Appreciating molehills

(please note that this is a sad topic)

I was dropping of little Snuggle Bug at school the other morning and I overheard a conversation that really hit a nerve. A friend of one of the fellow Mom's went to her gynae after experiencing some unusual vaginal bleeding. Unfortunately, her doctor suspected cancer and she was sent off for the relevant tests. The results that came back were life changing and shocking; as it turns out her body is riddled with cancer and only her brain and her lungs have thus far managed to show no trace of it. I don't even know her and my heart felt like it was being wretched from my body and being squeezed slowly. Her poor children are only in Grade 2 and Grade R.

I know we all have our lives to live, yet suddenly I felt incredibly guilty for making molehill issues, such as me time and lunch box treats into mountains. I often pray to God that He would grant me a life long enough to watch my children grow into adults and to be able to share all their life's occasions and achievements with them. This poor woman has such a low anti body count at the moment that for 80 days, while she is on an immune building treatment, she may not even touch her kids and each night they say good night to her through a window. I couldn't imagine not being able to kiss my children goodbye as they leave for school or hug them goodnight, kissing their foreheads as they say their bedtime prayers.

I do not know her name, I do not know who she is but I have thought about her constantly for the last few days and have prayed for her and her family. Perhaps, if you are religiously inclined, you could spare a prayer today for her and other Mom's in her situation and lets keep our little molehills, molehills, even if just for today.

Soggy, Mouldy Sarmies without Treats

While all the Mom's were waiting to collect their little ones today, we began a rather (as it turned out), serious debate over lunch boxes and what should go into them or more matter of factly, should special treats go into them and when and why? Kade is quite a fussy eater and only chooses to eat his sarmies if the are made with the Woolies hot dog rolls; sometimes I am lucky and can get away with the brown hamburger rolls but that is really pushing my boundaries. If I were to make him a sandwich with regular sliced bread, white or brown, the confection I so lovingly prepared, will return home every time without fail. During our discussion, the question arose on what to do when your little one does not eat the healthy stuff but leaves no trace what so ever of the treats. I simply piped up, to a few of the Mom's absolute horror that I would simply pack the unwanted sarmie into the refrigerator and return it back into the lunch box the next day, minus any treats. Those dreaded sideways looks glare my way. Clearly I have hit a nerve. I need to explain, obviously.

My secret really,(and I know that one of those horrified Mom's will read this, so my secret is out) is that I don't put the same sarmie back into the lunch box. I lovingly make him another identical sarmie, pop it into the box and make him believe that he is eating yesterday's left overs and to add insult to injury, no treats. I sound like quite a horrendous mother don't I? How else do we teach them that wasting food simply because you don't like the shape of this bread vs. that bread, which was more than likely prepared with the exact same freaking dough is not acceptable, without having to guilt trip them about all the starving children out there who would have given their eye tooth for that meal?

I don't have to do the "you're possibly eating a mouldy, soggy sarmie thing" very often, he catches on and brings back the empty lunch box, leaving me quite exhilarated at my triumph and left holding on to the hope that it was in fact eaten and not disposed of in some devious manner.

Bribery and Corruption aka Discipline

Chores in our house is just that, dreary mundane chores; nobody likes to do them, it is just a part of life, it is something that at some point we just have to knuckle down and do. I ask myself the question, why do *I* have to do it all? My answer is...well...I don't, and so begins the training of a new extra mural activity in our house...the chores.

Toys, toys and more toys litter the garden from one end to the other and I have spent a better part of the last three days asking the kids to pack them away. I get some sideways looks (what is it with people constantly giving me sideways looks?), these kids look at me as though I am high on some illegal substance. I ask nicely. I ask not so nicely. I plead. I beg. I turn into one of the Witches of Eastwick, the most evil one. That works for a few seconds and in my moment of ire I find it somewhat amusing watching them scurry around quickly doing what is asked of them as though their very life hangs in the balance, which at that time, probably does. I found a tactic that works, evil witch that rants and raves and screams her head off; it hurts the throat a bit but it works. Mr. Hubby does not agree with this method of disciplining and to be honest it does become quite exhausting being the Sergeant Major all the time. "What do you suggest, hubby dear?" I ask rather sarcastically, "I can ask them a million and two times or I can scream my head off once, maybe twice if I forgot to add in the evil eye the first time and it gets done." Silence is his reply.

Yesterday I found a new method..wahaha...I ...ssshhh...bribe. No screaming. No shouting. Bribery, specifically money. (flashbacks of a younger less experienced *me* who swore that she would never resort to any of the methods I now use, haunt me) Standing outside I remind the kiddies that the garden service is due tomorrow and there are still toys lying all over the place. The kids giggle with delight under their little breaths, they know Mom would never let the weed cutters and lawn mowers damage their precious goods. Evil witch returns. If they are not picked up I will let the lawn mowers mow right over them; there's that sideways look again. "REALLY Mom? " pipes up Madam fluff, quite distressed at the thought. "Really." They call my bluff. OK. I can handle this, new twist, if you pick up all your toys I will give you R5 for cake sale on Friday. Madam Fluff is gone. She scurries around outside with Snuggle Bug in tow, shadowing her every move with the toy box. She then proceeds to start cleaning inside bragging to her big brother of her pending riches. Naturally he wants in on the deal. I explain once again that I will reward him financially for the effort he put into cleaning the effort he put into making the mess in the first place. "So Mom, how much will you give me if I do this and how much for that?" Well I'll be damned, little Madam Fluff is quite happy to clean up outside and practically most if inside too, for R5, while Kade wants a value to every little things he picks up. I calm myself by assuring the beast in me about to expose itself that his is simply a very clever little entrepreneur in the making, that's all. Then I take a deep breath and count to ten....thousand.

This method of "discipline" I know, will only work for a short time, probably close to the time that I run out of money. They are now practically demanding payment for every thing that they do. Kade did actually have the audacity to ask me if there was any financial rewards for doing his homework...eerrr...no, as in HELL NO. So, any ideas or non violent methods of bribery and corruption, sorry, discipline are most welcome indeed.

One or the Other

After waiting for an agonizing week, my father finally called me. (boy! did I get a crash course lesson in patience!!) It was surreal to say the least, I was speaking to a man I haven't spoken to for 13 years. At one point, it felt as though time hadn't passed at all, he babbled on about some things completely insignificant, which I put down to nervousness and a desire on his part to evade any complicated questions; like one in particular; where the hell have you been all my life and why haven't you appeared to have given much of a toss about me? To ease his discomfort, I let him babble on until he seemed to calm a bit and the babbling stopped. In my 15 minutes of fame, he had learned that his only daughter was now, not only married, but had three little kiddies in tow. I know for a fact, that some of our parents find being called Gran or Grandpa for the first time like swallowing their dentures sideways, so the poor old man had to deal with the fact that I had not one, but three mini me's.

I must admit, it was a little less awesome as I had expected. The conversation passed by without a big bang and afterwards I was left gazing at my cell phone, asking it "Is that it?", 13 years later and that was it; no fireworks, no crying, no spectacular rush of emotion. OK. That was it.

Excited nonetheless, I called my mother to give her the good news; well, as it turned out, it wasn't good news. Frankly she was, how can I put it gently? Pissed as hell. I am still completely taken aback by her reaction.

There is an event coming up which would require both of them to be at the same place at the same time and my mother is livid; as I recall the words used to describe me at that moment were; selfish, inconsiderate, unfeeling and self centred, to name but a few. Without being able to go into too much detail about this "event", it is something that would (I ardently believe) benefit the future of my children, which is of course my top priority.

It has been made monumentally clear that her feelings take precedent over my children's well being. Now, being the ever protective mother that I am, I am finding this a little difficult to grasp. Why do I have to choose between my children and my mother, is there a choice? Can there ever be without question a choice between them? Perhaps I am, one or all of the fanciful and glorified names above, but don't ever ask me to choose between anyone on this earth and my kids.

So, the first conversation I have had with my father in years had been dampened slightly, not completely though; I found him, finally, nothing can change that warm fuzzy feeling, hopefully not even the queasy, sick to my stomach feeling that has settled itself just underneath it.

I don't like cricket, I love it.

OK, please, let's not take today's title too literally, thank you. This week's International Sunday was postponed due to the cricket. We took the kids down to the Stadium to watch the Cobras vs. Titans. This was our very first live cricket match and fun was had by all. The kids found the dunk tank more entertaining than the cricket though which was a good thing I suppose because sadly, our team (Cobra's) lost by 7 runs.

Kiddies sporting their supportive gear.


Kade in the hot seat on the dunk tank.