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?

The way things are

I suffer(ed) from moderate clinical depression for several years. Recently I've been well. Good. Happy. Content. I'm aware of my manxome foe (thank you very much, CS Lewis), and I know that he follows me wherever I go (there's a nursery rhyme in there, I can tell). Most days I wake up and nod my head to the beast that stalks me. He leaves me alone if I acknowledge his presence.

And so far, I have been free of the great sadness that has been a long-time companion. I have felt, on more days than not, content. And on that full stop rests my everything.

Seems like a bit of mental instability can do an awful lot for one's creative self. When I was depressed I could write. I could play piano. I could paint. I could draw. I could sew and create and design.

But my creativity has dwindled since my depression became manageable. I have had little inspiration. I stopped blogging for a long time. When I sit down with a canvas before me, I find myself staring. And staring. And the magic just never comes.

I open up my blog post, and I have nothing to say.

My happiness is frustrating, as odd as that sounds. I feel I am unable to tap the well within me. The one that holds the enchantment of my very essence. The one that can unlock me.

If you're interested in some of the things I've spent time on, check out my special blog.

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 Chemistry of Farting

Ok - so it is as it is. We all have little bugs in our colons producing quantities of gas every day that have to come out. And at some stage, we've all released the devil's breath in the bath. Underwater like. For a change.

While enjoying that extended moment of no toxic fumes, when the gasses have been released, but the bubbles have not yet made their way to the surface of the water - the calm before the storm - have you ever stopped to think about the chemistry of what is happening?

Each potent little bubble must contain a bunch of sulphur dioxide molecules, right? You can't deny that rotten egg whiff! And here you are, obliviously mingling sulphur and H2O. One plus one, people! I'm talking about sulphuric acid. And you are in that potion, butt nekkid!

I'm just saying.

Mystery of the Missing Menses

In a nutshell, my reproductive history can be likened to a piece of string:

* Tied the knot

* Learnt the ropes (twice)

* Got horribly tangled up

* Snipped the strings (courtesy of Mr Me)

If you follow, you'll understand that I am not a candidate for contraception. Be that as it may, I have been treating PCOS with the pill for about 2 years. Three months ago, I changed pills to one with a lower dose hormone as there is a history of breast cancer in my family, and lower estrogen intake is recommended in that regard.

My first cycle on the new pill was quite exciting. The PMS that arrived two days before my period was sent to test my resolve. More accurately, it was sent to test how much resolve I had NOT to actually act on the impulse to gouge out my husband's eyeballs with a rusty teaspoon, hammer chillies into his nostrils or shove a pineapple into an intimate orifice of his. (I was mulling these things over a salad, apparently). Apart from a few demon hours were my hair caught on fire and I danced naked around a bubbling cauldron for a bit, the first cycle was uneventful.

Cycle two was earmarked with lower back pain out of the middle ages - you know the kind that the donkeys got from drawing the carts laden with dead bodies through the muddy alleys (yes, I know, too much Monty Python). But it too was less than remarkable.

And cycle three? Well. Cycle three wasn't. My week came and went. No period. Period.

So, I hear what you're saying - you're saying "Couldn't you be? Just maybe? Just a little bit?"

I say "No."

Thing is, for me to be pregnant, it would have to be by immaculate conception (why is The Immaculate Conception even called that? Was it a neat and tidy incident?). The sperm, for one, would have to be completely phenomenal. For a start, it would have to have a titanium helmet with an all-purpose drill bit attached to the top to get out of his sealed off nursery. Then he'd have to be able to bungy jump the vast chasm of missing vas deferens to enter a viable propulsion chamber. After ejaculation, that mighty sperm amongst sperm would need to be smeared with anti-cervical plug lubricant as well as be equipped with elusive ovum detecting abilities. In fact, the latter would have to be so good that that little Wonder Sperm would need to find a non-existant egg to fertilise. Furthermore, that dedicated bit of flagellated DNA would need to defy the laws of nature that require suitable womb-lining for implantation, and bury its sweet prize in rock hard, dry endometrium.

All of this would, of course, be a bit like an inmate escaping Alcatraz with only a teaspoon and a packet of Cup-A-Soup, gate-crashing a party at Hugh Heffner's place, only to find out that the guests have already gone, and that all they left behind was a blow-up doll which our stalwart escapee persuades to take him home home to meet her parents, sleep with him and make him a full English breakfast the next morning. Unlikely.

So really, if I were pregnant after all that, the child I carried would have to be named Jesus (gender irrelevant) out of some reverence but mostly surprise. We would probably use the handy abbreviation: OMG! when labeling lunch-boxes and sports clobber (exclamation mark optional).

PS. I did a home pregnancy test at about 2pm this afternoon - just to make sure that the second coming was not going to happen on my watch. Results were negative, as I had suspected. But just to be on the safe side I have gone back to check it every hour or so hence.

PPS. While part of me thinks that being the mother of God could have some awesome kick-backs, the other part of me is grateful for the one line apparent in that test kit window.

PPPS. Note to self: Phone doctor at earliest convenience to find out what in heaven's name is going on with my girl bits.

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.