Bland no more

I opened the washing machine – chuffed with the fact that I was ahead with most of my chores for the day – and stared in disbelief at the mess inside. A disposable nappy got washed with the other washing and after not being able to absorb any more moisture, it burst open. Two hours later, after scooping up handfuls of water absorbent crystals from the washing machine, putting it on a rinse cycle and rewashing the clothes (twice) my chores were way behind schedule and I felt as if I sneaked a week’s worth of living into one day.

The day before the kids had played in mud. Their sand pit had rain dripping into it, creating a lovely mud bath and before I knew it, they both sat down in the mud. They were as happy as clams and looking the part too. For the better part of an hour they scooped mud into containers, ran their hands through it and gleefully laughed at the mess. At some point I decided enough was enough, closed up the sand pit and started with damage control. I stripped both naked. Magnus was missing a shoe and I found it where it had been sucked into the mud. I rinsed most of the mud from the clothes and wiped what I could from Magnus. Marco allowed me to hose him down. Magnus’ sopping wet disposable nappy got taken off and I rushed both the boys inside to a hot bath. The nappy was bundled up with the clothes and, absentmindedly, I must have thrown that, together with the soiled clothes into the washing machine. Clever.

We decided to move Marco into the room we’re using as a nursery for Magnus. He’s not sleeping well by himself and Dirk ends up sleeping with him most nights. The problem comes in when Dirk has to leave for work early. Sometimes I can convince Marco to get into bed with me and sleep another hour or so, but often he’s disoriented and does not get back to sleep properly. We thought that sharing a room might help. So far it’s not really working, but we won’t give up yet.

Friday, a bit tired of the bland interior of what is now until further notice, the boys’ bedroom, I decided to repaint it using leftover paints. All we needed was a new bigger brush and a roller which we went off to buy.

Marco was all fired up about the project. I set him to work on masking off the skirting while I put the washing on the line and tried to get Magnus to nap. Tried being the operative word here. Marco had done masking the skirting for the bigger part of one wall before he got fed up and came to see where I was. He wanted to know when we could start the actual painting and no amount of explaining about all the preparation work that still needed to be done could convince him that he couldn’t start painting straight away.

I took off one of the seventies-style wooden pelmets as I want to fit a blind at that window. For the longest time I had contemplated doing that and couldn’t quite figure out how to get the nails holding the pelmets down out. Then I realized I simply needed to knock the pelmet off by using a hammer and some force. We live and learn and soon the dark pelmets overwhelming the bathrooms are also going. That is a promise!

Then I discovered a problem with damp on two walls where I had to scrape off bubbling paint. Eventually I only started painting after lunch. Marco helped me do some brushwork and I allowed him to use the roller to get a feel for it. But he’s too impatient and after I made him go back and redo a patch, he got annoyed and left to go play. I was so concerned with him not making a mess, that I spilled paint all over!

At some point Magnus went to sleep, but woke up not quite rested and very angry with the world at large and me in particular. I had to carry him on my hip the rest of the afternoon as any attempt to put him down resulted in high-pitched wailing.

At bedtime on Friday I’d only done two walls in a neutral colour and they were sorely in need of another coat. I was starting to second-guess our choice of bright green for the other two walls, but I choose to look at it as a temporary thing anyway. The boys will not want to use a little room off their parent’s bedroom forever. Hopefully. And so the room wil eventually be used as part of the master bedroom suite again at which point I’ll repaint it. For now they both seem to enjoy the colour green and it goes somewhat with the green wall to wall carpet.

The painting’s officially finished and I’m happy to report that it looks fabulous. Marco came back and actually helped a lot. The paint was just enough for two coats. I’m not afraid of using colour and this is a really strong green – think apple or maybe shallot. Because the walls I’ve used the green on have windows which face onto the garden I feel that my eyes are drawn outward into the garden and that it makes the room feel bigger. And the neutral we’ve used is a very light beige with a lot of grey in it, making it appear cooler. It is a nice foil for the warm-toned green.

I must make up blinds for the bay window and one other window. I’ve got a checked fabric in toffee and cream that I once bought for duvet covers and never used. I also need to fashion cushions or upholstery for the window seat and I’m leaning towards vinyl upholstery. Leather would have been much nicer, but my budget does not stretch that far. Magnus has a toffee and green coloured duvet and I’m using a toffee and cream checked duvet that we had for Marco at the moment. A friend gave Marco some vintage advert plates with cars on them for his birthday and I’ve put them up above his bed. We have a lovely silkscreen print depicting a sunflower field and I intend putting that up. There are also prints of two darling fat cats that Magnus enjoy and a little painting with a herd of sheep that is framed in a similar way and they will look nice grouped together.

For the first time in a long long time I wasn’t feeling that I’m keeping tears just at bay. A lot of heaviness had lifted and the effect lasted for most of the weekend. I know it will be back. But it is also nice to know that there are things which can lift the sadness.

Hey, at the very least the room isn’t looking bland any more.

Brotherly blessings

I’m sure that I’m not the only one finding my own children utterly charming. I have a friend who used to say:”Aren’t children amazing?” while gazing lovingly at her daughter climbing like a little monkey all over my furniture. And I would think, “Yeah, right!” I was childless and more than a little jealous and I thought to myself that MY child would never be allowed to use other people’s furniture as jumping mats. It is a bit more than five years later and of course the leather couch I was so protective over is now kept together by not much more than spit and a lot of dirt. My children have done far worse things to it than my friend’s child ever could.

In the same manner, my prejudices, my ideas on childrearing and my ego have been panelbeaten by three little boys. And I’ve come to regard the words: “my child will never…” as a sure invitation for my child to go ahead and do that exact same thing. In front of witnesses. Who heard me say, “My child will never…” and who will laugh and point that out to me.

Of course all of it is good. I’m less inclined to judge other parents and more inclined to notice the better traits of my fellow human beings. I know that the mother who seems to be losing the battle against her four-year-old in a shop may have had only two hours sleep last night. And that wars can be won by conceding some battles. I know that the worst thing that can happen to a seemingly out of control child is that they hurt somebody’s ears a little. And that their mother’s ego may feel a little bruised afterwards. Those things seldom kill. The same child who acted out so badly a few days ago, might even get a compliment from a little old lady in a china shop for being so wellbehaved around the fragile wares of the shop..

I know that a screaming child is very likely not abused, but tired and at the wrong place at the wrong time. Her mother will get from me only sympathy.

The mother carrying or pushing a disabled child is not to be pitied or judged or evaded. She needs love and support, just like you do, and if you take the time to get to know her and her child, you will get to know human beings just like yourself and your children.

Marco and Magnus are really starting to play together nicely. They are testing their boundaries around each other. The games are mostly chasing games which make no sense to me whatsoever. One minute one will be doing the chasing and in the blink of an eye, turn around and start fleeing. They seem to take everything in their stride and every evening the house is filled with the giggling of two little boys. Spitting is another favourite pastime as is throwing water. I’m learning speedily that in the matter of what is regarded fun or logical things to do, my opinion differ vastly from my childrens’ opinions.

I’m not allowed to punish Magnus in any way or Marco will intervene and chastise me for doing that to “his baby.” Of course Mr Magnus does not get off that lightly. He’s every bit as naughty as his brother at the same age and definitely more daring to boot.

Loren’s memory is still surprisingly strong as far as his older brother is concerned. We try to be natural about it – neither forcing the memories nor evading them. The other night Marco said something which made me think that he felt responsible for not looking after his brother the night of his death. Which is strange, because we never expected him to look after his brother. He mentioned watching a video – something I’ve forgotten about long ago – and said that he didn’t watch Loren and Loren died. I reassured him that even though we were all there and looking out for Loren, it still happened and that he was in no way responsible. Then he wanted to know how we could make it better. I asked him what he meant and he said he wanted Loren back. I answered that we couldn’t. But that we will all be together again one day.

The last month or so has been difficult for me. I’m just sad. So so sad. I seem to be past the stage where tears come. Mostly I can talk about him dry-eyed and coolly. But the sadness is a constant companion. I have learned to live, laugh and function around it. It remains – like a rock in my soul. The anniversary of his death is approaching and I can’t help but wonder at how much our lives have changed in the space of two years. How different it all would have been if he was still alive.

Peace with the situation is not so much acquired with time or with reasoning than with simply knowing that the status quo is all we have to work with. We are still lucky. We are still some of the more fortunate members of society. And to mope and moan about our situation would be to deny our many blessings.

Boys will be boys (or something!)

Magnus fell and split open his eyebrow rather badly. Him getting hurt was only a matter of time, as I’ve darkly pointed out on a number of occasions. He’s definitely the more adventurous of the boys and at that dangerous age where a lot of movement takes place without much thought. Marco has never even drawn blood, injuring himself. He was the guy resorting back to crawling for a good six months after he started walking whenever the terrain looked just slightly uneven.

Ironically Marco was the cause of the accident. Pulling a rug out from under his brother. Yeah. No matter how often we talk about these things, they never listen. Hopefully with the sight of all that blood in mind, the message will stick. He cried as hard as his brother and reassured us over and over that he didn’t mean for his brother to get hurt. And he was the guy who came running with ice. Which – in hindsight – probably helped a lot to stop the bleeding.

We rushed Magnus off to the local GP who gamely tried stitching him together while the receptionist – who’s also the doctor’s wife – and I tried keeping Magnus still. Dirk is all for taking Magnus to a plastic surgeon while I only heard the part about the general anaesthesia necessary if we want to redo the stitches. He’s still young and he has a light skin which will not show a scar that much. I say let sleeping dogs lie.

I’ll feed him Arnica tablets and rub Vit E into the scar once it has healed. Any other advice for reducing scarring?

We’ve had so many birthdays recently. Marco’s cousin, Legan, was four on the 11th, Marco was five on the 14th and Dirk has his birthday today. We won’t say how old he is! Marco’s best friend at school also has his birthday today, while a good family friend and my mother have their birthdays on Sunday and Monday respectively.

So we’re all partied out and I cannot stand the thought of another piece of cake. With my sweet tooth, that’s got to count for something!

In some totally unrelated news – we’ve had a tire blowout on Saturday and Dirk went through a pothole on Monday night and bent the car’s rim. The condition of the roads is really getting worse and worse. But South Africa is still a good place to live, despite some niggles.

We’ve had missionaries from Uzbekistan stay with us over the weekend. And they told us how they once ended up in a part of the city where there was no gas and the electricity got cut off with monotonous regularity. During winter. At least we have mostly good weather.

Storm

Some nights, after the children had gone to bed, I just want to be me again. I want to be a grown-up who can read and watch a film on TV or drink a chocolate malt drink and really have the time to taste it. When you’re a mother, meals are taken on the run, you learn to drink cold tea and your own appearance has to sacrifice priority over finding your firstborn’s shoes or changing the second dirty nappy in the space of half an hour.

I’m not complaining. Well. Sometimes I am. But mostly, I accept that this is the status quo and know that I’m grateful for it.

There is, after all, generous compensation in the form of hugs and slobbery kisses, sweetly sleeping faces and a carefully articulated,
“Mama, you know, I really do love you.”

I know the ache of loss and can therefore never take this sweetness for granted. And even if anyone could, time steals moments like these away. Before you know it, they are irrevocably over.

The storm is approaching. I can see it through the window and hear the thunder. The primitive side of me is afraid. And excited. There is nothing I can do for it to change course. I don’t know how close it will hit. All I can do is wait.

Maybe there will be devastation. Broken branches like limbs. Maybe my newly planted vegetable garden will be washed away. Still I need not fear. In all likelihood, the house will keep us all safe. There are many people like me now listening to the storm with only the corrugated iron and pilfered pieces of wood of a shanty town shack between them and the storm.

In a storm it is almost impossible to think beyond oneself.

So, while I can spare some tears for those struggling in the realm of loss – I only know what I feel. I only have enough strength to carry my own precious bundles through the storm. Mostly anyway.

Occasionally I’m able to step back and observe. I allow perception and the gift of tuning in to feelings to take over. Then I stagger back when the full force of somebody else’s pain hits me.

For now, as the first raindrops fall, I worry about hail. And whether Magnus will sleep through it. I listen for his voice as I drain the last dregs of my drink. I’m back in motherhood mode.

My saving grace.

New post

New post up at A Random Act of Kindness

Jump in and get wet

Since Saturday we have had cool rainy days. It’s still school holidays here and even though Dirk has to go to work the kids and I have been doing indoorsy things. I can see the work out in the garden multiplying before my eyes as I peer out the window, but it doesn’t matter. I enjoy having both the kids with me and I love this time.

If it wasn’t that the kids would insist going out with me in the rain, I’d work happily in the garden in the rain. I generally don’t mind getting wet. Dirk hates it and he’s the one making sure that we have umbrellas whenever we go out..

I always reason that by the time I have the umbrella open – without poking myself or somebody else in the eye with it – I’m thoroughly soaked anyway. Then I have to carry the umbrella, trying to slant it so that it covers me and, invariably, one of the children and ending up having no free hand to open doors..And after I’ve used it, I’m stuck carrying it around with me. I hate wearing a rain coat, especially in our hot weather.

No, I run for it, get wet and get dry again, and that’s it. (I must add that we live in a summer rainfall area and that I might not be so courageous in winter rain…)On Saturday I purposely went out in the rain to put a nitrogen compound on the plants without it burning the plants. Within five minutes I was soaked and I forced myself to feel the small tracks the cool rain made against my skin. I lifted my face to the sky and tasted the raindrops on my tongue. It was wonderful.

I seem to have either badly sprained or broken a toe. I remember stubbing it against the table leg and the nasty sound it made, but didn’t think much of it until a day later when I couldn’t step on the foot. It’s already a lot better (even though the toe still looks awful) after I taped it to its neighbour iced it and spent most of yesterday with that foot elevated. If it is broken, that would be the very first time I’ve broken anything. Which, I suppose, is something to be grateful for. Of course it’s in no way due to my tremendously strong bones, but more because I’m actually incredibly lazy and never do anything remotely risky.

Friday was hot and after work Dirk and I took the kids for a swim. The swimming pool is at the bottom end of the garden and so swimming becomes something of an outing. Later we should really erect a pool house of some sorts. At the moment it is fine to have the pool far from the house, fenced and netted. (And oh, I realize that drownings happen despite safety measures. But life is simply never risk-free.)Marco has been taking swimming lessons since he was six months old and he’s still not really watersafe. Nevermind being able to swim. He’s therefore using a polyotter or inflatable armsbands. With those he’s able to “swim” quite independently and I’m thinking that he’s probably just not confident enough yet. Magnus has also been wearing the polyotter a lot, but we found that we needed to keep his head above water anyway. So one of us always had to have our arms around him in the pool. I’ve noticed lately that he seems to have gotten the idea of holding his own head out of the water and on Friday (still wearing inflatable armbands)I quietly let go of him. He gave me a beaming smile and off he went, kicking underwater and using his arms to keep himself upright. The freedom was wonderful (even though I was one step away all the time). Though he swallowed water a few times when he forgot to keep his mouth closed, he really enjoyed the swim and wouldn’t get out of the water. I’m guessing that he’ll find learning to swim much easier. Marco was a bit jealous with his brother officially joining him in the ranks of the independent.

I was kind of sad, looking at him. I was thinking of how he’s slowly but surely easing his way into toddlerhood and how he’s not really my baby any more. And I couldn’t help thinking of how I would never take anything for granted again. Glad about the development. Doubly glad, because of the difficulty Loren had with even the simplest of things. And yet sad that Loren never got to taste this.

There’s not much else to do but jump in, get wet, take life on the run, dodge the punches and try and stay upright if you have to take one or two on the chin.

C’est la vie.

Coming together slowly but surely

Area between front door and TV room

Magnus’ room with its little bay window.

The TV room – part of which we use as a study

Dining room corner

Little stove in spare bedroom

Fireplace with stove

Study area in TV room

Corner in lounge

Statements

I’m not very good at administration. If it depended on me we would have one bank account and live largely on a cash basis. I’d throw away all correspondence – unopened – because having no debtors nothing could be all that important, could it? Hey, I manage to get away with living like that before I met Dirk.

Now of course we have bonds and various credit cards and the tons of paperwork they create. Usually we agree that it is better for Dirk to handle our administration. But moving jumbled things that were already in order and made us aware of shortcomings in our filing system. So yesterday I offered to help Dirk who was sorting through piles of stuff in the garage to organize things enough for us to be able to do our tax returns in a couple of weeks. He asked me to sort bank statements, credit card and cash withdrawal slips in date order.

It’s amazing what credit card slips can tell you:

We eat way too much chocolate.
We used to buy too much food.
We ate a lot of take-aways in the latter part of last year.

If you scrutinize certain dates you see that we bought a whole lot of anti-acid related medicines in the week before Loren died. That we had to switch to a smaller size nappy because he’d lost so much weight.

A whole lot of things happened financially on the day of his death. Withdrawals, transfers, payments…

Don’t you sometimes wish you could whisper to yourself in a previous life?

Tonight you’d better watch him closely or he’ll slip away.

And then in the days and months following his death we were apparently out most weekends trying to evade the silent house. The nappy sizes went from one large size to one large and one newborn and then only one newborn getting progressively bigger.

Bigger until the day you realize that your youngest son is now exactly the same age as he was when he died.

Are you afraid?

Not more than usual.

Are you sad?

Yes. Infinitely.

Fortunately we are more than the incomes we generate, the debt we fall into or manage to evade and our income tax statements. We’re more than what is done for us or to us. We’re somebody’s son or daughter. We are loved and we love in return. And always we influence the lives of the people ours touch.

Here is to 2009.

Summer holidays

Wind

If I could put the smell of rain after a hot day, the cool of the wind against my skin, laughing until my insides hurt into words I’d be able to tell you what it is like being alive. Those are just some of the things that make life worth living. The sum total of life is much more complex than that. Why is it that living without fear and loving without condition are things that only children seem able to do? I don’t really remember a time when I felt joy without pain or fear. Do you?

“Let’s race each other” Marco shouts. The wind is whipping at the bags we’ve tied together and I can see him contemplating the moment when it will be strong enough to lift him up into the air over the treetops. Only grownups care about gravity.

Magnus grabs a treasured book and Marco quickly hands him a jelly bean in exchange. One that he refused to share just a moment ago. Magnus devours it and before you can say one-two-three-Pavlov, Magnus has learned a sure way to get sweets out of his older brother.

A thousand times a day I’m invited to savour the moment. To linger and enjoy life instead of just passing the time until the next meal needs to be cooked. And still I sigh and wonder: What will it be? Meat or fish?

The dog chases the cat and Magnus – an innocent bystander – is a casualty. The dog runs him over without a second thought and my heart stops for a moment when I hear his head collide with the paving around the pool. But, he’s okay. Just furious. The dog takes shelter under a shrub, balefully peering at us. Magnus sobs and clings to me like a little monkey. As I hold him tightly he melts into my body – fluid and with total surrender. I vaguely remember a time when my mother was everything in this world. And I feel blessed. For having known that feeling as a child and about Magnus not knowing my fears yet.

We’re talking about hot-rods. I remind Marco about a book of his with pop-up pictures where hot-rods are explained. We look at it together. He asks me for a pen and paper and then he starts drawing. His face is scrunched up in concentration. It takes one or two tries before he’s satisfied and then he brings me the picture.

“Here Mama”, he says, “This is yours. Please write your name on it. I made it for you.”

Each day starts with endless possibility and ends without a tally of goals accomplished.

Oh, to be a child again.