The sound of me is....?

As a mother I constantly have these moments of feeling bad about how I think, feel and act, in some situations, with my kids. It might be because I feel I’m being unfair to them: they don’t know that even though they don’t really do something wrong or bad, they do something wrong or bad. Complicated, but still true.

I have always been one of those individuals who need alone time. Time when I can gather myself. Find myself and become at peace with me and my life before I stray too far into a state of discontent. I know myself, and I know that if I let myself do that, I turn into a shrew not pleasant to be around at all. If mum is unhappy, no one else is allowed to be happy.

I am always very present in our home, when I am at home, but never as strong as when I feel like I’m on a “warpath”. Not sure who to be displeased with, but with a strong feeling there is something or someone not quite at place.

The unfairness in this is that deep down I know that what’s not at place is me, and that it is my disability to arrange alone-time for myself which causes me problems, and my shrewish behavior.

By alone-time I mean a short time, an hour, and if I am lucky maybe even more time of continuance, when I can choose what to focus on.

Time when I don’t have to deal with laughing and playing (and the clanking that brings about), and constant talking: questions asked in search of answers and help. Friends add to the number of children running through the doors and up and down staircases, opening the fridge in search of something cool to drink. They chew, swallow, slurpe, talk, sing, play games, watch TV…

They make the dog click his claws excessively on the wooden floor, makes him growl, he also barks when he hears someone outside, or at unsuspecting passer-bys with a dog, almost causing nervous breakdowns with his harassing attack… To merely live creates sounds and noises. I can’t very well blame my kids for living, can I.

Often I miss to surround myself with my own noise and sounds; the turn of the pages of a book, the music complimenting my taste and mood, the whisker from my socks when I cross a room, the sound of breathing (especially from my dog), the soft clicking of my keyboard… all the sounds I know are there, but which drown in the sounds of life and living in my house.

One of the sounds I like the best is the sound of silence. There is something healing about listening to emptiness holding the history, the stories, the truths about forever. You sit there and listen, and you can feel the knowledge of how all the answers are in it so tense you can almost taste it.

Crisp, early Sunday mornings with a mug of coffee, sitting on my porch, is magic as well. No man or engine to break the sounds of nature reviving.

Ok, maybe a bit weird, but everything is changing. Nothing is like it used to be, and with changes sounds are added or removed from our surroundings. It’s always been like that, but silence has always been the same… I think. Maybe I am wrong, but I imagine it is so.

I wonder what is the sound of me. When people think about me, what sound do they think of defines me?

"Inherent Evil of Things"

When I buy appliances I always look for, and buy, the ones with the least knobs, buttons and switches. Those which only have need-to-have functions, and no fancy extras I will never use.

The more buttons there is the more likely something will go wrong. And with my luck it goes wrong when I really need something to work. In this example: to be laundered; like Monday at midnight: my kid’s soccer outfit is really dirty from Sunday’s practice, and the match is on Tuesday early afternoon. And the drum just won’t turn…. Or the electronic display says “Error 2x86zz6y”, or something, and the only thing the laundry machine is good for is rising my blood pressure to undreamt-of heights (and unveil long forgotten vocabulary).

Those are the moments when I bless my not quite absent hoarding tendencies. To find an old laundry tub (why don’t we install those big utility sinks anymore? Because we trust our machines so much? Space? Next time I am to redecorate I will plan for one of those!) and wash by hand gets the job done, without any further ado.

I guess I’m rather traditional: When laundry is washed on the right temperature, on a program for wool, silk, very dirty or just a rinse, I am happy.

I used to have a laundry machine where you could program your own progress, time, temperature (individual for each process) and speed. The number of buttons and switches was VERY impressive and the machine lit up like a Christmas tree every time I pressed start. It lit up, but it didn’t always clean my laundry. The overpriced wonder was hardly ever 100% well.

Not like a car I used to have… which was very trustworthy. When he felt like it (The car turned out to be a “he”, because only a guy can make high expectations to an imminent event crash into unrepairable dreams of happy upcoming moments. Like this car did.)

One morning it was really important I got to work early. (Some mornings I have more to prepare before class than others, and often that has something to do with a test of some sort.)

I got all the bags and the kid in the car, started up, shifted to reverce, let go of the breaks: NOTHING HAPPENED! The car did not budge at all! I don’t think I understood the car stood still… I spent minutes trying to drive, stop the engine, start again…. I had to call the auto repair shop. The owner came with a breakdown truck, looked the car over and told me one of the rear wheels was locked. It was stuck.

The owner loaded my car on the truck, gave me a lift to the kindergarden, where I got a lift from another mum. I got to work just in time… Much the same thing happened one time I was going to the theatre (didn’t get there on time at all), another time to a funeral and an exam (I had time to borrow my neighbor’s bicycle and get to the exam only a couple of minutes late, and was allowed to take it).  

Because of the car, for me the events didn’t turn out the way I planned the night before.

To use a computer: same thing.

They used to be easy to use. Now it isn’t anymore. If you want to save a document, you are asked(???!!!!!!!) how to save it, and you get options like google document, dropbox or some other external site which you have to take a stand on. Not only have you got numerous options on saving what you write (you need to remember where you stored it, though, mind you). Scrolling through files to find something involves computer, files and library… and sometimes even an external harddrive you don’t even know where is!

Now, all of this I can live with, when you have followed the electronical development for as long as I have, you know a little about what is what (except hashtags…. I have to find out about hashtags). The thing I hate about it, is that when I, for once, have prepared a brilliant lesson, either it takes me forever to find the file or the network is down. Yes, it happens. Using computers for teaching is really vulnerable since servers have a tendency to shut down when traffic is heavy. Our fun, exploring, engaging high tech teaching intentions (decreeded by government, county and school owner and expected by my boss) very often end up in reading a text in a book and answer questions. It is better than having a full class watching me become a puddle of pure distress. I have learned to always have a plan b…. and c.

It isn’t just big items which play tricks on us like that, is it? Through the day anything from burned out light bulbs, a missing shoe, keys (Either you have the wrong one, you don’t have one or you can’t make it fit…. And then, of course, someone you are a tiny bit annoyed at, for some reason, takes the key out of your hand (even more annoyed) and the key fits perfectly, which is so exasperating…. so much so, I had to look for an appropriate word to explain just how annoying that is), alarm clocks… the more updated and crucial they are in a certain setting, the more likely things will let us down and make us react in manners we never ever suspected we had in us. They bring out the worst in me, at the most inconvenient times.

I have searched for a pen still working so desperately only a smoker with nothing to light the cigarette can understand.

Being familiar with things playing tricks on me (the more fancy and modern the harder it hits), knowing very well how I react to it, and being aware of what impact it has on me; I call it the inherent evil of things.