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.

The Whale Tale

In the early hours of Saturday morning, a pod of false killer whales (at first misidentified as pilot whales) beached themselves on Kommetjie beach. There were about 55 of them in total. This kind of mass beaching doesn't happen very often - about once in 10 or 20 years, so we took a drive out there to witness the spectacle.

Quite something to behold - the whales were not all the humungous animals you would have expected - some were smaller than dolphins.

The volunteers and rescue workers battled most of the day to get the whales back into the water and out to deep sea. Those animals that were water-borne didn't stay there for long. They either turned back right there and made for their beach graveyard, or drifted further up the coastline to beach themselves anyway. Many of the land-trapped creatures were stressed, dehydrated and experiencing suffocation due to the great mass of their own bodies crushing their lungs.

The rescue workers were dedicated to their task. We watched their tireless efforts for about 20 minutes before officials started requesting onlookers to evacuate the beach. Euthanizing whales is possibly not the best public display on earth, so they were trying to make it easier for everyone: the onlookers, the whales and the guy that had to pull the trigger. By that time, it was reported that 10 whales had already died on the beach due to stress or suffocation.

As we turned to leave we heard an emotional cry from a concerned spectator calling for another chance for the whales. She so badly wanted to save them.

Today the discussions around the incident are about how the public made the beaching far more traumatic than it needed to be. I actually heard a report claim that some whales suffered due to the fact that there were distressed onlookers in the vicinity. Another complaint was aimed at the media for making a spectacle of the beaching and encouraging people to go to the beach to see the whales.

As for the public: we left before the shots started ringing out, but I can imagine that it would have been a terrible thing to witness. I know of no reports that confirm that any of the whales survived that day. They either perished due to the nature of their predicament, or their suffering was brought to a quick end by some poor soul with a pistol.

 concern is this: This phenomenal event happens so infrequently. It's a natural occurrence. The chances are that most of those visitors to Kommetjie Beach on Saturday will never again see anything like that. Who's to say that the whole event should have been covered up? Hush-hush? I felt a bit annoyed when the workers and police started asking people to leave. Since when did a natural disaster become a privately owned affair?I say nonsense! If people were able to experience that, so much the better! Yes it was tragic. Yes it was emotional. Yes it was difficult. But there is no doubt in my mind that every person who walked away from that beach that day was reminded about the fragility of life. Whether they agreed with the euthanizing of those awesome animals, or were working fervently to release them back into the Atlantic, each individual there that day cannot deny that witnessing creatures of that magnitude give up their lives on that beach is an event that will not soon be forgotten.

The chill factor

A mom in the crowd of the "patient waiters" who gather outside the school gates at 12:30 every day asked me if I still hate winter. She caught me a bit off-guard. 

"Huh? Sorry?"

"Last year you said you hated winter and that you couldn't get up in the mornings," she reminded me.

Wow, I thought, good memory for a lady who's just had a baby.

"Hmmm, I did say that, didn't I?" 

It's true. I hate winter mornings. It's dark, so there's no pressing reason to get up. It feels like my alarm is going off in the middle of the night. Every. Single. Morning. It's cold and my bed is so, so warm. Most winter mornings I will be running late, because I just can't get myself going. It feels so wrong to leave the cosy sanctuary of my eiderdown.

I don't mind the rest of the day, really. It's quite satisfying bundling up against the chill, watching the rain drizzle outside, sipping on hot chocolate. By evening, a fire is lit, heaters are on, fuzzy slippers are the required footwear. Winter, itself is a festive and pancake-worthy season. But those winter mornings! How I wish we could start a normal winter day with a bit of sunshine and flip flops. Even daylight savings would be worth a shot if it meant we could just get the day going a little bit later.

Please, Uncle Jacob! Please can we start winter days later?

Girl Talk

Dear Wives, Mothers, Sisters, Females of the Species

I write to you under the influence of fresh dog turd marched through my house on the shoes of my four year-old, and, as such, I cannot take full responsibility for what I may say now, as the fumes of canine excrement seem to hamper my normal functioning.

Sisters, ladies, sufferers of menstrual cramps and gynaecological examinations. My fellow wearers of tampons and corsetry. Women of the world, you busty and hormonal defenders of the meek, vaccuumers of popcorn kernels and likers of all things pink. Those of you that enjoy the pampering of a french manicure and delight in all things pretty. You who at some point in you lives have appreciated ballet and Hello Kitty. I summon you all closer so that I may divulge a little secret.

(All that gynae crap and lace and frills stuff was to bore the men and shake them off the scent of the knowledge which I am about to impart to my sisters).

You've heard the expression: Men, you can't live with them, you can't shoot them, right?Well, it's true. You shouldn't shoot men. In fact, please don't. Men can be quite useful for cleaning out the litter tray and opening tightly screwed-on lids. So we do kind of need them.

No, I am in no way condoning violent behaviour. Instead I wish to impart a coping mechanism to my sisters who share the burden of trying to see eye-to-eye with the men they share a life with.

We've all experienced that quandry when the charming beast of a man that you note as your significant other let's you down in a nose-dive of chasmic proportions. We've all looked into the eyes of this muscular chunk of masculinity and been completely unable to comprehend the inner workings of that mind that seems to be fueled by Formula 1 and rugby. At some point, we've all rolled our eyes to the heaven's and begged to be understood by the slab of testosterone that sleeps in our beds. And more than once, the cosmic differences between Mars and Venus have lead to disputes, arguments, and in some cases, nuclear jihad.

We just want them to get us. We want them to hold our hands when we're looking at a beautiful sunset, not start a game of tonsil hockey. We want them to put a comforting arm around our shoulders when we're teary, not to suggest we go talk to a shrink. We want them to wink at us across a crowded room, not order another beer. 

Ladies, let me tell you a little secret. And I mean this sincerely. From the bottom of my heart, with the utmost respect for the carriers of the y-chromosome:

Men are retarded.

Now don't get into a flap, everyone! Seriously. I say it with my greatest appreciation for that which is "Man". Men ARE retarded. Say it a couple of times, and suddenly it all makes sense.

Why do they watch a field of sweaty blokes chasing a chunk of dead cow? Why do the burp and fart in company? Why do they consider a beer and pizza as a decent meal? Why do they battle to sort the lights from the darks?

But what I think is most beautiful about this revelation is this: not only does it explain a man's short-comings, but far more valuable than that, it creates a sense of pity for our brothers. When you're pulling your hair out with frustration over the way your man behaves, just think to yourself, "Ag shame, he's retarded," and suddenly you can't be mad at him. Your anger evaporates like the morning dew, and instead you feel a sense of sympathy for your better half. You look at him with affection and mild amusement, and you know, in your heart, that he does mean to do things right, but he just can't quite get it right all the time.

And everything is ok.