channeling Nancy Botwin

So then obviously something happened today which was totally blog-worthy, and all about me.

Just because I've decided not to share their humiliations on the internet doesn't mean I can't share mine right?

I've been working hard at gardening. And by hard I mean tending to a couple of herb/veggie plants in a motley assortment of pots, and culling small pieces of plants all over the place and sticking them in the earth at home in the vain hope they'll like it here.

Most of them have. Thereby boosting my garden and my self-confidence.

So when Friday's school sent home some seeds weeks ago with instructions to nurture a small plant to return in time for the annual fundraising Plant Sale, I was confident. I got this. I can grow a measly parsley plant right?

Wrong. 

Turns out the bursting new green buds I celebrated, the little shoots I protected and nurtured (Friday, btw, could not have been less interested), the small (but flourishing!) little plant I packaged up and carefully transported to school this morning is not parsley.

It is a weed.

At the school gates I spied a tiny fluffy purple flower on the plant and with a sinking feeling broke off and tasted a small leaf.

Not parsley.

I was nearly, nearly, that mother who tried to sell weed at the school fair. 

blurred lines

I've been a bit absent here of late. Just a bit right?

Life has been busy - work and illness and emotional ups and downs - but through all of that I've still been parenting, still been thinking about parenting, still felt inspired and at times utterly exhausted by these too small beings I've been charged with.
I've still had material to bring here. But I've felt hesitant.

The girls are growing up really fast at the moment, and I'm getting into that space of wondering which of their stories are mine to tell.
Obviously I still think it's all about me, but the reality is what goes on in their hearts and minds is theirs, it's precious, and I feel we might be getting to the stage where they're too old for me to share their stuff online, while still too young to ask their permission to do so.
And my response to their 'stuff'? That's kind of theirs too.

Yup, apparently now not even my own thoughts are mine. It's only a matter of minutes until they're wearing my sneakers and driving my car.

I'll be taking a while to ponder this.

last week I wore a bra

Every. Day.
Like, a proper under-wire bra. Not a cami with built in support or a sports bra or a tight-fitting vest.

I wore big girl pants too. No boyfriend jeans, no wrap-pants, no yoga pants.

And blouses. Proper need-to-be-ironed blouses. I even wore a blazer one chilly morning.

And pumps. With closed toes. To, you know, conceal the toes ...

Yup. Last week I started a job outside of the home. Just a two week contract, putting together a small event, but the nature of the job is immaterial.
The differences between working from a proper office versus working from home are IMMENSE.

None of my office colleagues barked, or hacked a furball on my foot. No one tried to sit on my lap and purr. I didn't need to know if any of them needed to pee.

At the office, there is nothing on my desk but my laptop, a phone, and a couple of sheets of notes pertaining only to the most current things I'm working on.
There are no story books in need of repair, no toys, no distracting rolls of washi tape. There are no other To Do lists or nasty reminders of things I've not remembered to do.
There are no crumbs.

At the office there are no snacks. Barring those I've remembered to bring with me (i.e. none). This is good. And contributes to the lack of crumbs.

There is no facebook, no Pinterest, no blog reading, no tweetering on the edge of full social media immersion.

There is no laundry upstairs waiting to be hung. No dishwasher needing to be emptied (well there is, but it's not my job ha ha ha ha ha). There are no breakfast dishes still on the table or towels in a soggy heap on the floor.

At the office there is calm. There is a lot of silence. There is a clean, efficient energy which embraces me like the arms of a long-forgotten friend and reminds me that I can do this: I can focus on one thing and just one thing only for long stretches at a time.
I am reminded that The Zone still exists, and my password to enter it is still valid. At the office I remember I can work like a well-oiled machine.

I love free-lancing. Last week I remembered how much I love doing it in someone else's office. I think I need some more of that.

rocking the daisies

For once, I have no words.

It was bigger, and muddier, and louder, and fuller, and younger, and colder than I'd expected. But, as expected, it was a complete jol.
Best friends, free Jack Daniels, no kids, total freedom and a radical change of scenery.

Good for the soul.

madiba

Last week I was driving, listening to an EWN update on Nelson Mandela's condition, and I burst into tears.

Like, burst.

Naturally I've been thinking about him, following the updates. The death of my own grandfather at a similar age is recent enough that I can quickly draw on the associated emotions, my heart knows how this feels. But I didn't expect the wave of emotion I experienced that day and in that moment, it made me feel a little sheepish.

Sure he's Nelson Mandela, but did I have enough of a connection to respond like that? Was my grief credible?
But here's the thing about Mr Mandela, he has always been all about validating each individual's experience.

He visited Betsy Verwoed because her experience of the end of apartheid was valid. He celebrated with all South Africans when we won the Rugby World Cup because our experience was valid. Terrified white business men? Valid. Remorseful prison guards? Valid. Angry youth? Valid.
Nelson Mandela taught us all so much, and not least of all to own our experiences, to share them, to acknowledge them, good or bad, and use them to move forward.

Losing someone is so much about losing the person they allowed you to be. This is at the heart of all of our grief about his imminent death. We already miss the world in which he lived, in which his spirit resided.
Nelson Mandela made us feel free and idealistic, while he is still alive we know that lives on within our nation, when he dies we fear that spirit will become completely eroded by the sobering realities of the work ahead.

I was 15 when he was released from prison. 18 when I helped elect him President. The perfect age to learn lessons in forgiveness, humility and courage. The perfect age to learn to believe in miracles.

He gave me that, and so much more. He gave that to us all, and I think we're all allowed to be very, very sad when he goes.
Go well Madiba, and thank you.

food guilt? no thank you.

You know ... I'm getting a little tired of all this food drama. I know, I know, I should probably be taking it all more seriously but my god, how much time are we expected to spend on this?

Let's break down all the things we know or have been told about food:

We should drink more water.
But not from plastic bottles, mountain streams or taps in most countries of the world. We're told Cape Town is one of only 33 cities in the world with drinkable tap water. Then we're told that's not in fact true.

We should eat lots of fruit.
But not those with waxy skins. Not those grown too far away. Not those grown in the 'wrong' countries (like oranges from apartheid SA of old). Not those whose fructose content is too high. We must take note, collate and memorise the long lists going round of fruits which should Only Be Grown Organically.

We should eat lots of protein.
But not red meat. Not battery-reared poultry. Don't eat chicken reared on animal by-products, oh but watch out for the grain fed ones too. Only fish from the right SASSI list, and those which contain no traces of dolphin. We must not eat animals which were slaughtered inhumanely. We must find this out how? We must not eat meat which is too fatty. We must not eat meat which is too lean. We must not eat meat cured with numerous different hard to pronounce substances. We must definitely never eat 'deli meat'. Pate is to be regarded with suspicion.

I'm not even getting in to eggs.

We should eat lots of legumes.
But only organically grown ones. Also ditto, no beans with too great a carbon footprint (they don't even have feet) or grown in countries not regarded as fairtrade.
We shouldn't eat beans canned in certain metals and we should always, always be on high alert for Additives.

We should drink milk.
Just not un/pasteurised, possibly bleached, incorrectly bottled milk from cows which may or may not be hormone-fed.
Ditto cheese.

We shouldn't eat too much wheat. But heaven forbid we touch maize.

All honey should be BEE approved.

Sugar is evil. But also good. And sugar-replacements are direct from Satan.

Makes grocery shopping a whole lot of fun huh?

I'm being flippant, but I'm also quite serious. I could spend an immense portion of my time getting my knickers in a knot about this. I could add food-guilt to the long list of things we parents fret about. Guilt that we can't afford to buy all organic. Guilt that we don't spend every free moment growing and rearing our own food.
Guilt that I'm not forcing my family to only eat organically-grown-fairtrade-anti-oxidant-humanely picked-additive free-unflavoured-'healthy' meals which we can't afford and they probably won't eat but I spent 100 hours this week planning, shopping and preparing them so shut up and eat it and you'll thank me when you live to be 105?

I shop as consciously as we can afford to. I pick my food battles, my principled stances, and I stick by them. I enjoy preparing well-balanced as healthy as possible meals for my family. I feel positively ecstatic when everyone eats these meals.
I am NOT going to add food guilt to my list of parental burdens.

I'm saving my guilt for when I'm at the checkout of the supermarket with my trolley full of groceries and the woman behind me has a baby on her back, a toddler at her side and only a 5kg bag of (not organic! genetically modified!) mielie meal in her basket.
That's what I choose to fret about.

flower wreath of sanity

Back in March when I was going a little mental with the full-time-mothering-a-wild-monster thing I reminded myself that the thing which consistently makes me happy (besides Converse), and the most productive (in the restoration of heart and soul sense) thing I could do with my scant free time – was to make something.

So over the last few months I made this.

Egg carton flower wreath found, of course, through Pinterest.

The process of making small, precise snips through the (surprisingly) tough carton was deeply satisfying, especially after particularly frustrating days. As a friend remarked: ‘So instead of throwing lawn furniture around you’re cutting flowers?’ Yip, I'm a cutter, not a chucker.

I kinda liked them unpainted too. Maybe that would've made a more sophisticated piece!

It was also great to have a project I could work on in small stages, finding a moment here and there to cut some petals. Later the painting also happened in fits and starts – sometimes while the girls were busy painting too, sometimes after they were in bed. They even painted a couple of blooms themselves, which I fixed up afterwards!

This was my project and I was surprised and pleased at how they respected that. We have always been firm on respecting other people's ‘work’ – something Friday first picked up at her Montessori playgroup, and I think it’s paid off.

Every step of the project was fun and while the end product is a little ‘crafty’ – only just stopping short of painted macaroni really – it’s made me very happy, relieved a lot of my tension through a difficult time and will brighten up a corner of our home over the coming winter months.

the here and now

Sunday started school last week. She's loving it. At 12h30 each day I am a happy calm big person collecting a happy calm little person from school.
This is good.

A dear friend treated me to a spa morning at the Arabella on Friday. I had a 65 minute massage.
This is so very, very good.

I've had a lingering malingering coldy flu bug which come this Friday will have been around for 2 weeks.
This is not so good.

This afternoon we found the eviscerated carcass of a pigeon on our lawn, not work which either of our cats, or dog, could have accomplished. Consensus is that a bird of prey had it's lunch in our Norfolk pine.
This is actually quite cool.

Did I tell you we had an otter on our lawn a few weeks back?
This is utterly amazing.

We've spent many still sunny late afternoons on the beach recently. Autumn reminds us every year of its magnificence in blue and gold.
This is a blessing.

Our small elderly ginger cat has pissed on the (carpeted!) stairs again. Every time she walks across the room Husband snarls 'Dead cat walking.'
This is potentially not good.

My big girl, at dinner this evening, regaled us in graphic detail on the two methods in which babies could be born, and tried to decided whether she would have a home or hospital birth. I casually asked, 'Is this something you're talking about at school at the moment?'
She answered, 'No Mum, we're talking about road safety.'
This is funny.

I'm going to Jo'burg this weekend to play with my bestie and pat her apparently enormous bump before she becomes a mother of two soon.
I am going to Jo'burg by myself to see my friend.
This is the very best of all.

*crickets*

Some friends were asking me today why I've been so quiet on the blog ... dead blog air, is there anything more deafening?
I know when blogs I read fall silent I always wonder what's going on in their lives. I hope they're just too busy hanging out and being glamourous, and not ailing or unhappy.

My silence hasn't been for any of these reasons, good or bad. My silence has been due to the sheer exhaustion, frustration, and at times despondence, of full time parenting a particularly demanding and forceful little girl. And who wants to read about that, I replied to my friends this morning?

I can't come here exhausted, after a day of toddler dramatics, and muster any enthusiasm for parenting insights, or happy crafts. I've often so little humour left that I can't even crack a smile post bed time, my stores of creativity depleted, my words all used up, the sound of my own voice grating in my head.

And no one's interested in that right?

This thing about 'mommy blogging' (urgh), is that we walk a fine line between making it all sound too perfect, and using the space to moan and complain. I'm equally irritated by bloggers who do either. I don't like to bad mouth my kids on the internets, but I'm as horrified to hear that anyone reading this blog may think I make it all sound too easy, that our lives look too fun and squeaky clean.

Life has, for a lot of the time in the last few weeks, not been much fun at all. Life has in fact been pretty tough. What I learned from my friends today is that I should be writing about that here too. And what I've learned just from writing this post is that writing, as usual, always makes me feel better.

Today was Sunday's 3rd birthday party. It was the hardest kiddies party I've ever organised, not because of its scale or logistical intricacies, but because I found it really hard to muster the good feeling and energy to celebrate this small girl right now.
After a day of battles and tears, demands and tantrums, it was extremely difficult to brainstorm the ultimate dinosaur cake, or think of ways to make her day extra special. Once she was in bed I wanted to stop thinking about her entirely for a while, to replenish myself with ME.

But I did it, we did it, and it was lovely. She was an angel - she wore a dress! she only freaked out once! she loved everything! she didn't call me 'Bad Mummy' or slap me!

She was sweet and delightful and appreciative and funny ... she was deliciously 3 and I must, I must remember that this too shall pass and one day (soon) I'll look back and wonder at how the time has flown.

irl

There is so much new in our lives at the moment that I'm really struggling to harness it all to write about. On a daily basis we're discovering, learning, experiencing new things and like any such patch in one's life - when your days feel more nuanced, sharper-hued, faster and slightly surreal - it's near impossible to process it as you live it, and invariably one feels one's leaving stuff behind.

This throws up a conundrum for me, because I record and remember by writing - but this last month have felt too busy living to write. The only time I've really sat still is to stare at our new view, and I reckon people are rapidly tiring about hearing about that all the time (at least my facebook friends are!).

Not having a phone or internet connection for the first seventeen days was a contributing factor (and kind of an 'excuse' not to unpack my laptop for the first few weeks), all of us having had a dreadful flu for the last seven is another - and in between it's been too much about living around here to spend any time recording, or examining.

It's been a month since Husband and I pulled an almost all-nighter packing up the last of the Observatory house, him nursing a partially severed finger from an incident with a pair of secateurs that afternoon, me harbouring a deep and abiding resentment that he was.
A month since the long, long day moving - an exhausting process no matter how well prepared or well supported one is throughout it - a day which culminated in one of our beloved cats going AWOL in Obs, causing me to lose my shit completely and break down in the KFC drive-thru, sobbing so hard I couldn't make myself understood to the bemused counter-lady.
(My heroic brother and sister-in-law did not rest until the errant kitty was found and finally brought her to us in disgrace at 9.30 pm that night, causing me to break down sobbing again because how on earth were we going to cope without them just down the road anymore?)
It was a long hard day.

Was it really only a month ago?

I don't wish for the pace to slow down really, I'm enjoying this. And I certainly don't wish for the exciting newness of it all to wear off, time will guarantee that soon enough. But I am feeling the effects of living too fast.
In the evenings when the girls are asleep my head gets restless. My dreams are weird and fitful. The memory of a person or place that I'm missing catches me unawares and digs a little hook into my heart.

I need to process some of this, I need to write.
Live Write
Live Write
Live Write.

if I were blogging ...

... all I'd be blogging about would be ...

Packing. And how I'm starting to wonder whether 'slow and steady wins the race' was the best approach. I feel like I've been packing my whole life and the real crunch only starts now ...

The Massive Cold Sore my body bequeathed me with just in case I was under the illusion that that I'm not stressed.

The Asshole Parent in Friday's school who bought her 6 year old daughter a BRA. The kid in question doesn't even have puppy fat boobies. I weep for humanity.

How I got 6 disturbing hits on this blog from a totally gross p-o-r-n site. Maybe I shouldn't be using words like b-o-o-b-i-e-s. I blame this post. Or maybe this one.

To confess that last week I became one of those parents who takes her 2 and a half year old to the doctor because omg there must be an explanation for the monstrous behaviour we've had inflicted on us recently right??
This is how that went ...
Me to doc: 'Either way I'm prepared to leave this consultation embarrassed. Either my kid has a raging ear infection I've been totally unaware of for the last week, or she's just 2 and a half and I'm an asshole.'
Doc: 'And you're hoping it's an ear infection.'
I love my doctor.
However, she examined Sunday from head to toe and declared her absolutely healthy.
'She's just preparing you for her teen years,' she said with a small smile.
I hate my doctor.

Not this kid surely? This delectable bundle of energy and imagination and observation and general delight?
The very same.

If I were blogging I fear I'd be totally boring and self-obsessed right now.
So I'm not.

sensory memories

If it wasn't for them I don't think I'd ever have taken the time to remember ...

... the spongy metallic taste of the underneath of my tooth, straining from its socket on one last thread as my tongue teases it and teases it, just stopping short as I wince at the imagined pain. Until one day I don't and suddenly hold my tooth in my hand.

... the exact texture required to drip drip drip wet beach sand into stalagmite towers of unbelievable height and grace on the side of the lagoon. The distinct satisfaction of building one higher than your opponent younger sibling.

... the hot flash of humiliation when you realise that an action or word intended in jest was simply not funny, and in fact hurtful to someone you love. Not to say we ever stop doing this, but the blade of humiliation seems to become duller with age, as you learn to temper it by convincing yourself of the other party's contribution - only children are honest enough to carry the burden themselves.

... how still the still is when you live in perpetual motion. As an adult I can be completely silent in my head while frantically busy with my hands, I can lie perfectly still whilst churning up inside. But now I remember the stillness of a child lying on hot paving next to a pool - hearing nothing but breath, feeling nothing but heartbeat and drying skin, watching the world through wet eyelashes.

... the abandon, the absorption, the anger, the apoplexies of laughter - living it all completely and without question.

I'm listing this one under 'benefits'.

formerly unflappable

In my previous life (i.e. pre-sprogs) I was a freelance event coordinator with a formidable contacts list and an utterly cool demeanour.

I coordinated conferences of hundreds and intimate business meetings with international celebrities. I got people together from the furthermost flung places on earth - China, Sri Lanka, Lesotho. I once, with 30 minutes notice, convinced a hotel to convert what would've been a sit-down lunch for 750 delegates to take-away lunches for the same number, and made sure everyone got theirs while the meal was still warm.
In my time I dealt with a conference attendee miscarrying in her hotel room, and another with a case of meningitis, I got someone out of a sticky immigration scenario at OR Tambo Int Airport,  kept one conference afloat when it lost all it's funding mid-event and managed to contain rampant food-poisoning at another.
Good times.

I was known for my cool head. I once even had a client tell me I was 'too calm', that I should try and look more stressed - it seems too calm could be misconstrued as clueless, not so good in your Event Organiser apparently.

After we got over the initial 3 months of COLIC HELL I was a pretty calm mother to Friday too. People commented on my infinite patience with her, and I was pleased that my eventing skills had us fairly organised and able to leave the house in a timely and orderly fashion.

Now that's all gone for a ball of poo.

The Mother Formerly Known as Unflappable is now the person who leaves her home standing WIDE open for over 4 hours in the middle of the day.

I lose my shit, I throw toys (literally), I yell, I cry (never in front of them, not yet), I shout at one to stop whatever it is she's doing to make the other one make that unholy noise.
We've left the house in a tearing run every day this week, leaving mayhem (and occasionally the vital nappy bag or juice bottles) in our wake.
The first time I ever left my wallet at home was when I was pregnant with Friday, these days it's a regular event.
I miss birthdays and take 3 days to send a text message. I burn rice and discover myself out in public in my slippers (they're nice suede ones but still ... ).

Sometimes I think the former me would regard the current me with some disdain. She'd certainly wonder what all the fuss was about, she'd undoubtedly utter that disgusting phrase: 'How hard can it be?'.

It's not that it's that hard, it's just that it's that immediate and all-consuming. Packed lunch for 750? Sure, I can remain clam and make that happen and then go home for a large glass of wine and a debrief.
Two little girls who won't eat the supper I cooked for them? I'm a self-loathing mess with a large glass of wine and I can't 'go home' from this job.

But the former me can kiss my flappy (and flabbier) ass - these two delegates might make me work harder than all the hundreds of others before them, but their brand of chaos is far, far more appealing. They're cuter and they go to bed earlier. They love me more and they don't care if I'm calm or crazy or clueless.

This conference is called The Wee Years of Friday and Sunday - and I'm coordinating it better than anyone else on earth could.

Besides, calm is overrated.

pinspiration: stamp bunting

My friend Julochka has pledged to make one thing a day from Pinterest this week. Go see what she and her daughter made yesterday - it's so beautiful!

Coincidentally yesterday I found little multi-coloured ink pads at Plastics for Africa (love that shop) and got inspired to tackle a little from-Pinterest project of my own ...

Pencil eraser flag stamp. Very easy and fun.

A friend 'confessed' on facebook last night that she's alone at home for FIVE days while her husband's away with the kids and that got me enviously thinking what I'd do with that kind of time.

I'd craft.
I'd craft and craft and make and make and leave my messes and semi-completed projects all over the house. Because besides struggling to find the time for silly little craft projects I get so frustrated having to pack it all away every evening to avoid prying hands.
I know some say the answer is to involve the kids but sometimes, most times, a project like this is how I relax, it's my me-time and call me selfish, but I don't wanna share it.

I feel like I should add one of those sticking-out-tongue emoticons at the end of that sentence!

a little Friday moan

My god I could do with some reliable internets. Our phone line periodically downs our ADSL - it's been happening for months and Telkom have been (surprise!) u-s-e-l-e-s-s.
Obviously we're always online when I need to a) cook supper (like now), b) put kids in the bath or c) 1 am. Naturally we're always offline when I a) get 5 seconds to myself, b) am home alone or c) have a head full of blog posts.
The phone thing also results in one of us screaming 'Don't answer that!!!!' when the phone rings and we're downloading (for fear of getting the connection knocked off) or, one of us making long calls to the talking clock in the hope we'll get bumped back online.
Trying, to say the least.

Winter huh? I'm so over it already. I'm not usually this affected by the change of seasons but man I was loving March ...
Yesterday we were at my Mum's house when it started to rain, and I caught myself starting to whinge about 'Winterrrrrrwhyyyyyy?' when I looked up and noticed Friday looking at me curiously. Instantly I changed my tune, trying to muster some enthusiasm for rain! snuggles! puddles!
This is the problem with having 3 generations in the room - in front of my Mum I want to indulge my inner (whiny) child, in front of my daughter I have to suck it up and be the Mum.

Here's a nice thing: a friend and I try and see each other for a regular 'stitch 'n bitch' evening. A chance to chat and catch up while doing something crafty.
This week her clever suggestion was to cook together. So on Tuesday evening we met at her house and cooked Tomato (and Chicken) Bredie.
We got to hang out, catch up and ended the evening with dinner sorted for the next day. Win.

And back to moan ...
I'm covered in huge red welts from suspected hay mites picked up at the fabulous rural Karoo wedding we attended on the weekend. And when I say covered the last count was 50+ so ja, covered.
No I was not rolling in the hay, just sitting on it.
I would've thought the amount of alcohol I consumed would've made me unpalatable but it seems not.
Also, applying antihistamine cream to one's own ass in the mirror is damn hard yo.

But:
It's Friday. And this weekend, for the first in many, I don't have to pack a bag, plan any meals or get anyone out of the house by any specific time so hey, it's not all bad.

Scratch scratch, reach for a cardi, pray internet stays on long enough to post this ... happy weekend all.

suspended reality

I wake in the night, needing a drink of water and a pee. Liquid in, liquid out.

Slide from my bed - comfy, warm, partially filled by my favourite person in the world. Our room is large, pretty empty for two people who've cohabited as long as we have. It's cool too, I'm already looking forward to coming back.
Down the passage, two soundly sleeping cats on the back of the couch, smooth wooden floorboards under my feet.
In the light from the patio the tree-tops whipping around, but all is very still inside.

Our dog in her basket snores in perfect unison with the whrrrr of the fridge. She doesn't even seem to know I'm here.
The tap turns, water fills my glass. Relief floods my throat.

I stand for just a minute, staring out the window. Keeping myself dozy, there's still a lot of night left.

Back down the passage, a quick check on the girls. Their door creaks and I pause to listen to the sounds of their breathing. Blindfolded I could tell who is who, I probably shall 'til the end of time.
They sleep with the sprawled limbs of supreme security and peace, their brows uncreased, fingers relaxed.

Their butterfly mobile dancing in the draft is the most active thing in this house.

And it is while standing there in the dark, in my house of comfort and love, that the crushing weight of my privilege suddenly bears down on me.
My heart seems to buckle - guilt, entitlement, horror, rage, indignation, justification - the emotions which one must continually counter-balance when living a good life in a world where so many don't. The knowledge of one's innate privilege is always there, it must be always there, but like a cancer or a conscience one can't live in its light all the time. One must suspend this reality and just ... live.

I force myself back to bed, to sleep. I leave these thoughts buried in the dark of the night. Where they remain, for remain they must.
Sadness, unease, discomfort, guilt - we need these things to throw the goodness in our lives into relief, to be grateful. But we can't, I can't, live with them every day.
I bury them in the dark - keep the knowledge of them active, confront them when I must - but try not to let them leak out into the light.

Reality suspended like a trip-wire in my house, waiting for me to get up in the night.

zen & the art of pottering about

I've written before about how different our weekend mornings are now in comparison to the pre-kids days.

We've never been particularly good at getting up and out of the house in a hurry and I recall many, many a childless Saturday morning spent pottering about the house doing deeply domestic and fairly arb chores. A little hand-washing, sorting a drawer, tea, some de-cluttering, a cuddle with the cats, more tea, tackling those miscellaneous and dodgy tupperwares in the back of the fridge etc etc etc.
Looking back I've sometimes wondered whether I should have used that time more wisely, or at least more excitingly, but recently I realised the truth of that domestic downtime. I think there was a lot more happening in those lazy weekend hours then I imagined at the time.

This week I had that extremely rare and delicious experience of a whole morning (3 hours at least) alone at home. Completely alone.
I forced myself away from the computer and just ... pottered.

A little hand-washing, sorting a book shelf, drinking tea, packing away some out-grown clothes (theirs, not mine!), petting a cat. Flowing freely through my home without having to speak, without really having to think.
Except I did.
And the things I found myself thinking about were disconnected to what my hands were doing, they were things I needed to think about, reflect on, process.

Last week I attended a wildly stimulating and transformational UCT Summer School course, led by Chris Breen. Over three mornings each session was packed with insights, ideas, revelations.
I was deeply envious each day as we regrouped and my fellow attendees (mainly childless) spoke about what they'd thought about the previous afternoon, after the morning class. Each day I had left the course and plunged headlong into the school run, lunch, play, chaos etc, leaving no time for reflection or processing.

But during my blissful morning alone at home this is where my thoughts had turned. And with my hands occupied by comforting familiar domestic tasks I found that space to download, examine what I'd learned and think about ways to implement these lessons into my life.

I realised then that this is what I'd been doing with those long and seemingly 'wasted' weekend hours of old. Processing my week, reflecting on experiences, filing and organising my thoughts and feelings.

Life with children is so busy, and so ... loud - both inside my head and without - that it's easy to just ... live. That 'in the moment' practise which people seem to strive so hard to attain is a standard for me. I live each moment in the moment and then move on to the next one, but what I neglect is finding the time to rewind and live those moments again, to glean from them the necessary truths and insights.

Blogging does that for me yes, but so it seems, does hand-washing. Note to self: buy more silk.