A View From My Point

Posts tagged ‘Time’

A Silly Poem about The Luxury Of Being Horrified

You know the feeling when you just can’t look away

how you know you should open your mouth and just say

‘I can’t believe your drive around with your kid on the front seat’

‘How do you live in a house that isn’t neat’

‘What were you thinking when you chopped down that tree’

‘How could you not even think about me?’

‘Didn’t you care when your toddler tore up that book?’

Some things deserve a second look

Maybe the people who drive around with their kids on the dash

don’t have a decent car, they simply don’t have the cash

Or the woman who doesn’t get to tidy her house

is working double shift and her husband is a louse

The people that don’t follow the green house effect

Maybe they’re not in the income group and have to call collect

If a kid destroyed something valuable to you

take a step back before you pooh pooh

That parent could be exhausted from shouting

maybe the only way the offspring get attention is through pouting

It’s not for us to say

or to comment on the way

other people live their lives

so what if they wanna mix it up and have 8 wives

It’s just another story that someone has to tell

drop me a line when you decide who goes to hell

because that makes you the one with all the power

but sure doesn’t do anything for you looks, quite frankly it makes you look sour

So lets build a bridge and actually give a shit

it’ll make it easier for us all to Get Over It.

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A Silly Poem For Arsenic Hour

My darling children, from when you wake up

I take a sip from my steaming cup

Countdown begins to and Hour that will come

the seconds beat within my heart like a drum

the time of the day that I’ve learnt to dread

it makes the blood thunder in my head

Arsenic Hour

No one has power

A time for all Seasons

this Insanity has no reasons

From playing well together at around 3 pm

the crescendo is slow and it builds like REM

it doesn’t start with any particular note

perhaps it’s from one swirling dust mote

“It’s MINE!’ is the most oft repeated refrain

and I’m sure we’ll hear it again

and then it swiftly escalates to a blow

the thump on flesh where a bruise will show

whether you’re knocking each other with soft toys

or fighting about which one belongs to the boys

It’s upon us, this new Hour, we’ve reached Destination

(one that didn’t exist in my previous incarnation)

Through all your screaming and your tears

I’ve realized one of life’s greatest fears:

There is no one else I would pay

to see you this way.

The thin veneer of human I’ve managed to paste

over the crazy animal you are, is not a waste

as Time marches on I know you will learn

the voice that I use can be described as ‘stern’

and your little bums will be on fire

I am a Wooden Spoon for hire

Yes! That’s the anecdote to your poison

‘an eye for an eye’ we can all get our noise on!

My name is Mommy, hear me roar!

Feel my wrath! It’s gonna be sore!

Tuck you in, I will, like a robot be

I want to love you again tomorrow, don’t make me count to three.

A Silly Poem for Skêr

Many many moons ago

when we were young and the days would flow

from one art class into the next

who would have thought you’d see this in text

Happy Birthday Dear Old Scissor

don’t I wish I could hold up a mirror

to show you all the things I’ve thought

since we left school in year nought

How often I’ve thought of your cartoons

the way you’d draw constantly, not only pictures of spoons

but of people, the sea and lots of building crowded streets

plenty of boots, fruits and tables draped in sheets

with a line and shade you’d quickly represent

I always thought the way you did ‘white’ was an extreme talent

And now here we are with distance, time and life

between all these birthdays, lots of good and some strife

it’s good to be able to connect her in Cyberspace

to monitor you as you run to prepare for some race

So here’s a Special Wish to commemorate

all the years of Birthday Cake you have ate!

Many Many Happy Returns Of the Day

Hope you’ve made some good memories, got a chance to play

sat back and drank whatever poison you imbibe

and didn’t have to put up with any ‘you’re-too-skinny’ jibe

I’m sure you were showered with hugs and kisses from Matt

and now it’s time to keep smiling for another year of this and that.

First Shoes for Grade One

On Monday this little baby,

goes to Grade One. When she was born her clothes were tiny, human clothes in the forms of onesies and baby grows. She had lots of blankets because she is a Winter baby. She has a bear – her name is Snoozie. Snoozie will not be going to Grade One but she still lives on the bed of this little baby.

Today, I offered this little baby the chance to have her first earrings pierced into her ears. She very bravely sat and whimpered while the lady drew little marks on her lobes and as the ‘guns’ were loaded and lifted to her ears, she shouted, “No, I don’t want my ears pierced.”  How brave, I thought, she’s been going on about how pretty they will look and how she will look like all her friends (who no doubt were pierced without their consent as infants – but who am I to judge?). This little baby stood up for her right to choose, a difficult thing to do if you’re a child and most of your decisions are made for you, with your best interest at heart, one would hope. Playing up the prettiness of the pearl and gold earrings she had chosen and playing down the stinging momentary pain that it takes to be a pierced earring wearer – the answer was still a resounding ‘No, I do NOT want to have my ears pierced.”

So I have, some opened but unused little gold and pearl earrings if anyone else is interested.

And then came the shoes, with my heart still filled with pride at the strength of this little character that I birthed we hit the Maul of Shoe Stops. Luckily at the first retailer we encountered the Dream School Shoes, “like tap shoes” she describes them. Whisking a pair of socks off the rack they were quickly fitted and the first obligatory ten steps were taken to try them out. She stops, “They’re like magnets and the floor is like the fridge.” She observes.

And I realize, that The Eldest has been barefoot and unrestrained by anything more than a pump, slip slop or wellington boot for the last 6 and half years. These shoes, are the first shoes, to conformity – the first molds that shape her little feet into something that they’re not used to. No more the feeling of sand between her toes, mud that oozes so deliciously, water lapping at her toenails – well not for the 5 hours that she’s at school anyway. That’s all going to be different now, perhaps more appreciated as her tootsies are now encased, for School Work.

And now This Little Baby, continues to walk and live and grow into a new set of rules – for her. I’ve been there and I hope that I can remember what it was like – not to interfere too much but to have some sort of wisdom of experience on my side to guide her. It’s never easy but that doesn’t mean it has to be unpleasant. Wish me luck as I wave her Good-Bye, not for the first time and not for the last.

Tomorrow *spoiler alert*

You do all know that we’re going to wake up tomorrow and have to do it all again, right?

Wake up – blinking, wondering what it was that roused you from your slumber.

Realize – it’ s the little voices chanting “Mommy, Mommy, Tea, Tea, Toast, Toast, TV, TV”

Self Pity – maybe that last glass of bubbles wasn’t such a good idea.

Gratitude – that through years of sleep deprivation one has learnt to go to bed by 23h30

A Pat On The Back  – for knowing that this New Day is like any other New Day, regardless of the date.

And so, I’ll contemplate a couple of New Years Resolutions; quitting eating, quitting drinking, quitting drugs, quitting smoking, quitting lying around eating bonbons and watching soap operas.

Or some Affirmations; to use less sarcasm, to be more considerate towards fellow planet sharers, to breathe more deeply before losing ones temper, to practice a higher level of understanding how other people process things, to exercise more and listen to Dr Oz.

A New Years Day for me means tidying up all the fallout from whatever happened last week yesterday, we swim in the river every day,  so I’ll have to source dry towels, since I’ve been on a housework strike between Christmas and New Year that will be no mean feat. Laundry then, first on the list. Loading and unloading the dishwasher – not necessarily in that order and of course nobody obeys my Rule of No Food anywhere else in the House, so I have to trace and traipse after, bowls, mugs and cups that have perhaps not only been used as food receptacles, send up a little prayer for me please – it’s been a week. Making beds – thanking my lucky stars that I don’t live in a time of, sheets and blankets and eiderdowns with bedspreads (no wonder people didn’t  live that long in the old days). I suppose I’ll have to scrounge some kind of food to prepare and serve from the ice cupboard to keep my fellow family members alive  – eggs on toast it is. Will I pick up the toys that weren’t ‘tidied’ by my disgruntled slaves that trashed the place first? I don’t know, probably – my sense of order would want that as a “Fresh Start” for the New Year – maybe I’ll make a go at resuming  The Hospice Diet.

Things that I would really like to do Tomorrow – sleep until I wake up. Make an awesome breakfast with all the trimmings and have my fussy family eat it all with relish. Have the dishes disappear and reappear packed in their places. Go to Church – it’s a Sunday, why not? I’d like the Minister to be my Dad and the proceeding should commence around 11 am – to accommodate my leisurely smiling faces breakfast, of course.  Then a little nap – for ALL of us that live in this house. Wake up to a light meal of cheese and preserves and then a dip in the river. Some coffee and the last of the Christmas Cake and then a rapid succession of fed, bathed and sleeping offspring. And then to snuggle into the arms of my Other Half to watch some ludicrous Science Fiction that of course is on the local channels because we’re not in that income group of satellite TV watchers. Ah yes, it’s lovely to dream. Maybe one day.

In the mean time I will be appreciating that we get to have another day. If one does subscribe to the Date Change Joy then that sense of renewal is unbeatable, but I’m going to try and not  let it build up all the expectations that are sure to come crashing down by Valentines Day, if not before. Instead I’ll be trying to cultivate the steady Joy of Seizing Each Day as if it was one’s Last Day. Embracing the Humdrum – Now that’s a good Affirmation.

Happy New Day, Week, Month, Year Everybody!

Punctuality is next to Godliness.

Was it Punctuality or Cleanliness that was next to Godliness? I can never remember – I just know that I can go into instantaneous spasms if I realise that I’m going to be late – for anything – whether it’s to drop a child off anywhere or to get  to Work on time and I used to work from home for 7 years.  Never mind when a professional with whom I have an appointment has his/her waiting room with people actually waiting in it.

What is this insanity and obsession with being On Time? I really need to loosen up – and I have, a lot.

If I really had to take it back to its source I could probably tie it up with the natural delivery from my Mother’s loins – I believe I was a little over Full Term – say 42 weeks and 3 days or summat like that. Perhaps due to my lateness and an over zealous use of forceps by the Doctor my birth was a punishment and so I felt I should never be late again. My Brother, on the other hand, was really Over Term at 43 weeks and 5 days (good grief, My Mother is a Saint) as a result of being born by easy gravity and not having enough beatings as a child my Brother still needs to be lied to about what time a meeting starts by about an hour and a half. You know what I mean? We’re all going to gather at 10 am – we tell him it starts at 08h30 – then we’re guaranteed that he’s only going to be 30 mins late.

Perhaps my fear of untimeliness is due to my part German Father’s obsession with Punctuality – as a Clergyman (now retired – as if you can retire from Clergying) his church service always starts on time and ends promptly an hour later – which I understand is rare in this breed who tend to waffle. Of course a Bride is allowed the grace to be late, 15 minutes – max! Don’t ask what happens if the Blushing One is any later – it’s not pretty. These days he’s a dj/radio announcer for a local Station in the Karoo and is as Punctual as ever – muttering and mumbling if the previous announcer isn’t winding up his show within the obligatory 5 minutes so that he can come in and set up his papers (yes, papers, this Grandad hasn’t quite gotten hang of all the new fangled digital malarkey in the State of The Art Studio).

Fact remains – I like to be at least 5 minutes early. Enter the birth of my Eldest – who didn’t have a chance to choose her Time but was instead Electively Removed via Cesarean Section. Delightful Child, Easy Baby born to Obsessed with Timing Mother. Her feeds were scheduled according to when she was hungry (of course) – at first permanently latched and then every One Hour and Twenty Seven Minutes, slowly stretching longer and longer in Fourteen Minute Intervals – call me on it – I wrote it all down in a Log Book. Sleep patterns from 6 months were monitored and I could tell you within the Hour at which time she would wake up, to the Minute and then I would know at what time she would be ready for her next nap due to having it all scientifically worked out according to which age group and temperament category she belonged – thank heavens for Sleep Guides now available at any local bookshop.

Problems came about when I would have liked My Life to have resumed. Still under the illusion that things could be just  the way they used to be, I would make an appointment:

Step One: Phone the number of Person with Whom Appointment needs to be made. During phone call shush little person who become rowdy once the headset has been placed close to ear hole. Rowdiness only commences once the handset  is lifted past shoulder height since texting and dialing don’t prompt this behaviour.

Step Two: Speak to efficient Appointment Maker, trying to sound as if I do this all the time.

Step Three: Find diary (random piece of paper)

Step Four: Pick up writing instrument – from somewhere – usually a pen/khoki/crayon that no longer ‘writes’

Step Five: Carve aforementioned time of appointment onto paper. Thank the kindly, patient person and hang up phone

Step Six:  Live life until Day Of Appointment

Step Seven: Prepare the night before Appointment by packing and repacking, my bag, her bag and our bag. Checking list of all the things that need to be placed in vehicle.

Step Eight: Wake Up Early On Day Of Appointment

Step Nine: Start monitoring feeds and naps so as to be able to get into the vehicle and allow for enough travelling time to arrive at The Appointment 8 minutes before the time. Have false impression that it’s all going according to Plan

Step Ten: Feel Smug.

Step Eleven: Plan failure imminent as The Eldest is still sleeping, now 20 minutes more than usual. Book says, Never Wake A Sleeping Baby.

Step Twelve: Phone the nice people 2 hours in advance to say we’re going to be late.

Step Thirteen: Eldest awakes to complain that I’m on the phone. Should have picked it up past shoulder height 20 minutes ago!

Step Fourteen: Massive explosion (hers, not mine) to be dealt with, including full costume change for the Eldest, who should probably eat something now that she is so obviously empty.

Step Fifteen: Breastfeed, this is not as it fast as it should be, maybe this appointment should have been made a little later (like when The Eldest has gone on her Gap Year)

Step Sixteen: Load the Car, my bag, her bag, our bag. Spare blankets. A Perambulator. Of course I put all the other stuff that we would NEED in while she was having her extended nap.

Step Seventeen: Get The Eldest and her Snug & Safe Wrangled into the vehicle

Step Eighteen: Extricate myself from the passenger side seat belt and get into the Drivers seat.

Step Nineteen: Find the dummy and plug the Eldest who is weeping because I had to walk around the car – Separation Anxiety is not for the faint of heart.

Step Twenty: Ignition and lift off. It took 8 minutes to get over the diabolical speed retarding ditches on the servitude road that led to the road that would put me in line with my destination.

Step Twenty One: Hit ALL the red lights

Step Twenty Two: Breathless and disheveled, carrying ALL our bags and The Eldest, arrive at The Appointment. In tears of rage because I am 17 minutes LATE.

Of course only to be told that someone else has taken my time slot and that I would now have to wait another 30 minutes for my turn. I learnt early on in this new phase of Being A Parent to make only one Appointment per 24 hours (and then later one per week – but that’s a different story) to avoid the Knock On Effect of then being Super Later for Everything.

So I am slowly learning and adjusting and changing little things to accommodate this Obsession with Punctuality. For example I don’t openly judge other people on their inability to use a time piece effectively.  Another example is having Other People handy to look after The Eldest and The Youngest so that I can dart off and Be On Time. This is a neat trick but it doesn’t always work since the Other People are not ‘Mommy’.

Lastly, I think what has made the greatest difference in making peace with this affliction is having slowed down. Adopting a Minimilistic Approach in everything. Less things to do means less things to plan. Having less things means having less things to take care of giving me more time for important things – like not stressing about where to find something just before we have to be 20 minutes late. Because of course I know where everything is. Sort of.

And now, after spending three days writing this, all the while squeezing minutes out of Our Schedule and spending two days editing it so that it isn’t too long to read for our bite size little attention spans – I am late getting The Eldest to school, which in turn has made me late for my away-from-home Job.

A Silly Poem for Monday Breakfast

Bright Eyed And Bushy Tailed, there must have been a memo I missed

My favourite time of any week must be, Monday Breakfast

A sparkly start, another chance to make it work

Routine and a clean page, time is something you just can’t shirk

I embrace this first day of the week

So much so that by Tuesday I feel bleak.

 

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