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.

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.

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.

After School Dilemma

As far as extra-mural activities go, everyone warns of the danger of "over doing things". For instance: Your five year old does not need to do one (or more) extra-mural activity every day. Don't overload them, the teachers say. OK, I get that. As a mom, I'd be pulling my hair out if I had to dash from one activity to the next, ensuring correct uniform and equipment for whatever it was my sweet angels were getting up to. Not now, anyway. Later. Maybe. But not now.

Look, the list for this age group is ample: art, ballet, brownies, chess, choir, cooking, drama, fishing, golf, gymnastix, hiphop, horse-riding, judo, jui-jitsui, karate, kindermusik, modern dancing, modelling, music appreciation, piano, pilates, playball, pottery, surfschool, swimming, tae kwon do, yoga, so you can appreciate that any parent would second guess what they sign their kid up for.  

But, from all this finger-wagging, guilt-presenting talk, two questions have arisen, for me. 

Question number 1:

Too much is too much. But is too little too little? I guess what I'm trying to say is: how much structured activity, really, should a child be doing after school? And we're talking pre-school here. Pre-homework aged children. Children who have a stay-at-home mom dressing up and doing puzzles and making fairy cakes for teddy bear tea parties. These kids don't have nothing to do most afternoons, is what I'm saying.

From the day she learnt how to walk, T-Bird (now 6 years old) has been a tippy-toe kind of girl (and no, she never spent time in a Jolly Jumper or a Walking Ring). She is just a natural fairy. She flits and flutters wherever she goes. So, naturally, she was a good ballet candidate. For the last 3 years she has been taking ballet classes on a weekly basis. And she loves it. She wants to do it. She gets great exercise through it. She has learnt grace (questionable), self control (doubtful), and poise (when it suits her). But the point is that she is doing something. This year her ballet takes up an half hour slot twice a week. Monday and Wednesday.

OK.

Furthermore, this flitsy little wisp has asked to learn how to play the piano. A) We have a piano and B) I'm not patient enough to teach her how to play, so she has enrolled in piano lessons with a young (and patient) teacher once a week. Half an hour. On a Thursday.

So she has: Monday, Wednesday, Thursday. Sport, sport, culture.

As far as my 4 year old fire-cracker is concerned, AirBear takes part in a sport program aimed at improving eye-hand co-ordination and other skills in most sport disciplines. Once a week. During school time. And that's it. No ballet (she's procrastinating). No gymnastics (although she has expressed an interest). No swimming (I'm going to get moaned at for that, I know). Just Play Ball. She has told me that she would like to learn to play every instrument in the world, starting with violin (emphatically), but her age is against her as far as music teachers in the neighbourhood are concerned. Personally I think that she has a private fantasy involving Andre Rieu, but I might be mistaken.

So AirBear has: Thursday. Sport.

I have dedicated Tuesdays to the Library in the hope based on a faded memory that this will keep them interested in books. Which gives us something to do every afternoon from Monday to Thursday.

But the question is, should they be more sporty? Should they be having swimming lessons? We have a pool, and both girls swim every afternoon (just about). Neither are particularly elegant in their stroke, but I can see how they improve in their own styes from week to week. Also, TV is not necessarily always an option. In fact, TV as is, is no option at all. The kids watch DVDs from time to time. Depending on how their mother is doing, the girls will watch 2-3 DVDs a week, 47 if Mom is taking strain. Usually, there afternoons are spent playing together. Imagination-based games are generally the order of the day, but now, with the arrival of Princess Pepper, games have moved outside and involve a dog (and usually a scraping or two of poo under their shoes - aaargh!) So I can safely say that they aren't couch potato types. They get to run around, breathe fresh air and have those inquiring little minds stimulated.

That's OK, isn't it?

Which leads me to Question number 2:

What, exactly, is the best after-school activity for my children? 

I feel a bit guilty about the swimming thing. Just about every second kid in Durbanville is signed up for swimming (CA's making a killing). Mine aren't. But they are swimming. Not Olympic-style, but they have fun and get from A to B. Should they have better instruction? If they don't have stroke-training now, will it undermine their chances at competitive swimming later?

And that, blogfans, is the crunch of it all, isn't it? If we don't push them to do it now, are we ruining their chances later on? Is that why so many 5 and 6 year olds are exhausted by the end of the week? Is it because they are being given every opportunity their parents can possibly afford to give them? Do they need it now anyhow? And how do you know what field your child will excel at anyway? Do you have to read their Baby Bush Tea leaves before they can walk? Or do you just choose for them and push them to do whatever you, as the parent, have chosen? (I'm thinking Tiger Woods and the Williams sisters here).

Perhaps the real question is: where the hell is that blasted parenting manual anyway? I swear I have two copies rotting away in my womb.

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?

Fresh Perspective

The other day I got caught up in blog-hopping You know, where you go from one blog to the next, clicking on the links that other people find interesting. Well, I hadn't been hopping long, when I reached a really absorbing site. www.kyahsjourney.livejournal.com  got me reading well into the night. Now before you go clicking through, let me warn you that it isn't for everyone. Not me even. And yet, it was the most moving, and thought-provoking site I have come across in an eternity.

Basically, the site is a journal that has been kept by Kyah's parents for just over a year. It documents their ordeal around Kyah's diagnosis with, and journey through neuroblastoma cancer. It is heart-wrenching. So raw are the emotions on a day to day basis, and typed with such honesty and openness, that I just couldn't put it down (or so to speak). It's a terribly tragic story. Kyah is in the final stages of what seems like an incredibly painful and brutally unforgiving experience. Her parents record her every day, reporting the good, the bad, and the obscenely ugly, in clear, yet fragile, terms. Their baby is dying, and they have to live.

Now why I did that to myself needs to be explained. Reading this disturbing tale is not recommended, but I just felt so moved by her parent's honesty, that I was glued to my screen for hours. Mostly I read through tear-flooded eyes, but sometimes all I could do was cover my mouth in utter hopelessness at their situation. The thought at the back of my mind always: what if it was me? What if my baby was suffering such an unfair and merciless disease? What would I do?

One thing in particular stood out for me. In the early stages of her diagnosis, when chemotherapy and radiation therapy were being considered, Kyah's parents were concerned about the side-effects these treatments would have on her (naturally). Among these side effects were growth retardation and sterility. How appalling to have to weigh these things up when considering your child's treatment. A little into her treatment, and as her condition worsened, her mother made a comment that really rang a bell for me. She said something along the lines of gladly accepting the side effects of retarded growth and inability to bear offspring just to have her baby back.

Wow.

Something about that really struck a chord with me. There are so many times when I wish things about my children. I wish they were more obedient. I wish they were tidier. I wish they were more musical. More concerned about punctuality. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I feel really ashamed. I am so so very fortunate to have two beautiful, radiant, happy little girls. I am so so so very lucky that they are healthy, and growing, and bright, and funny, and just like little girls should be. And I have realised, thanks in part to the beautifully honest writings of Jason and Shanell Milne, that I don't need more than the wonderful blessing I have in my daughters. I cannot possibly ask for anything more than these two wonderful sunbeams. I can't tell them often enought how much I love them, how glad I am to spend time with them, what fun it is to be together with them, talking, laughing, singing, playing. It is a drug for me. It keeps me wanting more.

My heart really aches for Kyah's family. I wish that there was some way to make it all better. I wish there was some way to wake them up from this torment and say, "Hey, it was really just a bad dream, folks. Now go on a nice vacation with your little family, and you'll all feel better." But all I can do, like so many others, is to sit by and watch this awful tragedy unfolding, offering cyber-sympathies and digital encouragement as they approach the greatest loss of all. 

And as they face this unspeakable episode in their family, familiarising themselves with death, and the things surrounding death, I can't help but think that this tiny little mite, not even three years old, has reminded me of why I want to live.

Thank you Kyah. Your story has touched me deeply. I wish you great peace.

Human Evolution

Today on Talk Radio, it was mentioned that human evolution is pretty much coming to an end. Some clever scientist has figured it all out, and suggests that this is about as good as it's going to get for the species homo sapiens. 

How disappointing!

I have so many great ideas for improving on the standard model human. For instance: the third hand. As a midwife the need for a third hand somewhere around my belly button became apparent early on. Just to hold onto things like stethoscopes, catheters, umbilical cords and kidney bowls. It was when I became a mother that the need for a third hand became more urgent. You know, to hold a nappy bag while steering two kids across the road, to catch the cup that your toddler knocks over while you're busy cutting their chicken into bite-size pieces, or to scratch around for your car-keys while hanging onto your sugar overloaded kids after a party.

See? The third hand evolution is still an important development in perfecting the human.

More recently I have become more concerned with another flaw of the average person, namely the opaqueness of the head. It is becoming more and more frustrating for me to guess at what's going on in a person's mind. I find myself second guessing every move and word and action, trying to work out what people are actually saying. Just when I think I've got someone figured out, they completely pull the carpet out from underneath me, and I'm left back at square one, no closer to understanding this individual than I ever was.

So. The solution, I figure, is a transparent head. One that you can see deep into and get to the core of what's actually making the wheel spin. Oh yes. And coloured thoughts. And a key to decode them. Like pink thoughts might mean: gee, I'm really craving marshmallows. And a brown thought might mean, you're a complete idiot, you make me sick, but because we're in the same lift club I'm just being polite and putting up with you. Blue thoughts may mean I'm not a total moron, I'm just not very good at showing you I care. Orange thoughts might mean I like you, but your body odour is pretty intolerable right know. And yellow thoughts might mean, it's not that you're boring me right now, but I need to pee so badly that my eyes are watering and I can't stop wriggling in discomfort.

You know. Something like that.

A to Zzzzzzzzzzzzz

Whenever I sit down to metaphorically put pen to paper, the first thought that springs to mind is "I'm tired". But I always seem to push that aside and focus on things less mundane than that to express per my keyboard.

But, I just have to say it. Just once, and then, maybe, it will be better. 

I am tired. Dead tired.

...

And I'm tired of being tired.

...

Nup. It makes no difference. Still tired.

I wake up tired. I plod through my day tired. I answer my mail tired. I make sarmies tired. I drive tired. (Yip, that's me swerving just ahead of you!) I get to the end of the day and fall upon my bed, you guessed it, tired.

For the longest time (Ok, 6 years and counting. Pretty much since I became pregnant for the first time), anytime someone has asked me how I am, I have had to fight the urge to reply, honestly, "I'm tired."

It's not for lack of sleep. I get my 8 hours as often as the next mother. It's just that I wake up tired. Sure, I went through those torturous nights with new babies, colic, and three-hourly feeding schedules, but surely I should be recovered by now?

It's not my iron. Last blood test showed it slightly low, so I swallow a tablet whenever I remember. But I'm still tired.

I'm not pregnant, before you get all diagnostic on me. That option was taken care of a long time ago.

It could be insufficient aerobic activity. Yes, I am a gym deserter. And one of the reasons for that is that gym made me feel tired. Go figure, right?

It could be my cipralex. So I changed the time of day I was taken that little happy pill. It didn't seem to help much. Over the last 2 months I have halved my dose, hoping that that would help too, but no luck. I'm still tired.

It's really not my kids. They are generally a dream to care for. Sure there's the whining and the bickering that can get to unmanageable levels, at times, but for the most part, they are easy kids and a pleasure to have around.

And while we're on family, it is definitely not the mother of the year either. That poor guy has had so little of me due to my flailing energy-levels, that he doesn't even try push his luck for more than dinner and clean underwear. Now don't you feel all sorry for the bloke. It's not like he don't get none. It's just that I'm kinda in a bit of a slump right now, and he maybe doesn't get none more often than he'd like...(?) Anyway, I mean it on a greater level than sex alone. Poor baby has had to do with dwindling levels of enthusiasm on all fronts, from affection to paying bills. Pretty much, I have been lousy company.

By tired, I mean depleted. I have to dig really deep to get my get up and go to get up and er, go. If I could, I would sleep wherever I happen to be. And sometimes I do - much to my daughters' amusement and my embarrassment (my apologies to the other ballet moms last week. Yes. I did. I know. How embarrassing, right?)

I don't even have to be excessively comfortable to fall into a near-unconscious sleep. I've lost count of the number of times I have tended to a restless child at night before I've gotten to bed, and ended up sleeping through the night in that child's bed. On about 30cm of mattress. With my belt embossing my belly, my underwires piercing into my chest cavity, my trouser legs twisted like climbing ivy around my legs and with only a smidgen of blanket to keep out the cold. Hmmm. I just read that again and a little light went on in the back of my mind. Briefly it flickered, but then the batteries gave in. Yip, still tired.

If you want to do something really nice for me, give me a pillow and a blankie, close the curtains, take everything and everybody away and leave me the hell alone for, say, three days!? That'd be a start, anyway.

Womankind vs the Entire Arachnid Species

It was around a heavily laden coffee table that the conversation took a turn for the worse. A complicated collection of mothering souls were drowning their Monday morning blues in bottomless coffee and carrot cake. And somehow, the topic of spiders crept into the bleary eyed gabfest. A sudden hush descended upon the group, and the volume was lowered, almost imperceptibly, as each matriarch lent forward to offer wisdom and take of that which was offered.

"I can't stand spiders," admitted one. "I'll take a barrel of snakes and a room full of rats, but don't give me spiders."

A nod of agreement traveled around the table and stopped at a young, and fairly new addition to the group. "Spiders. And pray mantises," she almost choked on the words, and hurriedly washed them away with a sip of her cafe latte. A moment of quiet reflection followed, and then the roving nod continued on its way.

One by one, the mothers offered hair-raising stories of their personal encounters with the eight legged demons. As the stories unfolded, each woman perceptibly drew her shoulders up and tucked her legs underneath her - well, on the inside anyway. One mom started nervously biting her finger nails.

The next in line to offer a story of breath-taking escape and bravery above and beyond the call of duty was a roly-poly mom of two.

"I've heard that if you don't have Doom," she proffered, "Hairspray will do the job too."

A muffled sigh of amazement and bemusement evaporated out of the huddle.

"Shew!" smiled a beautifully made-up blonde. "At least that's something I always have around!"

Now I wish to stop this story right here.

Can you humor me for just one moment? Can you imagine the scenario that led to this fantastic discovery?

A woman gets up in the morning (it has to be a woman, of course). She plods into the bathroom to wash her face. Eyes closed, water dripping off her eyelashes, she reaches for the towel next to the basin. The same towel that a huge (and by huge, I'm thinking at least the size of a full toilet roll) rain spider has been lurking on all night long. Her fingers brush against three spiky legs that immediately crimp away from her groping reach. Water or no water, she opens her eyes to see what she would only expect in a bad dream. The monster watches her with eight glistening eyes. She screams. If he could, he would too. She is definitely the scariest thing he's ever seen.

Still screaming she starts grabbing at anything she can get her hands on. She pulls the handsoap off the basin. It smashes to the floor. She opens the bathroom cabinet. Cough syrup, toothpaste, Dettol all get ripped off the shelves and tossed into the basin.

The spider watches with eight wide eyes. He feels nervous. Making plans to prolong his life, he decides it would be best to find a new vantage point to this hysteria. He lowers himself on a strong single thread down to the tiled floor.

Dripping wet woman is engrossed in finding something useful in her cabinet. She is still screaming. For a moment she glances back at the perch above the hand towel. Her nemesis has disappeared. A moment of silence follows. In which she takes a deep breath. And then. She scream swears. It is at this precise moment that a large shadow passing over her foot grabs her attention. It is also at this moment that her hand still scratching wildly in the cabinet finds purchase on the cool, reassuring cylinder of hairspray. A primative instinct equates the shape of the can of hairspray to a can of Doom. Screaming and swearing she places her finger on the trigger, and in a nano second of irrational violence, she fires.

The unsuspecting arachnid is covered head-to-toe-to-toe-to-toe-to-toe-to-toe-to-toe-to-toe (only seven because he lost a foot in a minor altercation with the neighbour's wife and a broomstick the previous afternoon). He is immediately held in place by sticky globlets of complex polymers. Unable to take a step due to the never-ending shower of alcohols and silicone, the spider takes his final breath and succumbs to that overpowering cloud of fumes that tends to fill your lungs whenever you fix your coiffure.

The woman stops scream. She still swears a bit. Taking a huge step over the lifeless exoskeleton on her bathroom floor, she starts shivering and shaking. She can feel a million bugs crawling all over her skin. And despite how awful she is feeling, she has made a truly helpful discovery to all womankind henceforth.

Now put that in your back pocket!

Martian Mother

I'm thinking of moving. I've got my eye on Mars. I figure it would be just about right. Considering that one day on Mars is 24 hours 37 minutes long, I am particularly turned on by the thought of getting just over half an hour extra sleep every day. That's a pretty big selling point for me. That, and the fact that one year takes 687 days. That would instantaneously (just about) half my age, giving me the opportunity to explore and enjoy my youth better than I did the first time around.

Sure there's the fact that the atmosphere is about 95% carbon dioxide. I've survived many a night in bed with two farting offspring, so I figure I could handle that. I'm told that the radiation that hits our neighbouring planet tends to be a bit on the wild side too, but I'm up for wearing thick suits and masks. What better way to avoid a bad hair day than to just slip a mask over the whole toot and call it a day? And on the upside, Mars' gravitation is only 38% as strong as the earth's. Can you just imagine how perky these boobs would be in that kind of atmosphere? I could toss out my WonderBra collection and go commando! Woohoo! Some serious scientist guy pointed out that because of the lack of air pressure on Mars, your blood would boil if you went there without a pressurised suit. I say, whoopee, it's not like any mother I know has never experienced that before!

There is some suggestion that Martian weather sucks something awful, but I figure there's not a lot that could be worse than what we've been through in the last two months. So, bring it on! Besides, if you get yourself a size bigger on the anti-radiation suit, you could stuff all kinds of thermal insulation goodies in there with you to make yourself a pretty snug set of togs. I'm also kind of interested in the gale-force winds that blow for months at a time. It really er, blows my hair back. I mean, can you just imagine how many loads of washing you could get dry in one afternoon? I'd be completely stoked!

So, anyone interested in a little travel?

Birthday suit Bulges

For a change, we had a beautiful warm spring day. It didn't take much persuasion to get the princesses outside and up to their eyeballs in mud, sandpit, bunny fluff and snails. I cast an eye over the horizon and quietly noticed a mountain decked head to toe in snowy overalls. This warm weather may be too good to be true, I thought to myself.

After a little rabbit chasing, snail hunting, tree pruning, shrub transplanting and general activities of the garden variety, I called the troops in for a communal shower. Before I could say "Hop in, ladies!", my little girls were stripped and were performing ABBA in front of my over-size bedroom mirror.

"Do-n't go was-ting your commo-tion!" they crooned, back to back and involved in some very complicated wrist maneuvers.

I slipped off my garden scriubs and made for the shower. T-Bird caught sight of me in the mirror.

"Mom!" she screeched.

I turned, wide-eyed, expecting to find a missing limb, a giant spider or God. None of these things were waiting for me. Just the astonished face of my five year old, and my naked reflection in the mirror behind her. Having my kids standing before me, and seeing myself behind them, the reality of what 25 years can do to your body was clear. I winced. The walk of shame did not end there.

"What's the matter?" I asked the screecher.

"Your skin twirls!" she said, and traced an icy finger down my side, from just under my bra-strap to my waist. "When you bend, you twirl," she seemed pretty delighted with the discovery. "Do it again!"

"Er, I'd rather not, thanks," I was well aware of the fat-roll she was so excited about. I've had my eye on it for about 5 years.

We hopped into the shower, and I was grateful for the water splashing into my children's faces, blinding them from the extreme close-up of me, their mother. I used to have a better body, I thought to myself, and then these little people came along and somehow, in the chaos that ensued, I misplaced that nice bod, and have had to do with this one. And it saddened me to think that my kids will never know what I looked like when I looked better. And I could not have kept that better looking body AND have had kids. I had to sacrifice one for the other. Sigh.

And no, I don't want any advice on exercise and diets, thanks all the same. I choose to wallow in self-pity for a bit. Ta.

The Hardest Job in the World

When I was in high school, our teachers introduced a "Life Skills" programm into our curriculum. It was quite a novel and ground breaking idea at the time, and the selection of courses offered was very diverse. From Batique and Pottery to Ballroom Dancing and Jewellery Making. (Life skills? you ask. Hmmm. We asked too. But we didn't press it too hard because it did mean that our double Maths lesson had a welcome 40 minute interval.)

I opted for "Child care" because babies interested me and I didn't have to pay an extra fee to cover craft materials. All we had to do was bring a baby doll to school, pretend it was a live infant, and offer it the necessary care to keep it content throughout the day. We were led through the motions of nappy changing, baby CPR, babysitting essentials and the likes.

**Read anecdote below***

What "they" failed to touch on was 'Parenting', and I really think that this is a subject that all students need to be exposed to. Even if it is just a peep into the torrid world of parenting. Who knows, perhaps a dab of "Truths of Parenthood" would be a more effective contraception for teenagers than the threat of genital warts. 

Sometimes I think that if I had had any idea of what lay in store for me as a mother, I might have insisted extracting my womb and putting it into cold storage for, say, forever. Look, I love my children to bits. I could just gobble them up sometimes. And sometimes I wish that I had. Seriously though, I wouldn't have it any other way, really. Having kids has been the single most enlightening experience of my life. I have learnt more about myself in the last 5 1/2 years of mothering than in the 25 years preceeding that. And that's the problem really - Learning about me.

I have learnt some incredible truths about myself as a mother. I've learnt how strong I am, really. How patient I can be. How caring and completely sacrificial I can be. These are things I never knew about my self. But the incredible truths don't end there. I have also learnt the very worst things about me. I've been shown the monsters and skeletons that have lurked deep inside me all my life and were only awoken under the disturbance of parenting. I learnt that I can be mean. I can be selfish. Self-centered. Short-tempered. Things I hate to admit. But they are parts of me that cannot be excised, but serve to make me who I am.

Being a mother is truly the hardest thing I have ever done. Trying to lead by example. Aiming to mould another human. Trying to prune and nurture and grow to adulthood real live people! What pressure! After all, we're not talking sea monkeys here. Being The woman who as to answer for the health, safety, social value, moral fiber, life education, and final outcome of two clean unblemished canvasses is a suffocating responsibility. I am the mother. I cannot delegate this responsibility. It is mine. And with this duty comes the agony of knowing that I have conceived these perfect little people into a world that is far from perfect. There is an excruciating pain understanding how vulnerable these bright little stars are and how polluted their space to shine in is.

How desperately I want to succeed in launching these starlets into the social stratosphere. To secure them onto the intangible concrete of adulthood, headlamps polished and positioned for optimal illumination.

But the road is oh so dark. The maps and advice books apply to another time, another place, someone else's children. As we travel we make our own light, but usually it shines behind us, lighting up the path we have already travelled. Seldom do we see the solutions to the problems that we face day by day.

The last two weeks were nightmarish. My daughter and I butted heads. We argued. We battled. We shouted. We sulked. We howled and sobbed. And all the time, what was happening was that she was discovering that she had outgrown the boundaries that we had put in place to provide her with stability and security. Stubbornly I was squishing her back into that space and she was bursting the seams, unable to explain why her life suddenly felt so awkward and uncomfortable. On a number of occasions she actually said, "Mom, you're ruining my life!" I took it personally, of course, but in the light of retrospection she was feeling the pinch of the little kid box. I was suffocating her! Now, a heads-up on her need to expand herself  would have made it so much easier! Thanks Life Skills coach!

Sure it would have been a whole lot easier to just burn the box and call the whole parenting journey to an end, but we took another road. A harder one. It's steeper. But the view from the top is magnificent, I believe. We've given her a new box - with room to grow. And you know, she is completely fine with that. I have my little angel back. She's happy. I'm happy. 

And so we go.

***A friend and I undertook the job of educating our peers about the real threat of The Big Bad World. The year after we had experienced the Child Care course, we targeted the next group and managed to kidnap a baby for 2 weeks. We held the infant for ransom and the entire school was involved in the negotiation and return of child to mother.

On second thoughts, that sounds like an awful thing to let people know about.

We really only did it to prove a point.

And the doll was returned in good condition.

Ok.

Nevermind.

Commence the milk tooth migration!

This is a really big deal for me - the marking of the end of an era. Up until now the only signs of physical growth were measured according to outfits grown out of, shoes that became too tight. But this is personal - it's just so much closer. This is Nature talking. And when she talks, I, as the mother, sit up very straight and pay attention.

The first loose tooth!

Neither myself nor the mother of the year could bring ourselves to extract the wiggling little speck of enamel. He was completely queasy at the mention of a loose tooth, whereas I had a very important conference to attend to (it was about alleviating poverty and social decline in the lower reaches of upper Octravia - kind of crucial - and my contributions were very important. Ok?) So the job of pearly white retrieval was delegated to The Granny. One little tug and pop! my baby was one step closer to leaving the safety of our family nest. Eish!

She's getting bigger.

Sigh.

Next thing I know there'll be more wobbly bits in this household than any of us had ever signed up for. I can't bare to think about that...

Pulling out my Hair

I'm so embarrassed! Mortified, actually. I feel like I have failed a test of parental ability, or something like that. Me! Failed! It's unthinkable! But, there we have it!

The problem has been brewing for about a week, I guess. My little angel has been testing her boundaries. Exerting her independence. Determining the exact size and shape of her little place in the world. And, of course, this has lead to serious headbutting with her mother - me.

I have been exasperated in dealing with this little rebellion of hers. In fact, there have been days where I have felt that piercing my eye-lid with a knitting needle would be more fun than having the same arguments with my five-year old that have been coming up EVERY day. Oh. My. Hat.

It has become very clear to me that my little T-bird has taken an overdose of grumpy pills and is suffering a very negative side-effect. And, by 'negative', I do mean that anything that comes out of her mouth is in the negative: "No, I won't," "That's not mine," "You don't know," "I don't want to," "I can't do that", "I don't want to", "Not! Don't! No! Won't! Isn't!"

Aaaaaaaarrrrgh! Somebody book me a root-canal and a triple by-pass - it's bound to be more fun and easier than dealing with a five-year old on the verge of conquering the world.

I had actually even considered throwing in the rope. Holding the boundaries in place was just getting too hard to do. She's insisting she knows everything - so let her live her life without me trying to give it any structure. What. Ever. Isn't that what most people end up doing, anyway? Yeah, she was a nice kid. Once. Now she's a brat. Hello, real world.

My wake-up-and-smell-the-coffee alarm was tripped the other night, when she had ended up in bed with me (Dad was away on business), and at 2 o' clock in the morning, she started arguing with me over my pillow (her own had slipped off the bed). 

"Mom, you're on my pillow!" she insisted. 

"No, I'm not," I said, "Yours is right here," I slipped my arm down the side of the bed and pulled the pillow back up. 

"No," she whined, "you've got mine!" She tugged it from under my head. Fortunately for me, I'm stronger, and so I held onto it with a vice-like grip. 

"T," I said sternly, "I'm using this pillow." 

And then came the clincher. The words that made me realise that my daughter is clearly not in touch with reality. At 2 freaking AM her best argument was, "No, you're not!"

It took everything in me not to march her outside right then and there and duct-tape her to the front door for the rest of the night.

I decided I needed to put my foot down to this atrocious behaviour. We sat down and had a little heart-to-heart. And it went well, I thought. Things were going to be right as rain!

And then the unthinkable happened. I went to fetch my rehabilitated angel from school today and was met by a very serious-faced teacher who described my child's indiscretions of the day. My perfect little cherub had gotten into trouble at school! She had disobeyed a clear (and twice repeated) instruction from her teacher, and had ended up damaging school property. Woe is me. She was supposed to be exemplary! I have failed in my role as parent to raise an upstanding citizen. Is there any hope for me?

Oh, and just you wait till your dad hears about this, young lady!

Really good jobs

When somebody says they have a really good job, are they referring to what the job does for them in terms of self-improvement, or are they referring to how much they get paid? Or both, maybe?

The term "really good job" is usually used by the older generation when referring to their own children, isn't it? "We're so proud of John, he's got a really good job  (ie he can afford to live on his own and not sponge off on us anymore) and a really nice girlfriend (we're so glad he isn't psychotic) and is turning out pretty ok (when we were actually convinced he wouldn't get out of his teens without a criminal record!)"

In my mind, a really good job is one that helps to set you up for better and greater things (AND pays you handsomely as you go!)

I know several people who have really good jobs, in the sense that they provide the ideal environment for self growth, maturation, skills honing and overall experience,  (please note it's a really BIG comma), but they don't get the salary that would make their parents talk about their really good jobs!

And what about what I do? Pat me on the back and tell me I'm doing a really good job, but mothering is one of those uncategorised occupations, isn't it? Loads of work, plenty of experience, much opportunity for growth and skills honing (especially in the field of self-control), but no satisfying paycheck at the end of the month.

Look, before it comes back at me, let me just say I am not complaining - I chose this path freely, willingly (albeit slightly drugged) and with a complete understanding of what lay in store for me. My question is not really about the money thing (as there is so much reward to being a mother blah, blah, blah), but more about is mothering a really good job to have? Is it admirable? Enviable? Sort after? Exclusive? Great on the resume?

I'm just saying...

Mindnumbing Ramblings

I sit drowning my sorrows in a BIG bag of salt and vinegar chips - yip! That ol' MSG craving has struck again!

Not that I have many sorrows today - mostly just thoughts and ideas and questions.

Things like:

* Will my frozen toosh ever have feeling again?

* How the heck did I emerge from yesterday's therapy session with a multiple personality?

* Will the drip in the braai room somehow magically dry up?

* Surely Simba chips should have their own level on the food pyramid? Especially those fresh Salt and Vinegar ones.

* How can I take a long-weekend trip when I have to care for two very soft and fluffy bunnies?

* Is that the Maldives I hear calling my name?  Yip. It must be. The sound of gentle lapping waves on the shore, a coconut falling off a branch, a gentle warm breeze rustling the leaves. Sounds Maldivesy to me!

* Is Wall-E really the best animated film ever, or is Barry Ronge, film critique extraordinaire, just exaggerating?

* If I had to choose between my daughter and my camera, I would have a really perplexing decision on my hands. Does that make me a bad mother? (I could have killed her for dropping it on Saturday - Aaargh!)

* Isn't it time to be more eco-conscious? I mean, I really feel strongly that green is the new black, and all, but I should be far more active in modelling healthy, eco-friendly behaviour for my children.

* How awkward I feel for defending the emotional side, and not the logical side, of last week's tragic suicide. Sure it was wrong, but she really believed that there was not another option for herself. She honestly thought that she would be making things better for her children and her husband. Logic did not play a role in her decision.

* It sort of messes things up in my head a bit when I feel like a good 'ol cuss will do the trick to capture the moment in one four-letter word, when, at the same I just can't bring myself to do it. Why is it so hard to overcome vulgarity for the satisfaction of spitting out those descriptive and colourful phrases? Surely a healthy bit of *&#$@ couldn't hurt?

* Has my honesty frightened off a couple of role players in the bigger picture? Drat!

* Are parabens really that harmful to my hormones? 

* Since when did the STUFF move back into the study? Sure, we had two birthdays, one hospital stay, and three weeks of holidays, but is this STUFF for real?

* Did breastfeeding my children for as long as I did leave an indelible stamp of confidence and security on their wee foundations? Please say yes, please say yes!

* Will I ever again be able to pull in my tummy so that my hip bones stick out? Currently, I can suck it up all I like, and that pot-belly doesn't shift an inch!

Hmm! The crisps are finished and it's time to collect the kids...

How I entertain my husband

The road was long. It was getting late. We couldn't let the kids fall asleep just yet, otherwise bedtime at home would be a nightmare. We'd played "Eye-spy" till our eyeballs were burning. The guessing game had covered every conceivable noun in the Webster dictionary. We were at a loss.

I decided that telling jokes would be a worthwhile endeavour. So I started.

I tried the Viper joke. AirBear was terrified - she had her hands over her ears for the greater part of the joke. And I had to still explain the punch line. The mother of the year swallowed his laughter.

I tried the Rabbit joke AFTER I explained what "revitalise" and "permanent" mean. Blank looks from the back seat. More stifled laughter from the driver.

The white horse named Eric joke - no effect. The frog and the chicken joke- absolutely no reaction. The little red man joke (which I went to great pangs to simplify) also needed further explanation.

In the driver's seat the tears were rolling down his cheeks. He took great pleasure in my failed comedy. At this point I had had enough. "Fine," I sulked, "You tell them a joke."

His offer was "Spooketti - a ghost's favourite food". The children erupted with giggles.

Hmph! I could out do that! "What's a sea monster's favourite food?" I interrupted the laughter. "Fish and ships!"

Silence.

A cricket chirruped.

Damn!

The mother of the year drove us home with a smug look on his face. Jerk!

Counting my Blessings

It's become a bit of a tradition in my home that when Daddy is away, the girls all get to sleep in mom's bed. It's kind of a multipurpose arrangement. The kids get a bit of spoiling. Mom gets a bit of extra warmth in bed. And the family is all in one place in case of night-time "activities" (internal or external).

The rule, though, is that the girls have to go to sleep in their own beds, and when Mom goes to bed, she will put them in bed with her. Of course, if I put them to bed in the same bed at the same time, they would never fall asleep, and their would be mild hysteria if only one of them could fall asleep in my bed. So the rule stands.

Last night T-Bird insisted she would stay awake until I went to bed so that I wouldn't have to carry her. Every five minutes after light's out she would call from her room: "Mom, I'm still awake. I'm still waiting for you!"

After about an hour of that, I got a little irritated - she was throwing me off my FaceBook Scramble game. "T," I said, sternly, "I have put you to bed, and I expect you to fall asleep. NOW!"

"But, Mom," she called back, "It's your bed-time!"

I stayed up an extra hour later than I had planned, just to spite that comment.

Eventually I carried two dozing princesses to my bed and tucked them in. I placed them carefully, keeping enough place for me in between them. By the time I had switched off the light and found my way to my pillow, via the foot of the bed (a tricky accomplishment, I'll have you know!), a head that was not my own was resting on the central pillow.

I nudged it over to her side of the bed and snuggled down under the duvet. Under the covers I placed a hand on each of my daughters and thought how lucky I was to be able to have these treasures so close to me.

One of them rolled towards me. A little hand reached up for my face. The fingers smelt like bottom. I gently pushed them aside and turned to face my other child.

In turning my head, I landed up nose-to-nose with my offspring. She yawned into my face. I choked on malodorous morning breath. I turned back onto my back and sighed, pulling the blankets up around my chin. Totally priveledged to be flanked by these incredible beings, I gazed into the darkness.

On either side of me, a little leg lifted itself out from under the duvet and pushed the bedclothes down. I hung on to my piece of duvet as it was tugged towards the foot of the bed. I thanked my lucky stars for these beautiful children. And yanked the blankets back up.

The mini-battle that commenced was not pretty. There were casualties. They were the sleep-tuggers on either side of me. I was strong. My need for full night coverage prevailed. Eventually they gave up the fight, surrendering to the warmth of the duvet.

I lay panting in the night. It had been a tough fight. But thankfully, my offspring lay near me where I could reach out and touch them. Lucky me.

As the tossing and turning subsided, one child started a deep, rattly snore. This prompted the other one to follow suit. I was trapped in the middle. Stereo snoring. Great. I nudged and poked each of them, getting them to roll over and breathe normally. It helped - a little. 

Yip, I thought to myself, these little misses are heaven-sent. 

And with that, somehow, I drifted off to sleep.

*It must be noted, for the record, that when the girls awoke in the morning, they shared a pillow and started talking to each other. One of the first comments that was offered was "Oooh, your whole face stinks!" Which was met with, "No, your face smells really bad!"

So it's not just me...

Keeping it Together

For those of you who've been holding your breaths waiting to find out if I did in fact die in the night through tongue asphyxiation - thank you, your concern is duly noted. 

No, no. It would have been quite an exciting way to go, but, for it to happen, I would have to actually have been sleeping. 

What with midnight loo trips for the clan of the incredibly tiny bladders, as well as the monster-deterring vigil, and last but not least, the 3am brainstorming session to come up with a better dream for AirBear to have, because she apparently was not totally satisfied with that last one, sleep was elusive. The wee hours of the morning were concluded by inviting a cold-footed three year old into my bed so that I could at least get a little sleep.

"Cuddle me, Mommy," she demanded. I acquiesced, my right arm pinned down by a head of fly-away hair. The fly-away hair kept launching up my nose. I sneezed.

"You're bouncing my brains," she complained in a sleepy voice.

I mumbled an apology and twisted my head away from hers so as to avoid inhaling little strands of silky hair. Somehow, arching and twisted, I managed to fall asleep.

A kick woke me. She was sitting up in bed glaring at me. I had my back to her.

"You flopped me right at Daddy," she protested. "And now I'm awake."

I checked the clock: 05h30. The mother of the year was getting up.

"It's too early for you to be awake," I said. "Come cuddle with me." She wriggled away from me. "My daddy is going to make me some tea," she could have stuck her tongue out with that retort, but she didn't.

Only once she had received her tea, pointed out her father's inappropriate clothing choice, and received a shower of kisses from the departing man, did she slide back under the covers beside me, her ice-block toes sucking the life-force out of my midriff. She fell asleep. Just as T-Bird started stirring.

I understood then that I actually had no choice but to start the day. Leaving my baby tucked up in a cosy eiderdown cocoon, I ventured into the house to see to the needs of my five year old. (That's not true, actually. It was more to keep her from waking her sister than anything else.)

And as the sun started to rise, I realised that I was still alive. My tongue had not detached itself in the night, and I had not choked to death on it. It was somewhat of an anti-climax. Almost disappointing.