Category: The Parenting stuff

Catching up

Over the last few days I’ve been meaning to sit down and blog, but life got in the way, so I’ll give you the précis version of noteworthy events.

First there was the incident of the Lost Old Lady.  Last week Tuesday my darling husband was stopped in our road by a little old lady and her dog.  She was lost and confused.  He picked her up and took her to my folks’ place where they proceeded to call the police and neighbourhood watch etc. to ask, and I quote, “if anyone had lost a little old lady and her dog”.  It was bizarre and funny in a sad way.  I put a pic of her and the doggy on twitter and Facebook and the response was amazing.  That tweet was rt’d more than 200 times!  As it turned out she lives about 7 houses up from us in the road with her daughter.  She has Parkinson’s and dementia and couldn’t even remember her children’s names.  And all the while the kids were running around my Mother’s house like lunatics.

Etienne was also away on his annual Mancation (a word I saw in this column and loved) from Wednesday until Sunday this past week. Usually I dread the 5 days of single parenting, but the kids were lots of fun this year and I actually chose to not do too much with other people, rather opting to have them all to myself.  It went really well until the wheels came off at around lunch-time on Sunday.  I think they were just desperately missing their Dad by then. But so was I.

On Thursday night the tooth mouse had to make an emergency visit and left money and a note.

On Friday night I made and decorated a cake for Daniel’s BFF’s party on Saturday and my parents came over to put the kids to bed. And by “put kids to bed” I mean I waited for them to leave at 9pm and then I put them to bed.

On Saturday night Isabel was complaining about a headache and sore neck.  After having a quiet little freak-out I asked her to look down and she was fine to move her neck, so I could downgrade my immediate diagnosis of Meningitis to didn’t-have-enough-water-today, but with a mental (haha) note to keep an eye on her.  She (which means that by default WE) was, however, awake between 2 and 4 am on Sunday morning, so my patience was also wearing a bit thin by lunchtime on Sunday.

Imagine my joy at seeing my husband on Sunday afternoon, followed by the dimming of said joy when he proceeded to entertain me with some crafty snoring on Sunday night. That then made 2 nights of very little sleep.  I was not a happy camper.

This led to a rather long and sad day on Monday and my retiring to bed at exactly 20h10.  I was asleep approximately 5 minutes later and only woke up when Etienne woke up with a shriek at 6h25 as I had forgotten to set the alarm in my haste to get to bed.  So, I had 10 hours uninterrupted sleep probably since I was a teenager.  Take that sport lovers.

Lastly I have a question pertaining to the magic that is my son, that epitome of stroppy 7-year old joy: Is it a thing for boys to always ALWAYS have their hands down the front of their pants and be playing with their jewels.  I know it’s a toddler thing, but it’s getting a bit old now.  Or should I just get over it?  I jokingly asked the other day whether he enjoys playing with his “tottie” and he beamed up at me and said Yes Mom, I love it.  No words.  I have no words.

Then, I’m mortified to ask, but our Megan Au Pair resigned yesterday as she is starting a full-time job soon.  So now we are in need of someone to collect our kids from school and take care of them until Etienne comes home.  It’s really only a 2 hour stint a day as it is all we can afford, but it makes a massive difference to our kids.  So, if you know of someone reliable that would take good care of our brood, please ask them to contact me via email at rouxtania9 at gmail dot com.  Thank you!

And lastly, I want to thank everyone that left comments and tweets and FB comments and sent DM’s and whatsapp messages of support about my last post. It means a great deal to me, thank you so much!

When the third child breaks their arm

Marathon puzzle building session
Marathon puzzle building session

Last year Daniel broke his arm in a mystery accident involving a jungle gym, monkey bars, rain and boots. The details have always been a bit sketchy and the story keeps changing.

Earlier this year it was Isabel’s turn when she tripped over a chair. She broke her right arm (greenstick fracture), but it wasn’t too bad as she is left-handed. I saw her X-rays then, so I had a pretty good idea of what the fracture looked like.

On Friday evening we had an impromptu Spur date with some friends. We arrived before our friends, sat down, opened and poured some wine and I took a sip. Only to hear Mignon cry THAT cry.

You know which cry. That something-really-bad-just-happened-cry. She comes to the table with Isabel and her arm is kind of hanging at the wrist. I longingly look at my full glass of well-deserved wine and think ah shit, but say to Mignon ‘don’t worry darling, show Mommy where you got hurt.’ I didn’t really care where she got hurt, I was hoping to distract her to see how hurt she really was.

When she didn’t stop crying I pulled up her sleeves and could see that her left wrist was swollen.  My heart sank. I thought about that glass of wine standing on the table, calling my name.

I left Etienne, the other 2 kids and our friends, who had arrived amidst all the chaos, in the Spur and we hopped in the car and went down the road to our nearest Mediclinic. By the time we arrived Mignon had calmed down and was asking if she hurt her arm like Ouma Hannie (who had dislocated her shoulder a few months ago).  I suppressed a little shudder at that.

At this point I was starting to feel like a drama queen.  I mean, what if I had raced to the hospital and there is nothing wrong with the child’s arm?  And she wasn’t exactly crying hysterically, in fact she was smiling a little. Almost like she was just enjoying the attention.

The staff was very good, they ushered us in immediately, the doctor conducted a careful examination  on a rather unhelpful and unflinching child and a very calm looking Mother looking on.  They must have thought I am a prime candidate for Munchausen, but luckily the doctor elected to rather play it safe and take an X-ray.

They then wanted to roll her in a bed to the X-ray rooms and were a little surprised when I suggested that her arm is sore, not her leg, I’m sure we can walk down the passage. I was on a schedule here people, very hungry and in dire need of that glass of wine. Even then she was in high spirits, asking to play on the iPad and happily drinking her juice, not a care in the world.

I, however, was getting more and more nervous by the minute.

They ushered us in and out of the X-rays (where I gleefully pointed to the X-ray and said that is, in fact, a greenstick fracture) and back into the waiting room, which was filling up quite nicely by this stage and then the doctor came out with a rather surprised look on his face.  Goodness, yes, her arm is broken after all.

At which I had another little inappropriate giggle, yes I did.

So, exactly the same fracture as Isabel, just on the left arm, which worked out well seeing that Mignon is right-handed.

The whole hospital visit took a whopping 35 minutes (including travelling time).  It must be a record.  And I still got to have my glass of wine.

The worst thing?

We keep forgetting her arm is broken. With Daniel and Isabel we were frantic to keep the cast out of water and ran to help them get dressed and wipe their bums.  Mignon has to keep reminding us to help her and to put a plastic bag over her arm at bath time.

Aren’t we just fantastic parents?

PS: when I arrived back at the Spur with Mignon and told the Manager that my child had just broken her arm on their jungle gym and he helpfully offered her an ice cream which she gratefully accepted and grudgingly shared with her brother and sister.

PPS: If you don’t enjoy terrible images people post on FB you might enjoy this post I wrote yesterday, comments welcome as always!

You win some you lose some

The school sent us a note earlier in the week to inform us that they would have a book sale yesterday for the Grade 1’s, please could we send money. Our firstborn has a bit of a checkered history with money and the tuck shop (trust me, you don’t want to know), so I made sure to ask the teacher how much money to send. R30-R50 she SMS’s back.

So, we give the fruit of our loins, our firstborn child, R50 with strict instruction that IT IS FOR BOOKS ONLY. And to bring change.

When I walked in the door last night there was a really awkward silence and I assumed that something must have gone awry.

Our eldest child, the joy of our lives, had taken his 50 SA Ront (which isn’t worth a whole lot in Dollars these days), gone to the book sale AND DIDN’T BUY A SINGLE BOOK. He did however go to the tuck shop and spend our hard earned R50 on Dilly Dallies (sp?) at R5 a piece.

He has been banned from computers, iPad and Xbox for a whole week.

On the upside, he knew to ask for 10 Dilly Dallies with his R50 and he did share.

We are just all about silver linings.

Isabel has also been entertaining us with being able to count until 1000. By ‘a 1000’ I mean that she counts until 100 and then in 100’s until 1000. We are a little gloaty about this, she is such a clever little button.

Mignon is the writer, she’s very keen to learn letters and words and really good with knowing her alphabet. Too cool.

Isabel also writes letters, but she mainly writes popopo and then asks us to read it so they can all belly-laugh until they cry.

Very entertaining this lot. We shall keep them and treasure them.

ps.  Our resident leftie, Isabel, writes from the right to the left.  Apparently this is a thing with left-handed children when they learn to write?

To rugby or not to rugby

Daniel started playing rugby this year. By ‘playing rugby’ I mean ‘he is in the C Team and avoids any physical contact that doesn’t include hugging and actually touching the ball or running at all cost’.

But I digress.

On my way to watch my first actual match yesterday an ambulance came screaming past and I had a small moment of panic hoping that 1. it wasn’t on its way to the school and 2. that it wasn’t needed for my child (although highly unlikely due to reasons above).

As it turns out it was needed for a rugby injury on a Gr 1 learner.

I know many people don’t allow their kids to play rugby because of potential injury and yes, I know that kids that play soccer and hockey are at risk for as much injury and that everyone could present me with statistics to support their point of view, much like the good old vaccination debate. But lets not go there.

Kids have to do sport in my opinion. It teaches them team work, it forces them to get moving, it teaches them to be at least a little competitive and above all it gives them a sense of accomplishment. Etienne used to play rugby and has had his fair share of shoulder injuries and cauliflower ears, but he grew up with 2 older brothers and impromptu rugby games at home. Things are a little different in our house due to the small matter of 2 younger sisters and a lot less rough and tumble. Daniel is just not that type of child.

My own stellar sport career includes 5th team hockey at school, but I did enjoy running around in the mud as much as the next person, although I may or may not have spent an inordinate amount of time squealing and dodging hockey sticks.  But I’m not saying.

So, to sum up: we are more about ‘enjoy’ and less about ‘you must’, like many parents in his grade that are quite competitive, much to my amusement.

What I’m curious to know is this:

How do you feel about kids and sport in general and rugby in particular?

What sports do your kids play, if any?

Ps. I’m really nervous about standing next to the sports field as I have the potential to, er, get vocally involved.

Pps. School parking lot rage. Wow. It’s an actual thing.

Just another morning

You know how some mornings you find yourself standing in the kitchen with no idea what you are doing there?  You then find yourself wandering aimlessly around the house picking up your discarded bra from the couch where you gratefully took it off the night before, contemplate packing lunchboxes and oohhh twitter! And Facebook!

This morning was that kind of morning.

It felt disjointed from the start as Daniel and Isabel were in a race to see who would be done first, whilst Princess Mignon was huddled under the blankets, a little lump of sleepiness.  The minute all 3 of them are not doing the same thing at the same time the wheels come off.  Then it is inevitable that someone leaves the house without brushing their teeth or wearing socks.  Don’t ever mess with the system.

As I’m about to get ready we realise that Mignon’s dress has a hole.  It’s one of those dresses with a frill at the bottom and part of the frill had unravelled, so not a simple sewing job.  Add to that the mute refusal as per SOP to take the dress off for any love or money I did what any self-respecting Mother would do:  I sewed the damn dress whilst the child was wearing it.

Then I had a wardrobe (socks with holes), hair (too wet outside so hair won’t go straight for all the tea in China) and mascara fail (smeared all over my face when I changed tops).

And then, grabbing a favourite big scarf from the drawer I finally manage to open it up whilst driving to work and get hit by that stale too-often-worn smell I loathe. You know that smell. It’s the smell of old dorm rooms and linen that hasn’t been washed in weeks.  THAT smell.

So now I’m at work in clean socks without holes (that I had to take off halfway through the morning and put handcream on my feet because I hate dry feet and there was no time to put cream on my feet this morning), missing half the eye shadow on an eye and stinking of used linen.

How’s your day going?

And the parenting awards keep rolling in…

Now there’s an idea!

Monday mornings at our house are always fun.  It is a mad scramble to get everyone dressed, everything brushed and out the door before the first bell goes at school.

Today started out slow, it took special skills to coax the kids out of bed.

It also took major patience to get them fed and convince, especially the girls, to get dressed.  Daniel was on a roll and quite happily playing with the iPad as reward for being ready early.

As I was packing Mignon’s ballet clothes into her suitcase (yes, I should have done this last night, judge away) Isabel comes into the kitchen looking for her boots.

Here’s the thing about twins: they are great to have around when one forgets the words or tune to a song they learnt in class, as there’s always someone to help.  They really are double the joy.

But man, sometime they are double the pain in the behind. Double the drama, double the stubborn, double the powers of convincing required.

Someone gave us a pair of Wellington boots with hearts on them ages ago that are already quite worse for wear.  We have lots and lots of pairs of Wellies, but this particular pair have always been a bone of contention.  Because, well, they have hearts on them.  Isabel usually wears them because SOMEONE (not me) wrote her name on them one desperate morning a long long time ago.  So technically they aren’t “her” boots, they have to share and take turns.

But this morning she wanted those boots and when she came into the kitchen looking for them I had a feeling we were in for a challenge.  Mignon was already wearing them.  When she found Mignon hiding out in our room wearing those boots there were tears.  At approximately the exact time we were meant to be leaving the house. When those meltdowns happen I have a little scream on the inside and I admit: I panic.

See, I’m really bad with picking one child over the other and terrified of making one child feel left out/disadvantaged in any way (my own shit, I know).  So mostly I leave Etienne to mediate, which he is spectacularly good at.  We usually have strict rules about ownership, but for reason these bloody boots slipped through the muddy cracks.

So we tried to coax Mignon into taking them off, which felt wrong to me, besides the fact that she mutely stared at me, refusing to budge. Then we tried to get Isabel to wear another pair of boots in that high-pitched “look at how lovely these boots are” voice.  You know which voice. THAT desperate we’re-late-but-I’m-going-to-humor-you-for-5-more-minutes-until-I-lose-my-shit-voice

Isabel cried actual, desperate, heart-wrenching tears.  I couldn’t bear it.  So, I offered a Mother’s desperate ultimatum: if Isabel doesn’t stop crying and give Mignon a turn no-one can have them.  They will go into the bin.

Cue more tears, more mute, immovable stares. And Daniel’s helpful little taunting voice in the background saying how cross Mommy is.

I lost the plot, took them off Mignon’s feet and chucked them in the bin.  The recycling bin nogals.

I know, I’m horrible.

Isabel was crying full-steam when they got into Etienne’s car saying how she promised to share if only I wouldn’t throw the boots away.  Promise!  Promise! That was like the knife twisting in my heart.

Which meant we were all unhappy, go ME!

We had a little make-up at the car with some serious hugs and kisses, but I felt like shit.

Thing is, I had visions of sending them to school with that one pair of boots between the two of them and the potential fighting there and I was just not prepared to cause more problems. I keep thinking about what the lesson was that we were all meant to learn and if I royally fucked up my kids this morning.  I also keep thinking of what potentially would have been a win-win for everyone or whether one of my kids (I can’t even decide which one because neither of them was really wrong!) had a lesson to learn from it.

Then I entertained (and swiftly abandoned) the thought of going out and buying new boots.  But then I would have had to buy 3 pairs of new boots and that’s just silly.  Besides, they have lots of boots as it is.

I don’t want to raise children that won’t want to share with each other, but I also don’t want to raise children that can be easily victimized or aren’t independent.  I battle with this a lot and I’m just really, really grateful that we have Etienne, he is often the lone voice of calm in a sea of emotional turmoil.

How do you deal with this kind of thing in your house? 

Is it an issue at all?

And then, strangely, there was no guilt

It’s official.  I have turned into *that* Mother that sends her children off to mid-week children’s parties with the Au Pair.

It’s been a long time coming, but after the last time I took leave so I could take Daniel to a party and the Moms were all talking about how terrible aftercare is for children and I just thought: This isn’t for me, I don’t belong here.

No more will I force myself to take leave I could have saved up to spend time doing something more valuable with my kids.

No more will I feel like I’m eavesdropping on conversations I have no business listening to about things that happen in the day when I am at work.

No more will I compound my own guilt at not being to linger in the school parking lot or over coffee with a friend in the middle of the day.

No more will I try too hard to fit in with Moms that, practically speaking, will not ever be great friends.  Not because they aren’t lovely people, there just isn’t time.

No more will I compromise the little time I do have with Etienne and the kids.

No more.

 

BUT.

 

If you are a SAHM Mom I want to say this: I am extremely grateful for your generosity with your time and wanting to help out at school, serve on PTA’s, decorate classrooms for special occasions, carting other people’s children around and work in the tuck shop.

Your children will love you for spending time next to the sports field and I and my children thank you for updating me what they are doing when I’m not there to see them roll in gymnastics or play rugby.

You have a really thankless job, so I want to say THANK YOU.

Just for in case no-one has said it lately.

Thank you.

 

An ode to Tannie Emsie

emsieThere has been much dinner table conversation in our house about manners lately (oh, who am I kidding, we are ALWAYS on about manners).  I got sick of whining about elbows off the table/don’t wipe your hands on your clothes/eat with your mouth closed/don’t talk with your mouth full of food/sit up straight, so we made it into a game.

The game is called: what would a Princess/Prince do.  It wasn’t on purpose, but it’s been fun.  Although it does get a little out of hand with helpful suggestions like “Princesses don’t fart at the table” and “Princesses never burp out loud, especially not in front of strangers” and “Princesses don’t scratch in their noses AND eat their snot”.

All this talk of manners reminded me of Emsie Schoeman, that old stalwart of Good Afrikaans Manners.  Who remembers her?  My Mother used to terrorise us with Tannie Emsie.  We had her book, it was required reading in our house and heaven help you if you stepped out of line and broke the Rules of Life According to Tannie Emsie.

Tannie Emsie is the Afrikaans equivalent of Emily Post (thank you Vanessa!) and if you don’t know who Emily Post is, well, you’re on your own.

At this point in my life I’m not complaining about Tannie Emsie as hopefully some of it stuck, but I came across this gem from Sarie magazine that was published in 2009.  I apologise, it is in Afrikaans, I’m not even going to attempt to translate it (that’s what Google Translate is for), but it is truly special and truly Afrikaans. I see she is even on twitter!

In a nutshell, a lady doesn’t put lipstick on in public, always ALWAYS take something for your hostess if you are going to her house and always remember to thank her afterwards (something I often forget to do, especially with really good friends).  And here I thought it was part of my OCD, not ever wanting to arrive empty-handed at someone’s house.

Right at the bottom of the Sarie link there’s a question about “Oom” (Uncle) and “Tannie” (Aunty) and the varying opinions on whether you make your kids say “Oom” and “Tannie”.  I know many people hate it when other people’s children call them this and prefer to be called by their first names, but man, it goes against my grain to make my kids call an adult by their first name.  I’m getting over it, but it’s really awkward and I find myself avoiding the use of that adult’s name when there’s an interaction between them and one of our kids.  It’s almost a “Er, sê dankie mumblemumble vir die roomys” and I would usher the child away quickly lest I embarrass someone and the dreaded Oom/Tannie slips out.

On the topic of Tannie/Oom, I found this little gem too.  I may or may not have done some ill-mannered snorting at the You-Tube clip.

What do make your kids call other adults that aren’t related to you or really good friends of yours?

What were the things that your parents were really hectic about when it came to manners? 

Ps: I also seem to spending an inordinate amount of time discussing things that don’t belong in pants.  For example:

“Daniel, take the Bushbaby out of your pants”

“But Mom! I like the bush down there”

and another one of my favourites:

“Daniel, take the Angry Birds (soft toy) out of your pants!”

“But Mom!  I like having a bird down there!”

I couldn’t make this stuff up, not even if I tried.

PPS: Tannie Emsie is apparently very much alive and well and living in Wilderness and entertaining Nataniël on a regular basis.

The Stroppy Sevens

I recently mentioned on twitter how stroppy Daniel has been and my darling friend Caz very helpfully pointed out that it is an actual thing, this being stroppy at seven or the Stroppy Sevens. Or as a New Zealand website tactfully puts it, the ‘sensitive sevens’. I may or may not have rolled my eyes.

I can go on and on and on about how badly behaved our darling, affectionate, old soul, gentle son is at the moment. I could tell you about the sulking and the ‘NO!’ and being ignored and kicking (!!) and shoving (!!) his sisters. The crossing of arms and slumping of shoulders. The point blank refusal to do basic things like brush his teeth or take his plate to the kitchen. The throwing of books (!!!!) and telling us how he doesn’t love us anymore.

The constant, constant demand for physical touch and affection, to the point of literally hanging on Etienne or myself at every conceivable opportunity. I feel terrible writing this, but I am generally a very touchy-feely, affectionate person and I find it exhausting. Exhausting. Especially multiplied by 3. A friend and I went to a market on Saturday and all 3 my children were physically attached to me (or my poor friend) for the entire time we were there. We were a wall of limpets, wading through the market.

But I don’t want to scare you, especially if you are currently trying to survive the Terrible Twos or the Fucking Fours. Yes, I said Fucking. If you’ve ever had a four year old you’ll understand.

We are choosing to deal with it by being firm and consistent.

By firm and consistent I mean we threaten to punish/take away iPad privileges far too much and we drink (a lot of) wine. Etienne handles it better than I do, he makes light of the lip dragging on the floor and play-fights when Daniel punches him or point blank refuses to do his homework. He tickles and tries to drag Daniel out of his slump. Me, on the other hand, I linger on the edge of rage. It feels like I’m sending him a message that I don’t love him and I feel like a complete bitch all of the time, but I refuse to pander day in and day out to bad behaviour.

I realised how much this is upsetting me when I dreamt this the other night:
I dreamt I was in town (as in Cape Town CBD) with the kids and we were waiting for a procession to come by, we were sitting on the curb, right in that bend in the road where Adderley turns into Wale. Daniel was really angry with me and stalked off. He got into a taxi and all I saw was the back of his head as the taxi sped off. And then Etienne was cross because I let Daniel get in the taxi. I literally woke up gasping for breath, realising that it was just a horrible dream. That feeling of my child being gone, ai. No words.

So, we shall rally on and survive the Stroppy Sevens, but it’s not for the fainthearted.  And he is only turning 7 on Friday.  Pass the wine.

It of course has crossed my mind that we will have a double whammy in 2 years when the girls turn 7.

Girl Moms, how bad is it with girls?  Please don’t say BAD.  I don’t think I can handle it.

His Mother’s Child

One of my BFF’s was over for supper on Saturday evening for a way overdue catch-up (Hi I!) and I remembered to ask him about a movie his boys used to watch when they about the ages our kids are now, a good few years ago.  The movie is called Spirit and his boys used to get all excited and shout “Spirit! Spirit!” when they watched it and it was very endearing.

Daniel spirit

Etienne managed to find the movie and the kids have watched bits of it over the last couple of days.  Last night we got to the bit where one of the horses gets seriously hurt (I don’t want to give away the story) and the kids were all mesmerised, I have never seen anything like it.  Mignon’s literally didn’t blink so desperate was she not to miss anything.

Daniel got very upset when the horse was hurt.  So much so that he cried.  Our softhearted boy was very upset by this horse, poor guy.  He was fine 2 minutes later, but this was the first time a movie made him cry. This is clearly my child as i cry at the drop of a hat.

In fact, just this weekend (Camilla was it you?) posted this beautiful clip of Michael Buble on Facebook that was so beautiful it made me cry.  I must confess, I’m not a big Michael Buble fan, but this blew me away.

 

I loved it.

Do you cry easily?

Lastly:  Daniel is clearly not just MY child, but also Etienne’s.  We found him fast asleep last night, on the coldest night of the year so far, with a pair of shorts and no top as he had taken his winter pj’s off.  Etienne wears plakkies in winter when he is cold.  Clearly his Father’s child.