Fast lane confessions

If I was any more tired I think my head would slip off my hand into the bowl of risotto on my desk, and I’m not sure that I would care enough to lift it out.

A sad tale, really, but entirely fabricated – except for the exhausted part.

The discerning super-sleuths will have already figured out that I need two hands to type (not everyone does, but my brain works at such an incredible speed that one hand is merely too slow) and even though I do have an empty bowl next to the computer, the risotto is long gone on account of my love of al dente rice.

Which leaves me as just plain tired. Which may be true but entirely unexciting.

The problem is that I have too many plates spinning. How do I keep them all balanced and moving and still remain …well…sound? I am well aware that the problem is a socially shared one; we live in an age where we are encouraged to ‘live the dream’, which usually involves trying to live enough dreams for five lifetimes.

But what does one do if they are passionate about many things and want to do them all exceptionally?

Beauty sleep is the first to go; which is certainly not helping my wolf-whistle factor (something, I might add, that has been non-operational for some time now…). Then we start to let our relationships slide, because surely they will all be there tomorrow, right? What else gets weaker as we strive to accomplish our goals? Holy-Egg-Sandwiches Batman, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to find out.

Which is why I am going to turn off this dastardly computer and join with my children as they finish watching ‘Bug’s Life’.

And maybe another helping of risotto. You know, to give the blog a bit more authenticity.

Left to their own devices

I left the kids at the island bench tonight to finish their dinner. I usually make a point of staying with them, as much in the name of cabinetry preservation as table etiquette. But I had to write something down – when words are flowing, so help me, don’t stand in my way.

Of course there is always a price to pay when you fail to adhere to the ‘Self-Preservation Safety Standards of Mothering Boys’ procedures manual.

I got the ideas down (you can stop stressing), but the ‘situation’ in the kitchen became less than desirable. It wasn’t as bad as the other night when I left the room only to be chased down seconds later by my eldest to report that his brother had put his entire foot in his macaroni.

Rather, tonight, I was dragged back to ‘kitchen reality’ by the gagging sounds being made by my three year old (have you noticed the frequency with which he features in these little tales?). He is quite a creative little sucker, using the top of a spray bottle to extract the juice from his cup, subsequently spraying the newly contaminated fluid into his cherubim-like cake-hole.

He was covered in frozen yoghurt, gagging on the juice hitting the dangly bit in his throat (whatever the scientific name for that thing is…), his middle brother trying to launch his swivel chair into orbit by spinning at the speed of light, and the muffins I left in the oven? Well, let’s just say that I performed my very own miracle turning blueberries into blackberries.

If only this was fictional.

This is my life.

I’ve heard that little girls have tea parties and play ‘talking games’ with their dolls? Could that be true?

There is certainly something to say about the raw enthusiasm of kids. I can’t comment about little girls, but I’ve sure got a lot to say about their soon-to-be hairier counterparts. As much as they challenge my sanity (pretty much on an hourly basis) I am secretly excited about what incredible escapades are going to colour their adult lives. Hopefully none of them will involve a paddy wagon and a bail out fee.

Unfortunately there’s no real underlying ‘deep and meaningful’ message in today’s blog. Just don’t turn your back…

Come on, already

I can’t think of anything more infuriating than drivers that travel ten kph slower than the speed limit. (This is where the ‘rave’ component of the blog title kicks in).

What are they thinking? Are they thinking at all? Are they in a type of driving-coma where swiftness is irrelevant? Or are they merely unable to handle a vehicle at a speed exceeding the pace of a horse and cart? It totally gets my knickers in a knot.

Yes, yes, I sound impatient and you may well ask whether those 30 seconds that I save with the extra 10kph are worth it. Probably not; but these slugs on the road cause me angst. (See, I’m even resorting to name-calling. Can't you feel the emotion!!).

I also scorn drivers who overtake dangerously or with excessive speed (usually on a blind corner at 160kph) only to be waiting at the next set of traffic lights when the slower car arrives. I’m not that bad – I usually don’t act on my frustration – I just…well….write a blog about it (and take vitamin D tablets because of the lack of sunshine).

Hmm, time to step off the judgement podium.

The ridiculous thing, when I stop and consider, is that we (ie soft shelled, semi-flexible, organ filled, people) are fragile but we are choosing to hurtle around on bitumen (a very hard surface) in large metal cubicles at supernatural speeds. And to add to this, we treat driving as a squad activity – we drive next to and behind other fast moving chunks of metal assuming that they know what they're doing. What about driving beside a gas tanker on the highway at 110kph? Have we stopped to really consider this?

Are we mad? Shouldn’t we be struck with fear at the thought of this, rather than pushing (or breaking…) the speed limit and getting upset about being ‘slow’?

Perhaps I have no fear because I’ve never been in an accident when travelling faster than 3kph (I’ll just skip over those details….). Perhaps I’m just stupid to be so blasé and....well, yep, pretty much just stupid.

I prefer to be afraid of swimming in a dam because there might be gunky plants that touch my feet or eels that brush against my legs; or having a moth fly into my hair. You know, really life threatening stuff.

I’m so used to having everything instantly, that I fail to recognise that some things are better when we take our time. Or maybe they’re not better as such, but at least we might live a little bit longer.