Hello Durban

Hello from a slightly windy and wet Durban, herewith some of the highlights and some observations so far:

On the way to the airport Etienne was telling the kids how high we were going to fly (above the clouds) and Mignon asked if we would fly high enough so we could see Jesus. From the subsequent FB comments I gather that this happens more often than you would think.

As we landed in Durban the girls looked out the window and were highly disgusted when they saw the airport. It took some fancy footwork to explain to them that we were now in Durban and that we didn’t spend almost 2 hours flying above Cape Town.

The Spar in Hibberdene. Daniel commented to Etienne that there were so few people from South Africa there as we were standing in the queues along with the hundreds of month end and pension payout people. Of course not delivered in the appropriate inside voice.

We lived in Amanzimtoti in the 80’s and the South Coast still smells like my childhood. (If you have read my ramblings for a long time you may remember that I strongly associate memories with smell)

The South Coast of KZN is as I remember it, albeit with more potholes. There are even still a few rather faded Afrikaans signposts around.

Speaking of signposts: not really a thing around here. In Cape Town you have signposts to warn you that signposts are coming up. Here, not so much. You see a signpost you best take that turnoff and keep going and hope for the best.

Avocados. Pineapples. Sugarcane plantations. Fields of banana trees. Macadamias. Papayas.

Vaalies*. On the beach. In the howling wind on an overcast day. In bikinis. Swimming in the sea.

To get to the beach we walked on a walkway under a train bridge and I said to Etienne I’m sure this is the bridge under which my Dad took me fishing many years ago. There was much sniggering as we crossed about 10 similar bridges with similar walkways in the next 20 kilometers.

There are a lot of rivers that flow into the sea on the South Coast.

The 3G signal here is very bad. Or I am very spoilt. Or both. Also: wi-fi is nothing to be sniffed at.

We went to Pure Venom today and neither their gift shop nor restaurant credit card machines worked. One because the landline has apparently been out of order for ages and the other because the 3G signal is so bad. Businesses are losing money because people cannot pay with plastic. The kids had a ball though, as usual they were the loudest lot there.

We were woken up at 6am this morning by the 15 peahens that sleep in the tree next to our bedroom having a serious disagreement.

And lastly: what would a holiday be without a sick child? (Mignon)

Stay tuned, more to follow. I’m battling to post pics due to the bad signal, will update later, promise.

*Vaalies is a term of endearment for people that are from Gauteng. Gauteng used to be called old Transvaal in the Apartheids years, hence the term.

The day my head exploded

exploding_headI haven’t blogged in ages. Not that I haven’t thought about blogging. I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about blog posts and things I *need* to write down.

Thing is, I haven’t come up with anything that wasn’t either very sad or very angry or wasn’t a stream of incoherent drivel or didn’t sound like the horror of middle-class problems.

Sad because I feel like I can’t say anything about the imminent death of Madiba because it doesn’t feel like he belongs to me and who am I to call him Tata. It feels like I’ve been sitting in the voorkamer waiting for death to take him away. It’s exhausting. I have already spent enough time crying after watching this Johnny Clegg video and it really feel like the entire country is in limbo.

Angry because of the ANC’s electioneering during this time. It infuriates me beyond belief to see Jacob Zuma use Madiba’s imminent death to his own benefit. Angry also because people like Steve Hofmeyr and Dan Roodt are fanning the flames of racial hate. These people all make me cringe and  embarrassed to a. be South African and b. be Afrikaans. Fuckers.

Incoherent drivel because there is just too much going on in my head at the moment between work and planning to go away next week. Organise car / what to pack / plan menu / sort out kid activities for plane / plan packing / check flights / interview Au pairs / sort out girly grooming crap / make lists / make lists of things I need to make lists of / delinquent dog that needs to be sorted / make sure the animals are taken care of when we’re away / make sure house sitters have food / check on domestic worker and so on and so forth.

Middle-class problems because, ag, don’t worry, I couldn’t be bothered to talk about finding an Au Pair for our kids here. Know that I’m worried and stressed about our kids and what’s best for them. For the last week it’s been a mad dash every day to interview people at home.

But I don’t feel guilty. So I guess that’s a thing.

Today is my last working day before we are off to Durban for a week and I think we are all at the end of our tethers today as I hear Mignon had an epic meltdown when Etienne dropped them off at aftercare this morning.  (to be honest, she had a meltdown this morning when I put my foot down about the short-sleeve bolero jacketS she wanted to wear over a sleeveless dress.

Almost there!

sleepingps. I took this pic of the girls sleeping last night, I love how Mignon had her hand against Isabel’s head.  Whenever they sleep in our bed we find them touching in some way, it’s such a twin thing.  Posting it felt voyeuristic, I’m not sure I’ll publish another pic of them sleeping again. It somehow feels wrong now, I can’t really explain why.  My head might just really explode.

pps. any suggestions of things for the kids to do on the plane?  They were very keen to play hide and seek on the plane, but I don’t think so.  We might rather unpopular..

Keeping it real

real_logoI know you’re not meant to care what other people think of you, but I do sometimes wonder. Over the last 2 days we’ve had people over to the house that have never been there before.

Both days these people arrived at the time that is typically that one hour that supper is being cooked and the kids are lolling around the kitchen, playing computer games or are comatose on the couch.  We aren’t big on television (I didn’t even have it on for myself at night when Etienne was away last week), but it occurred to me that people might wonder if our kids watch a lot of television or spend their lives behind computers. The thought mortifies me.

I wonder about that snapshot of what people see of our lives at that specific time of day and the impression it leaves.

Yes, I know it doesn’t really matter; it’s just a random thought.

For example:

There is a Mom that drops off her son at about the same time as Etienne drops off the girls in the morning and apparently she shouts at her boy every morning.  That is the snapshot that people see of her, but I wonder if maybe that child doesn’t keep her up at night and she’s just gatvol by 8am in the morning.  Maybe I’m just the eternal optimist.

That Mom that raises her voice in the shops?  Maybe she is a single parent and has no support structure. Or she is like me and has had it with stroppy kids.

The person that appears so cherished and loved online?  Maybe her husband is a right asshole and gambles away all their money on a regular basis.

The person that is always complaining about her weight?  Maybe she also has an idiot husband that doesn’t treat her like the princess she’s meant to be treated and he tells her she’s fat, even though she is absolutely perfect.

The friend that avoids talking about having children?  Maybe she knows her husband is cheating on her and she’s not ready to decide if she wants to ignore it or leave him.

I wonder about the image we try to portray, what we think we put out there for people to see, what we think people see and what people really see.

I wonder about how people’s own hang-ups make them jump to conclusions about other people.

Do you think what you put out there is “the real you”?

Does it have to be?

The answer for me is YES, purely because I would forget what I said, duplicity is just too much like hard work for me, but I have become a lot more careful about what I say and how I say it over the last few years.  I think being online has helped with that, you are forced to think about what you say and take the knee out of jerk.

If you know what I mean.

What do you think? If you had to meet everyone you engage with online do you think that they would see what you portray or do you have a different persona?

I’m not saying there’s a right or wrong, I’m just curious.

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!

About Mommy Bloggers

I’m going to go out on a limb here about blogging in general and Mommy blogging in particular.  I haven’t until now because, to be honest, deep down I was scared people wouldn’t like me if I ventured out against the stream. Fitting in isn’t something I’m particularly good at to start off with, so hey, here goes.

I have spent a long time thinking about why I blog and how this blog fits into the blogging community, and how much I hate being labelled a Mommy blogger.  This blog started out as a diary for my kids, much as many Mommy (shudder) blogs start out, and has evolved over the 4.5 years it has been going into something bigger.

So what is it now?  Just a blog.  Call it what you want.

I’ve tried shrugging the label off as unimportant because the blog isn’t monetized and will stay that way. I also refuse to take pledges about how I’m meant to and not meant to be blogging.  Life is simple: either read what I write and leave a welcome comment, or don’t read.  The choice is completely yours; I’m not holding a gun to your head.

The whole topic of ‘mommy blogging’ has been blogged about ad nauseam, mostly by mommy bloggers themselves.  Do I find it insulting that people talk about Mommy Blogs?  You bet.  No-one talks about Daddy Blogs, do they? Because that would be insulting and belittling dads.  So why should women bloggers be labelled as such?

If there is, however, one thing that makes me roll my eyes heavenward it is the Smug Self-proclaimed Media Type Mommy Blogger.  I keep telling myself that they are probably hiding behind terrible insecurities and then I want to rush out and write a post about how things will get better and you will, someday, have uninterrupted sleep again and not be such a complete moron and stop thinking you are better than the rest of us mere illiterate-non-media-type-mortals that write substandard drivel and have never heard of a full stop.  Yes, I did that on purpose.

But mostly I want to slap them with a wet eel.

When did blogging become such a mutually exclusive little club?

I’m really lucky that I’m not one of those Media Types. You know the type.  They huddle together in sycophantic circles on Twitter.

“I love you!”

“NO, I love YOU”

“NO!  I love you MORE!” *sprinkles fairy dust*

They’re arch enemies one day and BFFs the next, only to gloss over their differences in an equally sycophantic post.

Get. A. Grip.

You aren’t better than the rest of us mere mortals. You don’t belong to some exclusive club.  We are all parents, we all have shit (sometimes even actual brown stuff) to deal with.  We all worry about money and schools and crime. We all want to raise the best people we can raise without fucking them up, and to be better than we are.

Life’s too short for falseness and on-line politics.  You either like someone and engage with them or you don’t.

Simple.

ps: I had this sitting in my drafts and wasn’t sure if I was going to be brave enough to post it, but then I saw this post today on “How not to be an asshole blogger” and decided to go ahead and post.

pps: It’s ok, I’ve been called a bitch before, I just choose not to react. So go right ahead.

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!

My thoughts on abuse pics on Social Media

Let’s be honest. We’ve all had our fingers hover over that ‘share’ button when we see a ‘Save the Rhino’ campaign or a ‘Don’t litter in the sea, birds 1000’s of miles away are dying’ video or a pic of bleeding and/or dying and/or starving and/or abused children and/or animals on Facebook.

Some of us don’t hesitate to share, some don’t care and others, like me, are vociferous in our opinion that it achieves nothing. Absolutely. Nothing.

You either care about animals and children or you don’t. You are either other one of those people polluting the sea, shooting rhinos or harming animals and children or not. Chances are that the people in your FB stream lean whichever way you do, which means that, by posting those horrible pics, you are just wasting bandwidth and precious emotional energy. Or you enjoy harming animals and children. In which case we probably aren’t friends.

Yes. I know I’m the first one to name and shame and post pics of people that don’t strap their kids in when they drive as this is very close to my heart. You know what? I secretly hope that someone knows someone that I posted a pic of that will klap that person upside the head and call them a douche. And hopefully next time that person will think twice before they they let their child bounce around their car.

I enjoy FB because it gives me a chance to watch funny cat videos and giggle at other funny stuff my friends post. I escape there (and on twitter) and shoot the breeze with friends, occasionally use it to air an opinion and to tell people when a child has broken an arm. (Mignon, Friday night, post to follow).

Does this make me shallow? Possibly.

The difference between twitter and Facebook is that when you post a pic on FB it is RIGHT THERE in your face, not a thumbnail you have to click on. This means that if you come across something that’s not necessarily PG or suitable for your kids and they happen to be leaning over your shoulder in bed on a Saturday morning, watching funny cat videos on FB with you, they are exposed. They ask questions. They are confused as to why that doggy doesn’t have paws and who would want to hurt that doggy Mommy? They see that pic of the emaciated child in Ethiopia you so desperately would love to rescue if you could.

You could argue that you need to see the horrible things people are doing so it will galvanize people into action, but really, will it? And why should I unwillingly and my children unwittingly be exposed to it? Why would we not rather reinforce positive behaviour than repeatedly underline the negative?

Many of my friends have teenagers. Their teenagers all have FB accounts and are inevitably friends with their parents and friends of their parents. They are thus also exposed to gratuitous energy sucking negativity or pics that their parents were tagged in. I’m not sure which is worse.

My point is this: I’m responsible for what I and my kids see on Facebook and I choose to let it be funny and positive for the biggest part. There’s enough collective angst in the world. Yes, I definitely want to know if you aren’t well or someone you care about died or if you are having a bad day. It’s within my realm of control to care about you.

I have absolutely no control over children and animals being harmed except if I actually see it happen.

I choose to show our children the beautiful things in life so that they can draw from images of beauty, not pain. They’ll have plenty of that to deal with soon enough.

I choose to fill their emotional wells with love and music and beauty and the occasional shouty bits in between.

I choose to teach our children respect for each other and our animals and the earth.

Surely that’s a better way than to be bombarded with terrible images that were only put out there for shock value?

What do you think?

Ps. This post isn’t aimed at a single person. It is a culmination of my feelings over a long period of time and I simply felt it was time to share my thoughts.

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?