About making my blog private

I’ve been having a long, hard think about this blog, about my reasons for blogging and what I get out of it.

Let’s be honest. Most of us that blog (myself included) do it because, deep down, we love the attention/crave feedback/need someplace safe to vent. We thrive on the comments and the collective outrage when something goes wrong. Some people even make shit up, post terrible anonymous comments on their own blogs or re-publish old posts because they need the traffic it will generate or because people weren’t outraged enough first time around. (sadly, this is true)

I specifically chose not to make the blog commercial, instead opting to write when I want and what I want. (I won’t bore you with the standard “I don’t have enough time anyway” excuse). It’s not important how many people visit the site or how many comments are left, although I do love them. What’s always been important is to be true, honest and authentic, and right now I can’t be those things because I have no control over who is reading. There is a post about religion sitting in my drafts FOR A YEAR I haven’t had the guts to post lest I offend too many people. That post (and then some) is like that stupid piece of Lego you step on in the middle of the night, a constant reminder that I’m not entirely authentic anymore.

The other reason I blog is to leave memories for our children, but somewhere along the line the lines got blurred between wanting to write good content and leaving a trail of shiny stones for the kids about the beautiful triviality of everyday life in our house and the awesomeness of who they are and how much we treasure them.

Lately there has been a lot that I haven’t been able to talk about, not because things aren’t well, but because I feel too exposed. More and more I find that people know everything about my life because they read it on my blog and I know nothing about theirs. It has an impact on my friendships, it has become disconcerting when I meet new people and they say “So glad you managed to sort X and X out, I read about it on your blog. Oh, and nice to meet you”. Or, even worse, they’ve read my blog, have already put me in a box and don’t tell me. That freaks me out just a little.

It is however fantastic when I meet someone and they say “thank you for talking about X, it made me face XYZ”. When I have those conversations I’m blown away that I had a positive impact on someone’s life.

But is it enough?

Sadly not.

I’m sick of spam.

I’m sick of being someone’s punching bag.

I surround myself with people that are positive, interesting and brave in real life, why should I let random trolls on the Internet (and above is not the only example) upset me. So what if I like making pretty things and not being a good Mom/Wife causes me endless anxiety. The rude comments cause me more anxiety, they must go. Not because I don’t value feedback and cannot handle criticism, but because there’s no need to be a doos about it.

Lastly and absolutely the most important reason: Our children are very adept at Google, especially Daniel. He asked me recently what he would find if he Googled me and I told him that he would find a blog where I write about how much I love him and the Sussies. But there comes a time when you can’t talk about your children as openly as you used to, it’s not fair to them.

So. I’m making this blog private, I’m taking it out of the public eye. Going solar, off the grid.

If you want to continue reading I’m happy to invite you to read and you will receive a notification when I do post something, but I will no longer be publishing to Social Media and I’m unsubscribing everyone that is currently subscribed.

Just leave me a comment from the email address you want to use and I’ll set it up, otherwise request from the page that will come up when you visit the site from Friday.

So long, and thanks for all the fish.

 

Afrikaans Printables for all!

At the beginning of the school year I decided to put little printables in the kids’ lunchboxes and found some on Pinterest, but clearly none of it was in Afrikaans.

I then found some Afrikaans Knock-Knock jokes on the Internet (some from a bizarre re-telling of a school event) and bought this book with Afrikaans jokes.

The problem with doing little letters for lunchboxes is that you can’t stop, so it’s a constant thing. Also, Daniel reads, but the girls not yet, so I had to find some simple, colourful stuff that would appeal to all of them.

I then did what any self-respecting person does that has a question: I asked Facebook and so the lovely Tamiya came to the rescue!

She sent me the most beautiful little notes that I can use over and over again and has given permission for me to share them with you.

You can click here, here, here, here and here and it should take you to Google Drive. If it doesn’t or you can suddenly see all my gatvol emails to builders and architects because I completely messed it up, please let me know?

And if you love them like I do and we all ask very nicely I’m sure Tamiya will do some more for us..

On smells and memories

I posted a question about perfume on FB this evening and realised how many memories I have that are linked to smells in general and perfume in particular.

I used to LOVE perfume, but when I was pregnant with Daniel I couldn’t bear even the lightest of perfumes, my sinuses revolted. Then I was breast feeding and I didn’t like him smelling of perfume. And then, soon after, I was pregnant with twins and my sense of smell was so acute I could smell when a colleague changed her brand of softener she used in her washing.

But looking through the comments of this post I’m instantly reminded of my Grandmother’s lavender scented powder and stretching up to see her ‘do her face’ at the dressing table that now lives in the girls’ room.

My first boss in London at Selfridges that wore Amarige, just like my mother used to, and how terribly homesick it made me feel whenever she wafted into the office on a cold, dark London morning.

The first perfume I bought myself in London, First by Van Cleef and Arpels. Followed by Aromatics Elixir from Clinique, that I wore for many years.

Another, much loved, boss that used to wear Chanel’s Coco Mademoiselle. To this day I think of her when I catch a whiff of someone wearing it.

Wearing Chanel’s Allure on my very special wedding day.

A friend that is no longer in my life that used to wear Red Door, never a personal choice of perfume for me.

I could go on for ages, I may even come back to add some memories, but you catch my drift.

I wonder what smell my kids will remember me by one day?

Do you also remember smells?

On driving in Gauteng

Yes, I know, I haven’t blogged in more than a month. I was far too busy enjoying my children, my husband, Christmas, a 6 day camping trip, renovation woes and general start-of-the-year-madness. If you’re curious about what I’ve been up to you’ll have to satisfy yourself with my Instagram feed, you can find me here.

Part of the start-of-year-madness was a 4 day trip to Gauteng for work this week. It’s the 4th trip in 6 months and I’ve had to put my big girl panties on and drive whilst there. I’m talking lots of Jozi CBD, Centurion and Pretoria CBD trips. I’m not a nervous driver at all, but driving in Gauteng has always scared me a little.

Guess what? It’s not so bad. Just some observations:

1. The general disregard taxis have for road rules and the lack of common courtesy is astounding, it is a lot worse than in Cape Town.
2. Ditto trucks.
3. Not all the drivers are assholes, lots of people are friendly in the roads. But there are some choice assholes in big 4x4s that feel nothing for other people (or people on bikes!!) on the road
4. Potholes. Enough said.
5. Stop streets. I’m used to stopping at a stop street with both a sign and STOP painted on the road. In Gauteng there are only Stop signs, nothing painted on the road. It’s quite jarring and very confusing to someone like me that needs as many clues as possible about when to go and when to wait.
6. When it rains or there’s an accident on a highway everyone slows down and immediately puts their hazards on, this is really cool. Capetonians, take note.
7. There are a LOT of accidents. A LOT. I almost missed my flight today because a car and a truck had an argument which I can only assume the car lost as it was overturned in the side of the road.
8. Those etoll tags beep. Every. Single. Time. Drives me insane.
9. Many people take the back roads to avoid etolling. Ergo, less traffic on the highways. This pleases me greatly.
10. Related: the back roads are awesome. There are truly beautiful houses and neighbourhoods. I love the history and beauty of Gauteng.

As much as I love Cape Town, I am envious of the special beauty of the Highveld. The energy of inner-city Johannesburg. Thunderstorms. That very special smell of the earth when the rain has come and gone in the afternoon and the dust has literally settled.

I feel like I’m cheating on Cape Town, but I think it’s a harmless little infatuation, so I’m sure I’ll be forgiven.

On Self-Fat Shaming

Tertia posted this update on Facebook and it really made me think (which is kinda obvious otherwise I wouldn’t have taken the time write a post about it, but hey)

Post by Tertia Loebenberg Albertyn.

 

This may come as a shock, but I have some body issues. Admittedly, they are a lot less than they were before I turned 40, which I highly recommend by the way, it’s AWESOME. I gained a lot some of the weight I lost last year back in the last 6 months as happens when you are stressed and eat toasted cheese and tomato sarmies for breakfast on the run too often.

The funny thing is, I don’t really care about the weight as much as I would have once. After some serious introspection I realised I was worried about what The People say and how I am judged. “Oh look, haha, she lost all that weight last year and she gained it all back, hahahahaha”. Ja, I’m over it now that I understand where my own Fat Shaming comes from. Judge away, I don’t care. No really, I couldn’t give a shit.

I tried casting my mind back over conversations with our children regarding body shape and weight and I honestly can’t remember deliberately putting myself down as I am sensitive to it thanks to the Internet.

But some things stand out for me:

  • I may or may not have a habit of dashing through the house in the mornings in a less-than-dressed (read:naked) state. The other morning one of the girls pointed at my wobbly middle bits and said “Mom! Look at your fat tummy!” and all I could think of to say was “Yes, but remember that you and your sister were in there at the same time and Daniel before that, so I don’t mind at all” I still felt a bit hurt, even though it was true.
  • The girls were recently chatting about eating chips and sweets at school and were telling us how Child X’s Mom (who is very, very thin) doesn’t let her eat any chips as “she will get fat and then she will have to go on a diet”. The child is a beautiful little 5 year old girl and my heart aches.
  • Children eavesdrop. They pick up stompies* and lately strange things have been parroted back to us by our own children that they overheard. I shudder to think what they’ve heard me say before I became aware of it.

We are ALL responsible for what we tell our children as our children talk to other children. A little of their innocence was taken away and it’s really not acceptable to be talking to your 5 year old about diets and getting fat (in my opinion). We told the girls to go back and tell their friend that a little chips or sweeties every now and then is ok and that it’s better to be healthy because then you feel happy.

All that is important to us is in the end is that they are happy well-adjusted kids, not pin-heads that count every single calorie that goes into their bodies.

That they love and be kind to their bodies, warts and all.

* picking up stompies is slang for “hearing half a story and jumping to conclusions”

Related: I should really stop saying Shit and Fuck. “coughs”

A discussion of death

Our children haven’t been exposed to death or funerals so we’ve had some interesting conversations about death lately.

Yesterday we were watching the transport of Madela’s casket to Qunu and how it was loaded into the airplane. Shortly after I was watching a clip of Harry at the South Pole dragging his sleigh behind him. Mignon pipes up: Mom, is Mandela in that sleigh?

This morning, whilst they were transferring the casket Isabel asks: Mom, when do they him take out? So I spent the next few minutes explaining that you are buried in the ground, in the casket. I then made the mistake of trying to explain that you can also be cremated. The concept of ash didn’t go over very well. Have you ever tried to explain cremation to a 5yo?

Other notable questions include:
Isabel: what does it feel like to die? Answer: some people die in their sleep so they don’t even know, others maybe in car accidents so it happens so quickly they also don’t know. I shudder to think how I’m going to explain suicide.
When I explained that Joyce Banda is the first female President in the whole of Africa, Mignon asks: Mom, who was the first person made in Africa?
Loosely related, Daniel asks: Mom, did you have Bibles when you were small? Answer: yes
Daniel again: When will Ouma X die? How many sleeps before she dies? She’s very old you know.
Isabel: Will Ouma X die only when you’re a granny? Answer: we don’t want Ouma to die, we don’t want to count sleeps, but I don’t think she’ll live until I’m a granny my darling child.
Mignon: when will Madiba be a skeleton? Answer: remember he already has a skeleton, all the meat on his bones will disappear. Mignon: yes, but when will his skeleton come out?
Daniel: what do you look like when you are dead? Answer: your eyes are closed and you breathe anymore. Yes, but what do you LOOK like?

I always marvel at the resilience of children and how quickly they move on from difficult subjects, but I worry if we give them the right answers and which parts of what we say they remember. How do you explain death in a way that won’t scare them?

The one thing I know our children will remember of this time is the various versions of Hallelujah that were played in our house and how they made me cry every time.

Daniel may remember the many hugs he gave me every time I cried over the last 10 days, I think they were baffled by all my tears and even asked why they couldn’t hear me cry.

I know I was.

Goodbye Madiba – A letter to our children

Dropping off flowers for Madiba this past Sunday in the Waterfront.
Dropping off flowers for Madiba this past Sunday in the Waterfront.

Dear Children,

It’s been a week since Nelson Mandela died and I’m finally ready to put my feelings and memories down in words.

I was in Matric in 1990 when FW de Klerk gave his monumental speech that finally changed the direction of this country, legalizing all formerly banned political parties. I remember our history class all huddled together to watch the speech and our teacher telling us how this was going to change everything we knew until then. We knew we were hovering at the edge of something momentous and I’m grateful to this day for that amazing teacher that explained it to us in such a way that it made sense and filled us with hope.

Fast forward to the release of Mandela and we saw events unfold from there. I was here for the first election in April 1994, but in London during the 1995 Rugby World Cup, dating an Australian (as you do when you’re in London). I missed most of what happened as I was working in the hospitality industry, but I do remember running to and from the lounge and reception areas in the hope of glimpsing some of the final. It was magical, even so far away from home.

Fast forward once again to 1999 when I was working at The Table Bay Hotel and Nelson Mandela came to visit. I remember him walking into the entrance of the hotel and all the staff, myself included, found a reason to linger in the hope of catching a glimpse of him. He walked in, larger than life, said ‘Hello’ in his big booming voice and waved to everyone. His voice was SO loud and clear, it surprised me so much to hear him speak in real life. Right then I understood why he had touched so many peoples lives and many, many more since then.

When all is said and done and we are over getting our knickers in a wad over presidents taking selfies and fake sign language interpreters I hope we remember the good that came from having him.

I hope you tell your own children one day about the legacy of love and forgiveness that this wonderful man has left us, much like you Dad and I are doing.

I hope that you live your lives free of judgement and filled with love.

I hope we are raising people better than ourselves.

I hope that one day, when are you old enough to read this, you will know what Nelson Mandela did for this country and understand the impact of what his example means for each one of us in our own lives and how we interact with others.

We love you very much, stay as awesome as you are.

ps, just for in case you forget, have a look at this:

Martha se moer

This post is dedicated to all my friends that have called me Martha (Stewart) over the last few years.

Normally by this time every year there are home-made advent calendars that inevitably don’t end well and Christmas gifts are mostly bought or already being made with love.

Usually, by this time, I have already planned the Christmas feast and have been testing recipes like mad.

This year there is none of that.

This crazy (in a good way) year I remembered about advent calendars at 4:30PM (!!) on the 1st of December and I rushed off to Woollies, only to find them all sold out. This was remedied by rescuing long-forgotten old little advent boxes that Etienne stuffed with little things I managed to find at Pick and Pay in the 5 minutes before they closed.

This year I haven’t made a thing for Christmas gifts, thought about making anything or even had more than a passing, slightly hysterical, thought of what to buy people for Christmas, except for hastily crocheting edges around pillow covers for teacher’s gifts.

Today we had store-bought apple pie (don’t die laughing, to know me is to love me) for dessert with a hastily thrown together family lunch.

This year the days are rushing by with a resounding WHOOOOOOSH and I am just hanging on for dear life.

This year I’m completely over it.

Martha se Moer, this Mom would rather spend her precious time snuggling with children and a very neglected husband. The rest will sort itself out.

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.