Unpredictable pleasures

Some days, most actually, you just can’t predict them.

You can’t predict they’ll finally eat a breakfast you’ve suggested and even ask for a second serve, politely.

You can’t predict they’ll believe your lies about there being no lollipops in the cupboard, the ones that magically appear after lunchtime.

You try to suppress the shock and excitement when they think sitting in the trolley for the entire grocery shop is a good idea and when they actually stay asleep from the car to the bed.

The daily grind isn’t always dressed in four walls and a desk. For some, it’s dressed in tiny clothes and waves around a cheeky grin.

I’ll take every unpredictable pleasure I can get.

 

No Drama

She was stuck in the best kind of way. At the corner end of the café counter, the warmth of the coffee machine complementing the cool water she sipped. The smell of fresh macadamia muffins and vegetable frittata straight out the oven wafted around her morning and she relaxed her shoulders. The rain fell from the sky, forcing her to look out the window and calculate just how wet she would get if she tried to walk to the car. Dare she leave? She rested her hand on the mighty movements of limbs rolling around in her overconfident belly, the rise and fall of her fingers as each one felt the full force of a tiny human. Leaning back into her cushioned chair she sat, still and quiet.

Dare she leave, when she was stuck in the best kind of way?

Whining

It wasn’t that she necessarily missed wine; the coursing of red and white courage poising through her blood stream, making waves of excited energy or smoothing her out like a saxophone player with three day growth and a cheeky grin.

No. She’d hardly thought about it all really.

 

The Glow Of You

I wish I could bottle this feeling of calm; a peaceful escape from the pattern. Shrink me down and let me lay against the curved walls like a genie in a lamp.Tears well in waiting: for it to be over, for the haze to spread and the melancholy to rise. Let me lay against the curved walls of this calm, I will not take up space but rather be taken up; nestled in silence and awe at the feeling of your blissful, untainted existence that flows through my core.

Taking Stock

Her pages had been empty of late, left in a drawer under sharpened pencils. Dust was settling around ornaments of inspiration, clock ticking around her motivation. Excuses piled up, leaking on to the floor like dishwater.

It was not a reflection of her ability, but of her effort.

 

 

Spilt Milk

Maybe he scribbles on his arms because mummy and daddy are covered in scribble. Maybe he does it because it tickles as the tips run along his soft, bare skin. Maybe, just maybe, he does it because he keeps being told to draw on paper, and paper is just a flat, boring surface that doesn’t tickle and doesn’t look like mummy and daddy. Either way, it’s a step up from drawing on all the walls.

I can think of far worse things to trouble myself over.

For example, flies in my wine.

 

It Takes A Village

The rumour is, that the village is gone and motherhood is lonely. There are many days this rumour feels undoubtedly real, BUT the village is still there, you just have to be open to it; you have to let it in as much as you want it to let you in.

On some days the village is the park, where you make small talk with strangers trying to make their shopping list on their iPhone as their children wrestle them as if they are still in the lounge room. It’s times like this when a villager takes action and pushes their own child over with the others, separating the herd from their parents and dragging the mother to safety. “Come with me, let’s talk smack about motherhood for a while”. Yesterday my village was only made up of two, and we told horror stories about the emergency caesareans we endured and how we desperately want more children, tipping our heads back and laughing at how ridiculous our “biological urge” is, or as recent studies have argued, our “psychological urge”. (That’s a whole other conversation.)

On other days the village is the pool or the sport of the term; gymnastics, athletics, dance. The villagers stare at each other silently, they are so sure they want silence, they are so sure that they don’t want to make small talk or get into another deep discussion about why their child is still shitting under the table while demanding privacy when of course he could get all the privacy he wanted if he just went to the fucking toilet. The villagers try to escape eye contact by escaping into their phones as their children run, swim or frolic like a bunch of uncoordinated psychos. But it only takes one; one overheard comment, one caught glance or one unintentionally loud exhale to get the relatable acknowledgement from some or the entire group. And before you know it, you are walking back to the car, smothering your child in kisses with the knowledge that you are not the only mother trying to coax your child out from the dining room table as they conduct one of their many daily bowl movements.

On most days, the village is digital. I consider this the biggest village by far, the easiest to access and the most private. A village made up of mummy bloggers of both the super mum and the super honest: A village of grandeur or slap dash recipes: A village of the motivated or the recluse: A forum for all. On the days when leaving the house just seems all too hard, I am thankful for the digital village and it’s ability to keep me connected to the world.

If you are not prepared to call on your village, the village is privy to the signals of need; a look of apology as your child hits another, shoulders removing themselves from your ears as your child finds a friend to play with, a ‘like’ on a specific post. We are all secretly and some times unconsciously hinting towards a village, hoping they’ll pick up on our vibes and let us in.

It takes villagers to create a village – look up, look around.

Be a villager; For the sake of your sanity.