talking to kids

A while back I linked to this wonderful, insightful piece by (the always wonderful and insightful really) Rebecca from Girls Gone Child.

She calls bullshit on teaching your kids not to talk to strangers and I couldn't agree more. Go read the piece, I want to say everything she says and she writes it so much better than I could.

A few weeks ago I met a Mum who was anxious about talking to her young kids about any of the 'dangers' of the world and how to protect themselves. She knew it was regarded as highly irresponsible not to, especially given our country's crime rate, but she couldn't bring herself to shatter the peace and trust her children still had with the world.
I was that Mum some years ago, who of us want to talk about evil with our kids?

But I found an approach which is working for me, I'm teaching my girls to trust their gut. And the more I've committed to this approach, the more my eyes have opened to the opportunities to talk to my kids about keeping themselves safe.

We got this book out the library recently.

And when we got to this page, I saw the opportunity for a Conversation.

After lengthy discussion (every page has options of what you'd rather eat or wear or be - great book) it was unanimously decided we'd all rather be lost in a crowd.
And so I asked, 'If you were lost in this crowd, who would you ask for help?'

We talked about who looked as if they were in a hurry, and who looked a bit grumpy or distracted. We talked about who would be most likely to be able to help a lost child.
Lady with the baby came out tops. Followed closely by the Granny.

Life lessons. Without having to get into any unpleasantness. Trust your gut, be sensible, live, make friends, talk to strangers, learn from books.
These are things I can teach them.

cape point vineyards

My car has been acting up. It's going fine, as long as I don't get stuck in traffic. Crawling along at slow speed quickly leads to great belches of black smoke and funny noises. Getting it fixed is on the To Do list ...

So when I realised the girls and I were 'stuck' in the Noordhoek area until after evening traffic abated yesterday, we decided to find somewhere to have a little supper.
And by happystance stumbled upon the Cape Point Vineyards Thursday Food Market.

Not a bad little spot to wait out the traffic right?

It's TOTALLY Cape Town. Vegan patisserie, craft beer, lily white patrons and views so profound your eyes and brain have to use every colour in their paint box to try and do it justice.

Vineyards, pretentious food, kids called Tucker and lots of hippies in BMW's. It's Cape Town see?

But the beauty. I can be grinchy about many things, but every day I have pause to gasp at the beauty of this place we live in - and there's an uncomplicated purity in that which appeases my cynical old heart.

The Cape Point Vineyard is a damn fine place to be briefly appeased.

Even that silly old car had a view!

channeling Nancy Botwin

So then obviously something happened today which was totally blog-worthy, and all about me.

Just because I've decided not to share their humiliations on the internet doesn't mean I can't share mine right?

I've been working hard at gardening. And by hard I mean tending to a couple of herb/veggie plants in a motley assortment of pots, and culling small pieces of plants all over the place and sticking them in the earth at home in the vain hope they'll like it here.

Most of them have. Thereby boosting my garden and my self-confidence.

So when Friday's school sent home some seeds weeks ago with instructions to nurture a small plant to return in time for the annual fundraising Plant Sale, I was confident. I got this. I can grow a measly parsley plant right?

Wrong. 

Turns out the bursting new green buds I celebrated, the little shoots I protected and nurtured (Friday, btw, could not have been less interested), the small (but flourishing!) little plant I packaged up and carefully transported to school this morning is not parsley.

It is a weed.

At the school gates I spied a tiny fluffy purple flower on the plant and with a sinking feeling broke off and tasted a small leaf.

Not parsley.

I was nearly, nearly, that mother who tried to sell weed at the school fair. 

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.

free range art

We've been decidedly non-crafty around here for a while. The girls both make and do so much at school that I think that satisfies their creative bent for the most part, and our lovely 'art room' is pretty cold and dark during the winter months - we tend to gravitate to the sunny north-facing lounge in the afternoons.

Having said that, there's been a fair bit of spontaneous, free range art happening and I have to say I love it. Some of it is even collaborative - on Sunday's request Friday drew her a tree to adorn with leaves, apparently this piece is called a 'celebration of Spring'.

Sometimes I'm asked for specific materials, and sometimes I've just left water colours (least messy paint available), glue and silly sticky things out to be 'discovered'.

There's also still lots of colouring happening. How coy is this mermaid? Friday's been stretching her eyeballs practising the look.

And a bit of art imitating life. We've been finding lots of crabs in the garage and front garden lately, we think they must be following an internal GPS, desperately trying to get through the house to the lake out front.
I wasn't that surprised when I found this little sketch on Friday's table the other day.

But I'm keen for a project again, and have my eye on this one from the sweet new Cape Town blog Tuesdays with Megan. I'll let you know how it works out ...

food guilt? no thank you.

You know ... I'm getting a little tired of all this food drama. I know, I know, I should probably be taking it all more seriously but my god, how much time are we expected to spend on this?

Let's break down all the things we know or have been told about food:

We should drink more water.
But not from plastic bottles, mountain streams or taps in most countries of the world. We're told Cape Town is one of only 33 cities in the world with drinkable tap water. Then we're told that's not in fact true.

We should eat lots of fruit.
But not those with waxy skins. Not those grown too far away. Not those grown in the 'wrong' countries (like oranges from apartheid SA of old). Not those whose fructose content is too high. We must take note, collate and memorise the long lists going round of fruits which should Only Be Grown Organically.

We should eat lots of protein.
But not red meat. Not battery-reared poultry. Don't eat chicken reared on animal by-products, oh but watch out for the grain fed ones too. Only fish from the right SASSI list, and those which contain no traces of dolphin. We must not eat animals which were slaughtered inhumanely. We must find this out how? We must not eat meat which is too fatty. We must not eat meat which is too lean. We must not eat meat cured with numerous different hard to pronounce substances. We must definitely never eat 'deli meat'. Pate is to be regarded with suspicion.

I'm not even getting in to eggs.

We should eat lots of legumes.
But only organically grown ones. Also ditto, no beans with too great a carbon footprint (they don't even have feet) or grown in countries not regarded as fairtrade.
We shouldn't eat beans canned in certain metals and we should always, always be on high alert for Additives.

We should drink milk.
Just not un/pasteurised, possibly bleached, incorrectly bottled milk from cows which may or may not be hormone-fed.
Ditto cheese.

We shouldn't eat too much wheat. But heaven forbid we touch maize.

All honey should be BEE approved.

Sugar is evil. But also good. And sugar-replacements are direct from Satan.

Makes grocery shopping a whole lot of fun huh?

I'm being flippant, but I'm also quite serious. I could spend an immense portion of my time getting my knickers in a knot about this. I could add food-guilt to the long list of things we parents fret about. Guilt that we can't afford to buy all organic. Guilt that we don't spend every free moment growing and rearing our own food.
Guilt that I'm not forcing my family to only eat organically-grown-fairtrade-anti-oxidant-humanely picked-additive free-unflavoured-'healthy' meals which we can't afford and they probably won't eat but I spent 100 hours this week planning, shopping and preparing them so shut up and eat it and you'll thank me when you live to be 105?

I shop as consciously as we can afford to. I pick my food battles, my principled stances, and I stick by them. I enjoy preparing well-balanced as healthy as possible meals for my family. I feel positively ecstatic when everyone eats these meals.
I am NOT going to add food guilt to my list of parental burdens.

I'm saving my guilt for when I'm at the checkout of the supermarket with my trolley full of groceries and the woman behind me has a baby on her back, a toddler at her side and only a 5kg bag of (not organic! genetically modified!) mielie meal in her basket.
That's what I choose to fret about.

in my shoes

Take kids to school. Dash to Checkers for some necessary groceries. Deliberate through aisles, make snap decisions, ring through checkout, reach into bag ... no wallet.

Abandon purchases. Drive home cursing. Find wallet. Rue the time lost and the lack of milk for that desperately needed second cup of tea.

Turn on computer. No internet. Inquiry reveals Telkom has suspended account due to missed payment. More cursing.

Embark on 45 minute forensic investigation of the last 6 months bills and payments with morose internet-less husband.

Did I mention husband is home with manflu?

Weep.

Do mountains of laundry.

Dash to pharmacy. Inadvertently bust virile looking young man buying Impotex. Am reminded that some have it worse off than me.

Realise not enough time remains to buy necessary groceries so proceed to collect small girl from school first.

Return to Checkers. Put child in trolley. Push trolley over unforeseen bump, child flies forward and splits lip on trolley. Screaming.

Cursing.

Child calms but refuses to be cleaned up. Proceed through shop with blood-smeared sobbing child.

Collect big girl. Return home.

To find this waiting.

And so, between that frustrating morning, and before an afternoon walk which continued in the same vein. A walk which included being rained on and dog getting small branch wedged in her throat (more cursing, sotto vocce this time).

Before that walk there was this ...

And inside, this ...

Thank you Converse for never failing to make me happy. Thank you Marimekko for collaborating with happy-making Converse. Thank you Heather for cluing me onto these in the first place. And thank you Citymob for a speedy and excellently-timed delivery.

Life can kick me in the head with these anytime.

chalk and cheese

Sunday's new school couldn't be less like the school she attended last year. We loved last year's school, and we love this one, make no mistake, but I do marvel at the differences.

Last year's school was bright and colourful and spanking clean. This year's school is earthy and natural, the brightest colours in the place are on the kids, this year's school is muddy and haphazard and ... mysterious.

Last year's dressing up rail was a parade of delightful outfits, various characters and animals, lots of sparkly fairy wings.
This year's dressing up suitcase is a unknown bundle of weird and wonderful - second-hand hats and homemade creations, scarves in every natural dyed colour known to childkind.

Last year's play-dough was glittery and aromatic, cut with bright plastic shape cutters, this year's play-dough is ... yup, naturally dyed, and slowly all melding into the same shade of brown, moulded into gnomes and toadstools.

Last year's outside was a big netted trampoline, climbing frames and a guinea-pig in a hutch. This year's outside is a vintage swing-set, a climbable tree, a teepee and a friendly Great Dane to pet through a fence.

Last year's school had the alphabet on the wall, this year's school has a surfboard in the corner.

But what last year's school and this year's school have in common is this: a teacher whom Sunday loves. A woman who sees my baby girl, who gets her idiosyncrasies and laughs at her jokes, who guides her through these first fragile years of learning about group interaction and standing on one's own two small feet.

Two utterly different sides of the same warm, secure coin. How lucky to be exposed to both.

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?

*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.

teach them to talk

I'm a big talker. Always have been. Many of my kindergarten reports said kind things like 'bit of a chatterbox!', or, 'always has an opinion!'.
Nice ways of saying 'oh my god could she just stop talking for 5 freaking seconds already??!!'

(If I only I could find all those dear ladies now and let them know karma has totally sorted me out on this one  ... times two actually ....)

I digress.

I've always been a big talker - I credit myself with being a pretty good listener too - and while these things are to a measure personality based, I think how to listen, and how to talk, are on the (endless) list of skills we need to learn, too.
Preferably starting at home.

I learnt about debate at my mother's knee, literally. My parents enjoyed lively discussion, had no qualms disagreeing on things, managed their disagreements with wit and humour, and knew when to agree to disagree (one of the most necessary conversational skills one should master I reckon).

I spent many evenings listening in on the lively political and social discussions which took place around our dinner table, and the braai-fires and living rooms of our family friends.
My parents lived in an age of disinformation - what news they were able to access was often heavily censored, there was no internet, and the ability to listen - really listen, to read between the lines, to intelligently ask the kind of questions which would give you the information you needed and crucially, to talk it all out, was all the material they had with which to form their opinions and views on their world and its future.
I didn't always understand what they were talking about, but from early on I picked up the ways in which one conversed, the rhythms and patterns of debate and discussion. How to disagree, how to stick by your guns, how to see something from someone else's point of view and if necessary tailor your argument to make sense in their terms. How to back down, to concede, how to walk away with your dignity intact.
I learnt that one doesn't always need to speak louder to be heard. That it's the strength of your argument, not your language which'll win your audience over.
I learnt how good language can cow the greatest conversational bully, how and when to let your emotions show, or not.
I learnt exactly how much wine one should consume to be razor sharp and entertaining, and how just one glass too many can turn you into a droning incoherent bore.

These are some of the most valuable lessons of my childhood, I never underestimate for a second how incredibly lucky I am to have learnt them at home. And today, as we all feel very raw about the violence at Lonmin mine yesterday, these are the things I'm pondering again, and recommitting myself to teaching my two chatterboxes how to talk.

To really, really talk. To listen. To glean the facts from the excessive amount of news, opinion and information which abounds today (the exact opposite from my childhood but arguably no more clearer), to know how to identify the truths and the lies, to decide for themselves what those are.
To debate - with themselves, their contemporaries, their world.

I can't arm my daughters against natural disasters, car crashes or freak accidents, but I hope to be able to arm them against lack of communication. Something which I regard to be as dangerous, and almost more destructive, than anything else.

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.

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.

burn out

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

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

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

We were keen!

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

suspended reality

I wake in the night, needing a drink of water and a pee. Liquid in, liquid out.

Slide from my bed - comfy, warm, partially filled by my favourite person in the world. Our room is large, pretty empty for two people who've cohabited as long as we have. It's cool too, I'm already looking forward to coming back.
Down the passage, two soundly sleeping cats on the back of the couch, smooth wooden floorboards under my feet.
In the light from the patio the tree-tops whipping around, but all is very still inside.

Our dog in her basket snores in perfect unison with the whrrrr of the fridge. She doesn't even seem to know I'm here.
The tap turns, water fills my glass. Relief floods my throat.

I stand for just a minute, staring out the window. Keeping myself dozy, there's still a lot of night left.

Back down the passage, a quick check on the girls. Their door creaks and I pause to listen to the sounds of their breathing. Blindfolded I could tell who is who, I probably shall 'til the end of time.
They sleep with the sprawled limbs of supreme security and peace, their brows uncreased, fingers relaxed.

Their butterfly mobile dancing in the draft is the most active thing in this house.

And it is while standing there in the dark, in my house of comfort and love, that the crushing weight of my privilege suddenly bears down on me.
My heart seems to buckle - guilt, entitlement, horror, rage, indignation, justification - the emotions which one must continually counter-balance when living a good life in a world where so many don't. The knowledge of one's innate privilege is always there, it must be always there, but like a cancer or a conscience one can't live in its light all the time. One must suspend this reality and just ... live.

I force myself back to bed, to sleep. I leave these thoughts buried in the dark of the night. Where they remain, for remain they must.
Sadness, unease, discomfort, guilt - we need these things to throw the goodness in our lives into relief, to be grateful. But we can't, I can't, live with them every day.
I bury them in the dark - keep the knowledge of them active, confront them when I must - but try not to let them leak out into the light.

Reality suspended like a trip-wire in my house, waiting for me to get up in the night.

wild monkey love

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. My. God.

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

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

'Wave to him mum.'

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

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

Yay.

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

Shew, that went well. 

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

kirstenturd gardens

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dude, surely not ...? 

having a moan: artisan markets

On the weekend we popped in at this market, looking for some supper, a drink and a change from the usual supper/bath/bed (kids)/copious wine/arbing on the internet/bed (us) routine.

Looks pretty hey? It was so pretty - twinkly lights, bunting, a live band, beautiful people, pretty things - a very pretty Cape Town kinda experience.

But, sigh, I'm afraid I left feeling a little underwhelmed.

My intention is not to belittle the creativity of anyone trading their wares, there were very many uniquely lovely things, as well as a good number of pure genius lust-haves, and I'm genuinely respectful and empathetic of anyone who has the balls to put their work out there - craft, writing etc - but the overarching aesthetic was so ... same-y.
By the time we had ambled past all the stalls and back out into the gathering dark the whole market had fallen into one visual folder in my head, with only a few items standing out from the crowd.

This is what that folder looks like:

Stuff:
hessian cloth
stripey ribbon
white
bunnies
birds
brown paper

Words:
organic
vintage-style
signature
gifting
conscious
re-invented

Smells:
coffee
chocolate
pretension

Read together these words evoke a pretty picture, and I feel so very Grinchy finding fault with that. I love living in a city where people create, I love being able to nip out to a market to see what they've been up to.

But I can't help but feel we're missing something when an 'artisan market' becomes predictable.
Predictable is why I avoid malls.