Review - a Laborious Day

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I reflect the morning’s events to determine what, if anything, I have learned.

As I think, I scrub the wall on my knees beneath the window sill.

I have learned that the new phrase was a mistake. Running around the garden shouting “no knickers, no food” did not have the desired effect. In the 93 degree heat, I learn that my voice carries one block with an easterly breeze and that no-one is allergic to ‘outside’ anymore.

My neighbour advises me that ‘drawers’ or ‘pants’ is more socially appropriate for public broadcasts.

I discover that my son will consume Ritz crackers as a substitute for Goldfish crackers but that eating them without suitable attire is a dangerous pastime.

I learn that our home is not entirely burglar proof, that it is possible to gain entry through a window and that a bug screen is no deterrent.

I am uncertain if I have a pack of lemmings or a co-ordinated team? I already know that I am an excellent cleaner as I remove the last few footprints size 13, 1 and 3, from the wall.

Replacing the bug screen will be a challenge. Teaching them not to retreat, go into reverse and climb back outside the window, is more of a headache.




I think that lots of "us" have issues with "containment."

A timely reminder to check our insurance coverage and renew my union dues.

Please pop over to my new blog "Sandwiched Genes" for further complications.

Intimidation

I remove the last of the safety devices on the last drawer in the kitchen. I can’t recall how much that particular mistake cost, but I know that it was extravagant. The things I wanted to be secure such as the fridge and the oven, could not be secured.

Back then chaos ruled and nothing was secure, least of all my own brain. I knew that something was amiss but I was unable to pin down what it was, exactly or even partially. I suspected that I had made a serious error of judgment, that I was simply too old to have three young children. Their dad worked for a start up, which roughly translates to involuntary servitude. Guilt made him indulgent. “Of course, get someone in to install child locks on everything and damn the cost.” Ultimately, it was of no help, but at the time it seemed like a solid investment.

I can recall the man who came to the house quite vividly. We had lived in America for about 6 years. Although my memory is unreliable, I don’t remember meeting anyone during that time who was unfriendly. My knowledge of Americans was limited, but if he was Californian, then I was a chicken. He wandered around my house slowly with a casual air of disdain.

Usually, when someone came to fix something, the fixer would remain in one place fixing something whilst I charged around herding. This was different. I had to accompany him and give detailed instructions as to what was to be secured and what did not. He ran his finger over every surface and looked in every door and drawer with distaste and impatience. I had never met an unfriendly American, nor had I ever invited such a person into my home. I tried to hold an intelligent conversation with him, over the din of my very loud and wild children. I carried one or other of them alternately. If I was the sun, then my planets were in close orbit at all times. His disapproval was palpable.

As I hauled the children upstairs they wailed all the more loudly. My explanation "we don't tend to go upstairs during the day time," sounded ludicrous even to my own ears. "Whadaya want a gate for then?" he sneered.
"So that they can't escape at night time," seemed equally bizarre.

As he left, his passing shot was, “I’ll send the estimate in the mail, but nothing will secure your kids more than good parenting.”

I was mortified and chastised in one icy breath.

But that was then, and this is now. I put all the locks in a bag together with their screws and fitments, enough to secure Fort Knox, nearly all of them broken as my son approaches.

"What you are do?"
"Just taking off the old baby locks dear."
"We dun be needen em no more?"
"Nope, I think we're safe enough, just as we are."

Ordinarily Extraordinary

I drive to school very slowly because I am very early. I am very early in order to secure the one spot on the road that I have identified as being the perfect spot. I am a season ahead of myself because I am exceptionally clever person too. I know that the spot in the scorching sun in October, will transform itself into the perfect spot as soon as the weather changes. To park under a tree in the shade now, will be one that drips with rain, in the future. I don't want to sign my own death warrant.

I am tired after several nights of inadequate sleep. I am relaxed after having thrown many pounds of clay all around my garage. My eyes travel ahead watching the road with care. I slow down when my eyes recognize danger. The danger takes the form of a small boy, who sits a few inches from the curb in a bright orange T-shirt, always my first choice of colour for small boys.

I slow down to a snail’s pace. I identify an adult close by wearing a dun coloured outfit, so that she blends in with her surroundings. I assume she is not the mother, because as we all know, mothers must wear primary coloured clothes or neon, so that they can be more quickly identified by their offspring, should they ever be mis-fortunate enough to be in a crowd. Even without the crowd, indeed, on an arid landscape that is flat as a pancake, a neon coloured 5 foot 6 size mother, can often prove to be quite invisible.

I crawl along the curb to confirm that the extraordinary sight is real, rather than a figment of my imagination. A small boy plays with dump trucks in the dirt, a full 12 long paces from the adult. I know that the adult must be both a marathon runner and a superb sprinter to allow for such a vast chasm of space to have developed between her and the child. The woman plants the edge of her sidewalk. She is about half way through a whole box of plants. I am an efficient plantswoman myself. That much work would take approximately 15 to 20 minutes, if you assume that she prepared the ground beforehand. I look more closely because the woman has a cast on her leg, which means that she must have a leash around the child that is secured to a six foot stake with a 4 inch padlock. I fail to see any of the evidence that my mind needs to witness. I drive on past, confused and befuddled.

How does she do that? What is her secret? I glance in the rear view mirror to check if it was a mirage. It isn’t. They are still there. They are still static, probably for as long as 4 minutes. I rack my brain for the elusive answer? Is there a pocket of extra strong gravity along that stretch of sidewalk? Has she filled his pockets with rocks? Were his sneaker made of lead? Is there a hidden force field or electric fence that I missed?

Of course! Why didn’t I think of that before? I reach the only logical conclusion possible. Obviously the woman has attached a roller skate to the bottom of her cast and the elastic around the child is the invisible variety.

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