It has not been easy. You’ve been a believer ever since you can remember. 

 At the age of eight you realized that if you thought about a thing hard enough, it happened. Not always in the way you originally envisioned it or even within the time frame - but it happened. 

 At ten you invented that special way of crossing your fingers; it brought good luck and kept the bad things from happening. If you crossed your fingers on one hand it was moderately powerful, but if you crossed your fingers on both hands you were invincible, although this gesture could only be used for emergencies. No one must ever know. Your powers were secret. They were the gifts you were given for being one of the faithful, provided you never talked about it. Provided you did what you needed to do. 

 As you grew older you read The Diary of Anne Frank, you watched television specials on the Dangers of Strangers, you heard the grown-ups talking about AIDS. You learned that there was no guarantee.  God may or may not choose to keep you and your loved ones safe. You would have to do more. Suffer more. Worry more. Prove your faith. 

 When you were sixteen, you set yourself the task of checking that each door in your house was locked at least three times before you allowed yourself to go to bed. Three is a very powerful number. You couldn’t do it all at the same time. That would have been cheating. That wouldn’t have counted. You had to go around the house three times. It was a big house. There were many doors. It was South Africa, in the post-apartheid years. You would whisper the same word under your breath three times. 

 “Locked. Locked. Locked.” 

 Then you would turn on the alarm and go upstairs and lock the gate that closed the upstairs from the downstairs. 

 “Locked, locked, locked.” 

You don’t think your parents ever knew about how many times you checked the doors, but they knew about you counting the stairs.  

“Don’t do that,” your mother had snapped when she overheard you muttering numbers. 

 “Why?”  you had asked. Alarmed by her alarm. “What does it mean?” 

“Nothing good,” she answered. She didn’t say more. She didn’t have to. Her silence said the rest and you knew you could never tell her about all the things you had to do.  

Still, for all those years you lived in that house, no one ever broke in. And your faith was rewarded.

I look forward to hearing your thoughts-please leave them in the Comments. 

My friend invited me into the Instapot Facebook Community. They have accepted me. 

On the one hand, this means I will be able to feed my family.
On the other hand, it means that my artistic soul has perished into a fire.

I will have a full stomach after making chicken pot pie  but look closely at my eyes. 

They are nothing but burnt out coals. 

Berlin; The hotel I’m staying in is clearly haunted. On every floor, each side of the wall is painted a different color. On my floor, the left side is blood red and the right side a manic yellow. It is very disconcerting and leaves one feeling lopsided. 

There are no cupboards or dressers in my room but across from my bed, there is a massive plastic coated blown up photo of a woman gently trying to remove her eye.

All other furniture in the room is oversized and on wheels. This includes the plush Goldilocks like chairs in the lobby downstairs. No one sits in these chairs. 

Earlier on, I opened my door on to hallway into pitch darkness. I let out a scream and had to use the flashlight app on my phone. I took two tentative steps when reluctantly one by one the bulbs slowly flickered on. 

“ Yessss” responded  the desk clerk when I asked about it. “Zay are all on motion zenzors.”

I will be sleeping with the bathroom light on. If I sleep. 

Most horrifying of all, breakfast is not included.  

Zweet Dreams.  

I personally believe that people who whistle loudly and cheerfully,especially ones who do it in a enclosed space i.e an elevator from which I cannot escape, should be put to death. 

A devastatingly good-looking man stopped me in the street today. 

“Excuse me,” he said, “but I believe this is yours. He placed a small fuzzy monkey on a keychain into my palm. 

“Pembe!” I shrieked and clutched him to my chest. 

“Thank you” I breathed up at the man. I  remembered that I had been eating tzatziki straight up like an animal with my hands and hadn’t gotten around to brushing my teeth. I also tried to suck in my stomach, but it was hard given that I am five months pregnant. 

“No problem,” he smiled and continued on his way. 

I stood for a moment staring at his elegant back, trying to remember when a guy had last stopped me in the street. 

“Oh Pembe,” I said sadly. 

“Whatever,” said Pembe, “He was probably gay. Call your husband.” 

So I did. 

There is always one kid in the playgroup or class who’s a psychopath.  It’s always the one whose mother has already fled the room. In this case the kid is called Alvin.  That’s a terrible thing to do to a child. Now he has no choice but to be a psychopath, just to have people take him seriously. 

After the class parent’s trip to the Museum we entered a restaurant with six screaming toddlers, one wailing infant, and eight panicked adults. We stood in a group ineffectually yelling at our children while waiters ran around trying to accommodate with extra high chairs, kid’s menus and crayons.  

The patrons who had been enjoying a relaxed lunch put down their cutlery and stared at our group with the most loathing and hatred that I have ever encountered. I longed to run and join them, but I was blocked by my own stroller, so all I could do was mouth “I’m so sorry,” over and over again. 

We wake up to a gigantic snowstorm and push our stroller through five inches of slush and snow for an hour of group play and singing. It is 35 degrees. 

“This is SO much better than Disney World.” I tell my husband. He wipes the sleet from his glasses with blue fingers and pretends not to hear me. 

I think a lot of marriages are preserved this way.

An intrepid mother is organizing a trip to a museum for all the class parents and their offspring. She’s booking a pizza lunch afterwards. 

One mom has just written that they are in for the museum, but they are unable to make it to the pizza lunch, because she’s taking her older daughter skiing. Also, her nanny will be accompanying her younger daughter to the museum.  

But really, it was unnecessary to tell us this- as the majority of parents are sending their nannies. 

Sadly, for my daughter, I will only be sending myself. 

Today in my daughter’s music class, the musician offered the microphone to a bunch of little kids and encouraged them to sing. They were useless, toddling up but remaining mute. Affecting modesty when they’d spent the session screaming out the names of colors (often incorrectly) trying to murder their siblings and throwing shakers and bells across the room. 

One by one they stood there, silently squandering their chance to be in limelight. Finally, it was my daughter’s turn. Slowly, and with deliberation she took the mic.  She sang Itsy-Bitsy Spider flawlessly. 

She killed the room. Other parents kept throwing me glances of envy.

I was too busy weeping tears of joy. Too busy living in the moment to film it and then post it on social media.

I will never forgive myself.