When Flowers Die

How is it, I wonder to myself, that something so beautiful and given as a thoughtful gift, can cause pain to the receiver?   Sounds silly, I know.  Yet I can't help the twinge of real sorrow I feel as I watch a bunch of roses wither and die.  Roses that were given to me by a neighbour in return for babysitting her son.  A beautiful, multi-coloured bunch of sweet young roses that smelt like I'd imagine Heaven would smell - sort of fresh and sweet and gentle.  
Yet one week later they are dead and I have to throw them away.

I have on occassion photographed flowers I received, particularly those given to me when Rocco was born, in an attempt to preserve their beauty in some way. 

Somehow, something so beautiful should last longer, much longer, than a measly week. 

I wonder then, if anyone else feels like this or if they just chuck them out and wait for new...

Which brings me to a fond memory back in late 2001 when my then boyfriend and now husband brought me a handful of handpicked daisies - my favourite!  I was still living with my parents and he had been on a truck trip and had brought these back for me.  He'd elaborated on how he'd literally dodged hundreds of swarming bloodthirsty bees (or maybe it was pollen-thirsty!) - and him being allergic as well! - to bring me this thing of beauty.  I popped them straight in a vase and there they stood - for nearly three weeks.  We went away that weekend, and on our return, as we pulled up outside, my mom apparently said to my father, 'quick, chuck out the flowers before she comes in' - they knew I didn't have the heart to throw them away!

Roses are beautiful and classy and romantic and all, but daisies are wild and last longer, even if they don't smell good!

I got these when Cillisa was born from my father.  Coincidentally, Carnations were my Mom's favourite...

The Fear

A post from my personal blog a few days ago that I decided I would share...

Fear and I have grown close over the years. Looking back, it was invitable that we would, that my life would become entiwined with Fear, that we would become inseparable.

It started around the time that I got married. Fear took the first step to integrating itself in my life. It leaned close and whispered in my ear, wouldn't it be fun to lose your husband? And I whispered back that no, it certainly wouldn't be fun, and Fear chuckled and withdrew into the back of my mind, gone but not completely forgotten.

And then my son was born and Fear stepped up to the fore and asked, what if your husband was spared and your son taken instead? And I said, not on my shift. While I'm on guard of my loved ones no one is taking them anywhere. And Fear chuckled again in that ominous way it had and retreated, but not as far as before.

And life went on and it was good and the parties were hard. And I was lulled into a false sense of security as I forgot all about Fear.

And then Cilliers was taken from us. And it left us shocked and broken. Our innocence lost, to be replaced by the knowledge of a terrible and irreversible pain.

And while we were still reeling from the terror of it all, Fear struck again. I lost my mother and it left my soul shattered and cast in shadow. I became a shell, empty and with missing pieces.

I would never be the same again. I would gladly die than lose more. And then my daughter was born. And Fear shook me by the shoulders until my teeth rattled and asked smugly, who's the Boss now? And I fell to my knees and put my face in my hands and cried and answered, you are.

And Fear smiled and took a seat in the corner, within my range of vision. Always there, just over there, within reach.

And my second son was born and Fear stepped up and took my hand and has been holding it ever since.

Fear has a permanent place at my side. There is a space for it in the bed next to me at night when I lie awake in the darkness silently pleading with it to retreat. Making deals in the darkness of the night, with myself as the plea bargain. Take me first, I whisper. And Fear laughs softly, and caresses my forehead before settling down for the night.

Fear is the General in the Army of Life that I have been permanently recruited in. It stands before me and I solute it before bowing my head in a show of respect for the living breathing Fear that is inevitably a part of my life now and forever for as long as there is life that I love and value more than my own; those of my children.

Under The Couch

Well, I contracted a Cleaning Service to sweep (pun intended) into my house tomorrow and do a modern day kind of 'fairy godmother' to it.  A wave of the magic wand and *tarra* my house will be spick and span and new.

I should feel ashamed that I am currently at home on maternity leave and still recruiting a Cleaning Company.  But I'm not.  I have three children - two which are particularly messy and a husband who is not far behind (hello to toothpaste residue left behind in the basin and shoes left just where they were taken off...need I say more?).

So, with two and a half weeks left to go before it's back to work I decided to treat myself, HAVE my house cleaned, HAVE my dogs washed by a doggie parlour and just sit back and enjoy the results.  Just this once.  I might even be tempted to HAVE food delivered to my house tomorrow night too - just to complete my extravagance.

Seriously though - should I feel ashamed?  The messy house subject is a...sticky...one for me.  I love tidyness.  Didn't grow up that way - my mom would laugh out loud if she could read that.  I was the untidiest teenager EVER, despite all Mom's efforts to reform me!  But as I passed into adulthood, I began to enjoy a tidy surrounding.   Between you and me, I do have my messy corner - or cupboard, or draw, a place where the bits and pieces of my life that don't fit anywhere particular get thrown into until further notice.  Drives my husband nuts. 

So I got to wondering how many women, working or stay at home - actually get to cleaning their WHOLE house, top to bottom regularly.  Especially the moms at home.  Can one visit with a 'white glove' and check surfaces?  I know from experience that being a stay at home mom is even harder work than a career mom.  And I certainly don't get to everything, either way.  It's as if I'm constantly putting out little fires, but never getting to the coals and the ash.  Know what I mean?

However, I still got my pride, and as I contemplated and anticipated the Cleaning Service's arrival tomorrow (sparkling windows - yayy!!!), I uneasily realised that for my pride to stay intact, there was some cleaning I had to do first....Did I really want them to know that the last time the couch was moved and cleaned underneath was...well....the last time they were here, which was.....January - or was it December...and it's now April.  

I was probably harbouring a new species of some kind under that couch by now.  I eyed it in trepidation and then got to work. 

Two kids could do THAT?  Seriously, so THAT'S where the egg flip disappeared to!  What were they doing with it anyway?  Beer bottle cap - one guess who's to blame for THAT.  Pieces of tea sets, little micro cars, a lollipop stick....lots of dust...

Dust got me to thinking about another kind of couch - the couch of our lives.  Most people only see the couch - they either think it's a comfortable couch and sit down and visit, or they don't like what they see and move on to another couch more to their taste.  But never do they look underneath the couch.   I know I need to clean underneath my life couch - it gets crowded with all the stray bits sometimes.   That is why I have two blogs, the one for the couch itself and the one for what's underneath the couch.  The darker side of me.  The one I choose to share, the other I don't.   Even my more serious posts still come from the lighter side of me.  It's my other blog that hosts my deeper, darker thoughts.

I read a wonderful blog post a few days ago and something Kirsten wrote there caught at my heart and I really want to share it here now:-

"For even the unbeautiful truths needs expression, and expression is trust and trust is a cliffdive into the unknown."

Kirsten's blog is called Wanderlust and the post is called 'The sound of a h heart breaking. 

Here is a link to the post:  http://kbxmas.blogspot.com/2010/04/sound-of-heart-breaking.html

She's right.   It takes a level of trust to express one's emotions and even when you give that trust, you just don't know what someone is going to do with it. 

Perhaps one day I will lift the couch for all to see what lies gathering beneath it, but for now I like it like it is. 

The First Man I Ever Loved

Of course, after all my pretty words and new found insights as I turned 30, there are still some grey areas that need work.  I do realise this, but it's easier said than done.

I spend alot of time thinking about and analysing my feelings for my father.

There is no doubt, even if he doesn't know it himself, that he was the very first man I ever loved and the one I compared all other men to since.

Yes, Daddy was my hero - still is, if I think about it.   Which I try not to, because somewhere inside, even though I am now 30 and a 'grown up', there is a piece of me that is still 13 and wants to be cross with Daddy, because Daddy went and married another lady after my Mommy died and try as I might for it not to, it does hurt very much.

I was always closer to my Mom.  She was the one I shared all my thoughts and feelings and secrets with, and I trusted her.  We had a very open relationship.  There is nothing on earth to fill the space she left behind in my life.

But this is Dad's space right now.  And while Mom was my best friend, Dad was my hero.  I always thought him to be a handsome man, his short dark hair and blue eyes and wonderful smile work well together.  My handsome Daddy.

And as a girl, my Daddy made me feel safe and protected.  Beware the boy who picked on me at school - I'd tell my Daddy.  

And let's be honest, when moms and teenage daughters butt heads, the neutralising presence of Dad goes a long way in smoothing things over. 

I loved spending time with him in the garage, watching him work.  I believed then, as I still do, even at the ripe age of 30, that my Dad could build anything and fix anything.  Not just 99%, but 110%. 

My Dad seemed to have high standards for me, which I always seemed to fall short of, even to this day.   If I could talk to him like I talked to my mom, I'd tell him that I really did try to be what he wanted.  I finished school, I got my license, bought my own first car, I partied a bit, but not too much and always behaved well.  I met a man, fell inlove and married him and I've been a true, honest and faithful wife - something my father always found very important.  I've worked hard, getting to where I am today on my own, without much help.  Just by persevering and putting in as much effort as I could.  My father hated 'half jobs' (which I was insanely good at as a teenager!).   Does he know that now I too hate half jobs and am almost pedantic about seeing something through? 

So I've really tried my best.  Where did I go wrong?  Why has Daddy never said 'Well Done'? 

Then then '30 year old voice' tells me to grow up and get real.  That I should bridge the gap somehow with my Dad and enjoy whatever years God sees fit to give us, so that somewhere along the line I don't end up writing another post about how I came to understand my dad too late, like with my Mom.  But the other part of me - the part that's just a daughter, regardless of age - wants Daddy's approval.

And I do not begrudge him his new wife, his new life.   He seems rediculously happy right now and I looked at his wedding photos with tears in my eyes, because truly, I don't ever remember seeing him look quite so happy, so healthy, so lively - Not with my mom and certainly not with me. 

My Dad always hated me 'talking out of the house' as a child.  He'd be pissed if he read this for sure!

And so I remain a closet Daddy's Girl, until my '30's' wisdom kicks me up the butt!

30 Regrets or 30 Blessings?

To add to my earlier post '30 Stepping Stones', I have more sentiments about turning 30.  Indeed, this was a big turning point for me.   A milestone.  I heard the echo of doors closing and another of doors opening, and as I said before, I started to think about the reality of dreams and what could still be, what never would be.

I remember a conversation with my mother when I was just into my teens.  It started with me wanting to take piano lessons.  I asked my mom if she ever had dreams when she was a child and she said she sure did.  I asked her about the ones that hadn't come true - the things she wanted to do that she never did.

Her answer to me that day was that it got to a point where it didn't matter anymore.  I can still picture that moment clearly.  I was leaning against her wardrobe and she was making up her bed, tucking the corners in tightly and smoothing the duvet so that there was no creases.  Only Mom made a bed like that.  I've never known anyone else to do it quite so precisely, except perhaps me. 

Anyway.  

I listened to what she said and found it infinitely sad that a point could come in one's life where dreams 'wouldn't matter' anymore, and vowed there and then, silently to myself that ALL my dreams would come true and that I'd go out and do all the things I wanted - before it was too late.

Somehow, I think, looking back - it was what sparked my headlong flight into life - my continued feeling of urgency - that time was running out and I wasn't getting to everything.

Sometimes I still feel like that, because there are things I want to do in this life...but there are other things that just don't...matter...anymore.

Mom was right.  Learning to play the piano is something I woudn't mind, but it sure isn't priority anymore.  It just doesn't matter as much.  Other things have taken its place.

She was right in so many things, especially when it came to raising children.   How is it that I only now begin to understand how she thought and felt about things...now that I have a son of five and a daughter that I'd sooner die than let something happen to. 

And how I wish she was here to tell this to, that now I finally do understand so much more, and that she wasn't just a good mother, she was a great mother.

Does this insight come with turning 30?  Well, it would explain alot!

Meet No. 3 - Enter Rocco

Okay, so I disappeared.  For three months.  Not good for business, I know!  Geez, time really does fly!!  Where have I been?  Indeed, where HAVE I been??   Well, Christmas, New Year and then a new baby, all in the space of a month...I've been recovering ever since!!

I went into 2010 with only one hope - not a resolution, just a feverent hope - that it's a better year.  That one hope sums up everything from finances, to happiness, love, friendship and the prayer that this year I lose noone I love.  May 2010 take no one from me. 

And with this thought still fresh in my mind, Rocco arrived on 19 January, exactly 17 months after his sister.

What a beautiful baby boy, weighing 3.8 kgs, which is close to 9 pounds. 

He is such a treasure.  A quiet and relatively undemanding baby that just loves Mommy.  And I love him.  No matter my previous thoughts, concerns, etc about a third - unexpected - child.  He certainly took his place in our family and I can't imagine life without him now.  He completed our family and gave me a feeling of peace and contentment that I wish could be applied to all the areas of my life.  

I wish I had spent more time on this blog in the last few months...I had such high hopes for it, but I gave up too quickly and shouldn't have.  So here's too a renewed start and a wonderful 2010!

Meet Rocco...

Shopping With Ben 10

There are days I curse being South African.   Even though I live in what is often referred to as the most beautiful city in the world, Cape Town, there are still those days I wish I lived in the UK or States, where there's just more STUFF available. 

This wish rang repeatedly in my head as Jaco and I traipsed from shop to shop to find the kids their Christmas gifts.  My son is a huge Ben10 fan, but would you believe that here in sunny  RSA the only Ben10 stuff available is the cheaper Chinese toys - the 'immitations' should I say, and everything else is so overpriced, it would cost me a weeks' pay to buy the set.  And of course, there's only one or two of the action figures available, the rest is predictably 'out of stock' and has been for some months prior to Christmas.  WHATEVER.

And then we stumbled across some Ben10 goodies we hadn't seen before.  We didn't buy it, not at THAT asking price.   I'll say no more.   A picture speaks a 1000 words after all!