the wee one

I'm lying on my Mum's bed while Sunday uses the en suite bathroom. Suddenly I realise the sound I'm hearing is not the comforting tinkle of pee on porcelain. More a discomforting splashing on tiles.
'Muuuuuum?'

Once again, she didn't quite make it.
Is it over-confidence? She's been potty trained for months. Is it stubbornness? She's an ace at that. Is she just distracted? Or is she actually doing this to make my life just that little bit harder?
Some days I'm guilty of thinking just that.

Once, in a fit of exasperation, when she was dancing and knuiping and looking panicky, all the while denying she needed to go, I resorted to: 'Sunday, I can see you need to wee. If you have an accident I'm actually going to be really cross and I might have to smack your bum.'
She looked me in the eye, crossed her arms (and her legs) and declared: 'Well, then you will get wee on your hand.'

Diabolical.

After I'd done mopping up the bathroom my Mum reminded me, 'Now do you understand why I resorted to telling you that if you didn't wee when you needed to your bladder would burst?'
I do. A myth which haunted me for most of my childhood, one which I'd lambasted my mother about a number of times, now makes perfect sense.

One more accident and I swear, as much as I hate to, I'm repeating the lie.

I'm that pissed on, I mean off.

self portraits

Saturday morning drawings.

Friday: I'm an angel Mum, bringing joy and happiness to the world. (Wise ass.)

Sunday: I'm a monster.

From the mouths of babes. Anyone who'd like to tell me again 'shame, it must've been those bad ears which was making her so difficult' should come and spend a couple of days in our house #justsaying.

diy fizz ballz: don't do it!

In preparation for Friday's 6th birthday party in a couple of weeks we've been making fizz balls (bath bombs) to go in the party packs.
'Something I've Wanted To Do for Ages' meet 'Perfect Opportunity'. I'm sure you'll be very happy together.

Or ... not.

Frankly these were a mission, and after 4 batches (mostly unsuccessful) and still a few hearts short of the number we need to fill all the party packs, I'm SO OVER THEM.

Don't be put off by the vast quantity of ingredients - they're all easily obtainable (brandy optional, not actually for the fizz balls you understand) - and the instructions I followed here were very clear and helpful.

And the ones that worked are very cute and pink and rose-smelling. Friday has carefully labelled them all 'bath' due to concerns that her friends may eat them.

But each batch was tryingly hit and miss and I'm not really sure why. Obviously sometimes the mix was too dry, sometimes too wet - but we measured very carefully, honest. Possibly the recent weather was a factor too - rainy days are not very conducive to drying powder.
I'm tempted to say that all in all the project was a bit of a balls up but you know ... cheap joke.

Luckily similarly to baking experiments, there are always those in this household prepared to make the most of the failed attempts - the girls have had some very pink 'n fizzy baths recently.

But still we must make more! Just a few more ... and then NEVER AGAIN I tell you, never again.

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.

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?

if I were blogging ...

... all I'd be blogging about would be ...

Packing. And how I'm starting to wonder whether 'slow and steady wins the race' was the best approach. I feel like I've been packing my whole life and the real crunch only starts now ...

The Massive Cold Sore my body bequeathed me with just in case I was under the illusion that that I'm not stressed.

The Asshole Parent in Friday's school who bought her 6 year old daughter a BRA. The kid in question doesn't even have puppy fat boobies. I weep for humanity.

How I got 6 disturbing hits on this blog from a totally gross p-o-r-n site. Maybe I shouldn't be using words like b-o-o-b-i-e-s. I blame this post. Or maybe this one.

To confess that last week I became one of those parents who takes her 2 and a half year old to the doctor because omg there must be an explanation for the monstrous behaviour we've had inflicted on us recently right??
This is how that went ...
Me to doc: 'Either way I'm prepared to leave this consultation embarrassed. Either my kid has a raging ear infection I've been totally unaware of for the last week, or she's just 2 and a half and I'm an asshole.'
Doc: 'And you're hoping it's an ear infection.'
I love my doctor.
However, she examined Sunday from head to toe and declared her absolutely healthy.
'She's just preparing you for her teen years,' she said with a small smile.
I hate my doctor.

Not this kid surely? This delectable bundle of energy and imagination and observation and general delight?
The very same.

If I were blogging I fear I'd be totally boring and self-obsessed right now.
So I'm not.

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.

eyes forward

Shew it's been a rough few weeks!

Sickness, property stress, an intermittent (i.e. never when I need it) internet connection ... the list could go on.

This house selling / buying business has been all-consuming - stressing me out in so many ways. The strain of keeping the house permanently show-house ready, the nagging worry that another (cash) offer will go in on our dream house, trying not to show too much concern in front of the kids, the insomnia! It's been ... all-consuming and actually so very, very boring.

Which is why I love Friday's chosen birthday party theme: peacocks! Symbol of regeneration, hope and renewal - eyes forward to face the future, colour in the darkness etc. It seems very fitting.

I found a printable peacock invite design online and the girls spent a happy afternoon decorating them chucking glitter about.

As the girls get older I love how we're developing family traditions, especially around festivities. Last year was the first time Friday was involved with creating her own birthday party invitations and she especially loved playing postman, walking or driving round to her friends houses and slipping the envelopes into their postboxes.
This year, before we'd even made the invites, she was already excitedly talking about doing that again.

eish what a crappy photo

Check your postboxes over the next few days ... if you're really lucky you'll get one of the invites Sunday painted!

guess what we've got?

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

Happy spotty weekend ....

buying & selling in a time of children

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a little Friday moan

My god I could do with some reliable internets. Our phone line periodically downs our ADSL - it's been happening for months and Telkom have been (surprise!) u-s-e-l-e-s-s.
Obviously we're always online when I need to a) cook supper (like now), b) put kids in the bath or c) 1 am. Naturally we're always offline when I a) get 5 seconds to myself, b) am home alone or c) have a head full of blog posts.
The phone thing also results in one of us screaming 'Don't answer that!!!!' when the phone rings and we're downloading (for fear of getting the connection knocked off) or, one of us making long calls to the talking clock in the hope we'll get bumped back online.
Trying, to say the least.

Winter huh? I'm so over it already. I'm not usually this affected by the change of seasons but man I was loving March ...
Yesterday we were at my Mum's house when it started to rain, and I caught myself starting to whinge about 'Winterrrrrrwhyyyyyy?' when I looked up and noticed Friday looking at me curiously. Instantly I changed my tune, trying to muster some enthusiasm for rain! snuggles! puddles!
This is the problem with having 3 generations in the room - in front of my Mum I want to indulge my inner (whiny) child, in front of my daughter I have to suck it up and be the Mum.

Here's a nice thing: a friend and I try and see each other for a regular 'stitch 'n bitch' evening. A chance to chat and catch up while doing something crafty.
This week her clever suggestion was to cook together. So on Tuesday evening we met at her house and cooked Tomato (and Chicken) Bredie.
We got to hang out, catch up and ended the evening with dinner sorted for the next day. Win.

And back to moan ...
I'm covered in huge red welts from suspected hay mites picked up at the fabulous rural Karoo wedding we attended on the weekend. And when I say covered the last count was 50+ so ja, covered.
No I was not rolling in the hay, just sitting on it.
I would've thought the amount of alcohol I consumed would've made me unpalatable but it seems not.
Also, applying antihistamine cream to one's own ass in the mirror is damn hard yo.

But:
It's Friday. And this weekend, for the first in many, I don't have to pack a bag, plan any meals or get anyone out of the house by any specific time so hey, it's not all bad.

Scratch scratch, reach for a cardi, pray internet stays on long enough to post this ... happy weekend all.

I'll be the one in the concrete shoes

Now hear this. I hate the Two Oceans Aquarium.

1. It's over-priced.
I get that it costs a lot to run but so does the World of Birds and look how much 'cheeper' that is. And with so, so much more on offer.
The Aquarium's tickets are over-priced and so is everything else for sale there. It's a tourist trap, and local or international, we're all being ripped off.

2. It's boring.
Barring a few new fish and the occasional re-arrangement, nothing much has changed there since I first went 4 years ago.
Even the puppet shows operate off a handful of scripts which they rotate haphazardly.
This morning Friday said disparagingly, 'The Nemo tank is boring'. Gasp!

3. It's demographically depressing.
Nothing makes one feel like a white middle-class mother of two like a trip to the Aquarium.

4. It's over-stimulating to them, and severely under-stimulating to me.
They barrel in there full of expectations, I drag behind full of good intentions, chanting 'This will be fun. This will be fun. This will be fun.'
20 minutes later we're all in the same emotional space. Tired, irritated, needing to pee.

5. It has toads.

I succumbed to their pleas and took them to the Aquarium today. It was the first time in about 6 months and as Neptune is my witness it'll be the last for a long, long time.

I'd rather sleep with the fishes than pay exorbitant amounts of money to dash past them chasing my own kids and tripping over everyone else's.

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.

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.