horrifying acts of violence

Nature huh? It's pretty freaking violent.

Friday's been a big David Attenborough fan since for as long as ever can be for a five year old, and I can't thank the sweet guy more for all he's taught her.
Most recently I'm grateful for how his careful ministrations on all things natural have delightfully desensitised her to how raw and just plain nasty nature can be.

There's an Egyptian Goose family which lives in our area. The week we moved in they proudly displayed 10 teeny-weeny newborn goslings carefully tended and protected by their ever present parents. Egyptian Geese mate for life, and both parents are actively involved in raising their young.
In the weeks that have followed the daily (actually many times a day) excitement is to spot the family, count the goslings, comment on their growth etc.
We've grown quite fond of them.

So when they were violently set-upon by a rogue lone male right in front of our eyes one day I was horrified. Caught in the middle of the waterway the goose family huddled together, the parents taking turns to fight tooth and nail (beak and wing? feather and flipper?) to protect each other. But the attacker was strong, and soon wore the parents out until they were both floating with their heads low in the water, listing sideways and not looking too healthy at all.
Then he turned on the chicks. He pounced, grabbing them by their necks and shaking them violently, throwing them into the water and pouncing again.
The parents in turn tried to rally themselves, driven on by the hysterical squawking of their young they valiantly threw themselves on the invading goose and finally he was driven off.
The family limped ashore, all still screaming and crying.
I was traumatised.

Friday was fascinated. She calmly recounted the goslings and declared, amazed, 'They all survived Mum, I was sure we'd see some dead ones after that!' She then excitedly told and retold the story, practising for the animated version she'd share with her Dad when he got home.
I needed a drink.

how to make friends and influence people

The 5 year old approach.

1. Scan immediate area for possible candidates. Remain alert at all times.
The beach, playground, open field next to your house - all of these are places which could produce your next BFF. Stay attune to the sounds of young voices at play, or even shrieking at their parents - both are signs of possible compatibility.

2. Approach with subtlety, and zero fear of rejection. There are various methods.
Start mimicking the existing game, whether it be jumping over waves and screeching, or quietly collecting daisy petals. Continue until your presence is noticed.
Another tactic is to engage the subject's younger/older sibling in a game. But never lose sight of the real prize,  no matter how fun the game at hand, keep an eye on your chosen candidate, you're winning when they start looking sour.

3. Swoop in.
'Come help me get the ball away from your brother.'
WINNER. I could not be prouder of her subtle and devious tactics.
'Here's an interesting shell, would you like it for your collection?'
Another goodie.
'Whaaaa, I just farted and fell over in the water!'
Not as impressive, to me, but the target is now putty in her hands - entranced and utterly hooked.

4. Play like you've known each other forever.
Fairy garden fairy garden fairy garden princess dress pirate capture feed ducks shark attack harass younger siblings sand castle fairy garden here comes the bride cast some spells fairy garden dragon fireman fart daisy chain fairy garden.

5. Keep 'em keen.
Ask, after an hour's play, 'What's your name again?'

Come home deeply satisfied with peer encounter and secure in the knowledge that you've cemented your presence in the world just a little bit more.

Ah, that making friends remained this easy. And simple!

pop quiz #2

Who does this remind you of?

When your daughter's play thing makes you laugh and you absolutely can't explain the context to her for another 15 years or so. Worlds collide.

Happy Monday!

Updated, clue: http://quentin-tarantino.8m.com/marsellus.htm

scratch patch, simon's town

After a week of flu-induced confinement the girls were champing for an outing. Still not very strong though, I decided to keep it low-exertion and sold them on 'an expedition to find treasure'!

Feels so good under little toes.

Select, fill, discard, repeat.

Frolic.

I'd remembered the Scratch Patch near Simon's Town as badly lit and a little bit stinky, but that was 30-odd years ago.
These days it's nicely laid-out and a very easy outing with kids. You pick the size bag you can afford and have as much time as you like to fill it with treasure. Informative posters scattered around tell you what you're 'hunting', there's a cafe for tea and milkshakes and a gift shop to browse the real sparklies 'look with your EYES only!'.

We weren't even back in car before they started planning the games they'd play when they got home. Those R25 bags of semi-precious stones was one of the best investments I made these holidays.

disco kitchen

When the late afternoon spring sunshine pours into your kitchen, illuminating your kitchtastic 70's tiles, what's a girl to do but hang mirror-balls right?

(And rock out with a ginger.)

irl

There is so much new in our lives at the moment that I'm really struggling to harness it all to write about. On a daily basis we're discovering, learning, experiencing new things and like any such patch in one's life - when your days feel more nuanced, sharper-hued, faster and slightly surreal - it's near impossible to process it as you live it, and invariably one feels one's leaving stuff behind.

This throws up a conundrum for me, because I record and remember by writing - but this last month have felt too busy living to write. The only time I've really sat still is to stare at our new view, and I reckon people are rapidly tiring about hearing about that all the time (at least my facebook friends are!).

Not having a phone or internet connection for the first seventeen days was a contributing factor (and kind of an 'excuse' not to unpack my laptop for the first few weeks), all of us having had a dreadful flu for the last seven is another - and in between it's been too much about living around here to spend any time recording, or examining.

It's been a month since Husband and I pulled an almost all-nighter packing up the last of the Observatory house, him nursing a partially severed finger from an incident with a pair of secateurs that afternoon, me harbouring a deep and abiding resentment that he was.
A month since the long, long day moving - an exhausting process no matter how well prepared or well supported one is throughout it - a day which culminated in one of our beloved cats going AWOL in Obs, causing me to lose my shit completely and break down in the KFC drive-thru, sobbing so hard I couldn't make myself understood to the bemused counter-lady.
(My heroic brother and sister-in-law did not rest until the errant kitty was found and finally brought her to us in disgrace at 9.30 pm that night, causing me to break down sobbing again because how on earth were we going to cope without them just down the road anymore?)
It was a long hard day.

Was it really only a month ago?

I don't wish for the pace to slow down really, I'm enjoying this. And I certainly don't wish for the exciting newness of it all to wear off, time will guarantee that soon enough. But I am feeling the effects of living too fast.
In the evenings when the girls are asleep my head gets restless. My dreams are weird and fitful. The memory of a person or place that I'm missing catches me unawares and digs a little hook into my heart.

I need to process some of this, I need to write.
Live Write
Live Write
Live Write.

the help

When my mother-in-law was a young wife and mother, and had just given birth to a second son in a small railway village far from her family and friends, her mother sent her a 'young girl from the farm' - the 12 or 13 year old daughter of one of their farm labourers. A child to help look after the children.
She wasn't to do any real labour, just play with the toddler while my MIL attended to the baby, possibly hang up the odd load of washing or peel some potatoes, and in my mother-in-law's eyes there was no question of this being child labour. Back on the farm a girl that age wouldn't have gone to school, or been working for a wage yet, so if anything the arrangement was seen to be an advantage for her, training for a future nanny or housekeeper position.

But a bit shocking to us now right?

So imagine my surprise when I found out some years ago that the woman who cleans for my parents had a similar arrangement?
Doris was the sole provider for her young grandson and one January brought a young girl, 12 or 13, home with her from the Transkei with the sole purpose of entertaining and watching over the little boy.
Apparently this girl was unable to go to school (distance and/or finances undoubtedly the reason) and had 'nothing better to do'. Doris paid her family a tiny amount, but for the most part her coming to Cape Town was seen to be an advantage for her, a chance to expand her horizons.

The woman we bought this house from employed a Zimbabwean man. For 47 years! Daniel moved around the country with her and her family, learnt to drive, went abroad with them twice and was their housekeeper, gardener, security, driver etc for almost his entire life. He out-lived two wives in this time and fathered a number of children, all of whom went 'home' to be raised by their grandparents. He spent more time with the children of his employers than he ever did with his own.
The elderly lady told us Daniel was now taking pension, and with the gift of her old yellow Uno and the responsibility for her even older yellow dog, he was going 'home to Beit Bridge' to live out his days being doted on by his family. She made it sound pretty romantic, but I have to wonder about the strange life he's led.

When we moved in (just one month ago, although it feels like forever!), I was on the hunt for a reliable someone to clean for us once a week. I reckoned, rightly as it turns out, that we'd be approached by any number of people either punting themselves or someone they knew, but I hadn't really considered that which has come to pass.
On the recommendation of our immediate neighbours, we're employing Albert.
A man, younger and much fitter than I, who is a more fastidious and thorough cleaner than I've ever experienced, or have ever been! Apparently Albert is also an ace gardener, carpenter, plumber and a whizz with a sewing machine. I've not had a chance to test out any of these skills but I'm wondering about getting him to whip up some summer frocks for the girls?
And I'm really liking the further example for those same girls (their father is already pretty domestic), that a man is as capable of cleaning and keeping house. These things are important in our still so boringly gender-specific times.

Last story about domestic help and the strange ways it works in this country.
A friend, returning from a number of years living in the UK, chose not to employ someone to clean her house - she confesses she thought it vaguely distasteful.
One afternoon she returned from work and was accosted on the pavement by a number of ladies who cleaned for others in her road. They demanded to know from her why she thought she was 'too good' to employ someone?
Each one of them had a friend or a sister seeking work and the thought of a household who could afford to employ someone, and weren't, was just ... wrong.
Chastised, my friend employed someone immediately. As was so glad she did.

A collection of stories, no real conclusion, just confirmation once more that the world is a wide and varied place. That this country is strange.
That none of us live in isolation from each other, we all need a bit of help.

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.

well done us

We survived the move. We kept our collective sense of humour in tact. We weathered our moments of emotional fallout and rallied around each other through injuries and exhaustion.

The girls did really well too.

We're lucky that they're adventurous spirits, quite happy to go along with the chaos if it's entertaining enough and there are enough snacks. Friday is old enough to have understood the logistics of it all, and Sunday just the gist; that we have a new house, that there are lots of boxes and that we 'Can't wait!' - a phrase she repeated endlessly in the last days.

And now we're in - finding our feet, our rhythm and hopefully one day finding the nail-clippers. We're in and we're back online and we're oh so very, very happy.

We're a lucky family, and we count our blessings every day.

utter telkom fail leaves blogger silent. fans weep.

Dear Blog,
This isn't personal. Please direct any feelings of neglect to Telkom, the world's worst phone and internet provider.
Soon we will be united in love and bloggy goodness once more.
Missing you,
Molly