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?

You're gonna love me for this!

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

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

Well? Are you?

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

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

Try it!

Clever cost-cutting Techniques

It's holiday time, right? So the Mother of the Year has taken some leave, and we get to do all sorts of fun touristy things (which is easy when you live in Cape Town).

Yesterday we arrived at the V & A Waterfront, tried out the fun fair and went for a tour of the harbour. We ate fish & chips on the wharf and enjoyed soaking up a beautiful Cape Town day. On the way home, we stopped by at Century City, just to check out the toy store and make sure Father Christmas gets the right order. Ahem.

A cute Toyland train was huffing and puffing around the center court, taking lots of excited little people for a festive ride. T-Bird was enchanted. But it was late, and we were in a hurry to get home.

T-Bird: Please can we go for a ride on the train?

Me: It's time to go home.

T-Bird: Just a quick one?

Me: We're leaving now. And anyway, it's expensive, you know.

T-Bird: How expensive?

Me (I don't know the answer to her question): T, all these things we've done today, they cost money, you know. We've been on fun fair rides, boat rides, we've eaten out. A train ride will cost more money, and in the end it all adds up and becomes expensive.

T-Bird (mulling it over): Hmmmm. Well then, I have a brilliant idea!

Me: Hey?

T-Bird: A really very brilliant plan! (She starts bouncing up and down) What we must do is this: Air can stick to Dad, and I must stick to you. Then we must pretend that we don't know each other when we go on the train. And then we won't have to pay as much for the ride.

Me: Hey?

I am NOT a camper - sorry!

We've been talking about going camping during the December holidays. I was actually even starting to get into the camping vibe with self-speech like: it'll be sooo good for the kids; it's healthy; it's stress-free; we'll just get away from it all.

Part of the pre-planning planning stage of going camping, for us, was to erect the tent to see what bits and pieces we may be missing (another item on that end of year to-do list - CHECK!).

When Friday afternoon arrived, our four-man tent was erected in our back yard. We discovered that we were, in fact, missing two tent pegs for the shade cloth that fits over the whole contraption. At least we know - shew!

But an erected tent in the backyard - let's just get back to that statement right there, shall we? It was all the kids could do to not explode with excitement. Excitement which spilled over into anguished pleas to sleep in the tent.

What the heck, right? We might as well get a bit of camping practice in while we can, before we set out on a trip only to discover that we were not made to camp.

So we set up camp; the kids sharing on a spare mattress, and the mother of the year and me on the blow-up double mattress. With all the essential necessities (duvets, pillows, reading material etc), our whole family went to bed at 20h30 - but only because we couldn't put the kids to bed outside by themselves now, could we?

Sleeping in your garden poses a couple of, shall we call them, discomforts. Firstly, we live in South Africa. Secondly, our house is fully secured by burglar alarm, but sadly, our garden is not. Thirdly, we live in South Africa.

So the first thing I become aware of, is how bloody loud the traffic is when I am not surrounded by the volume control of brick and cement. I swear there was some kind of drag race down my street. All. Night. Long. No kidding. I woke up about six times due to speed freaks zooming past our house throughout the night.

The next minor irritation was the size of my shared sleeping space. I am accustomed to a king-size bed. I like to be able to toss and turn until I find my comfy-position, without rolling over into an elbow, an armpit or a forehead. And another thing about blow-up mattresses is that when more than one person is lying on one, the lighter of the two tends to roll towards the heavier one who is demonstrating far stronger gravity effects than the less heavy of the two. So I spent most of the night clutching onto my side of the mattress, trying to anchor myself and avoid slipping into the valley of the elbows.

There's that, and then also the fact that whenever your sleeping partner moves on a blow-up mattress, you tend to get bounced around a bit. And this is not conducive to good sleep.

And did I mention the bit about living in South Africa? Well, we do. And with that comes the constant awareness of crime. Every South African has some degree of cognizance of what kind of a target you may represent to a lurking criminal. And even more so when you're sleeping in your garden. Outside of the protection of your burglar bars and laser beams. Every little noise raises the hair on the back of your neck. Even the bunnies munching grass sound like ominous creeping feet.

So all in all, it was not an easy night. And by 4am when T-Bird had a bad dream and yelled out: "Daddy, look out! The bad guy's behind you with a gun!", I can honestly say I had had enough. As you can imagine, my adrenaline levels sky-rocketed. My heart was beating so fast I thought my sternum was going to disintegrate!

I settled my T-Bird, and placed her next to her (deeply sleeping) father. I climbed into (the single mattress) bed with AirBear and tried to while away the next couple of hours.

The discussion the following morning between my darling hubby and myself revolved around how much I do not want to go camping. That, and how flipping stiff my neck was. He assures me the problem lies with the mattress. But would you blame me if I turned down the invite?

A mid-winter tanning Session

OK. So I don't have a photo to prove it, but it is true, I swear! I was on the beach this morning in a bikini! See, it wasn't all just lighthearted ramblings, when I said that I should spend more time on the beach in my bikini. I didn't think it would happen so soon, admittedly, being winter and all, but happen it did - brave me!

I found myself sitting on a rock in the sun. The girls, much to my disgust (and amusement), had stripped off their winter woolies and were frolicking in the freezing Atlantic waters lapping at the Paternoster beach. My body cried out for a double dose of Vitamin D. (Which, I guess would be vitamin DD - how appropriate!)

I succumbed. I had put my bikini top on as it was our last day and I had run out of clean underwear - a very convenient excuse, I know. I lay my less than perfect body out on that barnacle-covered rock and roasted at a moderate temperature for a full 20 minutes, turning occasionally. I admit that I did keep an eye out for any local fishermen who may have approached to try and sell off their illegal catch of crayfish. But, keeping their distance, kept me absorbing UVA.

And what a truly magnificent way to bring a long-weekend, mini-break to an end: Paternoster rocks! Now reality and the Durbanville chill are sinking in. Back to the grindstone, folks!

PS - I don't want any comments about the lack of photo to prove this event, thank you - I did it - take my word for it. And anyway, a photo would have rather ruined the memory...

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...

Rainy Day Blues

So it's been raining, like, forever! PLUS it's school holidays.... which just equals "Aaaaaargh!!!"

The girls and I are completely chocolate-chip cookie-baked out. We're all Planet-Earthed out. We've painted, we've Play-Doed, we've Legoed, we've forted, we've mosaiced, we've danced, we've puzzled, we've Disney DVDed. And still the rain falls.

The washing basket is over-flowing. The earthworms are committing Hare-Kiri from out of the water-logged soil. The ants have moved inside. The water pours down the wall in the lounge. A film of mould is growing around the tumble drier as the condensation it emits has nowhere to evaporate to.  And still the rain falls.

The bath towels stay damp. The gas heater radiates its heat into an all-absorbing chill. We stay in our slippers throughout the day. We regard what's going on outside the confines of our protective walls with dubious skepticism. The sun makes a tease-appearance, casting a glimmer of gold upon the garden. Rain drops clinging to grass blades and leaves reflect brief sparks of light across the lawn. Then the clouds engulf the sun. And the rain falls.

I love my home. The roof over our heads. The protection from the elements. The well-watered garden. The recently planted herb-patch which I've been too chicken to check if it's been washed away or not. The unused turnstile washing line behind the house. The ample opportunity to scoop the girls up and chuck them into my bed where we can make up stories under the duvet while we keep each other warm and munch on rice-cakes. And still the rain falls.

The weather bureau promises a warmer weekend. I'll take that prediction with a pinch of salt, thanks. After all, this is Cape Town where the weather also listens to the meteorologists, and then does whatever the hell it feels like, and usually whatever is opposite to the most recent prediction. Just to spite the news team, I think.

Home again, home again!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tale of a Taxi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Defending the Blog

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

Absence makes the heart grow fonder

Sometimes leaving the past behind should be just that - left behind. Sometimes it is NOT a good idea to casually finger through those memory files labelled "Done and Dusted". Sometimes picking up on a past story or explanation is more like picking open an old dried scab to release a bloody explosion of unrefined feelings and and undisclosed regrets.
At this point please do not refer to a blog on this site labelled "Living without Regrets", because I take it all back, I am a world-class hypocrite, I cannot for the life of me bring myself to regret nothing that ever happened to me, nothing ever said to me, and nothing I ever did as a result of trying to figure out how this quagmire of complexities called LIFE is actually supposed to work.
I have regrets. I have hurts. I am angry about things that happened to me. I am disappointed by events and situations that I had no say over. I need a stronger anti-depressant. And I'm not even pre-menstrual.
That, or maybe I'm a little Hhhmschk (she mumbles from behind her hand). Sorry? You didn't get that? I said I'm a little hmsishuh,uh (she sips some water). OK OK, already! You want to hear me say it? Homesick. There! Happy? Yes, I miss the kids. Yes, I miss my husband. Yes, I miss my house. Even the neighbourhood dog who always leaves a fragrant parcel on my front lawn - ok, so maybe I don't miss the dog. Do I regret being nearly 6000km from the center of my universe? No. Is my inner CEO getting a little wobbly? Sure. Would I prefer the sound of suburban traffic to five Calls-to-Prayer a day? Not really- it's a bit nostalgic, just like the sound of a mosquito near your ear reminds you of fun times camping outside on the garden lawn when you were a kid. Would I change anything about this very moment right here and right now? Of course yes! I would give a whole sand-castle cemented together with A-grade camel dung to have my most important people with me.

Starting with a Pang!

Meet Moni. Moni is possibly one of the strongest woman I have ever met. Moni is a massage therapist at Saad Clinic. Moni is no stranger to suffering. She is well-trained in inflicting great deals of pain. But Moni carries a little bit of Heaven in her hands.
She established the pressure that was comfortable, and then proceeded to apply 7 times that to parts of my body that have never been massaged before. Like, for instance, that spot just under and behind my armpits. I think what she did is considered deep lymphatic drainage, but if I could actually see the spot (I can't; I've tried) I would be telling you just how bruised I am. Now when I move my arm like this, it actually buzzes a little bit.
Included in Moni's Swedish massage therapy was a little Vietnamese torture ritual that goes something like this: offer your client a BIG glass of water before you start, be sure to make her comfortable lying on her stomach, let the faucet drip nearly imperceptibly in the background (just beneath the volume of Enya's sweet serenade), every now and then apply a little pressure in the vicinity of her bladder - increase gradually. If done correctly your client's bladder should be bursting by the time the massage is over, making it practically impossible for her to relax completely. Good job!
OK so it sounds bad, but it wasn't really. I feel like a new woman (just like a lump of Play-Do can feel like a dog or a cat after some molding and hammering). I admit that I have been kneaded into a mild state of holiday. I know I insisted that this venue was as far from a holiday spot as possible, that in the heat and the sand it's more like a touch of Hell (and really I did this to try and make it easier for the dear individuals I left behind), but I think today Moni sprinkled (read as rammed) a tiny bit of Heaven into Hell, and I am all the better for it.

Leaving on a jet plane

I am preparing for a two-week international break. On my own. Alone.

I dare not show too much enthusiasm for fear of offending my nearest and dearest. If I act slightly pleased at the prospect, they may interpret this as me being relieved to be rid of them for a fortnight. They may think that I don't love them, or worse still, that I won't be coming back.

This morning I went to wake my eldest. I gave her the daily body-rub-to-get-going (a ritual that involves vigorous rubbing of arms, back and legs - great for wakening the senses and getting the circulation flowing). She didn't open her eyes. Instead, she held up all the fingers of her right hand and the thumb of her left hand.

"Six?" I asked. "What's six?"

"Six more days till you leave," she rolled over and pulled her duvet up over her head.

How am I supposed to take that? My five year old's first words to me in the morning are along the lines of I'm-counting-down-to-your-departure. What does it mean? 

For the past week my usually easy-going three year old has been grunchy and obstreperous. I was considering the possibility of premature PMT when I put my domestic puzzle together and realised that she might just be acting up in lieu of me leaving. Am I bad mother?

As for my adonis, well, I'm pretty sure he's not too thrilled about the prospect of my absence either. Don't get me wrong, he's been very supportive throughout (above and beyond the call of duty), but I sense he may be a little down about my trip. Am I bad wife?

Having just (as in the last month) dedicated myself completely to the health and welfare of my little family, putting my career aside to focus my attention on the needs and desires of the three people who mean the world to me, should I really be abandoning them to pursue my own wishes? Isn't that a little hypocritical? I am an awful person. Surely there is some kind of horrible punishment in the after-life for stay-at-home moms who abandon their posts. Perhaps I will be reincarnated as crash-test dummy, forever cursed with whiplash. Or maybe, if the re-incarnation thing doesn't materialise, I'll end up in heaven solely due to my Mother-status, and get assigned to the cherub's diaper department and do doo-doo duty for all eternity.