patchwork

The girls and I got invited to this lovely children's production at the Baxter last weekend. 

We've long been fans of Pedro The Music Man, and the promise of 45 minutes in darkened aircon during this radical heatwave was deliciously inviting.

The girls sat up front with hosts of other smalls - including 3 sets of twins! - on comfy cushions, right at eye-level to the action.

Such a simple stage - the 3 players dressed in comfy white, a scattering of cushions (some of which talk!), a wee bed, a fresh cotton sheet flapped and waved most gracefully (I felt my head nodding at the thought of curling up under it), a wonderfully imaginative and animated dressing gown, and all accompanied by Pedro's signature so simple, but so effective, musical sounds.

The play is very much geared at 1 - 4 yr olds. My entranced nearly-7 yo loved it too. No one doubts the value of kids being exposed to theatre, live performance, but when they're seated so close they can really read expression, feel emotion and see the performer's hands at work ... there's a magic in that they just won't get anywhere else.

Let's support children's theatre! 4 days left to see Patchwork!

on wheelchairs*

*or, 'rolling on someone else's wheels', except that was too obscure ...

In the past MONTH of being incapacitated by this sprained ankle, I've twice visited a mall and borrowed a wheelchair to get around.

Obviously I looked just like this ...

(the cast of Push Girls - a reality show about sexy young things with spinal conditions)

Anyhoo, being in a wheelchair is ... educational. And something I now feel everyone should try and experience.
Go to a mall, claim whatever fragility is required, and spend an hour cruising in a wheelchair. Then take it back, walk back out in to your life and be grateful.

My Mum left me in the grocery store for a bit. Shopping basket on my lap and a short shopping list, I was dizzy with the freedom of being alone in public for the first time in weeks.
But ...

The bread I wanted was down an aisle too narrow to get through. The affordable cream cheese was too high to reach. The milk with the desired expiry date was too far at the back of the fridge. The veggie bins were too high. Ditto the crackers, and the tampons, and the wine.

People were kind, the shop staff offered to help before I had to ask, and kindly fellow shoppers didn't mind passing me things. But I had to ask, autonomy was not an option, and asking someone to pass you a specific box of tampons, 'No, not those ones, the blue box, yes the ones for medium flow', is not ... ideal.

People were happy to move to the side to let me pass, once they'd established where my voice came from ('Sorry, I'm down here'), but always with an overly-apologetic gaze, and cringey sympathetic eyes.
'What could be wrong,' I'd see them think, 'she looks so young (cough cough) and fit.'

I didn't need to draw money, but a friend who spent the last few weeks of her pregnancy in a wheel-chair pointed out that all the ATM's were too high for wheelchair users too.

It was such a small experience, I didn't need to negotiate bathrooms or public transport, but it was an enormous eye-opener.
People are in wheelchairs for  hundreds of different reasons. The majority I'm sure are completely capable of looking after themselves in every other way, but even the most 'conscious' environments are really hard to operate in.

Lesson learnt.

wa'shi gonna do?

'Mum, can I play with your pretty tape?'

Words which could make a washi-lover nervous.

But clearly sticking the pretty is not really the goal here.

Much more fun to make patterns, colour-coordinate, build towers ...

... and of course knock them down!

Clearly washi is an important educational toy, I should probably get more right?

this kid

A year ago I was in turmoil with this little person. And so I'm here now with the proof that 'this too shall pass' is the singular most valuable parenting phrase EVER COINED.

Sunday is nearly 4. She's grown like the proverbial weed (the latest spurt being 3 cm in 2 months!) - and not just physically.

There was a moment a few months back when I realised that every day there were moments of potential conflict (put on shoes, get out car, have a wee, eat your supper - all of these the very trenches of parenting warfare as you know), where I was holding my breath, braced for the inevitable mortar fire, and ... not getting it.

'Okay' she'd say, neatly stepping over my jaw (hanging on the floor in disbelief) and complying.

Steadily we've been able to untangle the complex knots of expectation, manipulation, exasperation and emotional damnation and just conduct our relationship like two normal family members. Or maybe it was just me who had to do that, she just ... grew up.

She's learned to laugh it off. She can handle some light teasing. She knows (quite expertly in fact) how to offer an alternative solution if the one at hand doesn't quite suit her. She strikes a mean bargain. She's irresistibly cute.

She is nearly 4. Life is sweet. I'm so glad she's growing, but could she stop growing? Because, ridiculously, as predicted by me, I miss my soft-cheeked babachoo too ...

putting my feet up

I've been on crutches for 2 weeks now. A silly misstep off the stoep, twisted ankle, pain, strap, bruising, immobility.
It's all really rather silly, but not without benefits.

I have to keep my foot up. I can't drive, or carry anything substantial, or tidy up much, or cook anything too complicated.
I have to sit down as much as possible. I have to read stories rather than play wild games. I have to write, rather than do errands.
I know you're all hating me a little bit, and that's ok.

But the main unexpected and welcome result is how independent my children are getting. I was just wondering around Christmas time whether I'd fallen into that classic loving parent trap of doing too much for my girls.
You know when it's just easier to do it yourself? When it's less messy to fill juice bottles without insisting they do it themselves, when it's less argumentative to put away their washing rather than get into a number about 'not being the servant'?

But now ... I just can't. And ergo, they just have to and, surprise surprise, they're ok with that. Crutches are undeniable, my disability is plain to see.
Need a clean t-shirt from upstairs? Off you go.
Need a snack? You know where the cupboard is.
Need something from a high-up cupboard? Get your sister to help you or wait until Dad gets home.
Sorry.

4 and 7 this year. They're getting more independent all the time and this little boost, early on in the year, is not a bad thing at all.
At R25/week rental from the pharmacy, I may just keep these crutches around for a bit after I'm done using them - cheap at the price for the lessons we're all learning.

And lest you think I'm being bone idle, the little embroidery above. As I said, there's definite benefits.

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.

'We are all meant to shine, as children do.' N Mandela

Back in June, when we got that first (fake) report of Mr Mandela's death, Friday turned to me, eyes brimming and asked: 'Will black people and white people now have to live separately again?'

This morning she remembered the conversation we had then and said, 'But even now that he's really died we can still live free hey Mum?'
And Sunday added, 'Yes, Mr Mandela will still live in our hearts.'

I pledge never to let my children forget him, or forget that they shared his time on earth.
We must always look back to know how to move forward.

last week I wore a bra

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the great equaliser

At a birthday party recently I chatted to two women I'd not met before. Our kids are in the same class.

The first woman, when I asked if she had other kids said no, she would've liked to but as she had her daughter when she was 42 the factory was kind of closed now.
She is 48.

On my birthday this year a couple of mum's at Sunday's school oohed and aahed at how 'young' I was.
I'm 38.

The other friend I made at the party, talking about something completely unrelated to our children, revealed she was born in 1985.
She is 28.

We all have 6 year olds. We all probably have completely different and yet so similar experiences of motherhood.

I always hope this is the experience for more mothers than not.

If you like pretty pictures of Yummy Mummies, I'm pinning lots for Yummy Mummy Maternity - have a look-see ... Happy Friday!

the bird man

Hold your jumping castles, magicians, Cinderellas and face-painters. Cancel the pony, the balloon-shaper and the puppet show.
There's a new kiddie party guy in town and he is ... odd.
Martin Odd, aka The Bird Man.

Because what 6 year old doesn't want a Rock Kestrel sitting on his head at his birthday party?

And who doesn't want their friends to experience the magic ...

... the wonder ...

... and the mind-boggling privilege of an African White Backed Vulture pooping visiting in your living room?

Martin and his team of feathered friends (Macaw Parrot, Hadeda, Owls, Crow and more) do an amazing hour long show, full of facts and information, entertainment and education, guaranteed to leave all the guests (young and old) with lots to think about and remember about the magnificent birds which live amongst us.

Martin shows an affection and respect for his birds which we commonly associate with furry mammals, and speaks candidly of his early days as a budding ornithologist, seeking out nests as a boy around his home in the suburbs.
How wonderful to expose our children to an adult so passionate about what he does. Someone who has followed his childhood dream and now does the work he loves everyday.
Valuable lessons indeed.

And so entertaining!

Rounded off with a chance to hang out with a White Faced Scops Owl. A very special birthday party experience indeed.

More information on Martin's shows (he can also be found at Ratanga Junction in season) and his contact details can be found here, or on his facebook page Birds of Africa Show.

watch, learn, enact

Years ago I knew a couple who both ran NGO's, both always working to raise the funds needed to pay salaries and do the research they required.
Their 2 year old son started having nightmares about 'funders'.

A friend of Friday's (whose parents travel a lot for work), once initiated a crazed game of 'packing' - running around our house stuffing random things into a small suitcase in a harried and desperate fashion. Friday followed behind, loving the pace but slightly bemused (she whose parents rarely travel) by the concept.

Today, the daughter of a friend who works to create partnerships between various organisations, picked up our little ukelele, and sang a sweet little song with the lyrics: 'Meetings, I've got lots of meetings.'

They really are little sponges, and it's remarkable how much comes out in their play. Or, as the pictures illustrate, and we know from experience, sometimes it's got nothing to do with anything.
Except the insides of their heads. Fascinating little creatures.

small girl sads

Sunday is loving school these days. We went through a rough patch towards the end of last term (when she was so deaf poor thing) and then a rocky re-entry at the beginning of this one, but now we're in a rhythm (I'm sure being able to hear has made all the difference!), and she's loving it.

When I collected her yesterday she and her friend Max were waiting for his Mum and I, desperate to ask whether Max could come and play at our house one afternoon soon.
We made a plan for next week and Sunday was so pleased. I realised it'll be the first time she'll have an independent friend here, not one of my friend's kids or one of Friday's friends - Sunday's own friend from Sunday's own school coming to play at her own house. It's kind of a big deal.

She couldn't wait to tell Friday. 'She's going to be so 'sescited Mum! She's going to jump up and down!', couldn't wait to share her big news with her big sister.

But ... she didn't get a chance.

Friday burst out of her classroom, ponytail and backpack swinging, 'Mum, Mum, Amara says her Mum is going to phone you to ask if she can come for a sleepover on the weekend. A SLEEPOVER!! Please Mum say yes, please please please.'

And so Sunday's first playdate gets trumped by Friday's first sleepover. And as much as I tried to balance the levels and monitor who shared their exciting news with Dad first and make as much of each thrilling life event as the other, I could tell Sunday was deflated.

Does having a big sister mean one always has to share the limelight? I don't know, I don't have one. But it's a little heartbreaking to watch.

big girl talk

I really don't know how people with lots of kids (like, more than two) do it. Trying to find time for them all when one, or some, of them are more demanding of that time than others.

Since she could crawl Sunday's been ace at picking up that Friday and I are about to have a meaningful conversation, and scooting over to insert herself between us and have AN EVEN MORE MEANINGFUL ONE ABOUT ABSOLUTELY NOTHING AND MUCH MUCH LOUDER.

One does always seem to have more one-on-one time with the youngest as it is. She's home with me at least one morning a week, not yet going off on play dates by herself, and still much more physically clingy.
And it's great, it's lovely to have the time to spend with her.

But my big girl needs me too.

A year ago Friday found a tampon in my bag and asked me what it was. I was quite pleased with myself for replying that it was 'very hygienically sealed cotton wool' - an honest answer which neatly evaded any discussions about bleeding from the vejayjay or inserting foreign bodies there, both concepts I felt needn't be introduced to a barely 5 year old.
But today she found some again, and this time she asked, 'What are these really Mum?'.
So this time I told her.
In between Sunday prattling on about a hundred unrelated things and trying to climb on my back and get Friday to teach her the words to a song about a scarecrow.
This is not how I'd envisaged having these woman-to-woman type conversations with my daughters.
Plus, I'm bargaining on only having to go through this stuff once, so I need Friday to have grasped the concept well enough to pass it on to her younger sister (if and when she ever stops to listen) with the least possible terrifying misinformation.

Later, it being a TV watching day, she asked for The Lorax, but I persuaded her to watch David Attenborough instead. It's been a while.
So they watched The Great Tide, and when those sardines started running and the thousands of dolphins came a-leaping and the gannets were dive-bombing and the sharks were circling and Sir David himself was almost hysterical with the drama of it all, she turned to me with eyes shining and said, 'I'd forgotten how exciting this is!'

This evening we put the girls to bed separately. Even though they share a room we split them up for bed time and I lay in my bed with Friday and answered some questions about menstruation and sharks and how movies are made and what David Attenborough is probably really like.
I read her a chapter of Laura Ingalls Wilder and then inevitably had to lie with her to ward off panthers as she fell asleep.

And while she dozed off I held her tight (that is until she muttered that she 'couldn't breathe') and thought about how my big girl needs me for many things.
She needs me to have big girl talks but she also needs to me to remind her that she still loves David Attenborough when the call of loud and colourful Hollywood is becoming so much louder, to sing silly scarecrow songs together, to acquaint her with the literary friends who saw me through adolescence and I hope will be there for her too.

And you know what, I need her. I need to have big girl talks and sing silly songs and be reminded that nature is awesome and boys are gross and lipstick is only really cool when it's on so thick you can't grin. I need to find more one-on-one time for all that.

let's talk about colouring*

*And no, I don't mean colouring ...

Colouring-in has gotten a bad rap over the years, the premise being that it stifles kid's creative drawing, use of imagination etc etc blah blah blah.

We're in a big colouring phase (I'm trying to type with a straight face here) and I think it's great.
Firstly, it's super easy to print pages off the internet depending on what they're interested in - in the last month we've been through unicorns (of course), fairies (of course), frogs, bee's, eagles and a medley of patterns and floral designs.
Secondly, what they're learning about colour and shading, and the pencil-grip practise they get puts paid to all other concerns.

Thirdly, they're still totally drawing freehand as well.
Fourthly, printing out and handing them a stack of blank, inspirational pages buys me some time to do other things around the house - and what's not to love about that?
And lastly, we've seen such a huge improvement in Sunday's colouring skills in just a few weeks. From random scrawls, to real progress in keeping between the lines and using different colours etc.

My favourite thing at the moment is to listen in on them working together. Real discussion about colour choices and the personalities of the figures they're colouring or the stories behind their pictures.

Imagination, creativity, sisterly bonding - all of this is good. Now if someone would invent a self-sharpening pencil crayon I'd be completely happy.

grommets

It was late one night, whispering to her in the bedroom she shares with her sister, asking her to move up, or roll over or some such, when she suddenly turned and looked at me with wild eyes, as if she’d not known I was there, that I realised it.

She’d not known I was there. She’d not heard my voice. She was deaf.

Our pediatrician recommended an audiologist but I went straight to an ENT. Confirmation: radically deaf in both ears.

It’s probably only been a few months, I’m not allowing a blanket excuse for some of the behaviour we’ve suffered through this year, but a deaf little girl is not a happy little girl and I was relieved by the surge of tenderness which welled within me. My poor baby.

So last week, sandwiched between her sister turning 6 and an epic unicorn birthday party to celebrate this great milestone, we woke frightfully early in the morning and stumbled off to Claremont Hospital.

She was a star. She didn’t ask for breakfast, she didn’t protest or complain. She gave the nurses a special smile she’d prepared for the occasion (she has a selection of smiles in her repertoire – one for me, one for family, one for friendly car guards etc – all different), she watched wide-eyed as the younger patients returned from theatre in tears, and when it was her turn she lay, ever so small in her big hospital bed, as a friendly porter wheeled her through the halls, and gently succumbed to the anaesthetic. The only sign of her apprehension a raptor-like grip on my finger; so that even once the rest of her was floppy and limp I had to prise my hand away.

Grommets in, adenoids out.

I lay next to her as she slowly floated to the surface back in the children’s ward. A nurse was talking to the young boy in the furthermost bed from ours, offering him a selection of treats from the hospital menu.

Sunday’s eyelids fluttered, she raised her head a little to look at me and croaked, ‘Mum, did she say jelly?’

She had. I ordered some for my little hero and a while later we trundled home.

‘I can hear Mum, I can really, really hear.’

I’ve not heard anything sweeter for a long time.

found in my notebook

Turns out witnessing someone learn to read and write is just as exciting as it was watching them start to walk and talk all those years ago.

The world just opened its arms to her a little wider.

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.

lessons in rice

These photos are from back in February. I have a feeling it was the first morning I got an inkling that my next few months at home with Sunday weren't going to be all plain sailing ...

It started off alright, a little girl very busy doing funny little girl things.

See that tray of coloured rice? I left it there naively thinking it would extend her solo play time, while I got some work done.
2 colours rice and some pouring and scooping toys. What's not to love right?

It was all going swimmingly until I mixed the rice. And something in her then-nearly-3-year-old make-up VIOLENTLY OBJECTED to such an outright parental disrespect for the natural order of dyed rice segregation.
In short, all hell broke loose (no photos supplied).

In those early days of tantrum hell my first response was to IMMEDIATELY FIX THE PROBLEM and so ...

... we quickly set about dying new batches of rice.
(See that sweet clear-eyed face, showing no trace of recent demonic fury and rage.)

Each colour carefully and prettily segregated as they dried in the sunshine. And then very carefully and prettily separately decanted into a plastic muffin tray from the recycling.

Whereupon what was the first thing she did? MIXED THE COLOURS OF COURSE.

In retrospect there were a lot of lessons learnt that day, about the deep complexities of the 3 year old mind. About trying to apply adult logic to a very non-adult small person.
And in the months since we've learnt how very many games, crafts and fun times can be had with a simple batch of coloured rice.

For all of us.

We've also learnt how spilled uncooked rice will stick to your toes and spread throughout your house in ways we could never have imagined.
This batch of rice served us well, but finally, today, I swept up and chucked the last of it. And like the tantrums which held us all hostage these past months (but have started to abate) I hope not to see any more dyed rice around here for a long, long time.

keep 'em in the dark I say!

I didn't talk to my kids about the Boston bombings. I didn't talk to them about Sandy Hook. Closer to home I didn't talk to them about Reeva Steenkamp or Anele Booysen. I don't talk to them about crime stats or how our president's an asshole. I don't talk to them about corruption. I don't voice concerns about our political future in their hearing. I don't talk about rising sea levels or global warming.

Not yet. They are too young.

We've talked a little about 'baddies' - we have to in the light that we lock our doors, live behind burglar bars and set our house alarm at night. We've talked about homeless people and children without parents, we've talked about poverty - we see these things everyday, and obviously the girls ask questions.
We talk about water conservation and littering, recycling and sustainability - these are part of their everyday lives.
We talk about being safe, about trusting one's instincts, gauging people and situations.

We talk about what I believe they're capable of understanding, processing, contextualising.

But for the rest, yes, I'm shielding them. I'm intentionally keeping them in the dark. I'm nurturing my little mushrooms.

I'm hoping to build their faith in humanity as much as I can before life inevitably starts wearing it down. I want them to have the strongest possible foundation of love and order and empathy before it gets shaken.
I know there's only a little time left to do this, Friday turns 6 this year and with 'big school' and her growing awareness of the world it's not long before we have to tackle the big stuff. But by then I'm hoping she'll have a confidence in the way the world can, or should, work which will sustain her through the tough lessons of how often it doesn't.

I know some people who think this is naive. But frankly I don't know how else to do it.

I do know how children can worry when they don't understand the news. I do know how fleeting and precious childhood is. I do know how easily I can access the news through my phone or the internet without having to have CNN in our living room.

I noticed someone on Twitter this week (a South African) asking how to explain the Boston situation to their 5 year old. My suggestion: don't.

Just don't. Until you have to.

cupcakes and crafts and rainbow sprinkled farts

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

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

Peanut butter and jam muffins. With chocolate chips.

Mongoose encounters at the World of Birds.

Camping on Easter weekend. We love camping.

Making tambourines, as per Friday's instructions.

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

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

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