wild monkey love

I really struggled to think of a title for this post which wouldn’t attract all kinds of heinous Google searches ...

I think I’ve done quite well considering the story (all true) to follow.

A few weeks back, on a weekend morning I was lying in bed with Friday when she initiated one of her endless (and so, so tedious) games of ‘mummy & baby’. This time she was a baby monkey and for a slightly less b-o-r-i-n-g take on the whole game, this time she was ‘still in my tummy’.

Where upon she tries to fold her lanky frame into a little ball on my stomach. Seriously, this is so lame.

I'm trying to place my thoughts elsewhere while she witters away when, clang! 

'Oh no wait mummy, first you must mate with a male baboon.'

Oh. My. God.

'Here comes a male mum, he wants to mate with you.'

Frozen with horror, I desperately try to work out an appropriate response to the next stage of the game while my mind shuts down on me, curling itself into a ball in the corner with its fingers in its ears.

'Wave to him mum.'

I scream at my brain to pull itself towards itself, which it does just enough to send shaky instructions to my hand. Hand waves weakly at invisible baboon lover.

'Look mum, he's imitating you, he waved back.'

Yay.

'Right, that means you've mated. Now I'm the baby in your tummy.'

Shew, that went well. 

Note to self: when she asks the actual Question (coming soon to an awkward scenario near me) I'm so getting David Attenborough on the line. He opened this can of ... baboons?

zen & the art of pottering about

I've written before about how different our weekend mornings are now in comparison to the pre-kids days.

We've never been particularly good at getting up and out of the house in a hurry and I recall many, many a childless Saturday morning spent pottering about the house doing deeply domestic and fairly arb chores. A little hand-washing, sorting a drawer, tea, some de-cluttering, a cuddle with the cats, more tea, tackling those miscellaneous and dodgy tupperwares in the back of the fridge etc etc etc.
Looking back I've sometimes wondered whether I should have used that time more wisely, or at least more excitingly, but recently I realised the truth of that domestic downtime. I think there was a lot more happening in those lazy weekend hours then I imagined at the time.

This week I had that extremely rare and delicious experience of a whole morning (3 hours at least) alone at home. Completely alone.
I forced myself away from the computer and just ... pottered.

A little hand-washing, sorting a book shelf, drinking tea, packing away some out-grown clothes (theirs, not mine!), petting a cat. Flowing freely through my home without having to speak, without really having to think.
Except I did.
And the things I found myself thinking about were disconnected to what my hands were doing, they were things I needed to think about, reflect on, process.

Last week I attended a wildly stimulating and transformational UCT Summer School course, led by Chris Breen. Over three mornings each session was packed with insights, ideas, revelations.
I was deeply envious each day as we regrouped and my fellow attendees (mainly childless) spoke about what they'd thought about the previous afternoon, after the morning class. Each day I had left the course and plunged headlong into the school run, lunch, play, chaos etc, leaving no time for reflection or processing.

But during my blissful morning alone at home this is where my thoughts had turned. And with my hands occupied by comforting familiar domestic tasks I found that space to download, examine what I'd learned and think about ways to implement these lessons into my life.

I realised then that this is what I'd been doing with those long and seemingly 'wasted' weekend hours of old. Processing my week, reflecting on experiences, filing and organising my thoughts and feelings.

Life with children is so busy, and so ... loud - both inside my head and without - that it's easy to just ... live. That 'in the moment' practise which people seem to strive so hard to attain is a standard for me. I live each moment in the moment and then move on to the next one, but what I neglect is finding the time to rewind and live those moments again, to glean from them the necessary truths and insights.

Blogging does that for me yes, but so it seems, does hand-washing. Note to self: buy more silk.

kirstenturd gardens

You know, I've long thought I wouldn't blog about this, it felt a little like crossing a line and infringing on Friday's privacy.
But then I thought hey, busloads of international tourists have borne witness to her propensity for having a poo at Kirstenbosch, so why shouldn't I blag about it on the internets?

I can name only 2 other outdoor locales in which she's turned to me with that look of immediate intention in her eye, but Kirstenbosch Gardens? I am not exaggerating (and I'll confess to being prone, but not this time) when I say at least 10 times, maybe even closer to 15, Kirstenbosch has been the place where nature has called her to heed its (particularly inconvenient and messy) bidding.

I'm not going to get into details (you'll thank me for that), but I'll tell you just enough to paint the picture of WHAT A FARKING HERO MOTHER I am.

I have dealt with 'kirstenturds' with a sleeping baby attached to my front, and with a wide awake and screaming baby strapped to my back. I have held plastic bags in strategic positions, rearranged ground cover to conceal the evidence, broken 'do not enter flower bed' rules all over the show.
I have fended off tourists with zoom lens, angry wasps, inquisitive guinea-fowl (many, many times), all while placating a troubled little defecater.
I have utilised streams, flora, recycled wax-proof (it is) paper all in the name of personal hygiene.
I have fashioned replacement garments from scarfs and beanies.
I have stoically borne the hilarity, sympathy and disbelief of many of my friends.

And I have always, because of the great respect I hold for the place and my stellar upbringing as a conservationist, always carried out all non bio-degradable fallout (often in my BAG) to be disposed of in a responsible manner (i.e. the first public bin I come to upon existing the gates).

In all fairness I should say that most of these incidents took place in the early toilet trained days, when a small girl cannot reasonably be expected to keep a handle on all bodily functions.

In fact, it was just the other day that I remarked to a friend that we'd not had a 'kirstenturd' for a long time.
So, obviously, ka-zam! this afternoon I walked out of there with 2 plastic bags of poo and a full nappy (thanks Sunday, thanks a lot).
Say. No. More.

Dude, surely not ...? 

baby you can drive my ...

Husband roped us all into visiting the Classic Car & Bike Show yesterday. Poor son-less man ...

It was great though, I love me some enthusiasts. Clusters of elderly gentlemen on fold-out chairs in the shade, swopping tales of restorations and daring adventure. Sharing laughs and memories.
Even more endearing, the young guys hovering near them, tapping into the wealth of experience, no doubt liberally seasoned with some old-fashioned BS.

Timour Hall was an appropriately stately venue, it was a coolish day (for a change) and I had the best ice coffee of my life.

We each picked a favourite vehicle to take home.

Husband's was this Austin Healey. Just the thought of him driving it gets my motor racing.

We chose this Piaggio Vespa for Sunday, reckoning I could run her to school and back in it to start, and later it'll do well for her and a friend. Or a puppy?

My choice surprised me as much as anyone. But it was love at first sight. 1972 Ducati in red & white.
Yes. Please.

But Friday still had no wheels. She was resigning herself to riding side-car with Sunday until, as we slowly started our way back home, we came across a corner of the show as yet unexplored. And there she found her.
The car she'll be dreaming of for the rest of her life.

Nothing speaks to a child of the Hello Kitty generation quite like a PINK Citroën 2 CV.
We had to drag her away.

little stream restaurant, constantia

Husband and I often rue the fact that we're bringing our kids up in an environment so very far removed from the rural childhoods we both enjoyed.
I suffer no illusions that those places haven't changed with the times, I know even if we still lived there our kids wouldn't enjoy the same freedom and unspoilt natural surroundings as we did.

But in stark contrast to our very urban existence in Observatory, the garden of my childhood had ...

... deep shady spaces in which to hide from the summer sun ...

... corners of overgrown abandoned wildness ...

... muddy ditches filled with tadpoles and adventure ...

... and a stand of giant bamboo which creaked and knocked like a wooden schooner on the high seas ...

Little Stream Restaurant and grounds reminded me of home, and for a few hours my kids lived my memory of childhood.

Explore. Paddle. Pick daisies. Learn. Live.

And then go back to the tea garden for a damn fine coffee and cake.

(their website isn't live yet - they promise it will be soon - but visit Becoming You for all the info, directions and great pics of the food)

sisters

During the looooong month of December when Friday was home from school and the girls and I were spending an inordinate amount of time together, I started taking a picture a day of the two of them. Very quick and silly snaps, just trying to capture random moments in their relationship, little snippets of their play.
I think Sunday so enjoyed having her big sister around so much and they're of an age now where they regard each other as viable play-mates, friends, accomplices.

Here's some of my favourites ...

My preciousness's.

Now to decide what to do with them all? Print a book, an album? A massive framed collage? For now I'll burn them all to CD and label it clearly ... it's a start.

sunday's summer vocab

'Moar pull' - more pool

'Moar bubbells' - more bubbles

'Moar toss' - more toast

Sounds idyllic huh?

she's leaving home

Sunday's starting at a small playgroup this week.

In another classic example of what people have been known to call 'Molly's Luck', the place just fell in my lap via a much more jacked friend whose little girl (same age as Sunday) will be starting there too.
(Actually it's a new little school opening up a few doors down from my friend's house so maybe it kind of fell into her lap too.)
Anyhoo, I've been very excited about it - loving the idea of Sunday playing with other little kidlets 2 or 3 times a week and blissfully anticipating an extra free morning for writing - happily telling people that she'll be starting school 'next year'.

But, now it is next year, now in fact she's starting this week and I am, naturally, now riddled with guilt and emotion and feeling more than a little weepy.

Friday was two and half when she started preschool. She'd been talking for 18 months and we'd been chatting about school for many weeks before she started.
She totally got the concept, was very excited about it, knew I'd be back to collect her in a couple of hours. When I dropped her off that first morning she happily scrambled into the sandpit without a backward glance while I wept pathetically behind my dark glasses and sat outside in the hot car for a completely unnecessary 15 minutes just in case she noticed I was gone and cried for me (ha!) and fought the urge to phone my mother and blubber incoherently.
Obviously I blame all this emotion on the fact that I was 8 months pregnant at the time.

With Sunday. Mah baby.
She'll only be two in March, she's still prattling away in mostly incoherent baby talk. We understand her but will anyone else? Her bottom lip quivers when I leave her with her beloved nanny, she still cries as she drives away with my Mum, whom she loves. She's a clinger, this youngest daughter of mine.
How on earth will she take to being left with virtual strangers?

The thought of her navigating snack, peer interaction, adult guidance from someone other than the 4 or 5 key grown-ups in her life, hurried mornings getting ready and mostly, my leaving her there and driving away, suddenly has me feeling very wobbly.

I know that so many parents have weathered this experience with much younger children than Sunday, and I know there's a whole bunch of reasons she'll be fine - not least of all that she's watched her sister happily go off to, and come home from, school for ages now - but still ...
She doesn't have to go to school. This is not a necessity born from my work situation or a lack of other child care options, and that's why I'm feeling conflicted about it.

Sunday's starting playschool 'cos it suits me, because I've decided it'll be a good idea. Are my motives selfish? Am I potentially putting her through premature separation anxiety for all the wrong reasons?

No. She'll love it, even if it does take a few traumatic goodbyes. And I've no doubt the trauma will be more mine than hers.
She'll love it and she'll thrive and in a few short weeks I'll look back at this post and laugh at myself and my indulgent parental angst.

As usual this is my shit, which I'm trying to disguise as concern for my child. This is my baggage and my baggage is this:
I've realised this last week, that 2011 was our last year of having a baby in the house. I am 100% confident and sure that I don't want another one, but I'm shocked at the finality of the thing - no. more. babies.
By the end of this year Sunday will be nearly three, she'll be losing those baby curves, her face will be that of a little girl, she'll be talking and doing and growing so very much more independently of me. Mah baby.

My baby's taking her first steps off into the world. Come Thursday expect to find me weeping in a hot car.

naming (and unrelated shaming)

Do you remember that stage in your life when everyone was turning 21 and you seemed to have a 21st birthday party every other weekend? Each one of them a good excuse to dress up, over-indulge, throw name, snog the birthday person's younger sibling, throw up, total someone's dad's car and declare it the 'best night ever'. Until a couple of weeks later when you did it all again.

Do you remember when everyone was getting married and you seemed to have a wedding every couple of months? Each one a good excuse to dress up (in my case this round involved less 2nd hand hippy crap and more seconds store 'designer' labels), over-indulge, REALLY throw name (often in front of aged aunties), snog any number of people, throw up, total your own car and declare it the 'best wedding ever'. Until the next one ...

Well now I'm in a stage of life where everyone is having babies, which doesn't really provide opportunity for some of the wildness described above (except for a couple of the more adventurous baby showers), but does give me an excuse to indulge in a bit of scientific analysis (cough).

Actually I just like making lists really.

Here's the names of all the babies I personally know who were born in 2011:

Iona

Alex

Cameron

Zuka

Sashin

Katie

Leo

Isaac

Juno

Harrison

Leah (two Leah’s actually!)

Adam

Christopher

Stavros

Sam

Aune

Wian

Liam

18 babies! That's not counting the one's I know of from the blogosphere or friend's of friends. And only 6 girls ... 2011 was definitely the year of the boy in my circles.

So on to the science.
Okay, it's not really science, I just picked up on the 100 Top Baby Name lists floating around and compared them to the list above. I used the Baby CentER (USA) and Baby CentRE (UK) lists and deduced the following:
Only 1 name on the above list appears on the American list, in comparison to 8 names from the UK list.
Ergo, people I know are not that concerned with popular trends when it comes to baby names, but where there are overlaps, they (mainly South Africans) still lean more towards British trends than American.
Lank interesting no?

No? Sigh.

Can't wait 'til everyone starts turning 50.

tweede nuwe jaar!

We were really disappointed to miss the Cape Minstrels parading through the city centre yesterday - they were 3 hours (!) late and after a full morning at the South African Museum and other fun in the City we had two tired little girls and so headed home, a little sad.

But then, just as we gearing up for bath time yesterday evening, we heard music close by and quickly raced through Observatory with pram and dog to catch up with a local troupe, parading home just a few streets away.

Can you see unbridled jump for joy excitement bottom left?

Failing light and fast moving children didn't allow for good snaps but we had such a great time, marching alongside and behind the group, rocking to the big band, jiving with the kiddies, waving to the spectators.
It's hard to describe the energy and charisma of a minstrel troupe. You kinda had to be there, and we were!

As fun, if not more so, than the huge (and probably somewhat overwhelming) parade in town would have been. And that much more special for experiencing it just a few streets from home.

With the light fading we turned back before getting washed into the heart of Salt River and ears ringing, we danced home.
The music continued, in the distance, well into the night.

10 alternative NY resolutions

I don't make New Year's resolutions. I don't believe it setting myself up for failure really. But I did have some fun today thinking of a list of resolutions I wish I could make, and act on.
You know, if I wasn't such a conscientious citizen, loving mother, supportive partner, all round nice person yada yada. If I had less concern for consequence and far less regard for my fellow (hu)man.

In 2012, in an alternative universe, I would pledge to ...

1. embrace my inner road rage and start acting on it
2. swear more (if that's possible)
3. allow my kids to watch heaps of trash TV
4. buy a deep-fryer, and use it copiously
5. never return calls
6. start smoking, again
7. say what I'd really like to say on twitter
8. spout unfounded vitriol and pessimism about the 'state of the country' and bemoan what will become of us
9. boycott Woolworths entirely for the year on the basis of them being unethical thieving shmucks
10. not cook a single thing unless I expressly feel like it, or could use my deep-fryer.

Wouldn't that be nice? Or at least selfishly indulgent and satisfying.
Which by its very nature would be nice.

In fact, I think I might commit to two of the resolutions on this list after all. One has to start a new year with some goals right?

Whatever your resolutions, plans or secret desires may be, I hope some or all of them come true this year.
Ahoy 2012!