Being work-at-home mom is a
love/hate experience. Find myself feeling extraordinarily isolated on most
days, despite flurry of maids/ relatives/ etc.
Children themselves are not
much stimulating conversation (although can’t recall laughing so much around
adult company), and inherited work load is tediously boring, unorganised and
naffy. Accidental effect of playing with children all day results in dwindling
skills at holding court with adult-anybody’s; most of the time just laugh
manically, end up steering all conversation towards bowel movements of three
year-old. Physically drained, absolute poop (see?) of the party and find self
wondering what kind of self-respecting person would want
to stay awake past 9 o clock when you clearly only have a limited amount of
time to fit in crucial recommended hours of
rest.
On that note, more
self-realisations over time when children routinely throw perspective off
course with incidences such as son kicking toddler in back of head over
apparent theft of his “dragon” (which is really a luminous green braai tong).
Shocked stupid, noting malicious grin on his face and wondering what kind of
bacteria he has ingested for surely this kind of twitfuckery cannot come out of
a child so young and blonde and sweet?!
One other occasion worth
mention is few weeks back, running into Dirty Dave’s shop to drop off
grandmothers’ cigarettes, leaving children in car alone for all of twenty
seconds… Rush back to find son has unpacked entire box of Mypaid, and is
casually (with grin) popping them out of individual blister pockets and feeding
them to daughter who takes them with utmost admiration and bliss, crunching them
in mouth-with-six-teeth.
When things like this
happen, handle the situation with utmost discern and level of appropriateness
(lots of yelping profanities and a half-hearted hiding). Emotions are always
heated, and definitely not humorous in the moment, yet always find self lying
awake replaying incidents with focus on own feelings and reactions. Have always
thought I was a considerably calm person, never soeked
a fight and only ever beat the shit out of sister for being smarter than me;
that hasn’t happened in at least seven years.
Marvel at own skill at
reprimanding son in beneficial manner. Feeling like an absolute paediatric
goddess, handling all things in a gentle way with concrete outcomes. Then start
to wonder what it must have looked like to him whilst I was snarling
profanities, rubbing toddlers’ head better (like a gargoyle rubbing a magic
lamp) and threatening hidings with pan or
similar.
After all is done and
incident well forgotten by sleeping cherubs, I am surprised at the facets of
myself that only show at times like these; sometimes facing self and other times
just not going there. Fact of the matter is must always love all parts of self.
Children, whilst being the greatest blessing, can really bring out slimiest side
of character.
Must I feel guilty for all
the hidings? Apart from reaffirmations of just how serious a decision it is to
have children, confronted with realisation that am in fact a fighter.
Taking all experiences of own childhood highs and lows and twisting it into
model of approach towards my own sweet schmucktots. Do’s and don’t’s aren’t
always determined by the theories one has before the fact. Sometimes things
happen and before you can remind yourself of how you alwaaays
said you would deal with it, truer side of self comes out. Maybe am turning
into own mother, definitely only human.
All the parts of myself that
I have discovered since becoming a mother have changed me, although potential
has always been there inside (playing scrabble in my brain, possibly smoking a
cigarette although probably eating mental donut).
Although I am currently
unhappy with physical state, matters of the heart are once again in
metamorphosis. I love how well I
know myself. Bold enough to say I love all the buttslaps and niggles have had
with the boy and toddler; we are closer than a lot of other families. We do not
grow our own vegetables (may be fertile but fuck all luck with anything that
needs simple soil, sun and water). Son has infamous native tongue (think
“mumbling Schwarzenegger”) that we have all learnt to adjust to, and general
consensus is happiness day in and day out. Perfection is a feather on a string that
we are tempted to chase; then reminded that we are not cats and I will never
poop in a box of gravel.
With this in mind, sometimes
consider self to be outrageously selfish for fretting things like weight, zits
or lack of sexy underwear when should be counting blessings instead… But then I
remember that I is what I is and that’s important. Must be graceful, Jolie-like
figure at all times and respect universal truth: Respect starts with self. Love
comes from within, and cannot be expounded if it is not inside to begin
with.
love/hate experience. Find myself feeling extraordinarily isolated on most
days, despite flurry of maids/ relatives/ etc.
Children themselves are not
much stimulating conversation (although can’t recall laughing so much around
adult company), and inherited work load is tediously boring, unorganised and
naffy. Accidental effect of playing with children all day results in dwindling
skills at holding court with adult-anybody’s; most of the time just laugh
manically, end up steering all conversation towards bowel movements of three
year-old. Physically drained, absolute poop (see?) of the party and find self
wondering what kind of self-respecting person would want
to stay awake past 9 o clock when you clearly only have a limited amount of
time to fit in crucial recommended hours of
rest.
On that note, more
self-realisations over time when children routinely throw perspective off
course with incidences such as son kicking toddler in back of head over
apparent theft of his “dragon” (which is really a luminous green braai tong).
Shocked stupid, noting malicious grin on his face and wondering what kind of
bacteria he has ingested for surely this kind of twitfuckery cannot come out of
a child so young and blonde and sweet?!
One other occasion worth
mention is few weeks back, running into Dirty Dave’s shop to drop off
grandmothers’ cigarettes, leaving children in car alone for all of twenty
seconds… Rush back to find son has unpacked entire box of Mypaid, and is
casually (with grin) popping them out of individual blister pockets and feeding
them to daughter who takes them with utmost admiration and bliss, crunching them
in mouth-with-six-teeth.
When things like this
happen, handle the situation with utmost discern and level of appropriateness
(lots of yelping profanities and a half-hearted hiding). Emotions are always
heated, and definitely not humorous in the moment, yet always find self lying
awake replaying incidents with focus on own feelings and reactions. Have always
thought I was a considerably calm person, never soeked
a fight and only ever beat the shit out of sister for being smarter than me;
that hasn’t happened in at least seven years.
Marvel at own skill at
reprimanding son in beneficial manner. Feeling like an absolute paediatric
goddess, handling all things in a gentle way with concrete outcomes. Then start
to wonder what it must have looked like to him whilst I was snarling
profanities, rubbing toddlers’ head better (like a gargoyle rubbing a magic
lamp) and threatening hidings with pan or
similar.
After all is done and
incident well forgotten by sleeping cherubs, I am surprised at the facets of
myself that only show at times like these; sometimes facing self and other times
just not going there. Fact of the matter is must always love all parts of self.
Children, whilst being the greatest blessing, can really bring out slimiest side
of character.
Must I feel guilty for all
the hidings? Apart from reaffirmations of just how serious a decision it is to
have children, confronted with realisation that am in fact a fighter.
Taking all experiences of own childhood highs and lows and twisting it into
model of approach towards my own sweet schmucktots. Do’s and don’t’s aren’t
always determined by the theories one has before the fact. Sometimes things
happen and before you can remind yourself of how you alwaaays
said you would deal with it, truer side of self comes out. Maybe am turning
into own mother, definitely only human.
All the parts of myself that
I have discovered since becoming a mother have changed me, although potential
has always been there inside (playing scrabble in my brain, possibly smoking a
cigarette although probably eating mental donut).
Although I am currently
unhappy with physical state, matters of the heart are once again in
metamorphosis. I love how well I
know myself. Bold enough to say I love all the buttslaps and niggles have had
with the boy and toddler; we are closer than a lot of other families. We do not
grow our own vegetables (may be fertile but fuck all luck with anything that
needs simple soil, sun and water). Son has infamous native tongue (think
“mumbling Schwarzenegger”) that we have all learnt to adjust to, and general
consensus is happiness day in and day out. Perfection is a feather on a string that
we are tempted to chase; then reminded that we are not cats and I will never
poop in a box of gravel.
With this in mind, sometimes
consider self to be outrageously selfish for fretting things like weight, zits
or lack of sexy underwear when should be counting blessings instead… But then I
remember that I is what I is and that’s important. Must be graceful, Jolie-like
figure at all times and respect universal truth: Respect starts with self. Love
comes from within, and cannot be expounded if it is not inside to begin
with.