The nothingness of it all

I don’t understand the parameters.

I get that we’re undefined and unencumbered by expectation.
But I still don’t understand what’s acceptable.
Or is my challenge with accepting rather than understanding?
I’m battling to accept the lose nature of the situation? The nothingness of it all.
Perhaps the situation in beyond my comprehension.
Not wired for this kind of weird.
I don’t know the rules! And you laugh, because there aren’t any rules.
I should be mature enough to play competently
But I’m telling you that I can’t!
Laugh if you want.
Heck, go find someone else to play with and let me get over my humiliation.

Password Please

There must be a name for my condition. What would one call the disorder where one forgets a password, resets the password, then promptly forgets the new password?

Each time I log on to do online banking, check my email or update my blog, I have to reset my passwords. This usually after I've tried all the expected passwords.

I can't download iTunes cos I forgot that password too.

Oddly however, I remember my facebook password. I forgot it once, and had it reset. Then facebook sent me one of those uppercase-lowercase jumble of letters. And low and behold, 6 years later I still remember it. It's not a word, not one that I can pronounce anyway.

Do the long breaks in between post now make sense?

Save your Bra - burn your Thong

It would appear that the age of the Thong or G-string is fast coming to an end. Hail the return of the panty line! And I ask myself why did I ever feel the need to subject myself to the hours of irritation, suffering the bits of cord and fabric digging into very private crevices, that would require embarrassing extrication, often in public.
 

I recall times when the thong up my thang was so irritating that I found it hard to focus on what people around me were saying.

 

Who made us believe the bullshit that a thong was sexy? I know who! Men-of-limited-imagination. That's who! Men who believe that "less is more" - the less clothing we wear the more they can see.

 

Hey, if u really enjoy wearing your g-string, floss on sista! Call me Bridgette Jones, but I like a little more wrapping for my prezzie.

And walking around the office, I couldn't help but notice that more woman have re-embraced the proper panty. Real woman aren't ashamed of their panty lines.

HashTag #how does it work?

#ihavenocookingclue. I just see people #everythingallovertheplace.

I guess understanding a trend has never been a prerequisite for #followingatrend and while I’ve never been much of a #trendfollower I am rather #curious about what the purpose is and how it works.

 

So I figured I’d hashtag my #blogpost and sit back and see #ifanythinghappens.

 

#dididoitright?

Built like drum and appealing to some

I would date a fat guy, but I would have difficulty believing that a guy would want to date me, because I am fat.

Why do these thoughts always have to raise themselves just as I'm about to fall asleep. Rather inconvenient.

Anyways. I realise that, if a guy is fun, smart and polite, if we enjoy being together and have things to talk about, I would consider dating such a guy even if he were built like the Oros man.

And I'm sure that that would be true for most people - to most mature and decent people, its what's on the inside that matters.

Yet I find it hard to believe that someone would be interested in me for what's on the inside because I feel disadvantaged by my outside.

And again, I'm sure that my inferiority complex isn't unique.

But I do wonder whether other folks realise how we apply this double standard and cheat ourselves.

#dinkmanet

What I've become

Bitter memories fall around inside me
Like shattered pieces of a fragile heart.
They cut and slice
Each time I breath
I want to leave.

But these claw marks
Are your marks.
You hold me tight
Out of fear or spite?
Is this trial or torture?
What are you punishing me for?

For loving you?
But you loved me first.
You came to me on bended knee
I had the power
And gave you happiness, wedded bliss.
What did I miss?
How did I end up like this?
I don't recognise the face I see.
Is this broken women really me?

Where is the strength, the pride, the wit?
I can't just give up yet!
I'm smart, Smarter than you.
And I'm strong.
This is wrong.
I need to take back my life.
My time
My voice.

I can't really blame you for what I've become.
I let it happen - just don't know when it begun.
You're a man not a monster.
I don't fear you.
You loved me once,
But hate what I'm now.
I have to take back my life somehow.

A Sudden Sadness

A sudden sadness
spills over me
Like liquid lead
The lump in my throat
forms from somewhere unknown
I don’t understand the sinister
suspicions that surface
in a usually sane mind
And I struggle to strangle off
Insecurities that I’m shocked
to learn exist.

Molded for Love

Her hips fit to his perfectly,

Like only God could have planned
As he fills her every emptiness
She wraps her legs around him
Wondering how she ever lived
Before this man held her in his arms.
Against his chest she can rest.
She lifts her head and with her nose
Feels along the line of his jaw
Till her lips find his.
Did she really believe in love before these lips.

Clay Creature

Astounded by the pounds she carries

Clumped together like a crude clay creature
Clearly not God's creation.
"What a beautiful mess this is,
We're picking up trash in dresses"
The words of the song has new meaning
as he thinks of how
to gracefully bow
out of proceeding.
To continue would be painfully impossible.
Yet there she stands, clueless clay creature.

Dangerous Charm

She moves to the edge of the bed and looks back over her shoulder at him, looking at her. His eyes trace the line of her naked shoulder. Not for the first time he wonders about how her skin tone matches his almost perfectly. His gaze wonders down the curve of her spine and takes in the narrowing of her hips. She speaks but while lost in admiring her body he didn’t hear what she said.

“Coffee?” she repeats. “Could I get you some? Are you hungry?” He doesn’t respond. But he does smile at her. A disarmingly warm smile. And she realized that it was that smile that got her into his bed the night before. His smile, his knowledgeable hands, his expert tongue. His charm.  She wonders if he could see the goose bumps she feels when thinking of the night they had.

But he has no idea how that smile cracks her heart in two, for what was just a night of wild sex to him was a night of intense love and passion to her. He has no idea how dangerous his charm is. He couldn’t know. Because if he knew, it would mean he wields it in the most mercenary manner to get what he wants.

Swallowing down the lump in her throat she grabs a sheet to cover herself as she gets up from the bed. Covered up she feels a little calmer, but needs to escape the room before she blurts out how badly it hurts to love him.

Outside the bedroom door, wrapped up in a bed sheet, she realized that he didn’t answer her about the coffee. And as she enters the kitchen she also realized that she was in his house, in his kitchen and that she had no clue where the coffee was.

Midnight Insight

Maya Angelou might know why caged birds sing, but I know why a certain gentleman, against all logic, is attracted to me, when he is dating someone who looks like a runway model / exotic dancer.

I'm his aesthetic norm.

The fact is that out of all the women in our circle I'm the one who looks most like him. I'm the one who looks most like his people.

His attraction to me is the attraction of his blood to his roots. Pardon the mixed metaphors. Simply put I remind him of home.

For days, like an indicator light, i flashed happy then incredulous. Now, thanks to my midnight insight, i feel just plain ... disappointed. Bleh!

Sociology of Chronology

A wise man tells me that what one finds appealing at one age may be less appealing at another. Now I can agree with this if we're talking about skiing or bungi jumping, or even clubbing.
 

But he's point was that a man might find a certain type of woman attractive when he is younger - the catwalk look, skinny, minimal clothing etc, etc. But with age he's likely to develop more realistic (my word, not his) tastes. He may even find himself attracted to a more matronly figure.

To this, I said to my wise friend, BULL SHIT! Dogs chase cars till they're too old to chase.

So then I got to thinking, is it that the male ego is forced to face its own reality, and admit that his chances of catching a runway model have run out and that he may have better luck landing a lady lower down on the beauty pyramid?

Also less chance of said matronly figure being stolen away...

Happiness is feeling light and beautiful and tingly all over. 

My little secrets warms me inside. That warmth radiates as a smile I wear all day. All day I feel wrapped up in love.

I deserve this happiness. I deserve this love.

For however long it lasts.

Wiring vs. Upbringing

A non-Muslim friend confessed to me his attraction to the mysticism of Muslim women, complained that he had never had the pleasure of a Muslim woman, and wondered if he ever would.
 

After some light banter about tasting halaal meat I suggest that the reason he's never had the opportunity and is not likely to make use of the opportunity should it be granted, was because of his view of Islam - that he speaks of Islam and Muslims with such awe and reverence. (I've often thought I heard a note of longing when he speaks of our customs and culture, a yearning to belong).

I guess he thought that there may be an element of truth to my point, because he added that being raised by a Muslim grandmother, he always thought of Muslim women as pure and veiled.

I tell him the story of the two sweets. How a man once criticized the way Muslim women are required to dress. A wise man took two sweets, unwrapped the one, and then threw both sweets on the floor. He then picked them back up and offered them to the other man. Of course the man opted for the wrapped sweet.

My friend called my story an interesting analogy but then asked what happens to other women - the unwrapped sweets.

I found his concern for the unwrapped sweets quite funny. And I explained, that I could be as good a Muslim wife as I could, chances are that my husband would still be carried away by an unwrapped sweet.

He agrees and says that men are just wired differently...

So that left me thinking ... I was so sure a moment ago that my friend would not take advantage of a Muslim woman, out of respect, because of his upbringing.

But in the battle of wiring vs. upbringing ... where would you bet your money?

no flowers, no voucher, not even chocolates . . .

When, after 13 years, you walk away from the job you poured your heart into, spent more time at than you did with your family, and passed up countless better opportunities for, it’s bound to sting a bit when it dawns on you that no one bothered to get you a farewell gift.

Taking a deep breath and saying “oh well” and hoping that the disappointment will be released from my chest when I exhale.

I brought cake. I brought cake …

 

Nope, didn’t work. Still hurts. Thirteen years. No flowers, no voucher, no card, not even chocolates. Oh well.

Not a speech, not a thank you, not a good bye. 

Wow. Thirteen years.

Dental Denial

Sitting in the dentist's waiting room, my hands shaking so much I can hardly type.

I guess everyone is allowed one irrational fear. And mine would be sea creatures. I don't consider my fear of the dentist as irrational. Who can claim that a visit to the dentist was ever a pleasure. I don't care how hot or sexy your dentist is, he or she will at some point cause you pain.

The dentist, pokes around in your mouth, with sharp metal objects - that's inside your body - while you're awake, and you're trapped in that chair, with a massive light blinding you. Yah, not my idea of a relaxing afternoon.

And what's more, with a visit to the dentist, the pain usually doesn't stop there. For hours or days after you're likely to have pain - like when you do an extraction or a filling. Who ever goes to the dentist and gets instant relief? No, you end up with more and prolonged pain.

I don't think my fear of the dentist is irrational. At all.

The biology of psychology

It’s obvious that what happens in our heads usually manifests itself as physical reaction. There’s the whole Fright, Flight or Fight story. But that’s not really what I was thinking about.

I can’t generalise and say that all women, most women or some women find their bodies respond, or refuse to respond, the same way that mine does. I can only speak for myself, of the discovery that my mental state and emotional turmoil directly manifests itself in the way I become practically catatonic in a certain situation.

It’s my understanding that real catatonic individuals are mentally and emotionally present, but locked in a wax-figure of a body. Similarly I find I am storming on the inside and totally paralysed on the outside – frozen. Numb would be the wrong word, because I do feel pain. Crippling, air restricting pain.

 I feel like a statue crying real tears.

stuck in the middle

So what exactly are the middle ages? I’m 35. Am I middle aged? Well I’m certainly not a youth anymore. And unlike Julius Malema, I’m not stubbornly in denial about it.

Considering the average age at which people keel over these days, I think 35 is middle age. Not that being middle aged is a problem. I don’t mind either way. Just when asked how I feel earlier, the phrase “stuck in the middle” popped into mind. And I realised that I do sort of feel stuck and stagnant.

Oh well fresh start just up ahead. 11 days to go …

The Birdcage

The Birdcage: a 1996 American comedy film directed by Mike Nichols, staring Robin Williams and Gene Hackman. It is a remake of the 1978 Franco-Italian film, La Cage aux Folles.

 The Birdcage is also what I call the office I work in.

I work in a brightly coloured open plan office, with a mezzanine level trimmed in Christmas lights. From my original desk at the window I felt like I was perched on the edge of the M5, and had a great view of the River Club Golf Course and the mountain range in the distance. All was cool. But then I was moved closer to my project team. Here I sit in a row of desks – 3 folks beside each other, separated by orange partitioning about 30cm high. And we each sit opposite someone. So picture the 6 of us (and then one left so there’s 5 now), sitting facing each other. All this might seem pretty normal to you. But out of the 5 people at this bank of desks, 3 of them are gay. The gentleman beside me, is married, to a lovely woman apparently, but wears a ladies watch, so I’m not 100% sure that he’s as straight as he claims.

 In the bank of 6 desks behind me I’ve found one confirmed gay person, and another we could possible call bi-curious (one who claims to be straight yet takes several intimate coffee and smoke breaks with a certain older, gay gentleman). Upstairs there seems to be 2 unconfirmed gay men, and another bi-curious candidate.

In the middle of our very bright orange office are two bright orange outdoor umbrellas. I have no idea why. I’ve asked whether they’re aware that umbrellas opened indoors bring bad luck, but this lots so openly defiant of anything conventional . . .

Let me tell you about the fridges. In the kitchen is a fridge where one would store milk and any lunch items that needed to be kept cold – but that’s only if you can find space in between the beers.

Some of the sober individual in the office complained about the amount of alcohol squashing their fruits and yoghurts and management’s solution was . . . they bought another fridge exclusively for beer.

There’s another little bar fridge which we now use only for canned cooldrinks. This little fridge is always well stocked, since there are no decent shops in the area.

Upstairs sit a mix of IT folk, mostly developers. And they have an X-Box. So any time of day one can hear either high pitched car tires squealing around a digital race track, or gun fire and the groan of injured virtual soldiers.

Those who smoke generally use the balcony, except late in the afternoon or on Fridays when it’s not unusual for some to just chill at their desks with a cigarette and a beer.

TV screens are up all over the place and alternate between sports or music videos. Most mornings I come in to the sound of ABBA’s Dancing Queen or Elton John’s Club at the End of the street.

On occasion, again usually on a Friday, Bob Marley can be heard Jamming through the office and on those special days we have Her Royal Highness Freddie Mercury blaring, followed by the soundtrack of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. In all a very vibrant environment.

The title of Birdacage making sense yet?

Oh did I mention the dress code? I arrived here on my first day dressed in my usual professional black, only to find the CEO in denim shorts, and my direct manager in a surfer’s board shorts and a faded T-shirt. Most of the guys here wore shorts and sloffies until the weather changed. Now it’s just jeans and T-shirts or hoodies.

Every second Friday is braai day, when they knock off around midday and gather around the giant Weber on the balcony, beer and cigarette in hand.

In all the folks are nice and respect my little space. I’m grossly outnumbered and haven’t objected to the drinking and smoking because they haven’t been in my face about it.

I actually enjoy working here, where I’m entertained with the constant gay banter. I’ve had the guy opposite me squeal in excitement because he was about to become an aunty. Yes, he said he was going to be an aunty. He also told me when I enquired that it was rude to ask a woman her age. Yes, I was asking him his age at the time. But he’s an amazing, wonderfully warm person.

Even though we have separate men’s and ladies loos I occasionally come out the toilet stall to find one of the guys in there – they’re apparently very flexible about these things.

Oh and the pranks.  I sit beside the incarnation of Loki the Trickster Demon. The big bosses have the receptionist cook them hot breakfast some morning. One of these mornings they were served bacon and blue scrambled eggs. The software testing guy had salt poured in his coffee, and the office manager got locked out on the balcony. Telephones get prestiked in their cradles, mouse buttons switched, office chairs unscrewed. You name it, this lot have tried it. And I always make sure I lock my PC for fear that someone will come along and send a dirty email to the global address list or change the language on my PC. Both of which have been done to other careless souls in the office before. 

I’ve actually enjoyed my time here and will miss the colourful characters, the odd free lunch, the stocked cooldrink fridge and yes, even the pranks.

 Hanging out here has definitely been an experience.

Picture my eyebrow raised and me giving you a dirty look. This look is dripping with disapproval, irritation and offense.

So over the past few weeks I’ve realised that when people piss me off I’m not very good at telling them to piss off. People who hurt and offended me, often continue to hurt and offend me because I never educate them. But how does one politely point out that what has transpired is unacceptable?

My solution is to simply kill all those people who piss me off. Problem solved. Chances of that dearly departed individual ever offending me again are rather slim then.

Because, I actually think bloody murder might be easier than saying, “oh erm, by the way, I didn’t like that and would you rather in future respect me by not doing it again?”. Nah I think I’d rather just use one of those fire place tools to the back of the scull. It’s by far a more satisfying and permanent solution.

Heck just thinking about it makes me feel happier and relieved.

Ok, so if I can’t really physically go kill someone, how about ignoring the person for ever, as if they were dead?

I could do that right? Ignore their calls and mails. No matter how thick that person is they’ve gotta get the message that they’re dead to me. Eventually. Right?

Mother Dearest

So . . . two janaazas (funerals) in one week. Sunday night an aunt who lived with my parents passed on, and on Wednesday night we received news that my Gran’s sister had passed on. So one has to pause and acknowledge that there’s really no escaping the reaper. I don’t fear death. I’m cool with one day waking up to find that I didn’t really wake up and wasn’t likely to ever again. What I do worry about it is my mother dying. I mean, I accept that logically, because she is my mother, she is older than me, and will in all likelihood move along some time before me (though nothing is cast in stone). But the thought of not having her around is both scary and depressing. I’m a grown woman of 30+ (no need to get technical about such stuff), but when I have a tummy ache, when one of my kids have a tummy ache, or even when no one I know has a tummy ache, I call my mom for advice. I call her for help with recipes I’ve made hundreds of times because she’s made them thousands of times. I call her to share my good news, my bad news and of course when there’s juicy news. Heck, she’s usually where I get the juicy news.

Don’t get me wrong, she can drive me insane at times too. But even that I’ll miss when she’s no longer there.

I guess there’s nothing I can do but enjoy and appreciate the time I have with her now. I do realise that I am lucky to have her in my life still.

 Guess what!?! She just called to tell me she made a huge pot of soup. See why I love this woman. She rocks!

Stressed Much? Yesterday I submitted my resignation. After working for the same company for over 13 years I had to draft a resignation letter for the first time in my life. I of course had no clue what to write. I googled resignation letter templates, but found nothing appropriate. I eventually settled on three little lines, saying thank you, I quit and thank you again.

Then I had to hand over this clumsily worded letter. And right as I turned to the relevant manager, to ask if we could talk, he hops up and says that he has to get to a meeting, but grabs the envelope I was holding, as he correctly assumed it was for his attention. He then darts off to the meeting with the dreaded resignation letter. So I sit and stew, wondering what his reaction would be.

After a painfully long time he finally reappears, sees my anxious face and just burst out laughing. How’s that for an anti-climax. He then asked me the why’s and where’s and finally wished me well and said he was genuinely happy that I found something that suits my needs.

And that, dear folks, was that. My last day in the Bird Cage will be the Fri 28^th June and on Mon 1^st July I report for duty as my new employers. No turning back now. The deed is done, the paper work signed. And I guess I feel quite relieved.

While new beginnings can be scary, you never know what happiness may be waiting, just around the corner.

I found this in an article on secret regrets of woman in their 30's . . .

"6. I regret that because of the pain you have caused me, because you can't be anything but selfish, because you are continuing the affair and denying it, that because of all of those reasons, I'm going to wreck myself and have an affair just to hurt you. That because I feel like an outsider in our marriage, someone who is ugly and not worth love, I'm going to seek attention elsewhere. I don't regret the hurt I'm going to cause to you, but I will regret that all my morals are disappearing in my desperate need to feel loved. By anyone. I regret that I'm not going to be the same honest, faithful person I was, because of you. -- Female, 35."

It's scary, cos i could have written that. It's as if she tore a tear stained page from my diary. We're even the  exact same age. 

Counting the days . . . Have you ever felt happy, relieved, anxious and doubtful, guilty and flippant all at the same time? All these conflicting feelings can leave one rather sea-sick while sitting dead still in an office chair. Let me explain: I secretly went for a job interview and found out two days ago that I was successful. After a brief salary discussion I accepted the offer and as soon as the paper work is signed, I’ll submit my resignation letter. After being employed by this particular company for over 13 years, I’m finally breaking out.
 

I was hesitant about going for the interview in the first place – it’s a perm position in a large corporate – I start hyperventilating at the thought. Suffocating. Choking. You get the idea?

But my current situation isn’t ideal and hasn’t been for the longest time. And it certainly isn’t rewarding. A change is long overdue.

I admit and whole heartedly believe that I should have left here years ago. But out of fear of the unknown, I’ve turned down numerous offers.

And I’m not 100% sure that the offer I just accepted is the best one, or the right one. I just know I need to take it because another might not come along for a while, and I’ll be stuck in this soul-sucking, gut-crunching, nerve-wracking, back-breaking, mind-warping and financially un-lucrative wart on the ass of the project management industry.

I am unspeakably grateful for the opportunity given to me 13 years ago, and the years of protection and support that have allowed me to grow. However I feel like I’ve gone as far as can in this company. And now it’s like a bad marriage, where the couple stays together simply out of fear being alone and instead wear each other down and waste their lives being miserable.

 And I guess that makes my new job the rebound relationship. But its ok, it’s a step in the right direction.

Cranky . . . I’m understandably cranky – post-op and still in pain. Honestly I thought I’d have the op, fix my knee and be pain free. But I’m in as much pain as I was before the op. Add to that the news that I won’t be able to run anymore. I sat there, lump in throat, glaring at the doctor and wondered what the heck I had the op for.

What followed were some very dark hours, until I regained some perspective. Fact: I still have both legs and can walk. I’m alive and well and should be grateful for having all my limbs and most of my senses. After speaking to some very smart and kind people I was reassured that the Doc was being over cautious and covering his own ass by trying as best to prevent any further injury or complaints. I was further convinced that after a decent rest period, and the right exercises, that I’ll be up and running my much loved half marathons again. But for the time being, all I had to exercise was patience. Easier said than done, most days.

And very difficult on days like today, when the darker the sky outside gets with rain clouds, the worse the pain in my knee gets. I’m really not aging gracefully.

 

Patience and perspective. Oh and positivity. That’s what I need to remember. And I guess prayer. I think praying would definitely help.

Can I have an AMEN?

Happiness should be getting to lie in bed for four days with permission, in fact, on strict instruction, and getting to call on the many helpers to bring me what ever I wish.  But in truth I'm bored.

I've tried sleeping, but it just doesn't happen. There's nothing to watch on TV and I can't read cos the meds i take make the letters wiggle and half way through a sentence I forget what the first part was about.

A little later I plan to watch some movie I have on my laptop. But for right now I'm watching the hibiscus outside my bedroom patio gently sway in the breeze, pretending its hypnotic and will sooth me to sleep. Lets see how well that works . . .  Later peeps.

Craziness is having an emotional meltdown because the tumble drying isn't drying the soccer T-shirts you forgot to hang out. It's 10pm and you're so tired you could puke, yet there's still so much to do. School cloths to iron, well if the t-shirts would just get dry first. There's Sunday to Wednesday's dishes in the sink - so you need to figure that situation out first before you can clean and prep lunch boxes and juice bottles. A quick check of message books shows that you missed last weeks request for recycled items. (And as an aside I wonder whether if I recycled, would the world maybe be kinder to me. Would karma stop  stomping on me every chance it got) 

Socks. Can't find one matching pair of clean socks. Back to the basket of smelly damp washing to find a pair of socks to toss into the tumble dryer. Open tumble dryer that's still blowing cold air out the little holes in the door, and find wet washing, also very cold, flapping around in the drum, no dryer that when I tossed it in there almost an hour ago.

I guess sticking them in other t-shirts won't kill them. But that would be so embarrassing, for them and even worse for me - being exposed as a mom who doesn't have everything under control. And heaven forbid that the world learn that I'm not super mom. 

It's 11:33 and I have a light bulb moment. Not my tears nor my cursing have affected the tumble dryer. Not positively anyways. I'm almost convinced the mean machine is doing it deliberately to see if I'd crack. 

Plan B - and B may by all means stand for brilliance. I turn the oven on to 180 degrees and give it five minutes to heat up. I then take one far from dry T-shirt and hang it over the inside of the oven door, and close it, careful that the fabric is far from the element and any risk of flaming. Wait two minutes. Open and test - drastic difference in moisture level, t-shirt feels warm as well. Repeat step one with other t-shirt. Alternating pink and green soccer t-shirts, changing angles, t-shirts were not only dry, but shockingly uncreased in just over twenty minutes. I hung the crisp dry tops over some chairs, smelling of freshly baked cupcakes, and finally limped off to bed. 

I should have felt relieved, well more than relieved actually. I should have felt like super mom for saving the day. But the stubborn lump in throat was a reminder that the sink was still full of smelly dishes, the fridge needed cleaning out, the kids were going to school in socks that were almost a full size too small for them. But worst of all, in all my mad ranting, I refused to sit with them and wait till they fell asleep. I left them to moan themselves to sleep. 

I just wish I could get organised. I wish I had help. If I had help would I be able to sit with them at night, till the fell asleep? 

That's about all the time I really get to spend with them. Those few minutes after supper and bathing, just before they doze off, and I was too busy loosing my temper with a tumble dryer. 

My daughter is four years old and to hold her chubby little hand while she sleeps is amazing. My son is five, and it worries me that he is such an insecure and anxious little boy. I wish he knew how much I loved him and how I'd do anything to keep him safe, anything to make him happy. They give the best hugs.

Kids are wonderful, so honest about needing love and affection.  Why, as we grow older, do we become coy and manipulative. Why do we see loving as weakness and being loved as a point scored. Kids are so vulnerable yet they are so eager to love. And as adults we fear and avoid vulnerability. I guess it's because kids are innocent, blissfully unaware of how hurt and pain is a certainty, and bound to find you, probably before you properly reach your teens.

But wouldn't it be great to be a child again?  Just to feel true love again?  

Kids complete you, like no parter or spouse can. They give you your true purpose in this world - a vessel to pour your heart into. Until you teach them about God, to them you are God. Isn't that the greatest thing, to have someone adore you, the real you, fat or thin, pretty or not. In the beginning they don't judge you, they demand only love. And love comes in any form to them. But mostly to them love is time. Time spent just being with them. 

I wish I had more time to build blocks, to draw. I wish I worried less about chores, about expected standards of cleanliness. I wish I played more, listened more, took more time to explore these unbelievable little brains.

The guilt lies like a lump in my throat. 

I want to be a better mommy. More than I want anything else in the world I want to be a good mommy. 

I hope my two beautiful angels know how much I love them. I hope they'll know, when they're able to understand, that they were the best thing that has ever happened to me. My son and my daughter are my greatest gift, the best part of me, and all I ever need in the world.

Sometimes I get it wrong - what being a good mommy means. I get confused about what really matters. Toys are less important than the games you play with them. Being at home, is more important than the house itself. And sometimes I'm mistakenly convinced that the chores are important and that I do it for them. When instead I get carried away with chores to impress others. For example, I  worry too much about appearing to be a good mom, attentive to details such as smart cloths for school, where practical and clean cloths would be just fine. I worry too much that I'm being judged ,as a mom, by other mothers, by other people in general. When in fact the only people whose opinions should matter are asleep right now - one in his own little bed, and the other diagonally across my side of the bed.  

I started this post, blinking back tears, on the brink of severe sadness bursting out of me. But in my confused typing I managed to figure something out. I managed to remember that I love my children, and that they love me. However undeserving of that love I might feel at times, they honestly and absolutely, 

unconditionally love me. And that's enough for me.

Alghamdulillah.

Happiness is knowing that you did something good. It's a sense of relief that you did the right thing. It's being warmed by an internal smile.

Few weeks back I was on my way to work, after dropping my kids at day care. Along the road I spotted a boy, in his high school uniform, walking his little sister to crèche. She wore the same school t-shirt my kids wore that morning. The big brother was walking so fast she had to practically run to keep up with him. I was suddenly so sad, wondering where her parents were, that they probably had to leave for work very early, and use public transport. With a lump in my throat I thought of turning my car around to drive her the several blocks she still had to walk. But I was jammed in traffic. I guess I could have turned around if I had really tried.

The guilt and sadness and the image of the little person trotting along to keep up with her brother bothered me for a long time.

This morn, as I dropped my kids I looked for her along the road, but no luck. Even after I dropped my kids I swore that if I spotted her on my way home  I would turn the car around to drive her to school. And then there she was, still a good few blocks away. She's adorable.  Either 4 or 5 years old. It's been raining since yesterday, and even thought it wasn't raining this morning, she had a little umbrella with her.

I stopped the car, barely caring about the cars behind me. Her brother hesitated for a moment, then took her hand and led her across the road and into my warm car.

I easily drove around the block and dropped them both just outside the school gates. Did I mention that she's adorable. 

As I paid for my few groceries my kids noticed the collection tin for spare change on the counter beside the cash register. They mistakenly thought the image was of a little boy vomiting. I showed them it was actually a starving little boy eating what looked like garbage from the ground. They didn't understand. They asked why his mom or daddy didn't give him food, and if he was being naughty for eating from the dirt. Bear in mind that my kids are aged four and five. I tried to explain that he didn't have a mommy, that they have no food and no house and no toys. But their little innocent minds couldn't comprehend such a reality. 

And I'm stuck trying to decide whether to make them aware of the poverty and sadness in the world, or whether to leave them innocent.  

I at 35 am somedays derailed by guilt and depression at the thought that there are children in this world starving. If I can't understand how that could happen, how with all the waste and luxury, starving children are still a reality. How can I make my own babies understand it. 

Cos I'm sure that one of the first questions they'll ask me is why Allah didn't give him food. And again I wouldn't be able to answer.

Perhaps I should just teach them to pray. And of course teach them not to waste. And above all else, to be grateful.

And I will teach them that it is always our responsibility to help others in need any time and any where we can.

If I can have this value ingrained in my children, did I help perhaps in any way? It hardly seems like anything at all.

So all post published today have been written over a period of time, but have been waiting for an Internet connection ... We have managed to get troublesome sim tray open, some time back, but are still waiting to get sim swapped for smaller version. Micro sim I believe it's called. Really. Astounded at how much money is spent on smaller and smaller things. Oh we'll.

So the sim tray is still securely shut. My only consolation is that my husband wasn't able to open it either. 

Happiness is knowing how to open the sim tray on your new iPad mini so life can carry on. Though I was laughing hysterically at all the online posts of other people battling to open their sim trays as well, I was far from happy. 

I was becoming rather frustrated at how uncooperative my new toy was proving to be.  Had to work very hard to hold myself back, for fear of wrecking the delicate little mechanism, and tried to remember when exactly it was that smaller became better.  What ever happened to go big or go home?

So after googling and utubing with no success and eventually no bandwidth either I had give up, box up and go to bed.

Tune in next time to find out if we ever got the blasted sim tray open.