one year on

Friday lost a tooth this afternoon, her second this week, her 6th so far. And as she catalogued the circumstance and location of all 5 prior loses (a ritual she repeats every time), we realised one of those was almost exactly a year ago, the second night we spent in this house.

That one we suspect she swallowed, which she vehemently denied, and we let it go considering we'd just moved house and everything was new and uncertain. We left a note for the tooth fairy, and exclaimed with wonder the next morning at how she'd managed to find us, despite having only just left Observatory.

And now here we are, one year on.

The boxes are all unpacked! With the exception of two ... and one of the last was only opened last week. We've all had a birthday in this house. We've hosted Christmas and celebrated New Year. We've weathered all four seasons, although winter still feels very new.

In fact, lots still seems very new. Despite the world having turned full circle round the sun we're still seeing, smelling, feeling, discovering new things every day, and we still have moments of complete unbelievable awe that we live in such a beautiful place.

Happy birthday house on the lake. Thank you.

PS, thanks to my friend Bronwyn for the street sign shots in the header - all the way from Brisbane!

the here and now

Sunday started school last week. She's loving it. At 12h30 each day I am a happy calm big person collecting a happy calm little person from school.
This is good.

A dear friend treated me to a spa morning at the Arabella on Friday. I had a 65 minute massage.
This is so very, very good.

I've had a lingering malingering coldy flu bug which come this Friday will have been around for 2 weeks.
This is not so good.

This afternoon we found the eviscerated carcass of a pigeon on our lawn, not work which either of our cats, or dog, could have accomplished. Consensus is that a bird of prey had it's lunch in our Norfolk pine.
This is actually quite cool.

Did I tell you we had an otter on our lawn a few weeks back?
This is utterly amazing.

We've spent many still sunny late afternoons on the beach recently. Autumn reminds us every year of its magnificence in blue and gold.
This is a blessing.

Our small elderly ginger cat has pissed on the (carpeted!) stairs again. Every time she walks across the room Husband snarls 'Dead cat walking.'
This is potentially not good.

My big girl, at dinner this evening, regaled us in graphic detail on the two methods in which babies could be born, and tried to decided whether she would have a home or hospital birth. I casually asked, 'Is this something you're talking about at school at the moment?'
She answered, 'No Mum, we're talking about road safety.'
This is funny.

I'm going to Jo'burg this weekend to play with my bestie and pat her apparently enormous bump before she becomes a mother of two soon.
I am going to Jo'burg by myself to see my friend.
This is the very best of all.

well done us

We survived the move. We kept our collective sense of humour in tact. We weathered our moments of emotional fallout and rallied around each other through injuries and exhaustion.

The girls did really well too.

We're lucky that they're adventurous spirits, quite happy to go along with the chaos if it's entertaining enough and there are enough snacks. Friday is old enough to have understood the logistics of it all, and Sunday just the gist; that we have a new house, that there are lots of boxes and that we 'Can't wait!' - a phrase she repeated endlessly in the last days.

And now we're in - finding our feet, our rhythm and hopefully one day finding the nail-clippers. We're in and we're back online and we're oh so very, very happy.

We're a lucky family, and we count our blessings every day.

summer of SAHM

This past week has been the last 5-day school week of the year for Friday. The last week of 3-day nanny (for Sunday) and cleaner (for me).
This past week has been a week of many, many lasts.

From Monday we will be in our new home, and the girls and I will be driving through to Mowbray just twice a week for a short (so short) school morning until the end of this term.
My Mum, who lives across the lake from us now (or will soon - so soon!), will be abroad for a month from Wednesday.

From the end of September there is no formal childcare, no school, just ... me. And them.

Logistically and financially this makes sense for our family right now. Emotionally and mentally it's started making sense to me too.

Next year Friday will start Grade R (we've found a school!) and Sunday will attend nursery 5 days a week. I will work more formally. There will probably need to be aftercare.
We will enter a spell (just 15 years or so) of early mornings and rushing and traffic and deadlines and proper shoes and extra-murals and packed lunches for all.

We have been spoiled these last years, my girls and I. Spoiled to have so much of each other (admittedly sometimes in chunks), spoiled - as a friend so wisely pointed out - to know each other so well.
A small home loan, some sacrifices, a determination to make it work all helped make this possible, but the times they are a-changing and we are all getting older and developing new needs.

I've had moments since these plans were hatched of real, chilling, terror at the thought of being a FULL TIME STAY AT HOME PARENT. I've shed some tears and worried whether we'll all come through it alive (the lake is right there you know) or at least psychologically intact.
But as the reality of this move has set in (36 hours to go!) and the truth of our new space has been revealed (it's every kind of wonderful). I've started to make peace.

This will be my maternity leave - a few years on from the traditional definition - but a time to put the rest of the world on hold a little and just be with my babies. Nurture them, grow them, play with them, not kill them.

This will be my summer of SAHM and I will, I must appreciate the privilege and wonder of that.

Will you help remind me of that when I come here to whinge?

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!

guess what we've got?

Well, admittedly not all of us, just all of us under 5.

Happy spotty weekend ....

portents & dreams

On the morning of my wedding, a fish eagle flew over my parent's house, calling and calling and wishing me well.
My most precious childhood memories, long summer holidays dirty and free on the banks of the Botriver Vlei, are always accompanied by the cry of the fish eagles which roosted there.
Weeks ago, the first time we stopped outside the house we're hoping to buy, we heard one overhead.

We bought our current house 9 years ago, from an elderly man who'd lived here for over 30 years. The house was filled with net curtains and knick-knacks, potted African Violets and lots of polished brass.
The house we're hoping to buy is owned by an elderly lady, who's lived there for over 30 years. It's currently filled with knick-knacks, many many potted African Violets, and lots of polished brass.

Today is my birthday. Driving home through the rain under gloomy skies, we saw a magnificent and bold rainbow, arcing over our car. One foot, zinging with colour, seemed to trail just behind us, and seeking out the other I found it over the lake, hovering right over the house we hope will become our next home.

Our dreams have been strange these last few weeks. Our days, filled with estate agents and banks and hopes and fears, filled with packing and sorting and tidying our home, are processed nightly through our dreams.

Husband dreams of closed doors, of boats and objects just beyond his reach.

I dream of flooded gardens, the inability to express myself. I wander through dreams in a cheap white wedding dress, sensing my partner's frustration at waiting, unfurling his palm to discover a sliver of soap I recognise from our bathroom, 'Where must I put it?' he pleads with me, 'I can't find anywhere to put it.'

This state of flux makes us restless, and tired. We hope for a quick resolution. We try to believe in the future without getting unduly excited.
We hope our portents don't become dreams, hope our dreams remain firmly in our heads.

buying & selling in a time of children

We've put our house on the market. As of this morning there's a big yellow sign on our front gate and I'm imagining the neighbours are all a-twittering out there (as in twittering like birds not tweeting like people with nothing better to do, but you never know ...).
We've had our offer accepted on a gorgeous place on the other side of town, but as it all hangs in the balance until this place is sold we're walking a strange line between elation and apprehension. Interesting times.

Trials and tribulations of buying and selling in a time of (small) children:

We're trying to only give them as much information as they need, or can deal with, or we can deal with, but are still having to answer some pretty interesting questions .... 'So our new house will still have my room in it hey Mum? My room will still look exactly like this, just the rest of the house will be different right?'
'And we'll still have a pool hey Mum? I mean, we can't leave this ugly pool behind?'
Overheard to little sister: 'Just hide that juice bottle under your bed, we don't like it, it can stay here when we move.'

We're trying not to nag them too much about keeping the house tidy while we work ourselves to the ground getting show-house ready.
We continually weigh up the pro's of them being preoccupied in a game which allows us time to get other stuff done, versus the cons of the game in question being moving the entire contents of the playroom onto our bed.

We have sotto voce cryptic half-Afrikaans conversations about bonds and agents and try not to swear - they understand swearing in any language.

I discover that there are few things as demeaning as completing bond application forms when you're a stay-at-home-mum with a tiny personal income and a BA English degree. A walking stereo-type.
The first time we applied for a bond I was a business lady, in a not quite business suit but with with a folder of relevant docs and a meaningful signature and a sharp haircut. This time I wrote N/A (not applicable) more times then I care to mention on all the forms while attempting to entertain a 2 yr old with some paper clips and a bank deposit form.
As we arrived at the bank I'd turned to my husband and said, 'Damn, should I have power-dressed a bit for this?' He looked at my jeans, sneakers and sticky-faced toddler and said, 'Nah, you're dressed for work.' Then he ducked.

I discover that the standard rules of parenting apply to all situations. The toddler will fill its nappy seconds before the estate agent arrives. The nearly-5 yr old will want to 'be naked' at the most inopportune time. Someone will fall and crack skull and scream hysterically as you answer an all-important call from the bank. Someone will discover the box of toys you've been collecting (with stealth and subterfuge) for the charity shop and declare the contents to be The Most Favourite Toys in the Whole World and How Dare You even consider doing away with them?!

Fun times. Interesting times. We go on show on Sunday. Hold thumbs for us!

burn out

Until a few weeks ago we were seriously planning on going to AfrikaBurn this year. We've not been before, but not for lack of wanting to.
I even tried to persuade Husband to go the year I was heavily pregnant with Friday, reckoning it would be the Last Time we would ever do anything as wild and free.

5 years later we've found ourselves up for a bit of wild and free again, albeit this time with two kidlets in tow. Our girls are great campers, and have proven many times to be quite happy and secure outside of the comfort zone of home.
We're well kitted-out too, with a 4x4 trailer with roof tent and bells and whistles etc, camping fridge, solar shower - all the pouncy trappings of the middle-class South African outdoor enthusiast.

AfrikaBurn is not for sissies. 5 days in the driest part of South Africa, the Tankwa Karoo, requiring total self-sufficiency: water, food, medical supplies etc. The 10 page Survival Guide warns of dust storms, earth too hard for the mere mortal tent peg, rules regarding taking away absolutely every little thing that you bring in with you (including organic matter), how to share the space with 4000+ other 'Burners', what to do if your camp catches fire (take your valuables and run), the dangers of dehydration.
Plus the expectation that all attendees contribute something to the fun and games.

We were keen!

But then March happened. Two family birthdays, two weekends away, a wedding, a funeral, school holidays and just a whole bunch of logistical and emotional stuff.

And ... while our enthusiasm for the event remained intact ... the mind was willing ... but the flesh started feeling weaker and weaker ...

Eventually we shook ourselves and got busy on the To Do list. And one by one stuff got complicated. Our seldom-used 50litre water tank exploded (literally), the 'simple' repair to the trailer's spare wheel carrier got technical. Our house-sitter fell through. And with each set-back our enthusiasm waned ...

So, we're not going this year. We're bummed about it, but still feel we've done the right thing. And seeing as we'd already planned the leave, we'll be off camping in the Cederberg for a week instead - somewhere with shade, running water, swimming water and much less dust.
It may not be as exciting or as stimulating as the Burn, but I think we'll be quite happy with some calm this time.

We will, however, be building a small sculpture to burn on our last evening. This was the part of the whole event which really captured Friday's imagination, and while she may forgive us for the change of venue - she's going to be mad if she doesn't get to blow some stuff up!

just swingin'

We spent last weekend at a house near Stanford with my family. We've been going there every year for my Mum's birthday weekend since 2006.

The first year it was just my parents, two brothers and my husband.
The next year my older brother's girlfriend joined us and I was pregnant.
The next she was with us again as his new wife and Friday was 9 months old.
A year in between.
Then one with me heavily pregnant (we went in Feb that year for that reason).
Last year we celebrated my Mum's birthday and Sunday's 1st together.
This year my younger brother was absent (abroad) but we made enough noise, ate enough food and laughed enough laughs for a crowd twice our size.

There's a pond down the bottom of the property, with a swing rigged up in a giant Gum tree next to it. Each year since 2008 Friday and her Dad have conspired to give my father conniptions by swinging out over the water on it.

 2008

 2009

 2010

 2011

This year she swung out herself.

2012

Fly my precious girl, fly.

luck. guilt. joy.

Last week I left my front door and security gate standing open for 4 hours.
I think I need to say that again. In italics.  
Last week I left my front door and security gate standing open for 4 hours.

I left the house with the girls, Friday decided at the front door that she and her sister needed dolls in the car and went back to get them, I went to the car to strap Sunday in, Friday came out to the car, I got her in and drove away.
If you're not from here you might not get the enormity of how stupid that is. If you are you'll know that's plenty stupid, as well as reckless, and well, just plain blonde.
If you're not from here you might not get how incredibly lucky I am that not a thing was disturbed when I returned.
If you are you'll know that's a bloody miracle.

4 hours and not a thing was taken, not one single sign that anyone had even sniffed around.

That's luck.

On Saturday night I was awoken at 1am by Sunday very quietly and calmly calling me. She does this sometimes and I only half-roused, waiting to see if she really needed me. I must've dozed off again.
Then I heard her calling once more, still very quietly and politely.
Once again I lay still, listening for a bit until I decided she was probably not going back to sleep.
I got up slowly, resignedly, went to the loo first and then finally to her room, where I found my poor baby in a puddle of her own congealing and rapidly cooling vomit.

That's guilt.

Friday's been on holiday since the end of last month. By now we're well into the swing of all being home together - I've made peace with getting much less (read: none) writing done, Sunday is loving having her playmate around all the time, Friday's watched Despicable Me a trillion times (in amongst lots of other stimulating and/or outdoor activities obviously).

Yesterday she told me that she was having the most fun ever. That I was a lovely Mum and she 'loved living with me'.

That's joy.

Luck. Guilt. Joy. Three such Christmassy feelings don't you think?

in ancient times

As any parent will warn you, it's not recommended to spend too much time post-kids reminiscing about life pre-kids.
If for no other reason than after all the hormones and emotions and sleep-deprivation you can't really rely on your memory any more, even once your kids are a manageable age.

I had a series of scary anxiety attacks while pregnant with Friday. My doctor very wisely took them quite seriously and urged me to get treatment while I still had time to make it all about me. One of the issues which came up in my 2 and a half therapy sessions (yes folks, it seems I'm so shallow and my psyche so rose-tinted that not even a paid therapist could eke more material from me. Halfway through my 3rd session she basically told me we were done and showed me the door. I still think given a bit more time I could have dredged up some more dirt to talk about ...), was a genuine concern that having a baby would be like having a permanent house-guest.
Like having someone to stay who you liked very much and got on well with, but around whom you still felt you needed to get dressed at a decent time and serve 3 balanced meals a day and not belch too loudly.
My therapist (can I call her 'mine' after so few sessions?) kind of guffawed (are they allowed to do that?) and asked me what my husband thought of this theory. I confessed I'd not discussed it with him and she sent me home to do just that.
He laughed long and loud.
'Hell no,' he said, 'this is our kid. She will fit into our lifestyle, she will do/dress/eat/live how we choose.'

Okay so he was wrong in a lot of ways. But right in that becoming a parent doesn't feel like one day you were living one life and then the next another. It's all part of the same life, your life, it just gets more interesting ...

But naturally sometimes you can't help but hanker back to those ancient times. And never is this more tempting then on weekend mornings.
What did we do with our long Saturday mornings we asked ourselves at 7.00 am?

We used to lie in 'til shamefully late. Now we lie in between two little girls 'til latest 9 am and then someone needs to wee, or be fed or get changed into dry pants.
We used to read books, novels. Now we read Mog goes to the V-E-T, Winnie the Witch and, if we're lucky, How the Elephant Got His Trunk.
We used to doze off again. Now we only close our eyes to play peek-a-boo.
We used to cuddle. Now we tickle and roll and squish-like-a-bug and try to shield our tender parts from various flailing limbs.
We used to finally drag ourselves up and into the quiet house and bumble around filling our day.

I guess we still bumble, but now at rapid speed. And although our days are that much longer the hours seem to fly by and there's certainly very little time to wonder how we're going to fill them.

But we're still very likely to be in our pajamas 'til shamefully late in the day, we're still the same people after all.

parenting & Cape Town

I mentioned a while back that I did a guest post at Bod-for-Tea. She's hosting such a cool series of guest posts on Parenting Around the Planet - I highly recommend popping over to browse through them.

Anyhoo, as I've two sickly small girls on my hands and my bathroom is about to ripped up to (hopefully) find and repair a major water leak, I'm re-using that post here.
I think it sums up a lot of how I feel about where I live, and about what I'm doing right now!

My blog is about parenting and Cape Town, not so much parenting IN Cape Town, but parenting AND Cape Town.

Reason being that I kind of feel the same about both: continual dichotomy.

The Beauty.

Looking at my girls, hearing their belly laughs, seeing them interact with each other, with their Dad, their family, feeling their small bodies against mine, smelling their skin.

Staring at our mountain, hearing the hadeda birds, the call to mosque, seeing the colour in our city, feeling the vibe of many cultures, the grass underfoot, smelling the sea, the food, the salty fogs which roll in at dawn.

The Fear.

Of nurturing two lives, forming two personalities, equipping them with all that they’ll need to tackle the complexities of life in this world.

Of living in a volatile society, forming the right opinions and acting on them. The fear of seen and unseen threats, fear for the future.

The Freedom.

Of having so much time with my children. So many unscheduled afternoons, so many moments free to play, to cuddle, to chat.

Of open spaces – beaches, forest, mountain. The proximity to so many beautiful places, so many free and easy cultural experiences.

The Guilt.

Of being distracted when they want me all to themselves. Of burdening them with my frustrations, or the by-products of those frustrations.  The guilt of the privilege of having all this time with them, and that not always being enough to make me happy.

Of being privileged. White. Middle-class. Belly full. Supported. The guilt of that not always being enough to make me happy living here.

The Humour.

Of raising two girls who laugh easily. Who don’t take themselves too seriously and teach me not to do the same.

Of a city, a country, which has learned to laugh at itself, at each other. Laugh with a fond recognition of our differences, our challenges.

The Sadness.

Of my girls not having the freedom of movement I had as a child. The naivety I had. That they are, too young I think, exposed to homelessness, poverty, crime, desperation.

That the homeless, the poor, the victims, the desperate live so close to all this beauty, yet feel so little of it in their lives. That there is only so much we can do to help.

Living in Cape Town, a city, exposes me every day to the dichotomies of life, the joys and the heartbreak.
One moment I’m buoyed by morning light on the mountain, the good news story in our local paper, the flower-seller singing as he rides his bike down our road.
The next I’m broken by the news of an armed-mugging in our neighbourhood, by the small boys asking for bread at the gate, by the next big corruption scandal hitting the headlines.

Parenting, raising children, takes me on the same roller-coaster.  
One moment my heart is singing watching my eldest ‘read’ a story to her little sister, making a play-dough zoo, dancing in the living room to the Black-Eyed Peas.
The next they’re both crying, hanging on to my legs, they won’t eat the supper I’ve raced around to prepare, one’s got a stinky nappy and the other a stinky attitude and I just want to die.

Who knew a happy medium would ever sound so attractive? And, I guess, so boring.

keeping it real

I've been reading some great blog posts this weekend about keeping it real in the blogosphere - the writers having healthy critical things to say about those bloggers who make out like their lives and families are delightfully blessed, creatively fulfilled, well-balanced organic eating never-squabbling homespun wearing 5 a day munching clean linen cut toenail sock matching no TV watching flop-free baking bubbles of 'hello cloud hello sky' pollyannaesque perfection.
You know the ones?

I do. And I admit to quite enjoying reading them for pure escapism, choosing to put from my mind that they are real people and instead regard them as fictional characters in a favourite TV show maybe, a chance to dip into someones life and hide for a moment from my own.
Other blogs I read for a healthy dose of realism, for the inspiration which comes from learning how others tackle their challenges, to share a laugh or an empathetic virtual hug about someones no good very bad horrible day.
My favourite blogs are honest enough to have a little bit of both.

But I do have standards, and those are to be always entertained, educated or informed. I don't just want to read someones moan about how hard life is, or how unrewarding parenting can be or how annoying people in general are. I feel all those things myself on occasion sure, but I save that moan for my husband (lucky guy hey?) or good friends who know me well enough to know I'm just having a grump and I'll get out of it soon enough. And know they can reciprocate with their own quibbles and quirks.

However, lest I ever be accused of being a 'perfect life' blogger (which you could be forgiven for thinking after reading this, but I hope you'll quickly counter-balance with this), allow me to tell you about ...

... the homemade granola I made recently. Sounds very homespun of me doesn't it? Until I tell you how I radically over-salted it, felt ill after the first bowl, had a big sulk about how nothing I cook ever works out properly and husband managed to save the day by picking out all the cranberries, rinsing the whole batch repeatedly and re-roasting it. We now eat homemade muesli for breakfast, not over-salted anymore, delicious in fact, but a little tainted by the foul language which was sprinkled over it.
... making paper-plate bats and blowing up balloons for what I thought was an inspired indoor game yesterday in the unseasonal foul weather which blew through Cape Town. I could tell you I didn't take photos because the light was so bad but the truth is I didn't because the house was SUCH a mess and both girls (and possibly some adults) were still in their pajamas at 3pm. I could tell you it was a roaring success and kept the kids entertained for hours but the truth is after two of the (very cheap) balloons popped in Sunday's face she was too freaked out to go anywhere near them again and after Friday melted down 'cos there was only one pink one (which popped, OBVIOUSLY) I was so over the whole game I let them watch TV for the rest of the afternoon.
... how exasperated I felt that Sunday's not interested in TV at all and preferred to follow me around begging me to read to her (how annoying)
... the play-dough we made (because OBVIOUSLY I voldermorted the last batch, which went dry and crumbly within hours of my writing poetry to its wonderfulness) which I didn't cook for long enough so it was all sticky and impossible to mould until I finally returned it to the (already cleaned) pot to cook it some more, burning my fingers while testing for the right elasticity ... I could tell you that pink is not the best choice of colour for play-dough, especially with my girls love of making long dough 'snakes' ...
... or I could tell you that I'm currently wearing the same clothes I've been in since early afternoon Saturday, the last time I got a chance to shower. I've even slept in them for TWO nights.

Ok, think I've done proving myself not to be one of those bloggers?
Can I go and have a shower now?
Ta.

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.

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!