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?

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.