Art streams through my arteries and veins and swims through my synapses.  The smell of paint and darkroom chemicals have claimed their permanent spot in my ol’ olfactories, and the sound of nails being hammered through canvas into a wood stretcher are locked into my auditory system.  From a young age, art has been a fixture in my life. 

My art inoculation, administered by my dad (aka Dr. Ihavenochoicebuttocreateandcreateandcreate), was the most gracious gift.  And it is a gift I have chosen to give to children.  When I was offered the opportunity to teach art to young’uns, I was over the moon and Jupiter and Saturn and (insert planet of choice here).    

I genuinely believe that all children have an innate ability to be creative and that this ability should be nurtured.  In teaching art classes, I have generally taken an anything goes approach, with the classes designed to allow the munchkins to have fun while exploring drawing, painting, sculpting, collage and other media and activities.  My hope has been that the children enjoy learning – sometimes subconsciously – about artists and the elements and principles of art while experimenting with art materials.  Simultaneously, I wish for parents to appreciate that art education can play a major role in social and academic development, teaching little ones about problem solving, improving their cognitive and fine motor skills and sensory awareness, and giving them a means of self-expression and confidence in their own creativity. 

Over the last two terms, I have aimed to teach the mini artists about the seven elements and nine principles of art by introducing them to abstract art, pointillism, still life, text in art, sculpture, portraits and other art styles and movements.  We’ve painted with spaghetti, marshmallows and toothbrushes; we’ve painted on mangoes, bananas and apples; we’ve painted with our eyes closed; we’ve sculpted with corn flour and glue; we’ve weaved hearts with paper and ribbon; and we’ve ripped, stuck, pounded, blown, fanned, tied and pinched. 

It was important to me to expose children to a variety of artists, including Jean-Michel Basquiat, Louise Bourgeois, Chuck Close, Mona Hatoum, Anish Kapoor, Frida Kahlo, Cy Twombly and Lucien Freud, among several others.  I felt torn when the latter two artists – both of whom were incredibly important to art for their commitment, approach, and prolificacy – passed away last month.  There is consolation in knowing, though, that art survives the artist. 

During one of the earlier classes, which fell near Valentine’s Day, I was keen to teach the children about line, form, colour, space, and rhythm by exposing them to works which incorporated hearts.  After asking them to view a variety of pieces by Banksy, Brassai, Jim Dine, Damien Hirst, Keith Haring, Salvador Dali and Jeff Koons, I showed them how to weave different coloured and textured ribbons and paper through their own 200gsm paper hearts. 

Banksy, Untitled, Undated

One of the little ones was drawn to the Banksy work and didn’t want to let go of the laminated reproduction for the duration of the class.  As he held tightly to the piece, I couldn’t help but think about Banksy sponsoring free entry every Monday to the Art in the Streets exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles.  He provided a chance for visitors who may not have otherwise been able to afford to view the graffiti and street art exhibition – a show which has attracted a record 201,532 people – a chance to observe the works.  For this, I Heart Banksy.  And I Heart my budding artistes. 

Jim Dine, Johnny Boy, 2009

Jeff Koons, Hanging Heart, 1994-2006

Brassai, heart graffiti, 1933

Damien Hirst, All You Need is Love, Love, Love, 2008

Salvador Dali, Study for the jewel The Royal Heart, 1953

Keith Haring, Untitled, 1984

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Very quietly, tiptoe over to mocha beanie mummy to see the rest of the entries.

Very quietly, tiptoe over to mocha beanie mummy to see the rest of the entries.

Common.  Usually mild.  Typically requires no special medical treatment.  All this was lost on me, for as a mother, I dreaded chicken pox more than weaning, more than potty training, more than the bedtime routine gone bad because some little fella has decided that bedtimes are overrated, and he’s opting out of the night-night nonsense. 

I’m no good with bumps, red and blistery or otherwise.  I get the itchies when I see protuberances on noni, lychee and particularly craggy squash.  When I noticed three suspicious varicella-zoster virus spots rearing their ugly little heads on my son’s groin as I changed his nappy/diaper, I felt the urge to scratch my forearm, and then my wrist became a bit itchy, and then my left heel started itching, and then my ants in pants dance commenced. 

In denial, I decided that it was nappy/diaper rash.  Or possibly a sudden allergy to our washing soap/laundry detergent.  Best to give him a bath, google a good cognitive behavioural therapist who could help me control my impulse to scratch the non-existent bumps on my own body, and get some sleep. 

But I had difficulty sleeping.  I woke up every couple hours to check whether any new bumps had surfaced on my wee prince.  I didn’t find any until my son woke up, complaining that his back and belly felt “scratchy”.  I lifted up his shirt and was astonished how three bumps could turn into about 100 in a matter of hours.  

I called my son’s doctor as soon as I knew she was in and asked if we could come in for the ol’ verification of chicken pox.  A few hours later, and Dr. Make Sure made sure.  She prescribed some calamine lotion and said I might consider giving my lumpy lad some ibuprofen, acetaminophen and/or Piriton for children and bathing him with Aveeno body wash with colloidal oatmeal. 

Unfortunately, neither the calamine lotion, nor the Piriton or Aveeno baths were effective in eliminating any discomfort.  I sought other remedies and was fortunate that both recommendations proved successful.  A friend suggested “pouring a bunch of bicarbonate soda” (baking soda) into warm bath water and letting the little guy soak in it for as long as he wants.”  I was giving him four or five baths a day.  And my husband read that a particular homeopathic remedy, rhus tox, seemed to work for several situations of the swellies.  He picked up some of the stuff, which is apparently extracted from poison ivy. 

I asked my husband, “So, you want to seriously harm our son and put me into itchy overdrive?  He already has chicken pox and now you want to give him poison ivy, too?”  He responded by explaining how these things work – inject chicken pox to prevent chicken pox.  Chew a rhus tox (aka poison ivy) pill and prevent the itching and restlessness poison ivy presents.  I understand it all, but for whatever reason still find it difficult to grasp that the chickenpox vaccine, which contains a weakened form of the chickenpox virus itself, works by causing the body to reproduce its own antibodies to protect against the disease. 

Rhus tox worked though.  I told my son they were “magic chocolate pills” that erased chicken pox, and he went for it.  He was asking for the pills like Ashley Cole asks for his nude photos or Charlie Sheen asks for his “goddesses”.  

I also made sure to trim my son’s nails as I knew he would be tempted to scratch.  I trimmed my own nails while I was at it and decided an antihistamine for mama would be a good idea considering her own skin tickles. 

Unlike some parents I know who buckle under the quarantine pressure and let their munchkins roam freely, with the possibility of infecting all the other children who come in contact with The Itty Bitty Infector, I was Queen of the Quarantiners.  Luckily, we lived in a large apartment complex at the time, and while we stayed inside all day – admittedly driving each other crazy with respective cases of cabin fever – in the evenings we turned into nocturnal creatures lurking in the dark and running up and down the long hallways.  And on the two occasions when someone appeared in the hallway, my son became Blanket Jackson’s twin.  I held his blankie over his head and ushered him to the nearest exit. 

I had to inform our friends that they may have been at risk of being infected, and one mom asked if I would be having a chicken pox party, and if so, could she please RSVP.   She was among the parents who believe that purposely exposing their youngsters to the virus allows the kiddos to acquire some immunity to the disease in a safer and more effective manner than using vaccines.  No pox parties, no measles merrymaking, or flu flings coming from this camp.  I couldn’t bear the thought of knowing I was responsible for inflicting any sort of pain or discomfort – not to mention physical and possibly emotional scars – on a child. 

One dad who didn’t know whether he ever had chicken pox called his mom to find out, and she said she couldn’t remember.  Not remember?  What in the name of all that is holy?  I told him I felt it was particularly important for him to steer clear of us as according to the Mayo Clinic, chicken pox can affect male fertility.  A high fever associated with the pox can temporarily decrease sperm production.  And, the virus is also capable of causing inflammation of the testicles, which can result in testicular shrinkage and infertility.  This is more common with mumps but still occurs occasionally with chicken pox.  Bulging balls and no more babies is serious business, I told him, so he needed to dodge the chicken pox bullet. 

I have one mom friend who contracted chicken pox and then two weeks later, her son woke up with the irritating knobs.  And another mom whose poor older son has had chicken pox twice.  As we walked together, she told me she was on her way to get her younger son the pox vaccination. 

I’m grateful that my little fella had chicken pox a couple years ago and remained relatively unscathed.  He didn’t really have a fever, abdominal pain, sore throat, or headache – common symptoms that appear alongside these bothersome bumps.  And he didn’t develop any bacterial infections or other complications.  Phew.  

I’m not sure I could handle a case of the horrible humps again.  Even writing this and thinking about the bumps on my son’s eyelids, his scalp, behind his ears, and in the folds of his bum cheeks gives me a bad case of the itchies.  He has two barely detectable scars, and I’ve tried to explain to him that these scars represent a rite of passage.  He asked, “You mean like the grazes on my hands and knees are a secret passageway?”  I respond, scratching my head, “Um, ya, that’s precisely what I mean.”

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It started out as a day like any other.  Except as the afternoon approached and then the evening, the email arrived.  Sent by a fellow mum, the email said that she’d been thinking about how we mums rarely get the opportunity to let our hair down together without the saplings and that in the next couple years, as our mini-me’s graduate to big kid school, we’ll probably see less of each other.  And rarely may turn into never. 

Never?  Unthinkable, unless one of us was forced to move to Timbuktu or Nar Nar Goon.  This email served as the initiation of what has become our mums’ monthly “learn-things-we-never-knew-about-one-another-while-laughing-‘til-our-bellies-ache-and-our-eyes-are-filled-with-tears-and-living-it-up-as-if-we-don’t-actually-have-to-wake-up-at-6am-to-‘mummy, mummy, mummy’” evenings. 

I’ve enjoyed our first three get-togethers immensely, and I always anticipate the next.  They remind us mums to remember ourselves, something we so easily forget to do while being a mother, partner, friend, and workmate.  

Our first mamapalooza was at one of the mum’s homes.  As we sat around the table eating her homemade yummies and charcuterie courtesy of a fantastic tapas restaurant and drinking wine, we talked about anything and everything.  We discussed the Royal Wedding and how it made us think of our own weddings and honeymoons.  I told the gals how I crashed on the back of a motorcycle hours before my wedding in Greece (which in my mind means I’m not legally married because I said my vows while on painkillers and wasn’t completely “there”), and one of my closest friends responded, “Lisha, I’ve known you for all these years, and I never knew you got married in Greece!”.  What I find funny is that she could probably tell you the type of nappies/diapers I used, the brand of baby wipes, the snacks my son most prefers, how my son’s potty training went, whether or not my son has had chicken pox yet, and what superhero my son most wants to be, but she never knew this.  We oohed and aahed over one another’s honeymoons, and I told them that due to my crash and subsequent pill-popping, my honeymoon kicked off with a game of Scrabble and some sleep, nothing more. 

We talked about who bid for Olympics tickets, art shows, and the more interesting Japanese sex fetishes.  Yikes.  Now those are some fetishes.  And eventually we said good night, and I walked home pensive, listening to Procol Harum.  You see, my husband and I walked down the aisle (read: I limped down the cliff) to Procol Harum’s “Whiter Shade of Pale”. 

The second matriarch social summit was at Kitchen Club in Soho.  One of the mums organised the evening for us, and we had the venue and the chef all to ourselves.  My palate did cartwheels, my belly handstands, and I still drool when I think of the kablik tatlisi with cream.  But, as was the case during the previous dinner, the conversation was the highlight.  We couldn’t help but talk a bit about pregnancy and labour, nannies and babysitters, and schools, but the good substance started after we had a few glasses.  I learned that marriage counselling exists even in the healthiest of unions, but perhaps more importantly, I received a lesson in geometry – one friend intimately described the difference between a Hollywood and a Brasilian while using her fingers to demonstrate geometric shapes.  And I was educated on vajazzle.  Really?  With rhinestones? (a day later, there was mention from one mom of a possible penazzle). 

 And the most recent Girls Gone Wild Without Their Wee Ones night out, organised by yours truly, involved nameless Lithuanian drug dealers, pills dissolving on our tongues and poo that powered the making of our meal.  Courtesy of my friend Abi, who runs Rambling Restaurant, currently a cafe/restaurant out of a decommissioned ambulance in the Urban Physic Garden, we enjoyed a nice meal outdoors with about 20 other strangers.  I think we’d all agree that the highlight of the meal was the miracle pills which – after dissipating in our mouths – made sour lemons, limes and rhubarb taste like sweet somethings.   I don’t know about the other gals, but after I took my pill, I could swear I had visions of Allen Ginsberg and Timothy Leary doing a moondance around our fire pit.  As we mums all talked about how great the smell and crackling sounds of the “campfire” were, one mum decided to ask one of our hosts who her miracle pill dealer was, to which she responded, “A nameless Lithuanian.  I give him money, he gives me the stuff in a bag.”  On a serious note, these pills are frequently given to patients undergoing chemotherapy as it eliminates the metallic taste in their mouths that they often experience while undergoing treatment. 

To add to what was already a relatively surreal experience, I found myself requesting gherkins from our hosts; I was eager to test their power against this miracle pill.  I was sucking on one as another mum told how she just read in the loo that our meal was powered by poo.  Yes, this was the night I almost choked on a gherkin.  Ahem.  Apparently, the pill hadn’t made her hallucinate.  The toilet does actually package poo and wee into a cartridge, and the cartridge is emptied into an anaerobic digester. The digester converts human waste into natural gas and fertilizer.  And then, as is typical after dinner, we were offered popping candy.  Yes, popping candy.  I ate a whole pack of the apple flavour myself and loved every minute of it. 

On our way home, I vowed to buy myself more popping candy and not to ever introduce it to my son for fear that he wouldn’t share the fizzing fun.  And, because the fire pit reminded me of roasted marshmallows – the “meal” I “cooked” the first night I stayed in my very own apartment – to buy some marshmallows and when my son’s old enough, roast them on the hob with him.  

I thought of how much I adore these friends, these fellow mums.  And of how much these evenings allow us to remember times pre-children.  Times that perhaps some of us feel guilty wanting back because it somehow equates to not wanting our little ones.  Reminiscing about these moments in no shape or form means we want to give our children back in order to regain such moments; it means our children are lucky to have mums who have had and will continue to have rich lives – who have, I learned, eaten seeds straight from the sunflowers, who have had the most romantic marriage proposals, whose father is a part-time beekeeper, who likes the Beatles song “Something”.  These are mums who have stories to tell and who intend to teach their children to grab life by the collar. 

For a few hours, we have a chance to be gals who are not just mums.  Since the first dinner was initiated, one mum has moved to another country, one mum has given birth and another has separated from her husband.  But one thing remains constant – mums’ night out.  And the next one I’m told involves dancing.  Time to shake what my mama gave me.

Very quietly, tiptoe over to mocha beanie mummy to see the rest of the entries.

Very quietly, tiptoe over to mocha beanie mummy to see the rest of the entries.

Very quietly, tiptoe over to mocha beanie mummy to see the rest of the entries.