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.

Score one to Small Girl Aged 5

Half term, a mother’s moment of sanity. Monday of half-term means I get to indulge in sleeping until the sun is actually risen. But, it doesn’t. It heralds the one day when all three children wake up singing and dancing straight out The Chorus Line at sparrow’s fart. This does not make for a happy Monday Mummy.

Neither did small girl aged 5’s not so subtle emotional manipulation.
Small girl aged 5: “You don’t love me. You always leave.”
Mummy: “Angel, I do love you, but I have to go to work.’
Small girl aged 5: “No you don’t. You just don’t want to be with me!”
Score one for small girl aged 5. Mummy leaves house close to tears feeling like very very Bad Mummy.

GAH! Do not forget – birthday ring on Wednesday must provide helium balloons (from where?) and birthday cake (need to order from Fournos? Do they do that? Ah, or home industry shop in the Mall.) Please notice I have decided to ignore the Invisible Mommy and buy the cake instead of staying up late on Tuesday. This is assuming I remember to order a cake in time.

Weekend three of the Great Wendy House Construction. Those Extreme Home Makeover people make it look way too easy. My back is aching and my hair is stuck together with Lollipop Pink paint and clear varnish (I had to cut off great hanks of it this morning and now resemble a long haired sheep with mange.) Also, the paint stripper seems to have given me a partial facial peel. On the bright side we now have one perfectly varnished floor, a refurbished pink toy box and the skeleton of the structure. The children have largely lost interest and are taking refuge in World of Warcraft.

I don’t eat people – at least not first thing in the morning

Small boy aged 6: "Mom, is that Grandad at the gate?"

Mother: "No, that's dinner."

Small boy aged 6 aghast: "What? You mean we're going to eat that man for dinner, head and everything?"

Mother after a long day: "Yes."

 

Half-term could not have come soon enough. My children have spent the first day asleep burrowed into duvet caves on the couch. I, on the other hand, grabbed a 20 minute nap in the backseat of my car over lunch. It is universally true, that Fridays, the one day you need a long boozy lunch and a quick getaway, conspire to be the busiest day of the week, hence Mr. Delivery to whom I, and most parents, owe a great debt of gratitude.

 

In the meantime I have also made 200 flashcards and laminated them. These are in order to teach Small boy aged 6 how to read his sight words by Wednesday next week. The whole operation took place too much amusement from my colleagues, only one of which has a child of schoolgoing age. From him exuded the aura of quiet desperation of a parent soon to be on the firing line. You can't begin to imagine how hard it is to find clipart depicting words like "here" and "with", but I did… eventually. By the time I picked up the scalpel to begin the cutting of the cards, my colleagues decided to intervene. I think they realised they were dealing with a Mommy on the Edge.

 

Colleague: "Okay, um… I think you should put that down."

Me: "No."

Colleague: "Look, I'm not busy right now, I can do it for you?"

Me: "No."

Colleague: "You don't want to cut off a finger now, do you?"

Me: "Back off."

Colleague: "You aren't trained to use a scalpel."

Me: "I have not been in this industry for almost 15 years without using a scalpel. Goddammit!"

Colleague to assembled audience: "She's in a very odd mood today."

 

Ya, think? For goodness sake it wasn't although I was doing open heart surgery. And yes, I am a copywriter not an art director, but that doesn't make me an idiot. And it was only a small cut because she distracted me. And it wasn't as "odd" mood it was PM bloody S.

 

I also ended up at the educational bookstore only to discover they sold the last CD of Jolly Phonics so Kalahari.net got my business instead, and they were much cheaper. It is with some dread I approach the task of educating my young ones. I am under qualified and not blessed with much patience. Also, my children regard me as a fairly okay mother but in no way deserving of the respect of their respective teachers (or Senseis). Hence, I see a battle of wills ahead that I am fated to lose. Regardless, I will not dwell on this now as I am planning a Girl's Day tomorrow with my BFF, which unless a Chicken Little emergency occurs I am not cancelling.

 

Now long suffering husband has arrived home from business trip with excellent tidbit of data. Apparently back in the day, manure was transported on ships up the Thames. Now, although it was dried out before hand, the endless drizzle of Great Britain soon made it damp and smelly. Now this meant in turn that when an able-bodied seaman went down for a smoke break, things would go BOOM! As a result the manure was stored on top of the deck in crates labeled "Store High in Transit", or for short S H I T.

 

Apparently, unbeknownst to me, some of his colleagues actually read my blog. This always comes a bit of a surprise to me as I believe it goes into ether where it remains for all eternity. Anyhow, he was endlessly teased over the boxer shorts issue and asked for pointers on how to get other wives to pack their husband's suitcases. I should be mortified, but instead I find myself mildly amused.

 

 

 

 

Jolly Roger!

Nothing like missioning to the shops spending ages getting the stuff you need, trekking to the ATM for cash and back again and then… and then… leaving the bloody bags behind. It wasn’t all bad, I’ll shortly be spending a small fortune on the Jolly Phonics Learning Reading System in a last ditch attempt to be a good Mummy. So, those six weeks of recovery from my op will be spent earning many many many good Mummy stars.

However, my eloquent boss has made an excellent point. I pay exorbitant school fees, so what is the overpriced snob school going to do to help my child? Guilt at being a bad Mummy is fading as righteous indignation raises its beautiful raging head.

Did I really just pack my husband's suitcase?

To do today:

Check husband’s suitcase is packed for business trip. (Note to self: Throw away any boxers with holes in them. Why? Because, if God forbid, he is in an accident and ends up in hospital the paramedics might judge me as a bad wife).

Phone Melanie Hartgill, educational psychologist, and beg for an appointment for dyslexia testing for three small people. I might be paranoid, but my daughter can’t repeat spaghetti and Small boy aged 8 only reads phonetically (Note to self: Sound calm, cool and collected, mildly annoyed and not at all paranoid!).

Visit overpriced educational toyshop (Note to self: Would turning on subtitles in videos help child learn to read – think French subtitled movies – subliminal learning. Do they make hypnosis tapes for kids? Find out.)

Hone Photoshop skills making word/picture card games.

Spend 1 hour reading with small boy aged 8 and testing him on comprehension (Question: WHEN? Between midnight and 1?).

Horror, I just reread the first item on my list. When did this start? This packing of husband’s suitcase? Do I have an inner 1950s wife lurking under this brash 21st century exterior? Breathe. Temporary aberration. That’s all. Nothing serious. Nausea will pass.

Even if I did not work I cannot imagine when parents are expected to find the time to all the extra stuff teachers expect us to. Take Small boy aged 8; he starts school at 07:15 and does sport until 15:00 or 16:00 every day but Friday. By the time he reaches home just getting out the car, shovelling food in his mouth and bathing is about the extent of his remaining energy. They tell me he must be in bed by 20:00, which leaves about 10 minutes to educate him on the finer point of calculus, binomial equations and Shakespeare. No wonder he mutters his spelling and practices karate katas in his sleep.

Long-suffering husband is off to Limpopo for a leadership conference today and returns to the fold on Friday evening. The current power structure in our home now reads: God, Small girl aged 5, Small boy aged 8, Small boy aged 5, Mummy. Thank God half term starts tomorrow. Bugger! (Note to self: Do not forget birthday party tomorrow afternoon for Small boy aged 5, buy present (educational?) and beg Granny to do lifting.)

Thanks to Crackberry I made it in time to the parent-teachers meeting yesterday with Small girl aged 5’s teacher, Jenny. Jenny has had enough and is buggering off at the end of term. However, Small girl aged 5 in her estimation is doing fine, she can do 36 piece puzzles, which is apparently a milestone a mother should ooh and aah over. Who knew? And she can sing! All that singing aloud loudly in the car to Kid Rock and Joan Baez must be rubbing off on her.

Apparently I also need to do something called IFRS. I have no idea what it is, but it sounds complicated and boring. Also must remember to do invoicing or will not get paid. February has got to be the longest and most cash-poor month of the year, largely I suspect because of January school fees, extra murals, uniforms and so on. Payday can’t come soon enough. I want to go to the spa, have a massage, a facial, a haircut, buy shoes for Small girl aged 5, and earrings for same, but most of all I want my car to run something other than the force of my willpower.

Speaking of which, I drove the man of the house’s car to work today. It was unpleasant. In a Ford Fiesta one blends into the morass of humanity seething to work along our highways and byways. You don’t drive it either, you just point and steer with minimal effort. I am driving this car because husband pointed out all very noble and practical reasons to do so: fuel economy, safety and blah, blah, blah. Bella, on the other hand, my 1975 VW Toaster is a joy to drive. For one thing you actually drive her, for this paragon of German engineering is a machine, not a computer pretending to be one. She has no artificial intelligence or any artifice. In her, I stand out, people wave and smile at me, Florence the traffic cop waves me through the morass of cars getting out of my suburb. Not in a Ford bloody Fiesta in which I am a mere shadow in a world of shadows whereas in Bella I am a technicolour rainbow!

Armageddon

Monday morning I creep out of the house like a thief in the night. Terror grips me that my helper will arrive before I make my escape. I can’t bear to see her face as she witnesses the carnage of my home. What I do know is that by the time I arrive home long after the moon has risen, she will have removed the bodies of the dead, tended the wounded and restored order.

My mother once told me that trying to clean up after small boys is akin to trying to sweep the grains of sand off the beach. Saturdays start with me raging against this truth. By Sunday morning I surrender and by the following morning my house looks like the four horsemen of the Apocalypse threw a party and invited the Valkyries over. I can’t imagine what my helper must think. Actually, I can, and that is the reason why I sneak out of the house post haste.

After the weekend I savour the first hour or two of my quiet ordered office. It seems an oasis after the maelstrom of weekend flurry including karate trials, two birthday parties, small girl now aged 5’s birthday, in-laws visit and part two of the construction of the Wendy house. After all that I can handle pretty much any crisis you throw at me here, it doesn’t come close to what I have just survived.

I cannot quite believe that small girl is now aged 5. She is a remarkable child, full of fire and passion. It must be the Scot or the Irish in her. At her age I was a frightened little mouse who wouldn’t have dared to say boo to a goose.

Small girl aged 5, however does not have that problem, she will happy take on a stern faced maître d at an upmarket restaurant over the lack of the lollipop clearly displayed in the menu. Trying to explain that this is a design feature and not an offering was boiled down to being an outright lie. Said maître d flummoxed in the face of such vehemence went and bought her a lollipop.

Of course, when all that fury and righteous anger is directed at you, it is quite a different matter.

Yes, your bum looks big in that

Small boy aged 6 is writing a love song for his mummy, me. As far as he is concerned I am the best Mummy in the world and I look like an angel. I only hope I can live up to that for as long as possible.

 

I don't think children are aware of the effect their openness and sheer joy of life can have on jaded adults. How a smile from a little girl with chocolate covered fingers can make the sun come out from behind the clouds. Small boy aged 6 drove home waving at people out the window of my classic VW kombi. Watching faces tired from a long day light up and businessmen, taxi drivers, old ladies and harassed parents wave back, at first tentatively, like they can't believe someone gas noticed them, and then exorbitantly with winks and peace signs and ululations! No matter how long, hard and difficult their days had been, the last thing they'd remember was a smiley faced small boy waving and shouting out, "Hello!" as he drove past.

 

That is why children are special. Their lights haven't been dimmed by failed expectations and world weary cynicism. They experience the world good and bad in the most extreme way possible. They have no artifice, for example: I owned (past tense) a green wrap skirt, about which I harboured mixed feelings. I wasn't sure if it made me look like a lampshade or not. I asked my husband what he thought and like spouses everywhere with an iota of self-preservation, he declined to answer. So, I turned to small boy aged 8.

Me: "What do think of this skirt? Does it look nice?"

Small boy aged 8: "Um, yes, it is a very pretty skirt… just not on you."

I changed. The skirt went in the charity bin.

The point if this little reminiscence is that if a small boy tells you that you bum looks big in that, it does. He isn't being mean, he's just telling it like it is. We could all learn something from that. And there'd be a lot less women walking around in clothes that make our asses look big.

The grass is always greener

My long-suffering husband pointed out last night that 21st Century women are caught in this terrible paradox of roles.

He spent an hour listening to a very privileged woman (in my estimation) with a wealthy husband, a mansion in Kyalami Estate (or similar), a high end European sedan and a Platinum Mastercard complain about how useless she is and how she nothing but an au pair for her husband (not really, she has 2 maids and a driver).

My advice – It’s not his fault she has no self-esteem, after all he’s paid for the surgery, the gym membership and the Jimmy Choos all in an effort to keep her happy. We should all be so lucky.

However, the crux here is that she resents and envies women like me who, and I quote, “Have it all.” Do we? I think this is another case of the Invisible Mummy who doesn’t exist. We don’t have it all. We miss the funny gems that fall like pearls before swine from the lips of our beloved offspring onto the ears of uncaring nannies and after-care providers. We probably missed the first step, first word, first ballet performance, first cricket match and all the PTA dinners.

She believes we don’t come to the PTA stuff, because we think we’re too good for that. It’s not the case, we don’t come because we’re exhausted and refuse to relinquish even the 2 hours of chaos and trauma, which add up to the only time we ever send with our children, to stand around make small talk about the gym and nibble on chicken wings. The PTA Mummies are our lifeline, they are the ones we love to hate and rely on desperately to tell us when we need to do something, when the school holidays start and what our child’s teacher’s name is.

The thing is women like me define ourselves by what we do and have a deep seeded insecurity that without a career we could not afford to send our children to over-priced snob schools and that we would fade away into nothingness, our brains atrophied due to lack of use. Of course, that isn’t true – the brain atrophy part.

Women who don’t work seem to fall into either the Mother Teresa category or the other extreme, which is defining themselves by their roles as wife and mother and not as individuals in their own right. Also, just as wrong.

The sad fact is that the grass on the other side of the fence may be greener, but that's because it's probably astroturf.

Mummies Anon

Why is it, that as a mother you crave just an hour on your own, and then when you have it, you have no idea what to do with it and miss the crazy chaos like a junkie craving a fix?

Speaking of which, I have come to realise that the 12-step programme could well have been designed for mothers. Of course we could never meet, because we simply don’t have the time, but still…

Step 1:
I am powerless and my life is verging on unmanageable

Step 2:
Only another power can restore my sanity, because God knows its hanging by a thread

Step 3:
I must turn my will and lives over to the care of a higher power (Who is this? My mother? Mother-in-law? Or God-forbid, the Headmistress and PTA Mommy?)

Step 4:
I must make a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself (Must schedule this in Crackberry, could take awhile)

Step 5:
Admit the exact nature of my failings as a Mommy

Step 6:
Be ready to have all defects of character removed, preferably by a plastic surgeon who will return me to pre-Mummy boobness

Step 7:
Humbly ask medical aid to cover the full cost of removal of shortcomings as it is essential to sanity

Step 8:
Make a list of people I have harmed and say sorry (Note: Prioritise list, start with friends and then move on to birthday parties missed, Christmas cards not sent, homework not done etc. This could take a very very long time)

Step 9:
Continue with inventory and admit when going off the rails

Step 10:
Learn to ask for help from higher power (The Daddy? The maid? Facebook?)

Raising a Prodigy

I am once more caught in the conflict between Good Mummy and Bad Mummy. Am I a Good Mummy allowing my 8 year old to take extra karate, extra extra karate, guitar, cricket and so on, or am I a Bad Mummy?

The child is exhausted and so am I. But if I pull him out of say, extra extra karate, am I hindering him in his life chances? He could be the next Carlos Santana and by not enforcing the 30 minutes guitar practice a day, I could stunt the growth of a budding virtuoso.

On the other hand, when does he get to be a kid, climb a tree, play a video game? Surely he needs sleep? Poor kid practices karate in his sleep, mumbling, “Am practicing for JKA” before karate chopping me in the eye.

I don’t need him to be a boy genius, or a sport star, or the next Mozart. I just want him to be a happy, normal little boy with scraped knees, dirty fingers and a naughty smile. If that makes me a Bad Mommy, I am guilty as charged.

Karma is a bitch. Go girl!

BMW, despite popular belief, does not spell GOD. With all the German technology available you would think they could up with a personality chip for their drivers.

It took me a while to harness my infuriation at being cut off on the highway onramp this morning, but the cherry on top was passing said BMW driver twenty minutes later.

He was still in the emergency lane only this time he wasn’t moving, having rear-ended another BMW. A frisson of joy at the capriciousness of karma shot through my blood like a lightning bolt straight from the hand of Thor.

I waved.

Epic Mother Fail

 

The moment before leaving the quiet oasis of work before entering the maelstrom of traffic outside is akin to standing on the high diving board looking down at the water below knowing that sooner rather than later you are going to have to jump. Arriving at school I was deliciously greeted with Valentine chocolate hearts from three of the best people on God's green earth. The feeling of euphoria lasted until an hour's worth of Eye Spy in gridlock ran out at the same time as my patience with the commute. Why, instead of inventing Google, doesn't some brilliant young thing make the Star Trek Transporter instead?

 

Determined to redeem good mommy status by preparing a dinner filled to the brim with nutritious goodness, I arrived home with best of intentions. Child 1 and 3 were fast asleep; however Child 2 expressed an interest in cauliflower, of all things. I brought my jazzy pink laptop into the kitchen and booted up Google, the trusty search engine. I ended up with a cauliflower and tuna bake that seemed easy enough. Things to note here: I have never cooked a cauliflower; I hate them for being bland and tasteless. Also, I wasn't in the mood for making cheese sauce from scratch so I fell back on my trusty Ina Paarman Cheese Sauce. What I ended up with was a revolting mush that not even the dogs would eat. Child has gone to bed with Bovril toast and bacon. Waste of good cheese sauce and tuna so will have to make cheese from scratch for Mac and Cheese standby tomorrow.

 

I asked my husband to taste it and he said, "Um, it tastes like cauliflower why don't you try it?" and I did, only to concede that I had outdone the natural revoltingness of the vegetable. He bellowed with relieved laughter and said that either we had reached a new level of love and trust in our relationship or he was just sh*t scared of me, because he'd have eaten it if I asked him too. The very best Valentine ever! Small boy aged 6 bravely surrendered to a taste before running crazily out the kitchen and into the garden where it was disposed of. "Yuck, it tastes like flowers!" Yup, that's cauliflower for you.

 

Lesson learned. When pressed for time, stick with foods your children are actually likely to eat. Children can hunger strike better than any suffragette.

Bliss

Fell asleep last night with Siamese cat purring on one arm and snoring boy deeply slumbering on the other. It was one of those moments where all was right in the world.

The Mummy and The Tick Tock Man

Childhood monsters don’t disappear as you grow older. They evolve. They grow. They are no longer confined to the spaces under the bed or in the shadows cast upon the walls.

Unmarried, childless women of a certain age are haunted by the spectre of The Tick Tock Man. Think of Captain Hook’s crocodile only more terrifying. The Tick Tock Man is tall and thin, and his hand he carries an old-fashioned fob watch attached to his black coat by a long silver chain. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. He is in the faces of the children playing in the park and in the long-suffering sigh of your mother. In the imagined pity you see on faces of married women, at the bottom of a carton of Haagen Dazs and in the stickiness of trendy bar floors.

For mothers, the spectre is far scarier. She is The Mommy. You know she doesn’t exist this paragon of female virtue, but she stares at you from shop windows, in the teacher’s unblinking gaze, and in the light of birthday candles adorning a Sistine Chapel of icing. She is a cross between a 1950s housewife and your mother-in-law, in whose eyes you will never measure up.

The Mommy I have recently realised is the reason we stay up for 36 hours making cupcakes, why we buy Baby Guess and the latest whatever. She is why we kill ourselves trying to dress correctly, go to the gym, have a career and be the perfect wife and mother. After chatting to few mums at the school, I realise I am not alone in my experiences, so I wonder why we keep competing against this imaginary visage? She is not real and it is time she stopped making our lives a misery. The problem is, you just can’t submit, because her spirit may have taken over the body of the PTA mom in the Subaru next door. There is no exorcising The Mommy. She is everywhere and she thrives on the guilt of sub-standard mummies.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

PS: After the Purity Jar trauma of last night, my long suffering husband catches me as I leave on midnight mission to garage shop and gently encourages me to bed with promises that he will buy on the way to school in the morning. Which he did.

I even survived the Valentine’s Day Red Dress saga with small girl of almost 5. She wore a pink dress with flowers on and I put the red dress in her bag (she won’t wear it, but I won’t look like mummy who forgot).

Working Mother 2 Addendum

Crackberry alarm informs me small girl almost aged 5 requires empty Purity jar for school tomorrow. Thank you God for all night garage stores, please please please let them have Purity for me. The school asks for these things like it is quite normal to have empty Purity jars lying around 5 years after the child has been weaned onto solid food. Second thoughts, I might have an ancient bottle in the cupboard I could flush down the drain.

 

Think happy thoughts.

Working Mother 2

Omigod! DSL down because I forgot to pay phonebill. It got lost in karate, ballet, cricket and school fees. Can't do online research for job and am resorting to connecting using my old Nokia, because I can't figure out how Crackberry works.

All my fault because of a) failure to pay phonebill and b) waiting until 10:30 on Sunday night. Still, this is my time. The few sacred hours I snatch away every day after school bags are packed, (note to self: Where is small boy aged 8's reader?), lunchboxes are packed and laundry is spinning happily around in the washer. Must not forget to put cricket kit in dryer before bed.

Otherwise, a lovely weekend and a classic case of working parent angst. Instead of buying small girl almost aged 5 a pre-built doll-sized Wendy house at exorbitant cost from Wendylane (How twee is that? I half expected to be met my Peter Pan, but instead I got Primrose), we are building our own. And yes I know. However, we have completed the floor and it looks marvelous. My fingers are gluey with varnish, but it glows like the rising sun.

No, of course we are not following a plan. Who does that anyway? Who has time to Google for a Wendy house plan? Anyhow, how hard can it be? It is times like these I am immensely grateful to have a husband who can handle a drill and is able to perform a small miracle for our daughter. You see, without the Wendy house the sky will come crashing down a la Chicken Little and the world will end in tears and trauma. Said house, must be pink and purple with sash windows and window boxes filled with bright flowers of same colours. Mother must also conjure up furniture e.g. mini bed, recover old chair with help of staple gun (must buy staple gun and material), bookshelf and toy box. Granny, bless her, bought a Hello Kitty oven for Christmas so at least that is covered. (Must not forget mini broom etc.)

The U2 concert is tonight. Many thousands of my fellow countrymen are currently listening to an Irishman who has head up his arse for last 2 decades. "Every time I clap my hands, a child in Africa dies." Well, stop bloody clapping then Bonehead! You'd think that a man who has dealt with the press for as long he has would know better than to come into a volatile political arena like ours and start spouting off about singing protest songs like "Kill the Boer!" Now he's upset that he's been misquoted. Well, really!

List to do for tomorrow:

Small girl almost aged 5's birthday cake and cupcakes for school ring (arrange ring with teacher so does not conflict with other birthday child).

Find something creative to do with cauliflower that small boy aged 6 who only eats Bovril and bacon will find palatable.

Postpone small girl almost aged 5's party until completion of Wendy house.

Arrange small boy aged 8 birthday party for April – will be organised mother!

Buy present for birthday party on Saturday past and one for next week's one too.

Book helper (stupid PC term) on cookery course so we don't starve and my children get some Third World malnutrition disorder due to garage chicken pies and lack of vegetables.

Activate R2000 Spar voucher.

Find a good time to mention to current employer will need 6 weeks off for operation, but can work from home. Will welcome any ideas on how to handle this.

Call cousin.

Call friend and grovel for being bitch who doesn't answer phone.

Call girlfriend and try to arrange a Big Night Out for sometime this millennium.

Keep head above water.

Breathe.

Take meds.

Deadline. Deadline. Deadline.

 

Working Mum

Am traitor to silly bint (name escapes me) who threw herself in front a horse, so I could be a working mother. Have nothing but deep-seeded irritation towards women who starved themselves to death so I could work myself six feet under.

 

Am bad employee, rushing in late too work because I forgot small boy aged four needed to wear red to school on Friday in honour of Valentine's Day on Monday, which I had also forgotten. So bad mother also. However, I redeemed myself halfway by taking lunch hour to watch small bay aged 8 play cricket. Except that said cricket didn't end at 2pm as advertised in red note, but at 4pm, so had to go back to work and miss batting. Also, ended up watching wrong child play, because they all the same in white with blue helmets. A good mother can spot her child from a kilometer away.

 

Refuse to accept sub-standard government education for my children so work all day and most of the night trying to squeeze money from a stone. I am starting to realise that my contempt of stay-at-home moms – Mommies, with a capital M – is actually thinly-veiled envy. I want to drop my kids off a school in a high-end European sedan, then do a quick circuit at the gym, sip a latte with my girlfriends and go the spa, before rushing off to pick up kids, patiently do homework before maid feeds and bathes said kids. I'd settle just for having a latte with a friend. Do I still have those? I doubt it as social life has been kicked off the backseat and out of the bus.

 

Studies show that children with happy mothers are happy adults and achieve at school. What does this mean for me? If I stay home and not work, I will become certifiably mad and turn into irritating Mommie with nothing to talk about and be unhappy. Hell, I couldn't even make through maternity leave for 2 weeks before begging my boss for work. If work, I carry the burden of guilt of being a bad mummy, but I can send my children to overpriced snob school. However, exhaustion and guilt make for an unhappy mummy. I cannot win. It seems my children can't either.

 

Threw up high-profile advertising job in global agency for freelance and contract work. More pay, less glory. Now am faced with 6 week hiatus due to disk replacement operation and need to earn enough money to tide me over the break. At least I have cool car – a 1976 VW Kombi called Bella. When I pick small girl aged 4 up at school (PS. Must remember to delay birthday party for friends and bake 45 cupcakes for school on Friday) she hugs the car before me. I guess Bella, with all her idiosyncrasies, offers more security than a mother who is shackled to her Crackberry.

 

Ah, the curse of the Crackberry. 24/7/365 connectivity. What that means is that if your current employer has a Great Big WOW Idea at 2am and wants to share it with you; he gets perturbed if you not reply with enthusiasm. Note to self: Change voicemail message to stress that calls between 5pm and 9pm will NOT be answered. If someone has died, they will still be dead later, or better yet, tomorrow. And as for emergencies, I have 3 small children to feed, bath, check homework, read story to and get to sleep – so bugger off and call someone who gives a damn, like 911. Anything else is not an emergency; it is life throwing you a curveball so suck it up and deal.

 

Bugger, have now lost one hour's working time equating to about one side wall of doll Wendy house for small girl aged 4's birthday, without which she will just die! Note to self: Set Crackberry reminder 2 months prior to birthdays to organise party, gifts and invitations. Also – remember to organise present shelf like good Mommy so today's embarrassment of forgetting present, because running too late to pop into Toy R Us. Also, don't forget to sell extra Wii Guitar Hero that online store delivered too late for Christmas, necessitating Christmas Eve late night rush to shopping mall – the den of Satan.

 

GAH! Just remembered today's birthday boy's Mummy, saying, "Oh, I am so glad to meet you, you know our boys do karate together." No, I didn't, because I bloody work to pay for said karate. Mummy continues, "It's so nice, because, you know, we haven't seen you at our little get-togethers. You simply must come to have a morning brekkie with the girls." In my head I know she is just being nice, but in my heart it sounds like a condemnation. Like the way the Mommies look at you if you bring a bought birthday cake to school from Woollies.

 

Know what I mean? Know what I mean? Nudge, nudge, wink, wink? Know what I mean?

 

Loop-de-loop

Patience can stretch on for years
Before it reaches its end
And then in stunning clarity
You see the endless looping trend

Like a hamster spinning madly
On a static plastic wheel
Going nowhere slowly
I know just how he feels

The truth glares far too brightly
Like sunshine in my eye
And I cannot hide forever
No matter how creatively I lie

A cruel mistress

She’s a cruel mistress
Who drags you from your bed
Whose charms you cannot resist
Whose chains encircle your heart

A cruel mistress
Whose voice silken soft tempts you
And forgotten lie the promises you made
Echoing gently in the long dark night

A cruel mistress
Who keeps you awake
Until the sun rises in the morn

A cruel mistress indeed
Who has erected a prison
You have no wish to escape

She must be beautiful indeed
To make you forget your dreams
And the ones who wait

Does she wield her magic
To take the pain away
To keep the wolves at bay

And how long does the spell last
Before reality creeps in
Life is for the living
Not the dying

William Morecombe - In memoriam

For a second you were flying
Like you always wanted to
Now you’ll fly forever
In skies of azure blue
We’ll see your smile in every ray
Of sunshine after rain
And hear the echo of your laughter
Over all the pain
The world’s a little quieter now
The colours have lost their hue
The birds are singing softly
And our hearts are missing you
Each time we see a little cloud
Or a rainbow soaring high
We’ll think of you and gently
Wipe a tear from our eye

To the masseuse with wandering hands

God saw fit to make me rather well endowed
With a cleavage of which I am quite proud
Now, you can look, but you cannot touch
And your hands are wandering a tad too much
I don’t want to make a scene
But your fingers are doing something rather obscene
The feel of your slimy, clammy, sweaty flesh
Is branded upon the skin of my breast
So let’s get one thing perfectly clear
You feel me up again and I’ll break your landing gear

Chameleon

A social chameleon slides right in
Knows what to say and how to spin
Sweet nothings, chitchat, astute social commentary
Charming and flirtatious, sipping a fine French Chablis

Can change his spots according to
Any genre or milieu
Adjusts his hue and colouring
To be neither too left nor too right wing

When the colours fade back to black
The mask splits apart with a swift sharp crack
Stripped of pretense, not so debonair
Just rather ordinary and rather the worse for wear

To Luke on his 6th Birthday

I’ve held you in the dead of night
Chased away your fears
I’ve kissed your wounds better
Wiped away your tears

Of all the mothers in the world
You chose to bless me
Your love, your laughter and your grace
Has set my spirit free

Thank you for the flowers
That bloom beside my bed
Thank you for the little things
The words of love you’ve said

My world is so much richer
The stars shine through the night
You’ve made the very heavens sing
And filled my soul with light

No matter where life’s long road
May take your tired feet
My love will be your guide
And guard you while you sleep

Shattered

The image distorted
The body disjointed
The soul contorted in pain
The pieces are scattered
The dress in tatters
The glass shards fall like rain
The prayers are offered
The sacrifice gutted
There’s nothing left but shame

Eden

Insidious little whispers in the night
Creep through the chinks in my armour
Soft tendrils of smoke twine around my dreams
And plant the seeds of nightmares
To flower and grow into some mutant Eden

On the block

What value an item, but what someone will pay?
What value a person, but that bestowed by someone else?
So fragile a worth eroded by a cruel words
Or a glib comment thrown away upon the wind
A woman is not a job lot for a Sotheby’s auctioneer
Or a sidewalk whore with a price tag on her wares
She has value beyond that which you see
And wisdom far beyond her years

Agony Auntie

Tell me what to do
To stop this spiral into hell
Tell me what to say
To stop the snow from falling
Tell me where to go
To find a way out of the maze
Tell me where to hide
While the thunderstorm rages
Tell me that everything will be alright
It’ll all be better in the gentle morning light
And though I know it is a lie
Say it anyway
Because the words hold me together
When all else has failed

The 1000 yard stare

I didn’t sign up for this
With the arrogance and naïveté of youth
I wanted to fight for freedom
And liberty for all mankind
Not wade in blood and gore up to my ankles
And sleep with the dead and dying
I didn’t sign up for mud and the cold
And the desperate wails of my brother
He lost his leg when we went over
Into no mans land that morning
His blood stained the sacks as it seeped through the bandage
And the rats waited for once silent
Knowing they would gorge themselves later
There are no heroes in war
Only the dead and those who survive
But every one of us boys
Who fought there lost our lives
There are times I wish the reaper
Had come for me that night
And saved me from the years of waking death
That have underscored my life
All the roads I have taken
And all the places I have seen
I’ve never left that battlefield
Or lost the echoes of those screams

Taking vows

Oh screw it
I've had enough
Of bullshit and lies
And bloody gray fluff
If I could only learn to bite my tongue
I reckon I'd become a nun
And take a vow of silence in an isolated cloister
Renamed, I think, Sister Argumenter

Perspective

If I am going to be punished
For what I did not do
I may as well do it
Wouldn't you?

If you make promises
You cannot keep
May I do the same
As you lie asleep?

But its not the same
When its done to you
Things are different
From that point of view

And no, it's not about you
Although you think it is
Sometimes its about me
Selfish though that is

Fallen

A sword forged in the flames of hell
By an angel who from heaven fell
Steel hardened in the heat of fire
Blade sharpened on the edge of ire
Wielded in battle, a song in the hand
Alone in the fray, the warrior stands
And the bodies of the men that he has felled
Lie at his feet, their voices quelled
Where to now soldier, where to now
Once you've wiped the tears of blood from your brow?

Not alone

I sat down near the lake
And watched the geese swim by
I caught a glimpse of someone watching
Out the corner of my eye
But they slipped into the shadows
Back from whence they came
I thought saw the blur of wings
And heard the whisper of my name
I watched the ripples widen
Across the reflection of my face
And I caught a shred of memory
From other time and place
I know that someone’s watching me
In case I trip and fall
I know someone will hear me
If only I should call

Random Acts of Kindness

Thank you
To the lady who lent me 50c to get out of the parking
To the gentleman who held the door for me this morning
To the man in the car who said “Bless you” when I sneezed
To the guys in the truck who sang along with me to Guns and Roses
To the taxi driver who let me in front of him when I was in the wrong lane
To the teller who smiled when she wished me a good day
To the car guard who remembered my children’s names
To the little girl who said she liked my dress
To all the people I do not know who touch my life
With random acts of kindness

Digital backlash

I hate digital technology
The lie that it makes my life easier
What it does is allow a violation of personal space
There is nowhere to go to escape the incessant clamour
In sheer desperation I turn it off
To steal a moment or two of peace
But the backlash of animosity
That I would have the audacity
To want to escape the grid
Drives me to my knees
Living the pages of a post-apocalyptic 80s novella
Lost the plot
Is there anywhere left untainted?
If so, take me there
And leave me
In peace
And quiet

Monday

I’m tired of quiet platitudes
Egos and unearned attitudes
Swallowing the things I want to say
Gives me indigestion first thing in the day

I want to laugh too loudly for small spaces
And put Fred and Ginger through their paces
I want a fuck off bunch of flowers with a note
And something big and sparkly to hang around my throat

Right now I’d just settle for a Styvie
And very hot sweet cup of tea
I'll eat the chocolate bar I bought on a whim
And use full cream milk and not low fat skim

Sacrificial lamb

A web of lies so fragile
That binds you to the cross
A sacrifice of honesty
To the faith you went and lost

The spinning of a safety net
As elaborate as fine lace
Your creation turned upon you
And lashed your arms in place

A single word of truth
Would all the ties unbind
But do you have the courage
To lay it on the line?

Stumble

Ever stumbled on the path

On a stone so insignificant

That it might have been a speck of dust

Only to find the very foundation of your world shaken

And the ground ripped from beneath your feet

For a second you feel you're flying

Then the earth comes up to meet you

And you lie bruised and battered

Your pride broken

And your blood staining

The sand beneath your fingers

As they grasp for some purchase

Some promise

That things will be okay

That you will stand up

And keep on walking

Excretia

Shit

Is not a swear word

When it's running in a river

Through your yard

Shit

Is not expletive

But excretive

When your neighbour's turd

Floats quietly by the window

Shit

Does not describe

The unholy stench

That permeates the air

Shit

Is what the plumber can do

When it's not his problem

And shit

Is what the council will do

To fix it

Happy ever after

Crazy though it seems

Things fall apart at the seams

I want a wonderland

With toffee apple trees

And the scent of cookies baking

Wafting on the breeze

I want a fairytale

With rainbow coloured wings

And sip the dew from bluebells

In a magic mushroom ring

I want a happy ever after

Is that too damn much to ask?

Fatigue

God I’m tired
Off balance
The dream world more real
Than the waking
A surreal state of being
Marking time amongst living
Paying penance for some long forgotten crime
Sentenced to life
No chance of parole
By a jury of peers
And the one who would free me
Angel or executioner?

Surrender

Empty promises ring clear
Like a crystal goblet song
In my error I believed them
And got it all so very wrong
Floored by fatigue
Is it worth the pain
Of holding together
Shattered pieces of a dream?
If I let them fall unhindered to the floor
Someone else could clean it up
The onus mine no more
I could stop the frantic kicking
To keep my head above the waves
And let the tide carry me gently gently far away

Panic

Ravens caged within my breast
They beat their wings against the bars
Flailing beaks and razor talons
Tear tender flesh apart
I watch from a distance
As the blood drips to the floor
A crimson tide of retribution
That stains the white sand of the shore

Lucy

I’m liaising with a lady named Lucy Xu (rhymes with shoe)
She’s in Shanghai, that much is true
She says she spleak no English, I spleak no Mandarin
What remains of my patience is wearing thin
If I had a pair of chopsticks I stick them up her nose
Its inevitable we will come to blows
The bitch speaks English as well as I
This whole language barrier is a total lie
To disguise the fact she’s done sweet bugger all
And I’m the patsy who will take the fall

Migraine

Shattered shards of glass
Pierce the veil
The searing point of puncture
Where words fail

Why

A hairsbreadth between now and then
A single step all that separates the ground from the abyss
I clutch at this fraying strand of rope
And my muscles scream in endless agony


I ask why?

Why not let go and enjoy the split second of flight?
Why not sink into the depths away from the blinding light?
Why not embrace the fear of the unknown
And let the darkness wrap her silken arms around me?
What is there to fear…
But failure?

Irate

Oh give me a baseball bat
And a swing at some kneecaps
And I’ll give you a reason to believe

Just give five minutes
Of your oh so precious time
And I’ll show you what happens when you thieve

I can’t cut off your fingers
I can’t cut off your toes
But I have a few little tricks up my sleeve

A single word can fell an army
When you know just what to say
And the damage done more than you can possibly conceive

And Karma is a women
Like an evil bitch in heat
And she’s waiting round the corner when next you practice to deceive

Where to from here?

It’s gotta be like WOW
Gotta POP POP POP
It’s gotta catch you on the run
It’s gotta scream out STOP!

But…

It’s also needs to be classy
But not scream ostentatious bling
Accessible to everyone
And still fit for a king

So…

We want an activation
TV, radio and online
Some print ads and a billboard
Can you book a can can line?

Basically…

Go mad, go wild
Show us what you can do
We want everything they have
With a cherry on top too

And…

We need it by tomorrow
Or the end of play today
And fifty five dollars
Is all we’re prepared to pay

Lament to the Air Con

Outside the sun is shining
And the sky is a turquoise hue
But inside this office building
My toes are turning blue

A plume of dragon’s breath
Emerges when I speak
I think I’m freezing to death
And the future’s pretty bleak

I called upon the man
Who knows about these things
He looked at me dead pan
And said he try to pull some strings

The thermostat is on the blink
I could have told him that
He said he have to have a think
And promised he’d be back

Many days have slipped right by
Without a single word
A single solitary tear I’d cry
If it wouldn’t freeze up first

Autumn

From my window I watch
The leaves turn to gold
And the men and women
Bundled up against the cold
I watch the clouds chase
Across the wide blue sky
And sparrows meet
Before they fly
The mornings are dark now
Until the sun deigns to show her head
And I have no desire
To leave the comfort of my bed

Invasion

You walk in as though you own the place
Run your hands through silk and lace
You take your time dipping into my life
With insouciance and a kitchen knife
And all the while I lay asleep
Lost in a fragile world of dreams
And you placed in your pockets little things
Whose only value lay in rememberings
I wonder if you watched me as I lay
Unaware and on display
I wonder if you knew how I would feel
I wonder what else you wanted to steal

SA PC

There is a strange poetry

To the dance

Of political correctness

A fluid rhythm

Born of necessity

Acute awareness

Of the subtleties of subtext

And the symmetry of semantics

A veil of fine spun silk

To filter the unmentionable

An inbred censorship

To monitor and apportion

A vague sense of guilt

For even daring to think

The unthinkable

The Character Assasin

Subdued in shadow

In the pause between the subtle lines of text

In the echoing silence between words

In the knowing glance

And nuance of poise

She waits

Scythe

The wheel is spinning
Like crazy
Someone set the hamster
Free
Houdini slipped the silken bonds
And ran off
Into a tequila sunset

Can’t shake the dark foreboding
Of the coming Armageddon
Do I fight the coming of the night
Or lay down and rest my head
Upon my hands
And wait

Each grain of sand that drops
A minute less of life
A heartbeat closer
The quicksilver slash
Of a scythe
Too close for comfort
Splitting hairs again

Trap

The restless anarchist
In me
Resists the subtle slide
Of the everyday
Challenges the status quo
And seeks for something
Else
Entirely

A jailbreak from nine to five
Monotony
Imprisoned by the fear
Of the unknown
Repulsed and tempted
By the silken threads of
Nebulous security

Like the hunter
Chewing off his foot
To escape the clutches
Of the iron trap
To set himself
Free

Trap

The restless anarchist
In me
Resists the subtle slide
Of the everyday
Challenges the status quo
And seeks for something
Else
Entirely

A jailbreak from nine to five
Monotony
Imprisoned by the fear
Of the unknown
Repulsed and tempted
By the silken threads of
Nebulous security

Like the hunter
Chewing off his foot
To escape the clutches
Of the iron trap
He set himself

Naval

I’ve contemplated
My naval
To its very depths
And wondered as to the
Evolution
Of that small piece of fluff
That lodges in the belly button
I’ve yet to find the meaning
Of life
Hidden in the folds
Of my abdomen
Yet, I can see the fascination
It holds
For generations of philosophers
The hypnotic contemplation
The Buddha belly

Woes

The roof leaks
And the storm rages
Above my bed
I wake with raindrops
On my eyelashes

The fridge bellows
Or whimpers
Its death throes
No longer cold
It waits for death

No more friendly scent
Of fresh coffee
In the morning
The quiet looms
In the hour before sunrise

The car shudders
At the thought
Of another mile to go
And promises yet
To keep

Shafton Grange

Time out of time we spent
A sanctuary heaven sent
In a valley of mists

A white steed in silhouette
Glimpse of an equine vignette
Framed by my window

Seductive scents weave
Their webs entangle me
Tastes to feed the soul

Laughter from the treetops
Rainbows in the water drops
That flew from golden hair

The rush of the city calls
No more hidden waterfalls
But I know they’re there

January

A tenuous grasp on the fast fading sensation of holiday memories
Resolutions fading like last weeks overblown lilies
Sinking fast into the muddy waters of day to day existence
Putting up only partial, half hearted resistance
Stolen snapshots of sunshine senoritas
Bitter aftertaste of too many margaritas
Holiday lights packed away for yet another year
To gather dust on the bottom shelf, a sad recollection of Christmas cheer
Already the colours of that final sunset show
Are fading like a photograph taken far too long ago
But I’ll keep that picture of the sunshine in your hair
And blue eyes laughing, your face so fair
Don’t grow up too quickly, don’t leave me behind
With just the traces of a melody running through my mind

A moment

I need a moment to acclimatize
I need a second to close my eyes
Just deafen my ears to the sounds of my screams
Just remember the magic of midnight dreams

I need a song. I need a dance.
A rose, a kiss, a little romance
A full moon, a shooting star
A wish granted and a really fast car

I need the wind rushing through my hair
I need an open road to nowhere
I need the pulsing sound of heavy bass
I need a stupid smile to split my face

I need a laugh. I need some time.
A night on the town. A lover of mine.
A full moon, a shooting star
A wish granted and a really fast car

Innocence

The gift of a child’s laughter
Clear eyes and happy ever after
Dream impossible dreams
Nothing is at it seems
See the world in Technicolor
Sing out loud lah-di-dah
Temporary grief and sorrow
Play today like there’s no tomorrow
Make a wish and make a fairy
Dance on flowers and eat magic berries
Grown ups filled with sad despair
Faithless whispers of old prayers
No pot of gold at rainbows end
Sprout platitudes and condescend
I’d rather stay a child inside
Then keep my dreams lifelong denied

Mummy

Mummy, I have nightmares alive inside my head
Mummy, there are monsters living beneath my bed
Mummy, you told me they weren’t really real
Mummy, did you lie to me, because I can feel
Their cold hands around my throat when I try to scream
And hear their laughter in the dark when things are not quite what they seem
Mummy, you can’t protect me with sweet sung lullabies
You can’t keep the lightning from tearing up the sky
Mummy, I know you love me, but its time to say goodbye
Mummy, will the angels come when it’s my time to die?

Insomnia

Sink into oblivion
Dark, dream filled obsidian
There be monsters here

Gentle ogres, tyrant kings
Dragons blowing silken soft smoke rings
What are the things you fear?

Gossamer winged nightmares
Gallop from their lairs
No white knight to save you here

IOU

It was a week of madness
Marked by medical ineptitude
And patience stretched beyond limits

A fortress of maternal solitude
Where only a mother’s love would soothe
The raging fever of the youngest son

It was a week of testing
How far would a mother go
To protect her child from harm

An army of silent strength
Gathered at her back
So she could hold a child in her arms

It was a week of fever
Where blood ran to boiling
And the flames licked the rafters

A debt of gratitude
Owed to those to stood firm
And shouldered the weight of one who lay fallen