To Listen or NOT to listen

It was nearly Christmas.

Everyone was talking about their holiday plans. Most were going skiing in Europe and then back to South Africa for a beach holiday over New Year.

I could not even thinkkkkkk of taking leave. Firstly, I had only joined the company a month or two earlier and secondly, the most junior person on the team always stayed put. I accepted my fate maturely.

About 3 days before Christmas, and on the last real shopping day, I got the call I had been waiting for. I was free to pack up early and go home. I was elated.

I planned to light a candle for my deceased granny (old tradition), pick up my Christmas pudding from my mom, book my Secret Santa Girls Lunch and finally get all the little gifts for my family. I was excited.

As I was driving out of my office, I got a call. It was from a colleague. She needed my “help”. 

I listened. 

She had a deadline to meet and was not going to make it.

I listened some more.

She explained that she had loads of “important” things to do.

I continued to listen.

She had gifts to buy, cocktails with friends, carols by candlelight and oh yes, a spa day. She simply had “no time” to do her work and she wanted me to do it. It was a 5-day job that required working over Christmas in order to meet a submission deadline.

She sensed my energy dip, so she added something extra. She explained that she had already talked to the CEO of the company and “cleared things” with him.

She ended her pitch by adding that she thought that I “wouldn’t mind” because I had “nothing exciting to do anyway”.

I stopped listening. My ears just stopped playing ball. 

For a moment, the CEO ploy flashed across my mental dashboard as I envisioned beautiful gold stars next to my name and a promotion. Fortunately, that shit didn’t last long. I came to my senses. Quickly too.

I said “I can’t help, I’m afraid” and when she said “And why not?” I said “Ear trouble”. 

I did!  I could have high-fived myself right there, I must say!

I hung up and went to light that damn candle. 

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Lee-Ann Mayimele and www.aheartfullofstories.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Loaded Questions – Short-Short Story

Each time she asked a question. I became uneasy.

The question was always loaded.   Guaranteed.

I found this exhausting.  Mentally and emotionally exhausting.

At times, I refuelled.  I got ready. I fired.  Game on.

But most times, I retreated.

My reasons for not playing the game varied.

Sometimes I was just not in the mood for the game.   It happens right?

Other times, the stakes were too high. The casualties too precious.  The possible fatalities strategic.

All in all, I reckon the learning experience was invaluable.

And today, I am grateful.

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Lee-Ann Mayimele and www.aheartfullofstories.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Blue Monday

I was having a shit morning.

It was Monday.  My husband left for university at 6am in the pouring rain because he was taking an important exam. My daughter spilled her cereal all over her new dress. My son had the world’s worst case of chicken pox and I was due to participate in an important Skype meeting.

That’s when the doorbell rang.

It was a social worker.  She was there to check on our “living conditions” and the “wellbeing of the children”.  It was a routine visit.  I just wish the stupid tart would have warned me!

My hair was a mess, I was wearing a formal shirt and red lipstick (getting ready for my Skype call) with my husband’s pj pants stained with baby food (because that’s all I could find when the damn doorbell rang).

My house looked like something out of a horror movie. I reckon the “living conditions” scored very low.   My kids were both crying, one because she felt embarrassed about her wet clothes and the other because he was itchy and hungry.  I reckon the “wellbeing of the kids” did not score very highly either.

Talk about first impressions huh?

The woman spoke to me in Dutch.  I did not understand.  My daughter laughed loud! She said “Mamaaaa, your boobie is open”.    It was true!  My breast-feeding son had been having his drink and in my rush, I completely forgot to put the boob away again.

The visit ended quickly.  She jumped on her bicycle and left.  I never heard from her (or the department of social services) again. Thank God.

BUT, I spent the rest of the day in turmoil.

What did she think of me? Did I look like a bad mother? Would she cause trouble? Did the children seem okay? Did she think I was crazy? Did she rate my boobs? Would she call the cops? BlahBlahBlahBlah!

Stupid woman on a bloody Monday morning!!

After a few hours of that head storm, I thought to myself “Damn this! Enough! Grab a hold of yourself.  Youuuuuu cannot control what’s done.  It’s done!”

And just like that, I channelled my inner Iyanla and focussed on what I COULD control.

I cleared my diary, took the spotty baby and the sweet girl out for a picnic.  Ahhhh!  Peace at last.

As we sat down, my daughter said “Mama! Mama! There’s your friend”. 

Yes, you guessed it!  Miss-Stuff-Up-Other-People’s-Mondays herself.

That’s when I had my first stroke of genius for the entireeee day.  I said “Let’s play tent-tent Everybody hide!”

And we did.

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Lee-Ann Mayimele and www.aheartfullofstories.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

What You Resist WILL Persist

I took my kids to a petting zoo.  My daughter reacted exactly as expected. She looked for a quiet corner where she could observe from afar.   My son dived right into the rabbit den and chased the bunnies, giggling along.

A woman was standing right next to me.  So close that our handbags touched each other on the floor.  Hers was a fake Louis Vuitton and mine was an old, worn leather Vintage no name brand. They were completely incompatible but had no choice. They had to share a space.

She called out to her son in Dutch. Bad Dutch.

I found it lovely.  Afterall, we were in South Africa.  Dutch is not something you hear every day.  At that moment, her son ran up to my son and grabbed the bunny away from him.  My daughter screamed “Stop that!”  in Dutch to the boy.  It was hard for her.  She doesn’t shout easily.  I felt proud.

The woman responded to her son in very broken Dutch, asking him to find his own bunny.

I looked in the direction of the woman and said “Wow, small world huh?! You speak Dutch too?” I had a big smile.  She said “Yes! We are from overseas, just visiting”.  She had no expression on her face.

She was South African. Dead straight.

She moved her handbag to another part of the playground.

I put on my shades and thought “Strange woman! Believe me, I am NOT in the market for new friends”.

From afar, she said “Your kids also speak Dutch? Where you from?” and I said “Well, yes. We are South African but have been spending some time in Amsterdam, so yes, they do speak Dutch. Kids learn so fast!” She put on her sunglasses too.

She was very skinny, lots of makeup, tight yellow pants, very high heels, hair like Amy Winehouse and her son wore a bright yellow GAP branded top with yellow trainers. The family clearly liked yellow.  Friendship was ruled out right there forever.

I persisted.  “How about you?  Do you live in The Netherlands?”  She nodded and flicked her hair. It didn’t move.

I persisted some more “Oh right!? Where exactly”.  Her answer astounded me.  “Next to the airport” she said.  The airport? Really?

She put her handbag on her shoulder and modelled a little further away from me.

I enjoyed her discomfort.  It intrigued me.

For once, I was not the one shying away from someone.  For once, I was not the one putting up the wall. For once, I was not the one running away from some random woman.  It felt good to be on the other side.

She spent the rest of the morning, trying to convince her son not to follow mine.  I spent the rest of the morning, observing her and wishing our sons would be magnetised further.  We both kept our sunglasses on.  Talking further was not an option.  The feeling was mutual.

I saw her leave the venue along a longgggggg stretch of grass in high heels and thought “I wonder what her story is”. 

About 15 minutes later, there was an announcement on the intercom with my car registration.  When I reported to reception, guess who I found waiting for me? Yes, she reversed her car into mine.

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Lee-Ann Mayimele and www.aheartfullofstories.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

The Bicycle

The boy wanted a bicycle.

He had always wanted a bicycle.

Father Christmas had not played along for many years. Neither had the birthday fairy.

Shortly before his 12^th birthday, his fortunes changed. His mother walked to the second hand store. She negotiated a great deal.  She paid her first instalment. She had 5 more to go.

She planned to wrap a big blue ribbon around it.  The look on her son’s face would surely be imprinted in her heart forever.

It’s all she talked about for the next month or two. She was so proud.

The boy told old his estranged dad that he knew the secret that his mom was hiding from him.  He was happy to play along. The anticipation was intoxicating.

One evening, his mom was walking home from the bus stop and in the distance she saw the boy.  He was riding a bicycle.  Either her mind was playing tricks on her or he was riding someone else’s bicycle.  Surely those were the only two options.

She quickened her steps.

“Look mom!” he said “Dad got me a bike!”

Her heart broke.

The look on her son’s face was forever imprinted in her heart.

The boy had many happy days riding his bike.

On his birthday, his mother said “My son, I pray that God still has plans for me to melt your heart”.

The boy said “Mom, you ARE my heart”. 

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Lee-Ann Mayimele and www.aheartfullofstories.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.