I threw away your father's toilet seat today. It had been attached to a toilet about a week ago and before that to your father's backside for many an hour of solemn thought. I suppose that had created some bond between them. A bond that was stronger than the bond given by the faulty hinge which had screamed for freedom. She was not suited to the life assigned and she wiggled and slipped free from her station and fell from the toilet, cracking the seat she swore to protect. Since her leap, she lay on the dining room floor, waiting for a post mortem. I threw her away. I surrounded her with fifty magazines, that had too lain on the floor waiting for inspection.
You will probably remember this as the quiet storm. Where daddy and I circled round and round each other in a cold cyclone, pushing the pressure up, picking up papers, sponging counters, putting away clothes, silently clearing the home of the clutter.
Your father had just finished another night shift, which meant night time routine had to be adapted and we needed to keep busy but quiet during the day. You girls were brilliant for 3 and 7 but you were still 3 and 7 and the weather was terrible. Had the weather not been terrible, we could have played in the park. Had we had more notice, I would have made plans to visit friends. Had we not had Grandma and Grandpa coming for dinner, I wouldn't have felt the need to stay in the house and clean.
While I ironed, you both set up a tent in the hallway and played cops and robbers. I ushered you back in to the toy room and shut the door. While I prepared some food, you two decided to take the crying baby up and down the hallway. I ushered you both back in the toy room and turned on the TV. As I bleached tiles in the toilets and wiped away the grime. The littlest you came in crouching and hopping and I moved out of the way, so that you could do what needed to be done. I waited in the kitchen until I heard the sink throwing out water at the mirror, at the wall, at the pond developing on the floor. I dried your hands, changed your clothes and ushered you back in to the toy room and opened the computer for the older you.
As I went through the papers and mail that went into that draw, I heard a scream, and I went to you girls, someone had accidentally kicked someone else. I gave the injury a magical kiss, and set up a craft that I couldn't monitor because I had to season the beef and I had to peel the potatoes. That is, until, I had to clean the paint off the wood floors that the littlest one of you was trailing in. It was washable and I washed the table, the chairs, hung the paint soaked work of art, put the littlest you in the bath and changed your clothes, quietly, as your father slept.
I was soaked and tired and I stood up and looked in the mirror and felt that I resembled a worn tyre. I remembered a story that Bubbie had taught me. It was about a dutiful wife and mother. Her Bubbie had told it to her, before she married. It was a story of the woman who kept a spotless home and spotless children. Who spent all her money on the family before she spent on herself. Who cleaned her house but didn't always have time to shower. Who ironed everyone's clothes and if she had time she would iron her own, and because of this she had a beautiful home, beautiful husband and beautiful children. One day her husband came in to the house and he had something in his mouth that he had to spit out. He couldn't spit in the beautiful home, nor could he spit on the beautiful children, so he turned to his wife. This is a very harsh analogy as your father described it and I explained it was metaphorical. If you are always last, giving yourself no value, no worth, neither will anyone else. It is all right to take your turn.
I walked you back to the now destroyed room and finish sponging off the paint. Plastic babies, puzzles, wet tea sets decorated the floor and I started to clean again. Dolls in doll basket, puzzles (at least 33 of the 36 pieces that were found) back in the box and then I turned to the magazine case with its bulging, stretched form and I got a bag, a big bag, big enough to only make one trip to the recycling bin. Your father's magazines about art, home design, politics were stained with yellow overlapping rings earned during our many late night conversations. While pages flipped by, your father and I gained ideas, many of which would later take a position in your childhood memories of the home we created with you in mind. Maybe that is why I hesitated to throw them out. The stacks leaned against the sofa, fell over the magazine rack, fell across the kitchen table to the floor and lent itself to be slipped on. The week before, I told him that if they weren't sorted out they would be thrown out. It was vacant threat, one I usually would not have followed through with, one that was made several times throughout our marriage, but today, I threw those magazines away and I smiled. As I walked back through the door, I noticed the shine of a ceramic seat. I decided that like a wounded animal, it too needed to be put out of its misery and the mystery of why it didn't work, would never be found out. I could live with that too.
Your father woke about three and smiled. I smiled and passed him passing the baton and I went to shower and dress. When I came back in to the kitchen. He was helping to prepare bread, he looked up and then down at the kneaded dough. He knew. Later he mentioned it to me and I just said "Yes, Dear," as I finished putting on my lipstick and combing my hair, "It was time."
Sunday, 14 October 2012
Monday, 27 August 2012
The Balancing Act
I blame it on the fact that my feet ached. I blame the bag's strap for digging an indent into my shoulder. I blame it on that diet. I blame it on you being a fussy eater. I blame it on the string theory because that wasn't me. No, that couldn't have been me. That must have been the alternative me, visiting from that alternative dimension. That desolate dimension where everything has burnt down due to that very dark monster living in that very dark cave that some say wafts of sulphur. Surprisingly, that monster does share my name but I swear it wasn't me.
The four of us and a pram that was decorated with stretched bags, were shoved within a narrow aisle at the corner grocers. The wind brought the cold air in, which made your wet socks uncomfortable, so you said... repeatedly. So, I took off your wet socks and shoved them on top of everything else that was wet: your leggings, your sisters leggings, socks, towels, buckets, shovels, and crab catchers. It was a day at the beach with only a few steps towards the water before the tide came in.
When we arrived earlier in the day, you stated quite loudly that your tummy was 'wobbly,' which reminded us all that we were hungry; we needed to find a place to eat. I checked tripadviser for reviews, I checked the map for the location and I checked the bus schedule for access but I never thought to check the tide report. However, you were able to play in the sand for a little while. You played just long enough for it to slip in between your delicate pink skin and sandal strap and rub and rub until your tiny foot had big blisters. I didn't realise that we would walk that much that day; I didn't realise the park, the alternative, was that far away.
We had adapted, adjusted and overcame and the day was lovely, but it was a lovely long day, finishing with a picnic at the park. All that was needed for this finish was sandwiches, so off we went.
Your sister continued to tell me about how her feet hurt. She told me this again and again and I responded in the logical fashion by asking if she would like tuna or ham? You couldn't tell me that you too had blisters.You weren't sure as to why you needed to pull at my hair and cry in my ear as you sat on my hip, on top of the camera and nappy bag, on top of my feet that were aching and stomach that was grumbling.
Scanning the shelves, I noticed that there was nothing there on my diet list. Your repetitive No's and wriggling let me know that nothing satisfied your pallet either, but I still kept asking tuna or ham, tuna or ham? I looked over to HIM, your father, still talking, still smiling. He had elbowed me earlier to ask if I would like a basket, if I would like one more fucking thing to hold. "I don't know!" I snapped, "why don't you decide?" He scurried backward, taking the pram, and hid camouflaged amoungst the diet drinks.
While holding you, your sister pulled at my sleeve, and whispered in my ear, "My feet still hurt, Mommy."
"I know dear," I answered, "Tuna or ham, dear, tuna or ham?"
Your sister finally answered, "Tuna" (check) and I found milkshakes, drinks sorted (check), two bags of crisps (check). I found a three bean salad, hmmm (check, sort of). But you would not concede so easily. I asked again, "Tuna or ham??|" You wouldn't even answer, just grunt and I grunted back and you hid your face on my shoulder and cold hand in my shirt. I walked down the aisle passed the milk, pasta, fizzy drinks, to your father. I thought of every last argument your father and I had since you had been born, since your sister had been born. I counted how many times I woke through the night to see to you as he snored, I counted the dinners I had made; the plates that I had cleaned; the doctors appointments I had made, until I finally stood face to face with HIM your father. "Can you help," I asked in a low growl, "Do something!" Unbeknown to him, I had created World War 3 in my head and he was on the firing line, holding his last cigarette. He stopped talking to his friend, turned to me and snapped back. I then walked away and he followed. I fell silent (not in a truce way, not a flag waving for peace, more the quiet before the storm), and as the cyclone begain to spin, he swam away, quickly, very quickly. He took you with him and found a sandwich that didn't exist a minute ago, and I found a sandwich and off we went to the park.
On the very long drive home, I began to tell your father of the nights I got up to see to you girls, of the dozens of times I heard my name called, of the greater initiative that I would like him to take and he quietly nodded, never mentioning all the times he did the midnight march down the corridor or the doctors appointments he had driven to or the loads of laundry he washed. He just listened and then we both sat quietly and looked at the coastline, the dales, the setting sun, and the old stone farmhouses that watched over us. Soon, I pointed to the waves and the winding streets and asked if the trees were evergreen. He talked about the age of the villages and the lives of the farmers and I took his hand and said how nice our village was.
When we arrived home, you and your sister had fallen asleep. I carried you and he, your sister, out of the car, up the stairs and into your warm bed, beneath your overstuffed duvet. Where I kissed your forehead and you rolled over and went to sleep, after I assured you that there were no spiders. Too tired to talk, your father and I changed clothes and went to bed.
At 6 AM you cried, your father went to your room and brought you in for a cuddle and you dozed back off. At 7 AM the alarm went off in the expectation of a fridge delivery, your father ran downstairs to start cleaning out the old fridge. I ran down after him. At 7:30, you cried, he ran to you and I trailed behind. He held you. You had fallen out of the bed and hurt your knee. He kissed it; I rubbed it.
We brought you downstairs, but you continued to cry and lips quiver as you showed us your blisters, the ends of your hair now tear-soaked. Your father held you as I ran to get a plaster and ointment. I put it on as you said "Ouch Ouch." and your father held you tighter and asked if he could change your plaster or rub on the ointment. Your little chubby arms wrapped into his shirt and you continued crying. "Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow," you didn't ask to come to me.
Your father's chin went down and his lip came out, "Oh Little One, I am so sorry your are poorly. Daddy give you a cuddle."
You shook your head and said, "No," you cried quite loudly. You were like a magnet to me. Your pout pulled at me, and your back bowed out towards my arms.
I thought, I am the one who feeds you and takes you to sing song class. I am the one who makes the play group. I am the one who gave you your first spoonful of solids and I am the one who bought the damn plasters. I am the one who should be holding you now, making you all better. "Do you want to come to Mommy," I asked. You became quiet, looked over and nodded. I pulled you from your father's lap onto mine, and you cuddled in. I rubbed circles into your rounded back and the backs of your tiny feet. I wrapped a robe on top of you to keep you warm and you stopped crying.
Your father, once again, stood by quietly and smiled, not part of our silent cuddle. He stood next to me, sweeping the hair from my eyes, so I could see to you better.
The four of us and a pram that was decorated with stretched bags, were shoved within a narrow aisle at the corner grocers. The wind brought the cold air in, which made your wet socks uncomfortable, so you said... repeatedly. So, I took off your wet socks and shoved them on top of everything else that was wet: your leggings, your sisters leggings, socks, towels, buckets, shovels, and crab catchers. It was a day at the beach with only a few steps towards the water before the tide came in.
When we arrived earlier in the day, you stated quite loudly that your tummy was 'wobbly,' which reminded us all that we were hungry; we needed to find a place to eat. I checked tripadviser for reviews, I checked the map for the location and I checked the bus schedule for access but I never thought to check the tide report. However, you were able to play in the sand for a little while. You played just long enough for it to slip in between your delicate pink skin and sandal strap and rub and rub until your tiny foot had big blisters. I didn't realise that we would walk that much that day; I didn't realise the park, the alternative, was that far away.
We had adapted, adjusted and overcame and the day was lovely, but it was a lovely long day, finishing with a picnic at the park. All that was needed for this finish was sandwiches, so off we went.
Your sister continued to tell me about how her feet hurt. She told me this again and again and I responded in the logical fashion by asking if she would like tuna or ham? You couldn't tell me that you too had blisters.You weren't sure as to why you needed to pull at my hair and cry in my ear as you sat on my hip, on top of the camera and nappy bag, on top of my feet that were aching and stomach that was grumbling.
Scanning the shelves, I noticed that there was nothing there on my diet list. Your repetitive No's and wriggling let me know that nothing satisfied your pallet either, but I still kept asking tuna or ham, tuna or ham? I looked over to HIM, your father, still talking, still smiling. He had elbowed me earlier to ask if I would like a basket, if I would like one more fucking thing to hold. "I don't know!" I snapped, "why don't you decide?" He scurried backward, taking the pram, and hid camouflaged amoungst the diet drinks.
While holding you, your sister pulled at my sleeve, and whispered in my ear, "My feet still hurt, Mommy."
"I know dear," I answered, "Tuna or ham, dear, tuna or ham?"
Your sister finally answered, "Tuna" (check) and I found milkshakes, drinks sorted (check), two bags of crisps (check). I found a three bean salad, hmmm (check, sort of). But you would not concede so easily. I asked again, "Tuna or ham??|" You wouldn't even answer, just grunt and I grunted back and you hid your face on my shoulder and cold hand in my shirt. I walked down the aisle passed the milk, pasta, fizzy drinks, to your father. I thought of every last argument your father and I had since you had been born, since your sister had been born. I counted how many times I woke through the night to see to you as he snored, I counted the dinners I had made; the plates that I had cleaned; the doctors appointments I had made, until I finally stood face to face with HIM your father. "Can you help," I asked in a low growl, "Do something!" Unbeknown to him, I had created World War 3 in my head and he was on the firing line, holding his last cigarette. He stopped talking to his friend, turned to me and snapped back. I then walked away and he followed. I fell silent (not in a truce way, not a flag waving for peace, more the quiet before the storm), and as the cyclone begain to spin, he swam away, quickly, very quickly. He took you with him and found a sandwich that didn't exist a minute ago, and I found a sandwich and off we went to the park.
On the very long drive home, I began to tell your father of the nights I got up to see to you girls, of the dozens of times I heard my name called, of the greater initiative that I would like him to take and he quietly nodded, never mentioning all the times he did the midnight march down the corridor or the doctors appointments he had driven to or the loads of laundry he washed. He just listened and then we both sat quietly and looked at the coastline, the dales, the setting sun, and the old stone farmhouses that watched over us. Soon, I pointed to the waves and the winding streets and asked if the trees were evergreen. He talked about the age of the villages and the lives of the farmers and I took his hand and said how nice our village was.
When we arrived home, you and your sister had fallen asleep. I carried you and he, your sister, out of the car, up the stairs and into your warm bed, beneath your overstuffed duvet. Where I kissed your forehead and you rolled over and went to sleep, after I assured you that there were no spiders. Too tired to talk, your father and I changed clothes and went to bed.
At 6 AM you cried, your father went to your room and brought you in for a cuddle and you dozed back off. At 7 AM the alarm went off in the expectation of a fridge delivery, your father ran downstairs to start cleaning out the old fridge. I ran down after him. At 7:30, you cried, he ran to you and I trailed behind. He held you. You had fallen out of the bed and hurt your knee. He kissed it; I rubbed it.
We brought you downstairs, but you continued to cry and lips quiver as you showed us your blisters, the ends of your hair now tear-soaked. Your father held you as I ran to get a plaster and ointment. I put it on as you said "Ouch Ouch." and your father held you tighter and asked if he could change your plaster or rub on the ointment. Your little chubby arms wrapped into his shirt and you continued crying. "Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow," you didn't ask to come to me.
Your father's chin went down and his lip came out, "Oh Little One, I am so sorry your are poorly. Daddy give you a cuddle."
You shook your head and said, "No," you cried quite loudly. You were like a magnet to me. Your pout pulled at me, and your back bowed out towards my arms.
I thought, I am the one who feeds you and takes you to sing song class. I am the one who makes the play group. I am the one who gave you your first spoonful of solids and I am the one who bought the damn plasters. I am the one who should be holding you now, making you all better. "Do you want to come to Mommy," I asked. You became quiet, looked over and nodded. I pulled you from your father's lap onto mine, and you cuddled in. I rubbed circles into your rounded back and the backs of your tiny feet. I wrapped a robe on top of you to keep you warm and you stopped crying.
Your father, once again, stood by quietly and smiled, not part of our silent cuddle. He stood next to me, sweeping the hair from my eyes, so I could see to you better.
Wednesday, 18 July 2012
A Bit Unkind
You did something a bit unkind, and I responded by speaking loudly, quite loudly, which was also a bit unkind. The crowd waiting for the next lift heard your full name distinctly spoken through closing doors. This sequence of events pulled at our morning, drawing the curtain against our Mommy-daughter-day. My more than assertive tone seem to direct your chin to me and as you turned, your bottom lip dropped, finger still stuck on the button, and you listened to me say, 'I am sorry, Darling, you disappointed me.' I then gave you the mandatory tilt of the head and a sigh.
"I am not fibbing!"you cried as we exited the confines of the lift, as I grabbed and pulled your hand and pushed through the waiting crowd. You continued to state your innocence repeatedly, louder and louder and I stopped and I yelled your name again, which stopped you and a few bystanders. I stared at you, waiting for an admission and you simply looked away.
I want you to know, you didn't disappoint me. You scared me. You were suppose to be the girl who chose to stand alone, drawing your own circle that you welcomed others into. The girl who proudly brought home the strays, fleas and all, not one who snickered in the playground. I know, dear, that expectation lived next to the expectation that you would speak five different languages and be a chess champion by the age of ten. But, it seemed so reasonable at the time.
I explained to you that kindness was prioritised in our family and that individual differences were to be respected. In my best teacher's voice, I gave examples you could relate to i.e. The Ugly Duckling, Beauty and The Beast. I continued by discussing those who had been excluded from society and your family members who marched for civil rights and then I discussed what civil rights meant and then... you had to go to the toilet and then... your tummy was hungry and then... we went for a milkshake because that is what 6-year-olds drink and as your little eyes fogged up listening to Mommy babble on, as she can do. I put my chin in my hands, tilted my head again and sighed again and said "Should I show you how I can balance a spoon on my nose?" You smiled and our girls' day out was given a second chance.
By day's end, we had managed to run through a park and share an ice cream cone, and the earlier tone had been successfully muted. By the final store, we were walking arm and arm, whispering and teasing each other, giggling. I told you what a good girl you had been, letting mommy finish her errands, which made you smile and I put my arm around you and hinted about a toy. We looked up and that is when we saw her. A very frail looking pensioner seeming barely able to hold up her two foot tall buofant hairdo, held together by old netting. She was just toddling along, swaying from side to side and we parted to let her pass. As I turned to you, intending to ask what could be hiding in there. You preempted, saying, "Mommy, look, isn't she lovely. She wears her hair different to everyone else cause it makes her happy. I think that is nice, don't you, Mommy?" I held my head down and sheepishly answered, "Yes, dear."
Later I discussed this with your father and yes, there was laughter, but it was the guilt ridden type.
"I am not fibbing!"you cried as we exited the confines of the lift, as I grabbed and pulled your hand and pushed through the waiting crowd. You continued to state your innocence repeatedly, louder and louder and I stopped and I yelled your name again, which stopped you and a few bystanders. I stared at you, waiting for an admission and you simply looked away.
I want you to know, you didn't disappoint me. You scared me. You were suppose to be the girl who chose to stand alone, drawing your own circle that you welcomed others into. The girl who proudly brought home the strays, fleas and all, not one who snickered in the playground. I know, dear, that expectation lived next to the expectation that you would speak five different languages and be a chess champion by the age of ten. But, it seemed so reasonable at the time.
I explained to you that kindness was prioritised in our family and that individual differences were to be respected. In my best teacher's voice, I gave examples you could relate to i.e. The Ugly Duckling, Beauty and The Beast. I continued by discussing those who had been excluded from society and your family members who marched for civil rights and then I discussed what civil rights meant and then... you had to go to the toilet and then... your tummy was hungry and then... we went for a milkshake because that is what 6-year-olds drink and as your little eyes fogged up listening to Mommy babble on, as she can do. I put my chin in my hands, tilted my head again and sighed again and said "Should I show you how I can balance a spoon on my nose?" You smiled and our girls' day out was given a second chance.
By day's end, we had managed to run through a park and share an ice cream cone, and the earlier tone had been successfully muted. By the final store, we were walking arm and arm, whispering and teasing each other, giggling. I told you what a good girl you had been, letting mommy finish her errands, which made you smile and I put my arm around you and hinted about a toy. We looked up and that is when we saw her. A very frail looking pensioner seeming barely able to hold up her two foot tall buofant hairdo, held together by old netting. She was just toddling along, swaying from side to side and we parted to let her pass. As I turned to you, intending to ask what could be hiding in there. You preempted, saying, "Mommy, look, isn't she lovely. She wears her hair different to everyone else cause it makes her happy. I think that is nice, don't you, Mommy?" I held my head down and sheepishly answered, "Yes, dear."
Later I discussed this with your father and yes, there was laughter, but it was the guilt ridden type.
Tuesday, 26 June 2012
As I Am Today
Remember me as I am today because I will always be this age. A lifetime from now, when my lipstick drains into wrinkles like your grape juice did between the tightly woven carpet and when the corners I struggle to manoeuvre bruises my hip and a conversation's rhythm is broken by escaping words, please skip over those gaps and with that sweet smile, subtly change my direction.
When the day comes where I reach for a magnifying glass and a calculator to review a bill from our weekly lunch, will you guide my unsure grasp with your long lovely fingers? And when food stumbles down from the corners of my mouth, laying randomly within the folds of my blouse, leaving trails, will you laugh with me as I wipe off the pieces from my chest?
I expect when the day comes that most of my friends have left, you will invite me into your home, to some of your parties. I imagine sitting in a chair at the far end of the room where your friends will approach me with nods, raised voices and large smiles before the quiet comes. I will ask you their names when you call me the following morning.
The diminishing buffet and the clutter of empty dishes will be my excuse to exit to the kitchen and "tidy." Leaning against the counter, swimming my hands through warm water, loose translucent skin will absorb me. When you find me, we realise it is time for your friend, partner, spouse to take me home, leaving just the "inner circle" of your social gatherings to continue the night in a different tone. I will kiss your soft cheek as I did each night that I put you to sleep, push your hair behind your ears, before turning to leave.
Once home, amongst my pictures and familiar souvenirs, I will usher my assigned driver out the door, with instructions to return to the party. I will assure the individual that I am fine and that I will remember to lock the door.
I imagine resting in my own comfortable chair for that quiet moment, preparing myself to climb the stairs. The same stairs that you used to hide behind at my parties. Your face leaned against the oak posts as you covertly listened to adult conversations. It was when you were too young to realise that the railings were not a suitable camouflage. I used to catch your stare and coax you off the stair and on to my lap where you would warm my chest. Friends would attempt to pull you out of your uncharacteristic shyness by commenting about your dolly and how your striped nightgown matched hers. You would show off the ribbon in her hair. Although, soon the conversation would travel to memories of our dolls and the shows that we watched as children and when I looked down your eyes would be closed. I or your father would return you to your bed and return ourselves to the dinning room, shut the door and open another bottle of wine, signalling that the conversation could now become less censored.
However, after the world has spun around too many times, causing my eyes to fade and grow tired, I will climb those same stairs to my bedroom. Sitting at the same dressing table that I sat in today, actually, as I sit in now. I wonder when that day comes if I will be startled by the woman in the mirror who steals away these stories, loosing them in a failing memory. She will distort my expected reflection and I will search for the remnants of me, the encumbered me somewhere within her eyes. The contradiction of my soul with its mechanisms will probably cause unrest. Please realise that it will be for both of us, little one. I hope you will sift through my wrinkles and remember me as I am today because that is how I will always feel.
When the day comes where I reach for a magnifying glass and a calculator to review a bill from our weekly lunch, will you guide my unsure grasp with your long lovely fingers? And when food stumbles down from the corners of my mouth, laying randomly within the folds of my blouse, leaving trails, will you laugh with me as I wipe off the pieces from my chest?
I expect when the day comes that most of my friends have left, you will invite me into your home, to some of your parties. I imagine sitting in a chair at the far end of the room where your friends will approach me with nods, raised voices and large smiles before the quiet comes. I will ask you their names when you call me the following morning.
The diminishing buffet and the clutter of empty dishes will be my excuse to exit to the kitchen and "tidy." Leaning against the counter, swimming my hands through warm water, loose translucent skin will absorb me. When you find me, we realise it is time for your friend, partner, spouse to take me home, leaving just the "inner circle" of your social gatherings to continue the night in a different tone. I will kiss your soft cheek as I did each night that I put you to sleep, push your hair behind your ears, before turning to leave.
Once home, amongst my pictures and familiar souvenirs, I will usher my assigned driver out the door, with instructions to return to the party. I will assure the individual that I am fine and that I will remember to lock the door.
I imagine resting in my own comfortable chair for that quiet moment, preparing myself to climb the stairs. The same stairs that you used to hide behind at my parties. Your face leaned against the oak posts as you covertly listened to adult conversations. It was when you were too young to realise that the railings were not a suitable camouflage. I used to catch your stare and coax you off the stair and on to my lap where you would warm my chest. Friends would attempt to pull you out of your uncharacteristic shyness by commenting about your dolly and how your striped nightgown matched hers. You would show off the ribbon in her hair. Although, soon the conversation would travel to memories of our dolls and the shows that we watched as children and when I looked down your eyes would be closed. I or your father would return you to your bed and return ourselves to the dinning room, shut the door and open another bottle of wine, signalling that the conversation could now become less censored.
However, after the world has spun around too many times, causing my eyes to fade and grow tired, I will climb those same stairs to my bedroom. Sitting at the same dressing table that I sat in today, actually, as I sit in now. I wonder when that day comes if I will be startled by the woman in the mirror who steals away these stories, loosing them in a failing memory. She will distort my expected reflection and I will search for the remnants of me, the encumbered me somewhere within her eyes. The contradiction of my soul with its mechanisms will probably cause unrest. Please realise that it will be for both of us, little one. I hope you will sift through my wrinkles and remember me as I am today because that is how I will always feel.
Sunday, 20 May 2012
When Your World Fell Apart
She promised to be your best friend forever, till she forgot and went off to play with another, leaving you behind. You waited, patiently, calling out her name. Then you ran to her, but couldn't catch up, and soon you became tired, sat down on the wooden bench and cried.
Later that night you would complain about the sliver in your leg from that wooden bench, and you would cry again. You would bring me back to the beginning of that day, to that playground, to that spot where she broke her promise and I would be there watching but unable to fix. You would then ask,
"Why does everyone have a best friend but me?"and I would try not to pause as I worked to repaint a reality, telling you that what you saw, what you felt, what you believed to be true in that moment, was wrong.
Later, I would lay in bed with your father and ask him what I had done or what I had not done that brought you to that spot. What club I didn't force you to join or play group you didn't take part in. When we disagreed about the answer, I would turn my back to him and turn back to my book, in my bed, but I would still be standing in that playground.
As I brought you, my kaleidoscope girl, skipping to school, turning, spinning, with hands grasping at the falling light. I watched it fracture and disperse around you, before rejoining you and your ever changing form. I pointed to the colours. I pointed to the intricate designs. Your beautiful bits and pieces. But you turned away from your detail, preferring instead to count by twos and hop over cracks in the pavement. So I listened quietly and I walked quickly until we reached the school gates, where you stopped, stood silent and stared. I followed your stare and I saw her. I bent down, fixing your cardigan and pulling up your fallen sock, thinking up the magic spell I would whisper in your ear, the scaffolding to make your world right again.
And as I thought, and thought some more and as I started to talk with nothing to say, she walked to you. She took your hand, and you smiled. She had been waiting for you. You walked away with her,
whispering, giggling as best friends do.
I walked to the wooden bench and I sat. Throwing down the glove, I glided my fingers across the wood. The challenge ignored. It was not the same bench I remembered when my crossed ankles and patent leather shoes created shadows that swung across the ground.
Later that night you would complain about the sliver in your leg from that wooden bench, and you would cry again. You would bring me back to the beginning of that day, to that playground, to that spot where she broke her promise and I would be there watching but unable to fix. You would then ask,
"Why does everyone have a best friend but me?"and I would try not to pause as I worked to repaint a reality, telling you that what you saw, what you felt, what you believed to be true in that moment, was wrong.
Later, I would lay in bed with your father and ask him what I had done or what I had not done that brought you to that spot. What club I didn't force you to join or play group you didn't take part in. When we disagreed about the answer, I would turn my back to him and turn back to my book, in my bed, but I would still be standing in that playground.
As I brought you, my kaleidoscope girl, skipping to school, turning, spinning, with hands grasping at the falling light. I watched it fracture and disperse around you, before rejoining you and your ever changing form. I pointed to the colours. I pointed to the intricate designs. Your beautiful bits and pieces. But you turned away from your detail, preferring instead to count by twos and hop over cracks in the pavement. So I listened quietly and I walked quickly until we reached the school gates, where you stopped, stood silent and stared. I followed your stare and I saw her. I bent down, fixing your cardigan and pulling up your fallen sock, thinking up the magic spell I would whisper in your ear, the scaffolding to make your world right again.
And as I thought, and thought some more and as I started to talk with nothing to say, she walked to you. She took your hand, and you smiled. She had been waiting for you. You walked away with her,
whispering, giggling as best friends do.
I walked to the wooden bench and I sat. Throwing down the glove, I glided my fingers across the wood. The challenge ignored. It was not the same bench I remembered when my crossed ankles and patent leather shoes created shadows that swung across the ground.
Sunday, 13 May 2012
When I Couldn't Fake a Mary Poppins
You hit me! I cannot believe you hit me. You little s**t. How dare you! Ouch! by the way. This is not how it is suppose to be.
I watched Make Room For Daddy and I Love Lucy. They weren't hit by their children. The Partridge Family-Single mom odiously ogled by her manager, and Brady Bunch- blended family, hormones brewing, and let me say, none of those children ever hit their mother.
Don't you know that I carried you for nine months. I know that has been said before, but it is still true. Nine months it took to create stretch marks, gain fifty pounds, cause my bladder to spasm endlessly, where I couldn't sneeze without wetting my pants. My fat feet with broken arches barely fit into those stupid flip flops as I waddled, sweating profusely through the summer, till you decided it was "time."
Three hours my feet pushed at stirrups, not to mention the fifteen hours prior of deepening, developing pain I laboured through. Three hours, I was told to breathe, three hours, I heard "almost there." then "forceps may be an option and may need to consult with doctor." In my semi-conscious state, I watched the midwife push that little red button and I watched a woman, only slightly bigger than that tiny red button, rush into the room, stand on a stool, push my chin to chest and like a military sergeant and shout "Push!" and I did and out you finally came.
That is not to mention sleepless nights, high fevers, endless profusely, projectile poo and sucking at my boobs with such tenacity that they very quickly turned into wrinkly pancakes, which even the wonderbra couldn't save. So, yes, I have the right to tell you to change into your pyjamas and, when you struggle and when you moan and when your neck muscles stretch out and "eeeee" comes out of tight grimacing little lips as you battle with a button, a button you have undone a dozen times, I have the right to mimic you and laugh. I have the right to say, "Come on, of course you can do it." And when you approach me, nose to nose, open mouth, so I can feel your little milky breath, screaming, "You are being horrible to me," I have the right to release a nervous giggle. A giggle which is misinterpreted, a giggle which shocks you, makes your mouth open and hand strike.
I don't care if mother earth and all the cosmic forces unite and tell me that I handled that like shit and had it coming. They are wrong. It is my house. I am your mother and I am always right, just because. You, however, are a little girl and survive do to my good graces and tolerance and you do not have the right to hit me. I don't care about how frustrated you are, about poor impulse control, about being six. You cannot hit me.
You are lucky to have the mother you do. I could have said, "Watch who you hit, they might hit back." And stare at you with such intensity that it would melt ants on the pavement. OK, maybe I did, but before I could say anything else stupid, I stood up and said, "You do not hit your mother. I am going to leave and give you a few minutes to think about what you just did."
I heard the volume of your wails increase. Your attempt at influencing me as I considered your punishment. It did not work.
After your sister had two stories read and a snuggle. I felt more in control. I left her room and reentered yours. I sat on the edge of your bed and made my first attempt to deal with the situation. You, pulling your quilt up and over your mouth so all I can see is your huge reddened brown eyes and a little nose. I start in my most grown up voice: "I am not a friend or another child on the playground, you do not hit me."
Your reply: "So I can hit my friends and kids on the playground. I didn't think that I was allowed to do that. That wouldn't be very nice."
My response: "Your certainly are not allowed to do that. I never said that."
Your reply: "You did."
Mine: "Did not."
Yours: "Did."
and mine: "Did not. Let's move on."
The second attempt:
"This is a kind house. We do not hit each other in this house; nor do we scream at each other." I explain calmly.
"You scream at me." You answer.
"I do not." I respond.
"You do," adding determination to your voice.
"Do not," I respond again.
"Screamed at me last week to hurry up," your hands fly around to validate your conviction.
"I did not, that is not screaming," I explain.
"It is," you nodded frantically.
"Trust me, if I scream at you, you will know it," I start to develop a bit of a snarl, my voice slightly raised. This conversation is not going to plan.
Third attempt:
"You will miss out on story-time tonight."
"NOOO," you shout.
"Yes," I answer.
Your lips pucker out, whimpering, chin quivering, breathing in with a snotty nose.
I take my tissue out, ask you to blow and try to stay strong.
"Daddy and Mommy's job is to teach you to be a responsible adult (learned that from Dr. Phil so it must be right). There are consequences to your actions. Do you understand?" Absolute quiet. "When you do something naughty, like hit your mother, you have to learn that is not right."
You answer, "And that happens by not getting my story," sniffle, sniffle.
Fourth Attempt:
"Mommy loves you very much, more than I can ever explain. So, when you hit me it hurts my heart," I pushed a tear soaked hair from your face. You went into a silent cry, with only broken breath heard. This one was real, you turned and curled into your pillow. "I would never want to hurt you, Mommy." "I know pumpkin," I whispered. "It was a mistake. I know you will make a different choice next time." You nod.
"Do you love me still?" you ask.
"Of course, I will always love you. I love you every second of every minute, every hour of every day of every month of every year. That is just what mommies and daddies do, they love no matter what, but part of loving you is to help fix mistakes."
"I understand, Mommy. I will always love you too. Cuddle?" Arms are held out and spread. We hold each other in silence for a few minutes. I believe that I may have actually taught something, we, you and I, have actually had a "moment."
You picked your head up and place your little hands on my cheeks, "So, Mommy, now that I understand, How about a story?"
I breathed in slowly and laughed aloud. You smiled, raised your brows and waited. "No, bedtime, Darling." I fixed your sheets, kissed your cheek, say, "Night night. Oh, yes, don't ask Daddy, he will also say no." I turned the lights off and shut the door. I heard you laugh. I am amazed at how fast things can change.
Leaned against your door, I realised that this time would not be the last time your behaviour would shock me and it would not be the last time I fumbled and faltered when dealing with it. I wondered about what would make me gasp and go quiet in your adolescence and teenage years. I wondered if one day, I might even be the one questioning your love for me and desperately needing a cuddle. It makes me uneasy.
As I walked downstairs to tidy the toy room. I decided that it best to deal with these things as they happen and simply keep my thoughts on the day.
I watched Make Room For Daddy and I Love Lucy. They weren't hit by their children. The Partridge Family-Single mom odiously ogled by her manager, and Brady Bunch- blended family, hormones brewing, and let me say, none of those children ever hit their mother.
Don't you know that I carried you for nine months. I know that has been said before, but it is still true. Nine months it took to create stretch marks, gain fifty pounds, cause my bladder to spasm endlessly, where I couldn't sneeze without wetting my pants. My fat feet with broken arches barely fit into those stupid flip flops as I waddled, sweating profusely through the summer, till you decided it was "time."
Three hours my feet pushed at stirrups, not to mention the fifteen hours prior of deepening, developing pain I laboured through. Three hours, I was told to breathe, three hours, I heard "almost there." then "forceps may be an option and may need to consult with doctor." In my semi-conscious state, I watched the midwife push that little red button and I watched a woman, only slightly bigger than that tiny red button, rush into the room, stand on a stool, push my chin to chest and like a military sergeant and shout "Push!" and I did and out you finally came.
That is not to mention sleepless nights, high fevers, endless profusely, projectile poo and sucking at my boobs with such tenacity that they very quickly turned into wrinkly pancakes, which even the wonderbra couldn't save. So, yes, I have the right to tell you to change into your pyjamas and, when you struggle and when you moan and when your neck muscles stretch out and "eeeee" comes out of tight grimacing little lips as you battle with a button, a button you have undone a dozen times, I have the right to mimic you and laugh. I have the right to say, "Come on, of course you can do it." And when you approach me, nose to nose, open mouth, so I can feel your little milky breath, screaming, "You are being horrible to me," I have the right to release a nervous giggle. A giggle which is misinterpreted, a giggle which shocks you, makes your mouth open and hand strike.
I don't care if mother earth and all the cosmic forces unite and tell me that I handled that like shit and had it coming. They are wrong. It is my house. I am your mother and I am always right, just because. You, however, are a little girl and survive do to my good graces and tolerance and you do not have the right to hit me. I don't care about how frustrated you are, about poor impulse control, about being six. You cannot hit me.
You are lucky to have the mother you do. I could have said, "Watch who you hit, they might hit back." And stare at you with such intensity that it would melt ants on the pavement. OK, maybe I did, but before I could say anything else stupid, I stood up and said, "You do not hit your mother. I am going to leave and give you a few minutes to think about what you just did."
I heard the volume of your wails increase. Your attempt at influencing me as I considered your punishment. It did not work.
After your sister had two stories read and a snuggle. I felt more in control. I left her room and reentered yours. I sat on the edge of your bed and made my first attempt to deal with the situation. You, pulling your quilt up and over your mouth so all I can see is your huge reddened brown eyes and a little nose. I start in my most grown up voice: "I am not a friend or another child on the playground, you do not hit me."
Your reply: "So I can hit my friends and kids on the playground. I didn't think that I was allowed to do that. That wouldn't be very nice."
My response: "Your certainly are not allowed to do that. I never said that."
Your reply: "You did."
Mine: "Did not."
Yours: "Did."
and mine: "Did not. Let's move on."
The second attempt:
"This is a kind house. We do not hit each other in this house; nor do we scream at each other." I explain calmly.
"You scream at me." You answer.
"I do not." I respond.
"You do," adding determination to your voice.
"Do not," I respond again.
"Screamed at me last week to hurry up," your hands fly around to validate your conviction.
"I did not, that is not screaming," I explain.
"It is," you nodded frantically.
"Trust me, if I scream at you, you will know it," I start to develop a bit of a snarl, my voice slightly raised. This conversation is not going to plan.
Third attempt:
"You will miss out on story-time tonight."
"NOOO," you shout.
"Yes," I answer.
Your lips pucker out, whimpering, chin quivering, breathing in with a snotty nose.
I take my tissue out, ask you to blow and try to stay strong.
"Daddy and Mommy's job is to teach you to be a responsible adult (learned that from Dr. Phil so it must be right). There are consequences to your actions. Do you understand?" Absolute quiet. "When you do something naughty, like hit your mother, you have to learn that is not right."
You answer, "And that happens by not getting my story," sniffle, sniffle.
Fourth Attempt:
"Mommy loves you very much, more than I can ever explain. So, when you hit me it hurts my heart," I pushed a tear soaked hair from your face. You went into a silent cry, with only broken breath heard. This one was real, you turned and curled into your pillow. "I would never want to hurt you, Mommy." "I know pumpkin," I whispered. "It was a mistake. I know you will make a different choice next time." You nod.
"Do you love me still?" you ask.
"Of course, I will always love you. I love you every second of every minute, every hour of every day of every month of every year. That is just what mommies and daddies do, they love no matter what, but part of loving you is to help fix mistakes."
"I understand, Mommy. I will always love you too. Cuddle?" Arms are held out and spread. We hold each other in silence for a few minutes. I believe that I may have actually taught something, we, you and I, have actually had a "moment."
You picked your head up and place your little hands on my cheeks, "So, Mommy, now that I understand, How about a story?"
I breathed in slowly and laughed aloud. You smiled, raised your brows and waited. "No, bedtime, Darling." I fixed your sheets, kissed your cheek, say, "Night night. Oh, yes, don't ask Daddy, he will also say no." I turned the lights off and shut the door. I heard you laugh. I am amazed at how fast things can change.
Leaned against your door, I realised that this time would not be the last time your behaviour would shock me and it would not be the last time I fumbled and faltered when dealing with it. I wondered about what would make me gasp and go quiet in your adolescence and teenage years. I wondered if one day, I might even be the one questioning your love for me and desperately needing a cuddle. It makes me uneasy.
As I walked downstairs to tidy the toy room. I decided that it best to deal with these things as they happen and simply keep my thoughts on the day.
Tuesday, 1 May 2012
A Quiet Mourning
Be quiet sister, be quiet
the milkless mother
said to the weeping supermodel
as she patted her bullet proof vest
and gave an awkward smile to the camera
Be quiet sister, be quiet
As the camera scanned
amongst the munduls
for the gap, the gap
Where her boys had played
Her three boys
Be quiet sister be quiet
Did they turn to the whistle
Gasping, grasping, cowering
from the mighty metal soldier
who did not pledge dignity
Who entered with a warrior's thrust
Ripping through the walls
through their little bodies
Be quiet sister, be quiet
fingers and toes fingers and toes
that is what I counted when you were born
Did she? fingers and toes, fingers and toes
Did she gather their little bodies to her chest
How long did their wails resonate,
Did their wet cheeks stain the sand
Before disappearing and dispersing
across treaded land
Be quiet sister, be quiet.
Don't be quiet little one,
you are her sister,
we are all sisters
Cry for her, scream for her.
Rage for her,
Be heard
the milkless mother
said to the weeping supermodel
as she patted her bullet proof vest
and gave an awkward smile to the camera
Be quiet sister, be quiet
As the camera scanned
amongst the munduls
for the gap, the gap
Where her boys had played
Her three boys
Be quiet sister be quiet
Did they turn to the whistle
Gasping, grasping, cowering
from the mighty metal soldier
who did not pledge dignity
Who entered with a warrior's thrust
Ripping through the walls
through their little bodies
Be quiet sister, be quiet
fingers and toes fingers and toes
that is what I counted when you were born
Did she? fingers and toes, fingers and toes
Did she gather their little bodies to her chest
How long did their wails resonate,
Did their wet cheeks stain the sand
Before disappearing and dispersing
across treaded land
Be quiet sister, be quiet.
Don't be quiet little one,
you are her sister,
we are all sisters
Cry for her, scream for her.
Rage for her,
Be heard
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