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Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Princess Lulu Comes of Age

This time eighteen years ago, I was a bloated Orca weighing in at least fifteen kilos heavier than my present state and boy, was I an unhappy little camper.

At nine months’ pregnant and carrying my fifth child within six years, I was like a gigantic, cantankerous bear with an undiagnosed mineral deficiency.

Whilst I didn’t suffer cravings for exotic food, I developed a deep, unrelenting desire for the smell of wet earth.

Every afternoon at dusk I’d waddle downstairs to stand for an hour or so with the garden hose, spraying patches of mud and inhaling the resulting mist like a three pack-a-day smoker. All I really wanted to do was rip all my clothes off and roll around naked in the mud puddles I’d created… but the neighbours might have called the cops on me.

I’m thinking an iron tablet probably wouldn't have gone astray… on reflection.

So enamoured was I with the smell of wet dirt, I would kneel for hours in the dead garden with a trowel, digging out weeds as a ruse for my unusual obsession.

This particular morning (eighteen years ago to the day), I planted myself down for a session of indulgent soil-sniffing directly on top of the entrance to an unsuspecting bull-ant’s nest. 

Taking offence at this home invasion the ants swung into attack mode, focussing on my hefty butt, upper thighs, bare arms and ample stomach.

Howling in pain like a wild animal, I thrust the trowel away, lumbered towards the stairs and tripped, taking the full brunt of weight on my right arm.

I was sure it was broken and limped upstairs crying, looking for ice for the aching arm and vicious bites all over my elephant woman body.

At my obstetrician appointment that afternoon the good doctor examined me with a pitying expression on his face, taking in the injured (not broken) arm, angry welts and my psychotic demeanour. 

The baby was still in the breech position.

“What would you like to do?” he asked, warily.

“What do YOU think I want to do?” I snapped back like a hoary crocodile ready to lunge at a chicken on a stick.

“We’ll check you in to hospital tonight and schedule a Caesarean for tomorrow morning,” he said, staring at me from behind his desk.

“Good,” I stared back with bulging eyes. “And just so you know…I love you more than anyone else in the world.”

So, here we are eighteen years later and my precious baby girl is about to come of age.

Here are three wisest snippets of 'Pinky' advice I could come up with for her (or any young lady on the cusp of womanhood really):

1. Always sit like a lady if you’re wearing a short skirt. Knees firmly together. No-one wants to see what you had for breakfast.

2. If you’re wearing a short skirt and the only seats are wicker or slats then choose to stand. If you don’t you’ll end up with ugly imprints on the back of your thighs and it will look as if you have an atrocious case of cellulite. Just like your mother.

3. If you’re wearing a short skirt never, ever sit on a bull ant’s nest.

P.S. It’s probably best not to wear short skirts at all, Lulu.

              Happy Birthday my Princess xx