Rent-a-husband

It is no secret that my husband absolutely detests house maintenance. Witnessing his attempts is like watching a cave man trying to make fire for the first time. He sweats, and grunts and groans, the expletive words in his vocabulary becoming more and more flowery. His looks become wild and he inevitably lands up nearly slicing off an appendage. I have learned in almost 14 years to leave…just…leave, because to be roped in could mean the end of a relatively good marriage. Each And Every Time.

I did not realize that the malfunction, breakdown and repair of any and all household appliances, electical wiring or plumbing was simply my fault; nor that the failure-to-fix said appliances, electrical wiring or plumbing was equally so. I did not read the fine print of our pre-marital contact.

But I am not without humour:

As each lightbulb blows and the house gets darker and darker, I see the ingenious move towards energy saving and the romance that darkness ultimately brings, watching tv by the soft lit glow of candle light.

As the shower (blocked again and filling nearly to overflowing) leaves me to bail like a naked drowning fisherman in the middle of the ocean, I think to myself,

“How ingenious: extreme water saving efforts in our declared Water Disaster Area!”

And then my thoughts move to the very clever name of a local maintenace company:

Rent-a-husband

And I laugh…how ingenious!

Tomorrow I shall give them a ring

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Spa Pampering

I indulged myself in some “Spa Pampering” the other day.

In the life of a mom to two free-range, wild children currently living in a declared water disaster area, this simply means the pure indulgence of showering ALONE with the blissful absence of three other wet lathered bodies crammed into 1.4 by 1.00 meter space.

My husband and I have our family shower time almost down to a fine art to reduce water usage. A well-oiled machine, we can be in and out in under 10minutes. This amidst the routine wailing:

“I don’t want to shower now mom”

“I can wash myself!”

(Mother briefly relents)

“I’ve got soap in my eyes!”

(Mother grabs soap back)

Body in. Wet. Lather. Rinse. Out.

Repeat

Repeat

Repeat

So, ONE body ALONE without the jostling of elbows and legs; without the watching of time or the watching of water…

This is Sheer Pampered Bliss

This Beautiful Mess

Right now I am lying on my bed trying to let the anxiety and tension of the past 4 1/2 week school holiday ease from my tired, overwhelmed body.

Hubby and I shot out of bed this morning, alarm missed and with only 30 minutes before lift club arrived, and team-worked the crap out of the “I don’t want to go back to school” meowls; the please tie shoe laces…AGAIN…the lathering of bio oil on mostly-neglected holiday skin; the working through equally neglected chocolate hair, all tightly knotted, to a better state of my-mother-DOES-love-me presentation; the “mom, I TOLD you you were meant to buy me more stationary!” howl and the DESPERATE scratching around for anything that will suffice out of the holiday-imploded creative cupboard. Sleep marks erased; toothpaste marks erased; the grimace at the tracksuit-now-too-short, unidentifiable white marks, splattering the front; and the resolute nod: “This will have to do, Donkey.”

Kids shooed out the front door. One last shoe-lace tie and then, in a cloud of dust…GONE! Can one do a happy dance in front of your kids as they leave?

My hand wishes to reach for an intravenous caffeine fix or, blissfully even, a mainlined craft beer, but honestly, you know what…? I’m too tired to move anything bar my thumbs right now and I might just stay in this sprawled-out-on-my-bed position for the rest of eternity and SLEEP!

The Musings Begin

MORRISSEY

I love my maiden surname. It was a wrestling to give it away before my wedding almost 14 years ago for the neater, more civilized, Dawson.

Literal meaning: “Son of David”

MORRISSEY

I love the way it sounds rolling off my tongue, and its uniqueness as a surname on this African continent I call home. I love that it holds a history, lineage and heritage that has brought me to me.

In my mind it conjours up romantic images of brave Vikings heading off into the unknown to conquer peoples and lands. Vicious and barbaric and skin clad. Nursing babes at the breast while yielding huge swords and shields.

It conjours up images of long beards and plaits and scars and a Clan outcast to live in the marshlands of their now indigenous Ireland.

In my veins beats the red hot blood of wild, violent men and women, redeemed by the heroic brave blood of a few ancestors:

Dónall Ó Conaill (Daniel O’Connell) being the most worthy of any mention.

Looking back in history, I understand where some of the fearlessness, courage and social action in me origionates from.

There are wild, untamed parts of me waring against the deeply domesticated, fearful parts of me.

And I get it…

I am a Morrissey.