Mama is changing her name!

Hello, yes, finally another post from Bahama Mama. But this one a short note to let you know Bahama Mama is changing her name and moving over to Mrs G by the Sea.
My subscription thingy wasn't working here so I have created a new blog. I'm also including some recipes and pics.
Enjoy and I hope to catch up with you on the Life and Fabulous Times of the Griswolds...
(Mwah!)

Warming my heart

I have come to a conclusion: The Darling Husband is hot.


And before you start rolling your eyes and snickering he really is. Let me explain a little better.


Earlier this week, after a rather physically strenuous job, the man dragged himself home later than normal. He had dinner and then, while I put the Boy to bed, he took a shower.
After I'd kissed a hundred teddies and hugged the Boy 10 times and finally switched the light off, I walked through to the bedroom to find Hubby sprawled out on the bed. His light was almost out too.
So, as a good wife, I made him a cuppa tea and left him to an early night.


I still had a little work to do and maybe some tv to catch up on. Upstairs, on my own, it was quiet. The tv was off while I worked, but I worked quickly as the prospect of the remote all to myself was appealing.
OK, work done, couch beckons. The cat sits quietly waiting in the corner for me to sit down before she makes her move to claim my lap.


I flick through the channels and remarkably nothing worth while is on. Something is missing. The room is cold. And I'm lonely.


If The Husband was up here with me, like he usually is, I'd sit a while longer. But he's not.
I realize he warms the room for me, he am comfortable when I'm with him, and I want to be with him in that room, any room that he is in. Even if we sit, as we often do, with him in the study and me in the lounge within glancing distance of each other, absorbed in our own thoughts, he makes me feel safe and at ease. And not so alone.


And I'm so grateful and thankful and blessed to have such a special humble man in my life.


And yes, I think I have been listening to too many country songs today.

Just Being Awesome

This morning, as usual, I dragged myself out of a warm bed.


{Lord, thank you for my job. Lets not think I'm ungrateful.}


I go check in on the Boy and discover he is awake.


He opens his bedcovers and slides to the back of his bed.


"Get in, Mommy, get in. Put your feet inside", he invites me.


I cuddle with him and squeeze his little bum.


I pull myself away with the reasoning that I need to shower.


"No mommy, you must sleep." He disagrees.


I cuddle a little more.


This is how I am always late.


I eventually get out and he gets up too and starts rummaging through his toys.


He calls me to come help him retrieve some bits and pieces from underneath the bed.


Getting down on my creaking knees, blowing away a very washable strand of hair and huffing and puffing my delightful morning breath into our delicate atmosphere I manage to drag the 2 desired Smurf figurines out from their hiding place.


"Thanks, Mommy! You're awesome!"


Almost purring with pleasure I dust my face off and beg ask for confirmation.


"Is Mommy awesome?"


Pausing for a second he answers - "Yeth."


So for all you mamas out there going through the motions, feeling less than glamorous and gorgeous and just plain boring - your kids see you in a whole different light.


You. Are. Awesome. Beautiful. A princess.


Please keep that in your mind today.


Just keep on being awesome.


But lets brush our teeth first.

Boy-isms

Our children provide us with a wealth of laughter and amusement. And blog fodder.
I need to write some of these memorable moments down before I forget them (not too difficult when you're Mama G.)
I don't expect everyone to be rolling on the floor with my natural storytelling gift as alot of these gems are the "you had to be there" variety.
Here goes...

*
On our way to bed and ticking off the bedtime routine checks, we brush our teeth and then its  time to make a wee.
"I don't want to wee, I don't need a wee, ...see??" He opens his pants and shows me his "empty" boy bits.
Thanks, dear, we can all sleep safe tonight.

*
In the car and on our way to school I commiserate on his sniffy snotty nose and the thick snorting he was doing.
His answer was "I not snotty! I a pig!" accompanied with more snorting and suitably exaggerated piggy noises.
People passing me must have wondered what I was laughing so much about.

*
Tucking the Boy up in bed and handing him his bedtime bottle he notices a fresh new teat on it (yes, I buckled and prolonged the bottle weaning project). He studies it for a second and then explains to me - as if I'm a bit dim - that "I not a baby, ... I Lukey S!"
{To avoid confusion at school all the Lukes in his daycare are addressed with the first letter of their last names. I might need to change his name to Lukey G. And it seems we chose a popular name 3 years ago.}

*
Collecting him from school, Aunty Laura informs me the Boy was beating up on some of his fellow inmates and she had to check him and swatted him on his hand. She then relates how, in a huff, he then cheekily advised her that he wasn't coming to school the next day...!
(so there.)
The Boy has kahunas, even I'm scared of Aunty Laura.

*
Driving along scenic Boyes Drive on our merry way to somewhere, the Boy is looking out the window and in a most jolly expression exclaims "We're all going to die! We're going to die!" The Husband and I exchange mildly perturbed sidelong looks and shrug it off as hopefully misunderstanding our doomsday progeny.
Since then I have come to understand that he considers falling as dying I think. His imagination must have been getting the better of him as we flew along the high mountain pass, pretending we were going to go over the edge, all with a grin and a twinkle in his blue eyes...

*
In benevolent moments I call the Boy my angel or my darling.
And in petulant moments he answers with " I not an angel!" or "I not a darling!"
Yes, I will probably be reminded of that fact in years to come... and maybe even a little sooner.

No doubt there will be more amusing anecdotes (to me anyhow) to follow.
Watch this space.

A morning with the Griswalds

Sunday started off rather well. The Boy slept a little later and then came to creep in with us. I think he may even have nodded off again, such was the warm and snug ambience in Mama and Papa's bed.


I eventually got up and made some filter coffee and quietly paid some bills online. Bleh.
The Husband finally roused himself and rustled up some bacon and eggs and we sat and ate breakfast at the table while enjoying the bright winter sunshine streaming into the lounge.


Later the Darling Husband called me outside to check out if some of the paints he'd dug out were suitable for my latest project (gutting our cave of a bathroom, well at least just painting it and sprucing it up a little).


Even though I may aspire to being Super Mom regrettably I do not have super vision and actually need to read labels to discover what the tin may hold. In order to do this I tilted the paint tin ever so slightly, confident that the lid was securely fitted.


Obviously I was wrong (a rare occasion) as the Husband tried to alert me to impending chaos and tried to right the can before half its contents dribbled out on to the driveway tarmac. But not fast enough to prevent a litre from splattering onto my 2 delinquent dogs' heads who, as always, have to feel they are included in every movement we make, and were standing on my feet and, as it were, below the full paint tin being swung around by me.
This resulted in the Jackson Pollock look...

Of course we couldn't leave them looking like this with paint stiffened fur so I filled a bucket with warm water and lugged the dog shampoo outside onto the freshly mown lawn. The Boy, spying a potentially delightful wet and soggy play opportunity raced over to "help Mama".


Coaxing the dogs toward me was not working too well - imagine that - so running after them and dragging them back to the Evil Bucket Of Clean Water proved to be quite an energetic exercise in itself. I had a big cup that I filled with the warm water and poured over them, one at a time. The Boy offered to pour the raspberry coloured shampoo into my hand. The volume he poured could have washed 20 great Danes but he was happy to keep helping. Luckily the paint was water-based and washed out easily. The lawn still has white smears of paint where the dogs went and rolled before having their spa treatments.


Sucker for punishment, I got hold of our third dog, a little Jack Russell and plonked her in the bucket and washed her too. She thanked me by going to roll in the sand.


Meanwhile, the Husband's brother J has poked his head over the wall and asked if he can bring his car for a interior valet (part of the Husband's cleaning services business). While observing our jolly dog washing capers he may have got an inkling into our circus-like Griswald home life. He was very quiet. Or disturbed. Who knows.


To top the shenanigans, the Boy is quietly discovered dropping stones into the Husband's industrial vacuum cleaner's motor. Hiroshima had competition with the Husband's nuclear reaction to this act of potential disastrous sabotage. (Its happened once before resulting in expensive repair costs).


Dragging the Boy out of harm's way we decided to visit Ouma next door, who was cranking out her Solid Gold vinyl tunes, and bug her entertain her with  The Boy's enthusiastic musical ability.

I think the piano's keys are all still intact.


Just another Griswald morning at home :)

The Boy's Ear Saga - the final chapter

Driving along the freeway I felt much more at ease. None of the butterflies that usually accompany me to the Red Cross hospital seemed to have gotten the memo about this morning's follow up appointment and, despite rush hour traffic, I enjoyed the trip to the children's hospital.


Maybe it was the free flowing traffic, or maybe it was one of my all time favourite songs, Johnny Clegg's Spirit of the Great Heart, turned up loud and enjoying some airtime on the radio. 


Maybe it was the Boy chatting to me and waving at pushy taxi drivers and declaring Johnny's unofficial South African anthem as "lekker!"


Maybe it was because I wasn't rushing, knowing the snail's pace at which the queue of waiting little patients would be moving. 


But mainly it was because I was pretty confident of a favorable outcome. 


The Boy has not suffered any ear infections since his grommet operation and his teacher is happy to confirm that he is a very chatty happy little boy, stuff I already know. His vocabulary is always expanding and he makes me laugh at a lot of the funny things he says.


We park the car and scoot off to the ENT ward, hand in the Boy's patient card and settle down to wait. And wait.


The Boy had insisted on bringing a fleet of his toy cars and begged to pack them out to play with. Soon he had an audience of interested little people helping to distribute his toys among themselves. Dubious as to whether he would get his toys back he started to whine. And whine. Luckily the moms were very intuitive and prompted their kids to return his toys. 


Safely packed away, the toys were swapped for peanut butter sandwiches, 2 apples, 2 lemon creams and some juice. He sat on the blue plastic folding chair swinging his legs and humming and munching while an avalanche of crumbs collected on his chest. Still having a tiny corner of his stomach not yet filled he discovered a chip on the grubby floor dropped by the child behind us. Before he could pop it into his mouth the child's fast thinking daddy offered him the last chips from their bag. He kindly polished that off too. Because, of course, we don't feed our child enough, just look at him...(!)


Finally we get to see the audiologist, it is the same lady we saw last time.
She explained the same game she needed the Boy to play with her - drop the blocks into the bowl when he heard "the birds singing". She held the hand-piece in front of his forehead and started the test. He must have been waiting for her cue because he seemed hesitant to drop the blocks, almost as if he couldn't hear her.

Mama starts to feel the butterflies waking up.

She decided to whisper some questions to him from behind her cupped hands. He answered all her questions and I was slightly more relieved. She seemed happy with that but not yet convinced. She asked a colleague to come help her by distracting the Boy while she stood behind him and used her bird singing device.


Set on the lowest softest frequency she held the thingamajig just behind and next to each ear and waited for a response from him. Mama was as tense as a tightrope and let out an audible sigh of relief each time he turned his head towards the noises. Hallelujah! He could hear it!
Then I get pissed. The audiologist is happy with his hearing however, since he didn't seem to grasp what she wanted him to do right at the start, she suggests I take him for a developmental assessment. According to her he should be understanding her requests. Now I know he is just fine, I have no concerns about his development, his teacher is a friend and she would fill me in on any concerns she may have.
The Boy is big for his age and is often mistaken for being older than he is but being just 3 and a bit I reckon he was just being polite and waiting on a cue from the therapist. She fills in a form for the developmental ward and attaches it to his file.

We go outside to wait again, this time to see the ENT doc. We don't wait too long. A good thing too as I've now had enough.
The doc checks the Boy's ears and declares him to be just fine. I resist the urge to hug him.
The receptionist nurse fills in the paperwork and declares, with a smile, that the Boy is indeed discharged. Elation!


We head down to the Developmental ward, me dragging my feet. Do we really need to do this?
The waiting room is much smaller with a handful of people waiting. The toys are strewn across the floor and the cushions on the benches are dirty, hardly what I want to sit on for any extended length of time. A fly lazily cruises the room.

I hand my file and form over to the receptionist and she informs me that processing my request and getting an appointment can be a lengthy exercise and she could probably only phone me back in about 6 months. Really? Fabulous.

I leave it at that and decide that if, and when, she phones me I'll decide what to do then.

The Boy and I head out of the hospital, leaving the doors swinging shut behind us.
My little Great Heart has done well, and hopefully his ears will remain trouble-free.

This chapter is over.

The End

Madness

She was mad. And frustrated once again.
She was opening up herself for criticism and the misunderstanding that she was perhaps ungrateful for all that she had been blessed with. Not the case. The frustration with her pathetic inability to make a decision based on various factors had her climbing the walls.


The need to acknowledge her feelings and write them down was felt when a sensitive nerve of the decision about having another child was pricked and raised one night.


"Do you really want to go through that again?"
He asked the question over a dinner of chicken vienna hot dogs and sweet mealies.
He was referring the whole luxurious state hospital experience.
He'd been reading the spreadsheet of hospital fees from various private hospitals she'd contacted for maternity costs, just to get an idea of what a birth would cost them outside of a state hospital and to do some research on various health insurance. They still had to pick their collective jaws up off the floor.


But that wasn't the core of her mad-ness. Or at least she supposed it was part of it, she mused.


She was mad that the decision to have a baby was, at that moment, directly linked to how healthy their bank balance was. That the gift of giving their son a sibling and themselves another child seemed to hinge on how much money they had, or rather, more accurately, how little they seemed to have.


She was mad that their business was still in its fledgling stage, and despite working back- breakingly hard, it was unable, at that stage, to provide enough of the stability they needed.

She was mad that she couldn't stretch her own salary sufficiently to cover all their monthly costs and give him the chance to build up their business capitol.

She was mad that she was too tired in the evenings to sit down and take on a larger freelancing load.

She was mad that she was not younger and could afford to wait a few more years for things to improve a little. Nearing her roaring (or was it raging?) forties her baby-making time was running out and her depleting eggs were heading ever closer to their expiration date. Hell, did she even have any left?


She was mad that so many more mundane things had to take priority over this big decision. 
Fixing her aging car, trying to play catch up on all their bills that just never seemed to want to be caught and killed, monthly necessities like school fees, utilities and a mortgage - all these stupid things seemed to be take precedence over being able to add another little person to their clan.


She was mad that she felt guilted into considering how others would possibly react to their "happy news".


She was mad that, if it were to happen, some of the people closest to them would throw up their hands, raise their eyebrows and whisper their concern to the others closest. "Why have another child when they can't even keep up with all their costs now!?" That made her particularly mad , and incredibly frustrated, so much so that she could weep.
Because she understood their concern.
Because it was what she also got anxious about.


And it wasn't that the family wouldn't welcome another itty bitty clan member, quite the opposite. It was just that these people had already helped them so much already and she would be mad with herself if she ever put them in a position that they felt they needed to step in and help her out yet again. 


She was madly frustrated when people encouragingly said "oh you will never have enough money so just go ahead and do it". That's all very well and brave but she's living in a very real world where diapers and daycare and formula don't grow on trees and {surprise!} cost real money. 


She understood that the world was experiencing hardships everywhere today, nearly everyone was struggling and her financial issues were probably just like a million others, nothing special.


But a decision to try for another baby was very special to her. As it should be.


She was mad because she felt they needed to make this decision soon and she hated being rushed.

She was mad because she is aware that tomorrow might find them in not such a bad place as today's but the decision has to be made now, a decision that would affect them always.

She was so mad because she was so frustratingly confused. That was the crux of her emotion.


And then she went into her toddler son's room later that night to check on him before taking herself to bed. Bending down, she kissed his forehead and breathed in the warm smell of sweet baby sweat. She gazed at his red lips pouting in sleep, dreaming of bananas in pyjamas and bold pirates, his arms flung across the pillows in complete abandon. And she knew she wanted a whole lot more of that.


Because - at the risk of sounding like a Visa card commercial - .... it was priceless. Beyond measure, invaluable.


And she was afraid that if she gave up the hopeful chance to have that all once again she would, indeed, be mad.

Mornings with the Boy

Little feet padding into our room.


Collection of teddies flung onto my chest.


Wiping teddy fur from out of my mouth.


Little Boy clambering over me.


Arranging teddies around himself.


Assigning a teddy each to Mama and Papa.


Reaching round to slide little arms round my neck.


"Want a hug, Mommy.." is softly whispered to me.


"Want to kiss you, Mommy.." follows.


The sweetest little lips find my mouth and lightly kiss me.


Kisses and cuddles and giggles.


Teddy kisses too.


Kiss Teddy's tail.


Papa gets a hug and a kiss planted on his face.


Little Boy gets up and runs to find a rugby ball in his room.


Comes running back and bounces back on to the bed.


"Lets scrum!", he hunkers down on the ball.


Launches himself into my chest.


"Come, Mommy, come, ...scrum!"


Catching my breath, rubbing my ribs where a little elbow has jabbed itself.


Papa becoming more conscious and starting to join in.


Papa teasing Boy.


Boy starting to protest, but still trying to hang on to the ball.


Legs in the air, tickling and giggles.


Teddies find themselves jammed up against the headboard or slipping off the edge of the bed.


Bed is getting hot and too much wrestling going on.


Screeching with fun.


Time for a shower.


"Mommy, I want a hug!" 


"And anudder one.."


Ok. I'm up.


A good start to anudder day.

Under The Oaks in Happy Valley

Damn, it was hot. Like an oven.
I'd wandered outside in my mission to find a cool spot. No, my mind had not succumbed to heat stroke, I just could not find a cool spot in the house.


I took a towel and a pillow and quietly slipped outside into the garden and surveyed the green lawn while trying to decide under which huge oak tree I would make my siesta spot.
The children were playing inside while the parents tried to relax in the scorching heat. The Husband was lying in a prone position on a princess duvet trying to catch a bit of shut-eye and NM and Jack were doing puzzles on a tablet. Well, NM was doing puzzles, Jack was trying to catch 40 winks beside her.
The Boy and Poppie and P were playing topless on the cool cement floor, probably not a bad place to be if you want to keep cool. Outside, the Sunday afternoon baked in the Franschhoek summer heat and not an oak leaf fluttered in the dry hot air. 


I chose my shady spot and lay down under a tree. My back settled on the towel and I could feel the spongy lawn cushion my body and the faint coolness of the earth underneath me. In the back of my mind I keep an eye out for displaced snakes from the neighbouring cattle farm that experienced a runaway fire two weeks ago. 


My original idea was to close my eyes and catch up on some lost sleep from the early hours of that morning but I found myself gazing up into the tree's branches and that of its neighbour. Beautiful long branches stretching to touch the tree beside it, and I imagined that trees  with that kind of reach must need pretty deep roots to keep it form toppling over. They reach deep down below me and thrive on the many clear sweet mountain water ducts running below the farm.


The oak leaves are still mostly green but starting to turn a lovely bright yellowy green. We are heading into autumn and in a few more months these branches will be bare. I take stock of all the leaves on the trees and decide that Jack will need to dust his rake off soon. Already there are a lot of acorns lying below on the grass.


I look for the squirrels that have been scampering along the branches but the tree is quiet, except for the hundreds of wasps visiting the branches above me. I never noticed them before. What do wasps need in acorn trees? Nonetheless, there are hundreds of them doing their thing high above me.
I turn my head to the right and take in a beautiful weeping willow and a lime tree and a hedge of baby blue plumbago. Behind them the majestic Drakenstein mountains form the backdrop to my afternoon siesta.


The weeping willow's branches undulate gently in a light breath of an air current. I hear a rustling high above me and notice a breeze is moving through the oak branches. An acorn is released from its arboreal realm and drops to the ground, bouncing once. One or two oak leaves lose their tenuous grip and pivot downwards on the breeze and take up residence on the grass alongside me.


I am lying there doing nothing but absorbing His quiet Greatness, imagining His life-giving breath whispering though the branches above. Bliss. I have needed this quiet time for a while. Where I do nothing but be quiet and listen. With no little body climbing all over me or pulling my hand to show me something or asking me questions or asking for still more juice. Just a time for being me, alone and enjoying the hush.


I close my eyes with my only concern being that an acorn will leave an imprint on my forehead. I hear insects buzzing around me but not bothering me. Unlike the Nazi mosquito I had in our room early this morning. Little winged demonized bugger.


From the house I hear P, the youngest family member, lustily singing Barney's song "I love you, you love me, we're a happy family.." P's song peters out as he discovers something else of interest. The garden is quiet again.


I recap on our weekend so far.
Its a special weekend for the Darling Husband and I. We celebrate 5 years of marriage. Well done, medals all around. The best few years of my life. I like to think I can speak for him too.
Our friends, Jack and NM had invited us out to their farm in the beautiful wine lands town of Franchhoek. We always enjoy their company as we can be our selves with each other. No hang-ups, issues or pretenses. We are who we are. The Griswold's in all their glory. It helps that our children get on like wild fire too.


NM had take us to a wine festival in the area where we bought a glass each and were given permission to taste a bunch of different wines on a bunch of different wine estates. What could be better?


We had a great time sampling young wines, unfiltered wines, wines with a distinct coffee chocolate flavour, sparkling wines and many more. We were treated to lunch at a local Primi Piatti while the children played outside and I admired the most inspired giant lampshades that the restaurant had designed.
We headed out to more wine farms while slurping on McDonald's R2,50 ice cream cones, delicious.


It would take too long to describe everything we saw and tasted and I'm not writing a novel. We had a lovely time and the kids had a blast petting animals and riding pedal tractors. I have made notes for further wineland expeditions and picnic opportunities and possible reviews.
We head home with the anticipation of a braai of lamb chops filling our mouths. No more wine for me today, thanks.


The children are filthy and are all popped into the bath together. Faces are wiped and feet are scrubbed and fresh PJs are put on. I love it when The Boy is squeaky clean and smelling of Johnson's baby bath lotion. I brush his hair to the side in a neatish side parting. That won't last long. They are soon speeding about outside on their matching scooters in the slightly cooler evening air.


The fire is crackling and the salads are done. The little succulent lamb chops are emitting a most delicious mouth watering aroma. We eat al fresco on the stoep and watch the bats swoop through the darkening garden. I wish they'd catch the wretched mosquitoes.


We all head to bed early, the wine and the heat have caught up with us, but not before I run a nice warm bath, bubbles added courtesy of the pretty pink Lux hand soap. Wineland dust is washed from my feet and  and I also put on fresh PJs . The bed's linen is fresh and soft. I make sure the window is open only a crack and the voile curtain drawn fully across the window. (It seems the mozzies can navigate and leopard crawl even through these precautions.)
Lights out. No hot anniversary action for us, the Boy is sleeping at the foot of our bed and we are surrounded by pink unicorns and princess dolls. The Husband is half way to Dreamland anyway.


I wake up when the Boy climbs into bed with us later. The Husband moves to his bed. I try get back to sleep but become aware that the room seems to have been invaded by an army of mosquitoes. And the neighbouring dog is barking a monotonous reportoire. Points on my body are stinging but not itching and I am restless. I gather its much earlier than I thought as the sky is not getting any lighter. 
The Boy stirs, sits up and then vomits onto the sheets. Not sure why, I can only think he had too much mash potato for dinner. He goes back to sleep leaving me to mop up and place the top sheet over the damp spot. Thank heavens it oddly didn't stink. I FINALLY drift off to sleep again.


Morning coffee is served to us by Jack, what service!


NM and I take the kids for an early morning amble round the farm. It still needs a lot of maintenance and we walk through dried withered weeds and spy the flock of guinea fowl foraging for their breakfasts. We keep moving or else the armies of big red ants will bite us silly.


We make ourselves a scrumptious farm breakfast which is enjoyed under the big oak in the corner of the garden.


Time for more wine tasting and the temperature is steadily rising. Bottles of ice water, sun hats and sunscreen are packed for the kids. We head to Del Vera which I can recommend to anyone looking for kid friendly activities, crafts and cuisine. They have converted old pig sties into barns for crafters and pedal go-cart tracks. And what a view! Those pigs must have had a life, or a view at least.


We sit down at a table with a red checkered table cloth under an air conditioner. I settle down with the Boy and and enjoy a spot of people-watching. All sorts come to taste the wines. Enjoying the delicious aromas wafting from the fresh pizza and Lebanese food stalls and the live accordion music it all combines into a lovely relaxed atmosphere. The Boy is asleep in my arms. Poppie distractedly lies about on the chairs while her playmate sleeps open mouthed on my chest. Bored, she sits under the table watching hundreds of feet walk by.


We decide to make our way home. I agree with the Husband that we should only drive back home later to avoid the suffocating heat. We get back to the farm and try get through the afternoon without melting into an unattractive puddle.
That is how I find myself under an oak tree studying wasps and birds and the trajectory of falling leaves.


We head back home later with another lamb chop braai filling our stomachs, and with the waning moon to guide us. 
A truly enjoyable weekend and food for my soul.
And not too many mozzie bites either.

The Boy & his Ear Saga - Part 3

Well, its done. The teeny tiny tubes have been inserted into his ears and he is just fine.
Praise the Lord. And all my fears were for nought.
Except that we were late in arriving at the hospital. Because we live a million miles from anywhere near town we underestimated morning traffic and got a tad delayed on the freeway. With my heart pounding I slung the backpack onto my back and hoisted the Boy onto my (well padded) hip and set off half running, half limping across the car park leaving the Husband to lock the car and catch up with me.


"Run, Mommy, run," the Boy giggled and cheered as I navigated the hospital maze corridors with him clutching my neck and jiggling on my side. "A7, A7..."I kept muttering, "ah, A7 - Day Surgery Ward".
Woohoo, we arrived! To my pleasant surprise the ward was not very full and really nice. An airy light reception desk welcomed us as I dumped the Boy to the ground and got on with checking him in. He bee-lined for a gigantic plush giraffe who held the duty of keeping a beady eye on the toilets. While Dad helped the Boy scale the giraffe's legs and clamber onto his back I took care of the admin. The sister sent me to another reception desk several corridors away to get his info put onto the hospital data base. I waited my turn while the lady worked through her pile of files that were already stacked up. 


While I waited I got to observe some of the staff starting their day at this world renowned children's hospital. Young interns and students with white coats and id cards strung round their necks drifted into work, some chatting to each other, discussing which wards they were going to be in that day, others just gliding in and glancing at us waiting on our plastic fold up seats.
Strangely none of them displayed much Greys or Private Practice glamour. No Drs Sam Bennet or Addison Montgomery brooding drama here. I suppose they have more important things to do. (Yes, its safe to diagnose me as a GA and PP junkie).


I finally get my file back and shoot back to A7 to find the Boy playing hopscotch on the play area floor. And very happy to see me.


I get to take him into the ward and he is assigned a cot/bed with rails. Till now his mood has been fine. The blue back-less gown freaks him out and he starts crying and wants to leave. Papa must come fetch him. Only one parent is allowed in the ward with a child and I was that parent. Dad checks in through the glass every so often to see how things are with us.
I eventually try distract him with puzzles and books and he sort of settles down but still with the occasional bout of crying. The doctors come round to each patient. There are about 6 children in for operations this morning. Luke is fourth in line. Not too bad.


The doctors are very nice and have a good sense of humor and try get the kids to loosen up. The one doc tells the Boy he doesn't have to wear the wretched blue gown if he doesn't want to. The Boy is not too forth-coming with his thanks. We take the gown off, but he still fidgets with his plastic identity arm band.


The other little patients include a blond little toddler about 10 months old, I thought it was a little girl at first with the blond curls and yellow Baby Gro but the mommy called the child Ethan so I must have got it wrong. He was squealing with delight as he played "Lets Throw Myself Off The Table and See If Mommy Catches Me". Luckily she did.


Next was a little coloured girl with light hair pulled into pig tails. Her mom must have been tense too as she kept on skelling the child when she did anything unpleasing.


The next little girl must be nearly 2, a feisty little thing with her hair teased into multiple little pig tails held together with bright yellow and pink hair bands all over her head. She wanted nothing to do with anyone and she kept screaming and hitting her poor mom, whom came into the hospital beautifully groomed but by the time she left she was a tad dishevelled. She had to take her necklace off and try keep her composure. After a particularly volatile bout of screaming and flailing of arms I'm sure I heard her muttering "Ek gaan you bliksem..!" Mom, we all know that point of exasperation.


Another little boy in the bed next to the Boy was also none too happy to be there and he also started crying, I think he was maybe about 4 and a half.


The last patient was a young boy who was brought in by his mom with a young baby. My hat is off to her, to be able to handle a young baby while still trying to support your other child through their difficult experience like this. But he seemed very good and not playing up like the other kids. The baby was good too. She needs to bottle her secret.


The nurses start dishing out pre-op meds to relax and calm the children before they are taken to theatre. Little Ethan is first and before I know it he has fallen asleep in his mom's arms and he is ready to go.
Miss Light Hair is also calm and falls asleep easily.
Little Miss Feisty Pig Tails is still having none of it and still gives her mom a royal hard time despite the sedative. I offer her one of our story books and she quietens down to read it. She grows drowsy and its her turn to go off to theatre.


The Boy on drugs is quite a giggle. He gets all goofy and everything is so funny, hilarious. We read his book and he is looking at me with those heavy Jack Nicholson eyelids and he laughing and snickering at the pictures. "Look, Mommy, look at da beach!" But he slurs it like he is drunk. The nurses share my laughs as he tries to sit up and fails completely and shouts "Whoa! Whooooa!" as he is trying to get his balance.


The theatre sister escorts us to the waiting room and I get to don a super flattering hair net and big green slippers and my own back-less gown. I get to keep my clothes on. This is of course another great source of amusement to the Boy.


The theatre is ready and the doctors come to fetch us. The Boy is still fighting the gown and the nice tall doc takes it off for him. I pick him up and carry him to the theatre bed. The paper covering crackles as I gently set the Boy down. The doc shows him the little blinky light on the end of a wire and asks the Boy to help him put it on his little thumb. Then he gets The Boy to assist him in attaching the chest stickers to his chest. He is quite co-operative and is having a good look at all the lights and machines. I am quite impressed at how light and spacious the theatre is. The staff is great and really respectful. The lady doc asks if they may insert a suppository for pain. (For the Boy, not me, phew). A nurse verifies that I am the Boy's mom, she confirms his date of birth and if the signature on the consent form is indeed mine.
The lady doc shows the Boy the gas mask and asks him to smell the strawberries. He breaths in the sweet gas and his eyes grow heavy, he leans against the doc and we gently lower him into a horizontal position. He looks so vulnerable lying there wearing nothing but his little red underpants. The doc takes away the mask for a moment, "Want a kiss?" she asks me and I plant a light kiss on his cheek. I back out of the theatre before I tear up and am escorted to the waiting room to remove my hair net, gown and slippers. Time to get comfortable and wait. But not for too long.


The other children who went in before him are coming out and recovering. They all seemed to have had their adenoids removed too and they have bloody noses, poor things. They come round and cry and cry. Not necessarily from pain, probably just from the feeling of disorientation, they settle down and moms are finally able to give them bottles with juice or water or a packet of crisps.


Little Miss Feisty Pig Tails still has her drip port in her hand and I wasn't sure why they kept it in. She was screaming "Eina! Eina!" while trying to pull it out. Her mom was fussing and screeching at her to leave it alone "Los dit!" and swiping at her free hand. The nurses taped it up for her. I'm still not sure why they left it in.


The Boy was finally wheeled out to me, also moaning but not bleeding. He didn't want to lie down and was calling for his Papa to come hold him. Dad came in and cuddled him while I slipped out. He cried for me again and I went in and I dressed him and offered him some cold sweet apple juice. This consoled him and once he had it in his stomach he started coming round quickly. The sister said we can go home after we collected the medication from the pharmacy down the passage. Great! The Boy seems fully recovered, chatting full steam, climbing the giraffe again.


We head to the pharmacy and are greeted with a mass of like-minded people all waiting for their meds. Good grief.
The Boy has a packet of NikNaks he is chomping on.
The Darling Husband goes to enquire about how long the wait will be if we choose to stay. He is politely told "Three hours". Whaaaat?


Ok, we go back to A7 and request a written prescription to fill at our own local pharmacy.
Great, with that done we head back home again. The Boy falls asleep in his chair, no doubt ridding himself of the last anesthesia. He sleeps all the way home and for another 2 hours on his bed.


Still running on adrenalin, I slip to the shops, come home and make a pot of home-made chicken soup and brown bread rolls from scratch. Maniac.


Of course later I collapse into bed at 8pm, 5 seconds after I deposit the Boy back into bed.
I suspect I have caught the Darling Husband's cold too. Dammit.


The Boy Will Not Go To Sleep. Aaaargh! Too bad, the Husband needs to handle this and I roll back into bed. My pillow is my lover tonight, aah, how wonderful you are!


And with that, Part 3 is over.
We have a follow up appointment next month for another hearing test to check if the Boy's hearing has improved. Stay tuned.


On another note, I am finding being a parent is the greatest learning curve I have ever been on and not just in how to care for a child.
Its true that you can only really understand someone else's feelings if you have been through a similar experience.
Before this operation on the Boy I was always naturally sympathetic and supportive to any of my family and friend's whose kids were having ops etc but always kinda put it on the back burner of my mind and assumed everything will be fine, all will be fixed and taken care of, and it was.
But I never really understood the anxiety, however "small" the operation was, that the parents go through. Until now. And I am so thankful and appreciative of all the texts and emails and phone calls of support from my family and friends. You helped allay my fears and reassured me it would be all fine. I have yet another fresh appreciation for the awesome network of hearts that I am connected to.
Good grief, I go on like it was a brain operation! But be it a small op or a major one, one's imagination and fears can run away with you and can just freak you out. Thanks for understanding and empathizing with that. In turn I will be able to do the same for other anxious moms.


Now I need to go find a beeeg bottle of wine. Cheers.

My nails are all but gone

Well, tomorrow is the long-awaited grommet operation.
And I'm slowly having a mommy melt-down internally. I know its not a major operation but it still involves drugs, needles and maybe scalpels. All being stuck into my baby. Yes, I do know he will be unconscious. Another nail biter.


I decided to quickly re-read the pre-op instructions last night to make sure I hadn't missed anything. 
1. We aren't supposed to bring him in if he has a cold.
Bugger. He has a slightly snotty nose. When doesn't he have one? "Reschedule" is all very well but whose to say he won't have another cold at the next appointment? I've decided to take him in anyway. I can't help but wonder what happens to those children who go in for emergency ops already with runny noses? Mind you, I vaguely remember the ENT doc mentioning the Boy will have a tube inserted down his throat, so maybe that will help with his breathing.


2. Also no aspirin for 2 weeks prior to the operation.
Sh*t, does Dimetapp contain aspirin? Luckily, no, I don't see it listed on the label.


3. We have to be at the hospital and book him in by 7am, meaning we will have to get up at sparrow's fart, something the Husband does not do well. I will have to make an extra big cup of coffee for him in bed. Or drag him out of bed by his feet.


4. How am I to convince The Boy he can only have his juice or milk or tea only after he has been to see the nice doctor? That's a biggie for me. Mainly because I don't feel like being hassled when I'm on edge, and having to explain to a child (that normally has a drink first thing when he wakes up) that he can't have it tomorrow for no good reason other than that he simply can't is going to be difficult. Maybe I underestimate him. We'll have to see. Wish us luck.


And, oh Lord, please let us get there On Time! 


Then the waiting has to start. We are already booked for the morning but with state hospitals its just a game of Wait Till You're Called.
So I have a thirsty and bored child to cater for. Puzzles and books will have to be chosen and packed tonight.
No snacks this time either, Engeltjie.


I'm just hoping they don't refuse to admit him due to the snotty nose. Dammit.
Watch this space...


PS I try my hardest not to read the rubbish headlines plastered to the lamp posts every morning. Guess what caught my eye this morning - "Hospital disfigures my child".
Great. Just what I needed.