A cat, a swan, and a lady-to-be

Yesterday in the early afternoon I was yet again proving that my time management is just one big space for improvement. In short, I was running late (Which is what I should have said rath than elaborating semi funny description of my weakness... just like this sentence;).

I was passing the canal, and saw 2 swans fighting / planning future together / checking what impression they make on their fellow teammates.
There was little reaction, actually, apart from the little brown cat. He was sitting like a beautiful statue, looking at the birds with no interest. In fact, his regard was more in the lines of: 'Whoever of these 2 looses, I'm the winner tonight'.
(Yes, I was late. But not oblivious:)))

I wish I had half of his self-confidence. It would make planning things so much easier...

Really, there's no need to dig endlessly into hundreds of profound tips given by experienced business professionals. All you need to do is look around. Fierce competition, organised approach to planning, vision in place to take you to next level - this is all in the nature already...

Singing in the rain

I used to be a helplessly enthusiastic singer.

Not a professional, performing gigs across the universe, making crowds cheering and clapping. I was an amateur, the bathroom-mirror-is-my-audience type of performer. This goes back to my early youth, and how successfully I followed the footsteps of my parents in that zone.

For quite a while now, I seemed to stop. Obviously, I sang lullabies and kids type of songs: cheerful, opptymistic and happy, sometimes beyond my own will. And beliefs. But nothing above.

The truth is, and it is always the case, in everything you do, you have to believe in it. Otherwise, it's not worth the fuss.
Since I stopped believing in myself, I stopped singing. It only occurred to me now, when I am slowly becoming to recover, and reveal, and share what I think with all who are bored so much with everything else in the world, that they kindly share their time with me, reading these scribbles of mine;)

The result is, I sing now. Again. There is still space for improvement, as it is not from the bottom of my heart. Nor from the top of my lungs either. But I'm getting there - dear neighbors, beware!;)

The space is ours

Recently my SuperSpiderGirl became interested in the exploration of Space. Clearly, Earth is not enough for her.
Us to blame. I'm definitely not in love with changes, yet we move every few years. Looks like steadiness is not our cup. Of coffee (tea is enjoyed, coffeine is required to live;)

We went to London Planetarium 2 weeks ago, for The Dark Universe show, which my SuperSpiderGirl found fascinating at the beginning, and a bit boring towards the end. I want to think this is due to the suggested target audience, a bit older than her... The MiniMan seemed to confirm that, as he found it fascinating at the beginning ('Wow', 'Taaa', 'Yeyy'), and completely lulling towards the end. I want to think this is due to the soothing darkness during the show...

I wish I could fly

Again, nothing original here. So many people dream of flying. This is becoming quite boring, actually. But not for me. Since my no-longer significant acrophobia, I would love to experience that overwhelming and liberating act of flying.
I used to be terrified of height. Not that I couldn't use stairs. Actually, living in a house throughout my childhood and adolescence, I was more afraid to use any lifts, imagining all the possible falls and disruption of engine services. Very helpful indeed.
I was just afraid to go higher than I could safely jump back to the ground. So, I decided to overcome this by falling in love with mountaineering (and with a hiking lover, but that came later). And it helped.

Yet, I still feel tangles between my body and my inner me (not sure if it makes sense, well, it does to me...), when I see a picture of someone standing at the very edge of a high cliff, not supported, careless, and happy.
Looks like I'm jealous. And that's probably true. So, out of jealousy comes my dream of flying.

For now, this could only be fulfilled by a one-time only free falling. Since that's not something I'm interested in for the moment, I will stick to visualisation of me, non supported, careless and happy in the air. It should de-stress me, too, which is kind of like a positive side-effect to the whole story I'm trying to see in my mind's eye.

Like I said, I wish I could fly...

A mirror, a name, and a lady

It can be enchanting (Snow White could be a good example), flattering (if anyone finds one, please contact the author of this blog immediately), or ruthlessly revealing all the fine lines.

No need to say, I'm in the third row.

Fine lines - what a ridiculous term, indeed. I get the point, fine as the opposite to deep, and synonym to delicate, but - seriously - is there anything fine about them? Really?

I wonder how it all happened, the invention of this term. There might have been some lady, well-positioned in the society, who happened to look in her mirror (and I believe there were not so many of these floating around anyway), while she was preparing for some royal ceremony she was inevitably invited for. And she said something like: 'Oh, my forehead, there are these... lines...'. And then, one of her maids said something similar to: 'oh, no, milady/lady/countesse (whatever), they are fine, really'.

And, there you go. The hastily given reply became a notion. Inappropriate, frustrating, and economical with the truth.

Hypocrite

I am one, no doubt. I smile and say nice things to people when I feel like I would like to tell them to go to hell instead. It's when they cross my path uphill in a park, chasing their cute little doggies, and I am fighting against gravity with my napping toddler in his buggy. And a little bit of shopping, no harm when he is asleep. And a cup of takeaway coffee, because it's so much easier to balance everything with one hand available, isn't it? Someone tells me I'm wrong, he's obviously mistaken.
But they say sorry. Actually, it's more of a mumbled 'ory', but its enough for me to smile (as much as it is physically possible, since I'm still struggling in an upward direction, so in fact it's more of a grim), and say 'it's ok'. When it's definitely not ok, I'm angry and would love to plan my route better rather than carelessly following the sun.
So, I am a hypocrite. When I say I am too tired to read a third goodnight book, and ask to have the lights turned off instead, and gaze at the ceiling with a mini solar system (the latest souvenir from our visit to the London Observatory), chatting about the planets and how it would be to go to the Moon.
In reality, I could have read that book, but I just didn't want to. So, it was a lie. I lied. But at the same time I expect my children to be honest, and tell the truth. At all times.
Oh, mother...

Material girl, material boy, and material mother

Things in bulks surround me, they make me feel overwhelmed, and they limit me more than I wish. Despite my sincere attempts not to carry every single piece of baby/child-related equipment when on a walk, I end up with, well, things in bulks.
I honestly wonder how other mums manage to survive their everyday lives with buggies clear of stuff, just one almost-designer-type of bag happily hanging over, and they are able to have their take-away coffee, and talk to someone on the phone, and giggle, and push their lovely child(ren), who are clean, happy, and contempt.
Me, in turn, I am usually the visual representation of a more-is-less motto (yes, it was deliberately meant the other way round, unfortunately). The school bag, the nappy bag, the snacks bag, the library bag...
Not that I'm jealous, just wondering.

Since children do copy their parents, and that's, in essence, how they learn about life and habits, I seem to be caring for future materialists. At least they may develop their analytical abilities to the full, explaining everything around us with no spiritual input required. Just things.

In result, I believe the others look at me with pity. While I care about it less and less (another obvious sign of aging...), it seems to result in unusual kindness and sincere support when I least expect it. Like the other day, we were walking through a foot tunnel underneath Thames, only to find out that the lift at the other end was not working. Then, a truly decent and incredibly nice guy suggested to help us (no flattery here, I have a husband who I happen to, you know, admire and respect, and love; even when I do not express this with everyday boxes of chocolates, bunches of deep-red roses, and shirts ironed flawlessly). I ended up carrying my happy mini man in his buggy with a man I have never seen before in my life, all the way up the 100+ stairs to the street level.

Miracles do happen...