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 |  A public journal? Sounds like a really bad idea! |
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Life is like a box of chocolates a dance floor!
Sometimes you're in the spotlight, sometimes you're not. Sometimes you know the steps and sometimes you feel way out of place. Sometimes you are a graceful ballerina, sometimes people are careless and they knock you down. In the end, we're all just looking for that grand finish. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Benita’s Dad got sick quickly. At first he had a cough that wouldn’t ease up but soon he was bed-ridden, more and more sick each time he came from the hospital. She would race home from school so she could sit at his bedside all afternoon in Mummy’s bedroom. Some days were better than others, some days he would read to her. Other days she would sit quietly in the faded yellow of the bedroom and watch over him. Her mother had an unhealthy addiction to small ornate pillows. They littered the bed, the floor and the chaise. Now and then, when he seemed to groan in discomfort, Benita would stuff a few useless, embroidered, tiny pillows under his head to ease his pain. Duckie, as Benita called her sister Felicia, was only a year older but she took on the role of parent while theirs crumbled from the strain of sickness. The boys, Darren and Kieran, ignored reality by making guns out of sticks and chasing each other around outside until it was dinner time. They were older, they must have known. “Come on Bennie, it’s time for supper.” Felicia pulled at her little sister’s arm. Benita had fallen asleep on her dad’s chest after reading to him from her Children’s Book of Magic. He had given it to her the year before, when she turned 6. This year there had been no party. Dad had a chemo treatment that day and had been too tired. She decided that it didn’t count, she was still 6 until her dad could celebrate with her. She rubbed her eyes and squinted in the fading light. Her dad’s skin had gone grey while his hair fell out. As he lay sleeping on the bed, he looked like an old sorcerer… wrinkled and wise. She kissed him on the forehead. His skin was cool and damp. “Mom is still at Aunty Jenni’s so I made toast for us.” Felicia said, not once looking at her dad. She just turned and walked out as though Benita was the only person in the musky old bedroom. |
| Chapter 1: The Spider’s Foyer Benita woke up just as the sun was rising and jumped out of bed. There was no time to waste, today was her 6th birthday! She could hear her mother pottering in the kitchen downstairs and the smell of cinnamon French toast filled the air. Still in her pyjamas, she raced down the stairs and found her dad in the foyer putting up decorations. “Good Morning Princess!” He caught her as she jumped off the last stair into his arms. “Or should I say ‘Your Witchyness’?” He bowed to her and she took up the role instantly. “I’ll turn you into a frog if you’re not careful!” she growled at him. Her dad laughed, a hearty, deep laugh. “Look what I made for you…” He went behind the door and pulled out a giant black spider. “Wow, that is awesome.” She looked around the foyer with delight, there were cobwebs hanging from the corners, gloomy black wax candles and a bowl full of candy eyeballs on the table. “Can we put it there?” she asked pointing at the top of the kitchen doorway. “Sure,” he replied. “like this?” “Perfect!” “Breakfast is ready!” Her mom called from the kitchen. “Birthday girl, I made your favourite…” Footsteps approached and the two mischief makers froze with anticipation. Benita could barely contain herself. On cue her mother screeched with fear as she came through the door. “WHAT IS THAT!?” She demanded after she regained her composure. Benita and her dad bursts out laughing and high-fived each other. “Benjamin! I thought we agreed to stop with the witches and gloom?” “She likes it, Kerry.” “Well, I don’t! I’m not having a spider foyer the whole day, we’ve got guests coming.” |
So far, my 30 day challenge is not going so well... Ugh... Well, today I'm getting back on the proverbial horse and trying again. Here's a story called; "The journey of a raindrop"  In my mind I am a pristine raindrop, beautiful and extraordinary... "Monkey? Monkey! Are you awake?" My mother bursts into my bedroom as I plop over and snort. "We've been called to the front line, Monkey. You need to get up immediately!" she sing songs as she opens my curtains and pulls back the covers. "Ugh, it's still dark." "Come on, come on. It's not up to us to decide when the clouds should burst... Oh, look at you! You've swollen tremendously! Your dad would be so proud." She waddles out my door and into my brother's room, "Wake up my sweet little puddle..." Guess who's the favourite. Moments later the whole cloud-town is standing on the edge of the cloud ready for free fall. "Now remember, my droplets, we'll meet back here in 48 hours. Do you have your snacks?" There's no time to answer her before the gates are flung open and we dive out. This is my favourite part. For one brief moment I am beautiful; the sunrise light refracts through me, beaming a rainbow over the sleeping city. I swirl and dance through the gusts of wind like a ballerina. I am full, I am enough. Without exception, the freedom ends. With an almighty bang I rupture myself on the ground. Dazed, I stare up at the gloomy cloud overhead and watch my friends, family, classmates and acquaintances follow the same path. They fly blissfully through the air for just a few moments of indescribable joy and land with an oaf on the dirty floor. The sand and gravel under me begin to seep into me making me brown and smelly. This is not my favourite part. "Oh darling, look at that, I fell right next to you!" My mother gurgles from her puddle. "I wish I could fall forever." I lament to her. "I know Monkey, we all do. Unfortunately we have other responsibilities too. Now pull yourself towards yourself and let's go home." I've been told I read too deeply into things, I put too much meaning on things. Things that have no meaning. There is no greater purpose than the humdrum, so why do we (pristine and perfect raindrops) spend so much energy seeking truth and purity. Gregor Samsa became a bug... I'd much rather be a raindrop stuck in an endless loop of beauty and the banal. |
Good day Bloggasphere! Life's oddities; I saved up to buy a paid membership and then got so busy that I couldn't use it. Well, now I'm making it a priority... It has been a whirlwind the last few months, but I finally feel like I'm gaining control again. Tomorrow is the 1st of October. There's nothing like a new month to give a person that "clean slate" feeling. I am going to commit to a full month of blogging everyday- EEK! So, stay-tuned and let's see how far I get. Lyn's a Witchy Woman  has given us a choice today and I choose "The Spanking". My darling angel is approaching the 'terrible twos'. So, the question is "to spank or not to spank?" In some countries I understand that the decision has been made for you by the social powers that be. Here in Namibia, it's up to the parents. I distinctly remember my mother 'spanking' us out of rage. We would push and push and at the very end of her tether she would snap and smack us. It was weird, almost comical to watch. I don't want to loose my temper with my children but boy, they can push! On the other hand, I heard recently that teaching children boundaries and obedience has a very small window. In fact, by 2 years old that window is closed. That means I have less than 6 months to really teach my little girl to stop when I say stop (because there is a bus coming and she is about to get hit???). That is a scary thought. As we speak she is waging war on my self-control with a tantrum. Do I spank or do I give in? |
| Prompt: How much does the clutter that fills our closets describe us? Now and then my husband will open my laptop to call on uncle Google. As FireFox churns and heaves, carrying the weight of my cluttered mind, he bemoans the millions of tabs that stand open. He is analytical and efficient... I am not. The physical clutter that crowds my closets, (and counters and floors) reflects the clutter that builds in my mind hourly. It does describe me; I am creative. I thrive in the clutter, I make mental snow angels and rummage through the debris with serendipitous joy! Today I found a bag of beautiful old buttons... What a lovely find! |
Hair... This one is a duzy! I mean, there's been a musical and a documentary trying to understand the perfection of hair... John Travolta put on a fat suit AND a dress! So can we really discover why people spend a lot of time on their hair in one blog post? Calvin even asks if my hair color or style say anything about me? Hmm... Should we put on a pot of tea and settle in??? This story begins when I was a little baby monkey clinging to my mother's chest as she swooped through the trees. My mother held me close, shielded me from the world. At the time I considered it altruistic love. Later I realised it was embarrassment. I was all but bald until about 4 years old. The 3 little hairs that did grace my head where strapped together in over sized bows by day and doused in mayonnaise-egg-beer mixture by night (this, I was told would cure me of my ailment). It took many hormonal years, but eventually (just in time for the matric dance; 'prom') I had hair down my back that curled and shone in the sun. It was dark brown kissed with light streaks. Oh, what a crowning glory! My mother preened and primped to ensure it was always perfect. I had arrived in the land of the beautiful. Not many years later I left home and got married (this was not in my mother's plan for my life so already tensions were mounting). Then, old year's eve 2010, I made a hasty decision that had been wondering around my mind since prom night... I cut all my hair off. Gone. Army cut, or "pixie" as I called it then. The hairdresser even used a razor on my neck. I left the salon feeling 24 years of pressure lift from my weary shoulders. I must say at this point; I love my mother and she would lay her life down for me. Our journey has not been smooth but no matter what, we love each other. My decision to lop off my crown of locks was not in defiance of my mother's love but rather an attempt to switch my world view from one heavily influenced by hers to one that I can wholly own. Seems like I expected a lot of my hair, right? It is a powerful tool and deserves careful consideration. Must we get Biblical?? Samson was a fool to cut his and women were warned to 'cover' their heads... It's serious stuff! All this having been said... I am a wash and wear kind of girl. There's no blow-drying, krimping or ironing happening around here... So long as it is clean, I'm ready to go. I've tried to be that girl, to care about the latest rends but Namibia has wrecked the luster of my crown, the air is so dry that my poor hair looks like ash. It's unfortunate. It does say something about me, Calvin; I am not a trophy wife. PS: you should see my baby's hair! HAHAHA! She came out with a full head of hair and it has grown at warp speed ever since! She looks like those golly-wog dolls from the 80s. I wonder what that says about her? |
So, it's Sunday. I'm thinking of the Bangles now ("Wish it was Sunday! That's my fun day... My, 'I don't have to run' day"- ah, I miss my dad. He used to play these old favourites on Sundays. Bangles, Credence, Beach Boys). Back to now:    Baby girl played in the garden today. She is such joy! She climbed on the swing and laughed at her own jokes. She ate rice for lunch, but fed most of it to the floor. She chatted to an imaginary friend on her toy cell phone and petted the cat. Hubby and I watched, enchanted. Did we really make something so beautiful? There was a prompt a few weeks ago about how your life would be different if you had/didn't have kids. Apologies for coming to the party a month late, but I have an opinion. For those of you who don't have kids, please bear with the gag reflex and hear me out... Almost a year and a half after she crashed into our world (like the 'pan-galactic gargle blaster'), I have realised something; there was always an Isabelle shaped hole in my heart, I just didn't know it. She makes my life complete. We are eager awaiting a second life changing bundle of joy, but for now, I'm fulfilled when I look in her eyes. Hang on, we can't let that HHGTTG reference slide by unchecked... This was one of my favourite literary moments. The drink that tastes (I'm paraphrasing...) like being hit in the face by a gold brick with a lemon wrapped around it. Perhaps Lyn's a Witchy Woman can give me the exact quote? That is truly what becoming a parent feels like. It sounds lovely; sparkly, gold, lemony. But in fact it is a BRICK! In your FACE!!! She refused to sleep for 10 months. Our marriage nearly imploded. It was not bliss. At least we have established that Hindsight is not 20/20 . |
| As you can see from my blog intro, in the land of dancing monkeys, life is a dancefloor! I'm sure this concept is quite cliched but it is particularly drawn from a song by a South African songstress, Lira. She croons that "sometime we bump and bruise" on the dancefloor but that's the "rythm of this life". She goes on to declare that she wants the hearer as her "partner in this dance of life... BaBa badah!" (Excuse the outburst, the music is sweeping me away.) So, as a 'sentient adult'; my life is a dancefloor, sometimes it's a competition, sometimes it's a group number in the caberet. Sometimes it's just me, no audience, no spotlight. No-one could ever acuse me of being a wall-flower. |
| Hello Blogworld... When I stopped working last week, I really thought I'd have infinite time for WDC! It has not happened that way. My friend had a family crisis (see previous post) and has needed support, my hubby has been sick and baby girl is just so beautiful I can't tear myself away from her. So, once again, my sincere apologies for not posting in much in the last week. In my life I've had this crippling fear of failure. It stops me from even trying to reach for goals or dreams. If I can think I am good at something, I want to stop there and hold onto the possibility. If I try and fail then even the possibility is gone. It's probably why I like buying canvases but never get around to painting, what if I can't?? That's the sob story done... Last year, when my baby was 6 weeks old, I went for an interview to be a "Corporate Affairs Officer". I managed to sell myself even though I was literlly shaking. 10pm that night the one lady called and said the job was mine. So, this is the first of the "proven them wrongs", except I'm the one who was proven wrong. My direct boss had gone on maternity leave after the interview and 2 days after I started her boss, the head of the department, resigned. The CEO called a departmental meeting and asked who would be willing/able to take on different tasks. My other colleagues were shy, or shellshocked, who knows. They didn't say anything. I offered to take on things I knew how to do. The next day (7 days after I started) he called me into his office and asked me if I would be willing to be the head of the department until my direct boss got back from maternity leave. I'm sure every single person in the company was thinking "who's this upstart? what does she think she can do??" Nevertheless, I did my best for 3 long and exhausting months of trial by fire and somehow made it out the other side... It was amazing and I learnt that it's ok to fail, even if you are doing your best. Just remember to get up and try again. |
| I'm not sure what to say, it's been a tough weekend. My heart is sore and my mind is troubled. This world is a harsh place for any of us but especially for small children. If anything ever happens to my baby, I don't know if I'd survive. So, I sit with tears threatening behind my eyes and my sleeping baby in my arms. I can't even bring myself to put her down for the night. For anyone that has had to endure abuse as a child, my heart is heavy with compassion tonight. I'm sorry you ever had to experience that. I pray that God will protect my child and will give me peace. I'm not going to go into detail but just so you know, nothing happened to my little girl. It was someone else, very close to us that was hurt. |
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==> Sorry! 
I wonder how often a scam like that would work. I mean, adults have the money, and most adults aren't naive enough to fall for that nonsense. Opportunistic fool. 
