Throttling Threes: Full Volume

While enjoying a braai and a catch up with some friends this past weekend, The Darling Husband was beguiled by one of our friend's little girls. With dark hair and a beautiful English complexion she is the spitting image of her mom. Part of the charm was that every time he looked at her he could imagine what a daughter of mine could look like too.


You should know that The Boy is the Husband's own little Mini-Me, no sign of me anywhere in there. One friend even laughingly remarked that she wasn't sure who his mom was but she sure as hell knows who his dad is!
Yes, so no trace of me anywhere.

An early pic, The Boy is ± 3 months old but already the profiles are so similar.

Fortunately I still love the Husband very much and am always pleasantly fascinated to study my Boy and find so many matching traits, particularly physically - beautiful strong muscular legs, blue eyes, naughty smile, strong arms and cute boudjies. If I can love finding all these similarities of my best friend in my child I imagine he would love to do the same, possibly in a little girl.
It always amuses me that when considering having another child The Husband gets a little twinkle in his eyes and has to rub them ("contact lenses are dry, you know..") Rather sweet. I suppose little girls are as close to a daddy's heart just like little boys are special to a mommy. Yes, yes, I know girls and boys are equally special to a parent but if you have a little boy you'll know what I mean.


Anyway. What was my thread? Oh right. The little Snow White princess.
The Husband remarked (quite enviously) at how well behaved and easy going she was. Our host agreed saying that Snow White knew "where she stood" with her parents hence the good behaviour etc. Which led me to start thinking about the Boy's assessment of the limits he could impose on his parents.


Because, quite frankly, I am feeling rather ineffective as a parent these days.
Despite his slight impaired hearing, my voice seems to have lost its authority over my child. It seems I need to repeat myself a gazillion times to get anything done and then, because the Boy is a true African and obviously works on African time, (especially Cape Town time) I have to light a fire under his butt and end up bellowing my requests, alerting the neighbours to another Mommy meltdown.


And how many times do I have to tell you not to switch the fan on and not stick your finger through the safety bars?? This is despite already knocking it over, popping the grill off, and trying to pick it up while its still running and nicking your finger. Do you not learn from your accidents? Your little mind is supposed to be like the proverbial sponge!


And when I ask you to go pee, please, just go pee. The whole teddy family does not have to come along and bear witness to your ablutions. (Bear witness, geddit..?) 


When preparing for the bath-time drill, just get undressed and climb in. No, the contents of your toy box does not need to accompany you, -please get in the bath - lovingly fetched one toy at a time, - get in the bath - resulting in a 10 minute delay - just get in the bath already! - and cooler-than-luke-warm bath water. Ten minutes is big when the ice in your waiting wine glass is melting.


In the mornings, when I call you from downstairs to get ready for school, please just switch the TV off and come, for Heaven's sake. Don't tease me by replying "Coming, Mommy!" and then not bothering to move from the couch till I come stomping up the stairs to investigate where the blue blazes you are and ending up being 20 minutes late. Again.


Why are we so tired? Because we have to keep nagging our distracted offspring (and often men) to do the most basic things over and over and over again.
You know, sons/husbands think that nagging moms/wives are irritating but we wouldn't have to nag if they Just.Did.it.The.First.Time.We.Asked.You.To!
Simple.


Now include PMS into this issue and you can imagine the good times enjoyed at the Griswold household.


Poor neighbours. No wonder they've all sold up and moved.

Pitter patter

The sound of rain woke me up this morning. Wonderful, blessed wet rain. Not a drizzle but a great big downpour. A welcome relief after the sticky days we've had for the last week. Despite the temptation to stay in bed and enjoy the sound I slipped out of bed and went to close the bathroom windows down the passage, not because there was any chance of the rain wetting the bathroom, just the chance the Boy might subconsciously hear the sound of running water and wet his bed. It hasn't happened yet but I'm not chancing it.


Climbing back into bed I managed to doze a little longer, until I heard a pitter patter of another kind. The Boy had padded into our room with his arms full of an assortment of teddies and bunnies. Clambering over me with a well placed knee to my bladder (my morning would be incomplete without one of those) he tucked himself between the Darling Husband and I. Requesting a bottle of cooldink he looks at me expectantly. Being in an accommodating mood (strange for a Monday morning)  I pulled myself up the stairs and poured the juice and made my way back to a bed of warmth and wriggly bunnies.


He lay beside me gazing at me with a twinkle in his blue eyes while sucking noisily on his bottle. I know he is getting too big for a bottle but it still affords me some quiet snuggle time. I run my hands up his beautiful strong little legs and he giggles when I give his boudjies* a squeeze. I'm sure the manufacturers of kids clothing make the pyjama shorts this short for this very reason. His skin is so soft and warm. He snorts with mirth when my fingers continue their walk up his back and tickle his sides.


The empty bottle is handed to me with the instruction to feed the blue teddy closest to me. I aim the teat at the bear's face only to be corrected by an insistent "no, Mommy, dere!" With the teat on target and the bear successfully "suckling' he gives me another bemused look and an expression of what must be "I can make you do anything when I'm so cute".


But time is ticking and I need to haul my ass out of bed and take a trip to the shower. But my morning is never as quick or simple as that. I manage to get waylaid into a session of puzzles while trying to dress the Boy. I am also asked to check out his assembly of cars including his new collection of Disney cars. Apparently Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck and Goofy have their own sets of wheels, quite cute actually.

I finally make it to the bathroom and through closed doors I can hear The Boy squealing with laughter as he and Dad wrestle and tickle on the bed.


Eventually we are ready with bags packed, clothes on the right way round and my hair semi "done" we can get going in the process of going to school and to work. The heavens are still mostly grey and not quite done with bestowing their contents on the town below and my windscreen wipers are put on to the fastest setting. The Boy is safely delivered to his classroom just in time for breakfast with his posse of mates. With a grin and a kiss blown my way he disappears into the dining room.


Driving to work is one of my quiet times, to maybe think about what the week might hold, to send up some prayers and just get my head right. The rain is still pounding the earth, its the sort of rain that hits the ground so hard that it ricochets back up. Rounding the bend on the mountain pass I am treated to the sight of the most beautiful double rainbow spanning the slopes of the Cape Town mountains.
The rainbow stays with me as I get to work, reminding me of His promise of  a good day and many more to come, rain or shine.

This isn't the mountain pass I refer to but a good pic of the piece of peninsula I get to travel each day
*I love Cape Town!

_______________________________________________________________________________

*buttocks - for my English readers

Don't Carpe Diem

I know I hijacked another mama's post yesterday and, well, I'm doing it again today because, funnily, its another blog in the same vein as yesterday's one and also spot on accurate. I love it.
Its written by Glennon Melton and found on The Huffington Post website

Every time I'm out with my kids -- this seems to happen:

An older woman stops us, puts her hand over her heart and says something like, "Oh, Enjoy every moment. This time goes by so fast."

Everywhere I go, someone is telling me to seize the moment, raise my awareness, be happy, enjoy everysecond, etc, etc, etc.

I know that this message is right and good. But, I have finally allowed myself to admit that it just doesn't work for me. It bugs me. This CARPE DIEM message makes me paranoid and panicky. Especially during this phase of my life - while I'm raising young kids. Being told, in a million different ways to CARPE DIEM makes me worry that if I'm not in a constant state of intense gratitude and ecstasy, I'm doing something wrong.

I think parenting young children (and old ones, I've heard) is a little like climbing Mount Everest. Brave, adventurous souls try it because they've heard there's magic in the climb. They try because they believe that finishing, or even attempting the climb are impressive accomplishments. They try because during the climb, if they allow themselves to pause and lift their eyes and minds from the pain and drudgery, the views are breathtaking. They try because even though it hurts and it's hard, there are moments that make it worth the hard. These moments are so intense and unique that many people who reach the top start planning, almost immediately, to climb again. Even though any climber will tell you that most of the climb is treacherous, exhausting, killer. That they literally cried most of the way up.

And so I think that if there were people stationed, say, every thirty feet along Mount Everest yelling to the climbers -- "ARE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF!? IF NOT, YOU SHOULD BE! ONE DAY YOU'LL BE SORRY YOU DIDN'T!" TRUST US!! IT'LL BE OVER TOO SOON! CARPE DIEM!" -- those well-meaning, nostalgic cheerleaders might be physically thrown from the mountain.

Now. I'm not suggesting that the sweet old ladies who tell me to ENJOY MYSELF be thrown from a mountain. These are wonderful ladies. Monkees, probably. But last week, a woman approached me in the Target line and said the following: "Sugar, I hope you are enjoying this. I loved every single second of parenting my two girls. Every single moment. These days go by so fast."
At that particular moment, Amma had arranged one of the new bras I was buying on top of her sweater and was sucking a lollipop that she must have found on the ground. She also had three shop-lifted clip-on neon feathers stuck in her hair. She looked exactly like a contestant from Toddlers and Tiaras. I couldn't find Chase anywhere, and Tish was grabbing the pen on the credit card swiper thing WHILE the woman in front of me was trying to use it. And so I just looked at the woman, smiled and said, "Thank you. Yes. Me too. I am enjoying every single moment. Especially this one. Yes. Thank you."

That's not exactly what I wanted to say, though.

There was a famous writer who, when asked if he loved writing, replied, "No. but I love having written." What I wanted to say to this sweet woman was, "Are you sure? Are you sure you don't mean you love having parented?"

I love having written. And I love having parented. My favorite part of each day is when the kids are put to sleep (to bed) and Craig and I sink into the couch to watch some quality TV, like Celebrity Wife Swap, and congratulate each other on a job well done. Or a job done, at least.

Every time I write a post like this, I get emails suggesting that I'm being negative. I have received this particular message four or five times -- G, if you can't handle the three you have, why do you want a fourth?
That one always stings, and I don't think it's quite fair. Parenting is hard. Just like lots of important jobs are hard. Why is it that the second a mother admits that it's hard, people feel the need to suggest that maybe she's not doing it right? Or that she certainly shouldn't add more to her load. Maybe the fact that it's so hard means she IS doing it right...in her own way...and she happens to be honest.

Craig is a software salesman. It's a hard job in this economy. And he comes home each day and talks a little bit about how hard it is. And I don't ever feel the need to suggest that he's not doing it right, or that he's negative for noticing that it's hard, or that maybe he shouldn't even consider taking on more responsibility. And I doubt anybody comes by his office to make sure he's ENJOYING HIMSELF. I doubt his boss peeks in his office and says: "This career stuff...it goes by so fast...ARE YOU ENJOYING EVERY MOMENT IN THERE, CRAIG???? CARPE DIEM, CRAIG!"
My point is this. I used to worry that not only was I failing to do a good enough job at parenting, but that I wasn't enjoying it enough. Double failure. I felt guilty because I wasn't in parental ecstasy every hour of every day and I wasn't MAKING THE MOST OF EVERY MOMENT like the mamas in the parenting magazines seemed to be doing. I felt guilty because honestly, I was tired and cranky and ready for the day to be over quite often. And because I knew that one day, I'd wake up and the kids would be gone, and I'd be the old lady in the grocery store with my hand over my heart. Would I be able to say I enjoyed every moment? No.

But the fact remains that I will be that nostalgic lady. I just hope to be one with a clear memory. And here's what I hope to say to the younger mama gritting her teeth in line:

"It's helluva hard, isn't it? You're a good mom, I can tell. And I like your kids, especially that one peeing in the corner. She's my favorite. Carry on, warrior. Six hours till bedtime." And hopefully, every once in a while, I'll add -- "Let me pick up that grocery bill for ya, sister. Go put those kids in the van and pull on up -- I'll have them bring your groceries out."
Anyway. Clearly, Carpe Diem doesn't work for me. I can't even carpe fifteen minutes in a row, so a whole diem is out of the question.

Here's what does work for me:

There are two different types of time. Chronos time is what we live in. It's regular time, it's one minute at a time, it's staring down the clock till bedtime time, it's ten excruciating minutes in the Target line time, it's four screaming minutes in time out time, it's two hours till daddy gets home time. Chronos is the hard, slow passing time we parents often live in.

Then there's Kairos time. Kairos is God's time. It's time outside of time. It's metaphysical time. It's those magical moments in which time stands still. I have a few of those moments each day. And I cherish them.

Like when I actually stop what I'm doing and really look at Tish. I notice how perfectly smooth and brownish her skin is. I notice the perfect curves of her teeny elf mouth and her asianish brown eyes, and I breathe in her soft Tishy smell. In these moments, I see that her mouth is moving but I can't hear her because all I can think is -- This is the first time I've really seen Tish all day, and my God -- she is sobeautiful. Kairos.

Like when I'm stuck in chronos time in the grocery line and I'm haggard and annoyed and angry at the slow check-out clerk. And then I look at my cart and I'm transported out of chronos. And suddenly I notice the piles and piles of healthy food I'll feed my children to grow their bodies and minds and I remember that most of the world's mamas would kill for this opportunity. This chance to stand in a grocery line with enough money to pay. And I just stare at my cart. At the abundance. The bounty. Thank you, God. Kairos.

Or when I curl up in my cozy bed with Theo asleep at my feet and Craig asleep by my side and I listen to them both breathing. And for a moment, I think- how did a girl like me get so lucky? To go to bed each night surrounded by this breath, this love, this peace, this warmth? Kairos.

These kairos moments leave as fast as they come- but I mark them. I say the word kairos in my head each time I leave chronos. And at the end of the day, I don't remember exactly what my kairos moments were, but I remember I had them. And that makes the pain of the daily parenting climb worth it.

If I had a couple Kairos moments during the day, I call it a success.

Carpe a couple of Kairoses a day.

Good enough for me.

10 Reasons It's Not Possible to "Enjoy Every Minute" of Parenting

I'm sharing a blog I came across today written by Alicia at Savvy Mom Central taken off the Circle of Moms website which made me laugh out loud at just how accurate it is!

Enjoy!

We moms of babies and small children all know it - the moment that happens over and over during the first years of your childrens' lives. It is the encounter (which occurs with a frequency otherwise seen only in the movie Groundhog Day) where an older friend or relative croons at you to "Enjoy every minute" of your time with your children, because "it will speed by!"

Most of us have learned to grit our teeth and nod, with a saccharine smile, when these conversations occur. Chances are, the mom on the receiving end does feel fortunate in a general sense. However, in a practical and immediate sense, she feels these other things - in this order.

1. exhausted

2. impatient

3. ineffective

4. exhausted (oops - said that already!)

5. sick and tired of poop

As a fellow parent who is just completing her last potty training, who has one child in school (but not the other!), and who interacts with a slew of friends with babies, toddlers, preschoolers, and older children, I am here to tell you that it is okay not to feel joyful about the downsides of child rearing that all these older folks have conveniently blocked out. Here is a list of things I grant you permission not to enjoy (and this list is by no means complete):

1. being a one-woman human waste management system

2. sharing your most personal moments with a child who wants to hand you a maxipad

3. sweeping up cheerios with determination that would leave Sisyphus in the dustpan...I mean dust

4. feeling like a trip alone to the grocery store is a spa day

5. getting drenched all day, every time it rains, because your kids won't get into their carseats

6. being awakened in the night by kids with wet beds, bad dreams, croup, and busted night lights

7. offering a variety of menu items that rivals a diner

8. hating the park, because it means you will lose your children and lose your mind

9. needing a sherpa to carry all the stuff your kids require on a trip

10. having people tell you to enjoy every minute

Let's face it - folks are not going to stop needling you to cherish these childhood days, because everybody loves to give unsolicited advice. The next time you are faced with this irritating moment (and you know it will be soon) remember that these well-meaning people are reminiscing about their own days of parenting through rose-colored glasses, and it's all because you managed to present your child as being sweet and delightful for their enjoyment. You, my friend, are a hero!

Now go change some diapers.

Red Cross: Part 2

Today The Boy and I were back at the Red Cross Children's Hospital for his follow-up appointment regarding his ears and all those nasty ear infections he used to have. Touch wood, ever since he has had the Prevnar vaccine he has just had one small infection, and that was just after the injection anyway.

Today we were going for a hearing test to establish if his hearing has been impaired and check if the muck behind the membranes had subsided. And then decide on a way forward either way.

I was more prepared this time. I had a lunchbox packed with sandwiches, yoghurt, biscuits, grapes, juice and water. I packed books, colouring books, crayons, race cars, a transformer train and motorbikes. I stashed an extra pair of undies and shorts, wet wipes, tissues, a nappy (just in case, figments of Seaforth restaurant still lurk in my memory), The Boy's clinic card and his hospital card in my back pack. And lip gloss. That was for me.

It wasn't so crazy as last time, maybe because I knew where I was going and what to expect. We still had to sit and wait our turn and the first time we were called was at about 11:30am, just to be told "oh you should have first gone for a hearing test next door.." well, if someone had just told me...!

Meanwhile The Boy rallied some bored little friends and got a game going of Zoom the Plastic Transformer Train as Hard and Fast as You Can into Passing Staff's Ankles, a big hit with his new cronies.

We emptied the lunchbox and managed to fit in a successful trip to the loos too.

So we waited some more but not too long. We got to enter the periwinkle blue swing doors and see the beautiful murals up close. The lady doctor took us into a sound-proof examination room and sat The Boy down on his own little wooden chair while Mama observed from the corner. She gave him a box of blocks and a dump truck. She explained what she needed him to do - when he hears the birdies singing from her hand held machine he must drop the block into the dump truck.
The machine, which looks like a big telephone hand piece, emits high, mid and low frequency "chirps".
Luke was game and did what he was asked. I felt immense pride mixed with relief when he dropped his blocks into the truck each time the machine emitted its high birdsong. My relief turned to concern when she switched the machine to the low frequency settings. He could not hear the low soft sounds until she switched the volume up.

Her diagnosis was that the mucus behind the ear's membrane had not cleared and was not allowing any vibrations to pass through. His membranes are taught and not too flexible. Normally the passage behind the membrane is filled with a pocket of air allowing the membrane to be softer and flexible. What he hears now is dull and not too clear, like having water in your ears. Therefore his speech pronunciation is not sharp either.

Why did I not pick it up? Well. Because he is just 3 and learning to speak, right? (he can chat the hind leg off a donkey anyway) And a toddler is notorious for having "selective hearing" right?

a tiny plastic grommet is inserted to act as a portal for any fluid behind the eardrum.

Well, now we have an operation booked for early March, hopefully the final chapter in the story of The Boy's ear problems.

For now, we will just have to take his hearing into consideration and not think we can call from upstairs and expect him always to hear or maybe just remember to say things more clearly.
My mom always enjoys recalling how my brother danced his little dance after having his grommets operation as he could hear clearly and, also particularly in his case, had no more painful ears.

I look forward to The Boy doing lots more dancing, with Mama and Pappa cheering him on.

The Boy, my little MasterChef

"Mommy, its hot!"

I have just been served noodles and birthday cake by the Boy. On the bathroom floor.

He dug out a fondue pot and decided to "cook" for me while I applied my make up. He sat me down on the bathmat and served me lots of birfday cake and nooodals. He made me eat it all up and then served me some more. He even sang me "Happy Birthday" followed by "God Bless you to-day!".

I think I might like to buy him a little kitchen set sometime, encourage the culinary talent and all. (Husband, don't roll your eyes at me...)

He then turned the pot into a drum (ooh what nice loud clanging noises that makes) and proceeded to bellow a heavy metal version of We Wish You a Merry Christmas. My brother would have a good laugh at that.

Okay, off to the shops now. The Boy is back at creche tomorrow, I need to get him a few things, and I am dancing with anticipation at a bit of me-time crafty time :)

Another gem for the Griswald's Eating Out Diaries



Seaforth Beach


It was a perfect evening, Mr G had decided to treat us all and take advantage of the calamari eat-as-much-as-you-like special at a local restaurant. Luckily, when taking the booking, the restaurant didn't realize it would be running at a loss during our visit.

We got a prime table outside on the deck with a view to take your breath away. Cape Town really is the jewel on the tip of Africa's crown. And best of all, no wind!

The Boy ate a lion's share of his generous kiddies fish and chips satisfying his parents that they hadn't wasted their money by ordering a meal specially for him. How many of us have had to ask for doggie bags for their childling's leftover fayre and then had to scoff it later with their mother's words of  "You can't waste good food..!" and disturbing images of pot bellied Ethiopian children reverberating in their heads? Yes, well, maybe its just me then.

Our calamari was divine, tender and just right, portions were generous and The Husband ordered another bowl. I could finish half that portion and that was it for me, I'd eaten all the calamari I could eat.
The Husband was enjoying himself so much that he ordered yet another bowl.

The Boy had quietly slid under the table to view the world through table legs and bronzed calves and, of course, get his hands dirty as usual.

The Husband and I were chatting nicely and finshing the third bowl of seafood when I decided to check on the Boy. He grinned up at me with that "I'm not crapping in my pants" look and an angelic smile. He patted his bum to invite me to check his statement. And I did. And came away with a suspiciously soggy hand. Damn.
I had to get The Boy out of the dining area fast before the stench put the other diners off their dinners, so I frog-marched him through the restaurant and all the while he is walking like John Wayne Jnr.

Escaping to the ladies loos I assess the damages. Bad, very bad. Especially because I didn't have any spare undies or shorts for him. (He is potty trained after all.) All I had was a spare nappy stuck away in my handbag.

Earlier The Boy had delighted the conscientuous health Mama in me by eating 4 apples, one after the other.
It seemed that his young bowels could not handle all the fruit goodness and had exploded into his tiny scants.

Cleaning up was lovely. Trying to avoid getting bum smears on the loo stall walls was challenging as the Boy kept bending over and trying to "help Mama" rinse his underpants in the flushing loo. I had considered abandoning them in a waste basket but pitied the cleaning lady whose plight it was to find them.
I tried keeping it light as there was another person in the adjoining stall, listening (and sniggering), no doubt. I think "Yay for wet wipes!" may have been uttered by myself.

Finally, the Boy's derriere was all cleaned up and he danced through the restaurant in his nappy and Jack & Jill sandals much to the amusement of the patrons. Being a respectable local business owner The Husband had quietly slipped on his sun glasses and was admiring the view. Paying the bill and making our exit commenced soon afterwards.

The Griswalds strike again.

Just call me Sparky. Not.

 

 

Parenthood always comes as a shock. Postpartum blues? Postpartum panic is more like it. We set out to have a baby; what we get is a total take-over of our lives. - Polly Berrien Berends

This isn't maybe a funny post I guess, its not something anyone wants to admit to but my writing has proven to be some form of therapy for me so I am trying it again.

I didn't suffer from baby blues right after The Boy was born, at least I don't think I did. Those first days were quite a blur, so much to take in, to learn and try to process. The Boy was an easy baby compared to some stories I'd heard, I was always expecting it to be much worse.

I think I did, however, suffer from baby blues* about a year down the line. I remember dropping The Boy off at daycare and afterwards having to cross a busy road. I recall thinking that I wouldn't actually care if a bus came along and wiped me out. I went home, called in sick to work, lay on the bed and cried my morning away. The Husband didn't know what to say or do so he left me alone. Probably wise since once things are said its hard to take them back.

I haven't written about this because I haven't wanted to upset those close to me, or irritate those who might not understand, or, lets be honest, seem pathetic and ungrateful.
And the truth is its no-one's fault. I feel the way I do because, well, I just do.

And I'm really not ungrateful for everything I have, I give thanks nearly every day.
I have a beautiful child, he is big, healthy and strong, a bright personality with a wicked sense of humour. Just now he made me clean green wax crayon off the dining room furniture and the laptop. Silly boy. (I think the Valium is kicking in as I write..)

The Husband should have Super inserted before his title. He is a great dad and a loving attentive man. No problem there. He took to parenting like a duck to water, bar the nuclear nappies, and he did nearly everything. Because I was coping so well and seemed like I knew what I was doing (!) he slowly let me take over and deferred to my judgement concerning all things baby. I set the bedtimes, feed times, nap times, all things moms do. I'm not complaining about those responsibilities or the fact that The Husband was happy to let me handle them. But I think it just got to the point where I felt that was ALL I was doing.

I am a creative person. Even though I am far from being Martha Stewart I like to cook, I like to decorate and I like to garden. I like to do the odd crafty thing and I love restoring neglected old items. I love re-using stuff in different ways and my favourite catch-phrase is reduce, re-use and recycle.
All these things require my time. And spare time is hard to come by when you have your hands full of new baby. Or toddler, come to think of it.

My creativity was limited to making homemade puree combos, coming up with exciting new ways to fold leggings and how to create clever storage solutions for all the crap that comes with a new baby. Which I did, and not too badly I suppose. People said I was a natural mom, born to do this job. Why thank you.

I remember my dear friend coming to stay with us for her annual summer break and The Boy was just 3 months old. I remarked that "Maybe I will be more relaxed with the next baby". She laughed and replied "Jude, you couldn't be more relaxed!" A compliment much needed.

But all the time I was just stumbling along, hoping I could keep all the balls up in the air.
A friend has remarked over his recent induction into fatherhood that he has no life with a little baby. Maybe a poor choice of words but I see it rather as that your life as you know it doesn't end, it just changes. Drastically. Some of us have more difficulty adjusting than others.

I managed to escape last week with another friend and we snuck away from our slumbering children to go enjoy the latest Twilight flick.
And before you tsk tsk about me wanting to escape from my family, that's not what I mean. It was more of escaping from the Beast of Routine. Jaz and I were discussing how caught up so many of us mamas get with our childlings and general family needs that we lose sight of ourselves, of who we are as women and we kinda forget who we used to be pre marriage and babies. Yes, we all change and we become more responsible, sensible, more experienced and hopefully smarter. We try contribute to society by raising healthy children with decent values and good table manners. Its all good.

But with the addition of all these responsibilities I also feel like I've maybe lost something - like my spark.

And I'd like to start getting it back. I think I can be a better mother and definitely a better wife. (Read what you will into that one.)

With The Boy being at a slightly more independent age I am managing to get some more time for my hobbies. And nap times are like gold! Nearly 2 hours for myself to do whatever I please. What.Ever.I.Please!
Too bad its often spent collapsed on the bed.

I think I might need a tonic and maybe a case of Red Bulls to get me going at full steam again. Eating healthily and getting more exercise would also probably help.
I make time for everything else, now I just have to make some for myself too.

I guess Raging Momzilla days are going to happen but they don't have to happen everyday.

See, my therapy session is done for the day :)

* Postpartum is a serious debilitating condition and while I admit to feeling terribly down I in no way suffered as seriously as some mommies do. I did not take anti-depressant drugs even though I dearly wanted the courage to ask my doctor for them. I had to decide to get a grip and make a few changes because I couldn't be feeling so down all the time. Luckily I could do that for myself but I also realise that real postpartum is usually much harder to kick and I take my hat off to all those mommies who have experienced it and who are currently having to deal with it. You can do it, its going to get better.