Last week I was driving, listening to an EWN update on Nelson Mandela's condition, and I burst into tears.
Like, burst.
Naturally I've been thinking about him, following the updates. The death of my own grandfather at a similar age is recent enough that I can quickly draw on the associated emotions, my heart knows how this feels. But I didn't expect the wave of emotion I experienced that day and in that moment, it made me feel a little sheepish.
Sure he's Nelson Mandela, but did I have enough of a connection to respond like that? Was my grief credible?
But here's the thing about Mr Mandela, he has always been all about validating each individual's experience.
He visited Betsy Verwoed because her experience of the end of apartheid was valid. He celebrated with all South Africans when we won the Rugby World Cup because our experience was valid. Terrified white business men? Valid. Remorseful prison guards? Valid. Angry youth? Valid.
Nelson Mandela taught us all so much, and not least of all to own our experiences, to share them, to acknowledge them, good or bad, and use them to move forward.
Losing someone is so much about losing the person they allowed you to be. This is at the heart of all of our grief about his imminent death. We already miss the world in which he lived, in which his spirit resided.
Nelson Mandela made us feel free and idealistic, while he is still alive we know that lives on within our nation, when he dies we fear that spirit will become completely eroded by the sobering realities of the work ahead.
I was 15 when he was released from prison. 18 when I helped elect him President. The perfect age to learn lessons in forgiveness, humility and courage. The perfect age to learn to believe in miracles.
He gave me that, and so much more. He gave that to us all, and I think we're all allowed to be very, very sad when he goes.
Go well Madiba, and thank you.
Living and parenting on the edge. Of Africa.
Showing posts with label blogging as therapy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blogging as therapy. Show all posts
Monday, 24 June 2013
Friday, 5 April 2013
blogging as therapy part 2
"When you only have to do crazy for 2 hours a day it's totally bearable." - working mother of 3 under-5's, with nanny and au pair, to me, this week.
I am NOT opening up to a whole debate about working v stay-at-home parenting here, and I am NOT for a moment assuming that this woman's life is as easy as that sentence made it sound, to me, from my fragile perch here, in a space in which I'm drowning in this parenting thing right now.
But as I gazed at her great haircut, her nice shoes (heels!), her manicure, I felt frumpy and sorry for myself and pissed off that I felt that and, while I do mostly feel pride in being my children's primary caregiver, the phase I'm in at the moment? I just feel had.
I feel had by the narrative which claims such vast benefit to our children for being raised by a present parent.
Does it still count if that parent is gatvol, past her sell-by, running on auto-pilot, numbed to her own needs, gritted teeth and eyeball, silent screaming in her head as she fills another juice bottle, makes another slice of honey on toast, breaks up yet another sibling dispute?
Couldn't an au pair do all of that with more grace and favour, happy in the knowledge that she's being paid and gets to go home at the end of the day?
That sounds like a far healthier scenario to me right now.
Waltzing in, in heels, stimulated by adult interaction and a sense of achievement outside of the home, bearing Woolies dinners which I could afford and an overload of treats to appease my guilt of abstentia, swooping their screeching bodies up in my arms and playing with them furiously until bedtime. God that sounds so very good to me right now.
But I KNOW it's not all that. I KNOW this too shall pass. I KNOW I'll be happy and grateful in years to come that I had this time. I KNOW I don't appreciate this privilege enough. I KNOW, I know, I know, I know ...
But sometimes, one just needs to have a little moan, you know?
I am NOT opening up to a whole debate about working v stay-at-home parenting here, and I am NOT for a moment assuming that this woman's life is as easy as that sentence made it sound, to me, from my fragile perch here, in a space in which I'm drowning in this parenting thing right now.
But as I gazed at her great haircut, her nice shoes (heels!), her manicure, I felt frumpy and sorry for myself and pissed off that I felt that and, while I do mostly feel pride in being my children's primary caregiver, the phase I'm in at the moment? I just feel had.
I feel had by the narrative which claims such vast benefit to our children for being raised by a present parent.
Does it still count if that parent is gatvol, past her sell-by, running on auto-pilot, numbed to her own needs, gritted teeth and eyeball, silent screaming in her head as she fills another juice bottle, makes another slice of honey on toast, breaks up yet another sibling dispute?
Couldn't an au pair do all of that with more grace and favour, happy in the knowledge that she's being paid and gets to go home at the end of the day?
That sounds like a far healthier scenario to me right now.
Waltzing in, in heels, stimulated by adult interaction and a sense of achievement outside of the home, bearing Woolies dinners which I could afford and an overload of treats to appease my guilt of abstentia, swooping their screeching bodies up in my arms and playing with them furiously until bedtime. God that sounds so very good to me right now.
But I KNOW it's not all that. I KNOW this too shall pass. I KNOW I'll be happy and grateful in years to come that I had this time. I KNOW I don't appreciate this privilege enough. I KNOW, I know, I know, I know ...
But sometimes, one just needs to have a little moan, you know?
Sunday, 10 March 2013
*crickets*
Some friends were asking me today why I've been so quiet on the blog ... dead blog air, is there anything more deafening?
I know when blogs I read fall silent I always wonder what's going on in their lives. I hope they're just too busy hanging out and being glamourous, and not ailing or unhappy.
My silence hasn't been for any of these reasons, good or bad. My silence has been due to the sheer exhaustion, frustration, and at times despondence, of full time parenting a particularly demanding and forceful little girl. And who wants to read about that, I replied to my friends this morning?
I can't come here exhausted, after a day of toddler dramatics, and muster any enthusiasm for parenting insights, or happy crafts. I've often so little humour left that I can't even crack a smile post bed time, my stores of creativity depleted, my words all used up, the sound of my own voice grating in my head.
And no one's interested in that right?
This thing about 'mommy blogging' (urgh), is that we walk a fine line between making it all sound too perfect, and using the space to moan and complain. I'm equally irritated by bloggers who do either. I don't like to bad mouth my kids on the internets, but I'm as horrified to hear that anyone reading this blog may think I make it all sound too easy, that our lives look too fun and squeaky clean.
Life has, for a lot of the time in the last few weeks, not been much fun at all. Life has in fact been pretty tough. What I learned from my friends today is that I should be writing about that here too. And what I've learned just from writing this post is that writing, as usual, always makes me feel better.
Today was Sunday's 3rd birthday party. It was the hardest kiddies party I've ever organised, not because of its scale or logistical intricacies, but because I found it really hard to muster the good feeling and energy to celebrate this small girl right now.
After a day of battles and tears, demands and tantrums, it was extremely difficult to brainstorm the ultimate dinosaur cake, or think of ways to make her day extra special. Once she was in bed I wanted to stop thinking about her entirely for a while, to replenish myself with ME.
But I did it, we did it, and it was lovely. She was an angel - she wore a dress! she only freaked out once! she loved everything! she didn't call me 'Bad Mummy' or slap me!
She was sweet and delightful and appreciative and funny ... she was deliciously 3 and I must, I must remember that this too shall pass and one day (soon) I'll look back and wonder at how the time has flown.
I know when blogs I read fall silent I always wonder what's going on in their lives. I hope they're just too busy hanging out and being glamourous, and not ailing or unhappy.
My silence hasn't been for any of these reasons, good or bad. My silence has been due to the sheer exhaustion, frustration, and at times despondence, of full time parenting a particularly demanding and forceful little girl. And who wants to read about that, I replied to my friends this morning?
I can't come here exhausted, after a day of toddler dramatics, and muster any enthusiasm for parenting insights, or happy crafts. I've often so little humour left that I can't even crack a smile post bed time, my stores of creativity depleted, my words all used up, the sound of my own voice grating in my head.
And no one's interested in that right?
This thing about 'mommy blogging' (urgh), is that we walk a fine line between making it all sound too perfect, and using the space to moan and complain. I'm equally irritated by bloggers who do either. I don't like to bad mouth my kids on the internets, but I'm as horrified to hear that anyone reading this blog may think I make it all sound too easy, that our lives look too fun and squeaky clean.
Life has, for a lot of the time in the last few weeks, not been much fun at all. Life has in fact been pretty tough. What I learned from my friends today is that I should be writing about that here too. And what I've learned just from writing this post is that writing, as usual, always makes me feel better.
Today was Sunday's 3rd birthday party. It was the hardest kiddies party I've ever organised, not because of its scale or logistical intricacies, but because I found it really hard to muster the good feeling and energy to celebrate this small girl right now.
After a day of battles and tears, demands and tantrums, it was extremely difficult to brainstorm the ultimate dinosaur cake, or think of ways to make her day extra special. Once she was in bed I wanted to stop thinking about her entirely for a while, to replenish myself with ME.
But I did it, we did it, and it was lovely. She was an angel - she wore a dress! she only freaked out once! she loved everything! she didn't call me 'Bad Mummy' or slap me!
She was sweet and delightful and appreciative and funny ... she was deliciously 3 and I must, I must remember that this too shall pass and one day (soon) I'll look back and wonder at how the time has flown.
Thursday, 25 October 2012
observatory bucket list
Then in the chaos of moving and subsequent weeks with no internet access (once again a big fat Up Yours to Telkom on that one), I completely forgot to post it!
But I think it's still relevant, and as I find myself back there at least once a week now, looking at that beautiful and crazy suburb with new (possibly more appreciative?) eyes, I quite enjoyed revisiting the list of revisits and reminding myself why I just hated to love the place so much for all those years.
Number 1: Have tea & cake at Queen of Tarts
Number 2: Trawl Munro's 2nd Hand Shop
Text borrowed from Cape Town Magazine 'cos they say it all best:
Owned by Mr Munro, this junk shop on Lower Main Road in Observatory will give you the feeling that you’re looking thorough someone else’s attic. The shelves are stocked with vintage finds galore: from old-school kitchen equipment to dusty paintings that may need to be reframed. Also available is more basic second-hand furniture, such as bookshelves, desks and tables.
Best for: Quirky objects from another time, whether it’s an ancient snow globe or antique spoons.
Price range: Affordable.
Opening hours: Monday-Friday: 9am – 5pm; Saturday: noon – 3pm.
131 Main Rd | Observatory | Cape Town |
The best stockist of spices, basmati rice, poppadums, oils, coconut milk, pink Himalayan rock salt, Smarties in bulk, baking chocolate, crisps, couscous, fish sauce ... the list is endless.
Number 4: Reese's Peanut Butter Cups at Komati Foods
By god I ate too many of these while packing ...
Number 5: Milnerton Market (again and again and again). Although not actually in Observatory, it very well could be!
Number 6: Stock up with art supplies at Artsource
Despite having the most boring website (can I even call it that?) in the world this is one of the best art supply shops you'll find in Cape Town. Catering for professional artistes and kiddie crafters alike, Artsource was a pleasure to visit and the Perfect Source of endless birthday gifts, both given and received.
Number 7: Pancakes from Crespella
And so, so much more. Love you Observatory!
Tuesday, 2 October 2012
irl
There is so much new in our lives at the moment that I'm really struggling to harness it all to write about. On a daily basis we're discovering, learning, experiencing new things and like any such patch in one's life - when your days feel more nuanced, sharper-hued, faster and slightly surreal - it's near impossible to process it as you live it, and invariably one feels one's leaving stuff behind.
This throws up a conundrum for me, because I record and remember by writing - but this last month have felt too busy living to write. The only time I've really sat still is to stare at our new view, and I reckon people are rapidly tiring about hearing about that all the time (at least my facebook friends are!).
Not having a phone or internet connection for the first seventeen days was a contributing factor (and kind of an 'excuse' not to unpack my laptop for the first few weeks), all of us having had a dreadful flu for the last seven is another - and in between it's been too much about living around here to spend any time recording, or examining.
It's been a month since Husband and I pulled an almost all-nighter packing up the last of the Observatory house, him nursing a partially severed finger from an incident with a pair of secateurs that afternoon, me harbouring a deep and abiding resentment that he was.
A month since the long, long day moving - an exhausting process no matter how well prepared or well supported one is throughout it - a day which culminated in one of our beloved cats going AWOL in Obs, causing me to lose my shit completely and break down in the KFC drive-thru, sobbing so hard I couldn't make myself understood to the bemused counter-lady.
(My heroic brother and sister-in-law did not rest until the errant kitty was found and finally brought her to us in disgrace at 9.30 pm that night, causing me to break down sobbing again because how on earth were we going to cope without them just down the road anymore?)
It was a long hard day.
Was it really only a month ago?
I don't wish for the pace to slow down really, I'm enjoying this. And I certainly don't wish for the exciting newness of it all to wear off, time will guarantee that soon enough. But I am feeling the effects of living too fast.
In the evenings when the girls are asleep my head gets restless. My dreams are weird and fitful. The memory of a person or place that I'm missing catches me unawares and digs a little hook into my heart.
I need to process some of this, I need to write.
Live Write
Live Write
Live Write.
This throws up a conundrum for me, because I record and remember by writing - but this last month have felt too busy living to write. The only time I've really sat still is to stare at our new view, and I reckon people are rapidly tiring about hearing about that all the time (at least my facebook friends are!).
Not having a phone or internet connection for the first seventeen days was a contributing factor (and kind of an 'excuse' not to unpack my laptop for the first few weeks), all of us having had a dreadful flu for the last seven is another - and in between it's been too much about living around here to spend any time recording, or examining.
It's been a month since Husband and I pulled an almost all-nighter packing up the last of the Observatory house, him nursing a partially severed finger from an incident with a pair of secateurs that afternoon, me harbouring a deep and abiding resentment that he was.
A month since the long, long day moving - an exhausting process no matter how well prepared or well supported one is throughout it - a day which culminated in one of our beloved cats going AWOL in Obs, causing me to lose my shit completely and break down in the KFC drive-thru, sobbing so hard I couldn't make myself understood to the bemused counter-lady.
(My heroic brother and sister-in-law did not rest until the errant kitty was found and finally brought her to us in disgrace at 9.30 pm that night, causing me to break down sobbing again because how on earth were we going to cope without them just down the road anymore?)
It was a long hard day.
Was it really only a month ago?
I don't wish for the pace to slow down really, I'm enjoying this. And I certainly don't wish for the exciting newness of it all to wear off, time will guarantee that soon enough. But I am feeling the effects of living too fast.
In the evenings when the girls are asleep my head gets restless. My dreams are weird and fitful. The memory of a person or place that I'm missing catches me unawares and digs a little hook into my heart.
I need to process some of this, I need to write.
Live Write
Live Write
Live Write.
Thursday, 30 August 2012
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?
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?
Thursday, 23 August 2012
if I were blogging ...
... all I'd be blogging about would be ...
Packing. And how I'm starting to wonder whether 'slow and steady wins the race' was the best approach. I feel like I've been packing my whole life and the real crunch only starts now ...
The Massive Cold Sore my body bequeathed me with just in case I was under the illusion that that I'm not stressed.
The Asshole Parent in Friday's school who bought her 6 year old daughter a BRA. The kid in question doesn't even have puppy fat boobies. I weep for humanity.
How I got 6 disturbing hits on this blog from a totally gross p-o-r-n site. Maybe I shouldn't be using words like b-o-o-b-i-e-s. I blame this post. Or maybe this one.
To confess that last week I became one of those parents who takes her 2 and a half year old to the doctor because omg there must be an explanation for the monstrous behaviour we've had inflicted on us recently right??
This is how that went ...
Me to doc: 'Either way I'm prepared to leave this consultation embarrassed. Either my kid has a raging ear infection I've been totally unaware of for the last week, or she's just 2 and a half and I'm an asshole.'
Doc: 'And you're hoping it's an ear infection.'
I love my doctor.
However, she examined Sunday from head to toe and declared her absolutely healthy.
'She's just preparing you for her teen years,' she said with a small smile.
I hate my doctor.
Not this kid surely? This delectable bundle of energy and imagination and observation and general delight?
The very same.
If I were blogging I fear I'd be totally boring and self-obsessed right now.
So I'm not.
Packing. And how I'm starting to wonder whether 'slow and steady wins the race' was the best approach. I feel like I've been packing my whole life and the real crunch only starts now ...
The Massive Cold Sore my body bequeathed me with just in case I was under the illusion that that I'm not stressed.
The Asshole Parent in Friday's school who bought her 6 year old daughter a BRA. The kid in question doesn't even have puppy fat boobies. I weep for humanity.
How I got 6 disturbing hits on this blog from a totally gross p-o-r-n site. Maybe I shouldn't be using words like b-o-o-b-i-e-s. I blame this post. Or maybe this one.
To confess that last week I became one of those parents who takes her 2 and a half year old to the doctor because omg there must be an explanation for the monstrous behaviour we've had inflicted on us recently right??
This is how that went ...
Me to doc: 'Either way I'm prepared to leave this consultation embarrassed. Either my kid has a raging ear infection I've been totally unaware of for the last week, or she's just 2 and a half and I'm an asshole.'
Doc: 'And you're hoping it's an ear infection.'
I love my doctor.
However, she examined Sunday from head to toe and declared her absolutely healthy.
'She's just preparing you for her teen years,' she said with a small smile.
I hate my doctor.
Not this kid surely? This delectable bundle of energy and imagination and observation and general delight?
The very same.
If I were blogging I fear I'd be totally boring and self-obsessed right now.
So I'm not.
Tuesday, 14 August 2012
now I lay her down to 'leep
Sunday, aged two and a bit, decided to drop her afternoon nap. Her sister did the same thing at that age.
I was 7 weeks pregnant at the time - can you feel my pain?
I really thought Sunday would hang on longer. She loves(d) sleeping, and was still rocking a 2 hour nap the week before she quit.
But now baby don't nap no more and that, plus the sudden onset of TWO-ness, is making our evenings a little ... strained.
Tonight I lay on her bed in the dark, totally still, totally silent. While she thrashed around the bottom of it, emitting the guttural animal shrieks of frustration and utter over-wroughtness that I so clearly remember her sister making.
I lay on her bed in the dark, holding a fluffy turtle in position with my toe so she didn't bang her head too hard against the foot of the bed, waiting for her to calm.
I lay there and wondered how other parents deal with this, as we always perpetually wonder right?
I know there's no soothing her until she's ready. Strictly no touching her until she asks for it. I know there's nothing I can do but keep that turtle in position, silently apologise to the neighbours and lie there in the dark so she knows I'm there.
And when the shrieks turn to wails, when the thrashing becomes less violent, when the hand beating my leg starts caressing it instead, then at last will come the moment when she whimpers, ''leep wif Mummy', and I can bring her up to lie next to me, head on the pillow, hand on my face, and watch as she drifts off, still sobbing a little.
Then I lie there and let a big tear of my own slide down my cheek.
It was a long day for a little girl. And a long day for this big one too.
I was 7 weeks pregnant at the time - can you feel my pain?
I really thought Sunday would hang on longer. She loves(d) sleeping, and was still rocking a 2 hour nap the week before she quit.
But now baby don't nap no more and that, plus the sudden onset of TWO-ness, is making our evenings a little ... strained.
Tonight I lay on her bed in the dark, totally still, totally silent. While she thrashed around the bottom of it, emitting the guttural animal shrieks of frustration and utter over-wroughtness that I so clearly remember her sister making.
I lay on her bed in the dark, holding a fluffy turtle in position with my toe so she didn't bang her head too hard against the foot of the bed, waiting for her to calm.
I lay there and wondered how other parents deal with this, as we always perpetually wonder right?
I know there's no soothing her until she's ready. Strictly no touching her until she asks for it. I know there's nothing I can do but keep that turtle in position, silently apologise to the neighbours and lie there in the dark so she knows I'm there.
And when the shrieks turn to wails, when the thrashing becomes less violent, when the hand beating my leg starts caressing it instead, then at last will come the moment when she whimpers, ''leep wif Mummy', and I can bring her up to lie next to me, head on the pillow, hand on my face, and watch as she drifts off, still sobbing a little.
Then I lie there and let a big tear of my own slide down my cheek.
It was a long day for a little girl. And a long day for this big one too.
Sunday, 22 July 2012
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?
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?
Friday, 6 July 2012
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.
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.
Monday, 13 February 2012
first look
Not sure what invited them, but I spent lots of time this weekend visited by memories of the first time I laid eyes on my children.
These are memories one imagines you'll always have, how on earth could I forget those first adrenalin-fueled, surreal, painful, magical, weird moments? But I've started feeling paranoid that I might.
The present version of my girls always takes up so much space in my world that I can't think they're not all branded onto my memory. But the mind is not as reliable as the heart in this case, and as life starts moving faster and faster (Sunday will be 2 next month!) I find myself folding over the corners of our days, desperately trying to bookmark moments, words, feelings before we finish this chapter.
So to go back to the beginning ...
Both my births were emergency C-sections, so both my first looks were over the green curtain of surgery, both were through the disembodied (literally) haze of spinal blocks. I met my girls in the company of a half dozen strangers, strange masked half-faces hovering in my periphery, voices in the background, machines and strange smells.
And of course their Dad, present for both, his face on my right an enduring memory, one which I have no fear I'll ever forget.
Friday's birth, being my first, was still all about me. The decision to Caesar was made so fast, the adrenalin from my water's breaking and labour starting (3 weeks early) still coursing within me, my brain still holding the complete unknown at bay, that when they held her up over the curtain - impossibly quickly - I couldn't process what I was looking at.
This tiny (3.2 kg) purpely thing - what was it? Had they removed an organ I wasn't aware of?
I stuck out one finger and touched her. So warm. And then she opened her mouth, impossibly wide, and shrieked - and became a person.
She was taken to be cleaned and weighed etc. Her Dad went with her and although I couldn't see her face from where I was lying, the enormity of her was written all over his.
I looked down at my finger, still goo-ey from touching her, and wiped it on the edge of the surgical blanket.
Hours later, alone in my hospital bed, her asleep in the nursery across the hall, I rubbed my feet together and felt like her. It's not really possible to describe, I refuse to bow to the corny 'my heart walked outside my body' sentiment, but I felt like her. A part of me was, I guess, apart from me.
The next morning my husband told me that in our bed at home he'd felt the same.
For Sunday's birth I knew to expect an actual person at the end of it. The process, although also being my first real experience of labour, was so much more about her - namely getting her out safely. As we were attempting VBAC we knew there was the possibility of complications and ten hours in, when her heart rate started dipping and we were heading into theatre, I was overwhelmed with excitement at meeting her.
It was a difficult Caesar and it felt like forever before she appeared over the curtain, much paler, much bigger (3.8 kg) than her sister, one eyeball rolling wildly.
Although she'd been in distress I was allowed to hold her briefly and apparently, as she was handed to me, I said, 'Aw, let's have another one' to my husband - the anesthetist reckoning that was the soonest he'd ever heard the sentiment expressed, and not one I've ever repeated since!
Sunday was born in the morning (Friday late at night), and I think that's part of the reason those first 24 hours have so much more clarity. She hardly left my side, she latched well, we co-slept, I handled the pain meds better.
Friday's birth was a massive experience, on every level. It rocked me physically, emotionally, it rearranged the foundation of my life.
Sunday's entry (while my doctor would disagree) was somehow so much more peaceful. She slipped out of my body and onto the crook of my left arm. She slotted into an anticipated space in our lives, and that life went on, fuller and richer.
I need to remember this. I write it to remember it.
These are memories one imagines you'll always have, how on earth could I forget those first adrenalin-fueled, surreal, painful, magical, weird moments? But I've started feeling paranoid that I might.
The present version of my girls always takes up so much space in my world that I can't think they're not all branded onto my memory. But the mind is not as reliable as the heart in this case, and as life starts moving faster and faster (Sunday will be 2 next month!) I find myself folding over the corners of our days, desperately trying to bookmark moments, words, feelings before we finish this chapter.
So to go back to the beginning ...
Both my births were emergency C-sections, so both my first looks were over the green curtain of surgery, both were through the disembodied (literally) haze of spinal blocks. I met my girls in the company of a half dozen strangers, strange masked half-faces hovering in my periphery, voices in the background, machines and strange smells.
And of course their Dad, present for both, his face on my right an enduring memory, one which I have no fear I'll ever forget.
Friday's birth, being my first, was still all about me. The decision to Caesar was made so fast, the adrenalin from my water's breaking and labour starting (3 weeks early) still coursing within me, my brain still holding the complete unknown at bay, that when they held her up over the curtain - impossibly quickly - I couldn't process what I was looking at.
This tiny (3.2 kg) purpely thing - what was it? Had they removed an organ I wasn't aware of?
I stuck out one finger and touched her. So warm. And then she opened her mouth, impossibly wide, and shrieked - and became a person.
She was taken to be cleaned and weighed etc. Her Dad went with her and although I couldn't see her face from where I was lying, the enormity of her was written all over his.
I looked down at my finger, still goo-ey from touching her, and wiped it on the edge of the surgical blanket.
Hours later, alone in my hospital bed, her asleep in the nursery across the hall, I rubbed my feet together and felt like her. It's not really possible to describe, I refuse to bow to the corny 'my heart walked outside my body' sentiment, but I felt like her. A part of me was, I guess, apart from me.
The next morning my husband told me that in our bed at home he'd felt the same.
For Sunday's birth I knew to expect an actual person at the end of it. The process, although also being my first real experience of labour, was so much more about her - namely getting her out safely. As we were attempting VBAC we knew there was the possibility of complications and ten hours in, when her heart rate started dipping and we were heading into theatre, I was overwhelmed with excitement at meeting her.
It was a difficult Caesar and it felt like forever before she appeared over the curtain, much paler, much bigger (3.8 kg) than her sister, one eyeball rolling wildly.
Although she'd been in distress I was allowed to hold her briefly and apparently, as she was handed to me, I said, 'Aw, let's have another one' to my husband - the anesthetist reckoning that was the soonest he'd ever heard the sentiment expressed, and not one I've ever repeated since!
Sunday was born in the morning (Friday late at night), and I think that's part of the reason those first 24 hours have so much more clarity. She hardly left my side, she latched well, we co-slept, I handled the pain meds better.
Friday's birth was a massive experience, on every level. It rocked me physically, emotionally, it rearranged the foundation of my life.
Sunday's entry (while my doctor would disagree) was somehow so much more peaceful. She slipped out of my body and onto the crook of my left arm. She slotted into an anticipated space in our lives, and that life went on, fuller and richer.
I need to remember this. I write it to remember it.
Thursday, 26 January 2012
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.
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.
Monday, 9 January 2012
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.
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.
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