Floods of Bad News. This Footage.

They came in like a wrecking ball, as I carried them to into their 39th week. At 6. 5 and 7lbs my body would never be quite the same. But then, something that life altering should have a monument, let alone a few scars. I was running on fumes through out the last months of my pregnancy. I was so damn huge ("I'm a houseboat!") as my enormous load cut off my circulation if I lay on my right side , compressed my spine if I lay on my back and well obviously I couldn't lay on my stomach. I could sleep in one position for about 45 minutes then I had to move. Twin pregnancy is not natural and I would have died giving birth if I hadn't been in hospital and had assistance. With both babies entombed. That's how a lot of us Mum's used to go, it evened up the mortality rates between men and women nicely.

So there I stood with my cheery bonny baby boys on each hip watching the news for the first time in months. This Footage was cast with a cool BBC narration. The man lifts the child toward the helicopter while it is explained the numbers of people whose everything was 2-3 feet underwater due to the Limbobo River bursting it's banks in Mozambique. I was crushed with grief. And, Angered. How dare they pause to take the footage and not help. How dare they thrust this knowledge on me.

It was not the first strike I had against the news at six. Dinner in my childhood was timed for 6pm everynight. The television was put on in the next room and my father sat in the only chair at the table with a view of the screen. Being a tad deaf he turned the volume up. We were not to interrupt the news, so sometimes we spoke over the commercials however that was discouraged too.
"You know," he would sometimes say "They used to say, when I was growing up... Children are to be seen and not heard." Did that mean, he was saying that then, to us? He would shoot us a direct look and leave us guessing.
The news competed for my father's enamoured attention and won in spades. Hell hath no fury like a little girls older self.
The second strike was, I wanted to help. I grew up with a naive idea that the world could be saved. The news conducted a chronic onslaught that said, the problems are too big for even the best of us, and without ever suggesting ways that spectators could make a difference. It didn't show anybody making a difference. There was no hope.
Then one day an armour guard van malfunctioned on a windy piece of road ahead of me, it's door popped open and stacks money was released from boxes as they slid from the van and broke open on the road. I and others assisted in picking up a lot of the cash. There were some thieves on the scene. It was surreal. $20 dollar notes swirled around me like autumn leaves. I didn't want to keep it. Only moments before I had been worrying about money, on my way home to my toddler sons with my baby girl asleep in the car seat. Going home from a job interview. Then cash started sticking to the windscreen. I imagined how I would feel if that were my money being lost and hoarded by the Ives and the idea of stealing it was abhorrent. It was an amazing feeling, I was suddenly not worried about money when I realised I wanted to give it back.
The news painted a very different story. The security company called us and thanked us. We received some very nice wine. They explained they could not reward us financially as this action incentivized 'mishaps' that potentially put the lives of their staff in danger. We understood completely.
The news slated the company. The righteous ire was peaking all over the country for several hours. Greedy Armourgaurd. Several months later the news narrowed it's eyes on my industry, one of the only ones making money in the early 2000's, and started misreporting on farm practices to the public. The jealous public bought in Hook line and sinker, with out questioning the information despite its illogical and ignorant premises.
Three strikes. The news was loved by my father, more than I was. The news told me I was irrelevant in a world with no solutions. The news lies. I turned it off 16 years ago and started reading.
About that flood in Mozambique, it turns out the South African airforce responded comprehensively in a life affirming co-ordinated effort. Love can wear camouflage and prepare militantly . No one of us is as responsible as it would seem during our 6pm briefing.