Robot Mummy.(found on google)
Life does go on a bit, doesn’t it? Whether you like it or not. Not to sound ungrateful or anything like that. No. I am. Very thankful. The sun comes up and goes down. The moon is a sweet half and growing. The weather is positively disgusting. Wild winds throwing dust in great revolting clouds. There is no more grass. The old horse keeps getting dust colic. The days are white with heat and becoming relentless and there is no sign of rain, apart from the early flowering of the acacia nilotica. Julie says it means the rains are close. Close, my arse. As we bumped up the hill yesterday, clouded in red dust, I muttered "Please let it rain soon, God." First born: What would you do if it started raining when we got home ma?
Me: Definitely convert. Immediately.
God: 0. Janelle: 4, 328 526.5
God: 0. Janelle: 4, 328 526.5
It’s back to the drawing board for me. Well, the chalk board (read white board) after all the drama of the past few weeks. For the first time, I am immersed in my work but in a good way. I am not exactly planning anything, like you’re supposed to (you know, lesson plans, termly objectives and everything…good LORD!) But I am inspired by what I am discovering and sharing. Teaching English literature sure is a plum job. Yes. So after leaving second born far behind, I’ve hit the road running. There hasn’t really been time to lick wounds, which is likely a healthy thing. Not utterly convinced though because the result of this is that I am now royally sick. My brain is leaking out of my nose. I kid you not. I am considering shoving mini tampons up my nostrils to stop the flow. But that wouldn’t look very attractive, especially in class, which is essentially a stage. I could get away with it at home, I guess. Anyone who visits the hill would understand. Those are the kind of friends I have. Few but true.
Everyone has righteous ideas about how to cure a cold: piriton, (2 and pass out), crush and eat raw garlic, Vit C, rest, ginger and honey (we love this one and we are presently sipping this as we type – she’s back, Queenie). Jim Harrison suggests a T bone steak, followed by a bottle of whisky and a joint in a hot bath, in that order. I think you wake up the next day in the bath and feel better. I haven't tried that one. Yet. My first aid bag contains plasters and one tube of germoline. Oh and since yesterday more brufen than you could shake a stick at – enough to fill all the tubes in a smartie factory. I’m popping them avidly. My eyes have lovely black rings around them which are terribly dramatic so you can tell I am sick. I stagger through the school day and flake out fantastically when I get home. It’s exceedingly boring. I might as well stand over a basin and drip to death, watching my skull concave from where my brain used to be. I’m nearing the I Want My Mummy stage. When you’re the mother, it seems you can’t get sick. No one’s going to do your shit for you. Or plump up your pillows and bring you tea and Bovril soldiers in bed. “I can’t not go to school,” she wails. I know. I know. Shining halo eh? But no. It’s because I haven’t done any cover lessons and I’m scared of being caught out and fired. Can’t let the side down now, can we? So I have to keep on keeping on teaching. But the body is not at all happy about this. I tell it to shuddup and get on with it. But I am not a robot it seems. I am an imperfect, confused, tired human being.
Which brings me to my next annoying Big Thing Point: the please prove you’re not a robot saga on the bloggie comment sections….For christ’s sake? It’s complicated, isn’t it? I lean into the screen, I feel the pressure. The letters are all purposefully squashed together so you can’t tell if it’s a “D” or an “l” close up to a “C”….
Clearly, I am not a robot. I have feelings. I am sick and I am terrifically human.
And I shall paint The Naartjie tree when I feel better.