Unique

I kiss the boys before I go to bed every night.
They all have their own, familiar smell.
I think I could quite possibly identify them by smell alone.

It is good to be able to love.

The husband went to a funeral today.
Our friend's father passed away, pancreatic cancer.

I have immeasurable amounts of sadness in me, although I am certainly not depressed.
'Grieved' fits better.
Grief for my dad still unresolved, and grief for a painful body and uncertain future.
The loss of certainty.
Always a pain in the ass.


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Cold, Wet

It rained all day, again.
The husband worked from home, and was kind enough to make me a fire this afternoon.
Cue Son#1 and Friend, sent off to the village shop to buy marshmallows.
It was lovely, one of those afternoons you want to hug gently for a long while.

Son#1 went AWOL to the Minecraft World and left the friend to play with Sons#2 and #3.

The appointment with the company doctor (I suspect she is autistic) was the same old boring tale, except that I got miffed at the end.
Once again I see that when someone has NO passion for their job, how that clearly shows.
I don't want to end up like that.

In the house, I wipe down a door here and there, slowly removing personal items for the imminent home swap.
I want to - have to - remove my dad's funeral notice which I haven't touched since November 2013.
A quick glance at a man my dad's age, build, complexion, familiar soft eyes - anything sets me off lately.
My tears are over quickly, but they are there.
It scares me how fragile and vulnerable to loss we really are.


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This Samsara we live in

The boys went on a school trip to a safari park.
I picked them up at 6, after what must have been a long, cold and wet day.

At home, the movement of merde from the main house to my art studio is slowly progressing.

Pretty soon we'll have a minimalist house [albeit with the cluttered chaos merely moved to a different location, waiting to be sorted post-holiday: cue Twilight Zone score].
But as long as our house-swapping guests are content, then so shall we be.

The company doctor awaits in the morning.
I sleep very little.
The boys wake up almost every night, and I have to wait until my need for sleep finally overpowers my physical pain levels, roughly around 1 a.m.

The pain has gotten worse over the last few months - loosely described as a helluva flu mixed with 12 rounds in the ring with Muhammad Ali (he won).

Could years and years and years of stress have done this to me?
I'm afraid I already know the answer, which makes me cry instantly.
To find one's way back from the edge - that is the tough part.


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When The Cat's Away...

Playground Pleasure.

No holds barred.

A friend of Son#2's dropped off a belated gift.

Afterwards, #3 couldn't keep his eyes open.

I let him sleep.

I do love my kiddos so.

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All that endures is art, after all

If one wishes to leave an indelible mark, one needs to do it in the form of art.

Books, fine art, films.

Especially in this everyone-has-a-blog-and-opinion world we live in.

We all like to think that we are something special.

The husband and I once went to the museum of modern art in Antwerp, an exhibit called The order of things (a la Foucoult).

A brilliant photographer, Hans Eijkelboom, took photos of people with similar dress on the streets, and grouped them together (a.k.a. serial portraiture).

Men with red pants, ladies with yellow shopping bags, grunged youths with dark clothes, ladies with skirts of a certain length.

It made an incredibly big impression on me, and I have often thought of it in the past 5 years or so.

The scary part: We ALL fall into some obscure category.

The good part: There are like-minded weirdos out there.

We ain't that special nor unique.

The thought takes an awful amount of pressure off of my shoulders.

I can just BE.

There is no need to stand out.

It's not even possible.

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Meaning of Life

Stuff of dreams.

Bbq, or Braai as we say in South Africa.

The sun shines, and that's all right by me.

And then the ice cream truck drove past with its

 'Mr Sandman' happy tunes.

Son#3 told us that's it is the best day of his entire life.

Tomorrow, the husband is going camping with Son#1 for 1 night.

Sons #2 and #3 and I are going for a neighbourhood picnic.

I've been working myself up.

Son#1 had yet another altercation with the Break Gestapo at school, a woman named Judith with too short hair and no chin, plus bags full of sarcastic vitriol she seems to save for my kid.

Way back when, Son#1 ran away from school because of this awful person.

My cup runneth over [with impatience].

An oeuf is an oeuf.

For tonight, we have wine, lovely boys (Son#3 on repeat, singing. the. same. damn. song. over. and. over)

and each other.

My mum is coming in 6 weeks' time.

Next week, I'm seeing the company doctor.

The boys are in the last throes of the school year.

I have much pain and discomfort.

Everything ends, eventually.

My mother and I had a conversation about the lack of meaning in life.

But perhaps there IS no point.

We exist for a while.

We disappear again.

And that might just be enough.

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Footsie Footsie

Slowly but surely, the house and its ensuing chaos of The Big Clean-Up, is coming together.

Objects long, long forgotten are unearthed, dusty and sticky, and finding their way to boxes destined for the dumping ground or charity.

It feels good.

 

Although I feel quite knackered, and have to do the bulk of the clean up on my own, It gives me a lot of energy.

The trick is to pace myself carefully.

 

 

 

A la Marie Kondo, I thank the objects for their good service, and, miraculously, it makes it better to let them go.

She's on to something here.

 

The next 2 weeks before the summer holiday starts, are filled with doctor's appointments for myself and Son#2.

Homeopath, eye specialist, ear specialist, company doctor, internal medicine.

Dizzying, I can tell you.

Chuck in a children's party or two, packing our holiday gear , and cleaning-whatever-is-left...

Sigh.

 

 

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Words to Live By

 

 

Towards good things.

 

 

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Objects of Beauty

Like white brides dancing outside the kitchen window.

Things are growing in the garden.
There are courgettes, peas, blueberries, tomatoes, herbs.
Hopefully some of them will ripen before we go on holiday.

The weekend has been quiet due to the incessant heat.
Who can clean or tidy with temperatures in the high thirties?
Tomorrow I'm tackling the playroom, where a culling of toys is in order.

On towards the simple life.

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Hotness itself

Two sets of friends came today.
One mother needed a babysitter, the other kid had dinner with us after Son#1 spent the whole afternoon at his house.
Amidst social visits, the house exploded.
40 degree temperatures made us all cranky and unpleasant.

A friend with 4 kids once told me that by the time her husband came home, she was all through with being kind and loving.
I get that.
I like solitude.
I like being home alone.

Tomorrow will be another scorcher.
I'm tired of correcting 3 kids constantly.
When oh when does the having-conversations-phase arrive?

When?


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