Our morning's excursion

Without my car for the day, as it was having one of its many aches and pains attended to, I decided to take The Boy for a spin in his stroller and amble down to the local little shopping centre in search of a morning's diversion for a young mind.

Shielded with SPF 50 and peak caps we(I) walked along the familiar roads while spotting foraging guinea fowl and busy mailmen.

We walked past Oupa and Ouma's house and happened to catch Oupa on his way out to the traffic department to renew his drivers license. Hoping to find short queues he zoomed off to go fill in annoying forms and have unflattering identity photos taken.

We passed a big truck and forklift clearing building rubble from the shopping centre's newer renovations. Choking on the dust we quickly bypassed a big generator truck making lots of noise and emitting lots of heat. Due to a scheduled power outage it was there to help keep the centre's supermarket's fridges running. How convenient.

We popped into the pet shop and had a look at the rabbits, guinea pigs, birds and fishes. Keeping an eye on curious little fingers I managed to keep the Boy's digits from becoming lunch for an enraged bunny or a squawking parrot.

Nipping into the pharmacy I decided to get some anti-fungal cream for a suspected fungi-fied patch of skin on the boy's thigh. I think its a fungal infection as its the same kinda thing, and in the same spot, as he had it when he was a baby. So, I'm assuming its a fungal infection.

When asking the lazily texting shop assistant for some Medaspor she asked me specifics like "Is it the vaginal cream?" right in front of 2 elderly gentlemen from the local retirement home.
I don't like to swear but thank God (repeat three times) I could avoid heart attacks and embarrassment all round and unfalteringly answer "No, the other one, thanks".

With the ointment paid for and stuffed into the pram we headed off for our next stop. I needed to find some cranberry sauce and have not had much luck finding it. Probably because its all sold out by now, five days before Christmas. No luck at the supermarket, the rack where it was stored was disappointingly empty. Keep looking. But I managed to pick up some ingredients for spaghetti bolognaise which also found itself into the pram's limited parcel space.

Deciding to live dangerously I take the Boy into the craft shop with ceramics and gazillions of beads. We find his little mate Demi in there with her mom, whom I have always greeted outside school but never had a conversation with. She is deaf and has never seemed to keen to chat anyway.

Luke and Demi are having fat conversations about the pretty mirrors and I hand them balloons to take a closer look at. Probably not a good idea as I have to chase Luke around the shop trying to get the balloon back. After calculating if the amount in my bank account will cover the damages incurred should my chunky child careen into anything I admit defeat and just pay for the balloon and hightail it out of the shop. Demi and her mom and little brother swiftly follow suit. Her mom and I get chatting outside while the kids ride on the mechanical pony rides.

I find myself a tad amused as we try to communicate despite my stutter and her hearing impairment. I can follow most of what she is saying but am terrified that I have just smiled and nodded when she has asked me a question. Luckily I don't think that happened. That has happened to me and I know how frustrating/embarrassing it can be.

We part ways with Luke and Demi embracing and we all wave "Goodbye and Merry Christmas!". Luke and I head to the nursery to see what seedlings are on sale and to take a look at more bunny rabbits. I decide to buy 2 more trays of seedlings and somehow manage to stuff them into the heaving pram and we start our journey back home huffing and puffing up the 45degree hill we inconveniently live on.

With the morning excursion done I make lunch for us both and sit down with the Boy to watch Ice Age for the bazillionth time.
Good times.

Plush Love

Peaking round the door to spy/quietly check up on The Boy without him seeing me (a handy skill to cultivate as a nosey/caring parent) I observe him having just woken up, all rumpled and tousled, sitting up in his bed. He is chatting to his beloved Teddy. He is gazing at Teddy's face and tenderly kisses the fluffy face. Deciding he hasn't quite got the spot just right he kisses Teddy's mouth again, this time on target and with gusto. Then he plays with the bear's arms. They are a bit worn and flat after all the tugging and being hauled around with The Boy but still both in one piece. (Note to Mama: I need to darn the one arm as the bear's shoulder has come a tad unstitched and I need to avoid psychological trauma should the arm pull loose and all his stuffing gushes out.)

Playing with Teddy's arms, flapping them at his sides The Boy demands gently of the bear "Teddy, give me a hug!" and he helps Teddy to wrap his arms round the Boy's waist. Bear and Boy are locked in an embrace so sweet to witness.

And I thought The Husband and I must be doing something right. Children mimic what they see, particularly at home. We are an affectionate family, we have no trouble bestowing kisses upon each other. Its like Heaven to receive a spontaneous hug from each other. The Darling Husband & I are often found sharing a kiss and a cuddle, strangely in the kitchen most times, and when discovered by the Boy he usually pushes his way between us and laughingly says "My turn! My turn!". We pick him up and I give him a kiss, he then kisses Dada and then makes Mama and Dada kiss each other again and then we all share a group hug. Precious times.

While being in a previous romantic relationship I remember the moment realizing that it wouldn't work. The chap's parent's had divorced when he was young and in general were just not affectionate people at all. The result was that my partner found it irritating that I wanted to hug him so often. I ended up almost craving affection and resenting him for not being able to give it to me. It was so frustrating!

I started reading The 5 Love Languages and discovered that while we can all exhibit different types of affection most of us have a a dominant(home) love language.

For a quick summary, the five love languages are:

1. Physical touch (hugs & kisses, pats on the back etc)

2. Words of affirmation (encouraging each other, telling them how beautiful/handsome they look, etc)

3. Receiving of gifts (as materialistic as that sound surprising each other with little gifts is great.) 

4. Spending quality time with your partner and family (making time for a special family night in, playing games, undivided attention etc.)

5. Acts of service, it can even be doing a chore that the other one doesn't feel like doing ie taking the trash out. I like that one)

You may have guessed that the relationship did not last (no, really?). However I did learn what I needed from my future partner in life - a man with the same primary love language as I had: physical touch. It was something I prayed for: a man that could make me laugh, that had no trouble socializing with my friends and family and that loved to love me. And let me love him. Admittedly we don't always feel like loving each other or even liking each other some times, but thats par for the course of marriage I guess. Lets get real, sometimes we feel like giving the other one a fat klap.

But for most of the time the Grizwolds are a happy bunch of bananas.

I am so pleased that The Boy is able to express his affection and love in a healthy way. Children need so much love and good doses of healthy touch. Because a lack of it can almost have an emotionally crippling effect on the child in later life. I'm not saying thats the rule but it stands to reason that if a child is taught and shown love and affection (BIG emphasis on healthy love and affection) in early life that that is what he will be imprinted with. (Yes, I watch Twilight. Have even found time to read the books, how did that happen?).

And yes, its all very well to tell a child he is loved and to be comfortable in the belief that he knows he is loved, but especially at this young age, personally, I think its crucial that children need that physical love, a cuddle, a hug, a kiss on a skinned knee. Isn't it amazing that a Momma's kiss CAN actually make things better? I am always amused when Luke is wailing about a bumped head or a stubbed toe and the minute I kiss it better he is fine and carries on with his business. Literally "Oooh, aaaah, eina, aaaah, ouch *kiss* thanks Mommy".

Because, at this age they believe that we can make it all better, we will protect them and that they are safe with us.

So it breaks my heart to hear of abuse cases (just even as recent as while I was writing this post) of people closest to a child, relatives, that have abused that trust and do things to children that they should not even hear about let alone experience. Thats if they make it out alive. Sadly this recent case didn't. Most days I try leaving the radio and its depressing news broadcasts switched off. Hence my complete lack of up-to-date world knowledge. The only updates I follow these days are on Facebook. I admit it. My name is Judy and I am a Facebook junkie. Look, I can get by without it but I like to know what y'all are up to!

Anyway.

Love and affection and approval is what we all need. The world would be a happier, healthier place if these things were given freely. While I may not be able to heal this hugely troubled world I can make sure that the people who make up my world know that they are loved and thats its ok to show that love in an appropriate manner.

In 15 years time my teenage son might try shrug me away and roll his blue eyes and groan "Ma, thats so uncool!". But hopefully he will be strong enough and confident enough in himself to grace his ol' Mama with a gigantic bear hug, even in front of his snickering mates.

Or I just might have to haul out Teddy and ask him for a furry hug myself.

Dad's on duty

I had to giggle. And maybe have a good chuckle.


Like most households Mama is probably the primary caregiver which translates to Mama does pretty much everything. Well at least that's what it feels like.


This includes potty training, toilet duties and little size 3-4 scants checks.


Most mornings I get everything and everyone done and ready for school and work. I aim to be out of the house by 7:45 am but realistically its usually, if I'm lucky, 20 minutes later.


This morning I'm done and ready and waiting and have called The Boy down 35 times already. Jake and the Neverland Pirates are just too interesting for him to actually take note of Mama bellowing her imminent departure time and threats of abandonment and Home Alone scenarios.


Finally The Darling Husband hauls the child downstairs. But while carrying him down he is starting to wrinkle his nose and darting concerned looks in my direction.


"Um, Jude, I think we have a situation here..."


I'm playing dumb. Or annoyingly unsympathetic.


So Dad takes the Boy to the loo and reluctantly examines the contents of our angel's underpants.


Now, The Husband's nose is very sensitive, as is his gag reflex. (This is a man who emptied an entire air freshener can the first time I changed our newborn son's butternut-yellow poo nappy at home).
A whole lot of clearing of his throat and sniffing and gagging commences while trying to extract the Boy's legs from his shorts and soiled undergarments while avoiding letting the offending mess plop onto the floor. Or his shoes. The horror.


Where am I? I am, for once, an amused spectator. Shoulders quietly shaking with mirth, I observe both members of our home's male population huddled around the toilet.
Dad is in possession of the orange undies and is shaking the stinky contents into the bowl. But this must be a stubborn sh*t as I hear him muttering "Jou bliksem..!" as he employs a more vigorous approach. Finally the drol rolls into the loo and we can start cleaning up.


("That's a beeeg one!" exclaims The Boy, for good measure.)


Fresh underpants, flushed toilet, windows opened wide and we can finally make our exodus from the house, Mama still chortling.


This was a shitty blog post, I know.

Playing trains

*"Its high time Joe gets out there and finds a job instead of staying home and playing trains."

Now this comment irked me no end. And I'll explain why and maybe put it into context.

Joe is a friend of ours, a very good friend in fact. He will give you the shirt off his back if you wanted it. A generous funny man, but at the moment he is a man struggling to launch his business. In this current economy it takes a very brave man to start his own enterprise. Nevertheless, he has a very supporting family and a devoted business-savvy wife. He will get there and reach his goals, but like everyone who has ever taken that leap of faith (and for some of us it has been a high-jump-worthy-of-gold leap of faith) launching a business and making a success and building a good name takes time.

So this is where Joe is at the moment. But Joe has a passion for model trains, collecting them, restoring them and building landscapes for his treasures to steam across. Over the years, as times have become a little tougher, he has had to sell a few of his beloved engines here and there to help make ends meet. I think each sale breaks a little of his heart, this is how much the man loves his hobby.
Lately, due to business being quiet and despite his many attempts at "making it work", he had a few weeks where things were a little dead. So he filled the hours by tinkering on his trains and getting his sons involved with his hobby. Good extra father-son bonding time. (These tough times can have some good side effects) All the while waiting for those phone calls to come in. This is where I leave Joe and start explaining why my opening sentence irked me so much.

Because I have been in Joe's situation.
I have been put on short-time, my salary has been halved due to no fault of mine and no other reason than "our business is slow and we need to cut back on all employees salaries", because my boss would rather keep his employees employed than have to retrench any of us. We have all been in the same boat and have all felt like we have had to take several steps back in our lives and "tighten the proverbial belt".
That being the case, my waist should look like Barbie's by now.

Even though my personal situation  has improved I have also known what its like to be sitting at home waiting for that call to come in asking for me to come in for a much needed job with a much needed wage attached to it.
I know the utter anxiety knowing that every minute I am at home means another minute that I can't put on my timesheet which means less of a salary at the end of the month, that every moment that I am sitting on the couch "taking it easy" means less salary to try cover all my comittments with. It is very easily the most stressful time I have ever experienced.

On top of it I had navigate the overwhelmingly new waters of having to care for a newborn son. To top it all, we had also taken our own gigantic leap of faith (another blog another time) and The Darling Husband had launched his own cleaning business too. Hectic days.

But if you have not been through these trying circumstances, where your every penny has to work doubly hard, where you have to cut back and live more simply, where you open your grocery cupboard and are once again reminded of Mother Hubbard, you will not know that "playing trains", be it a hobby, (mine was gardening), excercising or watching tv, is a necessary escape. It is a vital defense system. After doing your utmost to keep yourself positive, send out your cv, reconnect with previous clients and just making sure your name is out there, the only other thing you can do is wait.
And wait.

And a comment like that* is very insensitive and undermining.

For some of us the waiting is thankfully not too long. But while waiting it is so important to keep yourself occupied.

Or else you will make yourself crazy. Utterly nuts. And I have come close.


But this piece is not about my or Joe's pity party, or wanting sympathy or anyone feeling sorry for us. This is about knowing these times are just a season in our lives, that we will succeed in our particular endeavours and we will make it through to the other side. We have taken steps of faith and are getting through with God's grace alone.
Until then I will continue to play trains and enjoy my garden.

If there were any concerns that The Darling Husband had about The Boy playing with hand-me-down Barbie or his cousin's dolls, I can safely dispel them today.

Upon switching the TV on this morning I noticed the Husband had left the PVR on a sports channel the night before. And before I could locate the remote and switch channels to Disney Junior (hot dawg!) The Boy had clapped his eyes on the current viewing sports material. He seemed to perk up and quickly requested that he "want to watch this, Mama!"

Now, you might think that the recent rugby re-runs or soccer games had caught his eye, maybe the crazy BMX shows we watched yesterday, but not quite.

It happened to be an insert on the Lingerie Football Leagues in the USA.

The Pink Panty Brigade aka Toronto Triumph





So. The Boy is so completely male, no need to worry.

And you can wipe that grin off your gorgeous Husband face.

A morning at the Red Cross Hospital

The day dawned bright and fresh with a light sprinkling of rain. I managed to drag the male population out of bed, feed some porridge into both of them and get them out of the house and into the car on time. On time!

Then we couldn't find the keys to open the gate.
Turns out that The Husband was sitting on them.

Right, we were finally mobile and on our way to visit the ENT at the Red Cross Children's Hospital. We needed to check out why The Boy has had so many recurring ear infections. We had an appointment for 9am. And I dislike being late.

Upon entering the foyer of the hospital I was reminded of my visits to Groote Schuur Hospital nearly 3 years ago. Crowds of people waiting to be seen, humid "breathed out" air and floors crying out for the sight of a mop greeted us. Thankfully we were directed upstairs where cheerful bright walls led us down crowded busy corridors. The most beautiful murals adorned the passages with an "Under the Sea" theme, where a magnificent whale spread the length of 5 seats, a yellow submarine disguised a fire hose and beautiful fish played side by side with the young patients running up and down the passages.

We reached the ENT room and were dismayed to see a roomful of people already seated and patiently waiting to see the specialists.
But we had a 9am appointment, right?
Well, it seemed that was just a formality, we could have pitched up at 7am or 11am, we would still have to wait.

I noticed parents armed with bags of chips and bottles of juice and all sharing a mission to see their children attended to. Hopefully still today.

With every appearance of a doctor picking up a file from the hefty pile we'd all crane our ears to hear our names being called. Some of those files were so thick and full of too many reports and tests that they had to be bound and fixed up with Winnie the Pooh tape. I tried to imagine the circumstances those children had found themselves in.

We found a bench outside the room in the corridor and tried to be patient.
And with every little person passing us by I sent a word of thanks to God.
Thank you, Lord that our child is healthy, that he is happy, that he is [what society accepts as] normal.

I saw children with mis-shapen heads, heads too big for their short little bodies, some too small, some children in wheel chairs, some with big bibs draped down their fronts to catch their drool, some with Downs and so many children with holes in their throats and vents allowing them to breathe easier. One little girl with a flat face and coke bottle glasses had webbed hands, almost like stumps only you could see the fingers embedded in the lump of flesh. That didn't stop her enjoying trying to catch the bubbles one of the well prepared dads was blowing in an attempt to entertain the utterly bored children. She laughed and shrilled her excitement when he blew bubbles in her direction meant especially for her.

Two and a half hours after our "appointment time" found us still waiting for our names to be called and "patiently" does not find itself in the same sentence anymore. All over the waiting room are signs declaring that the "first come, first served" method does not apply here but what other method is being put into practise? Patience is in short supply and my sense of humour is malfunctioning. To top it all, the Boy has eaten his last snack and is whining to get onto my back. Again. I haul him up and lug him to look at one of the posters up front. To my right I can see through swinging doors and the consulting rooms are beautiful. More fantastic murals adorn the walls, this time in a forest theme. The artist is gifted.
A tall pretty blonde doctor appears every so often to call patients through. I imagine The Husband hopes she gets to call us. Soon please.

I manage to sit on a little plastic chair and try my hand at colouring in with all the other kids. Luke sits on my lap and, while I was not paying attention, uses the green wax crayon as lip-ice. His face now sports an apple green version of Heath Ledger's Joker.

Shifting up on the bench to allow another mom to squeeze in, we met another young boy. Clearly mentally disabled, he came to say hello to Luke and take a closer look at Buzz Lightyear who was clutched, along with the last strawberry biscuit, in Luke's hand. He smiled and mumbled and produced a little car from his pocket to show Luke. Draping his arm over The Husband's knee he leans against Adrian and smiles his wet smile, displaying 2 discoloured front teeth. Flipping off his hoodie he sports a neat shaven haircut but marring the child's head were several large bald shiny scars indicating vicious past wounds. Again I wondered what this child has had to experience in his young life.

Finally, finally we get called. We don't get a glimpse of the murals but we get to see a lady doctor with beautiful thick eyelashes. She examines Luke's throat and ears and declares that he has "glue ear". Mucous behind his eardrum dulls his hearing slightly and she recommends we come see her in three months time to check if there has been any further hearing loss. Only then will they consider putting grommets** in. The thought of another long morning depresses me but I agree to the appointment. She enquires about his current hearing, his speech and vocabulary and whether he snores and sneezes more than normal. I tell her that he has had numerous ear infections since +- 8 months of age. She replies that children normally have 2 to 6 infections a year and if the child is in creche that figure is often even higher. It is normal.
The Prevnar* vaccine we had given to him 6 weeks ago is hopefully kicking in and will prevent so many recurring infections and courses of anti-biotics. And possibly a small surgery. Holding thumbs!

We head home for lunch, quiet in our thoughts of what we have seen and thankful for our blessings.
Meanwhile The Boy chatters away in the back seat about the motorbikes and trucks he sees and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and "Mommy, whats that?" and biscuits and birdies and Toy Story... Blissful normal things. Thank you.


* http://www.prevnar13.com/

**http://www.hph.co.za/helpful-medical-topics/ent-surgery/grommets.html

Cluck cluck

Flip-flop. Flip-flop.


The sound of my uterus at the sight of Jazzy's new baby. Or at least thats what I thought it would do. Thankfully luckily I kept it together and managed to calmly ooh and aaah over this precious little new bundle that we get to enjoy, while gently but quickly handing her back to her mommy for the nasty bits, think butternut poo all the way up the back, interrupted sleep and sterilizing bottles. Not to mention teething fevers and possets of curdled milk, sore nipples and super unsexy feeding bras.
(And Roz, the poo does not smell like KFC. The Darling Husband otherwise aka Supreme Lover of Fried Chicken would have had a horror attack on the spot if he'd had privvy to hear that amusing comment.)


The Problem: I have been very broody of late, nearly aching at the sight of a new baby and even feeling twinges of jealousy whenever another Facebook friend announces her happy news. I am very happy for you gals. Really.
Its just that I am in a dilemma that has found me increasingly wondering if we should have another baby or not. And its confusing me.


I want that sweet baby skin against my cheek, that fluff that passes for hair tickling my nose and those wrinkly little fingers encircling my own. I long to have that little rosebud mouth find my boob and greedily latch on while making those sweet snuffling noises, and help relieve the winds with a healthy burp over my shoulder.
To find that first smile directed at me, to hold my face close enough for exploring little hands to touch. To blow raspberries on a fat tummy and hear the shriek of enjoyment.


I even felt that maybe there was a little part of our family still missing.
And of course, the questions always follow.
"So when is number 2 on the way??"


Do I not look frazzled enough??


And as The Boy get older, yes, you were right, it does seem to get a little easier. I'm enjoying getting a bit of my freedom back in the sense that a toddler can do more for himself, can feed himself, can eat the same food we eat (even if it needs to be cut into a million pieces), can watch a movie on his own and let mama do some of the exciting things she needs to do, like cleaning floors and toilets, without interruptions every 2 minutes. They get to be even more fun to be with, you can take them on outings and they can actually appreciate where they are. I love watching The Boy's eyes light up when I tell him I'm taking him to the beach. Or that we're going to Ouma and Oupa. Or that we're having fish and chips for supper. We are starting to understand each other more easily.
And to start that all over again...wow.


Its a double-edged sword isn't it? Children are hard work, let no-one mislead you about that fact. And whilst I love being a mama and would never want it any other way, we kinda lose a part of ourselves while nurturing another human being in nearly every aspect of their young life.


Of course we add to who we are too, but the decision to have children goes hand in hand with sacrificing part of who we were. Or are. And I don't mean late nights out or lazy Sunday lie-ins. Hell bells, I still have late nights and early mornings.  Its just that, when they happen, they usually involve strawberry-flavoured paracetamol syrup and aching little ears sharing my pillow.


(Forget the lie-ins *sniff)


Sleeping with your child sounds lovely but as any parent knows, it isn't always all that comfortable. Craning my head away from a little face in the hope of not breathing on him and waking him up does not make for a comfy night's sleep. Lets not forget trying to sleep on a ruler's length of your own mattress and trying to avoid landing your ass on the cold floor. It has happened. Luckily for me the dog was there to break my fall. Not so lucky for the dog.


But I think I'm digressing.


To Have Another Baby. Or Not.


A couple of my friends have all shared with me some of their opinions and insights, some of them come from big families, some are only children, some have only one child, some a few more than that.


1. Your children will have each other to entertain rather than whining to mom and dad that "I'm bo-ored...". I'm guessing "entertainment" can also come in the form of the one egging the other one on to do some form of mischief that will result in the sprouting of yet more grey hairs on this mama's head. But, yes, I hear you, good idea, takes the pressure off me.


2. Having a sibling will teach them how to share and be considerate with others.
Till that golden moment happens I guess I should endure the constant bickering of "Give it back! Its mine! Stop touching me! Thats mine!" etc etc. It can also result in teaching them that Life is not always fair, that your brother that you just gave your beloved cricket bat to because he whined, like, forever, just turned around and whacked you in the back of your head with it, laughed and ran away. Happy days.


3. They will be best friends. When it suits them. And if they don't kill each other. I have a sister, I know how it works. I remember a friend telling her fighting kids to go outside if they wanted to kill each other as she didn't want blood on her carpet. Cool as a cucumber.
They will even be in cahoots and form gangs with each other and share the cricket bat to whack any other unsuspecting sibling. At the end of the day, in a mood of dumbfounding comraderie, they will all most likely be jostling at the bathroom mirror comparing the eggs on their heads and arguing which ones bigger and whom of them swings the hardest. And how many more grey hairs Mom has sprouted.


4. They will have a sense of family at special occasions like birthdays and Christmas, especially later in life. That was a good one, got to me, it did. Who wants your child to be lonely? They can also share any burdens that Life may throw at them, like why Mom and Pop didn't have Rockafeller as a surname or the decision on which nursing home to put us in. They will share a past and provide support for the future. 


5. Learning Life lessons will help them develop social skills. All that arguing with each other must have some positive effect somewhere down the line. Hopefully it will eventually teach them how to interact with others and control their emotions in a healthy way, tackle an argument in a fair and reasonable manner while being compassionate and understanding to each other. Hopefully without the urge to whack someone upside the head with a cricket bat.


And these, and others, are all very valid points. I would very much like the Boy to have a brother or sister.


So many of my single-child mama friends, when we get together, cautiously, sometimes even defensively, ask each other " Are you thinking of having another one?" as if each one of us are the only ones who are being careful about this decision. And sadly, most of the time, this decision is being based on the last few years and the shitty economic pit the world has found itself dumped into.


Lets face it. Babies cost nothing to make (the natural way, ahem) but they sure as darn it start to cost a few pennies when they decide to slip out into the world. And while I have no problem dishing out bucks on nappies and creche fees, they are still expenses I need to factor into my ever dwindling budget. To double those costs make me want to run howling up the mountain. (Yes, ok, maybe The Boy will be out of nappies by the time #2 arrives and I will only have one set of nappies to buy. The way potty training is going in our household I'm not so sure at the moment).


"If you wait for the right time that you find yourself with enough money for another child, you will wait forever." Many people have told us this. And I do agree. Its the same when getting married. You will never have enough so just do it.
Yes. Well. Alright.
But are we not maybe being a tad irresponsible? Or selfish. I suppose the debate can go both ways. I can use that to argue either side.


Irresponsible and selfish towards the single child for not providing siblings and sense of family.
vs
Irresponsible and selfish towards multiple offspring for not being able to provide enough for decent schooling or helpful extra mural activities all designed to enrich and give our children a better head start in life. Which ultimately we all want to give our kids.


While trying not to dwell on the state of my bank account, I am also gratefully aware that we are managing to climb out of the pit, even though it feels agonizingly and frustratingly slowly. And our situation can look very different next year. We could even go all Brangelina and adopt 20 kids and The Darling Husband could have his own rugby team.


Possible. But not likely. The 20 kids scenario, I mean.


So. Who knows what will happen.
Each path has its own pros and cons.


All I know is that I want to give The Boy everything I can to enrich his life and make it as full of love and happiness as I can.
Does this wish include a baby brother or sister?
Only God Himself knows.


Watch this space.

Sticky Tongue

Kids are fascinated by my stutter.


They find it quite interesting and often quite amusing, and not in a nasty way either.


"You talk funny!"


Not all of them directly ask me about it but I know they are just dying to race over to their folks and ask about why I talk differently.


And I can't actually tell you why I stammer. Or else I'd have to kill you.


Nah, not really. I've stammered and stuttered for as long as I can remember. The only times I don't get stuck is when I sing, and then I have rhythm and breathing to aid me. It has been suggested to me that I sing my way through the day. Sorry, I'm not Doris Day. In soooooo many ways....


I've been for therapy, both speech therapy and hypnotherapy. Neither has been much help, maybe I'm just lazy. Or impatient. When one is trying to have a decent serious conversation one doesn't feel like sloooowing down, taaake a breath, breeeeathe out and slip the words gently out.
And forget about having a good argument. Mind you, one of my friends who has known me forever laughs when she tells me I speak real fluently when I'm mad! Just get mad, Judes! Yeah, maybe if I had PMS every day but, luckily for The Darling Husband, I don't.


My sweet little godchild followed me into the kitchen one day while visiting with her folks and asked me a question. I was answering her but was getting stuck on a word. She very gently came and held my hand and sweetly encouraged me with her big eyes and said "Yes..? What is it..? You can say it!" She is 3.


And last night my sister phoned me up laughing over the telephone and said she just had to tell me this. 


Her nephew, who attends the same creche that The Boy does (all the cousins seem to find their way into this same school. A jolly good endorsement, if you ask me.) Anyway, after seeing us all at various family functions he was still trying to connect the dots and and asked his mom who I was. 
"Thats Lukey's mama" his mom answered, probably wondering where this was going.
"I saw her talking to Lukey', he told her," but the words must have been quite sticky as she couldn't say them properly"...!


Quite cute, hey?


My Boy even helps me out every so often by prompting me. If I'm saying a word with a P he'll start softly saying " Pppp..." to get me rolling, sometimes the poor child goes through the whole alphabet waiting for me to get it out.


He is also now getting into the sometimes annoying habit of trying to speed me up by saying "Hmm..? hmmm...? ...hmm? ". Maybe I'm teaching him patience.


I have despaired of not being able to read my child a story, or at least one that doesn't take me forever to read and by the time i have finished he would've fallen asleep out of sheer boredom. But I decided to take the bull by the horns and jump in. Just do it. Breathing and going slowly helps a little. But the Boy still wants to skip ahead 3 pages so I'm not sure if its me he's bored with or just impatient to see all the pictures.


I'm trying to teach him reading etiquette.
At least wait for Mama to get the first sentence out before flipping to the next page. And I can't see the words if your golden little head is bobbing across the page in front of me.


I love reading (not that I've read a book since the Boy came along) and I love how my mom instilled a love of reading into us by sharing the classics like Peter Pan, the Giant Peach chap, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Watership Down. Not to mention all the horribly funny Roald Dahl books.
I can't even begin to name all the books she read us but she was dedicated in her quest to light up our imaginations and not let us just go sit in front of the box! I would really like to do that for Luke, its a great gift.


Although I just might have to invest in some cd audio sets to do it for me from time to time! 

So Sick

What is with the new slang "sick"?

Jennifer Lopez is getting "sick on the dance floor", I don't think I'd like to take a turn on that dance floor thanks.

Dr Rey is telling all us South African girls we're so gorgeous that we're just sick, man. Erm, thanks..? Not sure I can take a compliment seriously when someone tells me I look sick.

I may be getting older but I think telling someone that something is so cool and awesome that its sick is Just. So. Stooopid.

Maybe it gets its origins from something like " She looks so good its sickening!"
Or "That dress looks so cool on you, you make me sick."

What will the next catch word be in the gastro vein of slang vocab?

"Baby, you are so hot you're a total vom-bomb!"

"Vomalicious, dude!"

"Bru, that wave was so awesome it heaved!"

"Chunka chunka, babe!"

Rainy Sunday afternoon ramblings of a bemused mama.

And I get to spend the rainy evening camping on the couch with my sick Husband and my vomalicious Boy eating buttered popcorn.

Now thats just sick.

A-pruning we will go

Besides enjoying the challenges of parenting I also enjoy the odd spot of gardening while trying to defy the elements and cultivate a garden in a wind blown corner of the Cape Peninsula.

While the strong south easterly summer wind, fondly(?) referred to as the Cape Doctor, is commended for blowing away all the bad air and smog, leaving the air brisk and breezy and supposedly cleaner to breathe, she leaves our gardens in a state of shock and serious dehydration.

I don't bother getting stuck into the garden in summer, its a pointless exercise. Putting the sprinkler on is the hardest bit of work I manage and even then the water is sucked right out again by the gale force trade winds making their way down the African coast.

But in winter I enjoy pottering around my garden and redesigning my outside spaces.
Last weekend was my day for pruning and weeding. I enjoy pruning trees and bushes, I enjoy reshaping things, giving new opportunities to the smaller members of the garden, letting sunlight through to the darker corners of the yard. Give me wings and a sparkly wand and I could be the shrubbery's next fairy godmother.

But one person who enjoys pruning even more than I do is The Darling Husband. A handsaw in the hands of this man is a recipe for mass destruction for the arboreal community of our garden.
Our tenant once innocently asked him to trim her overhanging pepper tree branches. Luckily I came to investigate his progress that morning only to find he had cut back most of her tree canopy leaving very little of the precious shade she so enjoyed. Her reaction was very polite but she has since then never asked him to trim anything else. She now gets the garden service in.

Last weekend he undertook the task of trimming our front lawn and pruning back some of our trees, some of which had branches devoid of a single leaf and which The Husband was eyeing critically while his sawing hand was starting to itch. "Dead wood" was the verdict and I had to be in agreement.

Trouble was was that the dead wood happened to be at the top of the tree. Granted, the tree wasn't very high but high enough to merit some sort of elevation. Our stepladder was inside the house, upstairs and tucked away behind a door and, well, just too far away to be fetched. So he devised a quick makeshift plan using the plastic garden table of dubious age with the wobbly legs.

My skepticism for using this as a safe platform outweighed his enthusiasm for the job at hand and he clambered up onto the table, hacksaw in hand. At this point I had visions of rushing him to the ER, with the traumatised Boy in tow after one of the table's wobbly legs had indeed wobbled itself out of its socket and dumped the man back down to earth in a painful and uncomfortable manner. Or worse.

"Mrs Snyders, I can see you are in a state but can you tell me what happened to your husband? How did a plastic table leg find its way to where it is presently lodged up your husband's behind? Mrs Snyders, maybe you can stop laughing for a moment..?"

Luckily that was not the scenario that played out and my child, who was an onlooker and Daddy-cheerleader, was not scarred for life. All's well that ends well. The tree is now more streamlined and the ground beneath it is warmed by the stronger sunlight streaming through the remaining leafy branches.

The only limbs harmed were those belonging to the tree. This time.

Sweet Child O' Mine

While I can't claim the words or lyrics as my own, I totally dedicate this song to The Boy...

He's got a smile that it seems to me

Reminds me of childhood memories 

Where everything 

Was as fresh as the bright blue sky 

Now and then when I see his face 

He takes me away to that special place

And if I'd stare too long 

I'd probably break down and cry 

Sweet child o' mine 

Sweet love of mine 

He's got eyes of the bluest skies 

As if they thought of rain 

I hate to look into those eyes 

And see an ounce of pain 

His hair reminds me of a warm safe place 

Where as a child I'd hide 

And pray for the thunder 

And the rain 

To quietly pass me by

Sweet child o' mine 

Sweet love of mine 

Where do we go 

Where do we go now 

Where do we go 

Sweet child o' mine 






Thanks Guns N Roses - ka-chow! (been watching Cars too many times...)

Hungwy Fwoggy

A short insert this time.
I'm bathing the Boy tonight and he is busy playing with his usual collection of bath toys, some of them waterproof, some of them not so much. Oh well. Included in his collection is a life size plastic frog with a big gaping mouth, kwaaak! I'm busy folding his worn clothes when I look up and hear him exclaim "Look Mommy look!"
There he is holding the frog close to his southern regions and he has managed to position all his boy bits into the amphibian's mouth. "He is eating my willy!" he laughs.
Well, yes, dear, maybe he thought it was a nice big fat juicy worm...
Back to folding clothes but this time with a grin on my face.

One for the 21st birthday speeches.
He better pray I'm senile or in the grave by then.

this is the exact same frog...

In the arms of an angel

As parents we all, at some point or another, have those moments of quietly watching your child sleep and feeling the overwhelming sense of love and wonder for this perfect little being that God has created.

Yes, sometimes we suspect it is someone other than God who spawned our children but last night was not one of them, not for me at least.


The Boy has a healthy appetite and I have never had to fight too hard to get any sort of sustenance into his robust little body. Except when he is feeling poorly or if it happens to be green and leafy. And last night all he happened to feel like eating was half a hamburger roll, and no hamburger on it.  Some might say "So whats the real problem?" I have another mama friend whose boy would only eat boiled eggs for weeks on end, so I can't really complain can I? It's not so much as complaining but pointing out that, after a while, you know when somethings up with your child. And I'm not necessarily talking about new mamas either because new mamas feel like they know zilch. Lets face it, we've all wondered around in self obsessed, self-doubting moments thinking "Am I doing this right???" 
He was also feeling warmer than usual.


I popped him into the bath and washed everything that needed washing while he dunked Hand Me Down Barbie under the bubbles and studied his boy bits.


All cosy and wrapped up in his gown and Spiderman slippers we kept each other company on the couch while watching Madagascar. I love King Julian and those penguins, they really steal the show! ("Hey dere, freaks!")


Later, while entertaining myself with an episode of CSI, I heard the Boy's muffled wails once again. This did not bode well as he usually sleeps through to the next morning. Unless he is in pain or has a fever. And that usually means ANOTHER BLASTED EAR INFECTION.


I had already made a mental note to call my Mom to make a doctor's appointment for the next day knowing full well what her sage advice will be - never let an ear infection go unchecked, even if you think it might not be too serious, it can lead to hearing disabilities. (Sometimes I wonder if I have already left a past ear infection too long and the Boy's hearing ability, or should I say listening ability has experienced some serious deterioration. Especially,of course, if he is watching CBeebies. Or doing something I've told him not to!)


All that aside I carry him and his 3 teddies to our bed and settle him under the covers. He seems to find comfort being in our bed as he already snuggles down and starts to rest his eyelids. I climb in beside him on the Husband's side and settle down beside the little warm body. This is the part when I get to study my child's beautiful face up close and personal. Its real up close as he has slung his arm round my neck and pulled me close to him like his beloved teddy. Too close, it seems, as my breath on his face is annoying him. (I did brush my teeth before hand, by the way, ahem.)

Those eyebrows are doing their best Jack Nicholson impersonation and trying to keep his eyelids from slipping closed. Eventually gravity wins and they slide shut and his breathing becomes a little deeper.
Through the dim light I take in the smooth flushed baby cheeks, the slightly parted rosy lips and his little crusty nose. His hair has flopped to the side of his warm forehead and he unconsciously embraces me closer every so often, his little mind subconsciously making sure I'm still there.


The Husband, with a skip in his step, goes to sleep in the spare room and I stay cuddled with the Boy. While I love having his little arms hug me tight it does not make for the ideal conditions for a deep refreshing night's sleep. But I console myself with the fact that I get to sleep in the arms of my little angel.


I wrote that bit a week ago after just one night of restless sleep, expecting the doc to prescribe an antibiotic, which she did, and expecting just possibly one more night of restless slumber before the meds kicked in and we could all sleep in our own beds with the assurance that little ears were taken care of and were healing well. Once again.


Yes, well...


I didn't take into consideration the appearance of nasty ulcers the size of Texas in the poor boy's mouth. These ulcers laugh, positively scoff, at the idea of peaceful sleep.


As it turns out I think the Boy's system was just run down, the antibiotics must have exacerbated the little ulcers that were already forming and it all just amalgamated into a very sore sensitive mouth. Which aparentley also affected his sleep. And mine.

Oh and did I mention the wonderful runny nappies I had to change? The Husband fled the premises at the first soggy sound of spuitpoep being deposited into the dwindling supply of diapers. I had to feel sorry for the Boy, he even reversed a pace away from us before surrendering to the pressing urge and blasting his nappy full of crap. Damn antibiotics.


But we managed to fix that up too with a course of probiotics administered in the guise of sweeties. He happily chomped those down before meal times, which, thankfully have actually started involving food. Runny tummies and mouth ulcers kinda don't make good mates for a healthy appetite.


He is back to his normal boy-self, scoffing down meals with gusto. He even quietly devoured three sweets with the wrappers still on last night. Which will make for interesting discussions after changing his nappy at the creche today I'm sure.


I love having a happy healthy little Boy with a happy healthy appetite, (too healthy in the case of wrapper-ed sweeties) and I will, as a good mama does, try to ensure he remains happy and healthy as much as possible. But there will be times when he is sick and miserable and while we wait for the meds to kick in I will be more than happy to be his favourite teddy, lie in his arms and let him draw comfort from me. It won't last forever and too soon his teddy will possibly be replaced by a young lady* who will also gladly wipe his beautiful brow and bring him sweet tea.

And, while that day will surely come, I will freely sacrifice a few nights sleep to nurse and soothe my Boy. And hopefully occupy the arms of my young angel just a little while longer.

Sleep tight, xxx


* here's hoping she's a lady! Future tarts beware!

** While I finish this post The Darling Husband has succumbed to the lurgy and has crept into bed for an early night. The Boy has discovered that Daddy has gone to bed before him and has decided to go keep Pappa company. I hope the Husband is enjoying the angel's arms too...

Toddlers' Rules

If it is on, I must turn it off.

If it is off, I must turn it on.

If it is neatly folded, I must unfold it and scrunch it up and chuck it on the floor. Mama will pick it up.

If it is a liquid, it must be shaken, then spilled and left for Mama to discover by slipping in it.                                                       

If it is a solid, it must be crumbled, chewed, smashed or smeared. Mama will sweep it up.

If it is high, it must be reached, preferably by the most precarious route possibly.

If it is packed and shelved, it must be unpacked and left lying on the floor. Mama will pick it up.

If it is sharp and pointy, it must be run with at top speed. Mama has shares in L'Oreal, to cover the grey.

If it has leaves, they must be picked, chewed and spat out.

If it is plugged in, it must be unplugged. And my fingers inserted into the now empty socket.

If it is not trash, it must be thrown away or trod on. Mama will pick it up.  

If it is in the trash, it must be removed, inspected, possibly licked and thrown on the floor. Again, Mama will pick it up.

If it is closed, it must be opened. If it does not open, it must be kicked and screamed at. Until Mama comes to help.                                                

If it has drawers, they must be rifled through and used as a step ladder. Even though Mama has just tidied it after procrastinating for a year. She has nothing to do, she can quickly do it again.

If it is a pencil, it must write on the refrigerator or pc monitor, or be used to make gouges in the coffee table.

If it is full, it will be more interesting emptied, preferably on to the floor or Mama's lap.   

If it is empty, it will be more interesting full. Especially my nappy.

If it is a pile of dirt, it must be laid upon and patted into my hair.

If it is dog poo, it must be trod in or poked with a stick.

If it is stroller, it must under no circumstances be ridden in without protest. It must be pushed by me instead.

If it has a flat surface, it must be banged upon. Mama has a large supply of headache tablets anyway.

If Mama’s (or Daddy’s) hands are full, I must be carried.

If Mama (or Daddy) is in a hurry and wants to carry me - I must be allowed to walk alone.   

If it is paper, it must be shredded and trailed across the office. Mama will pick it up.

If it is a new book its pages must be torn. (Mama has a particularly good reaction to that one)

If it has buttons, they must be pressed. These include Mama's.

If the volume is low, it must go high. The most annoying tune, the better.

If it is toilet paper, it must be unrolled onto the floor or stuffed into the loo.   

If it is a toothbrush, it cannot, under any circumstances, be inserted into my mouth. It can, however, be used to clean the plug hole.

If it has a faucet, it must be turned on at full force and spray Mama's clean jeans to be soaking wet.

If it is a phone, I must talk to it. But if it actually talks back I must be as quiet as a mouse, making the voice at the other end feel like a twit.

If it is a bug, it must be touched and maybe swallowed. Mama has the doc on speed dial.

If it doesn’t stay on my spoon, it must be dropped on the floor. (The dogs really are my best friend at meal times)  

If it is not food, it must be licked and sucked to see if it is edible. Dog poo, for some reason, has been banned from my grasp.

If it is dry, it must be made wet with drool, milk, toilet water or pee. Mama's washline is always full. 

If it is a car seat, it must be protested against with arched back and flailing arms. Safety, shmafety!

If we go out to a restaurant, I cannot, under any circumstances, allow Mama and Daddy to actually enjoy and eat their meal together.

And if it is Mama, she must be hugged to within and inch of her life! Even if she is pulling out her hair.

I am TODDLER!