Category: The Parenting stuff

Music and dancing

I have realised lately that we don’t listen to enough music at home.  Sure we listen to “normal” music, like the music channels on DSTV or Lollos and classical music on a Sunday, but I’ve noticed that the girls, especially Isabel, like to dance.

It’s more of a little jiggle than anything else and the cutest thing to behold, but I think it would be great if we could crank the music up and just wriggle our worries away.  And it would be great for a laugh.

Thing is.  I’m an ex-wanna-be Goth and I’ve never really been into “happy” music.  I’ve always leaned more toward the tortured music genre.  And mostly tortured female.  And Led Zeppelin. And The Cure. You see what I mean?

The kids will definitely end up getting exposed to “our” music, but for now I really want them to experience music for the sheer reckless joy of it.

So.  I need help.  I want to put together a play-list of happy but harmless ‘adult’ music.  By Adult I mean ABBA-type stuff and by harmless I mean no Jack Parow.  After hearing “Cooler as Ekke” once on Gareth’s show Daniel recited “jy’t ‘n tattoo van ‘n slang op jou tette”.  Pitch perfect.

Any suggestions?

ps: if I have enough suggestions I want to create an extra page and credit the suggestion-giver.  Aaaand.. GO!

pps: I was jiggling away to something the other day and Daniel stared at me in horror and ordered me to stop immediately.  I. Don’t. Care.

TantrumSchmantrum

As the oldest child Daniel has always been remarkably good natured and mostly accepted the arrival of his sisters in his stride.  I often comment on his angelic behaviour and his downright awesomeness.  Besides my own guilt for various reasons and his ongoing eczema and allergies which I am convinced must be in some way all my fault and linked to his emotions.

Until lately. Lately he has become quite the foot-stomping whiner at the ripe old age of 5 and a half.

As a rule we have a zero tolerance approach to tantrums.  And I mean ZERO tolerance.  We encourage the kids to express what it is they want (or so we thought) (smugly), thereby eliminating this unseemly behaviour.  And I can tell you exactly why we are like this:

We were in Kingston in a Borders Bookshop in 2004, way before we had children and I vividly remember this huge table in the entrance to the store.  I remember this specific table as it had a child of undisclosed age lying under the table and throwing the tantrum to end all tantrums.  Her parents, with another baby in a pram, had that petrified deer-in-the-headlights look about them.  There was a Starbucks coffee shop inside Borders, conveniently located very close to the entrance and we were in no rush, so we decided to watch the scene unfold with a mixture of awe and horror.  To say those parents were freaked out would be an epic understatement.

They did the whole bending-down-and-reasoning-with-errant-child approach.

Then they did the hissing-warnings-of-dire-consequences approach.

Then they kind of desperately hung around waiting for their child to miraculously emerge from under the table.

Then they stalked out of the shop full of bravado and hid around the corner, hoping the child would run out after them.

Before each action there were hushed negotiation between the poor parents.  And for the duration of the performance the child Did Not Stop For A Second.

In the end the Dad stomped back in and simply dragged the screaming child out from under the table and disappeared down the road.

So, having seen this scene unfold we promised each other that this would simply not be tolerated.  Ever.  And up until now we have done pretty well.

Up until now.

Suddenly Daniel has mastered the Whining Tantrum.  It is completely random and not set off by a specific thing that we can establish and as much as we roll our eyes and try to ignore him it is truly unbearable.

Until now we haven’t really taken it seriously and have mollycoddled him through it, but tonight we had finally had enough.  We left him huddled in his room, whining away (I know, just slap me, BAD Mother) and ignored him until he was done.  No bed-time story for him, which caused another flood of whining, but now all is quiet.  And he even came out for a cuddle and a kiss when he was finished.

And all I can think is: what am I doing wrong?  Is he feeling unloved/unheard/lonely/scared/rejected and I’m not dealing with it in a positive way?  Or he simply just full of shit?  Or is it just age appropriate for boys?

What do you think?

Edit to add: Look what I just found in our bed.  How can you not adore this?

School Stories

I like change.  No actually, I LOVE change.  I love trying (most) new things and am always up for a last minute venture.  I thrive on change and the challenges it bring.
Change is the bomb.

Or so I thought.

We went to Daniel’s Orientation day this morning and I did not handle it very well (to say the very least).  Daniel was NOT happy about being

  1. In an Afrikaans class and
  2. Not being in the same class as his English BFF.

But we (Read: Etienne) managed to get him settled and off we went to the school hall with all 300 000 other parents.

There were 2 very grown up (i.e. Grade 7) kids that did an oral (WITH PowerPoint nogals) that were really confident and well spoken.  I couldn’t connect the dots in my head from where we are now to having kids that big.  It’s seems so, well, grown up.  Our kids are small, they are still in many ways our babies.  I know Daniel is only in Grade R next year so technically he isn’t in “big” school yet.  But still.  All three of our little babies are going to turn (sob) into those big kids.  Part of me wants to scream “It’s just not fair!”

I had this intense desire to go and hide in a bathroom for a while (Gina was talking about this on twitter the other night).  And then I wanted to run a mile.  And then I thought HA! I’ll just have another baby so I’ll still have a baby in the house when Daniel goes to school.  Don’t ask me about the logic behind that one.  No idea. Not like that’s
going to happen.

The school is a big school, they are deliciously well organized and have a really good
reputation.  And the Head Mistress scared the living bejesus out of me.  She’s very
direct.  I normally love direct.  I’m normally the one that scares the bejesus out of people.

She reminded us several times that every child has a different experience and that
each child is different.  I shall use this as my mantra going forward.  I’ll be the crazy chick chanting it in the car every morning for the first year my son spends at “big” school whilst bashing my head against the steering wheel.  There was talk of classes and aftercare and extra murals and download this application of the school and PTA and fundraising and don’t forget to buy that and take note of XYZ.  I felt like my head was going to explode.

And every time I questioned something people looked at me like I was mad.  They all have this attitude of “don’t worry,it’s taken care of”.  I battle to believe that anything is ever just “taken care of”.  For example, at aftercare I ask about the food and try to explain about all Daniel’s allergies.  I got waved away with a “we will take care of it”.  (Can you say Anal Retentive Mother?)  They probably did think me a little strange.  I
just felt like I was wringing my hands in angst and they were rolling their eyes.  And part of me doesn’t really blame them, they’ve probably seen it all before.

So what did I learn today:  I’m not that cool with change after all. But I’ll get there.

And when Etienne and I went to collect Daniel from his New Teacher in his New Class he
was just fine.  He wasn’t huddled in the fetal position on the floor wanting his BFF or his parents.  He was completely and utterly fine.

How rude of him.  I mean, really.

Here they are in the bath last night.  I had to take a pic, because I don’t know how much longer they’ll all fit in there!  Isabel in the middle.

The truth and nothing but the truth

Kids really test your ability to skirt around the edges of the truth.

Take this morning for example:

Daniel and Isabel each decide on a sachet of Instant Oats (I know I know, sugar and loads of other crap, ALL Etienne’s fault for buying it of course) and have an extended conversation about the fact that it’s chocolate.  And the usual ceremony around unpacking all the identical ceramic porridge bowls on top of all the ceramic side plates until they find *just* the right bowl to use which, inevitably, is the one right at the bottom.  And people wonder why I drink..

So, imagine Isabel’s horror when she couldn’t actually see the chocolate once I added the boiling water.  Which has a lot to do with the fact that it was, in fact, caramel.

Like a complete fool I offer the truth:  It is caramel.

Which of course was a huge mistake I realised I had made as soon as the words left my mouth.  Isabel pushed away the bowl in utter disgust.  How DARE I contradict her and how DARE I make the chocolate disappear from her bowl.

This leaves me with a choice:

  1. Insist on the damning truth of the caramel, have a drama at 06h30 in the morning and probably send a hungry, pissed off and crying child to school.
  2. Admit to my grave error

At which point I confessed my grave error and pointed out the “chocolate” in Daniel’s bowl before adding boiling water.

Another of my favourite little truthful conversations happened the other night when I was having a cuddle with Daniel and he popped the “Where is God” question.

“In heaven” I replied.  Which lead to an extended conversation about death and when I was going to die.  Which, thankfully, he was hoping wasn’t going to happen soon.  I should maybe record that and play it back to him when he’s a teenager slamming doors and telling me that he, in fact, wants me to just die.

On a not so chirpy note:

My folks had to have their beloved Bulldog put down this week and they really are devastated, as I would be.  So we are going to have to have tell the kids that Zoe died before we go there for lunch on Sunday.

How much do you skirt around the truth with your kids?  What are the kinds of things you aren’t completely honest about?

Annual School Concert Consternation

This past Saturday was the annual school concert at our kids school.

First up was the Grasshopper Class that (technically*) is the girls’ class. I was front and center and got quite a fright when they came out as they looked so much alike.  It probably also has to do with the fact that they were wearing something I hadn’t seen them in before.  For a moment I realised what it must be like for people that don’t know them well to see them, even though they are never dressed the same.

What was the first thing they both did?  Look for their Dad.  Bless.

In general it was a vast improvement from last year when Mignon was really under the weather and they were just too small to understand the whole thing.  They looked like they were having fun and actually participated beautifully!

After their songs they were herded off the stage, only to come right back out and both sit on my lap.

Next up, Daniel’s turn.

Daniel has a dodgy past when it comes to school concerts.  The first year he bypassed the stage and peed on his teacher’s dress (long story).  Last year he spent some time on the stage, but not with his own group.  The rest of the time he was eating snacks with us on the picnic blanket.

This year was, well, special.

We had a good run to start with as he knew all the words and the jokes and the songs.  He made it onto the stage and that’s where things started going awry.  He was a seahorse and they had stuffed pillows in the front of their t-shirts that gave him a perfect excuse to do this:

He also only cared about spotting Dad and Ouma Hanni.  He then got given the microphone to say his words, froze, and promptly got off the stage and made a beeline for me.  And then all 3 kids jostled for space on my lap.  In the middle of the concert.  And I couldn’t make them go anywhere as it was too packed with parents.

To our awesome teachers: what an amazing job you did.  It was a brilliantly executed and very well planned and rehearsed affair.  Hats off to you!

*Technically as in they roam between classes.  The school indulges them as they have a chance to mix with a bigger class and also spend some time away from each other when they need it.  I always find it amazing that they spend 24/7 in each other’s company and don’t rip each other apart.

At War with 4

One of my favourite people on twitter, @mamabook, wrote this post about her 4 year old and is doing a blog hop.  We find ourselves just over and under that very special age at the moment, but I still have some gems to share.  Also, several of my friends have referred to it as the Fucking Fours.  I wouldn’t really know as I spent most of Daniel’s year of being 4 in a red wine induced coma.  I am stocking up as we speak before the girls hit 4 in March.

Even though Daniel turned 5 in May already, he recently started stomping his feet.  It fills us with mirth and we can’t help but laugh the times it doesn’t drive us mad.  And he sulks.  A lot.  That’s new too.  But mostly he goes and sulks in his room, so it doesn’t really bother us.  And his Barbie always goes with.  He loves his Barbie.

Because the girls are “second” children we forget that they are still quite small as they really give us a run for our money.  So in a sense they act a lot like 4 year olds already.

Mignon is just a girlygirl and loves pink and handbags and babies.  She has this silly laugh that makes the other two laugh, so it’s all good.  I will say this though: she’s a shrieker.  Those people that warn about the damage clubbing does to your hearing should spend some time in our house.

Isabel.  Well.  Her thing is “no thanks”.  As in: Please pick up your shoes/towel/clothes?  Standard response, delivered smartly: No thanks.  She has always had what my Mother calls the Gramophone Effect down pat.  She will keep repeating what she wants in a monotone voice until she either gets it or falls asleep.  No kidding.

What are the things that your 4 year olds do or did?

 

An Aftercare question and Poll

As is usual for this time of year I have been angsting about childcare for next year.

Daniel is going to Grade R at the school down the road and we are working on a plan for the girls for next year that could potentially be spectacular.  But it’s still in the works.

It’s around Daniel’s aftercare that Etienne and I have had many arguments disagreements heated discussions debates conversations.  See, it’s like this: Etienne had a stay-at-home Mom all his life.  In fact, he only went to any kind of school when he was 5, which certainly had it’s own set of challenges.  I, on the other hand, had 2 parents that worked full-time.  (I’m not whining about it, I totally get that they both had to work.)

The reality of my after-school life was that I was at various stages at home in the afternoons with a domestic worker, a latch-key child, in aftercare and with a lady who had a really creepy husband.  The only time my Mom was at home was the 3 months she was on Maternity leave with my sister and I was in Grade 1 at the time.  So, understandably I am really worried about what would be the best for Daniel, especially knowing that he leans toward his Dad’s introverted personality type.

Right now it is just not possible for me to not work full-time as sucky as that is, so we need to make a plan.

So here’s a little poll and I would very much appreciate it if you could vote and leave a comment if there is something I didn’t cover.

Please note:  I want to know what your reality is and would welcome any advice you could possibly give.  Even if you tell me to just suck it up.

The Fine-print

Sometimes I feel like I somehow missed the fine-print in my Parenting Contract.

The fine-print that is all that stuff that is not strictly Black and White.  Not the Ten Commandments “Thy shalt not kill thy sister” kind of stuff.

For example:

As much as they wind me up beyond belief, I hate that any of the kids might feel unfairly treated/unloved in any way.  I want to run screaming to the hills when they fight over something and I have NO idea who’s it was in the first place.  They never mentioned that when I signed my contract.

Like the little ice cream stick that almost caused WW3 between the girls this morning.  Yes, an ice cream stick.  That little piece of wood that an ice cream is on.  There were tears, there was screaming. Omigod.  Definitely not in the fine-print.  Etienne diffused that one by distracting Mignon with a sticker.

Then we get to the car.  Isabel gets in front. (front airbag is disabled and they take turns to sit in front) (there is a Schedule for this).  (trust me)

Etienne had already left, so I wasn’t on top of the Schedule.  Daniel (after unsuccessfully looking for his shoes and already slinking to the car with slumped shoulders) comes stomping outside.  And crumples in a heap of tears.  It’s HIS turn to sit in front. Mentally I rolled my eyes and furiously started oh-ming like I’m in a Yoga class.  Because I KNOW Isabel is by far the most stubborn of the 3 and no mere mortal was going to move her from that seat.  Regardless of whether she was right or wrong.  Also not in the fine-print that one.

A little verbal shuffle ensued, in the drive-way of course, in full view of all the neighbours, but eventually Daniel was in the back after Isabel solemnly promised that it was her turn to sit in front.

Which of course it wasn’t.  And she knew very well.

Etienne will have a word with her when he collects them this afternoon.  And she will apologise to Daniel.  And then I will also apologise to Daniel when I get home this afternoon, because I know he won’t forget.  Another thing they forgot to mention in the fine-print.

Here they are on Sunday, waiting for soft serve in Melkbos.  God, I love them. (Isabel in the middle)

 

A little whine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am not a morning person.  There.  I said it.

I need to wake up quietly without being hassled and love eating my breakfast in peace and quiet whilst hovering over twitter.  I don’t want to talk to anybody.  I just want to be.  Not for long, just a few minutes.  But those few minutes of peace and quiet are VERY VERY important minutes.

In reality all 3 kids are awake at 06h15 and not fast asleep until 06h30 when I have to drag them out of bed.  And all 3 kids want demand breakfast.

This one wants a ceramic bowl: Daniel.  I can’t watch when he takes one out of the cupboard as he unpacks them one by excruciating one until he finds one he wants that looks like all the others in the cupboard.  I try not helicopter him.

And then the girls fight over the last Barney plastic bowl.

And the last Oatees.

And who puts the Oatess in the bowl.

And who pours how much milk: Daniel.  As you will see by the pic he built himself a fort so he could sulk in private as he felt he needed more milk, even though he had already emptied half a carton of milk into his bowl and his cereal was at sea.

And the ones that are not whining are talking happily.  Loudly.

I don’t do mornings well at the best of times.  Even though I had the Little Mommy Voice of Sanity screaming in my head:  It’s ALL your shit!  Don’t take it out on the kids!

I know I shouldn’t complain and I’m not really.  I’m just processing.

And I’ll do better tomorrow.

Promise.

Something’s been bothering me

We have this book from the library at the moment for the kids that we absolutely love:

It’s a book about opposites and it’s been a really fun way for the kids to learn them.  We love all her books, especially Hooray for Fish.  I do however have a little something that bugs me about this book:

I was reading to the girls last night and replaced “fat” with “large” just as Etienne passed by the door on his way to read to Daniel.  He thought it was absolutely hilarious and that I was being ridiculous.

I don’t know.  Maybe I am just overly sensitive because of all the weight I need to loose (she says whilst munching on a twix), but I feel a tad uncomfortable about the actual word “fat” is the book.

Also, I live in fear that we will be in the shops and one of my darling children will shout out “Look Mommy!  There’s a Maisy Fat Lady”.

What do you think?