Motherhood. Rhymes with Crazy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I. Don't. Know.

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

I am a mother.

The sun and the moon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so it would go.

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

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

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

Self Preservation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Waiting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'd just like something really great to happen.

's all. 

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.  

Headspace Real Estate

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

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

The place where the colours aren't

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes you just have to give in to OC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Nothing)

...

...

I know, right!?!

...

Ok then.

...

She shuffles offstage.

...

And the madness continues...

The beast within

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Nothing

There's nothing. Like standing on the edge of a precipice and looking down into a whirling navy depth. If I look down I am teased by the dark mystery of what fades away there, even though I know there is nothing.

I am not shaken or jittered walking this fine line. I can do it. I am strong. I don't need a rope, a hand, a pill, a friend. I am strong. I can do it. And anyway, there is nothing there.

I can't help but look down where it is dark and quiet. I wonder what that silence sounds like. I wonder if it would fill my ears like some cotton wool or putty. I wonder if I could touch it, that deep nothingness. Could I put my arms around some solid substance of nothing, pull it over me, dress myself in it? Sometimes I wonder what it would look like to look back from that pit of nothing and see the ledge that I stand on. Would it be like looking though a frosted glass window? Could I see myself in black and white? Could the nothing place reach into that real place somehow, and steal little bits of real, leaving little bits of nothing in its place? I think it might be possible, because sometimes, in the real place, I trip up over little bits of absolutely nothing. Sometimes I think absolutely nothing, where once I had very real thoughts. There are times where I look at familiar objects, people, places, and see absolutely nothing. Could there be another me in that black pit that takes these small bits of real from me? Sometimes I believe there might be.

A little end of year ADHD

So what do you call it again when you just can't quite focus? You know, when you're a little distractable. Geez, it's getting hotter at night, isn't it? Ok, so maybe it's a little bit more than slightly distracted.

I think I'm having a case of Decemberitis. No jokes, folks. (Didn't mean for that to rhyme, but I will be grateful for all I get). Novemberitis came and went as of 9 days ago. Now it's time for the next step. Wow, I really feel like candy floss right now. Yip, that would be awesome!

I think it has to do with the infinitely slippery slope to the final curtain of the year. I just can't seem to get a grip on anything. I've got so much to do, and I just can't seem to get going. And talking about going, I'm inspired to think about the gas price, and that leads me to wonder why the garden service haven't dropped their prices since the price of fuel came down. Anyone else notice that?

You have to wonder why the end of the year feels like such a great big full stop though. It seems as though there won't be a chance to address issues once the drunken revellers have done that countdown and kissed in champagne flavoured embraces. It's going to be too late when that fat lady is done singing "Aulde Lang Syne".

Every year feels a little like the Y2K syndrome. Everyone seems to hold their breaths as though time itself will come to an earth-shattering halt at 1 second past midnight. And things left unfinished are not destroyed in that magical moment, no matter how much you might hope for it. No. The morning sun of January 1 rises over all the undone odds and ends of the years before. And chances are that these incomplete projects get added to a growing pile of things to do.


It's a shame, really. It's these left over bits and pieces that lead to the making of new year's resolutions. So you're still spilling your morning coffee on the gym registration form? After 5 months of having it on your kitchen counter, you add it on the New Year's Resolution List - Number 1: Join a gym. A pile of unread novels consumes valuable shelf space. You just didn't get to finishing them. Add them to the list. But make it sound fancy: Like - Number 2: I will read at least two books a month. (That should get through the pile of books next to the loo by about August.) Still not fitting into those pre-kids jeans that you just can't get yourself to toss out of your cupboard? Despite the fact that you've been out of those jeans by 3 sizes for the last eight years, you still add to the list - Number 3: Lose weight. Wouldn't it be better to say something like - Number 3: Clear out wardrobe. Accept the way things are?

Look, I'm not being a cynic here. All I'm saying is that the sun will come up again. There will be another day, and another after that, and even more thereafter. This wild race to the end of the year is a bit farcical in my mind. Why the rush to cram EVERYTHING into the last 31 days?

And does anyone else know how long a baked birthday keeps for?

Sorry Story

I was raised with a guilty conscience.

A guilty conscience and a low self-esteem.

I'm sorry about that, really.

Do you have any idea just how debilitating a guilty conscience with a side order of self-loathing can be? No? Well, pretty debilitating is the correct answer.

You see, the problem with this little accidental glitch in my ingredients is that I always end up apologising. I apologise because I feel so damn guilty about everything. And feeling guilty about everything makes me feel like an idiot, which just goes to fuel my low self-image. A vicious circle, really.

My days are pockmarked with me feeling bad about stuff. I'm sorry I couldn't do more. I'm sorry you got stuck in traffic. I'm sorry I missed your call. I'm sorry I forgot your card. I'm sorry I didn't invite your kid to my kid's party. I'm sorry I parked so close behind you that you had to do a 15 point turn to get out. I'm sorry I smell like I've been working in the garden all day, it's just that I've been working in the garden all day. I'm sorry I can't help you next week. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my disease. I'm sorry I can't lend you something to wear. I'm sorry you sneeze every time you come over. I'm sorry for snoring, hope it didn't bother you too much. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Pretty lousy, no?

So why is it, then, that I can glibly analyse this maladjustment from the safety of my keyboard and still harbour it as a crucial part of my genetic make-up? I guess the difference comes in what you know with your head, and what you believe with your heart. These things can be so vastly different to each other, and the truth is, you tend to go with what you feel, more than what you know.

What you feel inside is a remnant of your creation. your forming. When you were being built up, bit by bit, in the early years, processes and ideas fell into the cement of your youth and became so embedded into your system, that they are still the things that help to define you.

When I was 12, I asked my dad if he thought I was pretty. Now this man, God love him, picked the wrong moment to flex his funny-muscle. He said to me, at that terribly insecure and vulnerable age, "There's nothing wrong with you, Daughter. Nothing that a panel beater couldn't fix, anyway!" What he said has stuck with me till today, and I have picked his answer apart so many times and have seen and understood it for the poor attempt at humour that it was, and yet it dwells in my foundation as a warped whisper constantly pulling at my certainty and security. I battle to see past my flaws. I struggle to accept that others see past my flaws. And I fear that this affects my relationships over time.

So why do I mention this? I don't know. I guess I wanted to remind myself of how impressionable my children (and yours) are. I want to remember that my kids will value everything they are told by me, whether it be the truth, or a joke, and my words will dissolve into the brick and mortar that builds them, and live on in them whether they are factual or false. My words are my gift to my children. I hope only that they will unleash incredible potential in my offspring instead of anchoring them in irrelevant concerns and angst.

Already I feel like I've failed more times than I care to remember, for which I do apologise. And I'm sorry I'm saying sorry again. It's really pathetic, I know. No-one wants to read stuff about people feeling sorry for themselves - so sorry!

See what I mean?

And this is the way things are.

You know, I love men. Really I do. Especially my man. Having a tall, dark, handsome person around is good for the ego. And it's convenient - you know, for when you need to put stuff away in hard to reach places. Having a man is good. Just like having electricity and running water is good. Life is so much more comfortable. Happy. Sorted.

Except if the running water is a leaking washing machine, or a drip in the back of the toilet. No. That's just messy. And annoying. Sort of like a man can be too.

Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't change my man for a whole bag of drip-free toilets. Not at all. I lurve the guy. I do. Couldn't breathe the good air without him. He is my rainbow sky. My adonis. My muse. I love being with him. I love talking to him. I love laughing with him. And I love to just look at him. He is my eye candy. For me, he is a chip off the ol' good-looking block. I think he looks great first thing in the morning. I think he's hot when he steps out of a steaming shower. I love watching him potter around.

But there are times... a day or two every month (by estimation) that I can't stand the sight of him. On these days I find him completely unpalatable. He. Just. Turns. Me. Off. He may try his silly cowboy stagger to get me to smile adoringly at him, but it won't work. He might toss me a nonchalant wink (with crooked eyebrow included), but I'm not buying it. He might just 'accidentally' flex a muscle in my general direction, but I am resolute in my unimpressed state. It is on days like these that I think how much better he would look if he were covered in an horde of rampaging army ants with his head on fire. I think how much I would rather he spend the night in a cage of pythons than share my bed with me. And quite frankly, I'm pretty sure, that on days like these, my long suffering husband would prefer the company of a venomous snake than that of the prickly wife he has back home.

Poor guy.

It only lasts for a day or two, of course. Then it's all fine again. We find each other again, and it's all a bed of roses for another 26. But the explanantion for the disruption of our happy equilibrium for those two days is hard to come by. But I have a senaking suspicion that it's all his fault really. Let me explain...

By day 25 something strange happens to that (mostly perfect) man of mine. While he's being all charming and pleasing and perfectly affable towards me, I start to notice a rapidly widening white ring around he's pupils. Like a deer in the headlights. Like a criminal at the gallows. And I can't be sure of this, but I get the feeling that he starts a frantic internal search. Like he's looking for something important.

On the outside he's all, "Hey, Honey. I made you a cup of chamomile tea. Would you like a foot rub?" But on the inside he's all, "Where did I put that chest plate? I know it was with my running shoes. Oh. Wait a minute. She did say something about always leaving those blasted shoes lying in the passage - doesn't she get that I might need them in a hurry? Think, man. Just think! Last time I used that chain mail, I had my head chopped off, gobbled up and regurgitated into the toilet. Right. There was bloodshed. Blood. Hmm. Did I get it back from the cleaners? Drat! Urgent Note To Self: stop by cleaners post haste! Oh, and maybe the hardware store for some spray-on fire-breathing-dragon repellent."

And back on the outside he suddenly becomes suspiciously animated. "Hey, my love-muffin," he croons with a slightly pinched edge to his voice. He starts to pick up the usual debris of poisons, chemicals and broken glass that is strewn across the lounge carpet. "I need to go to the hardware store, you know, for stuff to, er, fix the roof. Yes. The roof. I know, you've been asking me for months to check into that, and today's the day." He is placing padlocks on the gun safe, the fire place and the tin opener. "You need anything? No? OK then. You just put your feet up and stay right there, OK? Don't stress that pretty little head of yours now. You will stay there, right?" He's packing away kitchen knives as he speaks. I notice a flame thrower and a welding torch discreetly tucked into the back of his trousers.

"You alright, Sweetie?" I asked sipping on an heavily tranquilised cup of chamomile tea. "You seem a little um, distant." My tongue is feeling heavy and I have to wipe a river of dribble off my chin. Also, my back is starting to ache. I wriggle in my chair. I'm starting to feel very uncomfortable in my own body. My skin feels too tight. My hair is too straight. My toenails are too long. My fingers feel too much like, well, fingers. I stretch. Something pops. I look around and notice I have a horn on my left shoulder. Pop! Another one on my right. Pop! Pop! Pop! Several more burst out of my back. I stagger to the mirror to get a better look at what's happening to me. I look awful. I hate myself. Good grief! I'm thirty and I'm still getting pimples! The pimples explode. I am hideous. I run my awfully finger-like fingers through my hair, and catch a sulfurous whiff from under my armpit. I stink.

I'm ugly. I'm sore. I'm pimply. I'm oily. And I stink. Oh. And I have horns all the way down my back. This is not the way I woke up this morning. No. I was in a happy place. I was just fine. What happened? What made me like this? I spin on my fat swollen hobbit-feet and scan the room. And then I see it - that tea cup. That tea. He did it to me. It was him! Bastard guy!

I scowl. I growl. I howl. And I realise, too late, that the bugger has disappeared. He is outta here. I'm so mad I could... I could... well, I might just do something drastic. And to top it all off, that jerk has packed away all my poisons, my chemicals, my broken glass, my kitchen knives, my flame thrower, my welding torch. Dammit! I'm gonna kill him!

See? His fault! He's so lucky that I love him enough to forgive him all his shortcomings. Sigh. What a guy!

Fire

I walk through the fire. I step on the hot, demanding coals. I expect some relief, but it comes in short blasts of steaming air. It stings. It burns. My lungs are aching.

A burning sensation rises through my body. It is a radiating pain spreading over my abdomen. It claws at me, sending long thin fingers of singeing pink malice up my sides, ripping at my chest. I keep moving, treading an unseen path through the burning embers. If I stop, I will be engulfed in hungry flames.

It wants me, this fire. It chases after me. It wants to flow over me in hot billowy waves and leave my empty ashes in its path.

I keep running.

My eyes are burning. My feet are barefoot and raw amongst the cinders. I don't feel the searing intensity of these flames so much anymore. It doesn't hurt to let them lick at my legs and twirl in a manic dance across the palms of my hands. In fact, I am mesmerised by this enchanting hell. Whimsical sprites flit through the conflagration in a crimson ballet. I am enraptured. For a moment I feel drawn into their dance. I swirl and leap with these fiery nymphs.

As I dart and prance with my imaginary partners, a hazy mirage catches my eye. I squint through the sweltering blaze and imagine that there is relief beyond the inferno, a kind of dry oasis, a place where there is nothing left to burn. That desert beckons to me. I want to be there, away from this insatiable flood.

And still I endeavour to escape the fire. Even though it can never be outrun. Always lapping at my heels in wispy orange waves. The heat is immense. My cheeks are hot and flushed. I am tired from trying to flee this blaze.

Let the fire consume me. Let these flames eat their full of my tired body. Engulf me. Envelop me. Finish me. I am brittle and dry. I will incinerate quickly. I will not fight it.

I stand still, awaiting the refining power of this daily blaze to swallow me.

Then. Crack.

A spark.

Beside me two small shrubs wilt in the heat of the approaching inferno. Their sap is boiling. Their branches droop and bend away from the bulldozing warmth. They are dying. They must not die! I cannot allow it. They must grow and provide refreshing shade for others. I am yanked out of my dull stupor. I must keep moving. I turn from the affected saplings and entice the waves of flame away.

Today is a premature tomorrow

It's late on Sunday night. I'm really tired. No specific reason, really, just that it's Sunday night and tomorrow's Monday. And Monday means that it all starts again, this funny 7 day carousel that we ride over and over.

I don't have a job that I have to obligingly arrive for at 7am, fresh and ready to trade a service for an income. I don't have pressing meetings to prepare for, business trips to get through, corporate ladders to climb.

My Monday is no different from my Sunday, really. I don't dress differently. I don't put on any more make-up on Monday than I do on Sunday. Sure, I have obligations and commitments tomorrow which vary very slightly from my obligations and commitments that I had today. There's a little more driving around, and I do have to wake half an hour earlier tomorrow than I did today, but the work will be the same. Dress, feed, wipe, answer, cream, pack, rush, drive, drop off, kiss, tidy, fix, sort, mend, plan, collect, feed, wipe, pour, rush, drive, provide, educate, wait, entertain, negotiate, explain, answer, wash, feed, brush, wipe, kiss, cuddle, tuck in.

And even though tomorrow is the start of a new week, I wish, for some inexplicable reason, that the weekend would stay around a little longer, and I'm not sure why. It doesn't make much difference. For some reason, I'm not ready for this ride to be over and the next one to start.

Good Days, Bad Days

As I sit here trying to get my head around, well, my head, I hear my daughter snoring and rolling around in her bed. She is unsettled. She feels insecure. I know it's because that I was unsettled today. I was insecure.

Sometimes the day starts with the wheels loose, and it doesn't take much to get them to fall off. It can be as minor as serving breakfast only to be whined at because she didn't want that one. Or having them jump on my bed while I'm trying to get dressed, and despite me telling them to stop, they carry on, until one of them takes a flying leap into my chin causing me to bite my own lip.

Days like these are tough. The girls feed off my emotional strength. Or lack thereof. If I'm shaky, they will act up. They will whine a little more than usual. They will squabble and bicker with each other, and fuss when I drop them off at school. The worst part of it all is that I am so aware of it as it's happening.

Pushed to my limit with a child throwing herself all over me while I'm trying desperately to dress her so that we can leave on time, I want to yell and shout and shake her into co-operation. And at the very same time, another voice in my head says: "She's only being a silly little girl - she's entitled to not feel pressure to be on time. Besides, be grateful for her - can you even begin to imagine your life without her? And you know that if you react badly, it's just going to set the tone for the rest of the day, and you're the only one who will be to blame for that, and the only one that will have to bear with it till bedtime - don't do it to yourself, it's just not worth it!" And while I'm having this self-involved conversation with my inner-mom, a little finger is needling me in the rib cage, and a little voice to match is shrieking, "Moooomm!! Did you even hear what I just said?"

And so it goes. The voice inside says, "Just breathe." And I do just breathe. Sometimes it's only after a little rant to vent my frustrations. In the car on the way to school, I apologise for being so irritable. The girls shrug. "It's Ok, Mom," says my sunbeam, "you're our best mom, and I love you one twentity seven hundreds threety six." "Well, I love you more than that," competes her sibling. "Mom, what's more than what she said?" And a new argument starts in the backseat. I turn up the morning news to drown out the battle that ensues. "Just breathe," I hear inside my head. I see my therapist closing her eyes, her nostrils flaring wildly as she demonstrates to me a good, deep, breath.

Despite breathing, the tone of the day has been set. The girls are fidgety and weepy all day long. It tires me rapidly. I feel depleted. I want to lock myself in my room. Alone.

Eventually we have fought through dinner. I've given in to their persistent requests not to eat all their sweet melon. I pat myself on the back for chosing my battles wisely. We argue over brushing teeth, and I tell them they can't watch a movie before bedtime. They toilet under duress. I toss them into their beds and tuck the blankets around their chins.

For the first time all day, I look at them and really, really feel love. Now. When they're going to sleep. When I can really breathe without a weight on my shoulder, or hanging onto my neck, or climbing all over me. Breathe. Just breathe.

They fall asleep very quickly. But they are tossing. Kicking. Talking in their sleep. I feel bad. I feel to blame. I want to give them peace and security. I feel like I've held that back from them today.

I check on my sleeping angels. There are soft sweaty curls clinging to their cheeks and covering their eyelids. They are so beautiful. So perfect. So much better than me. I kiss them and whisper that their mommy loves them. The one replies in her sleep, "I love you, Mom." I bite my lip and back out of her room.

Tomorrow I will be better. I promise.

Breaking free

I have gradually been reducing my Cipralex dose. Slowly. Skip a day. Skip two. Maybe it's a mind over matter thing, but somehow I feel I'm nearly ready to be normal without my anti-depressant.

Truth is, I don't want to be dependant on any medication just to be 'normal'. I want to be normal because I am normal. I want me to be completely normal.

A friend once told me that "Normal" is the setting on a hairdryer. So much for that then. I want to be the setting on a hairdryer.

Ok.

The pill is another thing that I don't like to be on. I don't want to take a pill just to keep my polycystic ovaries under control. I want to have ovaries that are the setting on a hairdryer. I don't want to need a pill to keep my menstrual cycle regular. I want my crazy periods to be the setting on a hairdryer.

Sigh.

So. I'm trying to get off the happy pill at least. Logic tells me I have so much to live for, to laugh for, to give thanks for. It's the emotional side that doesn't make sense of it all, and that's where the happy pill has kept me level. But I want it to be over now. I want logic to be bigger than emotion. I want my head to feel stronger than my heart.

Photo Infatuation

So here's something not many people know about me: I love looking at other people's photographs. No really, it's true. I do not get bored of pouring over albums that contain the photographic record of a holiday at the sea, or one marking the milestones of the budding family. Sure, anyone who's been to London has the same standard set of pictures (the lion guarding Trafalgar Square, Big Ben from across the road, The London Eye from below, and from inside, hovering over the Thames, the neon lights of Picadilly Circus, and a handful of silly poses alongside the inhabitants of Madame Tussaud's)). I suppose that once you've seen one lot of pics, you've seen them all, and yet I find browsing through these archives strangely engrossing.

I've mulled it over a bit, and there are a couple of reasons why I kind of fancy perusing people's piccies.

Firstly, I like to look for the pictures that work, and the ones that don't. This is a purely selfish reason of course, and all aimed at improving my own photographic ability. It's nice to get ideas for different photo shoots. Everyone has a selection of similar photos: there are the ones with the kids in the mud (or self-decorated with finger paint), the kids in the bath, the kids blowing out a birthday candle, or someone holding up a glass of booze and 'cheers-ing' the camera. But not everyone has a picture of their little girl ogling over a ladybug alighted on her finger, or of their little boy mesmerized by the planes at the airshow, or a picture of the filthy soles of little feet that have been "helping" in the garden. So I flip through albums in a creative research kind of mode.

I also like to check out how silly people used to look. You know, before I met them. Those pictures that you just want to die were ever taken? Well, I get a giggle from rating that eighties perm, those silly sunglasses that you thought were so cool, how young your parents were (Oh. My. Word. Your mom was Hot!), the practiced pose against the family room wall that was the official photo spot for the annual Christmas photograph. It's kind of cathartic witnessing the metamorphosis of the spotty geeky colour-retarded teenager into the fairly respectable lady sitting across the coffee table from me that I will not flinch being seen in public with. Great pal, aren't I?

But I suppose the strangest reason I enjoy other people's photos is this. I have this weird fantasy that one day I will be paging through somebody's archive of pictures from a time before we knew each other, and while I'm flipping through their pictures of their English holiday, or the wedding of a distant cousin, I'll see me in the background. And for once, I will have photographic proof of just how small the world really is.

Give me a break, already!

I thought we had an understanding, Mother Nature and me. Seems like all deals are off.

You heard about the spider bites, right? Well, the last count was right leg: 8, left leg: 7, sundry: 2. But I put that all aside. I thought that hey, maybe I could be to blame. Maybe I should have worn wellies and armor plated leggings while watering my garden. Sure, I suppose I could have.

Then. An overcast, windy day found me weeding the garden. Removing the gunk and muck that threatens to destroy a healthy lawn. And what did that get me? A sunburn. Deep. Maroon. Sunburn. A sunburn that is bullied by bra straps and tank tops. This is the kind of sunburn that begs to be left the hell alone. No clothing. No water. No touchy. No nothing. And somehow, apart from the usual back and shoulder burn, I am sporting a truly strange knee burn too. Both legs. Mid thigh to lower patella. Don't ask me how. Just cry with me every time a little person clambers on to my lap. Damn you, Ozone.

And then, as if that isn't enough, my worst nightmare. No, not the one about the giant tarantula and the melting ice-rink. I'm closing my blinds at the end of the day when something white and fluffy in the street catches my eye. A bunny. Not one of mine. I feel sorry for the poor thing. Lost. Alone. Frightened. Carefully I open my garden gate, a mere 3 meters from where it sits nervously munching on the weeds in my lawn. Leaving the gate, I go all the way around the house, through the front door and out into the street, to encourage the poor dear into a safe harbour, namely my back yard. Well. Number one. The poor dear has scampered up the road in the headlights of a Fiat Uno travelling at a snail's pace so as not to ride over the creature. And number two, in stepping out onto the grass of my front lawn, eyes locked on a fluffy white tail bounding up the hill, I step, barefoot, into a massive dog turd. I mean, come on! What more?

So I figure the old gal's got it in for me. Just what else she has hidden up her sleeve, I have no idea. I guess if it can't kill me it will only make me stranger. No spelling mistake.