ET, the Kardashians and Fate

Home, sweet home is not quite the serene bliss I had hoped. Small boy aged 6 has shingles due to the stress of my being in hospital and spent most of last week at home being brave and at school crying his eyes out. Can my heart break anymore? I had my many staples removed this morning and brought them home for Small boy aged 8 to gross out his friends at school tomorrow. All of this I can cope with. Finally I told husband to stop moaning about his sore tummy and go to the doctor and now he has been booked in more emergency surgery at the Morningside Clinic. This may be rash, but I have to ask, "Why, Goddess, why?"

 

Throughout all of this chaos one woman has remained a calm anchor in the storm. Without her I would flounder. My mother has brought me homemade venison stew, is cooking eggy peggys as I type (basically savoury French toast cut into strips), has ferried me to and from hospital and my ailing spouse too hospital. I can honestly say I do not know how I would cope without her here.

 

My sons have risen to the occasion in ways I never expected. They have done the washing up, put laundry in the machine, packed their school bags and brought me their GI Joe walkie talkie so I can call for help when I need it. My cats have been banished. They keep kneading my poor scarred belly and making me scream like a banshee with PMT. And oh, but things take so long do to. Morning ablutions and exercises can take up to an hour and I do not end up looking like a Kardashian after all that time either. And forget shoes, my feet are too far away.

 

I feel like Jane Eyre's hero who kept his crazy wife locked in the attic – trapped! And while I'm mixing metaphors can I just mention that my staple free belly looks revolting. I feel like Signourney Weaver in Alien ready to burst with a million little alien offspring. And I have run out of groceries and hospitalized husband has the credit card. The upshot is that while I haven't had a smoke for a week I just might call Carlos at the Spar and have him bring me a box. Perhaps friendly extra-terrestrials will see my smoke rings and beam me up.

Farting for Food

I have so far survived the lumbar disk replacement by Dr Meerkotter at the Donald Gordon Mediclinic. Thanks largely to Morphine. Tuesday is a series of surreal flashes – I remember being asked if I had a nose ring and saying, "No, further down. "A nipple ring?" "No, further down." "A belly ring?" "No further down." I also remember a conversation about the tattoo and then an image of three huge shining lights above my head. And I recall feeling like I'd fallen asleep on an ice floe. I awoke to find myself covered in three of those emergency metal blankets. If I didn't know better I'd have thought I had been abducted by aliens.

 

For the last 24 hours ice chips have been my only form of oral sustenance. Never have I longed to pass wind so much. Today at long last I farted. I could have sung out glory hallelujah. I haven't had quite so man in-depth conversations about the workings of my plumbing since my Grandmother was alive. She was equally as obsessed about bowel behaviour. At her 50^th wedding anniversary my Dad, her son, came out of the loo and she called to him loudly across the assembled crowd of well wishers, "Did your tummy work dear?" Exactly. Right now each time I pass wind I want to do a victory dance. Why? Oh because here farts mean food. Or dry toast, jelly and some indistinguishable soup that I quietly flushed most of down the drain.

 

My fellow patients are quite colourful to say the least, my ward partner got out of eating the rest of the soup by passing out on the floor. She made the mistake of honestly filling in the assessment form. She said the ward was too noisy. She is right, it is next to the sluice room and at the T-junction of 3 corridors. The matron bustled in and moved her. "But, I don't really want to move," said Mrs. Something-or-other-stein. "Ah," said the matron, "But you filled in the form and They will ask to see what I have done to rectify the situation. So you will move." So she got moved to a large general ward away from a window and with the crazy lady. She wields a drip stand like a weapon. Last night she took out 4 nurses trying to change her drip.

 

I have been visited quite a few times and much appreciated every one. Although I can't imagine I am much fun to visit with. I look like a Panda and keep falling asleep. Apparently you get bent over an arch of some kind to open your spine up and all the blood goes to your head and feet. Hence I have a face like a soccer ball and feet like a Yeti.

 

I never understood why you give sick people flowers before, but now I am sick I can feel why. They really do make you feel better. It is the proof of beauty and living amongst the sterile white of the hospital. They are the promise of days to come and the memories of good times past. I have sunflowers, an orchid, purple irises and an array of happy summer flowers to stare at and enjoy.

 

I go home tomorrow and I shall miss the quiet efficiency of this ward. The nursing staff is fabulous and has kept a sense of humour with me despite me having to call them constantly to plug in my leg massagers or pass me the TV remote that I've dropped on the floor. I have a great deal to thank them for, not least recognising that Small Boy aged 6 has Shingles. Apparently it is brought on by stress and me being in the hospital must have triggered it. Poor baby, we shall be sick together.

 

The physio has trained me to do a variety of exercises mostly lost in drug induced amnesia, but she has written them down somewhere. I have successfully navigated the stairs and now I can go home. On Monday I return here to have my staples removed with an implement that closely resembles a staple remover on the PA's desk. I hope it is better designed. The doc says each staple being removed will feel like someone pulling out a pubic hair. Bloody sore in other words.

 

Anyhow, I'd better go back to sleep. All week the nurses have been trying to get my blood pressure up to something near normal. Turns out what was needed was my boss to come in and ask me to do some work. He'd better spell check it, because the letters are still all wobbly to me.

The warrior, the wizard and the angel

The monsters we battle are secret ones. They track us no matter where we hide and just we think we have vanquished them forever they rise up stronger than before. This is why I should not have been surprised when the panic gripped my throat in the middle of Woolworths. Certain fears are socially acceptable, spiders, fire, heights, rats and so on. These are fears rooted in the solid reality of our world. The fear that plagues me has no basis in solid fact. I am mortally terrified of frozen foods. Supermarkets, crowds and shopping malls too, but it is always the frozen food section that finally sets me off.

So there I stood on Thursday afternoon in Woolworths laden with shopping and completely unable to breathe. In retrospect, shopping during lunch hour was not a good idea. In fact shopping anywhere that is not virtual is a bad idea for me. Despite that I won the battle that day. I did not cry. I did not pass out although it was a near thing. I simply went into a change room and waited it out. Finding out that the boots I bought for Small girl aged 5 were too small finally reduced me to tears, but at least I was home and safe. I also ended up with a lovely green dress I have no recollection of choosing. I am not a coward, so I went back on Friday and exchanged the boots. Me 1. Irrational panic 0.

The purpose of the shopping trip was to get some new pajamas for the trip into hospital on Tuesday morning. I may be going to feel terrible, but I'll be damned if I have to look like it. I now have fabulous sleepwear, Mac powder foundation and long last lipstick. Another not so irrational fear I have is what surgeons and their teams say about you when you are, to all intents and purposes, dead to the world. Lying there at their mercy. Her thighs are wobbly. Her boobs are sagging. Her legs are hairy and so on. Of course, I never got around to the wax so Immac will have to do the trick.

I also have some real fears about this operation I haven't quite given voice to yet. There's the obvious dying bit. So, just in case everything I have is left to my children and my husband. I also do not want to be kept in some horrible coma stasis if I do not wake up. Give me two weeks and then flip the switch. Oh, and I'd like to donate my organs. What else while I am on this morbid diatribe? Yes, the funeral. I want a Wiccan/Pagan ceremony – Sally and Adam are in charge of finding someone to do it. I'd like to be cremated and at the ceremony have 3 small vials of the ashes given to each child and the rest returned to the earth. Music wise, I like Joan Baez, Bob Dylan and some Leonard Cohen. Julie can sing. I think that would be nice. Afterwards I big party with a big bonfire and the sharing of funny stories about me. That would be a good send off and a hell of easier that raising a dolmen!

I am also concerned about living my life in a wheelchair. However, with a bit of creative interior design and some driving lessons I think I could survive that. I could still wear high heels and never have to worry about getting sore feet standing on them. Most of all, I am terrified the operation won't work. That my aorta will be attached to my spine and they can't do the disk replacement. That despite everything I'll still be pain and not be able to sit through a movie or go dancing. That my beloved shoes will have to go into storage for Small girl aged 5.

And what about the things I have yet to tell my offspring? Like how to apply liquid eyeliner. Who will hunt down and kill the first people to break their hearts? I will, even if I have to from beyond the grave. Instead I have bought a bag of goodies for their father to distribute for each night I am in hospital. Still, I do want them to know that they are each wonderful, unique and much loved. The warrior. The wizard. And the Angel. Okay, maybe Small girl aged 5 is a bit more Valkyrie than Angel.

Enough! I still have to pack. The new PJs, underwear, make-up and make-up remover, towel, face cloth, movies, Keith Richards autobiography and my hair straightener. The final item on the list may raise some eyebrows. I can't be separated from it. The laptop, modem, cellphone and associated chargers are all too obvious. I know that I will probably feel too ghastly to go online, but the thought of not being able to fills me with the fear of entrapment. I must have access to Mr Delivery should the food be too awful.

The next on my to do list is to pack school bags with everything they need for the week in the hope this will reduce morning trauma. Must remember to ask devoted father to call educational psychologist and set up a time for the feedback interview – also to sign permission slip for extra reading lessons. I know absolutely that devoted father is perfectly able to cope and that all will go smoothly. I am slightly and bizarrely jealous of witnessing my ease of replacement, but c'est la vie, mainly I am deeply relieved he is going to be there for them and here for me. I cannot imagine how I could do this if I were a single parent and my heart goes out to all those who are. They are immensely strong men and women who deserve many accolades. I read an article about how gay parents are more socially acceptable than single ones. This callous disregard for single parents fills me with ire. Very few choose to be single parents and in all certainty dreamt about raising a happy nuclear family, it just didn't work out that way, so why treat them so awfully?

I have devoted today to completing my role in the Great Wendy House Construction. The door is a pretty pink. So is the bottom of the floor. Sadly, I don't think the underside of the floor is meant to be a light shade of pink. Husband went off to work and I thought how clever I'd be. I couldn't find a tin called varnish, but I did one marked Wood Primer and I thought that would do. It looked just like varnish when I opened it and set to work. Lesson: Read the instructions. Soon I'd used all the oil that sat on top and was left with a thick pink ooze. It became too thick to apply so I added some wood oil sealer to the mix. I guess I thought it couldn't get worse. I was reminded of a friend of mine, John Lee, who as a child spilled Nesquik powder on his mother's white carpet. Instead of getting the vacuum he went for a bucket of water and you can imagine the rest. I did a similar thing with worse consequences involving a coal heater, a towel and a wardrobe. I hope the floor is fixable and at least it is the side that sits on the ground. I am looking forward to renting one of those air spray guns to paint the outside walls. It sounds likef a lot more fun than a brush.

All in all it has been a pleasant last weekend before the rest of my life. I saw Rango at the cinema. Johnny Depp was the hero's voice and I could listen to him for years and not get bored. In fact, I must put Pirates on the hard drive for the week's entertainment along with Pauly Shore and with any luck True Blood. I have has a long and interesting conversation with my darling Dad about postmodernism and political correctness and found out more history of my family. Uncle Willie Bruce who fought against the Boers and who could leap a horse clear over a road and some daring WW1 pilots. I understand the African respect for ancestors as I become more interested in finding out who mine were. Great Aunt Diana or Dr Diana Knowles-Spink, is having her final send-off next weekend at her home in London. I am sure she will liven up the other side as much as she did this one and am somewhat relieved to have her watching over me now. I think eternity with her would never be short on excitement. These chats with my Dad make me realize how much miss him on the other side of the world and how much I wish my children could grow up near him and benefit from his extraordinary knowledge, wealth of stories and huge capacity for caring. I walked into his old tobacconist the other day (to buy my boys penknives, an essential boy's tool) and was poleaxed by the scent of his tobacco.

Ah well, I'm going into hospital tomorrow, I'm allowed to be maudlin. See you on the flip side.

 

 

Enlightened and empowered

On the first day there was nothing.
On the second day there was nothing.
And then I called out, “Let there be light!”
And there was light.

The problem with subdivisions is that the numbers are all the same except for the little a, b or c’s attached. This means that when the electricity company sends out a technician (who can work with high voltage but is not necessarily literate) they quite often make a mistake. This one landed me in the dark with a limited supply of hot water.

Arriving home in the driving rain on Tuesday evening I discovered the house without power. This meant that I stood in the rain staring pathetically through the non-operational electric gate at a house in total darkness. I am nothing if not enterprising. With a plastic coathanger and a little elbow grease I managed to lift the gate of its track and made it to the front door a little soggy, but still feeling quite proud of myself. Apply the old adage about pride and a fall here.

Briskly efficient I lit candles and deposited offspring in the remains of the hot water to get themselves somewhat cleaner. Then I decided to make dinner. There I hit a snag. Where, oh where had the gas stove gone? I was not about to be foiled. I have a Weber and half a bag of charcoal and the SAS survival guide.

The first step in making a fire is to find wood. No wood. Well plenty of wood it is just all completely sodden thanks to two days of rain. Never mind. I have plenty of paper and cardboard ready for recycling. I placed a pizza box in the bottom of the Weber and filled it with charcoal. Then I packed the Weber full of more pizza boxes added a candle and lit it. Remember Ragged the Gerbil? In retrospect lighting the match was a bad idea.

In the end I admitted defeat and messaged the man of the house in deepest darkest Africa. He told me where to find the gas bottle and after singing my fingers there too I finally managed to make some 2 minute noodles. I would have called Mr Delivery, but Telkom hasn’t fixed the line yet and my Crackberry died soon after the gas bottle discovery. Also, I needed to prove to myself and my progeny that I am a strong, independent woman of the 21st century. Epic fail.

Singed and smoky I arrived at work a little the worse for wear and spent most of the day on the phone to Eskom in obsequious courtesy and finally impassioned begging. All to no avail. The power was still off when I got home last night. This is where my Roedean education and South African “boer maak ‘n plan” attitude cam to the fore. I grabbed some wire cutters, opened by electricity box, cut the cord and turned my power back on.

Eureka! We have light!

Sookie Stackhouse and other stereotypes

Single parenting again this week while husband flies off to Nigeria. Hopefully this week will go by without anyone barfing. A mother can only hope.

The father of my offspring gets angry and hurt when small children scream for Mummy. Quite often I wish the wheel would turn in the other direction. Or course, they wait until he is not here and then the tears fall like rain.

Small girl aged 5: “Daaaaa Deeeee! I want mah Daaaaa Deeee!”
Me: “Daddy is in Nigeria. I can get you out the bath or you can stay there until Friday when he gets back.”
Small girl aged 5: “I want mah Daaaaa Deeee!”
Me to Small boy aged 8: “You deal with it.”

The visit to Nigeria brought on an interesting conversation about national identity and stereotypes. Husband pointed out that you can’t judge a country of millions on the 2 000 odd drug dealers in Hillbrow. This is correct, but the world likes things in simple terms and it makes writing movie scripts much easier so:

Australians shag sheep.
South Africa is crime central and where you can get a good deal on offing your fiancé.
Germans are white supremacists.
Swedes have no sense of humour.
Russia and Italy are Mafia capitals.
Nigeria is made up of drug lords.
The English queue and can’t cook.
The French cook, but are obnoxious.
The Dutch have legal weed smokers.
America is a nation of consumerism, mild idiocy and Disney.

It doesn’t matter how much money International Marketing Councils spend on trying to change these perceptions there are there to stay. The greatest perceptual changes of national identity are made through cartoons and movies, not the news or CNN.

For example, when visiting America you can’t experience the national character by visiting Lady Liberty. It is the taste of a chilli dog, the carnival of a baseball game and fireworks on Independence Day. In England it is a footie match, a warm beer in a dark pub and a plate of bangers and mash.

I got in to very very hot water yesterday with Small boy aged 8’s teacher. The one person you should never piss off. I hope she hasn’t heard about the Army outfit or her opinion of me will sink even lower. So, last night small boy had to catch up a week’s worth of homework. It was so painful I felt like doing it for him. I deeply resent teachers who take out their irritation at the parents on their kids. Anyway, the reason I didn’t pick up the bloody homework was because we were all on a conference call on the great white telephone.


Arguably the worst part of the single parenting week (aside from the morning school run at tweet o’clock) is that I cannot take any painkillers for my back. They work like a charm, but they also remove me from this plane of existence for a few blessed hours. Hence, I cannot take them in case the house burns down and I am too comatose to rescue the cat. Which is why this morning’s desire to not pay any heed to the alarm clock led to a late awakening of the troops and a surprisingly well orchestrated campaign to get out the door. We even made it to school on time. Of course, as in any war, there are casualties. Today’s was the toaster, which lay down and died in the trenches amid heavy fire.

In response to this and a deep dislike of grocery shopping I went online to Pick n Pay and did my big shop. It took almost as long as going to the bloody supermarket, but with less stress and no anxiety attacks. Frozen food for some inexplicable reason reduces me to hysterical tears. The supermarket now knows me well enough to lead me to the coffee shop, ply me with sweet tea and finish my shopping for me. Weeping women in the frozen food aisle can be off-putting for other shoppers.

Must remember today:
Book wax – do not want to terrify surgeons
Manicure and pedicure – same reason
Sexy yet demure pyjamas – just because I will feel like hell is no reason to look like it
Hospital pre-admission forms
Bone density scan
Strawberry yoghurt

Damnation! I have work to do and I have finally managed to get into the Sookie Stackhouse chronicles. The name is just off-putting, Sookie? Yuck. Well, at least they aren’t vegan vampires like the last lot. To thine own self be true and all that. Vegan vamps just aren’t on.

The Arab and the Army Nurse

 

You are cordially invited… Isn't that how all invitations start? Well this one had an addendum. Come as something beginning with A.

 

So, I ended up at Masquerades Costume Hire in Sunninghill Village early on Saturday morning. I was going to go to Lola Montez, but Small girl aged 5 insisted on accompanying me and I didn't think that would be appropriate. Accosted by the aroma of the million sweaty armpits I contemplated ABBA, but the costumes were just too dreadful. I found a very cute sequined mini-mini-mini dress of the American Flag, which I quite liked, but they didn't have Captain America so not a couple deal. After much deliberation between Small girl aged 5, myself, the shop attendant and the husband, we settled on Army. The dress was skin tight, skimmed by hips and displayed my cleavage magnificently. Teemed with black high heeled boots and fishnets I was good to go.

 

Or not. Frantic search for a babysitter ensued. Small boy aged 6 needed to be dropped off at a birthday party at the Zoo en-route. How hard could that be? Excruciating. Absolutely excruciating. I turned to husband and said, "Darling, please run interference for me, I am wearing fishnets." "PAH!" said husband, "They all wish they could." Whatever. Child did not want to be abandoned at the Zoo, necessitating mother alighting from the car in fishnetted splendour, much to the horror of the PTA Mummies and some appreciative stares from the Daddies. "Are you going to a party," asked one perceptive male once his jaw had managed to close. "No," I said breezily, "I always dress like this on a Saturday outing to the Zoo." Actually, I didn't, but surely I can give the truth some scope. All in all I handled it with remarkable aplomb I thought, although I doubt I'll be getting any more invitations to join the Mummies for breakfast. Small boy aged 6 was duly returned home much relieved not to have to go safari.

 

The party itself was in Brixton and the crazy white people provided the neighbourhood entertainment for the evening. Upon arrival I sashayed (thanks to boots) into the kitchen, recoiled in horror and retreated outside. What is it with women and congregating in kitchens? Perhaps, thanks to going to an all-girls school, I have developed a wholly reasonable fear of female gatherings. There sheer accumulation of estrogen in such a small place was frankly dangerous. Upon an informal poll, I discovered this feeling was shared by many, mostly men. The outfit was a success. I was goosed twice by an Arab and am now fully in support of the war of terror, once by an Apache and an Angler asked for the costume hire contact details for his wife next weekend. Apparently, they've done the naughty nurse thing. TMI. My husband responded to the vegetarian fare with ill-disguised horror and distrust, and bought a steak on the way home. Actually, the veggie food was pretty good I thought after braving the domestic centre of the home for some after a healthy dose of dutch courage. Thank you Mr. Jack.

 

Now, the trip home should have occurred with no mishaps, but on the way to return the baby-sitter to the location my husband was pulled over by the perennially aggressive and offensive South African Police. White men are not allowed to drive home their darker-skinned babysitters in the middle of the night. Instead we should let her walk home alone carrying a 6 month baby. Despite threatening him with arrest unless properly bribed, husband managed to extricate himself with no loss of life, limb or hard earned money. Every white man in the location is not looking for a black prostitute and every black lady on Oxford Road is not for hire.

 

Once more into the breach on Sunday morning, surprisingly hangover free, I started work on the Great Wendy House Construction and now look like I have some strange disease as I am riddled with tiny lollipop pink spots. Small boys aged 6 and 8 nagged me for a movie and so off we ventured into The Zone. I refused on principle to enter a movie that started 30 minutes prior and dragged two sulky children off to Vanilla for bribery by chocolate milkshake. I had to up the ante and promise to take them and all their friends to a movie next weekend. Sucker. We meandered gently through the market and Small boy aged 6 fell in thrall to a set of salt and pepper shakers. Bizarre, but at least functional, so I bought them. Finally, I treated myself and them to a wonderful book called The Dangerous Book for Boys. It tells boys everything from essential boy gear (string, compass, pocket knife) to how to make the perfect paper jet. Brilliant.

 

Of course, my good fortune had to end sometime and Monday morning has been it. The torrential rain has killed the electric gate and I have no clue where the manual gear is. After finally exiting my home I discovered the river has burst its banks and there is no way out of my neighbourhood. I duly retreated home to work in warmth and quiet calm and am about to try once more to hit the road. Wish me luck.

Of Mouse, Men and Minutiae

I woke this morning with lead in my limbs and a tsunami in my belly. It seems that whatever plague struck Small boy aged 6 has struck his mother too. Is this how I am repaid for the sleepless nights and outpourings of maternal love? HAH! When at 20:00 last night my phone rang to alert me of my husband's return to this land. Thank the Lord it heralded the instant return of my children's health and my demise.

 

The tooth mouse / fairy (is that a gay tooth mouse?), commonly referred in our household as the Tooth Fairy Mouse (is that a mouse with wings?), anyway he or she as the case may be paid us a visit last night. At long last Small boy aged 6 lost his two front teeth. No, I didn't sing him that annoying rhyme because it is not Christmas and I am not in the mood. This necessitated a late night visit to the local ATM to withdraw cash to secrete under child's pillow. Trying to find a tiny tooth under the pillow while not awakening a child is not easy, especially when all three children are on Tooth Fairy Mouse alert.

 

Nonetheless, in case you are interested, the going rate for two front teeth is R20. I assume it's the amount that matters not the exchange rate, so if you are in the US it is 20 dollars – I have no idea if the recession has hit the tooth mouse industry, but I think it probably has. Inflation certainly has. When I shedding teeth I got a nice shiny 50c piece.

 

My dad used to threaten to tie a piece of string around my tooth and slam the door (I tried this and it didn't work). So, he and I moved on to Plan B. Plan B involved my tooth, some nylon and a brick. The brick was dropped out the window and the tooth was meant to follow it. It almost did, just with the rest of me attached. In the end my dad just had to endure the wiggling. Now I have to endure it, I can honestly say that it tests the limits of parental duty and my maternal desire not to let on when I completely grossed out. I fought against grabbing the pair of pliers (also threatened with by my father) and pulling the thing out myself.

 

A bombshell has been dropped on me from a dizzying height. I am going to a party tomorrow night and I have to dress up. By that I do not mean in a little black dress a la Coco, but rather as something beginning with A. I could rip a hole in back of my jeans, but I feel this could be too crass although it was suggested by quite a few people. I could wear a black cat suit and stand legs and arms akimbo pretending to be an asterisk. Somehow Abba and Angels just seem like too much effort and I don't feel like going to a costume hire to don a musty ensemble with the aroma of a million smelly armpits. Ideas please and one's that I can logistically handle. I even tried browsing through adult stores online in search of sexy angel costumes, but I can't see myself walking into the Adult World and asking to try one on. I may still resort to this, but Lola Montez is my first stop. At least my husband will be happy.

 

Astronaut, ant, apostrophe, Aphrodite (now that's possible and flatters my ego – Roman style toga – is there a Google How To on how to turn a bed sheet into a sexy toga? Must look.) Apparition – also bed sheet, Anakin Skywalker (wrong sex and I preferred him as Vader anyway), apple, avocado, asparagus, Agony Aunt – I like that – how do I dress up as an Agony Aunt? Now Angeline Jolie would be nice, but I'd need Botox and lip collagen, a boob job, 6 extra inches and Brad Pitt. Could I be really lazy and just go as A Slob?

 

Regardless of the final choice, I have to fetch my beloved offspring from various babysitters afterwards and can't prance in their parent's homes like a Playboy Bunny or an avocado. Bugger, maybe I'll call the AA and hijack a tow truck.

 

Laws of Motherhood

Victoria’s Laws of Motherhood: When one child falls ill the rest will follow like dominoes ending with you at the least convenient time.

The word projectile for me conjures something like a dart or a bullet with a specific target in mind. After some research via Google I discovered the following, firstly a projectile is “a body projected by external force and continuing in motion by its own inertia” or “capable of being or designed to be hurled forwards”.

Neither of which quite summed up my experience over the last 24 hours. So I ventured further into the realms of cyberspace where the universal unconsciousness stores its useless trivia. Projectile vomiting was first coined in 1862 to describe, “vomiting that is sudden and so vigorous that the vomitus is forcefully projected to a distance”.

This was more on the mark, but like many academic and medical definitions lacking somewhat in real life application. Somewhere around 22:30 last night Small boy aged 6 began vomitus projectus. By 04:00 I had 3 duvets in the washing machine, had changed clothes 4 times and had towels covering every inch of floor between the bedroom and the loo.

Once informed that my presence was required in the hallowed halls of corporate life I had a mild breakdown. The upshot of which was a tearful phone call to my mother. Sometimes, a girl just needs her mother. This was one of those times. As a result of her love for me she rushed her dogs to the kennel and came to my rescue, taking Small boy aged 6 to the doctor with whom I am considering having a standard daily appointment.

I staggered half dead into work to be greeted by a crisis of mammoth proportions precipitated by my client’s bi-polar approach to marketing and communications. It was of those Victorian swooning moments when the blood drains from your head and down your body through your toes into a pool on the floor. So much for my early night tonight or indeed for the remaining 12 days of life as I know it.

By the way, the reason my mother’s dogs were given precedent was this: My mother is going away tomorrow and Angus, her dog, had to have one last play date with his best friend in the park. The best friend is not, like the adage goes, my mother, but rather another dog to which he has taken a penchant. Angus pines without his play date and will make the kennel owner’s life a living hell unless he is pacified first.

Angus steals teddy bears from little girls in the park. His shaggy blonde good looks belie his narcissism and an almost terrifying hatred of anything that detracts attention away from him. He has eaten about 5 cellphones out of jealousy that my mother would dare to talk to someone other than him and most recently put her in hospital by breaking her leg. Angus is not my favourite canine. He is way too clever for his own good, hence why I have lovable but very stupid dogs called Charlie and Billy Bob.

Thank the Goddess that my husband is returning home this evening necessitating a rush to the train station for collection at some point. I can practically guarantee that all his offspring will have miraculously recovered and he’ll look at my haggard face and wonder what all the fuss was about.

Ah! Must mention fabulous compliment from garage owner when buying smokes. He asked for my ID. I could have kissed him senseless (had he been younger and resembled Johnny Depp).

Venus di Milo or not as the case may be

Wednesday always brings with it a deep sigh of relief as the knowledge that the weekend nears sinks in. It is about now that my head begins to spin and exhaustion begins to catch up with me. I grabbed a nap in the car this morning before work putting my left leg into a coma. I arose from my seat not so much like Venus and promptly sank to my knees at the burst of blazing agony. I crawled back into the car and tried to sit nonchalantly until normal blood flow resumed.

The sock-plastered-to-the-side-of-the-washing-machine tiredness is a result of another late night thanks to a brief that arrived at 15:00 for presentation at 10:00 this morning. My yawns are threatening to engulf me whole, so lunchtime may well be spent in slumber.

Conversations with children are always a fountain of information. For example volcanoes do not exist in this world, but only in dinosaur world. Any attempt to point out that we actually live in the mouth of an old volcano is greeted with sneers of “How stupid do think we are?” and “You don’t know!” Also fairies come in different sizes depending on their job spec. For example Flower Fairies are small like dandelions, but the Tooth Fairy is bigger because she has to carry around teeth.

I noticed something very odd recently about motherhood. Here it is. Once you become a mother, non-mothers and non-fathers begin treating you like a maiden aunt or a virgin bride. Is it because we are examples of when sex stops being recreational and becomes a biological imperative? Either they ask you embarrassingly intimate questions or act as though you had a virgin birth and the world s-e-x might offend your sensitive ears. On a little tangent, I read an article today that oral sex is the number one cause of mouth cancer in America (for men). There’s something to think about!

The point I was trying to make before I got sidetracked was that age and experience don’t fast track you into senility. When my first son was born I took him to meet the oldest member of my family, Dr Diana Knowles-Spink who recently passed away at the age of 104. Her aide softly asked me to leave the room if I needed to breastfeed as it might shock Aunt Diana. As I duly prepared to leave, she asked me loudly where I was going and when it was explained with difficulty as I tried to avoid saying the word breast, she burst out with, “Good God! I have been alive for nearly 100 years my girl and there is little anyone can do to shock me now.” Turns out she used to shake hers on the stage with a famous twenties flapper!

Not that I am unshockable, but the things that shock and appal me usually have to do with man’s inhumanity to man, not a piece of ass or a flash of a boob. Now, there’s another thing. How come men are reduced to helpless sniggers and laughter at the sound of certain rather innocuous words in the English language? It must be hardwired into the psyche. Try this little experiment, in the middle of a conversation drop in words like “poo”, “bum” and “boob” and see what happens to men of any age. The drop the big one… “fart”. It’s an instant recipe for male hilarity.

Now for some self-pity. Turns out I missed another mothers’ breakfast from Grade 00 at Tasha’s yesterday due to work commitments. Apparently, they had so much fun they didn’t leave Tasha’s until it was time to fetch their kids from school. I am jealous, wracked with envy and turning a very unattractive shade of green. Which is why when I hear these self-same women moaning about their lives I want to scream at them that they lead a life of privilege and should be bloody grateful for it. I want to spend a morning at Tasha’s trading idle banter, comparing Jimmy Choos followed by some shopping for stuff I don’t need before returning to my mansion on the Houghton Ridge. I think I shall buy a Lotto ticket on my way home.

On the edge of reason

 

Breathe deeply, inhale, exhale. Your body is relaxed. You are floating on a fluffy white cloud. A bolt of lightening rips you open from neck to torso. Hang on, that's not what the irritating American woman just said. Oh wait, that is the cat determined to disturb your efforts at Shamanic Meditation by trying to get under the duvet. Okay, let's try again… I don't know if I visited the underworld I fell asleep at last somewhere in a forest. It was nice. I was then rudely awoken from deep Shamanic slumber by the even more irritating voice of a radio DJ who has the gall to sound upbeat at 5 in the morning. He can't be human. He must be one of Charlie Sheen's trolls. Yup, definitely a troll.

 

The need for the whole Shamanic thing was born from the lack of painkillers and sleeping aids in my house. I have 14 days to go until the disk replacement surgery and only 10 Voltarin. I have discovered why the doctor said not to use them every day. If you take them via the alimentary canal you ulcerate your stomach and a similar reaction occurs from the other end akin to eating a large bowl of curry. Trés unpleasant and definitely over share. I can't avoid thinking about this operation forever and as it nears I am struck anew with a sense of my own mortality. The invincibility of youth has faded somewhat and I must admit I am terrified of being a paraplegic or dead as a result of my own vanity. Although the thought of my high heels, dancing, shopping, sitting in a cinema and watching a movie, picking up my daughter without excruciating agony and taking my dogs for a walk all hold such appeal to me. I must not forget to buy something to wear. I guess silk and satin are out, so perhaps La Senza has something cute, but demure. Hmmm.

 

Enough boring introspection, back to the need for meditation aids. Last night I had to a job alien to me nature – accounting and mathematics. These are not my strong points, never have been. Start showing me numbers and the veils come down. Despite; my dogged determination (some may call it just being stubborn) I did my thing, and then the laptop went completely bananas. So what I learnt yesterday was not to take anything, especially small things for granted:

• That the maid will come every day, especially on Mondays when I have a sick child
  
• That my house will be clean when I return home after spending the day at work
  
• That my computer will not fail me in my hour of need
  
• That my expensive DSL line is connected
  
• That the wireless at the office functions
  

  
   

I also offer up my thanks to Nokia for my old cellphone that happily allows me to connect to the Internet and download my mail, which for some reason my Crackberry doesn't. I am sure it is user error, but I lack the kahunas to go into a shop and beg a spotty teenager for help.

 

How is the sick child you may ask, if you are a caring sort. Sick child is happily at home watching movies and napping in solitary splendour. Being an only child I often craved the company of others in much the same way that my children crave the company of themselves. He waved me off this morning as I left in great trepidation to take his siblings to educational nirvana. The AWOL helper arrived after only 4 impassioned phone calls and an SMS. I must remember to call my sainted mother and ask if she will do the great school schlep this afternoon. Relating the story of the AWOL helper to my colleague he looked at me askance and told me I was a soft touch and a fool for putting up with such appalling behaviour and I should draw the line. I know he is right, but he underestimates the power she has over me. I may pay her salary, but she is the keeper of my sanity and the thin line between order and chaos. Also, I don't think anyone else would put with us.

 

For some unknown reason a malaise of dissatisfaction has settled over me recently. I long to escape the smoggy crime riddled city ruled by petty politics and cronyism. So, I have spent a happy hour online looking for a job in the Outer Hebrides. Maybe I could open a Nando's Franchise there or something. Not long ago a chance of a move to Cape Town reared its head and I was suddenly struck by how much I would like to get out of here. Capetonians don't come to the City of Gold on holiday and say, "Wow, I'd really like to live here." Nope, only us binnelanders do that. We try to say things like there are better schools and higher salaries up here, but they are just the weak veneer we try and coat the truth with. Short of moving to California and joining a commune of aging hippie vegans I reckon the Outer Hebrides are as far away as I could get from here and it looks beautiful. I could raise sheep. Maybe.

 

So long and thanks for all the fish

Goldfish are low maintenance pets. Right? Wrong. The goldfish have joined the throng of animals and people who demand attention as soon as the first ray of sun is in the sky. They swarm (do fish swarm?) at the edge of the pond as soon as they see me in the kitchen and gulp pathetically until I throw out a handful of overpriced fish food. Then a feeding frenzy results, similar to the one taking place in my kitchen.

This beautiful Monday morning started with me setting the clock one hour fast and awakening at the awful hour of 4am. Some sense of self-preservation made me switch of the alarm and it was pleasant upon awakening later on that the time was not 8am, but 7am.

Unfortunately, this sense of the world being on my side was soon dashed when it became apparent that Small boy aged 8 is suffering from tonsillitis. This is when you can picture me on my knees; arms raised up (think Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane) desperately petitioning the Goddess to please let this cup pass me by.

You see, what happens is this; my children are the very pictures of health until their father steps onto an aeroplane. As soon as he is airbourne one dread disease after another rears its ugly head within the confines of my home. We’ve had scarlet fever, chicken pox, measles, mumps, encephalitis and so on.

I made an executive decision, I was not driving to the school and dropping off Things 2 and 3 and then all the back home to take Thing 1 to the doc. So, I phoned the school and took all 3 to the doc, then dropped Things 2 and 3 at their respective institutes of learning and Thing 1 is now ensconced beneath my desk with his duvet and pillow.

Thing 1 is booked off school until Thursday. Friday, the day Thing 1 returns to school, also happens to be the day that Thing 3’s school is closed for teacher training.

I surrender.

Forget the Human Torch, meet the Human Pretzel

Friday lunchtime I took myself off to the Kai Thai Spa in Parktown North for a back and neck massage and a head massage. There is something weirdly intimate and vulnerable about allowing someone to wash your feet. Then once the awkwardness passes a sense of peace begins to wash gently over you.

The peace is not long lived however. How is it that a tiny little Thai woman barely five foot two can be so monstrously strong? My shoulders definitely now hang about an inch lower and I feel akin to a Woolies spatchcocked chicken or Flat Stanley – maybe even roadkill. It was all going fabulously, I relaxed, breathed through the pain – good pain – and then… she tried to turn me into a human pretzel.

My body does not do that! You cannot wind my legs and arms around me like an octopus in a strait jacket and then put your abnormally strong feet into my shoulder blades and pull back. That sound you hear is not the healthy cracking of joints popping into place, it’s quite literally my back snapping in two.

Despite that, I feel quite wonderful and breezy, so light I could float away like a dandelion on the wind. Just whatever you do, don’t give me a clap on the back, I’ll just cry.

The cat and the Goddess

Our Burmese cat is called Friday for obvious reasons, one being that every time we find her we can say, “Thank God its Friday!” Here’s some trivia for you this bright and sunny morning, Friday is named after the Norse goddess Freya. She is the goddess of love and fertility; she rides a chariot pulled by two cats (Burmese I bet) and divides up any slain warriors with Odin. Well, there you go.

My Friday did not start out well. I was still reeling from picking up Small girl aged 5 from her playdate with her BFF the night before. Too put it mildly, I was not popular. I was screamed at, yelled at and told what a bad and horrible person I was without any love for my daughter. Oh, and I didn’t let her sit in the coveted seat in the car either, which just made everything worse.

And then… and then… I capitulated and went to MacDonalds in desperation for a few minutes of quiet and blissful love from my offspring. Do not make the mistake of judging me for this. Walk a mile in my shoes and then see. Anyway, they have really cool Transformers toys at the moment.

Back to this morning - long suffering husband refuses to suffer any longer and barked at us like a US Marine Drill Sergeant to get up and get dressed at 05:30. This had entirely the opposite effect as all three offspring refused point blank to move without a cuddle from their mother. So, father’s feelings were hurt and mother had to do some very delicate negotiations to get all three offspring dressed and eating breakfast.

Mother was then informed the entire way to school how Daddy does things on the morning drive. How I wasn’t allowed to simply drop off boys 1 and 2 at the gates of school, but walk them in, and how Daddy lets Small girl aged 5 hold his pinkie while she balances on the wall. Really, neither of us can win. And I had to listen to The Cure’s Seventeen Seconds (which last for bloody eternity) all the way in.

Eventually arriving at work with a sigh of relief I committed myself to getting rid of this Guitar Hero Warriors of Rock PS3 Band Bundle I seem to have ended up with. Kalahari.net and myself have a basic conflict of opinion on this and this huge box has now been shipped between the two of us 3 times. First of all, I ordered the Wii set. Secondly, it arrived late and wrong. Thirdly, just give me my blasted money back or credit. I can seem to get these points through their heads, their call centre staff speak in tongues (from the Flats) and we cannot understand each other at all. So, the upshot is I need to sell the blasted thing and get it out of my life. R1 400, never used, please take it, I beg of you.

Assuming that when I check my bank balance just now and discover that I have at last been paid, I just might wander down the road to the Kai Thai Spa for a quick back massage at lunchtime… Wish me luck.

Mony, money, money

“Money, money, money, must be funny, in a rich’s man’s world.” I still have not been paid and am torn over what to do. Of course, I’ve done the obvious, I’ve begged, pleaded and sent numerous emails – to no avail. Part of me thinks I should just go home, the other (maybe wiser part) feels that would be wrong. You see I know it wasn’t on purpose. The Big Boss just has so much money that he cannot conceive why I would panic over not receiving my paltry (in comparison) monthly pay check. Yet, here I sit consumed with panic over debit orders and a 3 grand payment I need to make in an hour.

The payment, by the way, is for Melanie Hartgill, an educational psychologist. She was one of my lecturers at varsity and this is the second of my children she is assessing. She is quite brilliant and if you ever need to, her email is shrinkproof@mweb.co.za. She is testing Small boy aged 8 for any signs of dyslexia. Small boy aged 5 adores her and performs far better for her than for any of his teachers, which gave us enough ammunition to fight them on sending him to a remedial school. Honestly, he didn’t need a remedial school what he needed was a better teacher.

The Great Birthday Cake Disaster also turned out all right. My cupcakes were enjoyed by all, except for one little boy who won’t eat pink. Quite understandable and I wasn’t offended. I arrived to collect the mob to find Small girl aged 5 directing aftercare activities from the back of Marco (I think) one of the invigilators (do you call them that?), wearing a massive pink crown proclaiming her a Birthday Girl.

I have returned to office after collecting Small boy aged 8 from Educational Psychologist. Although we have to wait for next Friday to receive the report, it seems that my child is in all likelihood dyslexic. Imagine a blender whirring away, then add a mother. That is me. A whirlpool of undisguised panic. Can he stay in mainstream school? Will he have to go to another school in the afternoon? Does it affect all my children? Who will help me? What did I do wrong? And so on. There’s no end to the cycle of self-recrimination and guilt once you get started. Is it because I work? Do I not spend enough time with him? Yes, logically I know some of these aren’t true, but it doesn’t seem to matter to the pit of my stomach or to my head which is splitting apart as I type.

Maybe I should find a part-time course in dealing with dyslexia and how to teach those affected. Then I could help my own son and hopefully even some other mums. Note to self: Can franchise idea, King Pie does not suit you anyway and find dyslexia course.

Must go and fetch Small girl aged 5 from BFF. Yuck! Small boy aged 6 just enreged from under desk to show me tooth hanging on by its last thread and oozing copious amount of blood. UGH!

The Great Birthday Cake Disaster

The best laid plans of mice and men. I have lost the key maternal ability that keeps a parent sane – the ability to multitask. The cake batter was made and dinner was in the oven ready to do the old switcheroo. Somewhere between getting small people in the bath before dinner, taking it out of the oven and putting the cake in, I forgot to turn off the grill. An hour or so later I was left with a charred brick.

Caught on the brink between hysteria and tears I decided too hell with it. I went to bed setting the alarm for 4am. 4am came. 4am went. I decided to go to Fournos. Great.

Small girl aged 5: “Oh, Mommy, thank you for making my cake, I can’t wait, it’ll be the best one ever!”
Mommy poleaxed by guilt: “Of course, darling.”

Husband made quick getaway on school run after looking aghast at the kitchen. And Mummy started on the Great Birthday Cake Rescue. The cake tin is not functional and will have to be thrown away with the charred remains. AHA moment. Cupcakes. Whip out Nigella’s Fairy Cake recipe and to work. Why are there only elves for shoemakers? Mothers need them more. Someone should do something. Write a letter or something. Nigella Lawson is a Goddess. It’s official. She should be sanctified. Thanks to her I have produced 24 pink cupcakes in record time.

Time is now 08:45am and cannot find Tupperware containers for cupcake transportation. Throw muffins out of muffin casing and place cupcakes in, every lunchbox and ice cream container is brought in to use. Safely stowed in car, the Great Cupcake Transportation begins. Yikes! Almost out of petrol. Please, please, please last until I get there.

Whew. Cupcakes delivered and en-route to work with 4 cupcakes to placate boss. Am shaking and on the brink of a breakdown. I need a Xanor. GAH! Multiple obscenities – I have pink icing all over the bottom of my dark blue dress and probably in my hair. I want to weep.

I have a black dot in permanent marker on the back of my hand placed there by husband to make me remember something. One was to forward him an email (forgot laptop charger at home) and I know with utter certainty there was something else, but cannot for the life of me remember and can’t bear to admit it and phone and ask.

Very long-suffering friend just called and had to listen to complete female breakdown containing a lot of weeping about pink icing. I can’t get the taste out of my mouth or the placatory and condescending stare of the school receptionist out of my head. If I never see a pink cupcake again it will be too damn soon.

The Birds

Blessed silence, only punctuated by the soft sound of children sleeping. How is it that Small girl aged 5 can take up an entire king sized bed? It must be the Theory of Relativity at work.

I arrive at work desperate for an hour of peace, a chat and some Facebook, but my office is filled with people trying to choose uniquely South African images. I guess they’ll be a while. I am, however, sitting in the boss’s white leather chair as mine as been appropriated. I must say it is a very nice chair. I think I could keep it.

My swallows are going insane outside the window. Four stories up, they have built a multi-room mansion in the eaves directly outside my office. I am often to be found scrambling on the floor yelling “Incoming!” They have an eerie habit of flying very fast straight towards the glass before suddenly veering upwards into the Playboy Mansion. It is unnerving and brings back all my childhood fears of Hitchcock’s The Birds.

The knowledge that I did not find time to order a cake means that tonight will be spent up to my elbows in pink icing and cupcake batter. I am exhausted just thinking about it. I wonder if my boss will give me family responsibility leave to make a birthday cake?

Staring at my little pink laptop on the desk in front of me, I am reminded of a conversation that took place last night as I realised the pretty silver VAIO on the front is now permanent marker black.

Mother: “Right, who coloured in my laptop in black permanent marker?”
Small boy aged 8 shrugging: “Twasn’t me.
Small boy aged 6 and Small girl aged 5 exchange glances: “It wasn’t us.”
Small boy aged 6: “Maybe… a bad man broke in, in the middle of the night and he did it!
Small girl aged 5: “Or the fairies!”
Mother glaring at Small boy aged 6 and Small girl aged 5: “I know who did it! And I am not impressed.”
Small girl aged 5: “Would you like us to wash it clean?”
Mother: “No.”
Small girl aged 5: “Can I kiss it better?”
Mother: “No.”
Small boy aged 6: “Maybe you should paint it blue?”
Mother: “No.”

My long-suffering husband put it perfectly last night by quoting Tolkien at me: “I feel... thin. Sort of stretched, like... butter scraped over too much bread. I need a holiday. A very long holiday. And I don't expect I shall return. In fact I mean not to.” The thing is although I am short enough to resemble a hobbit I think my current state of being is closer to that of a chicken with its head cut off. Or a hamster on speed racing round and round its little wheel going nowhere. My school teachers always used to say (and mostly unfairly), “You would forget your head, if it wasn’t screwed on!” The thing is I don’t think it is screwed on very tight anymore and I may just be losing it. And I doubt it’ll rock up in lost property stinking of smelly gym sock.

Still, 21 days to go until I get a backbone. 21 days never seemed so far away nor did 6 weeks of bed-rest seem so appealing. I am standing at one of those crossroads in some back country rural setting. The tumbleweed blows gently across the packed and parched sand. I know I must make a choice, but like the Cheshire Cat said to Alice, “If you don’t know where you want to go, it doesn’t matter which road you take.” So, I think I’ll sit down here for a bit and watch the sun rise, maybe I’ll toss a coin or play rock, paper, scissors, lizard, Spock.