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Friday 18 February 2011

NOW WHERE DID I PUT MY BRAIN?


I found a half eaten avocado in the cupboard next to the bowls the other day. Thankfully it was in a tupperware - which seemed a bit more civilized. My first thought was, ‘that’s where that went to, I knew I didn’t eat all of it!’ The second thought was, ‘oh god, I have Alzheimer’s, I’m putting half eaten vegetables away with the dishes.’ This was on the same day that I dragged the King on the bus, walked a half a mile in the driving wind (okay fine, it was a mild breeze) and rushed into a restaurant to meet a group of Mothers and their babies, only to discover that they were all meeting two seconds from my house. [This fact I had of course skipped over when I read the email in two seconds and rushed off to do something else]. I suddenly heard the universe whisper loudly in my direction, "YO, lady with her pants on fire" - the universe likes metaphors; my pants weren’t really on fire - "you need to slow it waaaay down!"

It then dawned on me that the current whirlwind of temporary dementia that was plaguing me (at least I hope it’s temporary) is indicative of life as a mother. Or a mother of a seventh month old on the verge of crawling that still wakes up during the night. The King now rolls. Which means, when he rolls, he wakes up cause he can’t roll his ample (and adorable) behind back over again. So not only am I losing my marbles, but the bags under my eyes are as old and mighty as my child. 

To make matters worse, the pride I used to take in my multi-tasking ability has now morphed into concern that perhaps multi-tasking is not all its cracked up to be – or I’m just getting worse at it and it's adding to the deterioration of my brain. Perhaps the 85 things I’m doing per hour would better be served if I just slowed the heck down and did maybe five of those things. At least I’d do five things pretty well and I wouldn’t find old fruit and vegetables in mysterious places? 

The problem is, life with the King currently demands that I do 800 things per hour, like it or not. If I don’t I fear I would be neck deep in laundry, filth, pureed food stuck to every surface as I sat bleary eyed in fetal position wearing a bathrobe with unbrushed hair and make up on that was applied the week before last. Ha! Just kidding, I don’t even bother with make-up anymore as I have realized that they don’t make a cover up for Mothers that will erase ten years and give us our well slept glow back...oh please, I haven’t had a well-slept glow since I was 19.

I of course have kept my suspicions about multi-tasking from my partner because he would simply look at me smugly and confirm that man’s way of one task at a time is the superior way to conduct one’s life. He proudly told me the other day that he cannot think and listen at the same time, and hence, I had to pick my moments when he was devoid of thought to get anything through to him. I thought that was utterly priceless. It was then I realized that I was co-habitating with Buddha. Buddha with a wicked biscuit habit that likes to watch the Kardashians. Who knew?

Tuesday 15 February 2011

THE DORK FACTOR


I will admit that there is an inner dork in me…then again, isn’t there one in all of us? Go on, be a man/woman/dog, admit it! Even Brad Pitt must have those moments where he looks at himself in the mirror and thinks, ‘god I’m a total dweeb! Dorks use words like dweeb.

My inner dork wears things around the house that don’t match; I mean crazy, freaky colorful ensembles that make my partner’s eyebrows rise. He refers to them as my Carrie Bradshaw outfits (shows you that the clothes on that show were purely for the women viewers); my inner dork also watches Murder She Wrote and Diagnosis Murder (don’t mess with Dick Van Dyke when he’s on a case, he’s unstoppable), she is also a bookworm and she plays copious amounts of Scrabble on her iphone whilst eating kiddie biscuits – they have no sugar and they taste like cardboard and for some reason this speaks to me.

And when I’m in this mood to bust out my dork, feeling cool is the furthest thing from my mind. Who am I kidding, I’m a mother now, any remnant of cool I possessed just flew out the flipping window; although don’t you know that I am collating all photographic and written proof of my coolness to show the King when he is of the age to care, or roll his eyes at me in extreme doubt. It’s amazing when you look back on your life at those moments when being cool was tantamount, and you marvel at the amount of energy you spent trying to fit in, look a certain way, and feel like you were finally on the inside looking out, as opposed to the other way around. Cause being cool back then meant something; it meant that we had somewhere to hide our insecurities.

And then a funny thing happens. As you age, you suddenly stop caring about being cool, or frankly, being anything at all but on time, well slept, and employed…and loved, loved is always good. Fitting in is defined by if you pay your taxes and don’t live in a cardboard box, looking a certain way is simply looking good enough to attract a partner, and as for being on the inside, well as you age, you suddenly realize that the view from the outside of the box is much more entertaining.

And so one’s inner dork is allowed to emerge and strut itself proudly. Cause of course by this point you’ve found yourself a partner (hopefully), had a kid (or two), and have received guarantees from friends and family that unconditional love is part of the arrangement. So when I whip out my thick knee high socks and slippers, and throw on my long johns and mismatched t-shirt, and start yelling at my iphone cause it won’t let me use a certain word in Scrabble whilst Angela Lansbury is solving an epic mystery in the background, well, my beloved partner has to love me anyway, dork and all. And this dork just scored a 50-point masterpiece on a triple letter word starting with the letter Q. So cool kids, put that in your pipe and smoke it!

Monday 14 February 2011

JUST ONE PLEASE.


Happy Valentines Day! May your day be filled with love and romance and Celine Dion music-
…Just kidding, I couldn’t help myself. On to blogging...

It is amazing when you have a child how many people ask you when you’re having another one. Often when the paint isn't even dry, or you are still in your hospital gown trying to figure out which end to diaper on your new screaming bundle of joy. I had nurses bid me goodbye with the terrifying phrase – ‘we’ll see you for number two!’ Trust me, after enduring labor, this is the last thing on the planet you want to hear. I of course promptly retorted to all of them, ‘oh no you won’t' as I ran for the elevator at top speed.

Now that the King is seven months old, people seem to feel like it is open season on my womb’s future endeavors. They have no qualms about telling me that not only should I try for a second, but to not try is an offense worthy of a call to social services. ‘Oh you must have a second child, it is so unfair if you don’t; in fact, it’s downright cruel, haven’t you read the research??’ Gosh, okay, well, if you say it’s unfair and cruel, I guess I better get cracking then. [I'm thinking what's more unfair to the King is a Mother who goes on to have another child cause of outside pressure and ends up in a rubber room, with drool hanging from her lip, singing to a stuffed doll named Chucky]. It's high drama in my brain at times. Then of course these same people launch into the whole only child syndrome, inferring that the King is going to turn into some lonely, selfish serial killer that will take to the roof of a tall building with a rifle cause mommy didn’t give him a playmate in due time.

My first response to most of these people is to mind their own freaking business. When and if someone chooses to delve into the reproductive pool again is really up to them and their partner. And moreover, what if people can’t have a second? What if they’ve been getting jiggy for months to no avail and it’s a nice big open wound that brings them to tears? How do you think that’s going to feel when Mrs. Know- it-All at the park tells them that they’re letting the world down by not having a second child.

The other thing that amazes me about people’s presumptions is what if having a second is just not on your to do list. For some, they simply know their limits as a person and a mother and having more children would mean that they would not be as good of a mother. One kid - great mother; two kids - crazed lunatic who can barely remember her own address. Hmmm, I know which one I'm going with. What people also fail to take into consideration is that for some it is a financial consideration, it is twice the work (and from what I hear, if I’m going gray now from one, I might as well stock up on the hair dye, cause two will surely kill me), and there is no guarantee that the King will like someone else entering into his kingdom. Fine, chances are he will cause he’s an agreeable little meatball that loves pretty much everyone – [except my loud neighbor, he has already expressed disdain for him] – but not all siblings grow up close, and bonded and want to run and skip into the sunset. In fact, I have many friends who barely speak to their siblings. Sad but very true. 

Yes all of this is very ironic as I’m from a big family, and don’t get me wrong, I loved every moment of  it - still do :-). But now having the King, I tell my mother weekly that I have no idea how she had so many kids. The woman should be wearing a 'Mother Medal' the size of Gibraltar. So, whether I have a second, or I don’t have a second - or heck, if I have ten more, although that's not really in realm of possibility - I’m thinking that the King will be just fine. In fact, he’s got enough cousins to start his own football team; and they will be happy to teach him how to share his things, steal his stuff, and make sure he knows he is not the center of the universe.

On the other hand, if the pressure to reproduce a second time gets too much, we could always move to China. NIN HAO! 
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