Hearing problems

My second born son seems to have a hearing problem, or so I told the doctor. He never hears me when I speak to him. He never responds when I call him. I have to ask him to repeat everything I say, yet he never remembers – even 10 seconds after I have finished my sentence. Not a good sign I thought, so I went to our family doctor and told her about it. Given that he is only 4 years old, she was appropriately concerned and asked all the standard questions (“Do you speak loud enough?” – a very stupid question if you have ever heard me speak more than 2 words!). Having satisfied herself that I was not just “making things up”, she referred him to the local children’s hospital for a hearing test. Weeks went by before we finally got an appointment (I guess lots of children have similar problems…), time in which I submitted him to every home-made test imaginable: talking to him from behind his back, hiding behind a pillar and surprising him, calling him at the highest pitch from the bottom of the stairs, screaming from the other side of the dinner table and of course turning the television to unbearable noise levels. Nothing seemed to bother him.

The day of the hearing test finally arrived and diligently he followed the instructions of the doctor’s assistant. He pushed all the buttons, twitched at times, pointed his finger at the screen and smiled occasionally. The assistant looked displeased, so my concern took on a life of its own. My imagination (vivid at the best of times) visualized him wearing a 10 kg hearing aid, just like his grandfather, or even worse, undergoing yet another grueling operation (we’ve had a few of those) to try and rectify his hearing impairment.

A week went by, in which I treated him like a little prince, fearing what lay ahead. How could I not let him get away with ignoring my instructions to clean up his toys, put away his laundry or help set the table. After all, the poor boy couldn’t help not hearing me! Finally the appointment to discuss the test results with the pediatrician arrived. She sat me down, gave me a pensive look, turned to my son and very dryly commented: “You must be a very smart and gifted young man. You seem to have mastered an art which it takes most men 20 years to master.” With a grin reaching from ear to ear, the doctor handed me a pink piece of paper stating: “Diagnosis: selective hearing, usually triggered by mother’s voice”.

Boys will be boys!

The contents of my four-year-old son's pockets after a visit to the park. How I would love to know what was going on in his mind when he was collecting these things!

My tombstone

It’s been a sad week in our house as my step-mother-in-law passed away quite suddenly after a very short battle against pancreatic cancer. Tears have been flowing, memories are being relived, photos stared at and plans for her burial need to be made.  Funnily enough, as was evident throughout her life, Oma knew exactly what she wanted and has left little for us to organize – the songs, the flowers, the casket, even what she wishes to wear has been written down for us. In all honesty, I am grateful that she thought of everything as it leaves us time to grieve.

But it has also made me think about my own death. More so, it has made me wonder what I want written on my tombstone… I know this may sound odd, even morbid, but I have always  questioned how it is possible to summarize someone’s existence or being in less than three sentences (which is effectively what a tombstone does).  Not that I go crawling around graveyards or so, but I really cannot recall ever having seen a tombstone that read: “She was a good doctor” or “He was a great lawyer”. Is it not that a person’s role as a father, mother, brother, sister, son, daughter and/or friend is lauded, instead of the virtues of their profession? That being the case (and try to follow my slightly wobbly logic here), if our tombstone is the shortest of summaries of our being, yet it never really makes reference to our life beyond our roles in our families, then why are we running ourselves ragged trying to climb up the corporate ladder?

I hope that given the choices I have made in my life and the path I have chosen to follow, my tombstone will one day read: “She was a good daughter, wife, mother and friend.”

The problem with eyelids

So we had a big party recently. Not really my cup of tea – socializing with large number of people that is. Don’t get me wrong, I like people and I like socializing but large groups of people are just not my idea of fun. The main problem seems to be, that in any large crowd, pleasantries seem to be the most one exchanges. You ask how someone is doing, the answer is “fine”. You ask how their children are doing, the answer is “fine”. Then you dare to ask how work has been, the answer of course is “fine”. Now that would all be fine if it was all really fine. But then you and I know, that mostly fine things are not really fine. But all of that of course has nothing to do with my eyelids… My point being, that we had a little get together the other day of a few of my husband’s oldest friends. For the first time in weeks I convinced myself to actually put some make-up on. Now for anyone who knows me from my “previous life” (that is pre-motherhood of course), I never used to leave the house without my face on (we’re talking full battle gear here: foundation, powder, mascara, eyeliner, eye shadow, lip liner, lipstick and and and). Obviously those days have changed and I consider myself lucky if I even have a chance to take a shower in the morning and possibly even use a bit of deodorant.

On the evening of the big party I was standing in front of the mirror (with 16 guests knocking down the door), putting on my face when suddenly my eye shadow started crumbling…. Yes, I mean crumbling…. Down my cheeks that is! Leaving delicate traces of colorful powder over perfectly applied foundation! For those of you below the age of 40 this will all sound like a nightmare, but the other half of you will understand what I am referring to. The fact is that your eyelids have started to “lose their elasticity” and suddenly that wonderfully smooth skin has been replaced by wrinkles that do not appreciate being covered in layers of eye shadow.  Peaks and valleys of eye shadow stare back at you from the mirror and all the patting, dabbing, brushing in the world only seems to make matters worse. The more I try to manipulate the colorful powder, the more my eyelids take on a life of their own and I find myself staring at gorges and ravines.

So now the dilemma: Accept the valleys, ridges, gorges and ravines as part of the “growing old gracefully” approach, fight them with creams that cost the equivalent as a weeks household expenses or, at a cost equivalent to a year’s heating, simply find a doctor who is creative with a scalpel and cheat mother nature? Given my love for my children, their need for food and warmth, the decision seems quite straight forward: I shall grow old gracefully… until I win the lottery of course!

My theme for today....

So here I am....

So here I am, two boys in school and the “little one” finally off to kindergarten. The silence in the house is eerie, even frightening at times. I can not recall many moments in the past 6 years in which I did not hear a baby crying, the thunder of feet pounding down the corridor or the hysterical whaling of a child who has just been walloped by a sibling. I keep wondering when I will hear the next “MAMA” echoing through the house…. But no, silence is all there is – at least until noon when the youngest comes home!

How many people have told me over the years: “Your time will come again”. “Just wait till they are all in school, you won’t know what to do with yourself.” WRONG!!! For the past 6 years I have been keeping lists (mostly in my head so nobody could find them and laugh at me) of all the things I want to do when not every minute of my day is dictated to by a child, husband or dog. Well the time has come and trust me, I have plans. Writing this blog was not always on the list – it only came to me recently when I realized how much I missed writing…… The idea of writing a whole book was too intimidating and crossed off the do-before-you-die list and instead the blog appeared on the wish list - placed right under “move to a bigger house” and “paint your toenails shocking pink”.

So we have moved to a bigger house and the boxes have been unpacked. My laptop has found a space and I have moved into my own little “office”. Now granted, my toenails remain au natural… but the time has come to start writing!