Telling time

Yesterday I had to take Isabel to the doctor because she has a ridiculous rash thingamajig on her leg and I was late usual. So I come screaming into the driveway and ever so (not) gently bundle her into the car and off we go, all whilst I’m explaining that we are going to be late for our appointment with the doctor, sorry that I’m in a hurry.

What followed was a slightly bizarre conversation about

  1. The concept of time and
  2. The concept of being late (something with which her Mother is very well acquainted, much to the dismay of her Father)

Isabel just couldn’t get her head around the fact that we had to be somewhere at a certain time as we had an appointment otherwise we would be late, so I launched into an explanation of how, if we are late the doctor would be waiting and you don’t let people wait as other people are also waiting to see the doctor. At this point I had a feeling that her eyes were glazing over.

So I explained about when we go to school and how we have to be there at a certain time and how, if the bell rings and Daniel is not there, he will get into trouble.

But he’s then at school, Mom. Why would he get into trouble?

Thankfully it wasn’t a long drive to the doctor, so it wasn’t a very long conversation, but then I spotted this clip that was posted by one of my favourite people on the internet, 6000, and it really made me laugh.

Enjoy!

ps: the GP thinks it’s eczema, so we’re trying some cream

pps: it seems I have a mole that needs to be looked at that I’ve been ignoring for the longest time, partly because my Mother has been nagging about it and who listens when their Mother nags anyway? (yes, that is so going to come back and bite me in the ass)

On raising twins

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This morning I was all set to write a whiny post about how really outraged cross the girls made us last night and this morning.

Bear in mind that we had a rocky rainy weekend indoors with children that have selective hearing, so much so that I ended up feeling like Ms Rottenmeier.

Here’s what happened:
There is this beautiful, immaculately maintained antique dresser that was my Grandmother’s in the girls’ room. I can still remember the smell of her lavender perfume from when I was too small to reach my reflection in the mirror. It is one of the few things I have of hers, so it is really precious and sentimental to me. We took a risk putting it in their room as it is now adorned with the odd Hello Kitty sticker, but we have nowhere else to put it at the moment.

Last night, at bedtime, my eye fell onto the mirror and I noticed fine little cracks all over the inside of the glass. Weirdly, there are no dents on the surface. I was baffled.

I called Etienne and we stood there looking at the mirror that was still perfect yesterday morning, mystified. We look over at the girls and ask what happened, did someone throw something against the mirror by any chance. They both (more Isabel than Mignon) looked terribly guilty as only their transparent 5 year old faces can do, drilling toes into the ground and pulling their mouths and eyes just so.

They said they had no idea what happened. Then Isabel took the blame. Then Mignon took the blame. Then they blamed each other. After much cajoling it came out that they were throwing a hair clip against the mirror. We refused to read them a story, which is quite a punishment for them and told them that because they lied and lied again we would think about another punishment and that we were very, very disappointed and upset with them.

This morning we are all in the kitchen and I say that we have decided to ban them from all electronic devices until the weekend, thinking they would be very upset.

What do they do? They huddle together and giggle. GIGGLE. Etienne and I stared at each other, aghast. The little shits.

Banning one of them probably would have been terrible, but they are so enthralled by each other most of the time they really couldn’t care less.

Fast forward to this evening before swimming class and we are all home. They are such a joy to watch, wrapped up in each other and their own little games. It is the most precious thing to see these beautiful little people interact, they have an everlasting friendship that will not be broken by bitchiness or backstabbing or dishonesty.

To be honest, I felt a little envious. But mostly I felt proud that they are who they are, that they will, hopefully, always have each other (and Daniel’s) back and stick together.

Even if it is against their poor parents.

Ps. Just in case you were wondering, no, they don’t spend their days playing on electronic devices, they play. Like children should.

The roles we cast ourselves in

Whether you’re in a relationship and/or a parent you find yourself cast in a certain role.

I am The Worrier.

You would probably laugh if I told you about the things that I worry about and, yes, I know all the blah blah about 90% of the things you worry about that won’t happen. I just try to see the shit coming before it hits us so that I know whether I should duck, scoop or throw it back. I like to Get Shit Done, to varying degrees of success, as the many unfinished art projects lying around our house will attest to.

I’m the one that feels helpless outrage on behalf of my children, carefully disguised as a distracted listener. The one that gets terribly upset with people much to the mystification of my husband. The one that sticks her nose in where it doesn’t belong and questions things that are sometimes best left alone.

I’m the not-so-fun one. The one that has lists. The one that gets cross when kids don’t listen. I feel like a failure when they don’t have a protein, a carb and a fruit in their lunchbox. When I forget about school stuff, which I do. Often. When there are things that I miss out on because I’m at work.

I sometimes wonder if other homes work like ours, whether the things I worry about are normal gender differences and most other women are like this or whether I’m a freak. (Either way, I don’t really care if I’m a freak, I’m just curious. Turning 40 gave me license not to care)

I’m (contrary to what you might believe after reading this) actually quite comfortable in my skin and very happy and blessed with my life. I prefer to be the Worrier, because I somehow find comfort in the quagmire that is my noisy mind.

But sometimes, just sometimes, I want to be free of the what-ifs and the how’s and the why’s.

I wish I could just shut down the noise for a little while. It’s really exhausting, all that noise and justifiable (out)rage.

Or I just really, really need a fucking holiday.

Diana and the Horse

You know how sometimes something comes out of your mouth in front of your kids and as it rolls off your tongue you think ‘this is SO coming back to bite me in the ass’. Yes, that.

I dragged Etienne off to see Diana last Friday night (don’t bother, it was very disappointing) and the kids kept asking which movie we saw, so last night when we were all tucked up for our last chat I told them about the beautiful Princess called Diana that was the most famous woman in the world. It was, admittedly, a little awkward to explain that her fairy tale didn’t end well and that she ended up dying in a car accident. I did explain that she had found someone else to love without going into what may or may not have really happened in her final days, that she was really beautiful and that she did wonderful things like take care of the poor and sick children.

At this point I considered back-pedalling about the whole divorce thing as it’s not really something I feel they need know too much about right now, but not before the girls were asking me what happened to the Prince and why he didn’t stay married to his Princess.

I then proceeded to explain that the Prince really loved someone else and that he married her after a while. ‘What is her name’ the girls ask me. ‘Camilla Parker Bowles’ I say. ‘She looks a little like a horse’ I say, immediately trying to suck the words back into my mouth, but it was too late.

This morning they were asking Etienne about the ‘Aunty that has a head like a horse’ and this evening when we were having our daily snuggle they asked about ‘the horse suit she wears’. And what Princess Diana covered her head with (I can only assume that they want to see the crown).

I shudder to think what they’ve told their teacher..

Note to self: if you’re gong to be ironic (ok, bitchy) about someone rather not do it in front of your kids. Oops.

On walking

I haven’t been to the gym in, well, many weeks. There, I said it. It’s been cold, it’s been dark and our bed was nice and warm at 5am which is the only time of day I have to exercise. And there has been spooning. I love spooning.

Last night I decided that today would be The Day, so at 5am this morning I dragged my sorry ass out of bed and realised that it was sort of light enough to walk outdoors in our beautiful suburb instead of heading off to the gym where the lights and sounds can be pretty jarring.

So off I went, at a considerably slower pace than several, er, weeks ago.

It was the absolute best walk I’ve had since the last time I walked outdoors at 5am, a good 7 months ago, a promise of summer now in the air.

It felt like visiting old friends. I meandered past all my favourite houses on my usual route, some of which are being renovated, some that are now for sale. I passed the pretty B&B that never seems to have anyone staying there, even though it is immaculately maintained. The house that has been standing empty since this time last year as the owners only seem to be able to work on it over weekends, although they’ve made great progress. The house with the really loud electric fencing.

I saw some of the usual people I used to see, the lady jogging with her sweet poodle, the guy with his boxer that’s never on a leash. The guy in a bakkie dropping off newspapers. The frail older man walking his large black dog.

Toward the end of my walk I get to walk right next to the vineyards, I always save this best bit until last, the vineyards are so very beautiful this time of year as they explode in green leaves, soon to be heavy with grapes. The rising sun kissing the hills. The sounds of a neighbourhood waking up slowly.

It was so lovely I may just do it again tomorrow.