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.

Pearls of Widom

Yesterday was a really strange day for me.

While it had a notable start (sex in the morning really can't be scoffed at), the day sort of petered out from there. One would think that starting the day with the horizontal mambo would mean only exceptional things for the hours ahead. But strangely, it didn't. It was as though there was not going to be anything else noteworthy for the rest of the day, so the day kind of crumbled in on itself.

And my mood followed suite. By evening, I felt like I had had my life force drained out of me. There was no more oomph. No fresh air. Just heaviness. And tiredness. And a real absence of inspiration.

To make matters worse, I had stumbled upon some overly cheerful optimist's column that afternoon which lauded finding beauty in every day. Cherishing every breath. Looking for something miraculous during your waking hours. Of course I wanted to vomit, but that would have meant that I'd have to clean up, so to save myself the trouble, I didn't. But I wanted to.

By the time 9pm rolled along, I was ready to sign off. Finito. This chick was emotionally bankrupt. So I made my apologies and fell into my bed, where, just by the way, I felt happier than I had ALL day long (except that first part, where we were riding the five legged pony, but it had been so long ago, that it didn't really count anymore).

So, new day. And when I opened my eyes, I wondered how it would be any different to its predecessor. Well, for a start, I did not rock the casbah. Disappointing.

"Hmmph," I thought to myself, "Beauty in every day, huh? I still have to make the sarmies that I didn't do last night." I pulled myself up and started the day.

By the time the school run was complete, I found myself at home tending to some important matters - the things that I didn't look at when they arrived, and while they had been conveniently forgotten about, the rascals had been getting up to all kinds of antics of their own and had multiplied copiously. I had to tend to many of them this morning because little baby matters were starting to pop up between the important matters - and that's just messy.

One of the important matters required me to get my hands dirty in the garden. I stripped off the oh-so-impressive school-visiting attire and donned the more appropriate garden-tramp uniform with socks-in-crocs. I looked fabulous! Off I went.

An hour later I trudged mud through the house (which I had to clean up - oh joy! beauty in top-soil! and other such jubilant crap).

As I prepared to revive the school-visiting goddess look I had mustered up before, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My mud-bedecked dirt-bus image reflected in the mirror. And I realised the moment of beauty. I hadn't taken off my pearls when I'd changed earlier. And there I was: filthy, stinky, and wearing pearls. It was one of those life-defining moments that you try and share with people but know that no-one could possibly get it because they weren't there at the time. Something like what I'm doing right now.

But it mattered to me.

And I think that I will always garden in my pearls from now on.

Fortune favours the Ordinary

Yesterday I watched the nimble fingers of a friend as she created a culinary masterpiece. She set about it so non-chalantly and effectively. As she worked we chatted. She didn't skip a beat. Never loosing the conversation thread and never missing a drop - she was inspiring.

As we chatted, I wondered about her life, about the challenges she faces every day. About her trials and her obstacles. The thought occurred to me to dig deeper than discussing diapers and light fittings.

"Are you happy?" I asked. She thought I was referring to her craft and how it was all coming together. After listening to her assess the condition of her creation, listing its various attributes, I interjected.

"No," I said. " I mean about your life - are you happy with your life?"

She thought for a moment. " I guess so. Are you?"

I wasn't really expecting her to throw it back at me, but I considered the implications for a while.

Happiness is a weather phenomenon for me. Somedays are sunny, some are partly cloudy with a chance of thundershowers. So Happiness is not a label I will stitch onto my existence. No. I have been too sad. Too worried. Too stretched. Too tired.

As I considered the question, the word that kept popping up in my mind was Lucky. I am lucky. I am so lucky to share my life with the remarkable people I do. My husband. My girls. My friends. I am lucky to live in the most beautiful city in the world. I love my home. I am lucky to have a space to decorate and fill and change and use. I am lucky to have the chance to focus my attentions on the things that are so vitally important to me. I am lucky to have my health. To have the perspective that is holding my sanity on a steady path. I am lucky to know what it feels like to be lifted from the darkness. I am lucky to have a story.

It's a good thing for me to feel like this. It's been a very long time since I could hold my head up and and smile. It's good to feel lucky. And while the happy feelings come and go with the wind, under it all I know that I am lucky.

Confessions From a Parking Lot

Let me start by saying that I'm not proud of this story. Really.

This is what happened: I had been getting things at Willowbridge. I had my card swiped at Woolies for the discounted 90 minutes free parking. Only, unbeknownst to me, I had been there a tad more than that, but didn't bother to check on my way out. I ASSUMED that I was all clear to go.

Silly me.

So there I was, pulling up to one of the two exit booms, confidently slipping my parking card into the little boom-controlling machine. And there the little boom-controlling machine was, confidently regurgitating it back at me like a baby with bad reflux.

A concerned Boom Official approached my window and asked if I had paid my card. "Er, I swiped it at Woolies????" I made sure he heard all the question marks. The Boom Official examined me briefly, decided I was harmless and mostly below average intelligence, and offered to run to the ticket machine located in the center to pay the ticket for me. Gratefully I handed him my ticket and a ten rand note, pulled up my hand brake and switched my hazard lights on - politely indicating to any departing shoppers that I had a minor problem and that they shouldn't try to pass through the boom I was blocking.

Lady in car number 1 (lets call her Exhibit A) pulls up behind me. And waits. It's apparent that she didn't see my hazards flashing. I try to catch her eye in my rear view mirror, indicating my obvious hiatus in exiting the parking lock. It takes her some time to notice that I'm not going anywhere. Eventually we lock eyes; me staring apologetically into my rear view mirror, she glaring angrily at me. With much exaggeration, she puts her car into reverse, never breaking eye contact with me and mouthing her dissatisfaction at this hinderance to her departure. She reverses. Not seeing the car that had, in the meantime, pulled up behind her (let's call that Exhibit B).

I, of course, watching Exhibit A in my rear-view mirror, had seen Exhibit B pull up behind her. I had also watched aghast as Exhibit A made ready to reverse. I had yelled "Stop Lady!" before she actually started moving, but I think she thought I was swearing back at her.

I watched helplessly as Exhibit A rammed her car into Exhibit B.

Thankfully, at this point, the Boom Official returned with my freshly paid card and was very quick in getting it active in opening the boom. As I pulled away, I looked once more in my rear-view mirror only to see Exhibit A impatiently pulling up to the second boom-controlling machine and placing her card into the awaiting slot. She had either not realised what she had just done, or was anxious to get away.

Exhibit B was exactly where we had left him only moments before. Well, not exactly. Probably about 30 cm back from where we had left him, but he looked just the same: eyes wide open, lower jaw resting on his accelerator pedal.

Now I know it wasn't all my fault, entirely, this little parking lot fender-bender. But I can't help but feel a smidgen guilty about it all. Like I should have stopped, or checked my ticket before leaving, or something.

If guilt were shoes, I'd say this is equivalent to a pair of Hi-Tecs.

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!