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 Ten (or thereabouts) Commandments...

... according to my offspring.

1. Always never steal.

2. Don't murder anybody.

3. Don't worship Ben 10. Or Barbie

4. Only worship God.

5. Husbands and wives must never break apart.

6. (E) Always feed your children.

7. You can't worship two gods at the same time.

8. Always keep your Saturday as a resting day - you must NEVER work on a Saturday - save it to do church. (E) It's called the weekings. Is tomorrow Saturday?

9. Love your mom and your dad. (E) And never hit them.

10. Respect other people.

11. Never be greedy for someone else's things.

12. Never kill a policeman.

T-Bird 6 years 7 months; AirBear 5 years.

Should I be worried?

She was staring absentmindedly out of the car window as we drove the wet roads to Hout Bay. Raindrops left perforated trails against her window and she watched them for a while, tracing her finger along their interrupted pathways.

"Mom," she said at last, " have you and Dad ever robbed a bank?"

Choke. What? Stall.

"Er, no, Honey. Robbing banks is bad. We would never do something like that."

Silence.

"No, but like stealing," she offered. "Have you guys ever stolen something?"

"That wouldn't be right," I said. "So: no. We don't do what isn't right."

Then the thought struck me:

"How about you?" I asked. "Have you even stolen anything?"

She looked up from the watery design on her window and rolled her eyes. "How could I?" she sounded almost exasperated. "I have a family who won't even let me go into the front garden on my own!"

So now I asked myself: was that frustration at not being able to go into our unwalled front garden on the main road in our suburb, or was it regret at not having had a chance to burgle?

The mind boggles. Really it does.

And so the Celestial Bodies Spoke

I asked the sun dancer and the moon child how the story ended. What should the guardian angel do to help the little moonbeam princess regain her silver light? How would she get the moonshine back in the sky amongst the stars?

Their answer came without hesitation: The guardian angel must pick the moonshine child up. She must fly with all her might - even though her wings are sore and broken. She must carry that moonbeam right up to her starry home.

"I know the angel can do it, mom," little T-bird's eyes were bright and shining.

She's convinced.

Sniff.

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?

I love the whole world

Don't know how I quite missed it, but I did. The Discovery Channel's Boom-de-ya-dah Song. Yip. It's new for me. And when I heard it for the first time, it was a complete feel good moment all wrapped up with great video footage and catchy chorus. From the first time I heard it to this present moment THAT song has been well and truly lodged in my cerebrum.

In the last few days I have listened to it SOOOOOOO many times that I know it off by heart, have played it absentmindedly on the piano, have downloaded it off an mp3 site, and kiss my children goodnight each evening with an expected, and now also obligatory "Boom-de-ya-dah!" And my little flock has been caught up in the addictive tune of this song too. You could say that that this little ditty has permeated its way into the fabric of each member of my family. We casually toss around the lyrics in the car. We all join in if one person starts humming it, and correct each other when we fumble over the words. It has sunk its claws into each one of us. So much so that I am starting to really hate the song.

So, a song about loving the world and everything in it, is rapidly turning into a song that makes me hate the song, hate the spiders, hate the rats in the sewers, hate the fireworks and the guy with the bazooka, hate the great white sharks, hate the mummy and the Tibetan monks, hate the fishermen and the people on the beach (who sits on the beach singing in a crowd anyway?).

Aaaaargh, I hate that song!!!!!

If you know the song - I'd love to know what you thought of it when you heard it the first time and got it stuck in your head... If you don't know the song, click on the link, have a listen, and get back to me.

A Mother is Permitted to Complain. Once in a while.

Maybe I'm doing something wrong. Or maybe it's them. I dunno.

The majority of conversation directed at my children these days is, "Tidy up this mess!"

Seriously, at least 80% of what I say to my children is about the state of their rooms, the toys littering the lounge floor, the crayons strewn across the passage.

Now, you tell me. Am I expecting too much from these kids? Am I hampering their fun? Aren't they supposed to make a mess, and play and enjoy their childhood? Am I supposed to quietly pick up after them, with a BIG smile on my face, content in the knowledge that my children have had the opportunity and the unlimited space to develop their sweet creative little selves?

But on the other hand, really? No. I mean REALLY? Am I REALLY supposed to have my spawn turn the sanctuary of my home space into a battle field - Every. Single. Day. Am I REALLY supposed to give up the idea of neat living, feng shui, open, tidy home spaces until, gee, I dunno, they move out? Is that how it's supposed to be? Am I fighting a losing battle here? Because it feels like that. Like a battle. At night I fall into bed crippled, exhausted, war-weary.

And it doesn't matter how hard I try, how well I've tidied their doll's house, how neatly the puzzle boxes have been stacked, tomorrow, without fail, the havoc and mayhem that seems to follow these two seemingly innocent young girls, will find a way to demolish my designs, upturn my tupperware, blow up my book cases. I am unequal to the power of childhood entropy.

And the solution? "Let it go," you say. "Roll with the punches." I hear your "never mind" and your "it's just a phase", and I can't, for the life of me, let it be. I can't accept that this phase is bigger than me. If I let this chaos consume me, I will have no control left. I will be like flotsam swept away in a tsunami of Polly Pockets and paper dolls.

I need a full time housekeeper. It's a matter of sanity.

Oh. And a full time gardener to pick up the dog poo. Thanks.

A number One

I have no idea what compelled her to say it, what little nugget of festering after-thought lead to the growth of the concept, but for some reason, my demure lady-like little 6 year old has claimed ownership of the term: pee-tank. As in, on route to ballet, "Ooops! I better go to the pee-tank before my class starts!"

I tried to determine the origin of the word, but to no avail. "I just thought it up on my own, in my own head," she shrugged.

"Well, there are better things to say," I said, thinking along the lines of I need to visit the little girls' room. The part of the brain devoted to toilet humour at this age took immediate control of all her cognition. She started inventing new options. "I need to visit a private place that gets stinky," she suggested. "If I don't get there soon, I will leak," she added.

"Tinkle," I corrected her. A little lady tinkles.

She thought that was mildly amusing. "I need a private tinkle," she experimented with the phrase.

By the end of the day, her two favourites were I need to sit on the royal throne, and I need to squeeze a lemon, which had some rather dubious and primitive roots which I'd prefer not getting into detail over.

I think she misheard him

Him: What would you like to drink?

Me: Hmmm, do we have Savannahs?

Him: Sure. Would you like one?

AirBear (very, very eager):  Oooooh! Me too please!

A moment of shocked silence passes where I scrutinize my four year old.

Me: You want a Savannah?

AirBear: Yes, I love them! I really, really love them!

Me: Savannahs? You don't even know what a Savannah is.

AirBear (indignant): Oh yes, I do. It's a sausage.

Prostitutes and Purple Pipes

I've been a very bad blogger, I know, but to make up for it, I have two new, never before seen, brand-spanking new, entirely nascent AirBear sayings to make up for it.

*********************

Yesterday we were driving home from ballet, and the news was on. One of the headlines was about sex-workers winning a court appeal against policemen for arresting them for who they are and not for what they do. One prozzie claimed that she had been arrested over 200 times without charge.

Well, the girls always listen to the news when we're in the car. And AirBear gets quite interested in this woman, right. She wants to know why she got arrested. "Because she did something bad," I attempt to ignore the core of the answer. But she isn't satisfied. She wants to know exactly what that bad thing was that got a woman arrested 200 times.

I sigh. "Airie, I'll tell you when you're older, ok?" 

"NO! Mom," I see big eyes pleading at me in the rear-view mirror, "you need to tell us now!"

"Why? Why not when you're older?"

"Because what if we do the same thing?"

"You probably won't," I shake my head - I guess it's a fair question.

*********************

The next story opens with me on the loo. This used to be a regular public performance, but I've cut down on my audience admissions, and try to keep them outside the bathroom when I need to go. It works most of the time, not always, but most of the time.

On the occasions that I have the room to myself, you can be sure that at least one little person is seated just on the other side of the door, having a very important conversation with me that can't wait until later.

So there we were. Me on the loo, and AirBear guarding the entrance.

Things were going pretty quietly until there was a great gasp from beyond the walls of my privvy. It was the kind of gasp that makes you think that the person gasping has just seen a giant spider, or just won the Euro Lotto.

"What is it?" I inquired.

"Mom," she stated, most matter-of-factly, "you're not going to believe this: the pipes in my soul are purple!"

Will someone volunteer how I'm supposed to respond to that.

The more I tried to figure out what she was talking about, the more anxious and excited she became about her purple soul pipes. For a minute or two we chattered back and forth while I tried to make out what the heck she was on about.

Turns out she spotted the superficial veins in her wrist.

Go figure.

The way things are now

They say that you should be careful about the things you wish for.

I was wishing for something to happen. Something to change things. Something great.

Well.

Something did happen. Something to change things. Something great. But not in a good sort of great way, more like a big sort of great way.

The 4 month old dalmation puppy, Princess Pepper, who has been in unfavourable repute with the mother of the house for ripping clean washing off the line and dragging it frivolously through the mud, caught, overpowered and dissected Holly, 14 month old Angora bunny.

T-Bird, my heart's greatest beat, discovered the carnage and how I wish she hadn't. She found the mutilated body of the friendly little bunny just before bath-time. Both girls were heart-broken, and wept for three hours flat.

We had a simple burial complete with kind words and offerings of fresh flowers and little trinkets - frugal donations from little people wishing the world were a different place.

***
When T-Bird was born, my mom said that from that day on, my heart would live outside of my body. And she was right. Seeing both of my children so desperately unhappy was indeed an emotionally taxing and physically painful experience for me. How I wished I could have saved them that loss, that pain, that violence. I wished I could keep them safe and ignorant of the hurts of the world, the reality of death, the truth of life. Oh for that elusive bubble-wrap to protect my dear, sweet, innocent progeny!
***

So something happened - my children were exposed to a reality of life in a very violent way. Things have changed - the dog is now the only pet on the premises, and my garden has a slightly better prospect at surviving. It was a great, and painful learning experience. For all of us.

Just had to Share this!

Me: This is a great pic, T! Is it you?

T: Uhuh.

Me: Why is your mouth open?

T: I totally freaked out.

Me: Why?

T: Because I looked in the mirror and saw how beautiful I was.

T-Bird: 6 years and 3 months

The Bad Guy Wants more Power and more Money

My kids ask a lot of questions. About everything. Mostly, they want to know: Why?

Sound familiar?

Often, their "whys" are focussed on the bad guy in a story. Why did he do that? Trying to understand evil and conniving deceit is something my kids tend to battle with. It's a matter of trying to understand why everyone can't just be friends.

The answer, that I tend to end up with, when asked why someone did something mean, or nasty, or evil, is that the bad guy is always after more money and more power. And it's an answer that has worked for so many whys. 

Why does the queen want to hurt Snow White? She wants to keep her power.

Why were Cinderella's step sisters so mean to her? Because they wanted the prince, and therefor more power.

Why does the butler try to lose the cats in Aristocats? Because he wants to inherit their fortune.

Why did the bankers take Jimmy's money in Mary Poppins? Because they wanted more money.

Why does Count Olaf try to hurt the orphans in Lemony Snickett's Series of Unfortunate Events? Because he wants their money.

And their whys stretch beyond the fairy-tale domain. Why is Robert Mugabe such a bad president? (Yes, my kids are up to date with current politics, and they are aware of the tenuous situation in our neighbouring country). The answer is more money and more power.

And so it was today that a report aired on talk-radio as we drove home from ballet. Three policemen were arrested for selling confiscated narcotics to drug dealers. We listened to the news like we always do. Some questions followed. Why were the policemen arrested? They did something bad. Why? For money, I guess. The bad guys are after more power and more money.

There was a period of industrial thinking as we turned onto our street.

T-Bird, an amazing logical thinker, described her solution to the recently reported problem: The policemen got arrested for selling drugs. Drugs are bad. Why didn't they just sell vegetables? Or lolly pops? Then they could still make money, but not get arrested.

Yes, my darling daughter, why didn't they just do that instead?

Utterings of the Offspring

AirBear: Daddy! Daddy! Granny says she's going to smack my bum!
Daddy: Well, Air-Bear! What have you been doing?
AirBear: Nothing.
Daddy: You must have been doing something. Were you looking for trouble?
AirBear: No, I never looked for trouble. But I did find it.

AirBear: 4 years, 9 months

A better mom

While I was running my well-baby clinic I learnt that there is one emotion that is shared by all mothers, even before their babies are born: GUILT. Every woman feels guilty about something or other with regards to her unborn child, her newborn infant or her hurricane toddler.

"What if I had a low episode during my pregnancy? Will my baby think I don't love it" - GUILT. "What if my baby has colic because of that block of chocolate I had during my induction?" - GUILT. "Maybe my toddler's acting up because I left him with my mother so I could go to gym?" - GUILT! GUILT! GUILT!

And, one of the top reasons for guilt amongst new mothers is the prospect of going back to work. Because, "surely perfect mothers stay home for 20 years to raise their kids and another 20 to raise their grandkids? And how will my child know that I still love her when I send her to a creche for 8 hours of the day so I can work?"

And I've noticed that going-back-to-work guilt ever so often when the reason to go back to work is not necessarily because of the need to supplement the family income. There is often a tremendous aount of guilt around the fact that a woman has CHOSEN to go back to work. A choice she made for herself.

My sister-in-law, a teacher, told me that she was anxious to get back to work so that she could have some time away from her children. She said, "Teaching, and the time I'm away from my kids makes me a better mother." I didn't quite get it when she told me the first time, but over the years I have seen so many mothers express the same feeling. They had to do certain things, whether it was to go back to work, or hire an au pair, or to send the children to her mother-in-law for the weekends, so that they could be a better mother.

Be a better mother. By not filling the mother role. Hmmm.

Now I get this, really I do. In fact, for some desperate mommies, I have suggested this exact principle: do something that is not mothery so that you can be a better mother. And, indeed, it works. That time away from her kids allows a woman to find herself, to develop her identity, to feel more human. So that she can be a better mother.

I guess the reason I brought this up though is that I need to find that thing. For me. The thing that makes me a better mother. Because the truth is that at some point, when mothering is what you do, you will run out of mother-gas. Your tank runs dry. And you can't break down. You can't press pause on some wonderful universal remote. As a mother, you can't stop. And you run on empty, because there isn't another option. Most of the time, I feel like I live on that edge, that running-on-empty tightrope. I need to fill up on something more substantial than crayon drawings and finger biscuits. I need to find the thing that makes me a better mother.

Suggestions welcome.

Things I didn't expect to hear from my kids today:

1. Mom, is my poop supposed to smell so bad?

2. I know some kids that don't love their mothers, but I really love you.
3. I think Helen Zille will make a great president. She owns Cape Town really well. Don't you think so?

The truth about Kids and Dogs

These are the simple truths I have learned in the first five weeks of owning a puppy. And perhaps, whether you are a dog owner or a kid owner, you might be able to relate:

1. Kids and dogs poop. A lot. And while you don't need to pick up kid-poo in the garden, you do still need to wipe.
2. Kids don't pull the washing off the line and drag it through the mud. This is a lucky thing for them, because if they did, they would be in serious trouble.
3. Wet kids don't smell like wet dogs.
4. Both kids and dogs will fart unashamedly when you're watching TV.
5. Dogs get fleas. Kids get lice. Both of them get worms.
6. It is less alarming to find worms in your dog's poop than in your children's.
7. Vaccinating a kid costs about the same as vaccinating a dog.
8. You don't have to put your kids down if they get really sick.
9. People won't question you if you make your dog sleep outside. They might if it's your kid.
10. Kids are more likely to ignore you when you call them. A dog will never.
11. Kids and dogs bite equally painfully. But you can only make one of them let go by whacking them on the nose.
12. Both dogs and children get wet noses. Both types of wet nose will leave a silver slimy streak on your black trousers.
13. A dog will never complain that you've given them the same thing to eat three nights in a row.
14. A dog will wee on the carpet. A kid will wee in its bed.
15. You can't rub your kid's nose in it.
16. Both kids and dogs love going for a walk.
17. A kid will seldom wet themselves if "barked" at by a bigger kid. A dog, will.
18. Dogs should not eat off the table. Kids should not eat off the floor.
19. A dog and a kid can observe each other for the longest time, nose-to-nose, without either of them blinking.
20. Both creatures shed whenever they have sat for any length of time. Dogs shed hair. Kids shed toys, shoes, sweet wrappers and sand.
21. A dog will contort itself to lick its hard to reach bits because this is what dogs do. A kid will contort itself to suck its toes because it thinks it's funny.
22. It is hygienically imperative to wash your hands after handling either your dog or your kid.
23. Even if you yell at your dog, it will love you the next day. Kids are the same.
24. If the truth be told, you are never really ready to have a kid. Same applies for dogs.
25. A dog needs a kid. A kid needs a dog. A mother needs a break. Make it work!

I, the Mother.

I addressed the teacher on an issue that arose in class. Without getting into it, it was an incident which upset my child. It was an incident I was not happy with.

The teacher. Sigh. The teacher. She's young. She's free. She said I shouldn't worry.

I. Shouldn't. Worry.

Shouldn't worry?

What kind of a mother would I be if I didn't worry? Something happened that made my daughter feel uncomfortable. When I heard about it, I felt uncomfortable too. Shouldn't worry? I don't think so!

I do worry. Every day of my life I worry. These two precious people who were born of me are deserving of at least that. They passed through me, a broken chalice, a humble vessel. What miracles they are to shine so brightly! And I do. Worry.

I worry that the world will taint them. That they will be scarred by the ugly things. I fear that the beauty they see in everything will be stained by hurtful, hideous happenings. I am perturbed that, all too soon they will learn the truth of the world. I am worried that they will be hurt. That they will fall and shatter into a million beautiful pieces. I worry that when they pick the pieces up, some will be lost forever. That they will never be whole again. How I wish they could be happy forever. Beautiful forever. Complete forever.

Perhaps I wish for the things I lost, a vicarious attempt at maintaining the innocence. The reality is that these two miraculous creatures, too good for this world, are right here. Right now. They live and breathe in the little spaces of safety I manage to create for them. And sometimes, they breathe their enchanting air into spaces that are wild, and evil, and dangerous. And when they do, I hold my own breath. As badly as I want to protect them from this ravaging planet, I know, deep down, that the world needs these precious jewels.

And if they do fall and shatter, I know I will be there to pick them up and help them find each glimmering splinter to piece back together. So help me. And while their innocent beauty may be marred, they will become more beautiful than before. Because: Blessed are the cracked, for they let in the most light.

My apologies to Queen

Many years ago, a friend told me about how she stalled her car on the highway when her 4 year old started singing, at the top of her voice, a new song she had learned at Sunday school:  

"Jehovah Jireh, my vagina!"

And you'd think that that would be as bad as it could get, right? That nothing could be more startling while winding your way through after school traffic. Right? Wrong.

Cut to today. After school. We're driving home. It's hot. The windows are wound down. The traffic is inching along.

"How was school?" I ask the two little faces staring at me in the rear-view mirror.

"We're learning about the letter "wuh"," whistles T-Bird. She starts whirring a list of 'W'-written words. 

AirBear, out of sorts for not having a wider 'W'-vocabulary to offer to the conversation, starts whining mercilessly.

"We learnt a new song at school," she says.

I'm stopped at a red traffic light. Cars all around. I wink at her in the mirror. "Let's hear it then," I say.

"It's also got 'wuhs' in," she states.

The opposite stream of traffic slows down. My green light is imminent. "Ok," I'm waiting.

"We will, we will, fuck you!" She croons. Loudly.

Green light. I stall the car. Badly. There's a Jeep Cherokee halfway up my exhaust pipe.

She didn't say it, I tell myself, and restart the car. I smile at her reflection, as I pull away in third gear. I wave at the guy in the Jeep. He's unimpressed. I mount the curb. "That's nice," I cringe. "But I think I missed one part of it. Sing it to me again, please."

"We will, we will, fuck you!" She's grinning. I'm rolling up the windows.

"My sweetie pie, " I've swerved into oncoming traffic, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. "I think the song goes like this: We will, we will ROCK you."

"Oooooh," she nods her head. She's quiet for a moment, contemplating. "But it did have a "wuh" in it, hey mom?"

Yes, darling daghter, it really did.

Through the eyes of a child

When T-Bird has ballet, AirBear and I entertain ourselves for the half hour we have to wait by doing anything from playing complicated sick-baby-role-play games, to building puzzles, to taking Pepper for a walk around the school (if we've brought her with us).

Yesterday Air and I had one of these half hours to kill. With the thought of possibly encouraging my child's arty side, I challenged my princess to a live portraiture exercise. We would each take a turn to draw the other one, as we were, right there on the grandstands in the shade. She liked the idea, so I scratched in my handbag for some paper and a pen.

I went first. All the while I'm saying, "Hold still! Don't smile. OK, smile! No, wait, turn your head this way. Oops! Too much!" and she's just giggling, thinking that she has the most bizarre mother on the planet. Here's the pic:

She catches a glimpse of what I've drawn and starts criticising. 

"You made me look like a boy!" 

"I didn't, look you've got that bow on your shirt!" 

"That doesn't look like a bow!"

"But it's all folded - look how your real bow is all folded!"

"But you didn't give me long hair!"

"But your hair's all tied up behind your head! Look, I put your pony-tail hanging over your shoulder. Here, you draw me!"

She grabs the pen, scrutinises my face and starts drawing. I direct her, just for fun. "Remember," I say, "I've just got one nose!"

 She keeps looking up to compare what she's drawing to what she's seeing. I make the mistake of telling her to draw EXACTLY what she sees:

She starts tapping her pen all over my paper face.

"What are you doing?" I asked, "don't ruin your lovely picture!"

"I'm not ruining it," she says emphatically. "These are your pimples and your spots."

Oh.

Then she sticks her tongue out of the corner of her mouth and proceeds to draw, what I imagine are a set of beautiful eyelashes. "Wow," I say, "I've got a LOT of eyelashes!"

"Mom," she shakes her head. "I drew your eyelashes long ago. These are the lines on your forehead."

Oh. Right. Wrinkles. Ouch.

I have a feeling I'm supposed to have this revelation here. Some out of body experience where I am converted from a life-time of frowning and poor skin maintenance, and sign up for a chemical peel and an extra strong age-defying night cream. But I don't. I look at that drawing and smile. Yip, that's me. Pimples and wrinkles. So. What are you going to do about it? 

And anyway, it's not every day you get your picture taken...