To tell the tooth...

Alright. Confession time. Before I begin, may I just say that as a child I developed a deep infatuation for the resident tooth mouse. I wrote him letters with each tooth I lost. I read his replies over and over again. With every displaced incisor, my excitement was more for the news I would receive from my little mousey friend than for the few cents he would reimbursed me with. Naturally, having daughters of my own, and fond memories of that entrepreneurial little rodent, it seemed only fair to replay the fantasy for their sakes. When the first tooth came out, my children's friendship with Taffy began. Letters between my girls and the mouse travelled back and forth, always accompanied by whoops of laughter as they read about Taffy's adventures and the plans he had for their teeth. But I digress. I said it was confession time, and confession time it is. Let me rewind to the evening that my eldest daughter lost her first tiny little tooth. A bitter sweet moment it was. A step away from innocence. A simple progression towards independence. Tales of the tooth mouse were related as the precious little pearl was ceremoniously placed at the foot of her bed, an offering to a furry stranger. A slice of cheese was left for the midnight collector, just in case. That night the tooth was collected, replaced by a shiny coin. And the first mousey epistle was left, offering much thanks for the cuspid. But that little tooth... That tiny, sparkling, perfect little tooth! What was really to become of it? Taffy had mentioned that it was perfectly suited to a pathway he was constructing in his garden. But as I held it in the palm of my hand, I was faced with a mild dilemma. Call me sentimental, but for the life of me, I just couldn't bring myself to drop that little dentyne nugget into the trash can. So i kept it. And i kept the one that came after that as well. One day, i thought, when the proverbial cat was out of the bag, I would show my offspring their collection of precious dental memories, and they would be ennthralled by the magic of it all. There have been (unfortunate) instances when my darling husband has had the honor of assisting Taffy's financial reimbursement, and those little teeth have not found their way into my safe-keeping, but have ended up in a local landfill- much to my horror, of course. Look, don't judge me, ok? I know of mothers who have kept their children's shriveled umbilical cord stumps! Judge them, because THAT'S weird. But teeth, not so much! It's unlikely that teeth will attract the same predatory attention as a bit of dried bloody tendon. No cat will be scratching at my bedside table looking to snack on a tooth, right? Have you found yourself unable to discard some precious momento of your baby's childhood?

Testing me

Yesterday morning I was woken to the sound of a ceramic plate smashing on the floor in the kitchen. Needles to say, I flew out of bed, gripping the passage walls to steer me in the direction of the kitchen, and arrived there, all bedrugged and sleepy, to find my darling daughters in the throes of making breakfast in bed for their sleeping parents.

The shattered plate lay in shards and two pairs of bare feet tiptoed around the edges of the splinters.

I was about to warn the owners of those naked feet about the dangers of glass shards when my eyes fell on something else. My youngest daughter was about to remove hot toast from the toaster using a pair of metal braai-tongs.

"AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!"

is what I screamed in my head.

"SSSSSSTOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!!!!"

is what my mouth screamed.

Everyone burst into tears, thankfully unelectrocuted.

So I guess that makes it a good day then?

My terrible confession.

It's safe to say that birthday parties have been a big deal in our house. The reason for this is not very clear. I have a couple of old photos in an album of simple parties thrown for me as a child. Not many, but the few that are there have captivated my memory and my imagination. They are some of my favourite childhood pics. I guess that by throwing super parties for my girls, I hoped to leave them with memories (amply recorded on film) which are happy and satisfying.

My girls are 6 and 7. As far as birthday parties go, that's 13 ticked off. We've had, in chronological order, the following birthday parties:

* Musical (1)

* Bubbles (2)

* Pretty in pink (1)

* Fairies in the garden (3)

* Butterflies (2)

* Mary Poppins (4)

* Princesses (3)

* Mermaids (5)

* Ballet (4)

* Pet party (6)

* Teddy bears (5)

* Arty Party (7)

* Jungle fun (6)

All these parties (except the first, and least memorable) were self-planned, home-hosted, DIY events. A LOT of time and effort has gone into each one. And a LOT of money. To justify the expense, I must just add that I have always been very grateful for the fact that one daughter celebrates in July and the other in December. This has given me ample time to plan, create, spend etc from one celebration to the next, thereby never really feeling the pinch of the extra effort and money that has gone into each event. It is quite true to note that most of these parties were 90% ready-to-roll a whole month before the event actually took place.

So back to today. I never really know how much I have spent on a party (as it is over several months, and I usually include items in with my groceries), but I estimate that overall costs have been well over a thousand rand. Which, I understand, is about average for a party these days. Give or take a couple of hundred rands.

Which brings me to my terrible confession...

In July we tucked the youngest's sixth birthday party to bed and, as is normal, discussions for the eldest's next party ensued. The party themes being discussed in great depth ranged from Dolphins to Hospitals. Everyone's creative juices were flowing. Everyone except for me. My creative juices were rancid and drying uppish. I was experiencing a creative juices drought.

The thought of arranging another party has, for the first time in my life, loomed before me like a cold monolithic mountain, daring my to ascend. And quite frankly, for the first time ever, I do not want to plan a party for my dear daughter. I do not wish to take on the yolk of party planner, even if it is for my sunshine child. No thanks. I'm just not in the mood.

So here's the bad part: to weasel out of my party-planning responsibilities, I resorted to bribery. I made an offer I knew my sweet child could not refuse. I turned to the old "Money or the Box" ploy. Five hundred rand versus a full blown party. Money to spend on whatsoever she should choose, versus the time and effort and love of a carefully planned celebratory event.

She considered her alternatives over a couple of days, switching from one option to the other. Eventually, she chose the money. She let me off the hook.

I bought her out.

BAD MOMMY! I know.

Of course we will still celebrate her birthday, but there will not be a party for her this year.

Feels kind of strange.

Feels good. Feels bad.

Finding the Right Costume

Tonight I attended a lecture at school about preparing your children for the future. While being eye-opening, and all, it left me feeling a little out of sorts.

To equip your child for the future, the speaker urged that an important characteristic your child needs to develop and have nurtured is the sense of knowing themselves. Your child needs to know themself.

Hmm.

Know thyself.

Heck! I don't even know myself! How can I encourage my little people to know themselves?

I am still trying to find out what this body is capable of (now that it's starting to show signs of wear and tear). I don't think I've ever gotten proper mileage out of it.

And this mind? Well, it has yet to discover its passion - the thing it craves more than anything else in the world.

I have not found my forte, my pre-occupation. I still feel like the kid in high school who has to make a career choice when actually, the greatest concern for her at that moment is trying to figure out how to clasp her bra behind her back without dislocating her shoulder. That's me. I'm still coming to terms with this body. This life. This planet. And I'm expected to know myself!?!?!?

I have tried on various robes, and none of them have fit me comfortably. I have dabbled in an assortment of occupations and yet have not found my niche. My happy place. I so badly want to find my purpose. My fulfillment. My craze.

You get these people (just as an example) who are just mad about what they do. They love, love, love their jobs. I've never really experienced that.

Currently my preoccupation is with my children. I just want to be a good mommy. And I want to raise happy, well-adjusted, socially-acceptable, valuable, confident adults. That's my goal.

But the truth is that a part of me wriggles, and sits uncomfortably, trying desperately to be patient; to wait her turn. There's a yearning within me to discover the little piece that would make everything make sense. I wish to fulfill a potential that I believe I have, but have not yet unlocked. I wish to really know myself. If I could know myself, I could be so useful to my children and my dear husband, helping them to attain their potentials too.

In my endeavors to "find myself", I have tried on various outfits, and none of them have fit me perfectly; not without pulling across my enormous boobs, or riding up at the back. I have put on the smock of the artist - it belonged to someone else. I have tried on the shoes of the dancer and carried the satchel of the student. The athlete's trainers left me with a twisted ankle. I have worn the spectacles of the educator, and pricked my fingers with the pins of the seamstress. I tried on the uniform of the nurse and carried the scales of the midwife. I put on the frown of the small business owner, and it gave me a headache. The agriculturist's wellington boots are resting on the doormat. I have tapped on the keyboard of the web-designer as well as at the keyboard of the pianist. I have worn the apron of the housewife and driven the station wagon of the mother. I have doodled with the pens of the writer and blinded myself with the photographer's flash. I have followed the books of the church (which were heavy), and I sang the mantra of the yogis (which lifted my spirits greatly). And in all of this, the thing, the one thing that would define me, escapes me.

Is it too late to go for career counselling?

Sanctuary

Please turn off your cell phones. Therapy is now in progress.

Sanctuary is such a big deal for me. A place of safety. A place to rest. Protection. Peace. Serenity.

Everyday I want to put "Sanctuary" as my status on Facebook. Why? Because I want it so much. I so badly want to know that I am safe. That nothing can harm me. That I do not need to fear. That I needn't worry about tomorrow. Guaranteed. I feel as though I have ached for sanctuary my whole life. The fear of losing a home, of not knowing if there will be another meal. The desperate isolation of rejection. Facing such unbearable loneliness and insecurity as a child was a nightmare. All I wanted was to be held in loving arms and rocked to sleep; warm and safe.

All I wanted was sanctuary.

And if I want "sanctuary" so badly, surely I should do all in my power to provide it to my children too?

The evolved world is a rotten place. And somehow life continues despite (or maybe because of) the compost. When I think about the challenges and obstacles that lie in wait for my kids, I shudder. There is so much that they must face and overcome. There are so many stresses and problems and nasties and nightmares that I cannot protect them from. What about their sanctuary? Where will they find asylum?

The answer, of course, lies with me. Their haven is here. With me. It is my duty as their mother and guardian to provide them with safe space. Space to be themselves. Space to fail. Without pressure. Space to mess up. Space to let go. Space to make a mistake and know that it's alright and that there will be another chance to try again.

If I put pressure on my children to excel, expected them always to be on their very best behaviour, ran such a tight ship that any misdemeanor got them thrown overboard, there would be no sanctuary for them. No place to unwind. Then the world really would be an incredibly unfriendly place for them. I cannot let that be.

This woman here, pledges allegiance to her offspring. She swears to offer them a place of safety, an assured oasis, a calm in the storm, wherever we may find ourselves in this great big scary world. (Sounds slightly reminiscent of our marriage vows. Hmm.) She aims to refrain from criticizing, she will not manipulate or coerce. My children MUST know that I will always provide them with a shelter against the gnashing, grabbing, gurgling gargoyles that pull down the unsuspecting.

This sanctuary is open. Come home my little chickens.

Girls, girls, girls

When I was a little girl, all I ever wanted was to have girl-dolls. There were times that my mother tried to coax me across the gender divide. She tried to persuade me that boy babies could be ok too. After all, she herself had given birth to three strapping young lads before I arrived, and she had initially found the prospect of raising a daughter somewhat daunting.

It was, in fact, during my baby-doll infatuation phase that the anatomically correct baby dolls became the "in-thing". My mother tried to persuade me that the little boy dolls with their tiny little penises were so much more interesting than the little girl baby-dolls that had a dent in the plastic between their legs.

I didn't take the bait. All I wanted was my girls. Girls. Girls. Girls.

My heart was so set on having girl babies, that at the tender age of 5, I made a point of praying twice a day, beseeching my god to give me girl babies. Surrounded by my three older brothers, I felt outnumbered. I needed to increase the girl power and reduce the loneliness.

You might be interested to learn exactly what I was praying for:

"Hello, God," I would begin, kneeling next to the side of my bed on little grazed knees. Kneeling seemed the right thing to do. It somehow seemed to make my supplication that much more sincere. "Please give me a little girl. I really, really want, er, need a little girl, who is mine-all-mine." At this point I would open my eyes and furtively check on my proximity to the darkness under the bed - my god needed to know how desperate I was considering how close I was to the bogeys and ghoulies living in that thick blackness. I would shuffle on my knees and peek over my shoulder to make sure that my bedroom door was open - I would need an unobstructed exit if a scaley hand were to make its appearance from under my night frill. "Really, God. Please, please, please can I have a little girl that is mine all mine. I would really like a little girl tomorrow please. One that I will look after and keep with me. She can be very little, I don't mind. I'll keep her in my pocket and feed her scraps from my plate. I promise I will look after her very well."

The fear of the lurking predator under my bed would always get the better of me. I would persuade myself that my god could hear my request just as well from under my bedcovers as he could from the rough cold carpet. So I would leap, in one swift fluid motion, from the floor onto my bed. Without interrupting my prayer ("Please, please, please, please") I would dive under my sheets and tuck them in tightly all around me - an impenetrable shield against the forces of evil who schemed world domination under my mattress.

The prayer would continue: "Please, asseblief, please, please, puhleeeeeeze. Oh dear God, dear wonderful, amazing, able to do absolutely anything God, please can I have a little little girl. And please can she be able to speak. English. So that she can speak to me. And I also promise, God, that I will keep her a secret. You don't have to even tell my mom to check on her. I'll look after her very well on my own."

Once in a while, I would think it might be a good idea to let my god know that I had total confidence in his abilities to accomplish the impossible. As I lay tightly tangled in my linen, eyes pinched shut hunds clenched tightly together across my chest, I would declare, "I know you can do it. I believe. I believe. I believe. Please, please, please."

And as the heaviness of sleep began to weigh my little body down, I would promise myself that I would say "please" as much as I could while I was still awake.

And so I prayed. Every day. For more than a year. And as I grew up, I realised how foolish my request had been. Preposterous, in fact. So I moved on.

But one day, many many years later, I woke up and discovered, to my delight, that I actually did have a very little girl who was mine-all-mine. A little girl that I could take with me, and look after and feed and talk to. And to my surprise, there was a second little girl for me to look after and care for, and I realised that I must have prayed really, really hard. The girls were everything I had ever longed for.

The Mouths of Babes

As far as religion and spiritual matters go, I'm not descriptive. I don't enforce a specific spiritual code in my home. I grew up in a conservative baptist home where my entire family was very involved in the church. Sunday school, church choir, music department, youth camps, Sunday sermon tech, prayer meetings, woman's group, bible study, outreach and missions - we were involved in it all.

But then something happened (which is an entirely separate story on its own, and one which I will dissect carefully for you - but not today), and now I am unconnected to "The Church". When it was just me, this wasn't really a problem, but with the arrival of the girls I had to stop and ask myself quite seriously, "What about them?"

I had many arguments with myself about my spiritual obligations towards my offspring - the passing on of morals and biblical values; my responsibility of educating them re: the forces of good and evil etc. Most of these arguments are still incomplete.

As things stand, my children rarely go to Sunday school. I read them bible stories when they ask for them, or because I hear them discussing key characters incorrectly placed and I feel guilty that they don't know the stories by rote like I did when I was their age. I get embarrassed when they talk about how Moses was swallowed by the whale, or how Joseph and Eve were in the garden of Eden together (these muddled stories are most often sparked by discussions at school). We say grace before meals on occasion (for me it's less of a prayer and more of an observance of gratitude).

While some Christian input is offered by their paternal grandparents, at this stage, most of my children's biblical education happens at school.

Today was Ascension Day, and the children took part in crafts and stories related to the event at school.

On the way home from school, the car conversation was based on Ascension Day. T-bird had made a paper-cup heaven (coloured blue and stuck about with cotton wool clouds) with a paper Jesus hanging on a string which could be pulled up inside the upside-down cup to represent his ascent into Heaven. She was demonstrating her creation to her sister.

"Look! Jesus is going to Heaven," she said as she pulled the string through the hole punched in the bottom of the cup making Jesus disappear into the waxy chalice.

"I can still see his feet," Air-Bear pointed out matter-of-factly.

"He doesn't fit in my heaven so well," explained her sister. "So he can just come out again." And she tugged on Jesus' paper feet to draw him back into plain view.

"Do you know what Ascension Day is?" I asked the girls as I turned into our street.

Air-Bear leapt at the opportunity to share her knowledge. This is what she said: "Jesus died and came alive again at Easter. Then he stayed for about a month and then it was Ascension Day. On that day he went to Heaven to help God make beds for everyone."

Yes! Hello! I'll go for a heaven where there's a bed made for me - I think I could justify some celestial sleep.

The Death of the Easter Bunny and Other Misadventures in PMS

Easter Morning. Too early for sane people to have risen. An urgent little voice rouses me from my sleep. "Mommy," it demands. "You must wake up! It's Easter. And I looked outside. And the Easter Bunny HASN'T been! Is the Easter bunny even real?"

"It's too early for the Easter Bunny to have been. Go back to bed." I mumble.

Of course she doesn't. She goes to wake her sister and the two of them busy themselves with the PS2.

I roll over in bed. The man sleeping next to me has not flinched. He is immune to the early morning pleads of our offspring. I kick him in the shin.

"Here's the plan," I instruct the zombie lying before me. "We'll put all the eggs in one basket - literally. I'll get the breakfast things going and you put the choccies in a nice gift bag, take them around to the front door, ring the doorbell and the girls can find them there."

We are in agreement. The next few minutes are a jumble of pyjamas, clothing, shoes, gift bags, eggs, tissue paper and coffee. He disappears discreetly out the back door and I start a load of washing.

The doorbell rings. Unfortunately, I'm up to my elbows in er, cornflakes. I yell for the girls to get the door as my darling husband waltzes in the back door - a bead of perspiration clinging to his left eyebrow.

The girls dash to the door, struggle with the keys, open it and Lo, and behold! A beautiful gift bag lies abandoned on our doorstep. Oh the excitement! The sheer thrill of finding a treasure like this. Hastily they bring it in, giggling and chatting about what it could be and who it could be from.

Peering over their shoulders, the man of the house declares, "It's from the Easter Bunny, of course!"

"No, it isn't!" is not the response we were waiting for, but it is the one we got. The eldest child has discovered a card attached to the bag and proceeds to read it with great care: "Dear Air-Bear. Happy Birthday! From Hannah"

Silence erupts. And then the moment dissolves into utter confusion.

T-bird says, "Air-Bear, it's for you. From Hannah."

Air-Bear says, "But it's not my birthday."

Father says, "No! It's from the Easter bunny." And snatches the evil card away.

I shoot daggers at the man who, up until that point had played his role flawlessly. He gestures over their heads, "What?!?!?"

I gesture, "You die today."

I mean REALLY!!! Standing on the brink of the beauty which is childhood fantasy and the looming, neverending tide of reality and you go and do an irresponsible thing like that! Just throw it all away, why don't you! And while you're at it tell them the tooth fairy didn't react well to the Target insecticide spray and that Santa Claus died about 50 million years ago. Thank you very much, darling husband of mine!

Just Lucky, I guess

Oprah captured the idea best when she coined the phrase: "An Attitude of Grattitude".

I don't mean to sound condescending or pompous or supercilious, but I feel at moments (like this one right here) that I lead a charmed life. Sure, I don't have loads of material possessions and I'm still really behind as far as the latest and greatest technological developments go, but I genuinely feel that there is so much good in my life. So much to be grateful for. So many multi-faceted bits of magic that capture the sunlight and reflect splashes of light and love around me every day.

I know that I am lucky. I am privileged. I am fortunate.

Not in the "born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-her-mouth" kind of way. No. I am advantaged in a way that has nothing to do with class, status, career, wealth or accumulation.

The core of my great fortune rests in my little family.

My wonderful, caring, generous husband is a man who strives to protect his integrity in the face of the brutal cut-throat corporate world he is immersed in. And my two miraculous daughters flank their father; one a ray of sunshine, one an echo of moonlight. Two fantastic children who are amazing in their own right - I cannot fully comprehend how all three of these precious beings ended up in my care. I am just that fortunate.

My husband and I have just celebrated our eleventh anniversary. We are in a good place. We are friends. We talk. We embrace one another. We wait up for one another. We make each other tea. We sit quietly together - not saying anything - just being together. We laugh together. We love together. He is my king. He gets me. And I believe in him. It works for us.

My firstborn is my sunbeam. A poised and purposeful dancer. Graceful and determined. She is warm and strong. She is a bright and tenacious soul. Head-strong. Persistent. A leader. We do not always see eye-to-eye, and at times I am blinded by her brilliance, her insistence, her force. But she shines for me and I live for her. While I am warmed by her radiance, I fumble as I try to encourage her to harness the great power she possesses. Everyday my sun shines on me and I on her. We hold. We let go. We dance a complicated waltz. And while she has so much to learn about her dazzling character, I marvel at how lucky I am to witness her solar awakening.

My moonbeam child followed her sister very rapidly from the outer edges of the universe. She is a soulful, enlightened being. A thinker. A seeker. The holder of the secrets of the cosmos. An iridescent entity. My delicate moonlight sylph has an understanding of the world and what is beyond the world that far outreaches her few delicate years. She sees things. She understands things. She makes sense of things. She questions and she contemplates. And all the while her gentle spirit reaches out to those around her - a cooling hand, a soft embrace. She is beautiful empathy. The bringer of peace.

So privileged am I to have the influence of these three people in my life. I am wealthy beyond measure.

I have experienced pain. I have experienced sorrow. I have waded through misfortune. I juggle stress. I worry about money. I become annoyed. I can yell. I wish for more, for better. I doubt. I cry. I fear what the future may hold. I am just an ordinary person living an ordinary life. But I choose to see the magic in the good cards I have been dealt. And that makes all the difference.