Parenting in 3 words.

My missing diary …. and the bottle of wine ….

 

I keep a pen and ink diary.  I abhor digital diaries.

The problem with pen and ink diaries is that if I misplace mine the entire facade that is my life comes crumbling down.

I have no recall of what my appointments are and basically it is all just freaking a panic.

Today I had a parent and teacher meeting and took my trusty diary along.  In the excitement of the meeting, I put my diary down so that I could make the necessary hand movements one needs to make in these sort of meetings.  You know how these things go.

Honestly it was one of the most “real” meetings I have ever been to.

I was the last parent of the day so already there is a level of relaxation for the teacher that this schpeel.

It really was an honest chat, not just about my child, but also about how “being a parent” it seems is as difficult for a teacher as it is for the normal riff-raff.  She shared all sorts of home truths with me, and I could have hugged her in appreciation.

All three of my children have been in her class, so we have a bit of a history, and it is sort of cool that she knows my kids.  I don’t have to blow smoke up her arse.  She knows my children and me and we have clocked up a few hours in talks over the last few years.

I really had a laugh and it was all good.

I left the meeting and I was mentally already somewhere else.  The result is that I did not check and I left my diary behind.

I only realised my error at about 17h45 and then frantically I was trying to go down the path and see where it might be.  I sent a message to the class teacher and she said she had found it and left it at reception so I could collect it tomorrow.

Good plan in theory — however I had no idea what my calendar looked like tomorrow and knew I had something on quite early, but no recall who it was with.

Here is the part that was really cool.

She offered to meet me at the school and give me my diary – as clearly I had no freaking clue what I had planned for tomorrow and this was filling me with huge amounts of anxiety.

The teacher met me at the school – then realised that she could not get the door open to the side where I was on.

She then walked around until she found a window that could open so she could pass the diary to me.  In turn I passed her a bottle of chilled wine.

I felt it was a good swap.

Yay for cool primary school teachers — who do not get offended when I use the word “fuck” in several of my descriptions and do not seem to mind finger puppets.

When your child goes missing …. or hide and seek level 42

 

I saw a note on Facebook about a mom (Lisa-Marie) who received a call that her daughter was absent, when the mom had dropped the child at school.  Her daughter is in Grade 1 — it’s not like she could have decided to go and hang out at Forever 21 for the day.  She is 6.

Mom has a cardiac arrest and spends the next two hours breathing into an old McDonalds brown bag.

It reminded me of an incident with Connor that happened a few years ago.

I get to after care and I look for Connor, who is no where to be found.  I walk up to to the sign in sheet and notice he hasn’t signed in.

It is just after 17h00 and he would have signed in by 14h20.

I ask the after care teachers where he is — they say, they don’t know.

I can feel a full on “episode” coming on, but I am trying to look calm and control my facial features.  Already I have visualised the call I will make to nearest and dearest about the fact that somehow I managed to lose my oldest child and now he is dead.

I sort of started speaking in that slightly hysterical voice and saying “well where is he — he is meant to be at aftercare?”

I think the teachers could smell the impending poes collapse, they also came to look at the sign in sheet and agreed he hadn’t signed in.

Thanks, I am missing a child, not fucking suffering from retinal fucking detachment.

I start to go outside and call for him — which is one step further up the ladder of insanity as after 17h00 all the kids are inside.  So if he was outside I would not actually need to call for him — because he would be alone on the playground.  Unless he was Casper.  Then he would be on the playground and I would need to call him.

I started phoning a few of the usual suspects — again keeping it light and fucking breezy, when I was freaking the fuck out — “so, is there any chance you fetched Connor from school today….?” “no…” “okay…” “no, no problem — just a matter of him not being here and no one knows where he is … but other than that, it’s all thumbs up over here”  “yes, of course we are still on for the braai …. no worries…”

So now I am in full blown panic disorder territory, but I am still trying to look vaguely normal.

After care teachers do not feel comfortable when a mom is going fucking insane in the aftercare when little children are watching.

I swear if one more fucking teacher looked at that sign in sheet I was going to murder her with the clipboard the sign-in sheet was on.  I am not missing a signature — I am missing a child.  Similiar, but one is slightly larger and less likely to fit in a 10cm line space.

At this point I realised I was the only one here who was fully understanding the situation and I started to do that frantic run you do over the school grounds, when you think your child has been snatched.

If you haven’t experienced it yet, then I can highly recommend it.

Not only do you run faster than you ever thought you could, but you manage to learn to pray, string swear words together and start to plead with your imaginary maker —- it is all quite something.  I was having religious epiphanies, planning a funeral, deciding on an epitaph ….. it was all quite exhilarating.   I am not sure if this is that “moment” that runners feel when they are in the zone, it is hard to say.

I eventually found Connor down at the cricket nets —- his friend was not in after care.  Connor and Devin had decided they were going to play cricket till their moms arrived.  Devin’s mom knew where her son was —- my son was not where he was meant to be.

Connor of course forgot the key part of informing his mom or after care.

I can’t explain to you the relief you feel when you find your alive child at the school and not dead or in the back of a black panel van with tinted windows, with four dodgy blokes.

{my imagination and hysteria have very particular details to them}

At the same time that the relief endorphins move through your body, the other “I am fucking going to kill you” hormones make their way to your eye balls, mouth, and hands and you seriously want to fucking kill that child.

Right there.  Right then. Fuck epitaphs.

I screamed at Connor like I have never done before.  I think kids two fucking schools away learnt a valuable lesson that day. “Sign in to fucking aftercare like we fucking agreed ….” My fuck filter was totally off that day.

Connor couldn’t grasp why I was acting like a unhinged person — he had a cricket bat in his hand.  I felt an over riding urge to take the cricket bat and have a go at his knees.

For the next two days I kept looking at him with a sense of relief …. and then an immediate urge to beat the living shit out of him.

Parenting is super fun.  I don’t recommend it.  Get a dog — they usually leave you after 14 years and that is about just enough time to get attached to them, like them, and not have to get angry with them because they are going to steal the car and drink all your beer.

#greatparentingmoments

#fuckthisparentingmalarkey

#greatparents

#whymomsdrink

#daydrinking

#hideandseek

#hideandseekloser

Mom Person and Dad Person have a huge fight at the Spur — and forget there are 6 children sitting between them as they start to attempt to throw furniture around.

I saw this video footage yesterday on Facebook.

If you haven’t it will move across your feed on Facebook in the not too distant future.  It’s pretty much all over the show right now.

It has also been published on You Tube and I am supplying the link below so you can go and view the footage if you like.  My issue is that this “situation” has turned into a “Black mom vs White dad in Spur | HUGE FIGHT #HumanRightsDay” –— many of the comments start off sort of okay.

Soon the comment thread turns into a litany of racial slurs and it pretty much goes pear shaped from there on in.

I may be really naive, and I might not understand what is happening in this video, but I am not looking at it and seeing a racial interaction.

I am seeing two adults, who appear to be parents, behaving in the worst possible versions of themselves in front of their children.

I am not 100% sure who belongs to whom – the guy in the blue shirt appears to have a female partner, who is trying to calm him down without wanting to get in his way, and she has a young daughter who is being pulled backwards and forward behind the male person.

This little girl is being taught that when someone hurts her on the playground, then daddy is going to go in without any sense of restraint.

Daddy (I am assuming he is the daddy person) is further teaching her that not only is it acceptable and encouraged, but to scream and swear at someone who has upset you — but if you can show an attempt at wanting to hit that person — and then add a smirk, then that is even better.

Dad guy, what the fuck do you think you are teaching your girl child here??

Double points if you give the impression (again I am not sure of what he is capable of doing, or whether this is done for effect) that you can throw furniture around.

Daddy person is screaming, showing excessive level of violence, no self control, and is teaching his daughter it is quite okay for a grown man to attack another grown person, in this case a woman.  If Dad person can throw in a little smirk to indicate he really gives zero fucks, that is just Benoni enough for everyone.

The Woman/Mother is not innocent in this exchange.

She is sitting at the head of the table, furthest away from the Daddy person.

Seems a safe place to be — Daddy person clearly has been working out on “arm day” and seems to have double upped on what ever medication that makes you really get totally fucked off whilst at a Spur.

Mother person is not going to sit there and take shit from Daddy person.  No, fuck that, she spurs this situation (see what I did there?) on and it escalates.

I wish to remind you if you do not see it, but there are SIX FUCKING CHILDREN BETWEEN HER MOUTH AND THIS GUYS FISTS.

As you watch the video you notice two of the kids dive over the furniture to move to another seat with a bit more space between them and the ranting Father person.  The other four children just sit there in stunned silence.

This is the part where I totally lose my shit.

Daddy person is an arsehole with some impulse control problems.  I have also been at a Spur where some kid was attempting to beat the shit out of my child.

Unfortunately the Spur assistants/helpers cannot lay a hand on any child, because that will set off the Apocalypse.

I have also felt the urge to go over and beat the child and the parent who did not monitor their child senseless.

This is my Spur story —- no violence unfortunately, but an overriding urging to say the F word, but I didn’t — I was in the kids play area and going off my face at a delusional mother seemed the less ideal place and time.

  1. I have often felt the over riding urge to slap parents at the Spur upside the head  — however I have realised that there is no way this situation will end well, and the best thing to do is if you feel you have some restraint is to go over and mention it to the mom/dad calmly  —- but in the three occasions I have done this, I have never had a calm response.
  2. In the one incident this child was climbing on the half wall in the play area, she was a fairly solid 5 year old girl.  The Spur Assistant probably said to her a dozen times “please do not climb on the wall” – but this little girl gave zero fucks and was jumping off the wall only the bouncy castle.  And with her bulk, the bounce would bounce everyone else who did not weight in at 60 kilograms right off the castle.  In my case Georgia who was just over two years old.
  3. I asked the little girl to stop doing in — I swear to you it was in the nicest voice I had.  This little girl ignored me totally and climbed back on the wall, to redo the exercise.  Again this is after me already going to peel Georgia off the glass – which was where she had been bounced to and put her back on the bouncy castle.
  4. So here was little girl again — doing the same thing, that the Spur Play Assistant had repeatedly asked her not to, and I was now into my second or third explanation that she was not allowed to jump from the wall, and explaining to her – again really nicely — that she was going to hurt the other children.
  5. She just got ready to launch herself again.
  6. Her parents are sitting at a table right next to the play area, right next to the glass, so they can see their liebchen launch herself off the wall.
  7. I put my hand on her ankle — I just put my hand on her ankle — I did not squeeze it or hurt her —- though I did feel an overwhelming urge to push her backwards so she would fall on her stupid head off that fucking wall. But I resisted — I looked around like I was looking for her parents, but no one was coming.  I rested my hand on her ankle and said again “please climb off this wall, you are not allowed to jump off this wall.”
  8. She looked at me rather sulkily, climbed off the wall and left the play area.
  9. I thought, great, that was handled quite well. The Spur Assistant smiled a thank you and I continued to watch Georgia not be thrown against the glass.
  10. Then the mom came in with her crying child.  The mom was accusing me of hurting her child and scratching her and causing her an injury.  The mom was going off her face.  The child of course was now crying along, because the more she cried the more upset the mom got at me.
  11. You know when  you think you are being “punked” and you stand there with a bit of a smile, then you realise actually you aren’t.
  12. I tried to explain to this mom who was basically accusing me of child abuse that I did not hurt her daughter, I put my hand on her ankle as SHE WAS TRYING TO JUMP OFF THE FUCKING WALL ONTO THE BOUNCY CASTLE which is where children who did not weight 60kgs were playing.
  13. The mom however did not see this as being a problem.
  14. Somehow my resting my hand on this child’s foot, because her fucking ears weren’t working and I thought if she could just listen to me and stop doing the jumping then we could all be lekker.
  15. She also did not recognise that her daughter had been told more than a dozen times not to jump off the wall.
  16. The mom was not going to calm down — I seriously stood there and tried to calm her down, but she was already into the “I can see no reason here because you abused by child…”
  17. So, the reason you have heard this story, is because I do not touch someone else’s child.
  18. I however do lean in and talk to them in a menacing voice that scares the living shit out of them.  I feel fuck all — if it stops a kid who is repeating a behaviour, that may cause my child harm or another child, and parents who do not manage their children, then I am happy to step up and give them a little whisper.

This video footage is being painted as a racist incident.

This is a bad parenting incident and both parties behaved badly.

The Mommy person for me is actually the biggest problem — she is responsible for 6 children.  I am not sure if they are all hers.  It does not matter, they are with her and she is responsible for them.

She is escalating a situation between herself and a man person, who is clearly strong and angry enough to do some damage.  She continues to escalate the situation and remains on the far end of the table with 6 children between her and the aggressor.

Listen, if you feel you have to get involved in a fight, or want to take on someone at the Spur or where ever you hang out.  Totally up to you.

When you are doing it with six children in the way between you and a clearly escalating situation, then you clearly, clearly have lost the fucking plot, and you have shown yourself to be lacking. In every possible way.

The Man Person is an arsehole.

I appreciate he is unhappy because his daughter has been hit or assaulted in the play area.  If you have been to a Spur Play Area, you will realise this is a common occurrence.  It is not pleasant or right, but it happens.  There are loads of children playing.  There is generally no parent supervision and the Spur Play Assistant has very clear rules that she cannot physically touch a child.

The Man Person should have gone over to the Woman Person and said “May I talk to you for a moment please?” and then pointed out the problem, and a suggestion of how to resolve the situation.

The Woman Person when feeling attacked by the Man Person should not have got her shit on and seen how she can escalate this — she has 6 children in her care.

6 children watching this.

6 children at risk to an injury by  a demented guy who is being pushed and pushed, and looks like he could flip a fucking Spur Table over with just a bit of motivation.

If Woman Person wants to get into a rumble, then she needs to leave the table, and move this situation away from these children.  Stop to get someone to oversee the kids whilst she takes this “rumble in the fucking suburbs” outside.

But no — she remains behind 6 children and continues to turn this from a minor fracas to a total shit storm

Both adults handled this badly.

I  feel both he and she should be banned from Spurs.  I do not think he is more wrong than her, I think they both acted irresponsibility.  And no doubt feel they are both in the right.

I have seen people comment about how it is Spur’s fault and they should have got involved.  Please can we stop doing this – disolving the guilty party of guilt and assigning it to someone else.  Spur is not to blame here — these two people in this video are to blame.

Individually.  And together.

The rest of the cast are guilt free —- let’s keep the blame where it belongs.

Let’s also not turn this into a racist thing — sure there were racist slurs thrown, it can be expected.  But this was not a black/white thing.  

This was bad parenting.  Bad adulting.  And bad conflict resolution.

I really hope that somewhere in this there is a neutral party who can discuss and unpack what there children have witnessed.

I think that is where I am naive, I think these children will just absorb this into their psyche and think it is okay for grown ass adults to physically fight with each other, call each other names and basically behave badly —-

 

My mind is a bit of a mess right now ….

My head is really a mess right now.

Part of it is because I have had a cold for more than three weeks – and it came with the bonus of a sinus infection.

Which meant that not only did I feel like someone had hit me in the head with a baseball bat, but being vertical became challenging.  My ears were constantly under pressure, so no doubt that was doing nothing for my equilibrium and my pole dancing has gone for a ball of shit.

That  rubbed out four to five days of my life right there.

I slept — I love sleep — but I didn’t realise that I could sleep as much as I have.  If it was an Olympic sport, I would have brought home a gold.  I slept for about 10 hours on Friday during the day, I then went to bed at about 20h30 and clocked up another 12 hours— I just could not function.

I lay on the couch listening to the soothing voice of David Attenborough and I slept.  Woke up for a bit, then closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

It was epic.   it was just a tired sleep — I would wake up feeling dizzy and disorientated and need to sleep some more, so I unfortunately was the “less fun one” and my inability to make any decisions was pretty fly.

It’s been tricky managing the kids from a horizontal position — or from a sleeping point of view.

Some things unfortunately did get away from me.

I will confess the kids were very nice and helpful.  Isabelle offered to make school lunches for a mere R5.00 — it seemed like a good idea at the time.  After a few days she confessed to not being “good with the bread” — I have no idea what the kids were getting — so I opted to just make the bread part and then she could pack the lunch boxes.

I have had three encounters in the last month that have “changed” me.

I have felt a shift in my consciousness.

How I observe the world and how I interact with it and how I “see” me has changed or shifted.  Or is shifting — which may explain the motion sickness.

It has been pretty fucking big — I am struggling to convert my thoughts into words, that make any sense.

Granted the sinus infection has probably not helped matters.

I have been reading Brené Brown and seriously that woman has changed something in me.

I am feeling a bit confused actually — like when you get to peep behind the curtain, and you see something and your brain just does not know what the fuck to do with it.

It is a bit like that.

Someone mentioned her name so I went to watch the two TED TALKS with her, and again I had this shift.

The power of vulnerability | Brené Brown

Listening to shame | Brené Brown

I watched it again, searched for a few others and bought her book.

I am not of the “self help” book league, it’s really just not my jam.

But THIS FUCKING book — it’s like reading the 10 Commandments.  Coming down the hill and thinking this is just too “big” to explain to anyone.  Okay, maybe let me throw it on the ground, and then I can have more time to go up the hill to get another set.

That will give me more time to mentally grasp this.

I usually mow through a book in a day or two — this one I have been reading for three weeks — I limit myself to 3 – 4 pages a day.  Then I just sit with the information and see what happens inside my head.

My head is having it’s own freak out on multiple levels — I think there has just too many red pill-blue pill moments for my mind to get it’s shit around.


I was pretty sick on Thursday and Friday last week — especially Friday.

I was trying to read this book between my two to three hours of sleep and I just kept crying.  Like stupid, non-nonsensical crying.  I have no idea what I was crying about.  I think my mind might be fracturing  right now.

Someone asked me last week why I was reading this book and my answer was “because I think Brené Brown has a lesson to teach me…” — which is about the most unlikely thing for me to ever say.  But true as squirrel nuts that is how I feel.  (again we might blame my fever, sinus infection and general disorientation …. or I am joining a cult and I just haven’t realise it)

I had an interaction with an Astrologer and six sets of parents who had been battling infertility.  The key words there are “had been.”

The entire process freaked me out — it was another case of being able to peak behind the curtain.

The problem is I am struggling to convert it into words.  I shifted that day —- I arrived as the non-believing pessimist wanting bacon.  I am not sure I left as the believing optimist (I still wanted bacon).

I did get into my car and go “What the fuck just happened there??”  And then kept asking myself for the entire 30 minute drive home.  I have been reluctant to talk about it — because I feel I won’t do it justice.

I have kept up this internal conversation trying to reason out what I saw and heard

My mind has been racing ever since. It gets overloaded and then I seem to calm down — but then I get a break, and my brain goes back into over drive.

Another thing that happened is that I had a meeting the kind folks at Home of Hope regarding a project I suggested to them — we had a great chat and they were very open with information and how they worked.

I spent some time with their Social Worker, who gave me some frightening statistics and actual real life shit around Fetal Alcohol Syndrome which not only awakened me to reality, but disturbed the fuck out of me.

I am seriously going “what the fuck — no what the fuck!!”

I am 100% getting how Chicken Licken’s life went for a ball of shit as he ran around telling everyone about the sky falling.  He was right, the sky is falling!

 

Source of image:  http://www.charleseubanks.com/illustration/chickenlicken_p01_8x10_sm/

I have something in my personal life that needs attention — and I need to grow a pair, and tackle it —  I am tired of being someone’s bitch in this equation.  The problem is I feel very brave at 2am or 3am — when the morning comes and I have to be vertical, then I am a lot less brave.  About everything.

My brain is a mess right now — but I think it will get itself straightened out and I will start to have clarity —soon.  I might need an antibiotic.

Brené Brown: Why Your Critics Aren’t The Ones Who Count

Astrology and Astrologers — what thinks you?? Freaks or freaking smoking?

170301-astrology

As a blogger I normally ask nothing of you.

I don’t ask you to go and vote for my kids, or “share” some crap about a fucking cactus or go and buy some piece of shit, that I went to buy and now I want you to share the pain and go and make the same mistake.

I am a really non-demanding sort of blogger.

I show up from time to time — take a dump on this page — -you stop by, you make a decision to read it or not —- some of you kindly — SOME OF YOU NOT ALL OF YOU—- leave comments and that is appreciated.

Except Hank, he can keep his fucking comments.

Anyway, I am going to ask you to please comment on the concept of Astrology and Astrologers.

I attended a talk a few weeks ago around fertility/astrology.

I was sent a press invite — I still get astounded when people invite me to things.  I keep wondering, have they met me, do they know how many time I say “fuck” and if there is an open wine bar, I am going to be a total fuck ‘tard.

Anyway, I received this invitation – it was at the Mount Nelson —- I would pretty much go to the Mount Nelson for breakfast/brunch if they were opening an envelope.

It’s the Mount Nelson {swoon} people.

I had a busy week, so had not really spent much time thinking about this talk/presentation I was going to attend.

It was on Friday, 3rd February 2017.  I had not given it a moment’s thought, until I was driving there.

I am not sure if I am the only person who has chats with themselves in the car — but does it out loud.

Usually I have a maximum of two voices, so it is loosely a conversation.   I find it a good way to work through my thoughts but it needs to be done out loud.

“I had the following thoughts running through my head- in no particular order”

“I really hope there is bacon on the buffet”

“I really hope there is bacon left when I get there because clearly I forgot how many cars there are travelling on the N1 at the same time..”

“I really love bacon ……….. mmmmm ……. bacon”

“Why am I going to this shit anyway …. I usually say no to this sort of thing …….. why did I not just say no ….”

“It’s too late now — yeah —- see you were all polite and said ‘count me in’ and now I want a note from my mom to say I don’t have to go”

“There better be fucking bacon there…”

“Cheese and rice astrology — if someone talks about a moon risking in Uranus I am seriously going to snort bubbles…”

“I don’t think I will know anyone there ….. I can already feel my social anxiety climbing ….. fuck why did I say yes to this shit”

“Astrology.  Astrology.  ASTRO-LO-FUCKING-GY,  I cannot even picture how shit this is going to be.”

“Please let there be bacon, not that chicken bacon bull-shit, I am talking kill-a-pig bacon……”

“I do not believe in astrology — if someone asks my star sign I am going to have to think of something clever to say and not just punch them in the vagina… or just roll my eyes in contempt”

“Okay, calm down — take a breath, you are nearly there,  You don’t have to believe this horse-shit, you just have to go along and listen to the presentation ….. and then you can do afternoon drinking ….. ”

So in summary.

I arrived, I knew no one in the room.

You immediately knew there were serious journo’s as they had brought their bus sized laptops and they were typing before the presentation had even started.

It was very organised and I was made to feel very important.  I had a name badge and everything.

I told the very kind person at the table that I have a social phobia and instead of me walking into the room and finding a place, I asked her if she could show me to a chair.

She did it willingly, happily and with grace — and was very attentive. I sat down at a table, everyone said hello, and I immediately forgot everyone’s names — and my eye sight has become that sort where I can no longer see the fine print on name badges.

I find that leaning close to someone’s chest to read their badge sends an entirely wrong message and then you are ostracised and can’t lean in to see other people’s chests at close hand.

There was no fucking bacon.  I know, the disappointment ran deep people, deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeepppppppppp.

I want to write a separate blog about what I experienced, I have been sitting with this for a month now.

People I had a shift of consciousness.  Maybe.

I felt like I had been given the privilege to peak behind the curtain — and it was fucking marvelous.  Maybe.

 

The part where I am asking you to contribute is what is your understanding when you here the words “Astrology” or “Astrologers.”

What happens in that space between your ears?

Do you break out in a light sweat and go “horse shit” or do you swat it away like an annoying fly?  Or does it just not feature in your world?

Do you picture people in lots of scarves living in a caravan at village fairs —– and then you wonder, dude if you could tell the future accurately, why the fuck would you be living in a fucking caravan???

There is the accepted or general description of Astrology on Wikipedia — the question I am asking for feedback on is the following:

  1. Do you believe in astrology?
  2. Do you believe in an astrologists ability to predict something?
  3. Do you think there are good astrologers who are using something they have studied and they understand, to make certain predictions?
  4. Or is the terms “good astrologer” sort of the same as “good second hand car salesman?”
  5. Do you feel that the only good astrologer is an unemployed one without wi-fi access?
  6. Do you think they are good or evil?  Or neither??
  7. Do you think that your feelings around Astrology are connected to your feelings on religion — predicting the future is not really approved of in the bible, so anyone who does it is pretty much up for a bit of hell fire and brimstone?
  8. Or do you have another take on it all together?

I know now I am becoming this demanding blogger and actually asking you to engage with me.

I almost promise, I will never ask you to do anything for me again — I need some idea of what you think about Astrology and Astrologists.

I have a perception of them in my mind.  I have a perception of how you feel about them, and based on that I will write my article.

If I am wrong about your perception, then I want to write it from a different angle.

I seriously will not judge you if you want to beat every astrologer with a stick and tar and feather them.

I won’t judge you for anything you say —

I want to get a sense of how people feel about astrology/using astrology to interpret celestial cycles as signs of divine communication —-

Or do you just read your star signs in which ever magazine for shits and giggles, and believe it is all been put together by monkeys with pencils, and no sense?

I really really want to know what you think or astrology — if it is a non factor, then tell me it is a non-factor, or if you believe it to be true, or you think it is rubbish or charlatan’stuff.

You don’t have to defend your stand point — I  just want to know what your stand point is.  Really, I just want to know.

Please leave a comment — I really want to know what you think.

If you would prefer to leave a comment about bacon, that would be cool too!

How important is this piece of material if it must have it’s own religion?”

Georgia – middle child – is unique.

I know everyone says their child is unique and special. Made up entirely from magic sperm, and a daisy encrusted egg.  They came into the world and ….. well special shit happened and and and …… yes everyone is so fucking special.

Right now “normal and standard” is the new special.  One more special Princess party on Facebook and I am going to lose my grip on reality.

Georgia came into the world in the fairly usual way — there were a few hitches along the way, that made me question the sense in ever being pregnant.  And how I was going to survive this one.   She also came into the world with the name Calum/Caleb —- I was convinced she was a boy, and did not want to hear otherwise. – so no girl’s names had been shortlisted.  It took about an hour or two to come up with a backup girl’s name.

Anyway, we can run over that story another day.

Georgia is a strange kid — some days I look at her and I really think to myself “this child is totally off the charts … like verging on bat shit crazy.”

She sees the world, and the people in  it through a lens that I do not possess.  She lives a great deal in her head — she writes stories and is constantly coming up with characters and making cards for the characters, and very complex sort of mind maps.

Georgia is a child who is happy — she is just happy.  Like every part of her is happy from the tips of her rather large feet to the top of her gorgeous head.

She loves everyone.  She hugs everyone.  Strangers.  She looks at you and you can see she is starting to tense up and she says “I need to give you a hug” and then she hugs you — and I think it is a release for her.

She does not have a mean bone in her body.  She likes everyone and she does not judge anyone in a negative manner.  I recall a time when she was trying to explain that there was a child in her class who was overweight and the weight was an important factor in the story, but she did not want to say he was fat, because she knows this is a mean thing to say … so she sat with it for a few minutes and then took another run at the story and she told me the child was round.  Again, in the kindest, least mean manner she could find.

She is fortunate that she is well liked at school and there are a few “strange” girls in her age group, so they all relish in their shared strangeness, and I hope she keeps it forever.

I do not know where Georgia came from — she is so unusual, I can’t even claim her as 100% mine.

I am a bit strange, but when I use Georgia as the scale, I am normal, like vanilla normal.  I look so main stream in comparison to her that it is embarrassing actually.

Georgia is Georgia, self created, self fulfilled and self made. We are merely facilitators that throw food at her every now and then.

Georgia often is busy with a conversation in her head, and she will blurt something out, that has nothing to do with anything that is going on —- because she does not realise you did not hear her internal thoughts.

Often I tend to disregard something she says, because there is so much strange from this child.  And some days I do actually just want to listen to the end of the song.

She often makes a statement that is so out of context, that it takes you 15 minutes to understand the context, and based on that, you can then listen to the statement or question again and it makes sense.

Or it still doesn’t and you just distract her with a colourful pencil or something.

Which is all good and stuff — but sometimes you are 20 -25 minutes into a story — because you want to be the attentive mother, and then you realise that she is telling you about a television show …..  word for freaking word …..and then you lose your mind and swear you will never listen to another one of these stories again.

I now know to ask — is this what really happened or is this from a movie or television show??  {one learns this sort of thing ….. eventually}

The result is that sometimes Georgia says things and my brain does not always “hear” her.

Yesterday I popped in to Clicks.

We already had a “weird” exchange in Pick ‘n Pay with regards to “frills” and why you can’t eat them.  That took  a lot of energy to understand what the hell she was actually saying.  (It turns out there is a sign and it is one of their new slogans….. a heads up would have been good).

I am standing there at Clicks looking at a shelf for a product, that I can see they do not have in stock.  I keep standing there staring at the shelf.  As if by the pure force of my wanting THIS product it will just appear there.

I am not sure if you ever do this — sometimes I walk away — like 5 steps and then go back to the shelf, as if something regarding their stock would change in the last 12 seconds or so.  {possibly I am not that far removed from Georgia’s strange}

I hear Georgia say something …. it’s strange enough that I go “Sorry, what Georgia?”

Georgia goes: “How important is this piece of material if it must have it’s own religion?”

I look at her — in the way I often do.

Knowing that there is something happening here I do not understand and this is going to take a long sit down and possibly two shots of tequila to get me to the other end.

I ask her to repeat herself, in case I had already had wine, and possibly had forgotten.  You now how it goes with afternoon drinking.

She repeats herself: “How important is this piece of material if it must have it’s own religion?”

I step towards her and look at her quizzically – she points to the product.

 

1703-muslinblanket

 

{In case the joke is lost on you — she was reading Muslim for Muslin}

Like any good parent would do, I snorted, laughed, praised her for being genius and did not correct her.

Let that blanket have it’s own religion.

Finding you are not alone ….. in the toilet …. whilst you go off script

170228_toilet_time

 

I say “fuck” a lot — yes, I realise the big surprise that statement garnered.

I find it is one of those words that beautifully moulds itself around nearly every situation.

It works when you are happy “Fuck look at that wow!!”

It works when you are surprised “Where the fuck did you come from?”

It works when you a find the elusive remove “Why the fuck were you there —- ?”

It works when you are looking at some kid having a total collapse and it’s not your kid “Not my fucking monkeys people, not my fucking monkeys!”

And of course it comes into it’s own when you are really angry.

I was really angry yesterday — like burst into tears angry.  That is a special kind of angry.  It’s the kind where there are actually just not enough fucks to fit into a sentence.  And I might need a brown bag to breath in because I am going to over fucking stimulate myself.

I start using deviations “fuck’tard” “fucker” “you fuck” and so on.

I will confess it does take away a little from the magic of the word “fuck” but there are days when my fuck mug just overflows and everything just goes to shit.  I normal manage to get through an entire day with a semblance of what appears like normality.

It is actually raging crazy — but you add enough layers of margarine to anything and it will be shiny and yellow.  And no one wants to touch it.

Today I woke up angry — I tried to give myself a little “just be happy and do not kill anyone and you will get through the day” — but I realised fairly quickly I am not really a mantra sort of gal.

I have been in interviews all day — I have what feels like a million messages to read through, a few dozen call messages to return and I am at that point where I have nothing left to give.  I am tapped out.  I need a lie down — but I know I get to repeat this shit tomorrow, similar script, and that exhausts me to the freaking bone.

I got up a  little while ago to go the bathroom — its a public bathroom.  I always leave going to the bathroom to the part where I am just about to pee in my pants, or the poo is already on it’s way out.  And who said I wasn’t a thrill seeker???

I went in, assumed I was by myself.  And I started a conversation with myself.

That got more heated.  With “fucks” just being more liberal than say the situation might have called for.  The thing with talking to yourself is you rile yourself up pretty quickly — because no matter how lunatic your statement is from Voice #1, Voice #2 will just step it up to the insane level — like yeah, let’s go burn that mother fucker.  Or something like that.

I guess all our inner voices operate differently.

I was on a roll, and there is just no way you can hold a cowboy back when it’s crunch time.

I flushed and continued my little monologue — peppered —- like giant fucking black pepper grinder peppered – – with fucks and “you fuck” and so on.

I was on the way to wash my hands —- not breaking stride with my little fuck fest.

I needed a real venting moment and I was using the alone time in this bathroom to just lose what ever decorum I might have started the day with.

I was in full swing — like warming up for the dismount of the beam when I heard a noise ….. and realised that somewhere in this I was not alone.  There are only two stalls — not much place to hide.

Some poor woman was trapped in the toilet as I was going off my rocker.  No doubt she was figuring if she just sat there quietly and long enough, then I would go away and she could come out.  And maybe live.

Yes, it is a little awkward when you realise you are not alone.

Of course my over active imagination now sees every set of eyes staring at me going “bitch, I would have said the same thing…”

Yeah I know.  Fuck.

I thought it was about the peanut butter …………..

170209_peanut_butter

 

So I interview candidates.

I am one of those non-people-persons who seems to have stumbled into making a living that requires me to be a real people’s person all day.

Interview days are particularly difficult.  It is like all my energy is being pulled ripped out of me.  By the end of the day I am not literally weeping, I am actually weeping.

I am quite low on candidate numbers so I have booked three interview days per week from January through to March.  I may need to go and relook at that, as I realised today that I might not survive.

I am incredibly patient with candidates — at the end of the day I need to get the best out of her.  I spend valuable time with her to be able to get to a point where she is a candidate I can present to a client and at the same time  I try to give her some tips and suggestions and maybe see if she can see a situation from another angle.

I have had a lot of really bizarre interviews in my time, and I tend to forget them within 24 hours and not let them bother me again.  I usually do not talk about my clients or my candidates with anyone — it’s my work stuff.

Today I experienced a truly magic moment of epic proportion.

It might be that I am severely sleep deprived – insomnia has been kicking my arse all over the show for the last 4 – 6 weeks and I am really not coping during the day.  I have had medicated sleep for the the last 5 years so I know how this goes, and my medication is usually and has been just right.

But for reasons of many — right now my brain is fighting me.  The result is I struggle to fall asleep and my sleep is broken.  When the morning comes, I am pretty much broken.  Every morning.

So back to the interview — I go into a lot of detail with candidates.  I am patient.   I offer guidance, a little hug if they need it. I am Mother Theresa but with better hair, and jeans.

The candidate today is talking about why she resigned.  Candidates often go into wild detail, and run all over the show when in actual fact the reason they resigned is often a fairly simple one.  If you are able to cut through all the noise and get to it.

I have huge amounts of respect for the candidates I work with — I let them tell their story, I offer advise and encouragement.  I do a lot more than just interview.

This candidate is lamenting the fact that her previous employer only supplied bread and peanut butter spread for lunch every day.

{keep in mind I am sleep deprived, I am hopped up on caffeine and ritalin and my people skills got left at the school kerb this morning —- I am one step away from flying over the cuckoos nest myself at this point — I have murder on my mind and that was because I have been awake since 06h10 ….}

I nod and she just goes on and on about this peanut butter thing.  I am trying to identify with her as the victim.

I explain I hate peanut butter. Like intensely.

Then in a very gentle tone I explain the onus does not rest on the employer to supply lunch.  If an employer supplied bread, tea, coffee and a spread — then great.

It’s been given to you — they do not actually have to supply it.

There is a perception that an employer must supply lunch and thus an expectation, but the reality is that it is not a right.The issue I am having is that not only is she expecting lunch, but she is unhappy with lunch —- and I am trying to understand the situation.

Listen I have heard stories from candidates about employers that really make your jaw slacken —– and usually your facial features are arranged in a WTF?  So in this I am not trying to vilify anyone, I am trying to understand the situation — the actual situation — and then understand where her dissatisfaction crept in.

I explained I have never worked a job where they gave me lunch.  I told her that my first job was at a bakery — the irony was at lunch time we had to go the bakery next door and buy a pie, because the bakery we worked at was not interested in our shit, and they were not going to give us a roll.

She is still muttering about her peanut butter.

This peanut butter issue clearly goes deep.

I am nodding, and making all the coo’ing sounds and what ever else you need to do in a hostage negotiation process.

Then I think, okay let’s move this on.  Let’s find out what the solution would have been instead of say, resigning from that job, because you lost your shit about there only being peanut butter on the menu.

I ask her, okay, what did you expect your employer to supply you for lunch —- she is still muttering about peanut butter — so I say it again with a bit more force — what would you expect your employer to supply you for lunch?

I make eye contact with her, I lean in.  I nod and smile in an encouraging manner.

I show her my compassion for her peanut butter issue —- I encourage her to just tell me what it is that her employer should have given her.  Which might have prevented her from resigning, and now being unemployed.

I sit there and wait for her to build up the courage to impart this secret to me — this yearning she has carried.  This feeling that life has not treated her well, that somehow her employer was not doing right by her.

She looks at me — I can see we are about to have a break through moment …..

 

…………………..

 

…………………..

 

I am tingling a little –  this conversation has gone on for a very long time, I am heavily invested at this point

 

…………………..

 

…………………..

 

………………… “polony” ………….fucking polony

 

…………………..

 

…………………..

 

She wanted her employer to give her polony and not peanut butter. So she resigned.  Over polony.

 

I can’t —– I actually can’t.  And you think your job offers you opportunities to grow into a stronger person. Mine is “Postcards from the Edge” material.

 

…………………..

 

…………………..

 

You know that exact moment in the day when you sit there, reflect on your life, the choices you have made, and the series of decisions that has brought you to this moment and you go ………………… polony ………….fucking polony …. my job is about polony.

 

…………………..

…………………..

How I don’t kill more people I will never know.  I deserve an award some days.  Not today.  But some days.

 

 

When did parents become such arseholes?

170208_arseholeparent

I have written a few blogs about this, but have not posted them.  I get distracted when the squirrel walks past.

I am starting to become aware that when a person has a child — through what ever route — somehow there is this perception that somehow they are terribly special.  And their off spring is the most special in the universe.

Like not special-class special, but more “the Chosen One” special.

I drop Connor off at his school in the mornings – he is at Fairmont High School.

I have only good things to say about the school.

I drive him to school. Because he refuses to walk.  I have tried to press him on the issue, then he starts using phrases like child abuse ….. and quoting the Childline number. I drop him at school and watch him walk through the school gate.

Once he is through the gate he is someone else’s problem.  That people, is how parenting works.

You can imagine — if you can’t — try —big school, lots of kids. Most cars are dropping one child off — at most two, so there are a lot of cars moving through the gates from 06h45 – 07h50.  It’s controlled chaos basically.

The school has various drop off points.  You can drop your child off at one of the side gates, and the result is it reduces the congestion with everyone trying to enter the school.

Makes sense.  It’s a really good system.  Very easy to understand and follow.

At every drop off point there are red lines – clear red lines – so you know not to park OR STOP your car there.  If you do it creates a situation where other cars cannot pass or see you or what ever.  It’s a red line.  IT’S A CLEAR RED LINE.

I don’t care if you only need a minute.  It isn’t going to take a minute -it never does.  More importantly when did your minute get more important than my minute??

Basic basic stuff.  Red means no.  When you see any other colours you can do anything you want to.When you see red with regards to road and traffic,  it means no or stop. Or pull over we are going to be doing a breathalyzer.

Dropping off is simple.  You drive up.  Pull up close to the kerb where there is no red line.

Stop your car, put it in neutral, kick your offspring out the car.

He fumbles in the boot for his bag. He finally gets his shit together and as he walks past the passenger window he says something like “Bye mom” and every now and then I will scream out something like “I love you so much my boy — have a really lovely lovely day —- mommy loves you!!”

You know, anything to embarrass him.  I like to keep it fresh so he never really knows what is coming. I like the fear in his eyes each morning.

I don’t do it every day — I save it for holidays and high days.

Anyway, yesterday — I drive up.  (this happens almost every day, I am only blogging about it now, because though the diarrhea post I have is funnier, I am not going to put it up — I am trying to hold on to my dignity though it is a losing battle)

It’s a single road – so one lane up, one lane down, and the road has a right angle bend in it.

There is endless places you can drop your kid off without parking/stopping on the red line.

Sure, it means your butter ball might have to walk 20 meters, but you know I think they will live.  These are high school kids, not infants — I think we can trust them to walk 20 meters without starting a meth lab, joining a cult or getting a tattoo.

I shit you not.  One person in the up lane is parked/stopped on the red line whilst they are dropping off their overlord-and-master.  Then there is another person in the down lane dropping off their own saviour-of-the-world, also parked/stopped on the red line.

The result is no one.  NO. FUCKING. ONE. who is parked in the right place can go anywhere.

I am sitting in the middle of the road, whilst I am watching these shallow DNA pool swimmers dropping off their lucky sperm.  Of course because they are kids (the ones going to the school not driving) they always take long, or drop something or what ever.

This is what kids do.

There the rest of us sit, and watch these two mother (literally) fuckers back up the entire road.  In both directions.  You know, because they just need a minute.

I try my very best to be patient with people, but fek me — even I have my limits.

I could totally understand if the drop off point was so congested you had to park 200km away.

Totally, got your back.  Then you can put your stupid car anywhere.  But no, there is actually a great deal of road without red lines.  That is where the rest of us, with our the fruit or fruits of our loins/babies from various daddies/princes of Maine are stopping — if you looked up long enough from your self absorbed existence and noticed you might notice the mild irritation on our faces.

I know it is very hard to actually absorb your effect on other people when you are sitting next to the prince/princess/the chosen one.  I get it — all that closeness to greatness can be a bit blinding.

Granted the PLEASE ONLY STOP HERE spots are not 20cm from the gate you want your little angel to walk through.  I think they have legs for something or legs that work. Again, if you kid is in a wheel chair or in a full body brace I might go … okay maybe let’s let this one slide —- but then use the main gate, that has special parking parking for special people.

All these fuck-wits have to do is drive maybe 20 – 30 meters, and they could park/stop and the kids could get out, and we would not have to be involved in their dim little lives.

But no — “fuck that” they thought.

We will just put our cars right over here and now you, and you, and you, and especially you, can watch whilst our off spring gets out the car, unpacks their shit, drops their hockey/polo/beat a child to death stick — and then —- still has a chat with mom and dad….. at about this point I am losing touch with sanity.

Whilst we all sit here in contemplative silence thinking about ways to beat you to death with the wheel jack, or what ever we can find in our car on short notice.

I swear I was sitting there saying things that made Lil’ Wayne blush.  He eventually stopped singing on the CD and said “yo-yo-yo bitch, yo man, yo man… coming down a bit hard on the fucks … just be chill like…..” (it’s my story I can tell it anyway I feel it happened — prove it didn’t happen that way I dare you)

When these things happen you always think you are alone in the universe.

This is happening to you and obviously everyone else is fine with it.

I was really saying some fairly unkind things.

I had violence and rage running at full tilt.  This does not happen once — there is never one prick in the school having an emergency morning. There are dozens of them, all self entitled and assuming you can just sit back and wait whilst they ignore the rules and basically fuck up your day whilst you have to watch them be the fuck ups they woke up to be.

I aim my anger and rage mainly at the parent.  At a certain point I start to go for the child.

If the parent/adult person is this stupid then my guess is there is going to be something inherited there.  We —- yes we, this is a village issue people—- need to consider flushing out the DNA pool.  As a group, to at least delay the low IQ apocalypse, or at the very least save some water.

In all of this, I had so much time to take in the scenery and all of that shit — well because I am sitting there waiting for Prince William to get himself organised and all.

I looked in my rear view mirror and there was a mom who had dropped her kid off NOT ON THE FUCKING RED LINE.  She was going off, like OFF. Proper.  Which made my going-off look like I had maybe dropped a spot of Nutella on my almost black jean pant, and it was a slight inconvenience as I dabbed it with my wet wipe.

This mom person was dressed for work, all neat and proper and she was going off like a lunatic.  I think she was in Stage 5 of the use of the middle finger. I actually didn’t realise that fingers could do that —  I couldn’t read her lips but I am almost sure she was using the word po#s there with reckless abandon.

I stopped ranting to watch her.  She was that impressive.  Even in the rear view mirror.

I do wish you and I could have spent more time together.  I felt we were kindred spirits there for a little while.  I heart you, who ever you are.

Finally these two fuckers drop their “reason for living off” move their respective cars and drive away.  Allowing the rest of us to get on with our lives.

Yesterday like every day, I shrug it off and do not think about it again.  Because what am I going to do? Change direction and follow them, and when they park their car go along and key the side of the car …. I mean I could.  I could plan my mornings that way.

I have more flexibility on a Monday and a Friday, so lets just see how the week pans out.

I am trying to look at this and think that maybe someone else will take charge here.  Get out of their car with a baseball bat and take care of one of these annoying vehicles.  Taking a few swings at their front lights or their side mirrors.  I can’t describe the joy that thought gives me.

My money is on the mom behind me yesterday.  Chick, who ever you are, I am backing you in this episode of Mad Moms!!  I will be your alibi if you need one.

This morning I am dropping Connor off –  same thing I parked in the area without the red line.  Child gets out of car with necessary luggage.  Walks the required 12 steps and is in the school gate.  Easy.

I accelerate, as you do. To move to the part of the road where I can drive.  Away.  To work.

But no – because some fucker mother (see what I did there?) has decided that the red line is a good place to sort of park/stop — that the rules do not apply to her and her liebchen.

She has actually beaten the odds and done red line and sort of middle of the road park/stop (it is not a very wide road).  In one move she has fucked it up for everyone.

Close enough to the corner that the folks behind her have to sit and stare at her as well.

She isn’t even in a huge SUV.  She is in a Paleo (or what ever) fucking smurf car — like how the fuck do you manage to take up so much space with that??

How is it possible?  She beat the odds,.  This stupid cow peaked in areas that I did not realise were even a competition to peak in.

Of course her fucking gifted daughter dropped something and then needed to leopard crawl under the car to get it.  No worries we will just sit here as we watch our lives slip away from us.  Be late for fucking everything because you didn’t use a condom 15 or 16 years a go!!!

I didn’t even curse this morning (yes I realise how unlikely that sounds — I think I had used up all up my fucks and fuck-me’s yesterday).   I really just sat there with that look of amazement on my face and doing that thing.

That thing where you put your hands on the steering wheel, lift them up in awe with your palms still resting on the steering wheel, so you are sort of doing controlled jazz hands. Then you put the fingers down, grip the steering wheel so your knuckles go white — and keep repeating this movement as long as what ever is happening in front of you continues.

It’s the WTF sign with a steering wheel.

I am sure If this happens at all schools — because Fairmont High School surely cannot have the most clueless parents.  They appear like such nice people when they are not in their cars.

Parents cannot be this self absorbed they do not notice they are impacting on the rest of the world, in their aim to do what ever they need to do for their offspring —- because their shit for brains is more important than mine.

Surely other schools have these parents too.

I do not have a solution.  I have some more swear words though.

If YOU are a parent — if you are one of THESE parents at Fairmont High — then stop being an arsehole.

This is not an AA meeting.  You do not need to introduce yourself and tell us you are an arsehole, and when your last arsehole action was.

We have watched you on the red line, because we can’t go anywhere.  We know you are an arsehole.

BECAUSE YOU ARE PARKED/STOPPED ON THE FUCKING RED LINE even if it was only for a freaking minute!!!

We are asking you to recognise you are being an arsehole. Maybe if you admit it, seek some assistance and just don’t park or stop on the goddamn red line, then, well we can all be lekker again.

Just don’t be that MOFO ARSEHOLE who puts their time ahead of all of ours.  Then blocks us in so we have to sit and stare at you — you do know your car has glass? We can see you, your stupid face and all that.

Don’t be a parking arsehole at school (we can deal with retail spaces another day)  — it’s not cool and it’s not lekker.  Just stop it. For the love of all things good.

Choose not to be an arsehole today.  Come on, we are actually rooting for you to not be an arsehole — be a sunflower or a fucking rainbow, but not an arsehole.

So what actually happened? Please read this post — and tell me the wisdom of how we live through things like this.

I am not sure if you have read this post.

So what actually happened? This is how the best day turned into the worst day of my life 

This post, like everything else in my life, is me arriving late.  When everyone else is aware of something except me,  who holds the title of the designated idiot in the room.

I read this post about two nights back — I have had a run of insomnia and I am not sure how this post appeared on my feed.

How do you read this sort of post without your life changing?

Without your soul shifting — in one way or another?

How do you read this post and not sit there and consider, that you just DO NOT have any words.

No words to express the pain or to add comfort to a situation that is so painful that there just are not words in the English language that you could use?  That work.  That …. that are.

I read this post in contemplative silence.  I then got to the end and sat there and stared at it and realised that there wasn’t some magic ending.

There was no “Come to Jesus” moment or a “not a surprise this always happens” American movie ending where the hero sweeps in to save the day, to the soundtrack of some powerful music — there was just a family destroyed. No movie.  No nightmare to wake up from.

A life cruelly taken.  And nothing made sense.  Not to me.

Nothing.

I am agnostic, at best.  I cannot take comfort in religion — how do you find comfort here??  If the higher power took this child, how do you sit and say this higher power has a purpose for this child being taken??

Why could the higher power maybe not have just not taken this little boy, and maybe all the other little boys and girls — why do we have a higher power who does this?

Why this little boy — why so cruelly snatched away?  I do not understand.  My brain cannot comprehend or hold this thought.

natey_canter

{I hope Jane Fraser does not mind me using this image of her son —- her Natey}

How is this part of a plan of some mystical imaginary higher power?

How do I sit here, as a parent, and not wonder what if this was one of mine?

What if this was one of yours?

I have no words.

I have no words of comfort.

I have no words that can sooth the pain this family must be feeling.  I do not have words that can even comprehend this level of pain.

Why is there not a word in the English language for a parent who has lost a child?

I have no words that can explain why something like this would happen?

I have no words that I can use to explain in my head how and why this happens — and how we as parents can live through this loss.  Tell me how?

I have no words that can even touch on the pain – that can make it less tender, that can make it somehow less.

I have no words for Jane.

I have no words for her family.

I have no words for Natey.

I have no words for me.  Or you.

Read the story — hold your children a bit closer.  Put your face against their heads and smell their hair.  Avoid the urge to tell them to go and wash it — just smell them.

When they are fighting over the stupid things that children do — just smile, and count yourself as lucky.

Last night I had Isabelle with me — I had some medication to force me to sleep.  I was doing a 3 – 4 day run of not sleeping properly.  And I was at that point where reality starts to blur from insomnia and I was ready to sell my soul for sleep.  Or a donut.

Isabelle lay on my shoulder – she was sleeping in my bed.  I had put the lights off, it was 20h15.  I was searching through my podcasts for a story she may enjoy, which she could fall asleep to — it was still light outside, but she understood mom was tired and needed an early night.

I felt the weight of her.  I felt that warm hot musty breath that only young children have — I realised she had fallen asleep nestled against me.  On my shoulder.  Her body a little sweaty.  Her long eyelashes on her cheeks.

I thought of Jane and Natey —- I didn’t cry.  I closed my eyes and just breathed my child in.  Counted my luck/blessings/the twists of fate that made this moment possible.

I fell asleep with the weight of her against my shoulder and her presence against my skin.

Today I am crying.

My guess is tomorrow I will cry a bit more.

{I really hope Jane Fraser does not take offense that Natey has become the collective Natey to a lot of people.  I did not know this little boy — I was not that fortunate.  But there is a part of him somewhere in my spirit — somewhere in my consciousness he holds a space — he is there — I can’t explain it.}

 

 

 

Breastfeeding and my 5 cents ……

Breastfeeding in public.

Okay, this has sort of hit the level of people losing their shit and images of eating in a toilet cubicle to prove a point.

All very valid observations.

I breast fed my trio – I tended to opt to sit in a both or to the side of a restaurant (if we were out) and I normally had shirt that could lift easily and then I had a blanket I would throw over me.

Keeping in mind that I did not know anyone who had children at the time, I was not in a mommy gang, so I did not know all the stuff that moms seem to know now and feel entitled to. I felt like I was navigating this all alone and stumbling my way through.

Yeah, it was not ideal, especially if baby got hot, and sweaty, but I tried to retain some of my own dignity and at the same time not to shove my heaving milk soaked bosom in someone’s face.

It was about finding the balance between the two.

I am not sure if there were people who were still a bit “horrified” even if I was covered up, I was too busy trying to shovel food in with one hand whilst it was warm.

I recall going to friends for dinner/lunches and though I followed the more or less same routine, possibly not as rigidly, I know it would upset K and he would prefer it if I went off somewhere and fed the kids.

I recall with Connor – born December 2001 – my brother was visiting from where ever far off land he had been in, and he asked me to go into Cape Town with him to do something or another.  I recall us walking through Cape Town station and I could feel my breasts were doing that thing where they are packing 500 litres of milk, and one whimper from Connor and there was going to be this wave of full cream milk for everyone.

I explained to Bruce that we should find somewhere and I suggested a coffee shop and said ideally if they had booths that would work, but I was not that fussed, we just needed to get there in the next 5 – 10 minutes to avert the two puddles of milk I was going to have on my shirt.

As we walked through the station, we got to the outside section where the stalls are normally set up.

I walked past this black woman (nationality unknown) and she had her t-shirt pulled up around her neck area.  She had her infant sort of on her lap, and grasping a nipple.  She was not really holding the infant as she needed her hands to explain something that requires furious hand gestures, so that baby was holding said nipple for dear life.

I walked past and was mesmerized by those being the biggest nipples I felt I had ever seen in my 29 years or so on this planet and then the next point occurred to me.

This woman, was feeding her child without giving a crap about anyone else and there hangups.  No shits were given that day.

People were walking past her in droves and no one turned around and told her to pack away her boobs or go and sit in a cubicle somewhere.  No one called over a manager and indicated that this was indecent.

I thought of her whilst I made my way to which ever coffee shop we could find and as I adjusted my shirt, unclipped by breastfeeding bra, made sure he was snuggled close and that the blanket did not reveal any of my top half and I latched him.

I sat there and thought about all the effort I was putting in to this to save both my dignity and protect everyone else from having to witness my breasts, and I thought that between myself and that lady on the bench one of us was doing it wrong.

Granted I would not have been comfortable with whipping mine out, but when I was breast feeding I did stop thinking of my breasts as breasts — they became a source of food and functional items.

So here is my question – why are we so obsessed with this topic?  Why does it have to become a thing? Why do there have to be so many painful memes about it?

Breastfeeding is a personal choice.

How you breastfeed is a personal choice.

I do agree that my breasts are my breasts, and possibly not everyone wants to take a gander at them.

That is fine, and in so doing I will do the best, within reason, to cover myself and in this way be courteous to other people.

But when and how did breastfeeding become such a contentious issue??

In my opinion I think every one has the right to breastfeed where and when they please.  At the same time it needs to be done with some sense of courtesy for those around you.

Anyway, I am sure I have come about a half dozen years to late to this conversation, but there you are.

 

 

The one about the chicken sexer …..

chick-sexer

 

This is me sitting with a friend of mine having a chat.

The story does not really need any background – it works on it’s own.

But to give it context, she has this ex-husband who is always resigning to go and do things that are “great” but don’t guarantee an income.  They usually have the word “volunteer” in the title.

She on the other hand is working a heavily pressurized position, trying to recover from a financial shit storm which was not her creation, and is still doing work after her son is in bed.  To try and make enough money to pay rent, buy one ply toilet paper and maybe boil some water.

I am not one to step in the way of anyone’s dreams to be what ever the hell they want.  The problem is that his constant search for his dreams, means she is having to financially, emotionally and physically carrying the bucket for their son.

I was trying to explain to her what if she did what he does.  Decides to resign and pursue “her dream job” and drop their son off with him from 1 December.  From then on he would need to provide everything, and maintain a job and so on.  Possibly it would assist him to learn to dig in an endure a kak job sometimes, because that is what pays the bills.

I wanted to use an example of a dream career (but slightly ludicrous) which she could suggest to him.  I seriously came up with : ballerina, a horse urine tester and a chicken sexer.

I have no idea why any of those would be dream jobs and why I could not be normal and think of normal dream jobs.  I wanted to parody the conversation she would have with her ex-husband, so this is how this started:-

Me: Tell him you want to be a chicken sexer.

Her: What’s a chicken sexer?

Me: The person who checks the sex of the chicks. If the chick is a cock they usually snap the neck.

Her: ……

Me: Because you can’t eat cocks. They keep the hens.

Her: What do you mean you can’t eat cock{s} ….. (said with a very worried and concerned tone in her voice …. like very concerned}

Me: ……

Her: …… (realizing what she is saying)

Result: Me and her actually laughing to the point where we are falling off the couch screaming with laughter.

Pick ‘n Pay … Larry … Stikeez … Super Animal Cards …. and my changing wine purchasing habits ….

I had some less than complementary things to say last time about Larry from Pick ‘n Pay and his band of underlings who introduced the Stikeez concept into their stores.

I recall I had suggested that “I hope you get a case of chlamydia – you and your entire team.  And it is drug resistant.”

It was based on my own selfish need to walk around Pick ‘n Pay with my earphones in.  Getting what ever I need.  With no need to interact with anyone.  With no one demanding something from me.

I would go home and be grateful for my 15 minutes of “me time.”

I do realise it is a sad state of affairs when your “me time” is you shopping at a retailer.  Motherhood starts with you having high ideals, and then degenerates into being happy that you can pee alone.  True story.

My kids do not want to come shopping with me – I took it as a 15 – 45 minute free “ME” time moment.

For a parent with three children, I have come to put a high value on time to-be-by-myself-without-having-to-wipe-someone’s-bum-or-to-tell-a-sibling-to-stop-hitting-the-other-sibling-with-a-empty-bottle.

I rate that time highly.  And I get agitated when someone is about to encroach on that time.

Larry and his Stikeez came along and my shopping experience went to hell in a hand-basket.

I was subjected to queues with children whining and strained parents wondering if they should just buy 15 R10.00 items so they can get a Stikeez.  So that maybe.  Just maybe.  They can have a break from their whiny off-spring for just a few moments.  Peace, sweet peace.

Moms and dads with two Stikeez and three children were standing in Pick ‘n Pay trying to decide which was their least favourite child for the day.

One Stikeez, three children is just not an equation that works.  Even with standard grade mathematics.

Kids were crying and moaning.  You give them a Stikeez.  They are happy and joyous.  It lasts for 0.25 seconds.  The kid opens the bag and it is the one they have already.  Then the world ends.

They are whingeing again to their parents to get them another Stikeez.  Parents are staring at cashiers thinking “please save me ….. for the love of all things good ….. save me..”

And the Pick ‘n Pay cashier places a protective hand over the Stikeez box.  Clearly been trained on how quickly this situation can turn violent.  And she has been coached to protect the Stikeez at all costs.  All.  Costs.

stikeez

It was all a very unpleasant time for many of us.

I think as a nation of parents with young kids, we came together in our loathing for the fact that Pick ‘n Pay was getting us to “bribe” our children, for their silence.  At R150.00 a pop.

It’s a bit like gambling.

I just have to spend R150.00 and I will get 5 minutes of Johnny being happy. I will be the best parent in the world. Granted for only 5 minutes, but it will be the best 5 minutes of my life!!

Shit, not another penguin. Johnny has that one, and is now going full siren sound and blowing bubbles out of his nose as he screams for another Stikeez.  

Oh fuck it, I am this far in.  Here is another R150.00 — let’s see what I get ….. ah fek, another fecking penguin!!  What fresh hell is this?

People without children are looking on in horror and thinking, you know I  don’t think I am quite ready to come off birth control just yet.  “Honey I think you need to get some condoms …..”

This year Pick ‘n Pay has launched the Super Animals Card Campaign.

wildanimals

I will confess I braced myself, and prepared to run away from home, or change my retailer until this shit was over.

I still had vivid memories of the last campaign.

It was like Checkers and Spar were on to it.  Collectively deciding that “fek you parents” and  each released their own spend-R150.00-and-we-will-give-you-shit-your-kid-wants-and-will-whine-itself-into-a-stupor-to-beg-you-to-get-another Campaign.

I decided to pull my jacket on tighter against this storm, and just push through.  I was looking braver than I was feeling.

As a rule I do not shop with the kids – they are either at home or I have locked them in the car with no windows open (or you can hear their moaning) – either way, they are not with me.

I paid for my items and the cashier gave me Super Animal Cards.

I thought …. seriously, are my kids really going to get all excited about this?  {using an inside voice that drips of disdain}

It appears that Pick ‘n Pay knows my kids better than I do.

My 14 years old feels that unless it’s Pokémon it is a total waste of time.  So the campaign was lost on him.

The girls however were in hook, line and sinker!!

Then the whinging began.  It started with questions and has moved to full-scale instructions.

Did you go to Pick ‘n Pay today?

Have you got cards on you?

Go buy sweets and get cards from Pick ‘n Pay. <7 year old>

7 year old barely acknowledges me unless I have a Pick ‘n Pay bag – then she is in full frisk-me mode.  I have stopped being mom I have become “do you have any Animal cards?”

The cards are actually nice — the girls are learning names of animals they probably would never have known otherwise.  The little pop up facts on the cards are also quite nicely done.

It is however, similar to Stikeez, in the constant demand for more, no matter how much they have it remains relentless.

Re. Fucking. Lent.  Less.

It’s given me insight into what living with a crack addict must be like.

The overwhelming urge at Pick ‘n Pay to spend at least R300.00 so I can get two cards.  Two kids = two cards.

When  all I want is this one bottle of wine at R39.00.  Ah well, 8 bottles it is then.  That is the sort of lengths I am willing to go to make my children happy.  That people is parenting!!

The girls have got the book, the little box thing, the sound thing.  All of it.  It really does keep them busy for lengths of time.

I am not that person who is going to set up a meet with other moms/dads/psychopaths to swap my kids cards out so they can have the full set.

Yeah, that seems like way too much commitment to this project.

Being a shitty parent, with little in the way of things which strike the fear of Gd into my children, I have realised that nothing ends an argument quicker than threatening to take a few Super Animals cards away.

It wins hands down at the moment as the thing, most likely, to stop them beating the crap out of each other.

It ends the high-pitched glass-shattering screaming that only two girls can do.

It acts as a very convenient leverage to encourage kids to clean up their rooms and hang up the fecking wet towels which are lying on the goddamn floor.

I no longer have to stand there beseeching them.

I now give clear instructions <but in a threatening tone> “these towels better be hung up, PROPERLY, in the next 15 seconds or I am taking a Super Animal Card from each of your collections.  And you, 14 year old, will be losing wi-fi!!!  {he does not give a toss about the cards, but wi-fi is like oxygen to him}

Thanks Larry at Pick ‘n Pay – you have definitely pushed up my wine purchasing habits.  Not that it needed much in the way of motivation, but there you are.

I trust you and your team are all chlamydia free — wishing you all the best!

 

Post related to this topic:  https://reluctantmom.wordpress.com/2015/08/11/larry-at-a-pick-n-pay-and-my-wishes-around-a-venereal-disease/

 

I am still excited about voting ……….

It is the run up to the Municipal Elections on Wednesday.

I have checked I am on the roster. I know where I must vote. I have my ID book.

I am excited at the prospect of voting.  I am looking forward to Wednesday.

I have been given this right because there were thousands of people who fought for my right to vote, and who died to ensure that it is something that is given to every citizen of this country.

A hundred years ago (far less, but that is not what this is about) as woman, irrelevant to what my colour was, I did not have the right to vote.  My voice did not get a chance to be heard.

I was born in 1972.  I lived through the apartheid era.

I lived through some of the worst times in South African history, but I am one of the lucky ones.  I got to live through it.  I got to see our mistakes.

I got to be proud when we became a democratic country with a democratic elected president.

I got to stand in the queue when millions of people who had never had a chance to vote, got that chance.

I remember that day.  And every time I stand in a queue, I smile because I remember how monumental that day was.

And it makes me happy.  And proud of how far we have come.

I also remember how so many people felt we would go the same way as Rhodesia/Zimbabwe, how we needed to prepare for the biggest civil war ever experienced, how “they” were going to come and take our properties, our lives and our children.

Then we voted.  And we went home.

It was okay.

I am not denying that we have experienced our share of violence, political or otherwise – we are not a perfect country.

I am not suggesting that it has all been unicorns and rainbow farts.  I am however getting really exhausted by the amount of shit that is shared on Facebook.

Any article that indicates that this election may not be free and fair is shared, and shared and shared some more.

Does anyone actually stop and read the article, properly and then ask themselves, what benefit is there in sharing this crap? This information that at a glance can be seen as total twat material?

So why do you choose to share it.  What good will come out of sharing this shit on your time line?

No, it appears that the joy is in the sharing.

The adding to the “noise” that our elections are flawed and do not matter.

That my vote has no value.  That your vote has no value.

My future is in my hands on Wednesday.  I get to cast my vote — my vote.

And everyone else in South Africa gets to do the same thing.

Can South Africans who are not fleeing to Canada this week, just take a breath.  Remember how far we have come.  What we have achieved.

What we have become, even when everyone expected flames and blood shed.

I am going to case my vote on Wednesday.

I am telling my children that I get a chance to have my say in the direction that this country heads.  I get one vote.  I try to make them excited every year about voting, so that when they turn 18 they want to run up and vote —- not sit back with glazed eyes and mumble apathy.

What are you teaching your children by putting this shit on your time line and breathing out this negativity?

You get to vote.  Even after all the shit you have shared on FB, you get to vote too.

Instead of wasting your time sharing shit on Facebook, stop, go and do some actual research.  Ignore the big headline with the crap copy in it.

Start for once to believe that South Africa is probably the best place to live — well it is for me.  I am not blind to what is wrong in this country, but I am optimistic that South Africa should not be discounted just yet.

Listen if Canada rings your bells, then take a flight and go there.  Like now.

But try not to piss in the pool that the rest of us are sitting in with our G&T’s whilst we wait to cast our votes.

Wednesday is coming —- cast your vote!!

ballot-box-4-FEATURE-390x256

 

“The whole mall is fucked up …”

“The whole mall is fucked up …” truer words have never been uttered before by a spokesperson – alive or dead.

1607-Godfrey_Mashakgomo

Godfrey Mashakgomo, we salute you.  I have spend time stalking you, and I am really hoping this is the first of many many “take no shit” approaches to things that are fucked up.

You are our hero, our oracle.

I am not sure how you are still a Mall spokesman — I personally think you should be snatched up by a corporate who give you free rein.  They won’t need to tell you to speak the truth, because your truth is unquestionable at this moment in time.

I admire your use of the word FUCK.  Eloquent.  Not too vulgar, just the right amount of “see what happens when you put a few million liters of water on a mall roof” and I think we can agree that more people have read about Tembisa Mall that would have had you erred on the side of “right speak” ……

When you say “the mall is fucked up” I immediately understand the extent of the problem.  I saw the pictures of the roof, you are right that mall is fucked up …… there is just no better way to say it than you did.

I get it.

I see it.

If I had more PR companies that contacted me and said “listen this product is total shite, but give it a go, you may like it, we fucking hated it over here —- but see what happens …. write a review, don’t write a review, we actually do not give a fuck” ……….. I would probably be more inclined to actually read the press releases, and possibly even take a sniff of the formaldehyde.

Unfortunately their well worded emails bore the shit out of me, and I want to run them over with my car.  It would be a mercy killing.  They show no signs of life anyway.

Godfrey Mashakgomo — well done.  Well fucking done!!!!  You have put Tembisa mall on the map.

I hope that people are scrambling over each other to offer you spokesman position — actually fuck spokesperson positions, maybe you can just be a commentator on the political situation or something ……  I can’t think what, but I have a feeling we have not heard the last of you (I pray we have not heard the last of you).

 

its all fucked up

 

Read the original comments here:

http://www.news24.com/SouthAfrica/News/people-injured-as-roof-at-tembisa-mall-collapses-during-storm-20160726

And see the picture of the mall that is “fucked up” …………

Godzilla counts 1-Mississippi-2-Mississippi-3-Mississippi ….. and other coping mechanisms

Kennith has a significant other/plus one/special friend – I am not sure of the level of the relationship so not sure of the title.  She however is sufficiently part of his life, and thus my kids that I notice her on my children.

Yes, I know and you thought divorce was a fucking party from the beginning to the end.

I do not know Kennith’s partner – I really don’t.  I am not one of those people who go and stalk them.  Actually I am.  That is exactly who I am.

However in this case because I have decided to exercise some self restraint and I have opted out of this.

The less I know about her – the less material I will have to work with in my head (more on that later.)

My kids – for those who are new to this – is a 15 year old son, and then two daughters who are 10 year old and a 7 year old respectively.

My son could be living with Martha Stewart and he would still remain in his jammies until 12h00 and not give a flying shit whether his hair had not been washed since April.  He is not one of those kids who is overly concerned with his appearance.

The night before last I convinced him to take the dog for a walk.  In his jammies.  Initially he said “n0” and explained that these were his jammies.  I gasped in horror and said that he was looking rather snappy today, and there was no way I would have guessed his little ensemble was “ready for bed” attire.

Anyway he eventually took the dog for a walk.

I am sure one day soon he is going to spend hours on his hair and his get up, but that time is not quite now.  His idea of a great time is to go fishing for 12 hours straight.  The aroma of fish and red bait is hardly a deterrent to him.  He looks like a drowning survivor or a homeless person by the time I see him after a day with a rod, but he does not give a fig.

I can’t imagine anyone is going to influence how Connor steps out or presents himself.  Unless Kennith shacks up with a hardcore fisherman, then I think Connor will swoon and be forever in ecstasy.

The girls are girls, and have slightly stronger opinions on what they will wear, what they won’t and what they like.  They are not mad totally obsessed girls, but they get generally put together an outfit of one kind of another.  Georgia has a very odd idea here of what works, but sometimes we just let her go out as she chose to dress, and we praise her for her individuality.  And her bravery.

As time has moved on and Kennith has moved into a role of dressing the children, I have got used to what to expect in terms of what he chooses.

I know how he does their hair, and I can see when he has been in charge of “getting dressed, teeth brushed, hair done and out the door.”

Then there are the days I fetch the girls from school and I can immediately see that this is not all Kennith’s handiwork.  And I can recognise when there has been another person in this equation.

It’s such a stupid thing.

I arrive at school, and I immediately freeze.  I try to position my face into a sublime expression and smilingly move towards the girls for an embrace and hugs.  Sorry, I then proceed to sniff them — its really something I do.

So far I have not smelt Jessie on them, and for that I say a quiet thank you.

Jessie is Kennith’s partner and of course she is going to be involved with the girls.  Logically I can look at this and nod, and go of course.  Come on, its fine.

But the jealous those-are-my-fucking-children-monster unfortunately has more of this sort of a reaction …

godzilla01

My girls are young and they are loving friendly girls.

They are not highly suspicious of strangers, and a girl close to their age is going to appeal to them.  So to add to my “well isn’t that nice” I get to hear loads of information about Jessie.  And I can see (or I assume I can see) when she has had a hand in doing their hair or picking an outfit.

I am seriously only able to maintain my sweet and gentle demeanor because I know I am never more than 8 hours away from wine o’clock.

The other day I dropped by the house to collect/fetch someone/something and Isabelle wasn’t there, and I asked “where is Isabelle” only to be told she is out with Jessie.

Again the logical part of me goes, well isn’t that lovely.  Its so great Kennith has found a partner who likes the children and wants to spend time with them.  Right?  The logical side.

But then there is the other side that looks a lot like this …..

motherbear

Here is the irony in the Game of Divorce ….. it has been okay for Kennith to leave the kids with Jessie pretty much from when he knew her for 21 minutes.

There was no big issue. I definitely did not need to be consulted, and I was not really in a position to raise a flag and go “hey who the fuck is Jessie?”

However as I generally date people with penises, that sort of changes things.

If Kennith arrived and found out that the girls were out with someone who knew me, who owned a penis, there would be a shit storm of the size I could not even begin to fathom.

So this story really has no point really. It however does raise frustrations about having to deal with a “girl person” who is in a relationship with my children.  No matter potentially how nice that girl person is.

People with penises and people with vaginas are different in terms of how long you must know the person to leave your children with them.  That has been made quite clear to me.

Its a complicated formula, and I am not 100% sure of how it works, it just is, and that appears to be sufficient for it to exist as a law.

No matter how rational you appear, no matter how many times you count 1-Mississippi-2-Mississippi-3-Mississippi- you still cannot get used to some other woman being a part of your children’s lives.

And seeing the results on them.

Watching them physically being affectionate to that person is such an area of discomfort that I cannot even begin to describe it.  It does feel a lot like my heart is being fucking ripped out of your chest via my poop-hole and stomped on.

But I smile graciously and try not to shit in my pants.  Try.  Sometimes it leaks out a bit and that cannot be helped.

Yes, and you thought divorce was just about who got the big television!!

 

{One relief, and THE one AND ONLY relief only is that the girls used to give me a blow by fucking blow account of Jordan, Kennith’s previous girlfriend.

Everything I did was compared to Jordan.  I was reminded that Jordan also did this or that …. the word relentless comes to mind.

Sitting at the movies with my arm around Georgia, and her snuggling in to me, is sort of spoilt when she looks up to me and goes “this is just how Jordan hugs me…”

It’s freaking hard to sit there and smile and not rip the arm of your child off and fling it across the room screaming “Does Jordan do that??? Huh?? Does she???”

But that would be wrong.  I smile and go … great, super, happiness and again give thanks that it is never more than 8 hours away from wine o’clock.

The girls mention Jessie, but it is not as often and with the same intensity, and for this we can be grateful.}

Why do one punch when two punches will have a better chance of hitting it’s target?

I realise I may well be playing the world’s smallest violin in this particular series of posts.

But dude, I need to get this shit out of my head.

Part of me has been unwilling to write/post about this because I am consumed with who reads this blog and what they will think.

I took that entire situation under advisement and I have come back with a resounding “yeah, fuck ’em …” this is my story.

I get to create the scenes and the characters, if you do not want to read it or disagree, then please sir, may I show you the door?  Or the conveniently located “click away” button.

I may well regret things I say here today, later today or tomorrow morning.  This is how I feel at the moment.

I have always used this blog as a place to put things.

That no longer belong in my head.

I do not do well with bottling things up inside of me.  I can feel the cracks forming …. its time to just “blech” it here.

I realise that for some people who read this they are going to be thinking “Geez Louise that was ages ago, move on..” and that is fine for them to think.  Totally fine.

Unfortunately in my head things move at a different pace and time, and right now I have a lot of stuff that needs to come out.  I do not know how long I will need to “move on” and if my moving on appears too slow for your timetable, I wish to apologise that I cannot stick to your time table.

Not on this.

I am not planning on having a divorce pity party, but this shit has been simmering inside and it is starting to spill over the edges.

Today is one of the days I give in to this slimy shitty monster that seems to consume me on every level.  One of my many problems is that I get stuck in the detail.  A word, the way it is phrased, the way it is used.  Cuts.  Brutally.

>>>>>>>>>>>>> Being divorced from.

I realise this is semantics.  But semantics are important.

I did not do the divorcing.  I did not agree with the divorcing.  The divorcing was foisted on me.

I went through all the phases of denial, disbelief, cry to your mom on the phone, see if there is a chance that alcohol consumed in vast quantities will actually kill you, and every other way I thought could or would work to move into the acceptance mode and out of the “what the fuck just happened there?”

I was wrong.  None of the other ideas worked when one of the parties has made a decision.

We are not talking about choosing a paint colour for the en-suite we are talking about dismantling a life of twenty years and change.

I am still not sure which was the part that cut me the deepest.

Actually I kn0w. I just like to appear deep and soulful as if I have to bring up the memory.

There was the”I want a divorce” speech monologue, which actually did not have much in it, other than a killer fucking punch line.

Talk about stopping the world turning on it’s axis stuff.

Yes, very “show stopping” …. there was not too much in it of content.  But when you have an opening line like that, everything else becomes unnecessary.

Once that sunk in I could literally feel my teeth aching individually in my gums.

I am not sure when the next “big” announcement arrived, and I really cannot recall the exact situation, but the main thrust of it was: “I wanted to ask for a divorce last year, but then you had that mix up with your medication, and I thought I would leave it to see how it went……”

The key line here that carries the punch is “I wanted to ask for a divorce last year………” sorry, what again?

So not only have I been rebounding for the last few days/weeks with your big announcement but now you tell me that you have been THINKING ABOUT THIS FOR A FUCKING YEAR!!!

Listen I am seldom surprised.

The problem with anxiety disorder is that you are always thinking of every outcome and then every permutation, and then living through each of them.  The result is when I see a kangaroo steal a banana from a flower seller, and hop over a fence, part of me is thinking, yep, I saw that happening.

BEING DIVORCED FROM is really no fucking picnic when it comes to processing the information and trying to deal with it, so your fucking head does not explode.

Let me tell you when your other half tells you that he has thinking about this for a year —- an entire fucking year — and then you add that to the reasons who your head could fucking pop, it is a wonder that you managed to actually survive that moment.  Or that day.  Or appear normal in front of the kids.

It was a devastating blow.  I am not sure if it was meant to cripple and maim, but power to the people, that shit did massive massive damage.

I wonder about these things.

How someone feels when they drop a bomb, and whether they feel the same intensity of aftershock that you feel when you heard the information for the first time?

I must confess this particular “nugget” of : I was going to do this last year, but when the chemist fucked up your meds,  I thought I would wait it out and see if you got any better to remain married to…… was quite a lot to take on board.

I can tell you there is just no way you can be prepared for the blast of that information.

There is just no way to cushion the impact, when you have already been beaten and fucking mauled.

I am not suggesting that it might have been best if he just kept that shit bag to himself, but I am suggesting that that piece of information did nothing for me what so ever.

I wasn’t like “well, its great you gave this another year buddy, thanks man …..” or any other similar thinking.  I just kept going YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS A YEAR AGO ……. A FUCKING YEAR!!!! AGO!

I still use the label to describe myself “I was divorced from…” it conjures up a lot of emotion of not being good enough, not having worth, being the one that did something wrong, being the responsible party who could not hold this shit together.

>>>>>>>>>>>>> Being divorced from.

I know it is not a helpful title, and I know that I should discard it and not give it any more power over me.

I know that.

I know. That.

I. Know. That.

It unfortunately does not stop it denting my self esteem, my sense of self and how I value and view myself.  And having it run around in my head, bouncing off the edges – especially when I have suffered some emotional blow is debilitating.

I know it is not a helpful title.

160629-Theproblem

Raising Sue Heck …… and Sheldon Cooper’s love child …..

You know how you sometimes sit back and think “if I was a gazelle and had three gazelle babies would they survive in the wild?”

Okay, you may never had this exact thought, but I have.  I can swap out gazelle for pretty much anything, but today I would like to be a gazelle.

Georgia.

The best way to describe Georgia is just to say “Sue Heck” from The Middle, if Sue Heck and Sheldon Cooper had a baby, it would be Georgia.

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Georgia is unique in every possible way.

She is sweet, and kind, and does not have a mean bone in her body.

She is particularly excited by mathematics and science and she loves things that are no always “in her age range” – she really is a very sweet child.

But.  If we were in the wild.  She would not survive until 09h30.

I have never met someone who is so ill adjusted to every day life as this girl is.  It is not that she is “stupid” or “mentally challenged” it is just that she is so absorbed in what ever it is that she is doing that nothing else matters.

I would not ask her to cross our road, got to the neighbour and ask for a cup of sugar. There is just no way.  She would probably trip over the kerb and sustain a major head injury.  Or something similar.

So many things happen with her, I  sit there and think “this one cannot survive out there … she will need to live with either of her parents for ever…”

Last Thursday this happened.

It was getting kids ready to drop off at school, the three kids were sitting around the dining room table eating breakfast.

I sit behind Georgia and while she is doing breakfast I do her hair.  She has hair all the way down to her bum, so cannot manage it easily herself.

{her sister who is four years younger than her, has the same length hair, and can brush it and style it in almost any way possible …. but Georgia cannot brush her hair…}

I am brushing her hair, and I am making a high ponytail.

She is eating her cereal with milk.

She is close to finished her cereal, and I am at the ponytail plaiting part of the process.  Her hair is very long, so at a certain point, I push my chair away so I can stand.

These are big dining room chairs which when moved across the wooden floor, they make a distinct sound, so this is not clandestine chair moving.

I carry on plaiting, same procedure as every other day.  At some point Georgia stands up, so with my foot, I push the chair to the left, out of the way so that I can finish plaiting her hair and stand right behind her.

The scene.

Dining room table, all three kids sitting.

Georgia has stood up – she is finished her cereal.

I am right at her back —- because I am plaiting her hair, so she can feel me at her back.

I am plaiting her hair so if her body was working out where she was in relation to me, it would realise we are pretty close.

Then.  She sits down.

Not like a light sit. More like a faint – a direct, my legs are no longer interested in holding me up and I am going to collapse into this chair sort of sit.

This chair which has been moved away from her by me sliding it away – in a very loud manner as the chair scrapes the wooden floor.

The chair that could not be there because I am standing against her back.

I step back – still holding the plait, I am not giving this up for love or money.

I watch as her body moved past the table — it can’t really stop as there is nothing between the ceiling and the floor anymore, her head hits the spoon that is sitting in her cereal bowl.

An important point is that she has eaten her cereal and left the normal 100ml of milk in the bottom of her cereal bowl.

Just for detail. she is eating out of a white porcelain cereal bowl.

As her head zooms past the bowl, the spoon connects with her head or her head connects with the spoon.

I am watching this and for me it is all in slow motion, I might have still been plaiting.

The spoon somehow flies up into the air, but whilst in motion it has had the transferred energy to pick up the porcelain bowl which flips up into the air.

The bowl leaves the table, gets a bit of distance upwards, and then does a full 180 degree turn as it returns to the earth.

At this point Georgia has now discovered the floor.  She has started to apologise and say “I didn’t know … I didn’t know the chair was not there…”

At this point the cereal bowl comes down on top of her head, a bit like a fez actually.  An impossible amount of milk is now streaming down her head, all over her hair – somehow it managed to get a full 360 degree coverage, down her face and onto her school uniform.

All whilst she is in full amazement where the chair went.

The spoon in the meantime has been pushed into a trajectory, that I could not have imagined.

It had dumped milk on me, and then shot off across the room to again place an unimaginably amount of milk in a pool a few meters away.

Georgia stands up — bowl still on her head, milk coming down her face, not dissimilar from the scene from Carrie.

carrie

I did not realise we had that much milk in the house, let alone in the freaking bowl.

There was the usual clean up that ensued and Georgia’s amazement that the chair had magically disappeared.

If this had happened to any of the other children, I would have been amazed.  But with Georgia it is usually a case of “Oh Georgia…”

This child cannot survive in the wild.  Ever.