All creatures great and small

Today was a bit of a funny day.  Funny peculiar, not funny ha ha.  I received one of those emails with a link to a video, the kind that you normally delete without even thinking.  But this time, I didn't.  It was a story about an old dog, nineteen years of age, who cannot walk anymore, but who has a "ministry", for want of a better word, to the sick and dying old folks in hospices and hospitals.  You can watch the video at this link: Dying Woman Finds an Unlikely Companion in her Final Days - You'll Need Tissues for this Video  Basically, they wheel this noble, aged hound around the wards on a cart, and ask people if they would like a special hug from such a wonderful creature. They didn't show anyone refusing the offer!  The old dog is gently placed on the bed beside the dying person, and they share a moment that can only be described as out of this world, an understanding of the fact that neither has long to be in this earthly plane, and that they have both made peace with their transition to the next.  And yet both human and dog are at the same time treasuring up those precious moments of life that are so important not to relinquish.    

I sat here with tears pouring down my face, worrying that the kids would be scared or disturbed that I was crying.  But then I thought to myself, how are they going to know that it's okay to show emotion if all they ever see is me trying to hide mine?  So I did my best to explain to the three little ones who came to snuggle up in my lap that sometimes things are just sad, and that we cry when we feel sadness.  They showed amazing intuition, especially when I explained that both the old lady and the dog were dying.  At the one point, the camera focused on the faces of both the dying woman and the dog, and it almost seemed as if both were smiling.  "You see," whispered Sam in my ear, "dreams can come true..."  I am not sure if he was talking about the dreams of the old lady, or those of the dog, but it seemed a strange thing to say at the time.  Yet when I thought about it a little later, I think I understood what he was trying to say.     He saw the pain and suffering of both creatures, and then saw how they relieved it for each other, how they were happier together than apart.  And in his mind, that is exactly how dreams come true. 

I kissed the top of his head and held all three of my littlies close to me.  "Yes," I whispered back.  "Dreams definitely can come true..."

My soul is full of whispered song;

My blindness is my sight;

The shadows that I feared so long

Are all alive with light.

~Alice Cary, Dying Hymn

A walk on the wild side

I am flying solo at the moment.  The Sweetpea has gone to South Africa for two weeks to be with his parents and attend his brother's wedding.  Just as an aside, the Sweetpea says it is actually thirteen days.  I think that Monday to two weeks later Monday counts as a full two weeks.  I also firmly believe that the one who gets to stay at home and mind the zoo (while the other swans off on a lovely holiday to sunny South Africa to be waited on hand and foot by his parents) should be the one who says how much time it is.  So it is two weeks.  But I digress. 

I have actually enjoyed the time so far (not that I would ever want to be without the Sweetpea, but necessity is the mother of invention).  The kids and I have got into a good understanding of each other and seem to be getting along fine, all things considered.  There is only one problem:  when it all turns to custard (as it invariably does at some point or other) there is no escape hatch.  No eject seat, no "press this button if you want to get off the bus", and no emergency parachute.  It is all about you and them.  And you have to be the one to suck it up and deal with it because, after all, you are the adult in the relationship.

A prime example happened today:  at playgroup, Fireman Paddy found himself a fantastic spider dress-up costume.  It was black as the Ace of Spades, had eight legs all attached to his arms so that if he moved they all went up and down, and best of all had two large sparkly eyes on top of his head.  He spent ages running around growling at all of the other kiddies and frightening the little girls.  What could be better?  But then Sam got in on the act.  Why could he not also have a turn in the spider costume?  No matter how much he followed the spider around whining and whingeing, the spider was giving no ground whatsoever.  He was in that costume and that was final.

"Ok", I finally said to Sam, when I lost the plot a bit, "we will find you another outfit."  On the dress-up rail, I dug up a really cool bat costume.  "Oh look, Batman," I commented, unfortunately in earshot of the spider, who shot over like a bullet to see what his brother had found.  As Sam put on the Bat wings, the spider dissolved into floods of tears, ripping off his legs one by one as he discarded the beloved spider outfit.

"I want to be Batman," he wailed, and his screams grew more piercing than Sam's ever were before.  There  was no comforting him, no explanation of how he had denied Sam a turn in the spider outfit and now it was Sam's turn to have the bat outfit, etc.  Nothing worked.  For about half an hour, the wails continued, sometimes lessening in degree as he got bored, then escalating as Sam swooped across the playground with his wings outstretched.  I was going almost mad from trying to be reasonable and calm, while at the same time trying to be fair to the other one.  As I said before - no emergency parachute in this situation.  The only thing that resolved the situation was to take them both home (the kids, not the costumes, although that would have been simpler). And I also had to draw a pattern of the bat wings so that I could make another set and avoid future repeats of the performance.

Let's just hope I make it to the other side of this two weeks with my sanity intact (and my house - but let's not even go there!).  So kudos to all the single parents out there, who do this for a living (and for life)! 

And to the Sweetpea so far away - have fun!  But come home soon!

Let them eat cake!

When you teach your children manners, you never have an inkling that it might backfire on you at some stage.  What parent doesn't want little angels who always greet adults with respect, say please and thank-you for everything (even things they don't like), and who know how to conduct themselves at the table?  And yet...

We were at the party of a child who has been friends with ours since before she was born - literally.  Her mom used to come over and see the boys when the little girl was still in the womb, and they would always pat the preggy tummy and ask why it was fat.  Anyway, the baby is turning two in a few days time (how on earth did that happen - she was only born, like, yesterday or something?), and my tribe were invited to the party.  It was a really lovely party, mostly for the adults, I must say (but then what party for a two-year-old is actually for the kid?), and was very elegantly catered.  People stood around in clusters with fancy snacks like strawberry coulis filo pastries and pesto and brie croissants (I can only ever rustle up a quiche and even then you'd be lucky) while the little ones ran off outside to play.    

My lot decided that they could not wait to go to the loo, and so we made our trek to the toilet.  Getting three kids on and off the loo before someone has an accident is no mean feat.  And then of course each one has to flush the toilet after each go, and there are four pairs of hands to wash (counting mine too, hopefully).  The whole process can take upwards of fifteen minutes.  Anyway, when we got back to the venue,  it turned out the we had missed the whole "Happy Birthday" cake cutting tradition, and walked into the room in that awkward silence that always seems to follow a public karaoke rendition of Happy Birthday to You sung off-key.  All the kids were stuck into the cake, their faces and hands covered with the sticky icing.  My lot were offered a plate of delicious pink and green birthday cake each.  

And that is when their hard-won manners let me down.  In a piercing, disdainful voice, the one exclaimed "I can't eat that!"  There was a collective intake of breath as all the adults in the room fell silent and listened intently to what was going to happen next.  

"Why not, love?" I asked nervously.

"I can't eat cake without a cake fork," he explained in horror.

Madness at the Mall

I think it probably goes without saying that shopping trips are a bit of an adventure with twins and a small baby.  I used to be able to threaten the boys with being put in the shopping trolley if they were too boisterous, but now, with Little Miss Snoopy taking up prime position, that option is no longer available to me.  It is pure Mind Control that is the key now.  Either I don't have much of it, or theirs' is just stronger, but it seems as though they are winning.


Going to the supermarket is nothing short of a military operation.  In the car outside the shopping mall, I outline The Plan, complete with ETAs or Estimated Times of Arrival (which the twins seem to misconstrue as meaning Enactments of Terrible Anarchy) and practically a hand drawn diagram of what will happen if Mother's word is disobeyed.  I make sure that I have their complete and undivided attention before we step out of the car (if I lose the plot before we actually embark on the shopping trip, I might as well turn around in the parking lot and go home). The we emerge from the vehicle, with the twins holding onto me and me holding onto the baby, in order to cross the road to the entrance.  This normally goes well.  The boys tend to lull me into a false sense of security by giving their compliance until we are actually inside the shop - that way they encourage me to foolishly hope all will be well and continue with the mission.  


In reality, their compliance is a cunning plot - once inside the precincts of the shop, they realise that I am unlikely to back out and it is then that they put their "Embarrass the living daylights out of Mom" strategy into action.  When they were little, their anarchy consisted of mostly throwing spectacular tantrums (complete with lying on the floor, howls and kicking of feet), in the fresh produce department.  Once, acting on my own irrefutable advice as a psychologist (given to the mom of one of my patients), I decided to "simply ignore the tantrum behaviour and walk away."  I left one of the boys kicking and screaming on the floor near the fresh fruit and calmly (at least on the outside) carried on shopping.  I think I got as far as the meat section before the screeching child came haring after me.  Not my best or most serene moment as a parent.


Not only that, but having twins along can be likened to having a hyperactive pair of octopi (octopusses?) attached to your cart.  A recent shopping expedition had me standing at the till wondering bemusedly how seven bars of chocolate, a set of toothbrushes and about fourteen boxes of tampons (they liked the pictures on the boxes) got into my monthly shopping.


Now that they are older, they have devised other methods to ensure that I still feel like an unfit mother when doing the monthly grocery shop.  They now have an extensive vocabulary, and piercing little voices to go along with it.  In clear earshot of the person in question, they are able to make the most observant, yet embarrassingly detailed observations of other shoppers.  They have fully mastered the art of the Stage Whisper.  On a recent trip, they were confronted by their first sighting of a cross-dresser.  After staring for a long time (while I silently willed them not to say anything), they were ready to comment.  "Mama," said one, in stern tones, "that lady has a beard like Daddy!"
"Perhaps she forgot to shave," added the other.  
There's not really anything you can say after a comment like that....








My three angels with their Granny Moo

Thank Heaven for little girls!

 The boys were still very young when I fell pregnant with the next little one.  We were overjoyed - we really wanted our family to be spaced with two years between them, so that the new littlie would be a part of the lives of the boys right from the start, that there would never be a time that they could remember that was without her.  We had also tried especially for a little girl, because we had our boys, and thought it would be a nice rounding off to our family unit.  I can tell you that even the other gynaes at Peter's hospital were impressed when we found out that it was indeed a little girl I was carrying!  For a while Peter had quite a reputation - first producing twin boys and then a little girl, as though on cue.  What a good gynae!


However, things didn't seem so rosy when we almost lost our precious little girl in my twelfth week of pregnancy due to a massive hemorrhage.  I will not go into it, but suffice it to say that it was the darkest and scariest time of my whole life.  When we discovered that she was still miraculously clinging on to life inside me, I cried the first truly ugly cry of my whole life.  You know the kind, I am sure, when your whole face screws in on itself, and you can't control it.  But in spite of the good news, everyone took it very seriously indeed - I was put on immediate bed-rest, and in my six or seventh month of pregnancy, I was advised to give up breast-feeding the twins, who were almost two at the time, because it could cause the labour to start prematurely.  I was devastated - that time with the boys was such a wonderful time of re-connection after a busy day, a time of bonding and closeness and love all mingled together in the peace of a darkened room just before they drifted off to sleep for the night.  I could not imagine giving that special time up.  But I knew that for the sake of the new little life inside me, I would have to.  I wrote a letter to the little boys on the night of our last feed, and I thought I would put it in here now (after all, this space is so much more secure than my treasure chest, where the moths have already eaten up some of the words):  

14/11/09  

My Dearest Boys,

Tonight was the first night we didn't have "boobie time" together, boys, and in some ways, my heart is breaking.  Although I know you have to grow up, and that I have to let you, there was something so special about our bond during this time that I don't want to let go.  It was so unbelievably hard for me to say "No boobie-time tonight, just water" to my precious little ones.  But I am so thankful that we have had these 22 months together - so many mums have so much less than we have been granted, and some have none at all.  We have been so blessed, my little ones.  After all, there were times when all three of us didn't seem as though we could make it this far.  

And now there is a new little one to be prepared for, who needs the nutrients you no longer do.  So we can rejoice in our bond, and pray that such a strong foundation can only be strengthened over time, that our love for each other will never change.  

I love you so much, my darlings.

And somehow, at the end of that last feed, there was a peace and a closeness that extended beyond, and endures today.  When Little Miss Snoopy arrived on the scene, she took over greedily from where her brothers had left off, and shows no signs of wanting to stop.  And to tell the truth, I am in no hurry to persuade her otherwise. 

Just another day in pair-adise!

One thing you are forced to learn very quickly about being a mom is that your life is now no longer owned by you alone.  Ditto all your stuff, your food, your time, your energy and your abilities.  All becomes subservient to the goal of raising your happy and healthy children.  Guaranteed, the second you head into the loo for a bit of "me" time, a troop of little footsteps will follow in your wake, and piping voices start asking awkward questions like "what are you doing?" (I am never quite sure how to answer this one, by the way.  I mean, are they just being cutely conversational, or how literal do they want you to get?)


A prime example:  You will have just made your littlies a lovely meal, set it out on the table and called them for supper.  Everyone is eating peacefully, until little eyes start darting to whatever is on your own plate.  Your's looks better than what they have!  It's not fair!  Soon, the questions start:


Sam:  "Mama, what's that?" (pointing to my plate)
Me:  "It's fish.  Look, you have the same on your plate."
Sam:  "Please can I have that bit there?"
Paddy:  "I don't have enough chips - please could I have those ones?"
Me:  "Why don't you eat what is on your plate first, then you can have some more?"
Sam and Paddy: "Mine is not crispy enough/is too crispy/doesn't have any salt/doesn't look the same,..etc."


The upshot:  I end up handing over all the food to them and start eating theirs instead.  Peace reigns for a few moments. Then:


Sam:  "Mama, what's that?" (pointing at my plate)...

The Young and the Restless

We've had one of those "stir-crazy" days - I am sure you know what I am talking about:  the kids have been a bit off (not sick exactly, but with runny noses and looking a bit peaky) and so we made the decision not to let them outside in order to stave off any sickness that might be developing.  Three small kids ill is no joke - we try to avoid it where ever possible!

The old folks got it right when they said idle hands are the devil's playground.  Also, that necessity is the mother of invention.  The result of being trapped inside for a whole day is three small whirlwinds of boredom wandering around aimlessly with destruction on their minds.  So far, they have got hold of a full bag of potato crisps and discovered that if you smack it really hard, it bursts with a satisfying confetti-like shower of small chips all over the carpet and couches.  They have made a convalescence bay for a patient who they "pulled out of a fire" with all of the lounge cushions and a few blankets, pillows off the beds and a few toys (which for some unknown reason are placed over the eyes of the patient in order to cure them).  They have been into the garage and discovered a huge piece of polystyrene from an old box (it is no longer a huge piece - when I opened the garage door and the wind swept in, there were so many tiny pieces of polystyrene floating in the air that for a bizarre moment I thought it was snowing).  They put all three trikes and a dump truck on the trampoline and rode them around and around in circles until they fell off dizzy.  They got hold of a couple of credit cards out of my purse and bent each of them neatly in the middle.  In an attempt to find something interesting to do, they emptied out three huge containers of toys all over the playroom floor and then moved off to play with the toys that had been out all the time.  Someone found a highlighter pen (neon pink) somewhere and found that if you draw on the balustrades or the stair walls, it does not come off, even with meths or acetone.  They have been in more time-out today than time in.

You can learn a lot from your children:  the most important thing you learn is how much patience you have.  Needless to say, as I surveyed the havoc and destruction in my house today, I was not pleased.  Normally, at the end of a Sunday, my house looks marginally tidier than normal because we have tried so hard during the weekend to catch up with housework and washing.  Now it resembles nothing so much as those dreadful houses they show on Oprah where the people hoard stuff for years until it covers every available bit of floor.

My nerves were frazzled and I just wanted to get dinner on and get everyone in bed where I know where they are and what they are doing.  As I was trying to create some semblance of order in the kitchen, I heard a small voice behind me "Here, Mama, I have brought all the cups and bowls from the lounge".  Balancing them all carefully, Fireman Paddy had collected up some of the havoc strewn around and brought it to me in the kitchen.  

"You know," he said conversationally, "I love you so much.  One day I am going to marry you, Mama."

And in that instant, the whole day snapped into perspective.  Instead of bemoaning the mess, I am thankful for the ones who made it.  The piles of dirty clothing, toys strewn around, cushions on the floor are all evidence that I am surrounded by the ones I love the most.  

So I left everything and went and played on the trampoline with the kids until bedtime.  After all, I reasoned, if the mess they have made doesn't multiply, smell too much, catch fire or block the access to the food cupboard or fridge, it can safely stay as it is until tomorrow...