twinkle star photography

Much earlier this year I won a family photo shoot with Twinkle Star Photography by answering the question: why do you think you should win this shoot?
I answered that we should win because Friday was losing teeth at a rate of knots and we should get some pics before she became a gap-toothed monster, and I won!

Months later I finally got it together to free up an afternoon and the lovely Sam arrived to take our pictures. We settled down for tea and chat to get the girls (and me!) at ease, whereupon Friday promptly popped a tooth! We did laugh!

Sam quickly had us all feeling very comfortable, and the girls and I pottered around as we would on a normal afternoon.

I'd had my reservations about the shoot - I'm not a formal portrait person and definitely didn't want it to be too cheesy ... but Sam was super, she totally got where I was coming from and in our pre-shoot chats quickly recommended a more documentary style, lifestyle photography it's called.

Basically, photos of our lives.

With Sam cleverly catching snippets of our home and other quirky details (love those sneakers!) in between. I think this gives so much more depth to the collection of pics she's given us, and I've a feeling I'll treasure this memory, tying a little girl's shoe, as much as the shots of us together.

Later we headed outside into the wild wind for the great afternoon light, and some horse-play.

Thank you Sam for a wonderfully relaxed and fun afternoon, and for capturing such lovely moments in the lives of my crazy little ones and I. 

I just know the glow of these pictures will become more golden and magical as these little girls grow up, up and away.

hug adjustment

A friend and I were chatting on the weekend about the challenges of divvying out equal hug rations to our children.

The small girl is an easy hug, she still fits (barely) into the crook of my arm, she can be hoicked up onto a hip. She's still in a nappy, still rounded, her head fits under my chin. I don't have to think about it much.

But hugging a 5 year old with gangly limbs and sharper angles, with longer hair to get in my nose, heavier in body weight and conversation, is more challenging. She still wants hugs, but logistically it takes more care.

I guess there's an evolutionary aspect to it. Our children grow up, and like chicks who no longer fit under their mother's wing they have to start learning to find their own way. They need to learn to self-soothe, to be confident in their place in the world and the family without the continual physical reassurance of mum's arms.

But as those hugs get fewer they also, as I think about it, get more meaningful. Now I need to take the time to sit down, kneel down, lie down, to physically accommodate my big baby. I'm incapable of doing anything else at the same time so I focus more. 

I sniff that nose-tickling hair, stroke those sharp shoulders and thin, strong limbs. I listen to what she's saying, really listen. I tell her to stop fidgeting and tell her, again, how small she was when she was born, how her hair was black and her face so very red.

She doesn't stick around as long. There's a world to conquer, a sister to bully, some ducks to chase.

She still wants hugs, long may that last, but she needs them less. Her world is expanding as those limbs grow.

Powered by a growing sense of self, she comes back for recharging less frequently, and I'm learning to appreciate it each time she does. 

Even as my thighs go numb from her bony bum.

crespella café creperie

With one month to go in Observatory I've compiled a 'bucket list' (dreadful concept really) of places I'd like to visit and things I'd like to do before we move.

Number 1 on the list was crepês at Crespella in Lower Main Road.

We've been meaning to go there for years ... I walk or drive past it every day for pancake's sake.

Vast menu, utterly vast. So much sweet and savoury goodness to chose from. Selections finally made (Italian owner makes his own dulce de leche!), we scoffed them down before I thought to take any photos ...

If gorgeous presentation is what you're looking for however, you'll be disappointed - there's no bells and whistles here - but if wafer-thin crepês rock your world, look no further.

And don't just take my word for it ...

They're 'Crespelicious'!

sensory memories

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm listing this one under 'benefits'.

moving on up

So we sold it!

And in a couple of months we'll be leaving Observatory, something we'd sometimes thought would never happen. We'll be leaving Obs and moving to our dream house where we'll all be thin and beautiful and fart rosebuds and no one will ever tantrum or get sick or call me 'Poo poo Mum' ever again. Right?

Right.

But it's bitter-sweet, this leaving the old hood.

On Saturday we grabbed a break in the rainstorms and walked around Obs delivering Friday's birthday invitations.

And I was struck, again, by how lucky we've been with our little community. We hand delivered 8 invitations on Saturday. 8 invitations to 8 little friends who live within easy walking distance of our house.

I think that's a bit special.

portents & dreams

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

camping the three

We're nearly home with new fascinating insights into camping, rules of survival and over-shares about abandoned personal hygiene and our dog's predilection for eating poo ... but before we get to that, and if you're not bored to death by our ruddy outdoors-ness yet, one last camping post from yesteryear ...

October 27, 2010

We're just back from a fabulous little camping trip - our first in over a year (bit of a record for us) and our first with Sunday - I've a couple of thoughts ...

~ how is it that the loudest voice in the campsite, or at least the one that carries the clearest, is always the most boring?
This is not when you overhear a revelatory explanation of Derrida, a fascinating political theory or a hilarious anecdote. No, the voice that wafts across to your fireplace is money down bitching about the state of SA sports. Or who should have won a recent reality chef contest. Or rehashing boring previous holiday stories, exactly how many kilometres were traveled between one boring destination and another, how many boring meals were eaten and at what price.
Also, you quickly realise the correlation between how many glasses of wine The Voice has had and how boring it becomes. By the 3rd evening you can almost set your watch by it.
If you were wearing one.

~ this is of course only a problem when you're staying in one of those camping spots where the sites seem to be right on top of each other, just the merest hedge - if you're lucky - separating you from your neighbours. At Addo this last week this is as tastefully done as possible, but none-the-less you are likely to learn far more about your neighbours then you may have chosen to. As no doubt they did about us.
'Are you going to give the baby some boob now Mum?'

~ when you go somewhere like Addo, out of season, mid week, you find all your fellow campers are retirees, living the dream wandering round the country in their camper vans - replete with satellite dishes, fold-out dish-washing racks, homemade curtains and high tech camping chairs. We were surrounded by these and I imagined their hearts sinking as we pulled up with two kiddies live-wired on the back seat.
But of course this combination of olds and smalls worked surprisingly well. The oldies missed their grandkids and smiled indulgently at our girls. And they kept the same hours - early to bed and early to rise. No loud music keeping our kids awake, and no need to hush the children's excited early morning shenanigans.

~ when camping one can often expect strange night time adventures ... Pre-babies Husband and I once lay tense and awake in our tent for long minutes convinced someone wearing flip-flops was creeping around our campsite. Eventually we shone our torch beam out, only to catch the small glinting eyes of a tiny little hopper mouse.
On arriving at Addo I taught Friday to read the different signs for the Men's and Ladies toilets. We were later to rue the pedanticness of a 3 year old when Husband carried her off to the loo at 1am only to return unsuccessful. Even half-asleep she wouldn't let him take her into the Men's, and he didn't want to go into the Ladies for fear of encountering a weak-bladdered Granny. We had to stifle our giggles in the silent dark.

But my favourite nocturnal adventure of this recent trip happened to Husband on the night he spent camping alone on his drive up. The place he stayed at had two horses roaming around the campsite. They were friendly and seemingly unconcerned by him. In the night however he woke to a really strange and undecipherable noise. He could tell the horses were distressed, but what was that clanking?
One of the horses, overcome with curiosity, had become entangled in his camping chair and was getting more and more freaked out, eventually running wildly around the campsite, whinnying and tossing its head. Husband was just wandering what(tf) to do when the horse shook itself free, leaving the chair unscathed in a muddy heap, nothing damaged but equine pride.

Fun times. I like to camp. And we're so happy that our daughters seem to too.

camping the two

More about camping ... (In fact, a camping trip we took exactly 3 years ago! Let's hope we're not out there, experiencing too much of this, while you're in here, all warm and cosy, reading about it.)

April 27, 2009

The thing about camping is ... you never know what you're going to get.

A good camp is a thing of wondrous beauty and infinite soul-delight. A bad camp is, well, pretty shitty.
This was a bad camp. And extremely shitty.
Herewith a seasoned camper's guide to seasonal camping:

Rule 1: Be Game.
Big storms predicted? Bah. Potential very cold conditions? Bah. Arriving after dark and setting up camp with a small child? Whatever.
What's the thing about camping? Yup, you never know what you're going to get. But if you don't leave the house, you'll never find out.

Turns out - in this case - that what we got was a dark dank field, miles from anywhere, with no proper signage, no hot water (which we were promised), no running water (except from the sky - in buckets), and a veritable CARPET of cow shit. Which the puppy thought was delicious.

The next morning. Still raining. We'd picked up a lot of poo. 

Rule 2: Be Prepared.
And if not, be innovative.

Such as, when feeding your small child a picnic supper on the front seat of the Jeep in the dark and pissing rain, and on discovering that you have no spoon and that to get one would involve getting wet and covered in cow shit and maybe the dissolution of your marriage, make a plan by locating said child's toy box in the back of said Jeep and feeding her yoghurt off a small plastic spade.

Rule 3: Stay Upbeat.
I mean, it's not like you're going to turn around and drive home right? Not after packing all afternoon and driving for hours and getting all excited and finding someone to feed the cats. And bah-humbugging in the face of everyone's dire predictions that you'd be rained out ... cough ...


Nah, you push through the rough patch and the next thing you know the tent is pitched, the child is peacefully asleep, it's stopped raining, someone's gotten a bonfire going and you're holding a glass of wine. And right then you're really happy to be there.
Of course the puppy's still eating cow shit but hey ...

Rule 4: See the Beauty.

Protea Aurea - isn't she utterly beautiful?

'Cos regardless of what kind of camping experience you're having, you're outdoors see, and ergo there'll always be something beautiful.

Rule 5: Know when to Quit.
And pack up the kid, the dog, the wet and shit-bespattered tent, and make haste to a friend's beach-house for the rest of of the weekend.

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.

just swingin'

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

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

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

 2008

 2009

 2010

 2011

This year she swung out herself.

2012

Fly my precious girl, fly.

baby you can drive my ...

Husband roped us all into visiting the Classic Car & Bike Show yesterday. Poor son-less man ...

It was great though, I love me some enthusiasts. Clusters of elderly gentlemen on fold-out chairs in the shade, swopping tales of restorations and daring adventure. Sharing laughs and memories.
Even more endearing, the young guys hovering near them, tapping into the wealth of experience, no doubt liberally seasoned with some old-fashioned BS.

Timour Hall was an appropriately stately venue, it was a coolish day (for a change) and I had the best ice coffee of my life.

We each picked a favourite vehicle to take home.

Husband's was this Austin Healey. Just the thought of him driving it gets my motor racing.

We chose this Piaggio Vespa for Sunday, reckoning I could run her to school and back in it to start, and later it'll do well for her and a friend. Or a puppy?

My choice surprised me as much as anyone. But it was love at first sight. 1972 Ducati in red & white.
Yes. Please.

But Friday still had no wheels. She was resigning herself to riding side-car with Sunday until, as we slowly started our way back home, we came across a corner of the show as yet unexplored. And there she found her.
The car she'll be dreaming of for the rest of her life.

Nothing speaks to a child of the Hello Kitty generation quite like a PINK Citroën 2 CV.
We had to drag her away.

little stream restaurant, constantia

Husband and I often rue the fact that we're bringing our kids up in an environment so very far removed from the rural childhoods we both enjoyed.
I suffer no illusions that those places haven't changed with the times, I know even if we still lived there our kids wouldn't enjoy the same freedom and unspoilt natural surroundings as we did.

But in stark contrast to our very urban existence in Observatory, the garden of my childhood had ...

... deep shady spaces in which to hide from the summer sun ...

... corners of overgrown abandoned wildness ...

... muddy ditches filled with tadpoles and adventure ...

... and a stand of giant bamboo which creaked and knocked like a wooden schooner on the high seas ...

Little Stream Restaurant and grounds reminded me of home, and for a few hours my kids lived my memory of childhood.

Explore. Paddle. Pick daisies. Learn. Live.

And then go back to the tea garden for a damn fine coffee and cake.

(their website isn't live yet - they promise it will be soon - but visit Becoming You for all the info, directions and great pics of the food)

sisters

During the looooong month of December when Friday was home from school and the girls and I were spending an inordinate amount of time together, I started taking a picture a day of the two of them. Very quick and silly snaps, just trying to capture random moments in their relationship, little snippets of their play.
I think Sunday so enjoyed having her big sister around so much and they're of an age now where they regard each other as viable play-mates, friends, accomplices.

Here's some of my favourites ...

My preciousness's.

Now to decide what to do with them all? Print a book, an album? A massive framed collage? For now I'll burn them all to CD and label it clearly ... it's a start.

in ancient times

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

elgin open gardens: beaumont wines

This Saturday we had (a long) lunch at Beaumont Wines in Botriver as part of the 2011 Elgin Open Gardens.

I really wish I'd caught on to the event sooner, there were 23 participating gardens this year over two weekends, and I can imagine drifting slowly from estate to estate - lunch here, a walk there, tea here, drinks there. Needing nothing more but lots of baby-sitting, an unlimited budget, a designated driver, 4 or 5 different stomachs and an unlimited capacity for wine.
Is that too much to ask?

I've got such a nostalgic soft spot for the Beaumont's beautiful Compagnes Drift farm, having spent many, many childhood afternoons running around there (mostly bare-bummed according to our parents), and so I may be totally biased but it really is the most exquisite place.

With none of the pretension and grandeur of some (many) wine farms around Cape Town, Beaumont Wines is a family-run winery and the whole farm exudes warmth and relaxed charm.

It's home to one of the only working water mills in the Overberg area, we were given a tour by the dedicated and engaging Andy Selfe, an engineer who has restored the mill back to its current glorious working state.
Friday was intrigued by all the cogs and wheels and totally taken with watching the grain being milled. We bought a bag of flour and followed the simple recipe on the back to bake a delicious loaf for the next morning's breakfast.
A fun way to show a little girl from the city the whole process from grain to her tummy.

Lunch was on the lawns in front of the historic farm house overlooking the farm dam, home to an enormous 23 year old barbel aptly named Hoover.

Friday got to feed him 'cat food' off the jetty and marvel at his enormousness - just when she'd thought the mill was the highlight of the day.

Oh and on the subject of food ...

Zest Catering. More Beaumonts, more magnificence.

And then there was nothing really left to do except roll around on the lawn all afternoon, drinking wine and hanging out with old dear friends.
I mean ...

Life is really hard sometimes you know.

And just when you'd think I couldn't have any more gushing to do, I have to add that this was also one of those rare and magic family outings where everything just ... worked.
Sunday had her morning nap perfectly on schedule for us to leave on time. Friday was an angelic delight. No one fell in the dam. No one pee'd on the front seat of the car (although this only thanks to my superior nappy-changing skillz). There was no spitting, no fighting, no threats.
There was only fun, and laughter, and good times.
And wine.

Do you all hate me now?

so happy together

Growing up in a small coastal town as I did, life was for the most part all about surfing. Who did, who didn't, where, how (regular or goofy foot / boatman or doormat) etc.
After my parents gave up driving me round the coast to a nice English-speaking private primary school every day, I finished my junior school days in our small verkrampt village school and finally, joyfully, moved on to the High School in the next town, a mythical place swarming with gorgeous surfers and the tantalising promise of a real teenage life (real = Beverley Hills 90210, of course).

We already knew, on our first terrifyingly intimidating day, to look out for 3 big boys in particular. The creme of the surfer crop whose reputations as bad boy surfer party dudes had preceded them down the coast to our little school.
I think, and hope, I'll never forget that moment, queuing up outside our new year room, all outsized school blazers and knobbly knees, when a whisper spread down the row: 'Here they come! Here they come!' Girls and boys alike turned to watch in awe as the 3 of them strode past, achingly cool with their nonchalance and flippy hair. Two blondes and a brunette, they were the closest to celebrity most of us had ever come, and right there on that spot I had an epiphany: the dark-haired one, he would be mine.

And get this: he is.

We may have celebrated our 8 year wedding anniversary earlier this month, but today is the big one: 
20 years together.

Twenty.
Years.
!

8 years ago

We did this.

I'm so glad we did.

whose hair is it anyway?

I recently found two of Friday's baby curls I'd dutifully kept from her first hair cut. I gazed at them with such fondness, remembering my soft-cheeked curly-headed girl.

I went to find her to show them to her, my lean long-legged very big girl. She immediately reached for them but I snatched them away,
'Don't touch sweetie, they're precious.'

'But Mum, they're mine.' she answered deadpan.

Ja, um, I guess they are. Way to make your mother feel like a twat.

these arms of mine

You have to read it like the original Otis Redding. You have to feel the yearning.

For my arms are feeling it when I hold my small girl close, when I feel the recognition in my muscles, the knowing how to hold this little body, and the sadness these arms feel already, knowing she won't be so little for much longer.
Mah baybee.

It's so ridiculously biological it's almost laughable.
I'm not a big baby fan, both my girls I've enjoyed so much more after their first birthdays. I don't miss breastfeeding (much), I don't miss having that small being ON me all the time, I love being able to communicate with words, I love watching them grow more independent.
But my arms, they refute all of this when I hold my Sunday close, especially in her warm and floppy moments, and the muscles sing with yearning, with already full-blown nostalgia, with the shattering knowledge that the next baby, if any, that I'll hold with this kind of kinship, will be a grandchild.
Mah baybeeeeeeeee.

She's becoming such a big girl.

She LOVES a doll. In fact, the more the lovelier. Whereas Friday's only ever had one doll, and was never particularly into playing dolly, Sunday has a host of 'babas' - all of whom get canoodled and paraded around and pushed in the pram/wheelbarrow/random box.

She HATES orange food. Barring cheese, she won't even look twice at butternut, carrot, peach, melon, pawpaw etc.

She HATES hats. She LOVES cats. She SCREAMS when outraged and SQUEALS when happy. She LOVES/HATES/LOVES/HATESbutmostlyLOVES her big sister.
She wields a mean bitch-slap, can scratch like a tiger and likes to bite me.

She LOVES her dad and wanders disconsolately around the house carrying one of his slippers calling 'Daddy?'

She's a big little person, our Sunday. I love watching her develop, but I wish she wouldn't grow so fast.

Wish she'd stay my little woman for just a bit longer.