we P'd on the beach

This year was the first time I got Friday involved in a Madiba Day activity.

We chatted about Nelson Mandela and why people were 'giving back' etc. I keep this kind of thing light with her, she has a particularly sensitive radar to 'Mum's trying to teach me something' and starts tuning out if she thinks I'm being too instructive.
Her ears totally perked up when I explained that we'd be spending our 67 minutes on the beach however, especially as 18 July was a rare and magnificent warm winter's day.

I'd picked up on the event via a friend on Twitter, and it sounded like a great way to do good - the goal was to win the R10 000 prize posted by a local radio station to invest in a shelter for previously trafficked women and children - get involved in our future community, the project and the shelter are based in Muizenberg, near our new home - possibly meet some potential friends from that community and, ahem, did I mention hang out on the beach?
Yes please.

So off we went, and spent a fun hour or so standing around on the Muizenberg dunes spelling out 'We (heart) Goodhope FM' in silhouette with our bodies. Friday and I were the 'P', me holding her with her legs wrapped around my waist and her back arched out - what's not to love about a dedicated chunk of time cuddling with my big girl?

Photo by Craig Wilson, www.surfers-corner.co.za

And we won! How satisfying.

I could P myself with delight!

g(l)umboots

What is it about kids and puddles?

Like moths to a flame.

I've recently discovered there is no better cure for a bout of the winter glumps, then gumboot walking on Rondebosch Common.

All you need is a break in the weather and a sense of adventure,

a little bit of curiousity ...

... and dry pants in the car for the trip home.

finding the funny

'No, no, noooooo ...'

'Too late dastard sock monkey, into the deep dark bag with you. Mwah ha ha ha ha.'

Packing is driving me a little crazy. But there's always, always, a funny side right?

addiction is terrifying

I've had two reasons lately to be reminded of this, neither thankfully too close to home.

One, a neighbour we've realised is using ... something. Weird requests for the loan of odd amounts of money at strange times of the day - the first time I lent her the cash (which was very promptly repaid) but subsequently I got really uncomfortable about it, especially as she kept asking me not to tell her boyfriend as 'he'd be embarrassed'. I turned down the second request, saying I didn't have any cash in the house, but I don't like lying, so the next few times I just said no, sorry but no.
She looks edgy, fretful.
She begged me the last time I refused her, but still wasn't saying what she wanted the cash for.
I've witnessed a couple of deliveries to her house at random times of the day.
The signs are all there, and it's terrifying.

Two, a friend of a friend has started using again after 8 years clean. In a matter of weeks she's lost her job, her relationship, her house, most of her possessions.
Her mother won't take her in after the hell she went through, emotionally and financially, the last time her daughter was in active addiction.
Her mother won't take her in.
The trauma of those words haunt me. For the the mother as much as for her child.

The self-loathing, the destruction, the hard, hard work trying to get out of it. The tedium and relentless self-examination required to stay clean. The debasement of using.
Addiction is terrifying.

Drugs are so much dirtier, and cheaper, then when we were 'young'. They're easier to get hold of and easier to get hooked on.

So what do we do? We teach our kids to love and respect themselves, to think. We educate them. We work to build relationships in which they feel they can talk to us about anything. We work to steel ourselves to trust them, to trust the work we've done. We stop our ears against the stories we hear of parents who do all this and still battle addiction in their families.

We hope against hope against hope that we never have to fight that fight.

And we talk. To our children, our friends, each other. Anything you'd like to say?

glitter bags

Last day of school holidays and it rained and rained and rained.

Perfect time to try out a new craft project right?

Soooo pretty ... dyed rice, beads, feathers, glitter - what's not to love?

Stick a piece of contact paper on to a table top - sticky side up, masking tape on the corners. Draw a 'frame' around it if you're working on a light surface so they can see the boundaries, don backwards bicycle helmet (apparently crucial), divvy up the supplies and get sticking (and in Friday's case - singing)!

Observe the different techniques ...

When every last feather and glittery smidgen has been applied, top it off with a slightly larger piece of contact, fold over the edges and ta-daa!

Glitter bag!
(Although next time I think we'll hold back on the glitter a bit, it does rather take over - the project and the floor.)

Aaaaand 5 minutes later:

Can I hear it for the first day back at school today? Hoooooraaaaaaaaay!

your baby magazine

Hey! I'm so pleased to be featured as this month's 'mommy blogger' in Your Baby magazine!

I'm never sure about this phrase 'mommy blogger' (sounds a little exclusive - a word which we credit with far more positivity than it deserves - don't you think? My thoughts on this are, as always, better crystalised by someone else, in this article.)

However, I'm damn pleased for the magazine feature - 2 pages! - and am print-virgin enough to feel a bit flushed and giggly at seeing my words in print. Thank you Your Baby!

sensory memories

If it wasn't for them I don't think I'd ever have taken the time to remember ...

... the spongy metallic taste of the underneath of my tooth, straining from its socket on one last thread as my tongue teases it and teases it, just stopping short as I wince at the imagined pain. Until one day I don't and suddenly hold my tooth in my hand.

... the exact texture required to drip drip drip wet beach sand into stalagmite towers of unbelievable height and grace on the side of the lagoon. The distinct satisfaction of building one higher than your opponent younger sibling.

... the hot flash of humiliation when you realise that an action or word intended in jest was simply not funny, and in fact hurtful to someone you love. Not to say we ever stop doing this, but the blade of humiliation seems to become duller with age, as you learn to temper it by convincing yourself of the other party's contribution - only children are honest enough to carry the burden themselves.

... how still the still is when you live in perpetual motion. As an adult I can be completely silent in my head while frantically busy with my hands, I can lie perfectly still whilst churning up inside. But now I remember the stillness of a child lying on hot paving next to a pool - hearing nothing but breath, feeling nothing but heartbeat and drying skin, watching the world through wet eyelashes.

... the abandon, the absorption, the anger, the apoplexies of laughter - living it all completely and without question.

I'm listing this one under 'benefits'.

science girl

Shocking I know, but despite the Cape Town Science Centre moving to my home suburb many months ago, I'd not visited it until last week.

We made a plan to go with a friend and her son, and for a while I'd thought to arrange for Sunday to do something else for the morning. I thought that at 2 and a bit she was possibly a little young, would get bored, and then fractious.
How wrong was I?

In her usual studious and independent style, Sunday sought out the projects and demo's which suited her.

Things which looked fun.

Things which made a noise.

Things which moved and shook.

.

Things which rocked her world.

I feel badly for underestimating my little Science Girl, but also glad to know that the Cape Town Science Centre so thoughtfully caters for all ages. A great outing - especially on a cold and rainy day.

The Science Centre is running their holiday programme until 15 July, has ample parking, well-informed and friendly staff and a small cafe which sells great coffee, muffins and toasted sandwiches. Interestingly the cafe seems to have no problem with visitors bringing their own snacks either, making this a great place for a small birthday party, or parents who have kids on restricted diets etc.

formerly unflappable

In my previous life (i.e. pre-sprogs) I was a freelance event coordinator with a formidable contacts list and an utterly cool demeanour.

I coordinated conferences of hundreds and intimate business meetings with international celebrities. I got people together from the furthermost flung places on earth - China, Sri Lanka, Lesotho. I once, with 30 minutes notice, convinced a hotel to convert what would've been a sit-down lunch for 750 delegates to take-away lunches for the same number, and made sure everyone got theirs while the meal was still warm.
In my time I dealt with a conference attendee miscarrying in her hotel room, and another with a case of meningitis, I got someone out of a sticky immigration scenario at OR Tambo Int Airport,  kept one conference afloat when it lost all it's funding mid-event and managed to contain rampant food-poisoning at another.
Good times.

I was known for my cool head. I once even had a client tell me I was 'too calm', that I should try and look more stressed - it seems too calm could be misconstrued as clueless, not so good in your Event Organiser apparently.

After we got over the initial 3 months of COLIC HELL I was a pretty calm mother to Friday too. People commented on my infinite patience with her, and I was pleased that my eventing skills had us fairly organised and able to leave the house in a timely and orderly fashion.

Now that's all gone for a ball of poo.

The Mother Formerly Known as Unflappable is now the person who leaves her home standing WIDE open for over 4 hours in the middle of the day.

I lose my shit, I throw toys (literally), I yell, I cry (never in front of them, not yet), I shout at one to stop whatever it is she's doing to make the other one make that unholy noise.
We've left the house in a tearing run every day this week, leaving mayhem (and occasionally the vital nappy bag or juice bottles) in our wake.
The first time I ever left my wallet at home was when I was pregnant with Friday, these days it's a regular event.
I miss birthdays and take 3 days to send a text message. I burn rice and discover myself out in public in my slippers (they're nice suede ones but still ... ).

Sometimes I think the former me would regard the current me with some disdain. She'd certainly wonder what all the fuss was about, she'd undoubtedly utter that disgusting phrase: 'How hard can it be?'.

It's not that it's that hard, it's just that it's that immediate and all-consuming. Packed lunch for 750? Sure, I can remain clam and make that happen and then go home for a large glass of wine and a debrief.
Two little girls who won't eat the supper I cooked for them? I'm a self-loathing mess with a large glass of wine and I can't 'go home' from this job.

But the former me can kiss my flappy (and flabbier) ass - these two delegates might make me work harder than all the hundreds of others before them, but their brand of chaos is far, far more appealing. They're cuter and they go to bed earlier. They love me more and they don't care if I'm calm or crazy or clueless.

This conference is called The Wee Years of Friday and Sunday - and I'm coordinating it better than anyone else on earth could.

Besides, calm is overrated.

the pink princess

Oh it was inevitable really. The first sign was her declaration, some weeks back, that she was going to buy a 'Barbie statue' with her birthday money from Ouma.
(A pretty astute comment as my sister-in-law pointed out, for is Barbie not much more statue looking than traditional dolly?).

The second sign was her asking me, seconds before opening her birthday presents, 'Is there a PRINCESS dress Mum?'
Oh.

As it turns out there wasn't. I'd really not picked up that she wanted one. But she did. And though she showed no disappointment with the gifts she did receive (sweet girl) there was a quiet determination that a pink princess dress would be procured.

So off we went to the Fairy Shop with purse stuffed with Ouma's birthday money (plus Christmas AND last birthday's money too ...), where she spotted The One right away.
And has hardly taken it off since.

 

It seems even the most tom-boyish girl will have a princess-phase. Five is probably the perfect time to indulge it I think.

Not being a particularly 'girly' girl myself I didn't see this one coming. I didn't encourage it and to be truthful, I didn't think I'd really enjoy it. 

But can you see the joy? Can you see it swirling and twirling around inside her and out? Can you see she's still choosing to pair the dress with high-top sneakers?

It's a thing of great beauty.

I think I'll dig out my old Peaches 'n Cream Barbie for her tomorrow ... Feels like it'll kinda suit the theme.