Living in the moment

Driving to work this morning we took the off-ramp going past our house in Pietermaritzburg. The same old road I took going in to work for the past 11 or 12 years.

Some mornings I felt cheerful, spirits lifted by the beauty around me. Currently the azaleas are in full bloom, the jacarandas are showing their first pale lavender flush and it is getting greener by the day.

I remembered some mornings when I felt desperate. I couldn’t see a way out of a difficult situation or couldn’t resolve a problem I had. Now I cannot remember the problems or situations any more – only that they existed and my feelings of panic. Such a waste. But then, maybe those feelings were no waste, because, after all, they prompted me to look for solutions. It is not characteristic of me to give up easily.

And then there were those mornings when I felt crushingly sad, when I drove to work crying silently behind my sun glasses. This sadness lingers. It is a part of me now. Yet not always crushing me. This morning it was a mere silent companion. Sadness mingled with excitement about a new life. A fresh beginning.

Marco was asking about school this morning and I explained that schools are breaking up for a week’s holiday. He is starting to grasp the concept of days of the week and I told him that I only need to go to work Monday and Tuesday next week. After that I’m coming home to stay with him and Magnus. He was looking glad. And I felt glad too, knowing that the promise of my presence cheers him.

I couldn’t help but marvel at how I’ve changed. Before Loren I would be chomping at the bit for these last three days at work to pass, being short-tempered and impatient. Now I’m savouring the days, knowing that I will never experience this again. Coming home in the afternoon to two excited children, kissing my mother on her soft papery cheek and seeing her brown eyes sparkle with joy at my safe homecoming. Being enveloped in a bear hug by my husband. Companionably cooking an evening meal, knowing that shortly I will bath the two boys, dress them in clean pajamas, feed them wholesome food and tuck them into bed, thanking God for them and their brother and asking for His protection in the day to come.

Springtime mamas

It is springtime. And even though the rainy season hasn’t started quite yet, we found evidence of new life all over.

A giraffe on the brink of becoming a mama.

Rhino mama and baby.

A sunset. Because I can…

Snow fun

Envy

To the woman pushing her child in a wheelchair onto the verandah of the offices of the Cerebral Palsy Association:

The woman driving past you in a silver Renault is honestly not one of those women who habitually stare at other people. Wondering: “What is wrong with that child.” And “I’m so glad that is not me /my child.” Or even, “Those people. What a burden on taxpayer’s money.”

The woman who stared, was wondering: “How old is he?”
“Do they know about ABR?”
“Can they afford therapy?”
Thinking, “I’m glad the CP Association is making a difference.”

And most importantly, she was thinking:
“I wish it were me….”

Stop the pigeon!

I can’t help it. I’m besotted with Dastardly and Muttley. Especially Muttley with his asthmatic sniggering. And so is Marco and Grandma. We stay up past Marco’s bedtime (gasp. horror) to watch it.

I knew a dog just like Muttley. Same attitude if not the mannerisms. And I miss her – yes, it was a her…

Speak your truth – an award

I want to thank Tiffiany from Till the short bus. for this blog award.

Chocolachillie is firstly a blog about parenthood. It just so happened that my experience of parenthood includes parenting a son with disabilities and that I also faced the death of a child. This in itself brings me in close contact with many other parents who face similar challenges and experiences.

Together we stand stronger, walk taller and speak our truths more eloquently. Even though, at times, our voices shake.

I want to pass on this award to two people I have only recently met and one whom I’ve known for a while.

Jamie from I heart Milo for being the best mama Milo could wish for and for writing and sharing her experience with the world. Currently little Milo is in hospital after an infection complicated his recuperation from surgery. Please keep them in your prayers.

For Gwendolyn for coining the phrase “all is fair in love and chocolate” because that certainly is true in our house. And for keeping the faith. I use this opportunity to remember a little boy called Elijah. Because it is important to remember.

An old favourite is Reimer reason. This blog is full of wisdom and humor and breathtaking images. Thank you, Jodi for sharing your life with us and for sharing Kellen with us. The world would be a much poorer place without him.

Here are the instructions for the following Brillante Weblog Premio award recipients:

1.Place the Logo on your blog

2.Link to the person who awarded you

3.You can nominate up to 5 blogs

4.Add their links to your blog

5.Leave a message in the comment section of their blog to notify the winners.

Brothers

I want to see your pictures. I want to see the ones where L is trying to feed Magnus.

He clicks on them, one by one. Carefully.

See there you are, Mama. And Daddy. Here I am.

He clicks on Loren’s picture. It opens. He stares at it. No comment. I don’t say anything either. He sighs and closes it again.

How do you write, Loren?

I help him. We spell out the name as he searches for the keyboard keys. L-O-R-E-N

Then he types out Marco and Magnus too.

He touches the screen lovingly where the three names blink underneath each other. Then he jumps off my lap to go and find something else to play with.

Geography of the soul

My husband’s father grew up on the Western Coast of South Africa on the farm Fonteintjie near Lamberts Bay. His own father lived there all his life. My husband’s grandfather had all his sons and daughters eventually moving away from there. Some of them to big cities like Johannesburg. Invariably they invited him to their homes for a visit. He would always smile and decline their invitation.

“And if I’ve seen Johannesburg, what then?” was his standard retort.

I think he recognized a value which most people spend a lifetime searching for and some miss altogether: Happiness is not measured by money, status or address.

josephine hart — “damage”
There is an internal landscape, a geography of the soul; we search for its outlines all our lives.
Those who are lucky enough to find it ease like water over a stone, onto its fluid contours, and are home.

Some find it in the place of their birth; others may leave a seaside town, parched, and find themselves refreshed in the desert. There are those born in rolling countryside who are really only at ease in the intense and busy loneliness of the city.

For some, the search is for the imprint of another; a child or a mother, a grandfather or a brother, a lover, a husband, a wife, or a foe.

We may go through our lives happy or unhappy, successful or unfulfilled, loved or unloved, without ever standing cold with the shock of recognition, without ever feeling the agony as the twisted iron in our soul unlocks itself and we slip at last into place.

There is a place, close to where I grew up, where the road winds through hills. One moment the car is climbing a steep hill, views to both sides restricted to stubbly overgrazed fields and thorntrees. And the next you reach the top. There, a vista opens up. A valley falls open before the eyes, surrounded by low mountains with the single-lane tarred road curling lazily through it. Often the sun catches farm dams, igniting sparks from the water. And usually there are no other humans to be seen except for one of two other cars struggling uphill from the other side.

I have no idea why this particular view remains my favourite in all the world. Maybe it is the sense of space, of being able to breathe. Maybe it is the familiarity of it. Maybe it is the sky.

European skies are low and dark. The African sky is high and reaches all the way to Heaven.

Last night I sat watching the faces of my children while they played companionably (for a change) together. One red head and one blond head were almost touching. And I marveled at how closely their features matched: The generous mouths and full lips, cleft chins and the particular slant of the eyebrows. Yet, how they didn’t look alike at all. I thought wistfully that I could see Loren in both of them.

And I remembered the moment of total recognition after all three of their births. As if their faces had been the ones I have been looking for all my life.

Anticipating.

There are few things as wonderful as anticipation of a wished-for event. And there are few things as truly awful as dreading something.

I have often found that the anticipating is far more intense than the actual event. Because when you are faced with a situation you are living in the moment. There is only one way to go: Through it.

When we left our house in Pietermaritzburg that last day of April, we had been emotionally charged all day. We’d already said our goodbyes at Loren’s gravesite. And I found that I was far more worried about how the drive through the mist, with the kids and the cats in the car, was going to go than sad about seeing the gate close behind me for the last time. Besides, it was still our house. We could always come back to it.

This past weekend we accepted an offer on the house and put in an offer on a house in Estourt. Currently Dirk is extraordinarily tense and making the decision to sell was absolute hell. He sat with his pen hovering over the space where he had to sign to accept the offer on our house and read and re-read the conditions of the sale. I had made up my mind that it was the right thing to do. But I wanted him to be sure too. I didn’t want him to sign that document if he had any doubts whatsoever.

My reasoning was that I had seen how our other property that we’d been letting since 2001 deteriorated over the course of seven years. Eventually the house had taken on a sad, neglected air. Houses, like people, need to be loved. And for this house where all three our children spent their first days, where Loren was born and where he died I want love more than anything. I think the people we sold the house to will love it, care for it and be happy in it.

But as I walked into work this morning I thought of the house not being ours any more. And I was sad. I allowed myself to feel the emotion washing over me like a wave. Once again the dread is very likely far worse than the actual experience is going to be.

Our new house is lovely. It has a lot of space, beautiful natural finishes like stone and wood and it is light and bright. The garden is any child’s dream with level space to run. It has an orchard and a swimming pool. I think we are going to be happy there. True to my nature I want to plan furniture layouts, colour co-ordination and see which of our curtains will fit. But maybe I should let it be. Live in the house for a while to get to know its feel. Allow it to talk to me first.

After all, anticipation is more than half the fun.

No answer

Yesterday my car had to be serviced. It was a small service and so the workshop finished the job early. They sent a vehicle to fetch me from work, I paid, fetched my car and so I found myself close to the cemetery near lunchtime. On the spur of the moment I decided to visit Loren’s grave.

Around midday the place was virtually deserted, but I was glad. The children and I came a few weeks ago to tend to the little garden we planted on the grave and although dry, some of the plants are beginning to make new shoots. There was no real need for me to be there. So I pulled out a few weeds and sat in silence next to the little garden with its simple white cross.

I wanted to weep. Felt the need for release of pent-up emotion. Yet couldn’t. The sense that he was not there was very strong. At the same time I sensed him – somewhere. I sensed amusement and maybe even an attempt to console me. But maybe it was just me, wanting to feel that.

I started talking to him, hesitantly at first.

Why did you leave me?
There was no answer.

I miss you so much.

Your brothers…Magnus is getting so big. He’s starting to take little steps on his own and Marco… He misses you too you know?
Why did you leave us? Did you want to stay, but couldn’t? Did I let you down, by not checking on you sooner that night?
I wiped away tears. Still not able to vent the dammed up emotion and overwhelming sadness. Got up, brushed dust from my pants.

I must leave now. I miss you, my baby. I love you. I’ll be back.

I got in the car and had to turn around at the end of the row of graves. I drove past the grave of a child of 12. A solid carved wooden cross and a pink rose bush are all that is left of a once lively, joyful child.

Houtkruiskind.

God this is not fair. Why do you do this to people? Your children?

No answer.