Do you know how bloggers often start off their blog posts by apologising for neglecting their blogs for days/weeks and then offering an excuse which usually includes work, ill health or family obligations. So here goes ...
It's been 4 years since my last blog post, but I've been so busy watching and re-watching Downton Abbey that I just couldn't find a moment.

Truthfully though, I haven't really felt the inclination to write - at first, because I had been going through a tough time when I last posted and I really didn't feel like recording that period of my life.

Blogging had always served a purpose - it helped me process my feelings and thoughts. Often, I'd start a post in a state of emotional turmoil and then gradually, as I wrote, I'd start to make sense of what I was feeling and even find some sort of resolution - a process which, more often than not, filled me with a feeling of calmness and serenity.

Which is what prompted my return to blogging after a ridiculous 4 year hiatus. This morning I found myself emotionally overwhelmed. I had returned from dropping the kids at school and found myself alone at home with only my sadness for companionship. I paced up and down the house, not knowing how to stem the wave of grief threatening to engulf me. Then, quite by chance, I happened upon my old blogging laptop where I sat down to write my sadness away.

"Today is my boy, Shakeel’s last day in school uniform and I’m sad. Really, really sad. Ridiculously so. My kids know how sentimental I am, so we’ve all been anticipating this day for months already – Shakeel viewing it with nervous dread, as today we also attend the valedictory assembly, which promises to be a rather emotional experience for even the most emotionally healthy parent (a category in which I obviously don’t find myself).

He recently watched in horror as I bawled my eyes out to the episode of Modern Family where Luke graduates from high school. He descended into near-despair as he watched me snot-sobbing to the episode of The Middle where Axel graduates and heads off to college. (Yes, I may have a comedy-series addiction, but that’s a problem for another day.)

But I assured him that I’d keep it together today. I would not embarrass him, I promised. But then my recent behavior hasn’t exactly inspired confidence.  On more than one occasion this week, he has caught me sneakily snapping pictures of him from the car outside his school when I dropped him off or picked him up. Let me tell you, I have new respect for the paparazzi. It’s not easy sneaking pictures of a young boy outside a school without looking like a pervert. And his anger was real – reminding me of Justin Bieber’s violent altercations with the paparazzi back in the day. (What? I may be a middle-aged aunty, but I still know stuff.)

Looking back in angrily when I ordered him to stop for a picture after getting out of the car this morning

Being photographed by a stalker in a car as he walked off to school yesterday morning

All 4 of my babies together in uniform for the last time 😢😢😢

So when he told me this morning that he’d forgotten something at home that I’d have to drop off at the school's front office this morning, I did not yell at him for being irresponsible (as I had done on the 40 previous occasions I’d had to do this for him.) He looked confused as I smiled gratefully, as if he’d given me a gift. I was pleased that I’d get to do this for him for the last time. I’d better not forget to take my camera along to capture the moment."

Living anxiously

''The bow too tensely strung is easily broken''  ( Publius Syrus )


I remember my morning walks to school from Harfield station - repetitively muttering very specific prayers and supplications in a very specific order (selected by me based on the last time I'd said those prayers in that order - and had a really really good day at school). A really really good school day was a day no teacher drew attention to me by making me answer a question. Or worse, if that horrifying situation did present itself, that I might not know the correct answer / might answer the question incorrectly.

I was the loon who kept her eyes focused on her lucky colour (green) and did everything with her right hand - just two of my silly superstitious practices, which I'd hoped would ensure my protection from unpleasantness at school. I had no clue that my religion forbids superstitious practises - in any event, at the time, I did not see it as superstition. To me it was a tried and tested method to ensure that I'd get through the day - painlessly. They were concrete steps providing the illusion of control over the terrifying paralysing anxiety from which I've suffered since I can remember.

Now this is probably the point at which you might be expecting me to launch into an inspirational story of how I overcame my anxiety, or perhaps a more practical ''how to'' guide, providing useful tips as to how I successfully dealt with this problem.

Sadly, I am not able to do so - I still have knots in my stomach each time I have to go out in groups of people. In fact, this even extends to family gatherings now - in the past these gatherings had been a safe place - a comfort zone.

I panic when the phone rings, as I have no idea what uncomfortable situation might be waiting for me on the other side.

I get knots in my stomach before I drive - I still resort to the old 'say selected prayers in a specific order' routine. I'm still afraid that failure to do so will result in something bad happening on the road - and then very often it does. Most likely as a result of the Law of Attraction - obsessively focusing on the occurence of such unpleasant event, often causes something negative to materialise. [ A negative event could be someone hooting at me, or even a dirty look from another driver/ pedestrian].

I admire / envy calm people. I admire people who couldn't give a damn about what others think of them. To me, someone's negative opinion of me is sufficient to ensure a series of sleepless, restless nights.

Someone told me that there is medication to deal with anxiety. But I'm a bit mule-headed about that - I don't want to rely on medication to feel normal. I just want to be like other people - able to function and interact without almost falling apart.

Strangely, I was always able to cope well with work pressure. I even thrived on it. It's 'people pressure' that I cannot handle.

Although anxious by nature, I tend to have bouts of increased anxiety now and then. These are usually triggered by an extremely stressful / negative event, the trauma and effects of which permeate throughout my being for a while thereafter. Two weeks ago a huge truck swerved into my lane without indicating. I narrowly escaped being hit. Aisha (2) was in the car with me. I have been re-living the moment since then, tormenting myself with the various horrifying scenarios that could have played out. I've been losing sleep and suffering from nightmares when I do manage to sleep. Getting into the car now has me anxious - driving a few blocks to drop the kids at madrassah has me shaking like a leaf. I feel so out of control.

This event has resulted in heightened anxiety in every aspect of my life. I am just not coping well with even the most basic demands in my life. The girls' formal assessments and Shakeel (13)'s examination, which are at present the main focus areas of our household, have become overwhelming for me. Meeting people (even unthreatening family members) has me feeling anxious - a rude remark made by a family member last week - which normally would have upset me slightly, now has me feeling overly hurt.

I find that going to gym helps tremendously. It calms me and takes me to my happy place. But, unfortunately, it's effects are short-lived. I need my regular fix in order to maintain my feel-good state of mind. But, getting to gym regularly would require me to get into my car and navigate a very tricky interchange - bounding with potentially unpleasant experiences (and huge trucks) and, hence, more anxiety. Notice my catch 22?

I focus on everything for which I am grateful. I try to stay in the moment - attempting not to worry about unpleasant past events nor to anticipate future problems. I remind myself to trust in the Almighty, as the solution to all my woes rests with Him. And that my constant worrying is of no use, neither as a solution to existing problems, nor as a means to avert future obstacles.

And perhaps I'll get some Rescue Remedy, which I'm told, works wonders for anxiety and hypersensivity.

''Every faculty and virtue I possess can be used as an instrument with which to worry myself ''. (Mark Rutherford quotes )

Two-year old's party halted by the fun police

Yesterday was Aisha's second birthday.

Two hours after she woke up yesterday morning, I was praying desperately that the year ahead would not be anything like her first few waking hours as a two-year old.

She has had a head-start on her terrible two's, since she's been throwing temper tantrums for months already, but I had optimistically (and unrealistically) really hoped that they would have fizzled out by now. Instead, it seemed like her biological clock was set with extreme precision. Upon awaking she had entered into this new phase with ease, by throwing the worst tantrum she had done to date.

Nothing I did or said helped. Everything made it worse. Eventually I managed to calm her down slightly by taking her outside, where I held her on my lap while I sat on the icy cement step overlooking our little garden. I distracted her by showing her the bees pollinating the flowers, the birds in the lemon tree and various insects crawling next to us. She looked at them unimpressed, and then looked up at me, as if challenging me to come up with something better- or else.

Something (maybe maternal instinct?) made me start to stroke her back while humming to her. She lay her head on my shoulder- satisfied, calm. I didn't dare move a muscle. I tried to ignore the icy cold of the step on which I was sitting. "It's all in the mind", I told myself, as I felt a cramp starting in my coccyx region.

Eventually it became too painful and uncomfortable. I slowly reached back for the doormat, slid it toward me, lifted myself and in one smooth movement, managed to plant it under me and sit back down.

Success.

But, little missy who had obviously been silently observing my audaciousness, sat up abruptly and ordered in a low voice, "Sit on bum!" What the heck did she think I was sitting on?

I panicked.

She repeated, more firmly this time, "Sit on bum Mommy!" I realised she was trying to tell me sit back on the cement, but I wasn't ready to suffer that again.

I acted as if I didn't know what she meant. "I am sitting on my bum, darling. See?" I said, pointing to my slowly-defrosting posterior.

She decided to make herself clearer.

"Put bum down. Bum off mat," she ordered, tugging at me. I decided to ignore her. After all, I wasn't about to let this little two year old dicate to me- an experienced mother of four. No way- I was about to reclaim my authority.

"No Aisha, Mommy wants to sit on the mat". I said bravely.

Then in a voice, which gave me flashbacks to scenes from "The Exorcist", she growled, "Bum off mat NOOWWW!!"

I leaped off the mat. She hadn't really won, I reassured myself. I wasn't a wimp. I was just giving in because it was her birthday. Next time she wouldn't be so lucky.

Hubby phoned home a few times, feeling nothing but affection for his sweet little princess. He missed her, wished he was spending her birthday with her instead of at work. My complaints about her tantrum-on-steroids fell on deaf ears.

Although we had decided to celebrate Aisha's birthday together with Tharaa's right after the formal assessments/ exams, hubby felt that his darling's birthday could not go uncelebrated on the day as well. He would bring home a cake or two and we'd celebrate as a family during the children's study break.

Study break? Celebration? With Shakeel writing Maths, English, History and Geography and Technology within the
following two days;  and Tharaa writing English, Afrikaans, History and Economic and Management Sciences within
the same period! What is this dude smoking? I asked myself incredulously.

But eventually I resigned myself to the fact that I was outnumbered. The children had been so excited about having a little party for Aisha when they came home from school and I did not want to come across as being the monster-parent.

The kids came home and I transformed from wimpy-mom-of-tantrum-throwing-Aisha, to a threatening, wooden-spoon-
wielding drill seargent. Books out, subjects prioritised and we were ready to get going with our study session before the little party.

The children were in no mood to study. They were too excited about it being Aisha's birthday. I couldn't get them to focus despite my use of threats, ultimatums and even the wooden spoon.

They were constantly singing "Happy Birthday to you" while studying. I just couldn't shut them up.

When relatives call to wish the kids, they always do so by singing the "Happy Birthday" song. She obviously did not have a clue that it was a birthday, so I think she just thought that everyone was calling to have a sing-along, which is what she did. Also, I think that she's under the impression that her name forms part of the song. She is not likely to be impressed in two weeks time when everybody substitutes her name for Tharaa's.

The little party was held- the older kids were in raptures, while two-year old Aisha watched them confused, no doubt wondering how they could be so relaxed during the exam (or was that just me?).

Hubby bought Aisha a Baby Born Birthday doll set, which she tossed aside to play with the plastic cupcake which came as part of the set.

The birthday cake was cut amidst shrieks of laughter and delight (in the exam!), with me making sure that hubby saw me intermittently checking my watch.

By the time the little party ended, the kids were too exhausted to study. I gave up. They had won. They had enjoyed themselves, laughed and sung despite it being exams (unheard of!).

This morning Aisha woke up, smiled at me sweetly and asked, "How are you Mommy?" She then sat up and hugged me.

Immediately, I melted and all was forgiven.

I will no longer hijack my kids' projects- I promise

It's hard to believe that schools are already starting the final formal assessments for the year.

These assessments usually are constituted by projects and tests.

So often I've heard parents (particularly mothers) complain that involvement in children's projects is adding to their already heavy workloads, with parents often contributing more than the kids themselves. Given South Africa's uneven wealth distribution, it bothers me that children who have a stay-at-home parent with a decent level of education, will have an advantage over children whose parents work full days, especially in the case where parents are very often not educated or even literate (and therefore not in the position to help the children with projects and homework).

My kids have the added 'advantage' in that they have a mom whose sense of self-worth is directly tied in to her kids' achievements (or lack thereof), and who is therefore obsessive about providing the necessary support and
motivation to ensure their success (so that she can feel good about herself).

My kids usually do their own research for projects, after which I will check, give input- and try to restrain myself from re-doing the entire project MY WAY, while they are sleeping. Their projects are usually a result of their own research and understanding of the topics- well, most of the time......

Two years ago Shakeel had to do a project on an influential South African. He selected Dr Chris Barnard and I had insisted that he use the public library instead of the internet (as I thought that he would score extra marks for extra effort). We took out 'Christiaan Barnard- One Life' by Christiaan Barnard and Curtis Bill Pepper, a 366-page book with the tiniest print you've ever seen; which I started reading on the way home. By night time, I was completely hooked and was reluctant to give up the book.

I completed reading the book over the next few days, and then proceeded to answer the assignment questions, which Shakeel had hurriedly jotted down at my request. Oh, I was so pleased with myself; not only for the fact that I had been able to answer all the questions without re-reading any part of the book or conducting any additional research, but also for my depth of understanding of the complicated medical processes explained in the book.

I completed my draft of the assignment in no time. All that was left for Shakeel to do was a cover page, contents page, introductory summary, bibliography and a blurb at the end of his project booklet.

I was pleased with my part of the project, so I did not even care to check his.

On the day the result was released, Shakeel looked nervous as he approached me. I (er, I mean 'he') had obtained a lousy 64%. I felt a wave of nausea as I sank onto the sofa- shocked, humiliated. After recovering slightly later that night I looked at the final copy of the assignment for the first time. My son had not bothered to attach a proper cover page, he had not done a contents page, summary or a bibliography. He had not even provided me with all the questions which had to be answered!

I know I should have been furious, but I couldn't help feeling relieved- the low mark was his fault, and not mine. Or was it? I wished I could approach his teacher and ask her to have my contribution to the project graded independently of his. (Yes, I know, I should be committed).

Let me hurriedly state that none of this should be a reflection on Shakeel. He had known better than to challenge his crazed mother as she took it upon herself to hijack his project.

My kids perform better in tests than they do in projects. In the early days I would question Shakeel on his work, ensuring that he did not leave the house on test morning until he could answer each question effortlessly. But, since I now have three kids at school and a demanding baby, I am training him and Tharaa to draft their own question papers, which they should use to study and revise. This is not always successful, as they still need so much guidance when drafting the questions.

On test mornings we usually try to maintain a calm and positive atmosphere in the house before they leave for school. (All threats like "Don't bother to come home if you get less than 80%" would have been made the night before). Previously I would worry the entire test day, wondering how they were progressing, but thanks to poor hubby, who often is forced to act as my therapist and life coach, I now try not to stress about things over which I have no control. 

At the moment Shakeel is busy with a project on one of the major religions in South Africa; while Tharaa's is on the planet Mars. At this point I must give myself a pat on the back- my only contribution thus far has been to point them in the direction of relevant websites and provide some books- which they could choose to use or not.

I think I should focus less on controlling their projects and work on an important project of my own- developing my own goals so that my sense of self-worth is linked to my own achievements instead of theirs. My kids will be so relieved.

Eid, a day of joyful celebration...but why so stressed?

Yesterday we celebrated Eid. Which in our home represents a day that the children are bouncing off the walls with excitement- while my neurosis gets kicked up a notch.

The kids view it as a day to visit family and friends, receive money and play with their cousins for the entire day. Their energy and joy on this day are boundless. So hubby and I had hardly opened our eyes yesterday morning, when Nuha slipped into our room and whispered urgently, "What time is it? Is it time to leave?" Time to leave? Are you kidding me? I still had so much to do. Instead of this motivating me to get out of bed and get started, I chose to bury my face under the covers and retreat into denial.

The morning I spent tidying and cleaning, cleaning and tidying- and scolding and screaming (okay, and maybe a little swearing). I had stepped out of my room and into what seemed like the result of a powerful tornado- shoes, clothes, food, toys strewn everywhere. How had they managed to do so much damage within the space of one morning? AND ON EID!!!!

The house was only half-clean when I gave up- I am, after all, only one person and not an entire freakin' cleaning crew. So I moved onto the next task- getting the four of them dressed and ready to go. The night before I had planned to do their hair beautifully, iron dresses, pants and shirts and match each one's accessories to their dresses. However, since the morning had been spent attempting to make the house look even vaguely presentable for any stray visitor who might wander in (though we never get Eid visitors in our neck of the woods), I hurriedly raked the brush through the girls' hair, conveniently choosing to ignore the bits of food stuck in Aisha's hair and the sticky gooey muck in Nuha's. Dresses were left unironed (it would add character to the outfit, wouldn't it) and mismatched accessories they grabbed on a first-come first served basis.

Shakeel enjoys Eid, since it is the only time he is allowed to gel his very straight unstyled hair. So he spent the morning gelling and sculpting (then resculpting), but the result was impressive. My little boy looked handsome (though a bit too grown-up for my liking). He wore a fairly conservative outfit,
since his father and I don't really like the new jeans-for-Eid trend, but he added his own style and flair to it with a pair of Spiderman fingerless gloves and neon laces for his shoes.

Then off we set to visit my late father's sister; whom, I'm ashamed to say, I only see on Eid each year. This is always a very emotional visit for me, as nobody reminds me of my father as much as she does. It's also as if we see a part of him in each other. In addition, I am aware that she misses him as much as I still do, even after all these years.

But she is one of the most jovial positive people I know. She greeted me with a huge hug. Looking at Shakeel's gloves, she roared with laughter. "You're just as crazy as your mother was!" she joked, referring to the time I wore one glove for Eid, imitating my hero, Michael Jackson (At this point I must take a moment to say, "Michael, I still love you- you remain a legend!!!")

After reluctantly leaving my aunt's place, I rushed back home to start my TINY contribution to lunch at the in-laws; namely veggies and a dessert. How clever of me to start preparing this 45 minutes before we were due to arrive at sister-in-law's place. (I should have left the damn cleaning I had done the morning). So I proceeded to wash, peel and chop potatoes, cauliflour, broccoli, butternut, mealies, squashes and carrots for the lunch side dish; and apples,
oranges, bananas, strawberries, papaya and guavas for the fruit salad. Cursing myself for selecting dishes that required so much damn preparation (as opposed to just offering to make the crayfish curry and a simple chocolate mousse), I ran around like a headless chicken, fully aware that the steaming would take quite a while and we were already five minutes late. At one point I was just running around in circles; pointlessly opening and closing cupboard doors. More than once I saw hubby (who was holding the grumpy baby and was therefore unable to help) looking at me in alarm, no doubt thinking "What the hell did I marry???"

As expected, we arrived at sister-in-law's place very late. But lunch was amazing and we spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing, while observing the children's sugar-induced hysteria.

We had supper at my mother's place and the rest of the evening was spent chatting and joking with my brother and sister-in-law. The children spent what was left of their energy playing with my brother's children. They fell asleep in the car on the way home.

Even though so much of the day was spent cooking, eating, visiting and idly chatting and laughing, we did not forget to remind the children and ourselves of its significance; namely Prophet Abraham (Ebrahim)'s willingness to sacrifice his son Ishmael (Isma'il) as an act of obedience to God (Allah) before God intervened, providing him with a sheep to sacrifice instead.

All in all it had been a pleasant day. But, once all my kids were sound asleep, I derived immense pleasure from just sitting and staring out in front of me- doing absolutely nothing.

We did not take many pics this Eid. So here are some from Eid-ul-fitr (three months ago)- with everyone wearing exactly what they had on yesterday.

Who's the man!!!

A few months ago hubby was rushed off to hospital with kidney stones, selfishly leaving my kids and me to cope by ourselves for three days. Shakeel (12) automatically assumed the role of Man of the House, barking orders, beating his chest and pretty much milking his self-appointed new position for all it was worth.

I tried to be brave, putting the children at ease while investigating unexplained noises, taking terrified Nuha (6) to the dark corners of the house to prove to her that there was no boogey-man (while trying desperately not to wet myself in the process) and basically just reassuring them of their safety (of which I myself was not too certain). It was like living the movie Scream, as I anxiously awaited the masked knife-wielding maniac to make his appearance in the horror that was playing in my head. I prayed that once the intruder eventually showed up, my maternal instinct would be strong enough to ensure that I would not head for the hills, leaving my poor children to protect themselves.

Toward the end of the second day, my fake bravado was taking its toll on me. But duty called and I proceeded to check windows and doors ensuring that they were properly secured. I was doing my third check on my living room window when I saw a movement against the curtain. I started, but whatever it was, disappeared behind the folds of the curtain. I proceeded toward the window cautiously; unsuccessfully trying to convince myself that it had just been a shadow, when suddenly it reappeared. Moving toward me was the biggest and most terrifying spider I'd ever seen. I felt my legs and arms weaken and for a few seconds remained paralysed with fear. Then followed my bloodcurdling scream which would have scared away lesser spiders, but this one moved toward me menacingly, ignoring the hysterical shrieks of my kids who had now joined me.

General panic ensued, with Shakeel shouting, "OMG, that thing is as big as my hand!" He was not exaggerating- the enormous thick legged brown speckled spider was bigger than my whole freakin' hand. What made the monster even more terrifying was the fact that it kept moving toward us- strangely, not at all intimidated the five hysterical shrieking humans.

After the hysteria had reached fever pitch, it dawned on me that no one was stepping up and taking charge of the situation. Then, terrifyingly, it dawned on me that that hero would have to be me. Damn that kidney stone!

I had a difficult decision to make. I hated the thought of killing it (or anything for that matter). But I didn't know if it was dangerous and I had to put our safety first. "Someone get the Doom" I ordered, just as the monster charged toward us again (I'm not kidding!).

Shakeel leapt into action and sprinted down the passage to the kitchen where the insecticides are kept. The girls and I  kept an eye on the menace, while waiting for our hero's return. We waited..and waited..and waited, and then I guessed that someone (probably me) had irritatingly placed empty Doom and Target cans back into the cupboard and our hero was most probably racing against time to find a can that had some insecticide left. So I ran to the kitchen to help him. Strangely I found the cupboard still closed and Shakeel nowhere in sight. Until I turned around- and there was our saviour, crouching on the kitchen table (with shoes and all), hugging his knees, his eyes wide with panic.

"Did you catch it Mommy? Did you catch the spider?" The poor child had had no intention of playing the hero- he had merely instinctively been saving his butt by getting away first.

I smiled, relieved that my son still felt he needed his mommy's protection. He was not yet ready to be the man of the house. He wanted to be- and still is- his mommy's baby. Despite the monstrous arachnid I had lurking in my living room, I was happy.