Wordy Cara on How Not to Tackle Valentine’s Day

How to Mess Up Valentine's DayLittle pink and red hearts, long-stemmed roses, cards filled with loving words and/or cryptic clues and question marks, romantic candle-lit dinners all under the umbrella of ‘Valentine’s Day’ are… not for me. Believe me when I say that it has nothing to do with commercialism (that’s the excuse we’ll attribute to The Husband and 50 million or so other people). I am a hopeless romantic. Hopeless. No, my aversion to celebrating this day has taken root over many years and for many reasons. So, I’ve come up with some hot tips on what NOT to do on this day of love:

1) Tell a four-year-old that her heart is actually the shape of a fist (so not full of love, right?) and not at all like the pretty little cut-outs that she made at school for someone special. It’s right up there with decimating the secrets of the Tooth Fairy and Santa. Sooner or later she’ll take a biology course and all will be revealed.

2) Do not send a fake Valentine to your teenage daughter, who’s into reading detective novels and handwriting analysis. She’ll throw all her resources behind finding that sensitive young man and when she finds out it’s you, she’ll have completed a very revealing summary about your personality too.

3) Never believe your boyfriend/partner/husband when he says that Valentine’s Day is driven by pure commercialism that he will not entertain. There’s nothing worse than when he has had a change of heart and got you the CD you were hinting for and you – who fought your romantic inclinations – stand there empty-handed. Follow your instincts and buy him a fine gift (one that you can enjoy if he doesn’t come up with the goods).

4) Do not spray paint (or even worse – paint) declarations of love all over highway bridges or the sides of buildings unless you can spell and compete with artists the likes of Banksy. Your failed attempts with runny red paint and poor spelling make you seem like an obsessed serial something.

5) I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve read newspaper articles that ended really badly with this grand gesture – do not throw an engagement ring or piece of jewellery in her food or arrange for it to be submerged in her food by the chef, unless: you want her to gobble it down and experience the joys and tribulations of being a diamond smuggler and waiting for nature to take its course; you are happy to pay for aesthetic and other dentistry; you actually want her to choke; or you are prepared for the eventuality that your donated gesture of love sets in motion the betrothal of a couple sitting nearby by virtue of it arriving at the wrong table. By all means, surprise her. Just leave it out of the food.

6) When dedicating a song you love to the one you love, make sure you know the lyrics very well and understand their meaning too. I recall a radio DJ commenting on how many weddings he’d been to where the bridal pair had played Dido’s ‘White Flag’ for their first dance. I also recall the DJ made this comment after having numerous callers phoning in with this song as their Valentine’s Day request for that special somebody. Same thing with Eurythmics’ ‘Thorn in My Side’. Nice tune, but listen to the words. This could be the deal breaker.

These are just my top six, front-of-mind ‘Don’ts’ and I get the sense that the list is bound to grow over time. If you’ve got some great stories to share, don’t be shy – we need to help all those misdirected souls out there and save them from Lonely Hearts parties.

Whatever your feelings about the day, the best fact about Valentine’s Day 2014 is that it falls on a Friday and I just LOVE FRIDAYS! Oh, and I love that this also happens to be my 14th post on my blog!


A Terrible Case of Irritable Yowl Syndrome

Irritable Yowl SyndromeIrritable Yowl Syndrome. No typing error here. The naming of this increasingly common affliction, suffered by mothers mostly (this is not based on gender discrimination, but more from general observation that will be explained later on), takes effect from the date of this blog onwards, with full credit due to me.

While it has nothing to do with intestinal disorders or symptoms, it most certainly comes about after a bad case of diarrhoea – verbal diarrhoea that is. In my case, it all started on a Thursday morning…

“Come on guys, you’d better finish your breakfast. You’ve still got to brush your teeth and get dressed… and we’re running late this morning. I’m sure you don’t want to be late”. It was my best attempt at putting the ‘I’m-not-going-to-lose-my-cool’ hat on and keeping my voice steady, calm, in control and below the usual banshee pitch. The ensuing elephantine thunder heading up the stairs towards the bathroom reassured me that they were on track and so I kept attending to my own needs, which included trying to find the new underarm deodorant that seemed to have disappeared within the mountain of things that I still need to sort out. On top of it, the heating in the bedroom seemed to finally be on top form and the beads of frustrated sweat forming under my arms and on my face were not helping my case.

The strange muffling and occasional thumping sounds coming from little man’s bedroom broke my concentration as my fingers just managed to knock the deodorant further under the bed, a haven for dust bunnies of the world. The kids were clearly having a little bit of a disagreement.

Now, mothers will know that dignity goes out the window from about the time that the little being within you enters the world. However, over time you try to build it up again, trying to forget the moments the children just NEED to tell you something important while you are on the loo or when they say the things that came straight out of your mouth in the company of someone who should not know that you could ever say those things. I could go on, but you get the just of it.

Dignity. All of it gone as I stomped across the landing in my underwear, painfully aware of the extra kilos nodding along as if in agreement with my stomping. Flinging open the door, I had no choice but to adopt sergeant-major tactics, clipped tones, loud enough to be heard but not by the neighbours, “RIGHT! Both of you, stop fighting right now! OH MY WORD! Are you still in your pyjamas?! ARE YOU STILL IN YOUR PAJAMAS?! That’s it! I have had enough, you’re going to school in your pyjamas!”.

The threat of my mother just glaring at me with her ice-blue eyes when she got cross was usually enough to stop me in my tracks, but with this lot here? Oh no, the fact I was stomping around like an ogre in ladies underwear was not enough. The fact my eyes were bulging in an attempt to recreate the ice-blue scary mommy eyes was not enough. The fact that they’d have to go to school in their pyjamas seemed to be the least scary of all, resulting in a look from both of them that showed they thought it slightly novel and considered it a darn good idea for a bit of a lark.

Finally, after having glared at them for a while as I tried – as ladylike as I could – to wipe the little bit of saliva from my chin that had escaped when I tried to express my shock at their lack of motivation, little man seemed bold enough to respond. I expected… Hmm, what did I expect to hear? Well, an apology perhaps or a promise to get a move on.

He opened his mouth, “Mommy?”. “Yes?” I replied with my hands settling on my hips. “Mommy, do you know if sharks can eat fish in a fish tank?”. “No, sharks can’t eat fish in a fish tank because sharks are in the sea and they also can’t fit in a small fish tank”. “But Mommy, what if sharks could fit in a fish tank? Would they eat my fish?”. “Argh! That’s not the point – you’re supposed to get ready now. Just PLEASE get ready, you two, ok?”. Trying to regain my composure, I steadied my voice again, trying to keep it calm and reasonable, pleading without being too desperate, with a slight intonation at the end without turning into a whine.

Finally, I found a use for the feather duster and knocked the deodorant from under the bed, and applied it generously to attempt to mask my efforts after grappling with it and the two tykes in the other room. I heard toothbrushes buzzing and the general sounds of them getting ready. Enough to relax for a minute as I got dressed and put my makeup on.

As I was concentrating on getting sufficient mascara on that one eyelash that decided to change direction like a squint eyeball, little man flew into the room with enough energy to cause the mascara brush to smash into my eyeball like a toilet brush in jelly, leaving a trail of black stripes across my entire eye area. “Mommy! Did you know that a jet wawawawawawaa? A-n-d that it wawawawawawawaa? A-n-d one day, I’m going to fly the fastest jet which is a wawawawawa! What do you think about that?”. First of all, I had no clue what he was talking about. It was just technical enough for a five-year-old boy to grasp and just technical enough for me to have to consult with a robust, yet idiot-friendly search engine later on. “Mmmm” was the best I could muster in an attempt to match his excitement, cover up my ignorance and to stop my eyes from watering from that fiercely unrelenting stinging sensation in my left eye. “No, mommy, I’m asking you!”. I sighed as I pleaded reasonably, “Let’s talk about it later then, okay my boy? I think we’re going to be very late now, so let’s get going. Can you get your boots, hat and jacket on so long?”. His little shoulders slumped and in an attempt to restore his spirits, I offered up a bit of motherly praise, “But good job for thinking of such a good question! We’ll look it up when you get home”. I don’t think it worked…

Five minutes later, with mascara hastily reapplied and an extra layer of eye shadow to hide the marks of the first failed attempt, I got to the door where the two were hanging around, chuckling like hyena pups. My suspicions and hackles rose simultaneously, but I breathed out, clutching onto the front door handle as I hopped about, zipping up my boots.

“Mommy?” it was little girl’s turn now. “Yes?” I said, trying to show interest (although “WHAT!” was what I heard my brain say). “Do you know what so-and-so said to Ms. (Insert teacher’s name) yesterday?”. “No, my darling, I don’t know. What did she say?”. So, with that bit of encouragement, she launched into a blow-by-blow account of some rather interesting story that I should’ve heard the night before when we had oodles of time and nobody had the energy to speak to me because ‘nothing had happened at school and it was all very boring that day’. As I regained my balance as the boot zip finally closed at the top of my calf, my eye caught the clock. Oh no! We WERE going to be late after all my ‘crying wolf’ to get the kids ready!

I shuffled them (little girl used the word ‘pushed’, but that’s up for debate depending on which side of the shuffling or pushing you were on) out of the door, slammed it shut and then frantically checked my jacket pockets to make sure I had the house key (which is a little too late when it is a self-locking door).

By this stage, the kids were both throwing all kinds of trivia and juicy news my way without pausing for breath, while I was clutching onto the last threads of sanity that were melting like candy floss. I unlocked the car, flung the boot open (narrowly missing the tip of my nose and almost hitting my forehead as I threw my handbag in the boot along with their school bags). As I slammed it shut, I expected to see two heads sitting obediently in the back seat, waiting for me to perform a cross-check on the seatbelts. But no – there little girl was talking to the fairies somewhere in the hedge, while little man was stubbing the ice with the front of his boot. “Come on, we’re late!” I exclaimed in exasperation.

As little girl skipped in slow motion towards the car door – the other one on the other side of the car, not the one I opened for her like a chauffeur, forcing me to run across to the ‘wrong’ side, skittling along the ice – little man thought it would be a great idea to demonstrate how effective his ice-breaking method was and how far he could kick shards of ice across the driveway right up to our elderly neighbour’s garden gate, giving running commentary as he did so.

Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore, my levels of irritation hit an all-time high, and I let out a yowl through gritted teeth that started like a humming wasp and ended in pure banshee pitch, “JUST GET INTO THE CAR!”.

When we got to school I looked into the eyes of at least 10 other mothers who seemed to have endured the same experience as me, all a little pale in the face but with red spots on our cheeks (the kind that you can only achieve through pure frustration), slightly pink and watery eyes, and husky, hoarse voices that betrayed the volume levels we’d achieved that morning.

And the fathers, you ask? Well, weren’t those just the people walking hand-in-hand with the deceptively obedient children who were skipping along, plotting their next move to make mom crazy tomorrow.