cats sleep anywhere

 With acknowledgement, and apologies, to Eleanor Farjeon (1881 - 1965) for the abuse of her poem.

Cats sleep anywhere, 

any trailer,

any chair.

Top of camping fridge,

 awkward wedge,

  in the middle,

 on the edge.

 Open suitcase,

empty pool,

anybody's lap'll do.

Fitted in a gift-wrapped box,

in the cupboard with your frocks.

Anywhere! They don't care! Cats sleep anywhere.

the flip-flops of efficiency

A few weeks ago I bought Friday her first pair of flip-flops.

I know, I know, 4 years old seems very late for this but I have such lurid memories of tearing my feet apart with plastic shoes as a kid that I'd delayed buying her some 'til now.

She opened the bag, gave me her shy/proud smile.
'Aren't you clever Mum. Flippy shoes just like you and Dad.'
 
She's been proudly wearing them in ever since, being very sensible about changing shoes if they start to hurt, and telling anyone who'll listen that she's got new flip-flops, often followed by, 'Have you got flip-flops? No? (then with genuine sympathy) Shame.' 

She loves that they've got stars on them and she loves that the straps are hot pink (duh, she's 4 - of course she does) but the thing she loves most (besides maybe me, for buying them), is the sound they make when she walks.
The first time she wore them to school I stood at the gate watching her walk up the pathway, then called out to her softly, 'Flip flop flip flop flip flop.'
She turned and flashed me her biggest smile.
Hot damn I earned mega brownie points with that purchase.

And my favourite thing about the New Shoes? Because she likes to move in them she's taken to sudden flurries of 'packing away'. Bustling round the house putting away toys and clothes and moving books back into her room. All the while enjoying the crisp sound of efficiency. Flip flop flip flop flip flop.

I could listen to that sound all day.

Gratuitous, and total unrelated, picture of lavender in the setting sun light.

 I don't have a photo of the flip-flops, they move too damn fast.

the 'burbs: observatory

Observatory is often referred to as 'colourful'. A nice word, a word used to paint over the exceedingly grimy cracks in this old suburb's facade. A bright and cheery word to describe a 'burb which could in all fairness also be called 'grimy', 'seedy', 'rough' - you get the idea.

There are other nice words used by estate-agents and the like to describe this old Grande Dame of Cape Town ~ 'bohemian' is a favourite, 'diverse' is a nice trendy one, 'unique' is utterly transparent in its patronising glibness.

Obs is Obs, she embodies and defies all of the above labels, and warrants far more too, good and bad.
But 'colourful' is the one she deserves the most, not least of all in the most literal sense of the word.
Colour. Full.

 

  

  

  

Some residents even like to match their house colour to their car ... or maybe the other way around?

 

She might not be a pot o' gold, but she's home.

one girl and a chicken

Sunday celebrated her Heritage this weekend.

She's an Anglo-Saxon so she likes the hunt ...

She's a Boere-meisie so she likes handling livestock ...

She's an African so she likes the chicken ...

Chicken: What the cluuuuuuuuck?

 

 Rolling eyeballs of nervousness ...

Hey man, I saw what she did to that chicken!

Don't you just love the fearlessness of an 18 month old?

ten signs of summer

1. Painting my toenails.

2. Running the cold tap for a while, waiting for the water to cool (and thinking about coming water restrictions).

3. The wheelie-bin starting to pong 3 days before rubbish collection.

4. Taking the dog for a walk on the beach and coming home with all of us wet and sandy, even those who'd not intended to swim.

5. Salty hair.

6. Flies.

7. Mosquitoes.

8. 2 bare girls running round the house.

9. Salad for supper. (Actually this is more of a fantasy. Obviously I'm the only member of the family who thinks this a viable option ... )

10. Random moments - catching the scent of summer, the feel of changed air on bare skin, gazing at the haze on the mountain as dusk falls - and feeling a deep peace and happiness.

Summer is my happy place. It's going to be a good one.

nice or naff? the sticker family

No doubt you've also been seeing these all over town?

The Sticker Family - 15 options of Mums (shopper, worker, breeder, sporty - not a jelly belly in sight), 15 kinds of Dads (including a Muscle Mary), various kiddies and babies and pets.

I'm not sure how I feel about them really. They've very ... white? Middle-class? Suburban?

If we had a Sticker Family it would've looked like this this morning:

Sticker Dad on bike - looking well-groomed and calm

Sticker Mum in tracksuit with cap over unwashed hair (not pictured) carrying ....

Sticker Big Sister out to the car, crying 'cos she didn't want to go to school, under mistaken impression that if she stayed home her morning would be full of TV and ice-cream cones and devoted mummy-time ...
AND, under the other arm ...
Black plastic motorbike which MUST GO EVERYWHERE WITH US AT PRESENT.

Sticker Little Sister trailing behind happy and bright until she realised she wasn't able to actually sit on black plastic motorbike in car whereupon she screamed and thrashed and planked while Sticker Mum tried to do up her car seat belts and Sticker Big Sister whined on and on and on in the background and Sticker Dad looked cool and Sticker Dog tried to take advantage of general distractedness to escape out the gate to check her wee-mail.

Maybe that's what I've got against the Sticker Family, they all look so damn happy all the time.

What do you think? Nice, or naff?

whose hair is it anyway?

I recently found two of Friday's baby curls I'd dutifully kept from her first hair cut. I gazed at them with such fondness, remembering my soft-cheeked curly-headed girl.

I went to find her to show them to her, my lean long-legged very big girl. She immediately reached for them but I snatched them away,
'Don't touch sweetie, they're precious.'

'But Mum, they're mine.' she answered deadpan.

Ja, um, I guess they are. Way to make your mother feel like a twat.

construction party

We went to SUCH a great birthday party this last weekend. One of Friday's classmates was turning 4 and his parents arranged a really clever, simple and well-executed Construction Party on the beach.

They were lucky with the weather, especially this time of year, but c'mon we live in Cape Town, I like it when people have the gall (balls?) to take a chance and arrange an outdoor event.

Party elements included black and yellow balloons (very striking), a DIY hot-dog table, plastic traffic cones demarcating the sand-castle building area, a smattering of hard hats, some enthusiastic digging Dads and this fabulous cake.

Lego accessories, an excavated chocolate sheet cake, honeycomb quarry walls and some chocolate tools. I love it!
(And I have to applaud the braininess - the chocolate tools were moulded in the plastic packaging from a toy tool set the birthday boy received a few years ago. His clever Mum diligently kept the packaging for just this purpose. Way to go W!)

And one of our first mornings on the beach this season. Could we have been any happier?

Incidently, Small Beach (or Kleinbaai) is a great beach option for kids. Wide white sand and slow lapping waves, lots of not-too-rocky pools. It's just next to the renowned Blue Peter (so good for a beer/milkshake after the beach too!). Directions here.

who you calling stupid?

Ah the sins of a four year old. Still so sweet, so innocent.

Friday came home from school a few months back calling us all 'stupid'. The perfect example of a boringly responsible parenting moment.
'We shouldn't call people stupid Friday. It's not a nice thing to say to someone and you can hurt people's feelings.'

The trend continued for some time, we carried on gently reprimanding her, but we didn't want to turn it into a biggie and I was pretty sure the novelty would wear off. (Or, more likely, move to much worse words. Ack.)

The girls and I went away with some friends for a few days and the 'stupid' bug spread like wildfire, putting me in the unenviable position of The Mum of the One Who Started it All.
Don't laugh, you'll get your turn one day.
Soon the climbing frame was 'stupid', the cereal in the bowl was 'stupid', the stones on the path as we went for a walk were 'stupid' - and it was getting boring.

I upped the discipline, tried banning the word, having quiet to-the-side (as in 'now I'm serious and lest you be afraid') chats but egged on by her peers, I honestly wasn't having much effect.

Help came from a very unexpected quarter. Late one afternoon as the kids sat drawing at the dining-room table of the seaside house we were staying in, the peace was shattered by Friday screaming; 'Mummmmeeeeee, a baboon! Mummmeeeee, a baboon!'
I ran in from the kitchen to see a large male baboon sitting shamelessly on the table, eating crayons. The kids scattered as I stormed him, yelling and clapping my hands.
He nonchalantly jumped off the table and sauntered out, taking a box of puzzles for closer inspection on the verandah as 3 women, a dog and a bunch of kids shouted at him through the (now closed!) door.
Eventually, having tried and rejected several cups of tea, the puzzles, a tub of baby-food and a tomato sandwich, he moved off, and we tried to calm the kids down.

There were tears and re-enactments, claims of bravery and terror. Juice needed to be drunk and bathrooms visited, lots of hugs were required - I could certainly have done with a gin - but after some time, when we'd all calmed, Friday said quietly from her place on my lap,
'Mum, that baboon was really stupid hey?'

And I had to agree that he was.

Since then we've hardly heard the word. It occasionally crops up, but now her usage is almost always completely correct.
It seems what was required was a context, a real self-experienced context, for her to decide for herself the meaning and appropriateness of the word.

I'm certainly hoping future life lessons won't be quite so dramatic, but I'll not forget what I learned from this one:
Contextualise always. Let her find her own way, she almost always will in the end. Remember the baboon, use the baboon - this story will have many other applications in the future.

Sorry 'stupid' bab, you had to be the fall guy on this one.

toyi toyi

So I'll admit it ... I failed the 7-day Toy Cure. Sometimes toes just won't toy the line you know?

Wait, that's not right ...

I mean, some things are just not meant to be toyed with.

Some toys just won't tamed.

Some toys just need a good wash and they're good as new.

I did gather a box of bits and pieces for the Rural Child, and I did a fair bit of sorting and rotating of books and craft materials, but I wouldn't use the word 'cure'.

Nope, sometimes it seems you can't just throw your toys.

All photos by moi, some posed, others not - bet you can't guess which are which!

these arms of mine

You have to read it like the original Otis Redding. You have to feel the yearning.

For my arms are feeling it when I hold my small girl close, when I feel the recognition in my muscles, the knowing how to hold this little body, and the sadness these arms feel already, knowing she won't be so little for much longer.
Mah baybee.

It's so ridiculously biological it's almost laughable.
I'm not a big baby fan, both my girls I've enjoyed so much more after their first birthdays. I don't miss breastfeeding (much), I don't miss having that small being ON me all the time, I love being able to communicate with words, I love watching them grow more independent.
But my arms, they refute all of this when I hold my Sunday close, especially in her warm and floppy moments, and the muscles sing with yearning, with already full-blown nostalgia, with the shattering knowledge that the next baby, if any, that I'll hold with this kind of kinship, will be a grandchild.
Mah baybeeeeeeeee.

She's becoming such a big girl.

She LOVES a doll. In fact, the more the lovelier. Whereas Friday's only ever had one doll, and was never particularly into playing dolly, Sunday has a host of 'babas' - all of whom get canoodled and paraded around and pushed in the pram/wheelbarrow/random box.

She HATES orange food. Barring cheese, she won't even look twice at butternut, carrot, peach, melon, pawpaw etc.

She HATES hats. She LOVES cats. She SCREAMS when outraged and SQUEALS when happy. She LOVES/HATES/LOVES/HATESbutmostlyLOVES her big sister.
She wields a mean bitch-slap, can scratch like a tiger and likes to bite me.

She LOVES her dad and wanders disconsolately around the house carrying one of his slippers calling 'Daddy?'

She's a big little person, our Sunday. I love watching her develop, but I wish she wouldn't grow so fast.

Wish she'd stay my little woman for just a bit longer.

walking with kids: Groote Schuur Estate

This is a nice easy one for late on a weekday afternoon, or a quickie on the weekend when you just. have. to. get. OUT.
You know those ones?

Head up Princess Anne Avenue towards Rhodes Memorial, but park in the car park to the right of the main gate. Take the footpath next to the road for a little bit ...

... then swing left into the field (the path is very clear).

From here on you can go whichever way suits your fancy, dependent on the average length of leg walking and the spirit of adventure. There's a number of smaller paths, cutting up the slope through the trees, around the reservoir (pause for a nostalgic moment if you were a UCT student and remember illicit summer afternoon swims here), or even through the turnstile and into Newlands Forest. Take care here if you've a doggie walking with you that it doesn't go demented at the smell of braai wafting from the public picnic area and take off at a run.

It's a magical bit of forest regardless of the season, and a firm family favourite.

Out the Box Festival

We so enjoyed the annual Out the Box Festival last week. Amazing puppets, lovely shows, heaps of variety for young and old (and many shows which were perfect for both).

The Festival kicked off with a Puppet Parade through Observatory ...

and a free show on the Village Green ...

What's she watching with such fascination?

French clowns Ubla Dubla Trubla! Such fun.

We managed two other shows during the week. I would've loved to have seen more but there's only so much excitement two small girls can handle.

Friday LOVED The Mermaid of Zanzibar. Pedro the Musicman is a fantastic entertainer and artist, if your kids are even vaguely into music then try and catch his shows. I've got a link to his blog on the right.

The other show we saw was Just a Bit of Paper. Another win. I kid you not when I say Sunday, 18 months old, was enthralled, from beginning to end - 45 minutes!

Well done Out the Box, already looking forward to next year's programme.

we're talking about ... funerals

There's been some opportunities to talk about death in our house recently. Its not a completely foreign concept to Friday, she watches enough David Attenborough to know all about animals dying, and we had a memorable occasion when she told us (while dragging a door sock - those things to keep the breezes out - around the house) that she had 'a body' she needed to get rid of.

'He was a bad man Mum, hurting my sister. I killed him and now I need to throw his body away.'
Resounding shocked silence from her Mother.
More silence.
Shocked.
And then ... 'Take it to Dad sweetie, tell him you're looking for a lake to put it in.'
She heads off down the passage, dragging the heavy cadaver behind her.
'Daaaaad, I've got a body here. I need a lake.'
Resounding shocked silence from her Father.
Hee hee.

We still have no idea where she got that from.

Anyhoo, I digress.

On Saturday I went to a memorial service with my Dad. I explained to Friday before I left that Grandad and I were going to a funeral, to say goodbye to one of his old friends who'd died.
Completely matter-of-factually, 'Did Grandad die Mum?'
'Er ... no, a friend of Grandad's.'
'Oh good. I like Grandad.'

Off we went and on our return she had some questions.

'Did you go and say goodbye Mum?'
'Yes we did.'
'How?'
'Sorry?
Exasperated now, 'How did you say goodbye when he wasn't there anymore Mum?'
She'd been thinking about things while I was away.

So I explained that she was right, the man who died wasn't there anymore, but as we'd not gotten a chance to say goodbye, the funeral was an opportunity to remember him, to think about the things we would've said to him, to remember all the good times we had with him and to show his family, who were sad, that we were there to support them.
I braced myself for the next question, surely she'd want to know where the man who died was?

'Was there cake Mum?'

Clearly my answer was sufficiently informative (or boring) for her. She was moving on to bigger questions.

happy half birthday to you!

I think its fair to have cake and a celebration for one's 18 month half-birthday right? Not like you've had that many other chances yet.

 

Besides, any excuse for cake will do in this family. 

Caaaaake.

the a-z of us

A is for ... apple. Duh, everyone knows that.

B is for ... baking. We love it too much.

C is for ... Cape Town of course! Our home.

D is for ... David Attenborough. Friday's biggest hero.

E is for ... energy. They have so much, I have so much less.

F is for ... Friday. Our eldest, our first love, our favourite day of the week.

G is for ... grandparents. We never take them for granted.

H is for ... hugs. All the time.

I is for ... in love. Husband and I have been for a ridiculously long time.

J is for ... juice. They drink litres of it.

K is for ... Kirstenbosch. One of our favourite places.

L is for ... Lego. Our beloved bull terrier.

M is for ... Mum. Why wouldn't it be?

N is for ... nonsense. We're big fans.

O is for ... outside. That's what Cape Town's all about.

P is for ... pseudonyms. The girls have them here.

Q is for ... quickly. How time flies when you're having fun parenting.

R is for ... rest. Remember that?

S is for ... Sunday. Our baby, our last born, our sweetest little Mister Sister.

T is for ... talking and talking and talking. Will they ever stop? I hope not.

U is for ... unbelievable. This experience of raising kids. Would you ever have believed it before?

V is for ... vagina's. We have quite a few of them around here.

X is for ... x-rated. My language sometimes.

W is for ... walking with kids.

Z is for ... zerbets!

with apologies to Nick Cave

This is one of the girl's favourite You Tube videos at the mo. The Sydney Opera House reinterprets Nick Cave's The Ship Song. Very beautiful.

However when I had a juice-bottle toting toddler crawling all over me in bed yesterday while I tried to lie perfectly still to stave off cramps and nausea (a 24h bug NOT what I'm sure you're all thinking right now), I rewrote the song to give it more relevance to my life right now.

"Come spill your juice around me,

And let your crumbs rain down.

You are a little sticky to me,

Every time you come around."

not-so-free tree

Some well meaning hippie gave Friday a tree this last weekend. We were at the Puppet Parade for the Out the Box Festival, a strange and beautiful event, when a woman dressed as a tree made out of recycled plastic bags started gathering all the (wide-eyed) kids around while her minions handed out Cape Ash saplings.
A free tree accompanied by instant environmental guilt and all-consuming 4 yr old anxiety.

'Mum, I must water my tree.'
'Mum, if I don't water the tree it'll DIE Mum.'
'I didn't water the tree today Mum, I PROMISED that lady I'd water the tree.'

Really? This is how we teach small children about greening the planet? Small children who, I might add, live in a really built up urban area, few with gardens large enough to accommodate a 15 metre tall tree.

It's a lovely sentiment, seemingly good activism, handing out trees at public events. But not so much for small kids.
My Mum was a primary school teacher in the 90's and she used to get really cross when people lectured Grade 1's about the hole in the ozone layer. Just one pfffft of an aerosol and ka-zam! hole in sky, searing heat, all your mummies and doggies burnt to a crisp die die die ...!

Sure we should teach out kids social responsibility in all forms from as early as possible, but I don't agree with burdening them with guilt about things they can't actively influence yet.
Get them to recycle - yes. Teach them not to litter - goes without saying. Explain about trees and oxygen and green spaces - of course.
But only give them what they can manage. A tree in a can is not such a thing.

And so, as a nice conscious middle-class mummy, I find myself watering the tree, worrying about the tree, appealing to friends and family to adopt the tree.
It doesn't even seem to be a Western Cape native or I'd plant it in the forest.

Cape Ash tree anyone? Free to a good home.

like sand through the hourglass

This happened last summer. But the memory lingers on ...

Friday afternoon.
Cabin fever.

I haul the girls across town following a lead on Husband's Christmas present.

I pack light, it's a short trip. A couple of nappies and some wipes.

There's a sign on the shop door. Back in 5 minutes. No problem, we'll pop across the road to the shopping centre, buy some milk for home, come back in 5 minutes.

I get Sunday out her car seat. Big smile. Big stink. Evidently a big frikkin' problem that I didn't pack a change of clothes.
I'm doing what I can to clean her up, wedged on the front seat with limited wipes when ....
Mum, I need a wee.
Right.

With Sunday in a clean nappy, stained vest, wrapped in my sling pouch, we negotiate our way across a busy road and into the mall.
Dash to the loo. Crisis averted.

There's a Pick 'n Pay in the centre, with a small clothing department. We go shopping for Sunday, change her in the fitting room, pick up some milk on our way to the till.
The queue's 5 people deep when ...
Mum, I need a poo. Badly.
I look down into the eyes of desperation.
Right.

We can't abandon the queue 'cos Sunday's wearing the produce. You got to hang in there baby, can you hang in there?
The eyes are watering but she keeps it together.
Dash to the loo. Crisis averted.

Where's the milk?!
Back to the store where luckily they kept it for us.

Aaaaaand back to the first shop.
We get the gift. I've got the giggles and can see Friday doesn't quite get the joke.
Unlock the car.
Arghhhhhhhhh. Hot car. Stinky nappy.

These are the days of our lives.

we made this: snowflake matching cards

We've made the difficult decision to move Friday from her Montessori pre-school next year. It was a tough one, she's been there two years and is undoubtedly a 'Montessori child' (this from her teacher).
She's a practical little girl (must get it from her Dad) and likes the 'work' ethic of the Montessori environment. We can clearly see how she's benefited from it too, which made the decision that much more difficult.

But for various reasons the move has to be made, to a more play-orientated little school, and as it's her last year before 'big school' and all the associated lifestyle changes we'll all have to undergo for that, we're happy with our decision, and hoping that she'll enjoy the new environment and get different benefits from more imaginative play, gross motor orientated activities and different kinds of socialising.

I would however like to keep stimulating the practical side of her nature with activities at home. And to this end have discovered a world of resources online (naturally).

The other day I made these Snowflake Matching Cards. A simple printable from the very useful PreKinders site. The site is designed as a resource for pre-primary teachers, but is full of great things to use at home too.

Husband gave me a Laminator a few Christmas's back and, can I just say - best.present.ever.

Note: Karen Cox at PreKinders has worked really hard to put her materials together and justifiably, has quite strict terms of use. If you'd like to link to any of her work mentioned here, please try and link to her directly. Thanks.


Have a good weekend!

baby products - how not to use them

True stories all.

When Friday was just over a year old I managed to lose a small tube of Teejel in her nappy. The child whinged for hours while I got increasingly impatient with her, finally finding the hard metal tube wedged between her soft 'n downy buttocks at the next change.
Bad mother.

A friend stopped up the leaks in her aged VW Beetle for one whole winter using disposable nappies. Using the cheapest brand on the market was less expensive than the repair work would've been.
A good idea once she figured out (as every mother does) that if you don't change the nappies frequently enough they split, filling (in this case her car), with those revolting little gel balls ....
Resourceful mother.

The other night, in hurried end-of-day meltdown avoidance, I liberally squeezed Fissan Paste onto Friday's toothbrush and started brushing. Have you ever had zinc coat the roof of your mouth? Judging by her facial expression it's not very nice.
Distracted mother.

Baby products - really only to be used as per insert instructions.

C'mon, 'fess up - have you ever done anything this stupid funny?