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Recipe in pictures

January 29, 2018

This isn’t coming out in order but ohwell.

Note: turn down fire when adding sauces.

If baby is crying

January 18, 2018

Is it time for milk? Yes- feed.

No- is he squirming about uncomfortably? Yes- try to get a burp out.

No- are his diapers soiled/ heavy? Yes- change.

No- is his stomach taut with wind? Yes- ruyi you.

No- I can’t think of anything else. If it’s 7pm, carry for the next few hours.

On chitchat, in 2008.

i read through a magazine today, the first one since i came. it’s a magazine because the centrefold had pretty dresses and shoes and sunnies scattered around, colours red orange green black with prices and where-to-get-it-froms. and i miss my dresses.

i miss warmth, heat, sun that makes me glad i’ve got the perfect dress on today and shines and i smile to myself as i walk down the bricked path towards the admin block under the shade of our stately trees. i miss my dresses, most of which are hanging clammy (such a horrible word to experience) and forlorn and (royally) taking up all the hanging space in my little two door(ed) wardrobe.
brackets parathesis curvy lines.

other things i have been doing-
friday nights have been the best so far. i tapao dinner and rush to catch the last number 18 to ramsey house, a wonderfully cosy sofay cafe place that masquerades and leads a double life; in the day it smells of coffee and business, other times it has our laughter and chitchat.

i’ve learnt the meaning of chitchat here; it’s an awful lot of words with the person who happens to be standing close by or who has walked up. chitchat means grabbing the first topic that comes to your mind and going from there, after the mandatory how was your days have been exchanged. i have learnt to ask in reply. there are a lot of smiles and nods in chitchat, not all of them worth that much. perhaps there’s a secret hope they hold- that by acting interested, there is a chance that feigned interest will turn real. perhaps. i don’t know these things. but chitchat is fine enough with icf people, i feel comfortable with them.

so we chit and chat till various times pass. last week it was ten, this past friday it was midnight. i get sent home, and check out what’s happening in dirty helen.

last week it was spontaneous wrestling in the lounge, where i jumped in and got thrown so much my piercing came unloose and slid off my eyebrow. i’m amazed, and thankful; amazed that the ball bearing could turn so many rounds against the carpet (where i was being tossed around) when all my daily attempts to remove it have failed, and thankful that it slipped off the way it did- it could have so easily caught on someone’s button hole and ripped out.
this week karaoke was still going on when i got back, so it was spirited yeowing of beach boy’s aruba, jamaica, ooh i wanna take ya and grease’s summer lovin’, had me a blast, all the way down to backstreet boy’s all you people can’t you see can’t you see and most horrendous of all is our memory of enthusiastically participating to HIT ME BABY one more time! accompanied with equally embarrassing hand actions. i suppose we had our own mambo night.

almost done.. did i write too much? just-
oh, a final question. how does skype work?


No, you’re not, not the least bit, not ever, and I am sorry for making you feel that way.

Day 365/19

January 1, 2018

The end of the year, nineteen days of E’s life.

I spent the morning wincing wringing hot water out of a cloth acting as a hot compress while I tried to break up the mass that was the consequence of blocked ducts. The rest of the day passed in the same haze and vague malaise which has preceded the first eighteen.

Two hours and fifty one minutes to the end of the year, and the beginning of another. Funny how just about everything else gets wiped out the in the never-ending cycle of feed, pump, x.

For the record, the most significant milestone for the year was our reunion, the end of a nomadic marriage. (J leaves in two weeks for deployment but that’s not quite the point.)

I guess, even if I feel somewhat down tonight, this heaviness doesn’t have the despair of 31 December 2014/1 Jan 2015. Just (just) a weariness. But I think while j is gone I will be more than weary.

J, who is currently sleeping cross-legged on the sofa, one cushion as pillow and the other across his chest. Who has been my comfort and solace for every tear I’ve let go these past nineteen days, my support and cheerleader. I wish I had him home every day.

I dread the relentless turns of an hour-long pump with little to show and lesser time still to vanish in my child’s throat. And I don’t even do the diapers and sterilizing yet; that’s the nanny’s job.

I need to remember that God is sovereign and His perspective’s what counts, not mine.

Three hours and forty four minutes into the new year; we observed the passing with the family devotion prepared by church. Recalled the milestones of 2017, discussed our hopes and fears for this year. Sang a couple of hymns, heard the word preached. Thankful for well-written hymns. I probably could do with singing ‘Great is Thy faithfulness’ more often.

To do list for the first day of the year- take my first bath in twenty days, wash my hair, wonder how long this second hand pump will last me.

1) two strangers in the house; one tourist, one PR.

2) PR’s great-grandmother gave her pronouncement.

3) j is a very, very, good father. I watch him and my heart keeps melting again and again.

4) it’s technically can’t be pregnancy hormones, but whatever name it goes by- is turning me into a series of tears; I see tragedy everywhere.

5) so. Tired.