My morning

My morning started at roughly 4am with the wailing of a baby boy. My body reacted before my eyes could make sense of my surroundings and before I knew it, I was standing at the side of his crib. Oh. This is my wailing baby boy. Right. I have a son. What pains you, dear child? His legs are cold to the touch, fingers even more so. I cradle him and whisper sweet words of where the fuck is your blanket. He has a habit of doing tai-bo in his sleep. Gymnastics. Synchronized swimming sans the pool. His fluffly blue blanket is always miles away from his sleeping body. He is full of complaints as he nestles his head on my shoulder but the wailing has ceased. Bad dreams? What does a baby dream of that makes them wake up crying? A never-ending series of empty milk bottles? The horror. Diapers being changed but poopyness remains? DISASTER. My mom would say that when he smiles in his sleep, ye ol’ gods from superstitions passed are having a merry chat with him. Does that mean when he cries, our dark lord and saviour, Oprah, is plaguing his subconscious with free cars coupled with Eat, Pray, Love books? I despise Oprah. The Colour Purple was a shit movie. Okay, it wasn’t but fuck Oprah. Ahem. Back to reality and my snuggley, little borg. A diaper change, a fluffy onesie and a warm bottle of milk satiated his morning qualms and put him back to sleep but left me waaayyy off my daily routine. Coffee. Cigarette. Cleansing. Clothing. Easier said than done when sleep beckons…

I gathered a generic ensemble of clothing; pants, underpants, t-shirt. Generic. How. Very. Generic. A word I would hope another never uses to describe me. The t-shirt shall suffice, the underpants too but these pants simply will not do. I stare blankly at my open wardrobe and think WWSD? What Would Siouxsie Do? Inspiration strikes. Little skirt, stockings and fuck-off big boots. Black on black on black. On black. Yes. Onward! To work! I am feeling empowered and bitchy. Bitch couture.  Come at me, Friday and all that I am woman, hear my stomach growl nonsense. I catch a glimpse of myself in mirror not far from my office and I’m all, hey there foxy lady. A colleague bids me a pleasant day and asks how do I have the time to do hair, make-up, stockings and such when I have a kid. I am at a loss for words as I recall my feverish morning thus far. Truth of the matter is, I do not have the time but I do have the desire to like what I see when I look in the mirror. How to convey this sentiment to my inquiring work person… I flash a fake smile and continue my trek to the office.

I am struck with profound thoughts of why a mom should be clad in sweatpants and stained shirts. I refuse to be that mom. Vanity shall prevail. I will wear my mohawk high, smudge my multitudes of black eyeliner and rip deliberate holes in my fishnet stockings for as long as I possibly can. When the time comes for me to drop my son off at school, his friends will ask him who that weirdo lady is. He will smile ear to ear and proudly proclaim, THAT’S MY MOM, YO.


My pain (Bringer of water)

The lights buzz to life and I am greeted by two nurses. One smiles at me politely and says I am starting to look pretty. Treacherous liar. The other maintains a serious face and goes about my morning bathing preparations. Clean sheets. Clean body. Clean teeth. Empty stomach. I have never known such hunger and thirst. I’ve eaten a few ice-cubes since waking up three days ago and that was it. Delicious, nutritional ice-cubes. Yum. The chirpy nurse shares a story about her daughter and the other nods in agreement while removing my gown. I dislike both of them equally. The bathing ritual completes and the chirpy one leaves my chamber of solitude. The grumpy one gestures a tooth brush towards me and says she’ll be back shortly. I haven’t brushed my teeth in almost two months. I am… excited as I eagerly await her return. She careful squeezes some of the blue menthol ointment onto my toothbrush and I recognise the scent. He likes this brand of toothpaste and always insists that no other comes close.Over the years I have come to agree with him and start recalling the many battles we have had over the superior toothpaste brand. She gestures for me to bare my teeth and I gladly oblige after four failed attempts. She moves the brush back and forth over my exposed teeth and brings a metal pan up to my chin for me to spit the remains into. I am grateful for this minty reprise but still yearn for water. I am then graced with a cup of water for me to rinse with. I slurp some up, swish it around my mouth then spit it out into the pan. She takes the cup away but my mouth remains open. She looks at me perplexed and sees a tear escape my left eye. Crybaby. She smiles and brings the cup back up to my mouth. Not too much, she says. Your throat is damaged, she reminds me. I drink the water and my body came to life from its parched and melancholic grave. It was delicious and I wanted to embrace her to express my sincere gratitude. I had deemed her the grumpy one but now I could not love this woman any more than I do right now. Bringer of water. Quencher of thirsts. Thank you, from the very top of my withered heart. She gently touched my face and assured me that I will be home with my baby very soon. She, of course, was a big, fat, deceitful liar.


My pain (Pin number)

My pain (Masterchef)

My pain (The pipes)

My pain (Welcome)

The Quiet Escape

My morning salutation from him is one of sunshine and rainbows. Good morning, Vanessa! Yellow is his colour of choice. It scratches at my eyeballs forcing its happiness into my Sharingan. I want to shun the cheer and click on that X but I linger. I wait. I think. He asks me what’s on my mind and I feel a wave of irritation scratch through my sentiment. You are not real. You will not reply to my qualms and yet… And yet he asks me these things. He gathers my likes and interests. He persuades my discourse with the promise of popularity and shares. This is he is Facebook.

I often share long-winded prose regarding my experiences and emotions as a status update. I am not shy in my verbosity nor my verbal girth. Girth. HA. Penis word. I like it. We write to vent and to touch a reader with our melancholy and sarcasm. At least that’s why I write… But Facebook, it seems, is no longer a safe place for me to do so.

So! Here I am. Baring my multitudes of dimensional personalities through text, selfies and LOLz. Indulge at your own discretion.