one year on

Friday lost a tooth this afternoon, her second this week, her 6th so far. And as she catalogued the circumstance and location of all 5 prior loses (a ritual she repeats every time), we realised one of those was almost exactly a year ago, the second night we spent in this house.

That one we suspect she swallowed, which she vehemently denied, and we let it go considering we'd just moved house and everything was new and uncertain. We left a note for the tooth fairy, and exclaimed with wonder the next morning at how she'd managed to find us, despite having only just left Observatory.

And now here we are, one year on.

The boxes are all unpacked! With the exception of two ... and one of the last was only opened last week. We've all had a birthday in this house. We've hosted Christmas and celebrated New Year. We've weathered all four seasons, although winter still feels very new.

In fact, lots still seems very new. Despite the world having turned full circle round the sun we're still seeing, smelling, feeling, discovering new things every day, and we still have moments of complete unbelievable awe that we live in such a beautiful place.

Happy birthday house on the lake. Thank you.

PS, thanks to my friend Bronwyn for the street sign shots in the header - all the way from Brisbane!

6 Dec

Last day of school for the year, and last day for both of them at their respective schools. On the way home:

Sunday, 'I also got an old school now.'

Friday, 'Lots of new people are going to come into my life soon hey Mum?'

I am immeasurably grateful at how well they embrace change.

summer of SAHM

This past week has been the last 5-day school week of the year for Friday. The last week of 3-day nanny (for Sunday) and cleaner (for me).
This past week has been a week of many, many lasts.

From Monday we will be in our new home, and the girls and I will be driving through to Mowbray just twice a week for a short (so short) school morning until the end of this term.
My Mum, who lives across the lake from us now (or will soon - so soon!), will be abroad for a month from Wednesday.

From the end of September there is no formal childcare, no school, just ... me. And them.

Logistically and financially this makes sense for our family right now. Emotionally and mentally it's started making sense to me too.

Next year Friday will start Grade R (we've found a school!) and Sunday will attend nursery 5 days a week. I will work more formally. There will probably need to be aftercare.
We will enter a spell (just 15 years or so) of early mornings and rushing and traffic and deadlines and proper shoes and extra-murals and packed lunches for all.

We have been spoiled these last years, my girls and I. Spoiled to have so much of each other (admittedly sometimes in chunks), spoiled - as a friend so wisely pointed out - to know each other so well.
A small home loan, some sacrifices, a determination to make it work all helped make this possible, but the times they are a-changing and we are all getting older and developing new needs.

I've had moments since these plans were hatched of real, chilling, terror at the thought of being a FULL TIME STAY AT HOME PARENT. I've shed some tears and worried whether we'll all come through it alive (the lake is right there you know) or at least psychologically intact.
But as the reality of this move has set in (36 hours to go!) and the truth of our new space has been revealed (it's every kind of wonderful). I've started to make peace.

This will be my maternity leave - a few years on from the traditional definition - but a time to put the rest of the world on hold a little and just be with my babies. Nurture them, grow them, play with them, not kill them.

This will be my summer of SAHM and I will, I must appreciate the privilege and wonder of that.

Will you help remind me of that when I come here to whinge?

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.

packing with kids

Apparently the heart is because we love baking.

We love it so much that it's probably not a bad thing all the gear is packed away. Possibly we should archive this box once we get to the other side ...

But who am I kidding right?

finding the funny

'No, no, noooooo ...'

'Too late dastard sock monkey, into the deep dark bag with you. Mwah ha ha ha ha.'

Packing is driving me a little crazy. But there's always, always, a funny side right?

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.

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!