blurred lines

I've been a bit absent here of late. Just a bit right?

Life has been busy - work and illness and emotional ups and downs - but through all of that I've still been parenting, still been thinking about parenting, still felt inspired and at times utterly exhausted by these too small beings I've been charged with.
I've still had material to bring here. But I've felt hesitant.

The girls are growing up really fast at the moment, and I'm getting into that space of wondering which of their stories are mine to tell.
Obviously I still think it's all about me, but the reality is what goes on in their hearts and minds is theirs, it's precious, and I feel we might be getting to the stage where they're too old for me to share their stuff online, while still too young to ask their permission to do so.
And my response to their 'stuff'? That's kind of theirs too.

Yup, apparently now not even my own thoughts are mine. It's only a matter of minutes until they're wearing my sneakers and driving my car.

I'll be taking a while to ponder this.

last week I wore a bra

Every. Day.
Like, a proper under-wire bra. Not a cami with built in support or a sports bra or a tight-fitting vest.

I wore big girl pants too. No boyfriend jeans, no wrap-pants, no yoga pants.

And blouses. Proper need-to-be-ironed blouses. I even wore a blazer one chilly morning.

And pumps. With closed toes. To, you know, conceal the toes ...

Yup. Last week I started a job outside of the home. Just a two week contract, putting together a small event, but the nature of the job is immaterial.
The differences between working from a proper office versus working from home are IMMENSE.

None of my office colleagues barked, or hacked a furball on my foot. No one tried to sit on my lap and purr. I didn't need to know if any of them needed to pee.

At the office, there is nothing on my desk but my laptop, a phone, and a couple of sheets of notes pertaining only to the most current things I'm working on.
There are no story books in need of repair, no toys, no distracting rolls of washi tape. There are no other To Do lists or nasty reminders of things I've not remembered to do.
There are no crumbs.

At the office there are no snacks. Barring those I've remembered to bring with me (i.e. none). This is good. And contributes to the lack of crumbs.

There is no facebook, no Pinterest, no blog reading, no tweetering on the edge of full social media immersion.

There is no laundry upstairs waiting to be hung. No dishwasher needing to be emptied (well there is, but it's not my job ha ha ha ha ha). There are no breakfast dishes still on the table or towels in a soggy heap on the floor.

At the office there is calm. There is a lot of silence. There is a clean, efficient energy which embraces me like the arms of a long-forgotten friend and reminds me that I can do this: I can focus on one thing and just one thing only for long stretches at a time.
I am reminded that The Zone still exists, and my password to enter it is still valid. At the office I remember I can work like a well-oiled machine.

I love free-lancing. Last week I remembered how much I love doing it in someone else's office. I think I need some more of that.

celebrating life

That's all we really can do right? Make a donation to the Kenyan Red Cross, hold the affected families in our hearts, mourn for our continent, all the while acknowledging our Heritage (she still loves chickens) and continuing to celebrate the milestones of those we love.
Celebrate life, it's precious.

Beautiful, radiant, exuberant 6 year olds.

Rainbow cake for a dear friend, because I've been hankering to make another one, and she's special.

Brownie and shortbread stack for another dearest bestie.

It was a long weekend of cake, and love, and sorrow, and celebration. It was a big weekend.

gender bender

In keeping with the dichotomy which is this child, the two central tropes in Sunday's life at the moment are
a) how she CAN'T WAIT to have her babies and
b) how she's actually a boy, not a girl.

The boy thing has been around for some time. She loves a pretty frock, likes to think 'pink is her favourite colour' like her sister, but lest you be very careful of using the wrong gender pronouns or she'll rake you over hot coals.
She was having a vaccination shot last week and afterwards the nursing sister declared her to be 'such a brave girl'. Both Friday and I looked up in horror - nooooooo - but it was too late. 'I'm not a girl!' Sunday shrieked as the poor nurse floundered, eventually doling out lollipops to lighten the mood and commenting instead on their 'lovely blonde hair' until Friday told her 'my daddy's black' (what?) and I saw the woman's eyes glaze over with confusion as she ushered us out of her office declaring we'd been the 'most fun she'd had all day'.
In the car on the way home Friday muttered, 'I meant Daddy's hair is black', while Sunday rambled on about how she was a nice lady but 'a bit silly to not see that I'm a boy hey Mum?'

We indulge the phase, knowing from earnest conversations that she does really know what's what, but just chooses to live this fantasy for now. And as a child who really, really wanted a willy for my 5th birthday I'm okay with letting this one play itself out.

However the baby thing has been around for even longer. Friday had no interest in dolls as a smallie, but Sunday's maternal urge is strong. We all recall how when she'd just started crawling she'd collect dishtowels around the kitchen and clutch them to her chest, patting them hard and saying 's, s, s'.
She has a small but beloved collection of dolls, named Eyeball, Cucumber, Zebareba and Su'Lala (I couldn't make this shit up if I tried), and the subject of babies (growing them, birthing them and raising them) occupies a lot of her conversation.
For now she's happy playing with her dolls, but beware statements such as: 'You're such a good Mum.'
Oh no, if asked she's a big brother, a father or a granddad to this special bunch of weirdly-named kids.

So it was heart-breaking to watch, yesterday morning as her big eyes welled up with tears, the dawning comprehension that the two dreams had no clear intersect.
Chatting away about how she's a big boy, she suddenly had a moment of clarity and started sobbing, 'But if I'm a boy how will I have my babies Mum?'
My eyes teared up too. It's a sad thing watching the shattering of a dream, however nonsensical it may seem.

She tried to convince me that 'some boys can have babies' but I squashed that one pronto. There are limits to how much fantasy I consider it healthy to indulge. We chatted about adoption instead.
In conclusion she decided that when she was ready to have babies she might decide to be a girl again after all.
You go my boy.

My big boy, in a fairy frock, holding his her baby up to see out the bird hide.

madiba

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.

cupcakes and crafts and rainbow sprinkled farts

Okay, okay, I've had my moan ... back to normal programming about how wonderful and idyllic our lives are.

Hanging out with the love of her life - David Attenborough.

Peanut butter and jam muffins. With chocolate chips.

Mongoose encounters at the World of Birds.

Camping on Easter weekend. We love camping.

Making tambourines, as per Friday's instructions.

Screw the end product, hole-punched paper plates and pipe cleaners ftw!

But for the true muzo, it's a serious business.

Pelicans drifting aloft. Reminding us to look up, and remember our blessings.

three going on thor

She'll be three in 10 days time and I've had NO idea what to get her for her birthday.

What do you get the kid who has four dolls, plays with them regularly, but ALL their accessories are imaginary? An empty box full of 'baby clothes'?

What do you get the kid who basically wants to be read to ALL day long, in a house already bursting with books? A paid drama student to read to her with all the appropriate voices?

What do you get the kid who has an older sister so there's one of everything she could want in the house already? Tea set - check. Dolls house - check. Blocks, books, dolls, puzzles, mini-kitchen etc - check.

What do you get the kid who has everything she needs really, but must have something to unwrap on her birthday morning right?

What do you get the kid who's currently a tyrannical torturous tantrummy tot with VERY SPECIFIC notions of what she does and does not like? A gift voucher? Ha ha ha.

I was at a dead loss until a few days ago when she declared, out of the blue, that she'd like a sword for her birthday. To fight dinosaurs, monsters, big frogs for mummy, baddies and dragons - in that order I think.
A sword.

So my question really is: would it be so wrong to get her a sword? Obviously not a proper goblin-made one, I can see how she doesn't quite have the fine motor control for that, but a nice hippie Waldorf one?

My mother is horrified, presumably at the notion of giving a 3 yr old a weapon. Husband is not supportive, declaring rightly so that a wooden sword can still inflict a lot of damage - namely to her sister.

But I'm more than a little tempted. I think there's something empowering about it, I like that she's casting herself as the hero in this particular imagining. I like that a sword can be a prop for an expanding selection of games including knights and vikings, intrepid explorers and swashbuckling adventurers.
Aren't we always told that the princess fantasy is a weak one, playing the victim waiting for a knight to swoop in and rescue the helpless maiden? Aren't we encouraged to teach our daughters they can be anything, they can be the rescuers, they can hold the power? Would there be as much objection to a boy wanting a sword for his 3rd birthday?

A year ago I'd have rejected the idea of giving a 3 year old a sword purely on the basis that I believe you don't give children weapons. But now, as she talks about her sword daily, and her birthday approaches, I'm not so sure.
What do you think?

girls will be boys will be girls will be boys

I've been fretting recently about how often I notice mothers saying 'Oh, you're such a boy' to their sons. As we know I don't have sons so this is possibly one of those things I should just leave alone ... but, just briefly, I won't.

I don't like gender bias as a rule, and it makes me particularly uncomfortable when people do it to kids. What does 'such a boy' even really mean?

We all know what 'such a girl' means. And that's why I never say it. There's a negative connotation right? An implication of softness, or squeamishness, or (horror) being over-emotional.
I don't say to my girls, when they're dressed all in pink or pushing dolls around in prams or freaking out 'cos they got duck poo on their feet, 'Oh, you're such a girl.' Just as I wouldn't say it to them when they're smashing rocks (ja, all those pretty rocks ...) or kicking a ball around the lawn or pulling wings off flies.
And when they're being unreasonable, or farting in public, or punching each other I certainly won't say 'Don't be such a boy', although I've had mothers admit to saying the opposite to their sons when they've thought they're being 'girlie'.

Yes, I have been intrigued to see how my youngest girl has embraced dolls and playing 'baby' since she could just crawl, I watch in equal parts fascination and horror as my 5 year old totally falls for the pink marketing so rife out there. No doubt if I had a son I'd be as amazed to observe his undeniably male character traits, and I'm sure I'd be proud of his boisterous bravado, or ability to quietly play Lego for hours (I'm particularly disappointed to never experience that one!), but I like to think I'd never voice his gender specificity to him directly.
I like to think I'm conscious about not engaging in any gender stereo-typing when talking to the girls at all (although out of their earshot I've been known to accuse my husband of 'screaming like a girl' - the spiders in this house are really, really scary!).

But maybe this is a concern for mothers of girls more than those with boys. Maybe this is purely my baggage about the world they're entering and the optimistic belief, like so many mothers before me, that somehow what I instill in my daughters before leaving home will reflect in the world they'll inhabit. That maybe this generation will be the one to experience a different gender paradigm.
Maybe this is all my own hey-sho-wow hope that if we don't pigeon-hole our kids at home they'll be freer to be themselves in the world? Girls can be tough and boys can be soft. Hurling rocks at ducks is not 'being a boy', pretending to change the nappy of the same rock not 'being a girl'.
Maybe our kids can just be kids and deal with all this complex gender crap as it comes, 'cos it will, without any prodding from their mothers.

When discussing this with my husband however, his parting shot was this, 'So what do you think the long term effects of calling them 'disgusting creatures' will be? Because you seem to do that pretty often.'

Oh, oops.

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.

friday turns five

All of last week was about this monumental birthday in our household. Every birthday feels like a momentous one when you're raising small children but 5, 5 felt pretty damn phenomenal.

5 is all about ....

... proving you can touch your ear over your head
... having (the first!) wobbly tooth
... proudly showing your age with a whole handful of fingers
... looking forward to starting 'Great R' (Grade R) and possibly wearing a 'unicorn'!
... learning to tie your own shoe laces
... feeling very grown-up but also,
... needing to be reassured that you're still small enough to be cuddled and babied
... being oh so very lovely and chatty and interested and insightful and thoughtful and considerate and ...

entrancing your parents more and more every day.

Happy birthday my first, my eldest, my extremely special big girl.

camping the one

We're off camping in the Cederberg this week and next, our consolation prize for not making it to AfrikaBurn this year.
Pretty good consolation prize if you ask me.


We'll be at Beaverlac for 3 nights with friends and then heading further north to Enjo Nature Farm - a farm we've heard much about but not stayed at before.
As I've said before, we're happy campers, so I thought I'd re-post some bits and pieces I've written about camping over the years, and why we love it so much.

January 20, 2009

We spent the weekend in a teepee, at this wonderfully hippie-hey-wow-like-awesome-man retreat, and I have to say there really is something quite magical about these big, circular tents. I did indulge my inner Sioux a little...

I also gave a lot of thought to camping - as a concept - as someone recently told me that they didn't really get the attraction. I think it's one of those things you're either into or you're not. I think this also depends largely on whether you grew up camping.

I could say that you need to be into nature, have a fairly relaxed attitude towards cleanliness, be able to do without home comforts or access to technology, and have a very relaxed attitude towards bugs - but many people have all of these and still aren't fans. It's really not a very easily definable thing.

All I know however, is that I LOVE camping, am never happier than when cooking on a fire (as long as I've got gas to boil a kettle for tea), sleeping in a tent (as long as I've got a comfy mattress and warm enough bedding), waking to the fresh outdoor morning air (as long as the sun isn't directly in my eyes) and getting very dirty feet (as long as there's somewhere to swim). So you see, I'm not as dye-hard (pun intended, sorry) as some campers out there, but I do love to camp, and here's why.....

... there's nothing as soul-satisfying for me as spending an evening cooking and laughing around a big open fire,  slowly rotating your body to evenly toast all your exposed bits, eating crispy braai-ed lamb chops, bread baked in the ashes, a roasted mielie or jacket potato, being among the last to linger as one by one your fellow campers totter off to bed, finally saying your good-nights yourself and padding off through the darkness, following the beam of your torch, a bietjie gewyn, brushing your teeth from an ice-cold mug of water on the side of a bubbling stream, watching the moon hang low and heavy in the sky, quietly opening the flap to your tent and pausing to listen for the snuffly breath of your child asleep inside, then quietly undressing and stepping off the soft grass and into your chilly bedding, snuggling in until it slowly warms, drifting off to the sounds of crickets, the wind in the branches above you, or the deep ponderous silence of a deep, dark night...

.... waking in the early dawn to the back and forth earnest-sounding conversation of two owls in the trees nearby, getting up to make sure your kiddie is still covered up, pulling your own blankets up higher against the dawn chill...

.... waking later to the far-off sounds of children laughing, the clink of coffee cups, the wafts of wood-smoke as the rest of camp awakes, washing your face in cold mountain water, having the best tasting cup of coffee you'll ever have - the one which is brewed and drunk outside - having a leisurely breakfast of the kinds of things you'd probably never eat for breakfast at home, and then finding a dam or river to soak the graininess of the night away, and take deep breaths of pure, untainted, uncomplicated, country air...

 

 You (well I) gotta love it.

impossible conversations

Impossible Conversation 1:

Working Mother: ‘Where do you work?’

SAHM: ‘I don’t, I’m home with my kids.’

Working Mother feels judged.

Impossible Conversation 2:

Working Mother: ‘Where do you work?’

SAHM: ‘I don’t, I’m a full-time Mum.’

Working Mother: ‘Oh I could never do that.’

SAHM feels judged.

Impossible Conversation 3:

Woman 1: ‘I’ve 2 daughters, do you have kids?’

Woman 2: ‘No, I decided not to.’

Woman 1 feels judged.

Impossible Conversation 4:

Woman 1: ‘I’ve 2 daughters, do you have kids?’

Woman 2: ‘No, I decided not to.’

Woman 2 feels judged.

4 conversations women have with other women in which it's virtually impossible for someone not to feel judged. Usually by themselves.

One more impossible conversation:

Me to Friday in moment of extreme frustration: 'Do you have any idea how lucky you are to have me around so much? Lots of children's mummies work really hard and don't spend nearly as much time with their children.'

Friday: 'Uh?'

Serves me right for trying to have that conversation with a 4 year old. It's hard enough with my peers.

pants on fire

I remember, years and years ago, watching aghast as a friend of mine told her then 6 year old daughter that she couldn't ride in the back of my bakkie (pick-up?), 'cos the canopy door 'was broken'.
In my pre-parental naivety I felt the size of the lie was hugely disproportionate to the issue at hand, such a blatant untruth merely to prevent a possible melt-down?

Now that I'm a parent I have a whole lot more sympathy. I now realise that this could have been one in a series of power-plays which had been taking place all day, that my friend possibly knew her daughter was hungry or tired and that getting into a debate just wasn't worth the risk. I now know about picking your battles. I know how fragile a child's young ego is, and how a parent quickly learns to tread gently around it, often risking other people's judgment and disapproval, but trying to ignore that in the knowledge that you know your offspring better than anyone.

I also know how easy it is to lie when you're tired, or hungry, or your ego is feeling a bit fragile.

But I'm determined not to. This is not a judgement, or something which makes me feel sanctimonious and holy.
Lying makes me feel crap, and I don't like feeling crap.
Not lying makes me use my imagination, and I like using my imagination.
I want my kids to trust me, and I credit them with being bright enough to learn quickly if they can't.

It's not possible to tell the blatant truth all the time. One can't be honest about the truly horrific birthday gift (at least not to the giver), or exactly how many Smarties one may (or may not!) have eaten last night while baking cookies for Friday's school bake day. But this doesn't mean one has to lie.
'What an enormous vase!'
'Not as many as I could have.'
These are both legitimate, and honest, answers. And both true.

If my children are to learn from me, from my example, then I want to teach them the classiest, most imaginative, most respectful way to navigate the world as truthful human beings.

I want to be able to say 'I never lie to you' and mean it. I want them to trust me on that.

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.

10 alternative NY resolutions

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

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

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

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

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

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

open letter to my brother

Dude. I get it now.

The whole, being the second-born thing.

After 30+ years of being the firstborn, it's taken actually spawning a second-born to really get what you've been moaning about all this time.
Jeez guy, you got a raw deal!

Or did you ... ?

There is no question the second-born:
- is woefully neglected in comparison to the smothering attention bestowed upon the FB
- is allowed to sleep on its tummy, eat grapes, suck on the dog blanket and countless other 'life-threatening' things the FB would never have done
- receives far less tolerance of his/her moods, likes & dislikes and basic opinion in general
- is often rudely woken from his/her nap to accommodate the rest of the family's plans
- wears lots of hand-me-downs
- always gets the smaller 'half'

BUT ... in my experience the second-born also:
- is continually defended, stuck up for, sided with and is very seldom the first one punished for sibling nastiness, all because he/she is physically smaller, not less guilty
- is allowed to sleep on its tummy, eat grapes, suck on the dog blanket and countless other 'life-threatening' fun things the FB would never have done
- has a huge amount of toys and books at his/her disposal, not all of them necessarily age-appropriate but all available to be explored and dismantled and tasted and trashed
- has the love of a whole additional person
- gets lots of new stuff due to the guilt of it always wearing hand-me-downs
- has the opportunity to grow and explore his/her world in peace, without the continual scrutiny of two enraptured parents

So while I finally get why you've made accusations of persecution and neglect these last 30 odd years, it also makes sense to me how you've grown into the confident, practical and big-hearted guy you are. I may even need to take some credit here.

Love you dude!

And PS. No, I'm not going to have a 3rd just to understand the whole 'middle child' thing. Sorry.

by any other name

Friday calls her Dad by his first name.

She calls me Mum, or Mummy, or sometimes Mama, but he is always Charl.

'Mum! Charl! Let's go this way!', echoes through the forest on a Sunday morning.  
'Mum, Charl suggested we have a chocolate biscuit now.' Oh really?

I think it's kinda cute but he doesn't really like it.
'Clearly you're the Mum,' he says, 'but people must think I'm just the boyfriend.'

We buy our veggies on a Saturday from an old guy who comes round in his bakkie, Yunis. His kids, married with kids of their own, still call him Daddy.
'Doesn't it bug you when she calls you that?' he asks Charl one morning.
And it does a bit.

I'm fond of it 'cos that's what I call him, and I reckon she'll outgrow it eventually.

And I like to remind him it could be worse. A friend's kid when she was this age used to call him Michelle.

What do your kids call you?

where's mummy?

I have a love/hate relationship with the whole topic of 'becoming a mother and losing oneself'. If you are a mother, and I'm intentionally singling us out from fathers on this one, there's no way you've managed to avoid reading something on the issue.
Phrases like 'finding myself', 'losing myself', 'reclaiming myself', 'recognising myself'. My 'old self', 'past self', 'true self'.
These articles invariably leave one either feeling uncomfortable at how much one identifies with the writer's excessive whinging about how she 'misses herself', or green-eyed with jealousy at glowing reports of morning yoga classes, afternoon writing classes, relaxing weekends away with her Main Man and how rewarding it's been to 'reconnect with herself'.

I do enjoy, and relate to, the main themes however. We all thought nothing would really change for us. We were all astounded at the extent to which almost everything did. We all have panicked moments of imagining the rest of our lives will reflect the drudgery and frustration of one particularly bad afternoon or sleepless night.
And we all know (and if you haven't had this moment yet I promise you it's coming down the line) the feeling of that first yoga class, coffee with a friend, evening out with your partner, whole bottle of wine, satisfying work experience, personal affirmation that has nothing to do with being a mother. That moment that is, finally, all about ME.
It's a sweet one.

What interests me though is a fairly important conversation lacking from most writings and discussions on the topic.
You are no longer that person you 'were before'. You are now someone's mother and that has fundamentally altered your identity.
You can be someone's mother who's back into her pre-baby running regime. You can be someone's mother who's back at work and just scored a major client for her company. You can be someone's mother who danced til dawn and did back-to-back tequila shots with the abandon of her pre-motherhood self.
But you are no longer that person, bearing and raising a baby has altered your personality. Truth.

How this manifests is as unique and personal as your feelings for your children. There is no road-map. And maybe this is why women seem to find it difficult to talk about.
Motherhood can make you more sensitive, vulnerable, emotional, intolerant, conservative, impatient, empathetic, etc, etc into oblivion. Maybe all of the above.
But as with anything dealing with the heart, talking about how you're feeling to anyone other than your therapist, partner or best friend (and even then ...), is really hard.

And so women's mags and blogs and academic articles and novels chose to tackle the whole losing/finding yourself debacle instead. It's tidier, we all relate. It's easier to find something if you remember what it looked like.
To get to grips with a new personal identity in the throes of raising even newer ones and trying to remember when last you washed your hair is far harder.

I know essentially I'm still the person I was for 32 years before I started breeding. I owe it to my girls to remember, and be, that person. But the 4 years that I've been a mother have undoubtedly been the most influential on my personality, in the most fundamental ways, and to pretend otherwise is to truly lose myself.

I have to credit this fantastic post, sent to me by a friend last week, for helping to crystallize my thoughts on this ... I like what she says about moving targets ... go have a read.