Eyes

Eyes

Friday 30 November 2018

Cool parents.

Is parenting cool? What makes a cool parent? One of those I can’t wrap my head around. Young teens are at the cusp of adulthood and tend to stay there for many exasperating years to come. Not quite children anymore and a long way from adulthood. Lobbying for their rights, their freedom, their independence. Stepping back and realising that for them, the goal of this period is to become successful adults, feeling competent and independent on their own. Now that might never include getting out of bed on their own or making it to school on time, yet whatever is in the scope of that goal warrants support. These elongated humans, stretching past your own height, looking down on us at every argument still need reminding to brush their teeth.

At 13 kids start navigating the outside world on their own, literally. Independent mobility without a hand-holding parent is one little way of asserting their autonomy. Figuring out the city metro network, following a road map themselves to get to the many activities their busy days are packed with. There are parents who don’t have a heart attack every morning their kids mount their bicycles, snaking through traffic to school and back, or disappear into an underground tube and resurface from the bowels of the city, having simply commuted and returning intact. There are parents that are not hesitant to hand over taxiing around their children, appreciating the little space and time won back for themselves without turning into giant worrywarts through the exercise of trusting and letting go. There really are such cool parents.

My mum had this silly little thing she used to do. She’d stand under the porch light staring out into the road, eyes peeling for the child that wasn’t home yet. She’d park herself there 5 minutes past expected return of said child, gradually inching her way forward towards the road, praying harder as the delay progressed until said child returned home. With a total of 4 children that were constantly on the run and constantly delayed, she spent a lot of time on the front porch, praying. It was such a spectacularly ineffective tactic, I couldn’t understand for the love of God if waiting was the only plan, why she wouldn’t just wait in the comfort of the indoors. No amount of pointing this out would move her back in. I mean, worrying is one thing, and then there’s just plain ridiculous.

At another time, in another place. Turning the tables.

08:00 PM
It’s so good to have mum with us and these fabulous meals she conjures up. With autumn giving way to winter, it’s pitch dark by 7 in the evening, barely anyone on the streets outside.Just the kind of soul food to cheer up this time of year.
I’m starving. Serving the food might take my mind off eating the food. My young lady should be home too, in a few minutes. Yes, let’s go ahead and serve dinner.

08:10 PM
It’s just her second time at handball, a whole new sport and new mates. I bet she’s hanging out with the other girls. The food’s getting cold.

08:15 PM
As usual she doesn’t answer her phone. Ok, let’s just start. The class is around the corner. Surely, she’ll be here any moment and I am positively starving. I check her location on the tracking app, which really confuses me. That’s not the street the handball class is at? Must be an inaccuracy. Why can’t she message me??? We settle down for dinner - my mum, my son and I. ‘How much longer do you think she will be’, asks my mum in the calmest voice she can fake. I know she’s going to freak out soon. She has probably already started praying. My mum will just never change! My son leans over to peer into the tracking app on my phone and startles a little. ‘It’s says there that she’s somewhere completely different. That's an office complex, isn't it?’ he asks with grandfatherly concern. He sure takes after his grandma!
A few weeks earlier the kids finally got equipped with fully functional smart phones with data packages et all. We set up the family tracking app, between our phones, which was quite fun at first. Following their tracks on their way to school while I was on the tube to work. Knowing when they cross the big junctions, where they hang out with friends. The marvel and wonders of technology! We even came to enjoy a phony sense of control. The novelty wore off soon enough, some vestige of trust taking its place, and we checked less and less frequently.

08:17 PM
It’s so easy to lose your grip. With resolute calm I refresh the tracking app again. She’s a blue pulsating spot on the map, above it her smiling face in a speech bubble looking back to me. “This is where I am Mummy”. That is weird. It really is nowhere close to her class. Still not picking up her phone. I check what the app says about my son’s location - sitting right beside me at the dinner table and getting increasingly suspicious (he’s more 13 going on 80). His location is perfectly accurate, showing up on the map right where he actually is. ‘Why would she be in that building?’ my son keeps prodding. ‘Don’t you want to check that?’ unmistakably accusatorially. I’m starting to lose my appetite.

08:20 PM
Manic app refreshing, alongside continuous re-dial is now full-on. 10 dozen WhatsApp messages later the little blue pulsating spot remains firmly nestled in what seems to be the depths of an industrial office complex block. Going a little cold, I realise this might be real and precious time has been lost pretending to be cool. She’s been gone for 1.5 hours. If she’s really in that building, how long has she been there? ‘This is where I am Mummy. Come get me’.

From here onwards things get completely out of hand.

08:25 – 09:00 PM
I’m running down the road in felt home slippers now, reeking of garlic and spices, chasing a blue pulsating spot on my phone, mad with worry and fear. The marvels and wonders of technology. Every horror was playing out in my mind. Flashes of scenes from movies, images construed by a fertile imagination. Captivity. A wide dark office space. Abductors. A young girl scrambling between tables. It’s so easy to lose your grip. “Hold it together!” I ordered myself. Almost there.

Panting and out of breath, the promised office block of glass concrete buildings appears, stretching out on either side. Dark and deserted, it’s day occupants probably happy at the family dinner by now. A round faced security guard sat manning the cabin at the entrance.
Barging through the cabin window, I yell ‘I need help!’. Simultaneously stuffing my head and arm through the small opening, I wave my phone in his face vigorously. ‘You see my daughter is in there. Take a look! She’s the blue spot. It’s showing she’s in that building over there and I have to get in”. Without waiting for an answer or giving him a chance to process what I said, I look around quickly for an opening to let my whole self into his stupid cabin. In my head a plan is forming to terrorise the round-faced guard with the might of my anxiety. ‘I’m going to call the police’, I said. ‘No, you! You call the police. I have to get in there. DO IT NOW!!’. It could have just as well been underwater, this moment with him. An arresting resistance surrounded him, every molecule of space around him preventing motion. Like the sloths in Zootopia, s-l-o-w to move, s-l-o-w to speak, agonisingly s-l-o-w..!
‘That building is not part of my responsibilities’, he says finally. I might have climbed in and shaken him up had I not spotted a team of cleaners leaving one of the buildings. Darting over to them I ask frantically from one to another, ‘Is there anyone in there? Have you seen a young girl inside?’.  ‘Come tomorrow, today closed’ they reply in pigeon, shooing me off, ‘Everyone work finish, today go home’.
Now I was really losing it. I run back over to my friend the security guard sloth, resolving mentally to be a changed person. ‘You see’, I say with measured control, ‘my daughter has been gone for 1.5 hours. I can’t reach her, she’s not picking up her phone. She should have been home about 45 mins ago, but she’s not. She should be at sports class which is in a completely different place. Apparently, she’s in there, since the last 45 mins, probably longer. I’ve lost so much time. You really have to let me in there’. Not threatening this time, pleading. These must be the different stages of desperation.
Just then my WhatsApp buzzes. “Just landed”. My husband, Oh thank God, thank God!! I call him back instantly “You have to call the police” I’m hollering and sobbing into the phone. 'Our daughter hasn’t come home, she’s in this office building. I have to get in. GET THE POLICE!!'. 'Huh, what??'  No time to catch him up. They’re all dragging me under water with them. Zootopia sloth #2. ‘Calm down’ he’s saying, ‘What’s going on?’

Meanwhile, the security guard is speaking to someone on the phone. Half suspecting he’s setting the police on me, I abruptly hang up mid-sentence on my ‘just landed’ husband.
‘You can go in there and look for your daughter’ the guard says to me, hanging up. ‘My boss says it’s ok to let you in’. I almost laughed in disbelief through my tear streaked face. I would have hugged him if I had the time, and then he would have really called the police! Instead I start running ahead of him to the building entrance, watching for the blue spot all the time. Suddenly the spot starts to move. Just a nudge at first, and then a slow steady motion away from the building, right out across the street. While the guard was still fumbling at the door, I’d already taken off in pursuit of the elusive blue spot, now moving faster away from me. ‘She’s somewhere else now. I have to go’, I call back mid-flight to the blank faced guard. Random running is the plan now, calling out her name. Louder and louder. No, there is no plan, there are no clues. My phone starts to ring. But it’s just my husband trying to call back, for the gazillion-th time. It’s not her.
I’ve spotted an abandoned park across the road, a hideous hangout even in the bright of day. Scoring it with the torch light on my phone I call her name till my throat goes horse. The stray pedestrian walks in a wide arch around me, in safe avoidance of the lunatic. Still within sight of the guard who’s come all the way out on the road, following my frenzied behaviour pitifully. Crazy lady and her blue spot.

Think! Think! I know the police only act on a missing person when enough time has elapsed, when too much time has elapsed! I hope my mother is praying. All the time I’m staring at my phone. There’s a bicycle approaching. A young girl with a sports bag. I jump at her from the darkness. She startles and stops. I’m holding her handle bar, not wondering how deranged and scary I must seem to her.

‘Where are you coming from, what sports were you at?’

‘Huh? Handball?’ she answers suspiciously.

Hallelujah!!! ‘Do you know my daughter? New to the team? Tall, slim, straight black hair?’ I want to say the most beautiful young girl I know. ‘Have you seen her?’

‘You mean (she mentions her name)?’ ‘..yes..she was in the changing room before me I think. I guess she has left by now.’

‘Now? Left now???’

That’s when my phone rings. My daughter’s calling.

Monday 29 October 2018

Groundhog day disrupted.

Business as usual
The proverbial 06:00 am wake-up up to ‘I got you babe..’, breakfast at the diner, looking out for the groundhog’s shadow to forecast the arrival of spring...you know the drill. Everyone likes their little Punxsutawney.
Our brains are super-efficient in following pre-existing pathways. Routes that are fast, familiar and safe, providing confidence and mastery through repetition. We know where they start, how they will progress, and where they will end. How are we to escape the gravity of the predictable path while everything is conspiring to keep us in the beloved ‘comfort zone’ of warm predictability and soothing control. Giving it all a degree of validity, it doesn’t necessarily merit.

For us, 2018 has been a year of change, for the young and the old. Old dogs are learning new tricks, the young ones are fearfully following. It’s been analysis paralysis for an agonizing few months, wrecked with sleepless nights. The usual pressure that comes with decision making. Will it be the right decision? The truth is, there is no knowing. The only wrong thing to do, is not doing.

Acts of omission
We will all suffer one of two things: the pain of indiscipline or the pain of regret or disappointment. Improving yourself, your relationships, writing a book, building a business - Achieving goals is just bloody painful. It takes a lot of discipline, time, blood, sweat, tears and immense sacrifice to accomplish things that are worthwhile in life.
The regret of inaction is just as painful. Paths not taken will come to haunt us. Not going in for that kiss only to watch her marry someone else. Not striding across the room and leaving when you could, not clicking send on the mail, not signing on the dotted line. Endless evaluation takes 3 seconds of courage to execute – 3 seconds of dizzying bravery to change your life. If it fails, even at 80 when you look back, you will still be proud that you tried. There is a 100% chance of regret if you never try and a 0% if you try and fail. As Jeff Bezos says, that’s a useful metric for any important life decision.

‘Spot the difference’
Everything seems stupid when it fails, in hindsight anyone can look at mistakes and say it was imminent. A good decision is when the outcome is successful – which broadly means, having more than before. Conversely, the biggest fear is ending up with the opposite – less than before. When in comparison mode, quantitative differences - those involving numbers, always win. Earning $80K is better than $60K a year. A 150 sqm home is better than a 120 sqm. The brain equates better to happier, more satisfied, fulfilled lives. A constant battle rages between the brain and the heart, to pursue safe decisions that are conducive to more numbers. Omitting all else. And then comes the living out of those decisions, going from comparison mode to experience mode. How has the $20K changed you, how has the additional room in your house transformed you? And how long till that happiness adjusts back to the new stable and starts to fade?
Focusing too much on inconsequential stuff gets us into trouble. So rather than playing 'spot the difference' of two options side by side, what if we reviewed our own cyclical patterns that repeat in our lives to optimise the things we can’t get used to. 

What if we are bold enough to hop-off the predictive path and take the risk. What if we found a new tune to wake up to. Would it work out, would it fail? Who knows. Like Phil Connors (played by the famous Bill Murray in Groundhog day), you might just learn the piano and ice sculpting along the way.

Monday 7 May 2018

Silver threads among the black


I stepped back to take a better look at her, interrupting our usual reunification hug which generally leaves the poor thing gasping for air and my arms aching. I untangled hastily to observe her more closely. Regal and beautiful as ever, this woman - my dearest mum, has a timeless essence. Her mischievous eyes and zestful smile have thus far belied her age. Looking at her now, I notice curiously she's gracefully giving it away. Framing her lovely face, in place of her usual hazel nut tinted black shock of curls, are unmistakably natural silver and black, spirals springing out defiantly! 'I've stopped colouring them' she said, beaming proudly, 'I've decided to go gray'. Almost 70, always a stunner, she stands confident and ever dignified. 'I can't keep colouring my hair while my daughter goes gray’, she chuckled.

Racing into mid life myself, I figured it might be an opportunity to experiment - experimental because I can’t know as yet what the outcome will be or how I will fare. The perpetual movement against age - the anti-age - I find to be frankly quite tiresome. The first time my mum attempted to grow her hair back into it’s natural colour, I recall the alarming concern from my brothers and father, interpreting it as letting herself go by looking closer to her actual age. The Whispering conspiracy concluded only when she was safely seen to the doors of the hair dressers’ to get it ‘fixed’. This while at the same time, graying Hollywood stars like Sean Connery, Pierce Brosnan, Richard Gere, the dashing George Clooney were all the rave for breaking the internet with their all natural, all sexy Silver foxes look. Aging to be more handsome than ever before, hailing other men to embrace the change with stylish confidence. Amongst women Hollywood celebrities, the Silver Vexin are indeed meant more to hide meekly in the woods. 

It’s almost mechanical, at the first sight of grays, the tedious process of dyeing and colouring commences - almost 75% of women start dyeing their hair within a year of seeing the first gray, the rest are just not taking care of themselves. I guess I belong to the latter. Initially put-off just by the overhead of the repetitive nature of the task, I shared my position with my girl friends who were absolutely aghast at first. Even my mum’s friends from thousands of miles away worried I should be doing something about it, reporting to her of pictures of me sighted on social media sporting visible gray’s! I am actually vain, very vain in fact, as my mum will be quick to confirm. If I wouldn’t be vain, I’d probably grow a beard and have bushy branched trees for eyebrows, which is more pronounced than ever at this age. A scary 12X magnification mirror in my bathroom is in place for closely monitoring facial deforestation and timely grooming. It’s the ridiculous promises of wiping away years that infuriates me, the sub-text being we should feel ashamed of getting older. How awful if someone would guess our real age!
I do like youth, youth is beautiful. It's beauty and It’s clueless disorientation - not knowing who you are or where you’re headed. I’m also glad to be past that headiness. The way our hair fades, the lines on our faces, they are the map of where we’ve been - as Julia Robert says in Auggie. Making mistakes and learning from them, of experiences that have taught and toughened us, of big life moves and loss and joy, with ever growing responsibilities for other people. They are maps of worry, love and sacrifice. These maps can’t form in youth. I suspect, how clearly your skin displays them and how soon, is a matter of genetics - not the tons of time and money spent on anti-aging creams. However fortunate you might be with the genetics of it, age in-itself is an interesting look - not only for men. 

Into mid-life, I find that I want to feel energetic like my mum at 70. When I look in 12X magnified scary mirror in the morning, no amount of hair dye will do that for me. Exercise and good food maybe. My snake-like scaly dry skin will literally shed, if I don’t lather it with cream. I am having to step that up as the years pile on. I will always love my eyeliner, even when I'm 120, even if it means painting the entire eyelid to work the folds! 
And yes, I might look more my age as my hair continues to fade, and I know my mum’s with me on this now :-).
Now get out there, the rest of you Silver Vexin!