-crime-in-SA-makes-it-worth-changing-your-nationality". We needed a dog, and I don't know that I'd have taken more kindly to any other kind of dog than a dal. 

So here we are extending our family with a spotty puppy (who, by the way, is near impossible to see when she's standing on a sheet of newspaper). Give me time to adjust.

On Pets. Again.

Well, I wish I could go back about a year and lead you into this the way it has been gradually approaching me, but I think I was in denial and tried not to really consider it too carefully, and because of that, Wham! we have a new puppy. Just like that. So meet the newest addition, Princess Pepper:

Also, we very nearly had a new tortoise too, but he pooped all over the car and my hubby, so we tossed him out the window. No! Of course we didn't. The real story is that we rescued the reptile as he was crossing the road, and while we were deciding what to do with it, the owners appeared looking for it. But the pooped in the car on my hubby bit, is pretty damn close to the truth. We had brought a small tortoise into the car, but we passed a small tortoise plus precariously dangling excrement out of the car into the awaiting hands of its owner. Phew! Don't think I could manage with two new creatures' fecal output at the same time, anyway. Even just the one is a huge deal for me. Seriously. I even made sure the pooper scooper is blue and pointed out to my hubby that blue is a boy's colour and I hope he's aware of his responsibilities here. Ahem. So maybe I'm a bit uptight, but I'm allowed a little leeway, surely? seeing as I'm generally so low-maintenance as it is. Right?

I must just point out that we have gotten off to a shaky start as little Pepper has yet to adjust to being away from her bumptious brothers and sisters. She woke so many times through the night that I lost count. But it was often after hourly, and sometimes half-hourly, intervals. Also, within her first 12 hours here, she has pooped 4 times. That works out to 8 poos a day. 8 little landmines waiting to infiltrate someone's soles. 8 ways for me to gag. 8 chances for my hubby to make use of HIS blue pooper scooper. I'm so no ready for that...

(I'm not sure how this is going to work out, but hopefully I'm in one piece at the end of it all.)

Another name board has been handed over. Here is a pic:

... and breathe out!

Thank goodness the first week of term has come to an end! And, on the same grateful note, thank goodness it was a three-day week to ease us holiday-minded people back into the swing of things.

By day 3 I'm pleased to report that AirBear seems to be settling nicely into her new class/ teacher/ school. We have had no more tears, and even some excited chatter about the day's events and the silly boys and the nice little friend with curly hair "all over her head"!

Likewise T-Bird is equally settled with her new teacher, but told me today that she couldn't finish all her work this morning as "I was chatting too much!"

So it would seem my kids are going to be ok, afterall. The teachers, however look rather worn and some even wounded after their first day of school. Yip, you heard me. One unhappy little guy took his frustration out on a very patient teacher, leaving her bleeding and bruised. I think it would be fair for pre-school teachers to ask for danger-pay.

Well a weekend of positive brain-washing re:school lies ahead, and whatever else the world might throw at me. Let's hope it doesn't fly by too quickly!

Help! I'm raising a perfectionist!

So AirBear started at "big" school yesterday. Joining her big sister, I thought things would be great (especially for me having only one venue to travel to).

Well, understandably, the poor child had a serious case of butterflies leading up to the big day. Perhaps not noticeable to the untrained eye, as she tends to be very guarded with her emotions - always putting on a brave face - but I picked up the waver in her voice, the shivers in her knees, the ache in her tummy, the restless nights leading up to her first day.

At school, that morning, she gave me permission to leave her, of course, because she's big and brave and together, so I kissed her and left. Later in the day, when I collected her, I asked how the day had gone.

"Not too good," she mumbled, and then refused to tell me what had happened until, by the time we got home, I was pulling my hair out.

"Come have lunch in the kitchen, and you can tell me all about your day," I suggested.

She turned to walk up the passage, her little head bowed. "I just need to go cry in my room," she said.

OMG! How much of the anguish must I bear?

No, I didn't let her do it, of course not. I followed her to her room and found her curled up on her bed. I cuddled her and kissed her and tickled her to get one of her magical smiles. T-Bird joined us, and in our complicated entanglement AirBear related what had happened to her.

A bit of a disjointed story, but it all came down to two separate things where she had failed to do what was expected of her. No pressure is put on them at this stage, but this dear little person expects so much from herself. She wants to do everything right. All. The. Time. She seldom tries new things unless she is sure she can do it to begin with. She gives herself no room for mistakes.

As her mom, I know that she needs time to adjust and settle, and that it will go well. She has a super teacher, and there are only 17 kids in her class. She knows the teacher, her sister is just a few doors away. But, oh! My dear little sparrow! Don't be so unforgivably hard on yourself! Things don't always have to be completely perfect. You don't always have to be perfect. In fact, you never have to be perfect. Just be yourself. Have fun. Relax. There is so much time for you. And you will be ok.

Please be ok.

PS On a lighter note, I have my first official order in for a name board - Yay!

School's back!

I don't know about you, but I am just thrilled that the kids went back to school today - in fact, I feel like I've been given time off for good behaviour, or something. Phew!

I've decided that 6 weeks is just way too long for an at-home vacation. And not only that, but I observed a truly strange event occurring over the children's holiday. I found, that the more uninterrupted time the kids spent with their dear old mum, the more their umbilical cords started to regrow. It's true - I swear!

At the start it was fine. They entertained themselves, played nice, kept busy. But, as time passed, they became more and more attached to me. In fact, their distance from me decreased every single day. Until, at a point, I was being shadowed wherever I walked. I couldn't escape them! I'd get up to make a cup of tea, and they'd follow me, noses at my elbows.

"What are you doing here?" I'd ask.

"Just seeing what you're doing," they'd reply.

I'd get up to go to the loo. As I sat down, two little faces would appear in the doorway.

"Excuse me," I'd try and be as composed as a da Vinci painting, "but, I'm kinda busy here." (It's very hard, by the way, to be as poised as Mona Lisa when your arse is uncovered and you're holding back a fart.)

"It's ok," they'd say, squeezing their eyes tight shut, "we won't look."

"But I sort of need some privacy," I'd urgently beg.

"It's ok, Mom. There's nothing to be embarrassed about, you know. Everybody poos!"

"Will you just get out of here!" I'd cry. They would vanish, a door slamming behind their departing footsteps. Later, I'd find them sitting on the floor just outside the door, pressing their cheeks up against the wood, like forlorn, neglected orphans.

So you can imagine my great relief at having a child-free space around me as we speak. It's a bit like fresh air. And it's quiet. And no-one's squabbling. No-one's asking me for a drink. Or a snack. Or to wipe their bottom. Ah. What great peace is this!

But I'm sort of starting to miss the girls - can't wait to collect them and hear about their day. Tragic, aren't I?

So I've been busy...

I couldn't help myself - It all started as a whimsy, and now they're just happening!

This is little Lily's initial (6" x6"). I have no idea what her room looks like, or what her nursery decor might be, so I took a chance with girly pink. "L" is for Lily as well as for Ladybug, and she (the ladybug) sparkles!

This is the most recent creation (10" x 14") - a gift for the kindest, sweetest, most loving nursery school teacher ever! I just LOVE the bees - they took on so much character as I went. I really never expected them to end up so cute! (Bees = B's = B = Aunty B!)

You're gonna love me for this!

Are you sick and tired of beach trips ending in sprinklings of sand all over your car's upholstery? Do you wish you could go to the beach without having to deal with the post-beach clean up? Do you regret not having a portable shower to rinse off the stubborn grains of sand that cling to little feet and fingers making it near impossible to put sandals and shirts back on without those grains landing up at the bottom of your shoes, or in the creases of your underwear? Do you despair when you can't get the beach sand off your hands when it comes to your picnic lunch on the beach, bringing a whole new meaning to the word "sandwich"?

Are you as sick of dealing with beach sand as I am?

Well? Are you?

The solutions, my friends, is a simple one.
The answer is to fight sprinklings of sand with sprinklings of baby powder. You heard me. Forget trying to brush off the beach with a mostly damp (and also sandy) towel. Forget the wet wipes - they're expensive. Just be sure to toss a bottle of baby powder in your beach bag before you leave home. (And don't tell me you don't have any baby powder. If you have a kid - you have baby powder. Any expectant mother who has been thrown a baby shower, will have received baby powder in copius amounts. Statistics show that most expectant mothers leave their baby showers with an average of 11.8 bottles of baby powder. Further studies show that most of these bottles of baby powder are passed on as gifts to other expectant mothers at follow-up baby showers. An average of only 0.4 bottles are ever really used by the original receiver of the gift. On inquiring, it is usually determined that 80% of the amount actually used, was in fact part of a mad toddler driven scheme to recreate a snowstorm in the living room). But, I digress.

Baby powder is the solution to sand clinging to your body. Like magic, with one light dusting of talc, gritty beach sand is loosened and dissolved into thin air.

Try it!

Why my kids might not graduate from medical school

T-Bird: "I have fairies in my body. Lots of them. Mo-om! Don't look at me like that - you know what fairies are! They're those things that fly. Well, I have lots of them! And they're in my body. And there's a whole lot that help get rid of all the rubbish in my body with my poo."

AirBear: "Well, God makes my body work."

Silence.

AirBear: "But sometimes it's a little mouse."

A bit of a gripe, actually.

It really irritates me about how little people understand about the basic geography of the middle east. We didn't live there long, but long enough to know a bit about which way is up. After spending 2 years in Saudi Arabia, it really grates my carrot when people ask me about my time in Dubai. So, to save you from making an ass of yourself when engaging in light conversation with people about the middle east, let me enlighten you.

Lesson Number 1: Dubai is NOT a country.

Please look at the map. You see that tiny bit of orange country just to the right of the large yellow mass? Look a little closer. Somewhere near the top of it, you will see, written pretty tiny, the word: Dubai. Dubai is a bustling CITY in the north of the country known as the United Arab Emirates. (Oh, yes. The United Arab Emirates is the name of a country

Lesson Number 2: Dubai is NOT In Saudi Arabia. 

Also, Dubai is nowhere near to even being equal to Saudi Arabia. When you say, "So how was Dubai?" and I say "It was Saudi, actually," and you say, "Oh, but it's the same thing," you are very very mistaken. Dubai is NOT the same thing as Saudi. (Check the map: Dubai = tiny little city in UAE, SAUDI ARABIA = massive expanse of lemony yellow land).

Lesson Number 3: Saudi Arabia is NOT THE middle east.

Never assume, when conversation turns to the middle east, that Saudi Arabia is the topic of conversation. (Check map, please). The middle east is comprised of a vast number of countries. Remember also that "Middle-East-Conversation" is also not always about Israel vs Palestine. Bear in mind that we're talking about twenty-or-so different countries with different political climates, and even different degrees of desert. They ARE NOT all one and the same.

Lesson Number 4: In the same vein, Israel is NOT THE middle east.

Check the map again, please. Do you see that small strip of burgandy just off to the north west of Saudi Arabia (the frikking huge yellow expanse in the middle)? That's Israel. See what I mean? There's a lot more to the middle east than that small, albeit extremely volatile, strip of land.

Thank you.

The way things are

So it would seem that the bug I'm getting over, has found new lodgings in the Mother of Last Year (unfortunately the title of Mother of the Year is floating, and until proven otherwise, a temporary title will be used).

 The man was complaining of the all too familiar sore throat, blocked head and aching joints, when I stirred up a great concoction of vitamin C and anti-inflammatories to wash his malaise away. I held out the potion, and the whining started.

"I don't want all that stuff. I don't need it."

"Don't question me," I said, all maternal-like, "I am a nurse, you know."

"Really?" he said, eyebrows raised, taunting.

"Daddy," T-Bird interjected. "Mommy really is a nurse. Or she used to be a nurse."

A moment passed where we all exchanged glances.

"Mommy is a nurse who stays at home," she declared after a little thinking.

I nodded triumphantly at her father and shoved the medication into his hand.

"...and who goes shopping."

So much for victory lasting for any decent length of time.

PS. And it's not true, by the way. I do a lot of other stuff too.

Out of Commission

So, weirdly enough, it would seem I have developed a form of midsummer's flu. I have no idea how it happened, but I believe that subconsciously, my body decided that once the year actually gets going, and school's back, and the extra-murals start, there won't be time for me to get sick, so it's taking its sick leave now, before the chaos of the new year starts.

So there I was, resting my fevered brow upon the armrest of the couch, when my two little girls, craving affection, descended upon my weakened frame. Hugs and kisses were offered in generous amounts. I tried to push them off me.

"Guys," I moaned, "please don't kiss me. I don't want to make you sick."

"Can we kiss your mouth?" asked T-Bird.

"No."

"Can we kiss your nose?" asked AirBear.

"No."

"Can we kiss your cheek?"

"Your chin?"

"Your forehead?"

"No, no, no. You cannot kiss my face."

Little downcast faces looked at me. "But why?"

"Because I'm sick," I explained.

"Oh," said AirBear, "it's because you're sick in your face."

"Yes, I suppose. Here," I said extending my arm, dangling my fingers to the floor, all regal-like, "you may kiss the royal hand."

They liked that. They kissed the back of my hand, courtsied and ran off to play fairies.

Big-boned Ballet

I recently attended a dance school recital whose students ranged in age from 3 to 30. There were about thirty different performances on the program and the show covered various aspects of dance, from ballet to hip-hop, tap and modern.

Now, while it was entertaining and all, some disturbing thought kept nagging me. The thought was: Why are there so many fat ballerinas on stage? When I first became aware of what I was actually thinking in my subconscious, I started counting the obese dancers. In each group that performed. Shockingly, there was always a minimum of two overweight dancers in each group. I realise that the skimpy outfits that dancers wear for ease of movement also add to the ease of identifying  the portly kids in the group, but really!?! What in the world is going on?

When I was at school, if there was ONE fat kid in your school, let alone in your own class, it was a lot, and generally the poor child had some glandular problem. But after watching that ballet show, I was totally horrified at the number of fat dancers I saw. Surely glandular disorders are not so plentiful nowadays?

I presume they dance (or are encouraged to dance) to try and deal with the extra weight, and most of these podgy girls are actually quite agile and graceful when performing, but surely this is a sign of the times? And I can't help but wonder if MickeyD and the likes are in some (large) way responsible. Is the convenience of er, convenience foods the direct cause of these growing numbers of portly dancers?

How the times they are a-changing

If I, as a 4 year old, back in the early 80's, had been caught singing anything other than "Edelweiss" and "Jesus Loves Me", my parents would have definitely raised a disapproving eyebrow or two and warned me not to repeat the refrain in public.

If my grandparents had ever caught a whisper of "Blue Suede Shoes", or, heaven forbid, "Wake up Little Suzy", well, there would have been some serious scolding to follow I'm sure.

But oh, the times have changed, haven't they? Not only do my children sing the entire ABBA album backwards, they've cottoned onto some more recent artists too. Mika, Katy Perry, and the girl who sings "Mercy" are all hot favourites amongst the girls. (Note my musical expertise coming through. Ahem. - what's that chick's name, anyway?)

And it's not that they just hum along, but we actually get them to rehearse their version of a particular song for the mild amusement and listening pleasure of our friends. (See, this is why we even have kids: cheap entertainment!)

So then, is something rotten in the state of Denmark? By encouraging the wild musical flavours of the current times are we nurturing rebellion, low morals and social disintegration? I don't think so. After all, we grew up with the music of the eighties. And even with the birth of techno and grunge mixed into the brew of our musical nutrition, we didn't (all) turn into delinquents, criminals or rodent sacrificing satanists.

Perhaps our generation has learnt that sticks and stones can break our bones but words can never harm us? It's an understanding our parents never quite had, fearing our souls would be lost forever if we listened to too much rock 'n roll or heavy metal. Maybe we don't regard words with as much fear and respect as our predecessors did. Maybe we are more flippant and careless with the language we use. Maybe.

But, when all is said and done, you have to admit that it is still a hoot to watch your parents cringe at words like "Fart", and even more so when it's your tiny little angel saying it.

Yes, we have less fear of the effects of music and lyrics on our offspring. Our concerns are more focussed on technology and the internet and what effects cellular phones will have on our children's lives. And who knows, maybe in twenty years time our kids will scoff at our concern over things like radiation. Maybe they'll put their babies in their microwave ovens to warm them up on a cold day, and joke about how we react to that.

Maybe.

Toothbrush Tales

While we stayed overseas, I would write regular updates back home to our friends and family informing them of all the new and fantastic things that were going on in our exotic lives. I happened to be going through these letters the other day, and found one that I think you might like. Here goes:

It was the night before last week Saturday, and all through the sandpit, not a creature was stirring, not even one of those really big geckos that cling to the walls around the compound.

 

Brett was in Riyadh for the whole of last week on a training course for work. For Brett this meant going crazy in a hotel room (because he didn’t know what else to do on his own in Riyadh) and for Jess it meant going crazy at home because she didn’t have a car to use for the evening Cinnabon gathering missions.

 

All should not be seen in a negative light, however. Brett did get a chance to work out in the hotel’s exclusive gym AND go for mid-week drinks at the American Embassy in Riyadh (by cordial invitation only, bar closes at 8pm). And for Jess… well this may take a little explaining.

 

Jess’s toothbrush is a sacred object. A holy shrine to privacy, if you wish. All too often, the pre-bed/ post-rise/ mid-morning ritual of toothbrushing in the Commaille household has been interrupted with Jess’s high-pitched squeals of utter disdain and disbelief at the sight of Brett sacrilegiously scrubbing away at his pearly whites with her toothbrush. Sometimes, if Brett gets himself together before Jess (also not uncommon), Jess may get to the bathroom to take part in her dental hygiene regimen only to be met by a dripping wet toothbrush, while Brett’s is bone dry.

 

These sins have been commonplace ever since, on the acquisition of our last toothbrushes, Brett refused to take the blue one (because “I always have the blue one”) and insisted on the green one. Needless to say, old habits die hard, and if them teeth are used to that old blue scrubber, there is little chance they will stay away from it.

 

Brett’s absence last week gave Jess a kind of respite, a truly orthodontic peace, knowing that her toothbrush was set apart for her exclusive use.

 

But, as we all know, all good things do come to an end. First night back home and Brett was happily scrubbing away with Jess’s toothbrush once again!

 

But this is not a tale of woe and sorrow. Oh no! Behind every trial we face, there is a lesson too valuable to ignore. Jess took action. Without saying a word (although if looks could spit, Brett would have needed a life jacket), she rushed her toothbrush to the dressing table and proceeded to paint it in Yardley Crushed Berry nail polish.

 

And that, folks, is what they mean by necessity being the mother of invention. At present an unusual calm rests in our bathroom – a sense of harmony, peace and dental well-being. The paint-job has worked beautifully. On more than one occasion Brett has stopped short realizing that he has grabbed the incorrect brush and thus avoided recommitting his serial offence.

Making the Most of my New Year Oomph

Ok. So maybe I was a little cynical back then. Back there in 2008. I'm only human. I made a mistake. But, I'm older now. And wiser. And I had a weirdly satisfying revelation today which I intend on sharing with you.

So there I was, getting high on Mr Muscle Multi-Purpose House Cleaner, scrubbing blisters onto my knuckles. My knees and elbows groaned under the strain of nitty gritty tile cleaning. I thought to myself that I am always a little slow on the uptake. Here I was undertaking a fairly monumental Spring Clean, and we're half way through summer. Geez, someone give the girl an espresso!

Anyway, inhaling detergent fumes might do that to me, I don't know, but I realised, amidst the scrubbing and dusting and disinfecting, that the last three days have been, well, awash with domestic activity of the cleansing kind. In fact, since the dawn of the new year, I have washed over 10 loads of washing, ironed 6 of those ten, composted the garden, raked all the leaves off the lawn, cleared out the guest room, vacuumed three carpets, exterminated 15 (plus) spider webs and ant colonies on my domiciliary boundary, and packed away all the Christmas decorations! (I know it was early, but I don't abide by the twelth night rule, ok?) And, on top of all of that, home life has been business as usual, if not a little more than usual, being holidays and all. We've hosted a braai, attended a braai, gone to a movie, watched at least 362 movies at home, played Balloon Lagoon more times than I care to remember, and Cranium Cadoo too few times, PLUS we've climbed a mountain. And that's all happened this year. In three days. What on earth has gotten into me? Me. Tired me. Exhausted me. Me who needs more sleep hours than awake hours in a day. Me who often lacks the necessary energy required to brush my own hair.

It's that New Year thing. That thing that I was all cocky about. That thing of how December 31 is just the day before January first, no big deal, no major change, just one day following the next. And yet, I think that there must be some magic to it after all. My Done List* would have been impossible without a little magic, a little fairytale sparkle, a little bit of impossible becoming possible.

(*The Done List is the To Do List as veiwed in the past tense. This is particularly helpful to individuals, like myself, who get more inspired by remembering the things they have already accomplished than by being reminded about the things they still need to do.)

And as I was musing about that 'je ne sais quoi' -kiness of the New Year, a little bit of a fairy tale played out right before my eyes.

AirBear had been watching me spray, scrub, rinse and mop for some time. I had suggested she go play with her My Little Ponies, but she stayed and watched. After a while she pronounced that she would help me clean the floors.

"Are you sure you'd like to help me?" I asked. She nodded and took the mop out of the bucket and poised herself for mop duty. I cringed at the muddy puddles she was dripping all over my already cleaned floor. But I acquiesced. Suprisingly, my little four year old took to mopping like a duck to water. I was fairly impressed, and relieved at how things sped up with her assistance.

After a while, she Sighed. With a capital "S". "Are we servants now?" she asked.

"No," I laughed. "We're cleaning our house. For us."

"But it feels like we're working for someone. Like we're servants. This is not a nice job."

I put my hand out for the mop. "You can go play if you want to," I said. She held tightly to her tool and shook her head.

"No," she said. "I'll stay. You need me to help you, because I'm really good at this. And anyway, my daddy will see me, and he'll say I'm his champion, and you'll say I'm your super star. I'll stay," she shrugged those amazing little shoulders and set back to work slopping bleach up against my couch covers.

I smiled and thought that we might just live happily ever after after all.

Not my child

T-Bird (while regarding the wildlife in the TygerHills Nature Reserve): Mom, that tortoise is just like me.

Me (trying not to laugh): And why is that?

T-Bird (dead pan face): Because I also eat grass.

My New Year's Wish

I've never been one for wishing that all your dreams come true and magic ponies in cashmere bubbles carry all your fears to the other side of the rainbow. Blergh! No. And because I'm not particularly taken by mystic bunnies that poop cotton candy, I'm not going to wish you the very best year you've ever had.

No.

In fact, I hope that your best year ever is still many years away and that the build up to THAT year is exciting and thrilling and possibly even a little adventurous.

As far as 2009 is concerned, I would love for it to be, for you, a bit like the opening act of a Shakespearean play - precocious and gripping, alluring and ever so enchanting. That it will put a wry smile on your face and tickle your curiosity just enough to get you interested in exploring it a little further.

I'm not going to wish you strength and courage and hope and prosperity. Sorry. If you're looking for those blessings, you might want to check out the Hello Kitty website. Nope. I'm not going to hope that all things change for the better. Uh-uh. If anything about you changes in 2009, I hope that it would be that you would become more adventurous, more daring; that you would take on the world with more Oompah! and that you would believe in your own abilities more and more.

I'm not going to wish you a perfectly happy year. A whole year of happy would rapidly become tedious. Instead, I wish you inner peace between the happy times. I wish that the gaps from one happy to the next will be short, and that as you pass from one to the next, you will remember that you are so much stronger than you think you are.

Sincerely

Jx.