ohfortheloveofblog

being a lady

2012-01-24T22:55:00.000+02:00

You know how a lady reserves the right to change her mind? Yeah, I'm calling that one.

I've realised to be true what a couple of my nearest and dearest probably realised some time ago: I ain't no mommy blogger. At least not a South African one. At least not a South African one who will anytime soon produce the kind of material which'll entice any of the (limited number) of mommy-blogger type advertisers out (t)here.
At least not a South African one who will fit the mold or care to work particularly hard at doing so.

It's complicated. But that is what it is.

The good news: I've liberated myself of some truly tedious twitter follows and blog subscriptions - I'm not playing that 'networking' game no more.

The silly part: I now have two blogs for the same kind of content.

The other silly part: this blog's followers keep growing, despite my not generating any actual blog posts.

Further to that silly part: my followers on the other blog are holding steady, despite my generating lots of blog posts for it and despite very healthy traffic over there (lots of which is from here).

So I've got followers here who go there to spy on me, followers there who know nothing about here, loyal readers there who don't actually 'follow' me anywhere, youspinmerightroundbabyrightroundlikearecordbabyrightroundrightround ...

And all of this because I want to be a writer. A moniker I've had many opportunities to test out of late, what with the girls starting new schools and my meeting new people as a result. People who ask me what I do, and dry-mouthed I answer 'I write' which leads to a whole bunch of inevitable questions which I don't really know how to answer.
'Oh you know ... um ... here and there ... working on some stuff ... look! squirrels!'

What I've written lately:
not many blog posts, here or there
copious lists
the bones of a short film screenplay
the bones of 3 articles for submissions to various publications, none of which are near submission ready
half a letter to my granny
detailed instructions for my nanny
far, far, far too many facebook status updates

I'm not really sure what to do about all of this ...

Hello Oh For the Love of Blog! Happy 2012!

my happy place

2011-12-12T12:40:00.001+02:00

After two months of one-after-the-other bugs and lurgies which had each of us (but mainly me) feeling crap with a capital F, I was feeling pretty proud of myself that I'd not succumbed to the emotional depro which usually accompanies long illnesses.
I was weathering it all quite well. My own illness, the kids ongoing coughs and wheezes, the truckloads of time we were all spending home together, this just mere weeks ahead of the long school holidays ...

I was putting lots of work into being okay with it all, but succeeding well, I thought, until someone on facebook mentioned they were going to Arniston for the weekend (small idyllic seaside village ofter incorrectly credited as being the Southern Most Tip of Africa - it's not) and someone else commented that Arniston was their 'happy place'.

Ping! Light bulb. I need a happy place.

I put it out there on facebook and got some great suggestions. Lynne recommended I look for that place within, find somewhere I can retreat to no matter the chaos. Problem is, often the chaos is within, and sometimes I think I spend too much time in my own head as it is.
No, I needed to look further afield.

I know my happiest place is away, out of town, preferably camping. I had this reconfirmed on a recent weekend away.
As soon as we got over (or in this case through) the mountains encircling the Cape Peninsula, and off the main drag, the scent of heat and dust and fynbos filled the car and my heart, it just sang.
I could feel it belting away in my chest.

But that was too far afield. I can't - alas - go camping every time I'm in need of some time out.

I needed something close to home, but not so close it resembled my navel and any absorbed contemplation thereof.

One evening I struck gold.

iPod + NIN + paper stash + inspiration = happy place!

Dear god, I think I'm starting to get why scrap-bookers scrap. Scrap to shut out the crap? I think it's a real thing.

Oh and if you're interested, I've posted an update on atheism with pictures? - the child is truly diabolical.

atheism with pictures? [updated]

2011-11-23T09:30:00.000+02:00

Last week a friend was visiting and I overheard Frieda asking her in the next room: 'Who's God?'

My friend nervously called out, 'Is this a real question?'
'Yup.' I answered.
'Um ... would you like me to answer it?'
'Yup.' I sniggered.
Then, although I was deeply curious, I busied myself with Stella, leaving my friend to answer without the added discomfort of my listening in.

So yes, this is the first time my 4 and a half yr old has asked this question.

And here I've been preparing myself for some other Big Talks. Like how exactly the Daddy's sperm gets into the Mummy's egg (she's got the drift of that part and what happens from there, in fact live births are a regular occurrence in her school playground apparently).
Or the most intimidating talk of them all - why we shouldn't blindly trust strangers. Sadly for my open and friendly little girl this one needs to happen real soon.

But ja, the god question - I wasn't quite ready for that one. I recently realised that I've learnt more about myself during the last 4 and a bit years of parenting than in all the years prior to that. And I'm not talking about the actual parenting lessons, just the fact that when living with two little mirrors one is forced to examine one's own motives, opinions, actions etc that much more closely.
Parenting has brought out the best (empathy, pathos, generosity) and the worst (bias, selfishness, intolerance) in me, and now it's forcing me to form an actual position on the Big Stuff too.

Our plan has always been to allow our children to find their own religious belief when they're ready to. But one can only do that from an informed position and obviously they're going to want to know what their parents believe as a starting point. Has anyone brought out The God Delusion as a picture book yet?

Also, I'm glad Frieda first asked that question of a family friend, in our house. I'm pleased that the question wasn't asked in a less sympathetic and secure environment. I feel badly that it so easily could have been, that's not really fair on her.

So here I go, girding my loins to have a Chat, to check if the answer she received satisfied her curiosity, if she has any more questions. For now.

Wow this parenting malarkey just gets more and more interesting doesn't it?

Update: after writing this post I bit the bullet and one afternoon, lounging on my bed with Frieda, I asked her what my friend's answer had been and whether she was satisfied with the answer.
It seems my friend had equated God with that little voice you hear in your head when you know you're doing something wrong. Not a bad answer for now.
I told Frieda that some people called that little voice God, others called it your conscious etc.
Frieda looked at me, leaned over and tugged on my hair. Hard.
'Ow' I shouted, 'what was that for?!'
'There it is,' she answered, 'that little voice.'

okay twitter, I get you now #blacktuesday

2011-11-22T15:02:00.001+02:00

Wow.

Today I experienced that thing about Twitter which so many people rave about. I watched, in real time, as history was made - following the hash tag, my home page bumping up every few seconds with another 20 tweets, another 30 tweets, another 60 tweets as the announcement was made.

#BlackTuesday out-trended Thanksgiving for a moment today. Apparently that's huge.

I wish the historical event I was following was a more positive one. I wish I'd been outside Parliament to experience it with my peers, not reading about it once removed - albeit only a few seconds removed.

But Twitter totally came through for me on this one, and I get it now. Fucking marvelous technology.

Not just the real-time connection with the event, but being able to garner all the varied comments - from SA's top newspaper editors to comedians, political commentators, assholes - the voices of reason, of hysteria - to instantly have ones own reaction tempered, inflamed, counter-balanced, validated, refuted. Great stuff.

And instantly those (South Africans) whom I follow fell into two stark categories: those who were talking #blacktuesday and those who weren't. How could anyone really have been tweeting about anything else today?

Twitter, I take it all back. You totally came through for me today.

Even if my government shamefully and horrifyingly didn't.

and then 7 months later ...

2011-11-07T13:53:00.000+02:00

... this happened.

Girl in paddling pool on LAWN.

See the journey here and here.

Hello summer.

the twitter shitter

2011-10-31T12:04:00.000+02:00

I've resisted a twitter account for years but with my new blog-venture I decided to create one. There's no denying twitter's usefulness for promoting and networking when you're blogging like (hopefully a whole lot of people) are reading.

For the first couple of weeks I kept my account really quiet, following only a blog buddy who was about to give birth, a couple of South Africans I'm interested in and my SIL. Then I went public with the blog and happily sought out all those people I'd been keen to follow on twitter for years, plus hosts of random parent bloggers, mothers and fathers - people I thought it would be useful to network with for the blog.

It's been a couple of months now and ... I can't say that I'm loving it.

I keep reading odes to twitter, articles about it's awesomeness, first hand accounts of how people's lives have changed, improved, benefited from tweeting.
But I still don't get it.

I know the basic tenet is that if you're not enjoying twitter then you're following the wrong people, and I definitely was doing that for a while there. I fell into that morbid fascination, like the early days of facebook, where I couldn't help myself reading every inane tweet, marveling at the utter crap people feel its relevant to share.
Just take a dump in cyberspace why don't you? No really here, I'll hold the loo roll.

And it left me with that same shitty feeling as wasting hours facebook stalking random wedding photos. Brain cluttered, slightly nauseated, majorly disappointed in my fellow humankind but mainly in myself for having even gone there.

I don't get the sharing random brain farts with 5000 mostly-strangers. I don't get the marvel at squeezing your thoughts and words into 140 characters (how is this a great talent unless you're in advertising or write for People magazine?). I don't get the people clearly tweeting throughout a social occasion or worse, outing with their kids.

I do get the advantages of business networking, sharing ideas and sounding out others on various topics. I do get the thrill of breaking news disseminating so quickly and effectively.
I have to admit to loving the hash-tag-of-descriptiveness #greatestthingsinceslicedbread.

But other than that? I'm tweetering on the brink of meh.

on writing #1

2011-10-26T10:25:00.000+02:00

I blog to write.

I love to write, I always have. For a number of years I lost touch with the astounding satisfaction it gives me but it was through this blog that I found my way back. And now it's kind of all I want to do.
And when I say all I want to do I'm being quite serious.

I have days when I wake at 4am and I wish, I long to be able to get out of bed, make tea and just write and write and write. I just know I'll produce great material in those moments. I can feel the flame, I can almost taste it, and to have to suppress the desire feels like a crime.
Like spending a sunny day indoors with the curtains drawn. Like eating 4 slices of toast just before Christmas dinner.

But I have to suppress it. I have to tell myself to go back to sleep because I know I need those last few hours before the girls wake up. They need me to get those few more hours sleep.
For if I succumbed to the muse and got up, even if I produced something of staggering genius in that time, the rest of our day would be foul, I know this. There would be tears and snapping and it would be all because I didn't enough sleep and that ... that also feels like a crime.

It's not fair on me to have to suppress this urge to write, it hurts me. But it's not fair on them to consciously jeopardise our day before its even started, that will hurt all of us.
I'm not really sure what the solution is.

The muse is not always that untimely, but the time just never seems to be right for her.
12 noon finds Stella asleep, me writing feverishly and then ack, 12.25 - school run!
3pm, I'm struck by inspiration, my fingertips start tingling, but there's just no way I can extricate myself from afternoon snack/play dough construction/planned trip to the park.
7.30pm, the girls are in bed, the muse hopefully pokes her head up, but I've a husband I've missed all day, my own dinner to savour with him in the quiet of the adult-only evening calm, bits and bobs to clear up and arrange for the morning and then maybe, just maybe, a couple of hours writing, when I'm tired and quite often at my least inspired.

It's not fair on me to have to suppress this urge to write, it physically hurts me. But I'm not really sure what the solution is.

But I may have found a place to look for it. In a stolen 15 minutes one afternoon recently I read this column from Literary Mama and have subsequently had enough light bulb moments to brighten up the gloom I'd started sinking into on this one.
Get this Molly, you're not the first 'literary mama' to feel like this. And duh, as with anything, there are books you can read, conversations you can have, resources you can use to help yourself find ways around your current dilemma.
By stepping back from the problem, viewing it from another angle, the way forward has become clearer.

Motherhood and writing, they're not so different really.

The kids, the muse, two equally willful and independent entities, neither very keen to be tamed, neither particularly concerned with making my life any easier.
Two currents running through my life which equally inspire me and throw me into despair, equally demanding and, when they work, ultimately rewarding.
Both forces which, realistically, require me to step up and lay the ground rules, be the parent, create the boundaries and live by them myself.

I have to ask myself why the muse chose to return now, in these arguably busiest years of my life. Where was she when I had spans of free time (or so it always seems when I remember the pre-baby years)?
Why wasn't I feverishly writing at 4am then?
Because I didn't have the inspiration I do now perhaps?
Could it be that these little creatures which seem to come between me and my writing now are the very reasons the urge to write is so strong within me?

I'm not done pondering this one, and I'm still not sure how to make more time to write. But write I must, it's becoming as essential as breathing, and I seem to be able to make time to do that everyday.

cackling smugly

2011-10-24T10:44:00.000+02:00

My Main Man and I have been together for twenty years today.

I'll give that a moment to sink in ....

And yup, I'm putting it out there y'all. Two blogs, twitter, facebook, I'd sky-write it if I could afford it 'cos you know why?
It's fucking awesome.

But, of course, within a few minutes of putting it up on facebook I got a somewhat-snide, humourous but not-so-funny comment implying that I was a bit of a show-off. To which I say: uh, YEAH, I'm showing off here.
'Cos you know why?
It's fucking awesome.

I'm not saying I'm better than you. I'm not saying my life is perfect. What I'm saying is I am incredibly, remarkably, wonderfully lucky and proud.

So here I sit, it's Monday. I caved and collected antibiotics this morning to try and clear up the chest infection I've been fighting for nearly 3 weeks. My eyelash extensions are falling out taking the last remaining 10 real lashes with them. I'd love to arrange a Halloween party for the girls and their neighbourhood friends but I really can't muster the energy. I'd love to be writing something inspired and publish-worthy but instead I'm (apparently) gloating all over the internets that my life is so awesome.

Cough. Hack. Cackle.

No romantic getaway for us right now. No simultaneous massage, scuba-diving in tepid waters, no slap-up dinner out, not even a glass of wine for me as it turns out ... just the knowledge that we've known each other for ever, that we know all past and present versions of each other, that we love each other more now than ever before.
I think that's pretty good for a Monday.

in the eye of the beholder

2011-10-03T22:49:00.000+02:00

Increasingly I realise that what most people think of you comes 98% from who they are. When someone considers you, they are doing so with the full weight of themselves behind the conclusions they draw.

This is why one never really knows what people think of you. Because every person who's ever met you has a different opinion.

Example: two women I met recently.
One (apparently) thinks I'm hilarious. A breath of fresh air. She asked if I was just naturally good at everything I do. There was an edge to the question.
The other thinks I'm a bit of a ditz. I think she thinks that blogging is really silly, I'm not saving lives or changing policy so really, what's the point?

I'm long past the stage where either opinion really impacted on me. This is not because I'm so sure of who I am that I shrug off others opinions, more because I actually never really know who I am anyway so how should anyone else?
But I did spend some time thinking about these two women, and working out what it was about them that made them think that about me.

It was an interesting process, and I came to some conclusions, but I guess I was just doing the same - viewing them through my eyes - so I'll never really know will I?

Julie wrote recently that growing up in a small town has made her overly concerned with wanting to please, wanting people to like her.
I too grew up in a small town but my experience was completely different. When one's family is singled out as the social pariahs, the liberal outcasts, the 'commies', one learns from pretty young not to give a fuck what others think.
And to compensate for that, for isolation is not something any human being really craves, its easy to nurture feelings of superiority, or at least, defensive self-confidence.

There's been a number of occasions in my life where someone has accused me of 'thinking I'm better than them'. I can be pretty judgmental, or maybe I should say unapologetic with my opinions, and I have often been criticised for it - even here - but I have always, always backed those thoughts or actions with the knowledge that they're mine, they come from me.
You may think I think I'm better than you, but if you're clever you'll realise that my thinking that is just that. My thinking, my eyes, carrying my baggage.

It's weight depends on how much of it you can see.

ode to our ginger

2011-09-30T11:55:00.000+02:00

With acknowledgement, and apologies, to Eleanor Farjeon (1881 - 1965) for the abuse of her poem.
(and secondary apologies for the fact that I'm cross-posting here, that's going to happen sometimes ok?)

Cats sleep anywhere,

any trailer,

any chair.

Top of camping fridge,

awkward wedge,

in the middle,

on the edge.

Open suitcase,

empty pool,

anybody's lap'll do.

Fitted in a gift-wrapped box,

in the cupboard with your frocks.

Anywhere! They don't care! Cats sleep anywhere.

summer morning

2011-09-24T13:03:00.000+02:00

Last night when I went to bed, it was early spring. There was a chill wind blowing in under the front door, I had a sweatshirt on over a jersey, in bed my toes slowly warmed and I fell asleep.

05:22 this morning I shuffled down the passage to get some juice for a small girl. The dog lifted her head and asked to be let out.
I stepped out with her, and it was summer.

The dawn was soft and gentle. Woodsmoke still hung in the air from the neighbour's late night party. The crescent moon bobbed above the horizon, her slim silhouette betrayed by the just visible edge of the rest of her fullness, like a party girl stumbling home with her spanx showing.
Birdies twittered, the sky in the east was just starting to pale.

Lego had her wee, I went back to bed, and back to sleep, with my arms out above the covers and the knowledge humming within me, summer's coming ... summer's coming ... summer's coming.

hello f%!@ cupboard

2011-09-23T11:33:00.000+02:00

A teacher I know tells the best story of how one day in her classroom, exasperated beyond by her class of small people, she stuck her head in a cupboard, pulled the doors closed around her ears and said quietly; 'FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.'

Then she came out the cupboard and continued patiently and pleasantly teaching her class.

This blog is now that cupboard.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I needed that. I just can't do that over there. There were I'm spending a lot of time, riding a roller coaster of emotional highs and lows, technical exasperation's, personal disappointments and growing excitement.

So I'm coming here to download:

Writing for a wide and varied audience is hard.
Trying to keep true to my style and my tone without offending people is hard.
Who are these people I think I'm not supposed to offend?
Over 1500 page views but under 50 followers can make a girl doubt herself.
Starting a new blog is so much less about writing than I'd realised.
Technical stuff is necessary, and time-consuming.
Fuck facebook for launching their new format THIS week.
Fuck facebook 'friends' for whom one does favours but then can't even be bothered to visit or like my new page.
Actually fuck facebook in general, I'm so over it.
Also Feedburner, fuck them.
I need to spend more time 'networking' on other parenting blogs but I find most of them so. boring.
Despite all this I'm so enjoying having a project, and I am loving the writing ... but,
... I'm writing a parenting blog and this week I spent most of my time trying to escape from my kiddies to do so.
I like me some irony.

Shrug shoulders, shake out hair, deep breath.
I feel much better now.

Thank you first-love-blog, I won't abuse you like this again I promise.

not-so-super sleuth always gets her man

2011-09-19T10:51:00.004+02:00

Seriously, this has been bugging me since October 2008 and I've finally got it!

I did a post then including some pics of street art from my neighbourhood. I love, love, LOVE the kids with the suitcase and I've finally found out who the artist is!

Gabriel Hope. Interview, and more pics of his work, here.

Some call him South Africa's Banksy. I say Banksy better watch out yo.

PS. Lynne, this one's for you.

I made some stuffz

2011-09-18T20:54:00.000+02:00

Okay, so I haven't just been watching crap TV and baking and building an empire and spending lots of time on Pinterest.
I have been doing lots of all the above (you know that thing about the more you do the more you can do? It's true. Also, the less sleep you get. Yawn.), but I also had one of those moments where you realise that there's no point in collecting lots of (p)inspiration and not doing anything with it. So I made some stuffz.

This bracelet, from Honestly WTF ... (I loved her colours)

... this shirt ... (for a special occasion)

... and these, because why wouldn't I?

Don't say I don't ever do nothing.

'shrooming

2011-09-14T10:09:00.000+02:00

Burp.

Dinner last night consisted of home-grown oyster mushrooms, sauteed in garlic and white wine, tossed with arugula (that's rocket to me), slathered in freshly grated pecorino and served over pasta.
Sounds pretentious no? And ... yummy.

What was not so yummy was watching these things grow. Unlike these gorgeous photos of mushrooms growing in the wild, growing them in our kitchen was a decidedly un-visually-appealing experience.
You'll thank me for not sharing any pictures.

Mushrooms grow from spores right? Spores being fungus, fungus being mold. Mold don't look so appetizing.

We got a Home-Gro oyster mushroom kit (go look at their pics - ours looked nothing like that) from a friend a month or so ago. We duly opened the box, sprayed the soggy hay inside with water a couple of times a day, moved it around the kitchen looking for the best light. Nothing happened.
Then the mold.
Then the fungus.
Then the spores and finally, just when I was ready to throw up in the towel, 3 trumpeting oyster mushrooms.

'You're not going to eat those?' asked Sylvia who works for us. 'Are you serious?' asked Frieda when I told her we would.
I wasn't so sure myself. But we did, and they were yummy.
Now we're 'sposed to turn the hunk of hay over in the box and start again on the other side but I'm not so sure.

As yummy as they were I think possibly that mushrooms, like steak, are best not grown at home.

c is for ... completely off track?

2011-09-09T11:33:00.000+02:00

Ok y'all (ja, YOU GUYS, who are out there, reading this. The one's I usually shamefully ignore. The ones I seldom address directly. I'm going to lay this on the line for you ... )

So.

I started a new blog.

I started a new blog in answer to that beeg question: what would be your dream job? Answer: blogging.
I started a new blog as I don't yet have that Great South African Novel inside me but I just want to write all day.
I started a new blog in response to a need within myself to talk more about my children, and our days together.
I started a new blog with the intention to shamelessly self-promote myself, to whore around for as many followers as I can get, to monetize and SEO-itize and seduce advertisers and reap kick-backs and kick the butt of the (unfortunately pretty mediocre) other SA 'mommy-bloggers' I've encountered.
I started a new blog to get famous y'all.

And now I'm teetering on the threshold of showing my new little blog to the world and I find myself consumed with anxiety and uncertainty and ... oh my god, will they like me?

This is where you come in. And you're allowed to feel totally smug about this. After years of pretending you're not there, in some strange way I feel you're the audience whose opinion I value the most. You've been reading my writing, leaving me comments, encouraging me and supporting me in this writing business.
You share this space which is all about me, this space which will always be my first love, my safety-net, the place where I can swear and tell tales on my neighbours and blog out loud.

So now I want to know from you. Honestly and openly - I can handle it all, really - go have a look, come back and tell me what you think.

C is for ... completely off track?
C is for ... c'mon Molly, you can do better than this?
C is for ... crazy concept really?
C is for ... completely boring?
C is for ... cute with improvement required?
or
C is for Cape Town.

the most boring thing ever

2011-09-08T11:42:00.000+02:00

Hearing about other people's dreams right? But here goes anyway ...

The other night I had one of those dreams which, in the clear morning light, was directly traceable to a number of experiences I'd had in the few days before.

In my dream I ...

- was married to a faceless man named Luke [ok, I actually don't know where this came from besides possibly a subconscious desire to seem more world-wise then a girl who's been with the same guy for nearly 20 years]

- was married to a faceless man named Luke but we totally shared our relationship with my real life husband [this obviously because having spent nearly 20 yrs with the dude I can't actually ~~be rid of him~~ commit adultery, even in my dreams]
[and, as an aside, when I proudly told real life husband about this the next morning he was not, as I kind of expected, bowled over by my dream life loyalty, but instead called me a filthy polygamist and when I asked him to help me open the peanut butter jar hissed that maybe 'Luke could open it for you'. Wow.]

- had a real bitch of a boss [she was the blonde incarnation of Tess from Burlesque which I'd watched a couple of evenings before]
[FYI - surprise surprise, crap film]

- whose husband violently disapproved of my polygamous lifestyle [he was totally the utter asshole Jerry someone-or-other from the rerun I'd recently watched of the Oprah show in which she returns to Williamson, West Virginia to follow up the show she'd done there in 1987 on AIDS sufferer Mike Sisco.]

- the disapproving husband had a mullet [again Mike Sisco]
[aside: what a guy. Mike I mean, not fictional disapproving mullet-wearing asshole husband]

- faceless dream-husband named Luke drove a Ferrari [I'd seen one in Obs - yeah, in Obs - the day before]
[oh wait, I'm getting why real-life husband is hating dream-husband so much, clearly not as much about me as I thought ...]

- here's where it gets weird (but still no doubt, very boring)

- dream-hater-husband-with-mullet chose to express his disapproval by leaving a lovely piece of embroidered vitriol on dream-husband (faceless, name of Luke)'s Ferrari. Yup, an exquisitely hand-stitched embroidery listing all the ways we were going to burn in hell for our repulsive lifestyle. With two or three different types of stitch, colours etc [and this, again no surprises, definitely came from spending far too much time on Pinterest of late.]

I really got to start doing something else with my evenings other than watching crap TV and surfing Pinterest.
As Oprah would say, dreams are a means of changing your life from the inside out.
Maybe I'll go looking for that Ferrari ...

the best thing(s) about a childfree morning

2011-09-05T21:39:00.000+02:00

... jaywalking.

... talking aloud without having to explain myself.
(mumble) 'Damn, I should've turned there.'
'What did you say Mum?'
(slightly louder) 'I said I should've turned there but it doesn't matter, I'll take the next one.'
'The next what Mum?'
'The next turn.'
'This one Mum?'
(deep breath) 'No, the next one coming up.' (mumble) 'Damn, that's a one-way'
'What's a one-way Mum?'
(little exasperated) 'Um, I can't explain right now sweetie, could we just not talk while I work out where I'm going?'
(small pause) 'Are we lost Mum?'

... eating chocolate for breakfast. And not having to share it.

... not carrying wet wipes (though this can sometimes be a disadvantage).

... listening to Dr Eve on 567 CapeTalk.

tres leches cakepudding

2011-09-01T01:00:00.000+02:00

After the resounding inter (and intra) national success of The Rainbow Cake I think I've been suffering from baking-fatigue. Or maybe just feeling a little intimidated-slash-porky?

Husband even baked his own birthday cake in July!

But last month I got the call again: I had to bake.

Tres Leches Cake has been on my To Bake list since, well since back when I used to read The Pioneer Woman. You know, back before I decided she can't be real and must be a product of Harpo Studios (don't laugh, I'm not the only one who thinks so), and back before frankly I found a whole bunch of other much better reads!

Anyhoo, it was time. And with the enormous number of new and breast-feeding mums I know out there (in real life and the blogosphere), I thought a Three Milk Cake was kinda appropriate.

I used PW's ingredient list, but moved closer to home for the method. Nook Eatery is a gorgeous little food blog I've been enjoying lately and their method produced a lighter cake, more delicious for refrigerating overnight.

You know I'm a lazy slag when it comes to actually writing out these recipes, does this look like a food blog to you? But I can recommend visiting the links and making this yourself.

Served with whipped cream and fresh fruit it's almost more of a cakepudding. Three-milk-cake-pudding-cake. What's not to love?

walkies!

2011-08-31T12:17:00.001+02:00

Colour me Katie did it first. And did it very nicely at that.

But the Balloon Dog is becoming a bit of an annual tradition for us too. Last year's puppy hung around for weeks, slowly deflating in weird and irregular ways until one day Frieda came to me with a small piece of shrunken brown plastic and declared it Time to Throw Balloon Dog Away.
An important milestone for a then 3 year old I thought.

Our new friend is however in his first flush of youth. Filled with exuberance and adventurous spirit he had his first walk around the neighbourhood this afternoon, checking out the sights and sounds of Observatory.
And the smells, oh boy the smells!
Much better than bobbing around the Society of the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA) stand at the Baba Indaba, that's for sure.

ghost

2011-08-29T10:39:00.000+02:00

I was sorting through some old video footage and suddenly there he was. Crossing a beach towards me, carrying a bottle of champagne, saying something silly, lit by the most gorgeous end of perfect day light.
And it made me cry.

We haven't seen him for 3 years, but he used to be a very special friend. He's not dead, he's not even very far away, he's just gone, and there's nothing we can do about that.
It's not that I even want to see him, he's caused so much pain and been such a silly, stupid stupid person that the friendship, the fondness, the intimacy we had no longer exists.
To see him now would just be upsetting, ethereal and pointless. Like a ghost.

In so many ways it would be much easier if he was. If he'd died we could've mourned him. We could remember him, the times we had, without the hurt and the anger. If there was a grave or a memorial place we could visit it and laugh through our tears. We could share memories with the others who knew him, some of whom carry a much greater hurt, we could reclaim, untainted, that part of our lives we shared with him.

As I looked at that body that, for never having known (in the Biblical sense,) I knew so well, as I looked at those hands which played music, made beautiful things, remembered the texture of that crazy hair, heard the voice with which I'd talked and laughed so much, for the first time in 3 years I no longer felt just anger.
I just felt sad.

Ghosts walk among us. I felt the presence of one today, and after all this time I still can't help wondering if he ever feels mine.

to be perfectly honest

2011-08-09T21:26:00.004+02:00

Sometimes when things feel particularly bleak in this bizarrely beautiful and contradictory country of ours, one finds oneself dreaming longingly of a 'safe' existence.
You know, a life of low (if any) fences, unbarred windows, walks after dark, disease control, weapons restrictions, order, compliance, efficacy, accountability, normalcy. A life in say, England, or Norway, or Canada ...

Am I allowed to say that when the shit hits the fan as it has in London there's an element of relief in it for me?
Am I allowed to use the word relief in it's broadest sense and with no intended implication of schadenfreude or unkindness?
I hate what's happening in London, I'm battling to understand it and vacillating between horror at the unruliness of what seems, to my 3rd-world trained eye, to be a bunch of already well-dressed, well-fed kids breaking into high street stores to steal sneakers - as someone mentioned on face book nary a placard or political slogan to be seen - and sadness at a generation which seems to be so ... angry? voiceless? bored?
I'm concerned for my friends, concerned for the implications these events will have on their lives.
I'm disillusioned, worried, appalled.

But the lesson that people are people are assholes are victims are oppressors are dissatisfied are trying are failing are learning e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e, is a valuable one that I need to re-learn often.

Today is Women's Day here. We celebrate women who've gone before and done the work to give us the rights we have today. We think about women's role in our society and try to honour that.

We walk on the mountain, and watch our little women survey their kingdom. We go home and eat cake.

We're not uncaring, but for today the shit splatters in another part of the world, and we're completely happy to call Africa home.
Tomorrow may be different. I very much hope it is for the UK, I'll be quite happy if it's not for me.

NO I'M NOT PREGNANT!

2011-08-03T14:42:00.000+02:00

Just busy with stuff I can't blog about right now but I know saying that here is the blogosphere equivalent of throwing up on my shoes and claiming I can't drink 'cos I'm on antibiotics and candidly looking at maternity wear catalogues and suddenly wearing sensible bra's and all those other signifiers we're so quick to spot and get all over excited about so NO, I'M NOT PREGNANT.

Just busy, and taking a blog break.
Mwah.

the funny side of paediatric procedures

2011-07-28T21:16:00.001+02:00

Okay, okay, so there isn't really a funny side to having to take your 16 month old for x-rays, or to booking her into hospital for the afternoon for a small, but none-the-less intrusive surgical procedure.
I certainly can't imagine a funny side to having to keep her nil by mouth from 8am tomorrow morning until her procedure at 2, or to having to hold her while they put her under, or reassure her when she wakes up pissed off and hungry.
But there's a bit of humour to be found in everything if you look closely enough:

In this case it's the whereabouts of that missing bead from her older sister's afternoon craft project.

more depravity

2011-07-26T22:12:00.001+02:00

A friend, who'd enjoyed my in flagrante post last month (what wasn't to love right?), was amused by this scene on the back patio over the weekend.

What can I say? Our dolls have few inhibitions.
Peace out.

the first day

2011-07-25T22:38:00.003+02:00

This morning I got up before the girls, and rushed to dress and wash my face before any demands were made of me.
I managed to eat breakfast at the same time as feeding them, got Frieda off to school, some ducks in a row for Stella's morning with her nanny, my laptop etc packed, mascara applied and left the house at 09h05 looking mostly presentable and sort of real-worldy.

I got into my car and drove exactly two and a half blocks to my brother's house, where I set up my laptop on his dining room table and, for three hours, wrote.

None of this sounds vaguely exceptional. But for me it was profoundly so.

Today I executed a plan I hatched back in January. Today I took the first step in overcoming extreme threshold anxiety. Today I hope to remember as the day I became a writer.

Or maybe today should just be remembered for that exceptional rainbow this morning, or for the cold and blustery walk in Kirstenbosch the girls and I took together this afternoon, all three of us walking. Or for how Stella roared at some American tourists and Frieda made us stop so she could breast-feed her doll on a bench.
Maybe I'll just remember today as the first day that Stella grabbed her spoon from me and ate an entire bowl of pasta on her own while I did. something. else.

Maybe today should pass unmarked, and not singled out for glory, but in my mind I feel a switch clicked today. I just hope it was turning the light on.

better monday

2011-07-25T09:30:00.001+02:00

After a weekend filled with some crappy international and personal news, this was a welcome sight this morning.

Though when taking photos of our lovely mountain view, I do wish our neighbour wasn't quite so security conscious.

these arms of mine

2011-07-22T11:53:00.001+02:00

You have to read it like the original Otis Redding. You have to feel the yearning.

For my arms are feeling it when I hold my small girl close, when I feel the recognition in my muscles, the knowing how to hold this little body, and the sadness these arms feel already, knowing she won't be so little for much longer.
Mah baybee.

It's so ridiculously biological it's almost laughable.
I'm not a big baby fan, both my girls I've enjoyed so much more after their first birthdays. I don't miss breastfeeding (much), I don't miss having that small being ON me all the time, I love being able to communicate with words, I love watching them grow more independent.
But my arms, they refute all of this when I hold my Stella close, especially in her warm and floppy moments, and the muscles sing with yearning, with already full-blown nostalgia, with the shattering knowledge that the next baby, if any, that I'll hold with this kind of kinship, will be a grandchild.
Mah baybeeeeeeeee.

She's becoming such a big girl.

She LOVES a doll. In fact, the more the lovelier. Whereas Frieda's only ever had one doll (the still so named Zeberebareba), and was never particularly into playing dolly, Stella has a host of 'babas' - all of whom get canoodled and paraded around and pushed in the pram/wheelbarrow/random box.

She HATES orange food. Barring cheese, she won't even look twice at butternut, carrot, peach, melon, pawpaw etc.

She LOVES her mummy, and wants to sleep with me every night. I pretend to be mildly annoyed by this and half-heartedly resist, but at some point in the night our love can no longer be denied and we end up together, in her bed or mine. 'Cos, mah baybeee see?

She HATES hats. She LOVES cats. She SCREAMS when outraged and SQUEALS when happy. She LOVES/HATES/LOVES/HATESbutmostlyLOVES her big sister.
She wields a mean bitch-slap, can scratch like a tiger and still likes to bite me.
She's saying the same first proper word as Frieda did: juice.

She LOVES her dad and wanders disconsolately around the house carrying one of his slippers calling 'Daddy?'

She's a big little person, our Stella. I love watching her develop, but I wish she wouldn't grow so fast.

Wish she'd stay my little woman for just a little bit longer.

random photo-ness

2011-07-20T15:23:00.000+02:00

Last night I opened my diary for the first time since the 25th of June. Not my Dear Diary, my Page-A-Day diary.

3 weeks of school holiday is a long time man. Looking forward to some real life again.

Oh wait, this is my real life ...

Sculpture by Marieke Prinsloo Rowe on Sea Point Promenade.

Snapped one night in a forecourt cafe - seems he's alive and well (and careless), living in Cape Town.

The legacy of the 2010 World Cup - gorgeous biodiversity garden in Green Point next to the Cape Town Stadium.

Sun, smiles, slides, smartphones ...

The dark side of little girls. Can't decide which doll's more creepy ...?

it's beautiful here

2011-07-16T20:08:00.001+02:00

Cape Town Tourism Press Office called. They warned me one more post about crime and they'd have me off the airwaves for good.
So here you go, snaps from our mid-week, mid-winter mini-break just out the city.

It may be challenging to live here sometimes, but it's so very beautiful.

school fees

2011-07-10T21:38:00.001+02:00

He started off with a random act of neighbourliness, a small gesture which clearly put me at ease and established him as a decent enough fellow.
And then, despite later discovering that there was a warning notice up at our local mini-mart and a number of items recently published in the local rag (which I never read), I fell for his routine like the famed fishie, and let him into our house which he left, 5 minutes later, with a cell phone. Not his own.

It seems he even used one of his standard stories, about needing to clear branches from the phone line behind our house. A brilliant tactic in the light of how harden we are towards tales of hard-times and hungry children, I never fall for those anymore but someone offering to make my life easier? Yes please.

He was personable, nice, pleasant to the kids. He spoke very fast, which rang a distant warning bell, but my charitable brain thought he was just a considerate guy not wanting to inconvenience his neighbours more than necessary.

When I reported the incident to the police I was told my report was one of three in our area this weekend - all sounding like the same guy. At least I'm not the only dumb-ass on the block, I'm in illustrious company with the chairperson of the Neighbourhood Watch no less. Now that's embarrassing!

School fees my husband calls it. The price paid for lessons learned. Sadly the lesson in this case is to be more suspicious, even of nice people.
It goes against my grain and I hate that it's a reality in my life.

Other realities of the weekend:
'Cos misery apparently does love company we also had no hot water for 48 hours - bust geyser - and Stella popped 2 molars - no sleep for me.
But, because the world, and Observatory, is a place of eternal dichotomy, I was again reminded of how comforting it is to live in a community. I walked round to a friend's for a blissfully long soak in her bathtub at midday and lay there listening to the hum of her sewing machine. Later I walked the girls down to my brother's house to bath them. Every (legit) neighbour and friend we encountered was sympathetic and displayed that curious bent for humour we South Africans have developed for times such as these.
It's a funny old world.

And. The weather has been wonderful, I'm in flip-flops at 9pm, we had Cesar Salad for dinner, husband realised a dream purchasing a 1976 Honda cafe racer, we finally got a new ironing board, there's a week of fun ahead. Silver linings hey, gotta keep your eye on them.

frieda-isms

2011-07-08T20:03:00.001+02:00

Emerging from the bathroom carrying our wooden (very expensive for a bathmat) bathmat, rolled up in her arms. This item is not a toy. Neither is it for rolling.
'Mummy, could you help me hoist this onto my back?'
A just-4 yr old with a vocab like that can have anything in my book.

Overheard at her birthday party as some bigger boys ran past a tottering Stella:
'Hey! Watch out for my little sister, SHE'S NOT VERY STABLE!'
Let's hope she never has occasion to say that again.

My elderly Afrikaans mother-in-law: 'Ek het 'n wortel koek gebak [pronounced 'buck']*'.
Frieda, aghast, 'Mum! Did Ouma say fuck?'
Be merciful Lord, and take me now.

What's that you say, soon there'll be two of them talking? I don't know if I can handle the funny.

*I baked a carrot cake.

yesterday

2011-07-06T12:25:00.000+02:00

The restaurant phoned at about 4pm to confirm my booking and immediately I got a pleasant buzz from knowing that somewhere out there in the city people were setting up our table, checking cutlery and glasses, preparing for the evening ahead.

The thought sustained me through a particularly rough supper/bath time ('I just bit her arm Mummy, 'cos she's so delicious, I didn't think she'd scream.'), the knowledge that the next part of my evening was already in process, I just had to catch up to it.
I dressed warmly but carefully, under the scrutiny of my eldest.
'Why don't you wear that brooch at home Mummy?'
'What and give you another weapon for your arsenal?'
'What's a arse ... nail Mummy?'
Wha ha ha ha ha ha.

I kissed the little angels good night and left the house with just my purse and my phone. Not a wet wipe in sight.

Smoky jazz on the car radio, an aural link to NYC, Berlin, a cosmopolitan life outside my own. I felt myself relaxing, I felt like myself.

Then up onto the highway to Town, not another car in sight. It's early evening, mid-week for sure but still ... Cape Town you are a funny little place in winter.
Dark, cold, quiet mountain rises up on my left, below me a thin band of lights - they seem to glitter more sharply in the cold - and then, dark, cold, quiet ocean.
We're really very far from anywhere down here.

The bustle of the restaurant and a table full of girls distracts me from it all. We're eating Chinese, Thai, Japanese food, drinking wine made just beyond the mountains, via facebook we check on a friend running the Midnight Sun Marathon in Norway, another friend tells of her recent Kilimanjaro climb. We could be anywhere.

But still the feeling lingers with me. I've had it before when staying in small deserted cottages far from anywhere, an acute awareness of the space outside. The vastness which surrounds us.

I entertain my friends with a story of romping with the girls that afternoon. How dangerous it is to get horizontal under them - lying on the floor they both assail me. 'It's a pile-on' shouts Frieda gleefully, Stella almost more of a threat with her uncoordinated hands and legs.
How, as I clutch my hands around my head, inhaling my own hair, through the bouncing and shrieking of two little girls, and the inevitable wet nose of an eagerly contributing doggie, I feel blissfully happy and fulfilled.
It may be short-lived, but in the moment it's real.

It may be a small life, in a quiet place, but it's mine, and I think I love it.

annoying on so many levels

2011-07-04T21:29:00.000+02:00

So last night, in a freakish replay of last week's events, I heard a distinctively ominous BANG at about 9pm. Calling husband I threw open the front door in time to see a hooded figure run across our front yard and jump the wall, taking off down the road.

Seems he'd tried to force our front security gate, hoping to gain access to the enclosed porch in which we keep our bikes - admittedly irresistible bait to the small-time criminal - in the process rendering the lock useless, and us captive in our own house.
Cunt.

Security company was duly called, more for procedure than any hope of pursuing the perp, and then our home insurers to book a locksmith for the morning. At which point we discovered that obviously in order to claim for the damages we would need a police case number, which of course meant having to formally report the incident.
And so, in what felt like a massive waste of the already massively-strapped SA Police Force's time and resources, we had two officers in our lounge last evening, taking my statement about nothing, and a visiting detective and a finger-print guy here today, practically doing nothing, all so we wouldn't have to spend R500+ of our own money on repairing our gate.
And they were all so nice and helpful and sympathetic, which almost made me feel worse. And even more annoyed with the would-be burglar.

I'm annoyed that this pathetic little junkie/opportunist/desperately hungry individual (I added the last one to create the illusion of lefty-liberalism, sneaky hey?) got within metres of my sleeping daughters.

I'm annoyed that my feelings of security in my own home have been shaken a little.

I'm annoyed that we now need to find alternative storage for our bikes when the porch was just perfect for them.

I'm annoyed that the key for the new lock is ugly.

And mostly I'm annoyed that my BULL TERRIER slept soundly on her chair throughout the entire event. So much for that!

everybody needs them

2011-07-01T11:31:00.000+02:00

Good neighbours that is.

Late one night last week I heard the ominously distinctive noises of someone breaking into the house next door. I leaped from my warm bed, peered out the window, just in time to hear glass, a lot of glass, smashing.
It was so loud it even woke Husband. Yup, that loud.

We huddled in the shadows outside the front door, whispering details and our address to the security company on the phone, watching aghast as two figures in hoodies brazenly moved about in our neighbour's front garden.

It was cold, really cold, but we kept our posts, warmed by our conviction that we were assisting in bringing some bad guys to book.

Just before the security guards arrived we realised in distress that the burglars were readying to leave. They carried bags out to a waiting vehicle, parked just out of sight.
Husband crept out from our hiding place.
'They're leaving,' I hissed, disappointed. 'Get the reg number but don't be a hero!'

The car started up, bumped off the pavement and sped away. Giving us just enough time to read the slogan on the side:
24h Glass Repairs.

ADT Security roared round the corner, adrenalin-fulled armed guards jumping out, 'Did they come back?' they were shouting.
'Er ...'

Turns out our neighbours were broken into (for realz) a couple of hours earlier. The intruder/s made off with a DVD player. The cops were on the scene in minutes.
We heard nothing.

Everybody needs good neighbours. Even our neighbours.

rainbow cake

2011-06-29T21:24:00.000+02:00

For the best visual impact : actual effort ratio I can't recommend this cakemore highly.

The most time-consuming part was having lots of fun reeling through Pinterest finding'inspiration'. All hail Pinterest.

The easiest part was taking heed of the advice to freeze the layers beforeconstructing the final product. This meant I could bake the layers in twobatches, over two evenings, and keep them in the freezer until the night beforethe party.

The most important part is to use decent food colouring. I did not, as oneguest's mother (half?) jokingly inquired, use natural food dyes (have your seenthose colours??) but soft gel paste colouring made by Americolor . Brilliant stuff.

pre-outer icing, with the wooden rainbow puzzle which inspired it all

The most anti-global imperialism part was staying true to my belief that Ispell colour correctly, despite what blogger and every other website on my pathtowards creating this masterpiece told me.

The yummiest part, in my opinion, was the creamyvanilla icing I made from Julochka'srecipe. This even after I abused it's subtle constitution by re-beating it onthe evening of construction (I'd made it much earlier that day) instead ofhaving the patience to allow it to come to room temperature in her own, sweet,time.
Thank god Husband is such a good plasterer - his skillz came in handy.

The most anxious part was when I thought my final layer was looking decidedly brown, but it turned out a beautiful deep purple once baked.

The most engineerical (real word, I promise) part was dividing the batter. Once I'd calculated I should use 360g per layer the rest was a ... well, cake walk.
Digital scale ahoy.

The funniest part: when the final chunk collapsed at the party.

Such fun!

over the rainbow

2011-06-26T21:31:00.001+02:00

It was a little unnerving, when looking for ideas for this party, to discover that Rainbow Party had a whole other meaning I'd not been aware of. It seems my tweenhood was far more protected than I thought at the time ....

Anyhoo, be assured that Frieda's 4th Birthday Party on Saturday was not that colourful.

It did however feature some orgasmic deliciousness, not least of all my darling girls.

(alas, little friend Eva's life will now never be complete without a rainbow cake all of her own)

ye gods, what is this thing of such colour and deliciousness?

yes they have matching cardi's - but only for Very Special Occasions.

winter snail

2011-06-23T23:29:00.000+02:00

Dude, you best get a-moving.

You so don't want to be here on Saturday.

I know its cold and you've got that whole open blood system thing going on but seriously, suck on some citrus and get on yer bike.
Many children, much running, squealing, salty popcorn - nuff said?

Juno

2011-06-21T23:48:00.000+02:00

She was born on the same day as Frieda, 4 years later. 3 years, 364 days and 22 and a half hours later.
To be exact.
On the same day as me, 4 years later, my best friend has become a Mum, and I really, honestly couldn't be happier for her.

How can two magnificent people become even greater? By producing a third magnificent being of course!

Juno.
June bug.
Juniper berry.
Dju know mos.

Welcome long-awaited and most deliciously anticipated little thing.
Your whole world welcomes you with open arms.

four

2011-06-20T22:33:00.002+02:00

My Frieda is four.

I can't hardly believe it.

4/10 things I lovetohate that you do

2011-06-19T11:50:00.000+02:00

Many years ago I blogged the process of rehabilitating the fireplace in our house from it's gold-gilded, knick-knack besmirched existence to what I like to think is a much more stylish picture altogether.

It's a pretty fireplace but alas not a functioning one, when we bought the place we were told it was boarded up. I recalled something about the chimney cladding being damaged, I remember being horrified at the cost of chimney-sweeps, I even remember some ha-ha conversations about acquiring a monkey with a webcam to go in and assess the damage.

So imagine my gobsmacked surprise when last night, right in front of my eyes, eight winters later, the dude calmly removes the board blocking the flue and lights a fire.
Wha ... ?

I nearly lit a fire of my own.

Apparently every time he's suggested trying to light it in the past I've vetoed the suggestion for fear of filling the house with smoke and ash ... this I don't recall as clearly.
What I do know is that sitting in front of our own fire last night was heart-warming.

Thanks babe.

use your kind words

2011-06-17T20:28:00.000+02:00

The ever wonderful Krista from ~my life as i see it~ has this line inviting one to leave comments.

Use your kind words.

Krista is the kind of blogger I wish I was; infrequent but when she does post every one is a gem, well-considered, prosaic, thought-provoking and gentle.
I feel like she asks us to respect that, to tread lightly, to be our best selves.

For isn't that was using kind words really is? To be your best self, to be respectful, to think before you blurt.

I've been thinking about this recently as Stella starts to develop language. To understand words, link them with images, become more aware of subtle tone, emotive inflections, to mimic and express herself in more and more ways.
I'm dusting off the skills I largely learnt from my Mum when Frieda was at this stage.
Stella and I sit together 'reading' a book. On a page of farmyard animals I ask her, 'Where's the duck?'.
She points to a sheep.
I smile encouragingly and say 'That's a sheep, he goes baa, isn't he lovely and woolly. Here's a duck, swimming in the water, quack quack.'
She quacks and points to the duck, 'quack quack quack'.
There is no negativity in this space, no harsh words, nothing shrill or grating.

Sometimes I rue that my words to Frieda, and hers to me, are not always as kind. But then I remember that they're kinder than they have been in the past, kinder than they will no doubt be at some stage in the future.
Kind in all the ways that really matter. This is an ever-changing process.

And I have to giggle that Stella's first 'phrase' is 'bag 'og', said with a little menacing finger in the air, whenever our poor hounded bull-terrier enters the room.
Not all of one's words are kind, and one can't be expected to stick to the kind ones all the time right?

But ...

Recently I witnessed a woman I know speaking to her husband in the most revolting and patronising manner. I wouldn't speak like that to our dog, no matter how many times she'd shat on the bathroom floor.
I don't know the circumstances of the altercation, and while I believe that no one truly knows the inner workings of someone else's relationship, I do know that to speak to another human being in that tone reveals a total lack of respect. And that made me sad.
And it was in front of their children and mine. That made me sadder.

The next day I stood behind a man at a pay-parking stattion. His coin kept dropping through, rejected by the machine. He kept trying, the machine kept denying and eventually, instead of the exasperated huffy sigh I was expecting, he threw back his head and laughed, catching myself and the growing queue behind me unawares, making us all smile too.
As he walked away to try another station I noticed he was wearing a dog-collar. Not being a man of god I couldn't say whether that was what made all the difference, but I could tell he was, in his head, using his kind words.

Such a small thought, but such a vital one. Use your kind words. I bet you'll hear them spoken back to you.

under the in-flu-enz

2011-06-11T20:49:00.049+02:00

The sick is upon us. Man, woman, child (x 2), we've all gone down.

Not bad going considering it's early June, by this time last year we'd already had all manner of medical dramas too boring to remember or link back to.

This has been a nasty one, one of those which befuddles your mind. And god knows I don't need anymore of that.

Under the influenz(a) I have, in the last week ...

... lain awake in a fevered insomnia composing what I thought at the time was a hilarious and witty blog post about suppositories. Yes, suppositories. Pediatric ones at least, but still.

... lain awake in a fevered panic thinking that my book club was due to arrive at mine in a few hours and I'd done nothing, was sick as the proverbial sick dog, the place was in chaos and, and, and arghhhhhhh!

... sent out 12 invitations to small friends of Frieda's who all have at least one younger sibling and one parent who'll accompany them to a birthday party in her honour AT OUR HOUSE IN TWO WEEKS TIME ON WHICH DATE IT WILL UNDOUBTEDLY RAIN OF COURSE. Yes I'm shouting, have you done the maths?

... shipped my eldest daughter off to her Granny's twice as she's recovered faster than the rest of us and has been driving us all bezerko with her boundless energy and ear-splitting good health. She's much happier there, trust me.

... been reading lots of delightful books, some of which I'll probably have the pleasure of reading again as already I can't remember a thing about them. Double the value!

I'm feeling better now. Really. Except when I think about the party. Arghhhhhhhh.

in flagrante

2011-06-07T11:02:00.000+02:00

Turns out when one leaves two (somewhat hideous, knitted by a kindly friend of Ouma's) dolls alone in the boot of the car they, um, grab the opportunity ...

Lucky buggers.

me, in lists

2011-06-05T21:42:00.000+02:00

fun ~
a trip upcountry BY MYSELF to visit a very wonderful friend. 2 flights and a train ride in which to listen to music and read. 2 afternoon naps. lots of laughs. a full body massage. a pat on a long awaited and joyfully anticipated bump.
2 x outings to the theatre. one for a brash ballet, one for a ponderous puppet show.
a loud evening of lots of food and even more wine.

life ~
poo, or lack thereof. not mine. poo, or too much thereof. again, not mine. art, a little bit of it. mine. plans for a birthday party. slowly saying goodbye to a grandparent. thinking about how to explain that to a small girl. settling into winter. remembering what it's like to be cold. appreciating anew the art of the snuggle.

food ~
cupcakes and champagne. steak. salmon. pizza. more steak. banana bread. lamb stew. wine. clafoutis. mussels. prawns. fillet in a brandy mushroom sauce. more wine. more cupcakes. perfectly roasted vegetables. perfectly roasted potatoes. wine. perfectly roasted pork. chocolate almond biscotti.
winter's not so bad ...

you'll never hear this from me again

2011-06-03T20:42:00.000+02:00

I imagine you may have thought you'd never hear from me again.

Life, she is busy. She is fun, but busy.

So here's the thing: oddly it's when I'm hardly blogging that my followers numbers increase.
And I need 2 more.

I'm not at liberty to say why, but I know that's just boringly wanker-ish, so here's a couple of answers - you pick the one which works for you.

a) I've been given 1 week to live and my life's ambition is to have 188 random strangers following my blog
b) I'm working for an extra-terrestrial government and my mission is to get the number 188 in use as widely as possible
c) I made an oath 3 years ago that I'd stop blogging when I got to 188 followers and I'm sick of it now
d) 188 is my celestial-aura-tastic-astrological-birth-synchronastic number
e) I'm bored of the (baby) thumbnail gallery of pics in my followers block
f) I'm in need of a happy number (of which I'm assured 188 is one)
g) I've bought some shares

Roll on in lurkers.

one of those

2011-05-25T21:46:00.001+02:00

Wherein you wake up to a power failure which persists for twenty hours.

Wherein your card gets declined after a massive grocery shop due to some ineffectual bank fuck-wittery.

Wherein your body, in an unnecessary act of biological show(wo)manship, insists on menstruating even though you're not planning on ever making use of your reproductive system ever again.

Wherein you commit an act of epic parenting failure by inadvertently (obviously) forgetting to set the brakes on the pram, turning around just in time to see your precious baby lurch face-forward off the pavement, landing under her pram, onto the tarmac, right in front of an indignant woman who then berates you - as if the grazed and hysterical face of your offspring wasn't already cutting you to ribbons.

One of those days.

Goodnight.

posted from Bloggeroid

it's my birthday & I can braai* if I want to

2011-05-20T20:16:00.000+02:00

Steak. Mushrooms. Garlic Bread. Pumpkin.
Yin & Yang white & dark chocolate mousse.

After a birthday serenade this afternoon from this lot:

To think in another lifetime they could've all been mine.
That's enough to make one gag on one's (very, very lovely) red wine!

Happy days!

(*braai)

today we made ...

2011-05-18T19:16:00.002+02:00

... bread

... a batch of brownies

... use of our democratic right by voting in the local government elections

... new friends

... a lot of noise

... lasagne

... it through supper and bath time (barely).

And now I'm settling in to make some art.

Today was a busy day.

language cont.

2011-05-15T21:54:00.000+02:00

Sunday morning. Our kitchen.

Frieda: 'Fuck!'

Me: ' ... ! ... '

Frieda: 'Fuck!'

Me, as nonplussed as possible: 'Frieda, that's really not a nice word. I don't like you using it.'

Frieda, rolls eyes: 'Jesus Christ'

oh.
my.
.... hat?

language

2011-05-11T22:22:00.000+02:00

We have new neighbours. A German couple with two young children. They live on a farm outside Cape Town but are here for 6 weeks fixing up the place to rent it out.
They're clearing gutters and painting and gardening and what have you. This morning, over the wall, I heard a conversation which has played out many a time in our house.

KID: 'What's this? Can I help you?'
DAD: 'Don't touch that!'
KID: 'But I want to help.'
CRASH
DAD: '%!#@!'
KID: 'Waaaaaaa...'
MUM: 'What happened?'
DAD: 'Just get him/her away from here.'
MUM: 'But s/he was just trying to help.'
KID: 'Waaaaaa...'

The whole dialogue was in German. I don't speak German but that's absolutely what was said.

***

Frieda had a play date this afternoon with two little girls down the road. Their Dad is Angolan and speaks to them in Portuguese. Their Mum is from Holland and speaks to them in Dutch.

Frieda and the girls spent the afternoon in their garden 'talking Chicken' and clucking Away in a Manger.

***

Bull terriers are known for being very vocal. There's lots of vids online of them 'talking'. Ours doesn't really do that, but backchat? Oh, she's a queen.

Shut her out, reprimand her or neglect to put the pot you just finished using down on the floor for her to lick and she'll give you a snort that's so full of disdain, so cutting, so ... bitchy that you can't help but laugh.

Then she snorts at you again.

***

It's a known fact that second-borns often take longer to start talking. Various theories abound, the most popular being that often their elder sibling will start talking for them, thereby relieving the need for the younger sib to express him/herself.

My theory is that parents get better at interpreting non-verbal communication the second time round.

True or not, Stella, while at 14 months is under no pressure to be talking yet, is becoming alarmingly good at relaying her needs, and wants. Or am I becoming alarmingly good at interpreting them?

'Gnh gnh gnh' - points at shampoo bottle. I hand it to her. She holds it upside down over her head.

'Gnh gnh gnh' -hands bottle back. I put shampoo on her hair. She grins and starts lathering.

She's watching me chop potatoes. Crawls off towards the veggie rack.

'Gnh gnh gnh' - she's holding up the one potato I'd left in the rack, rejected for being too green. I smile, take it and put it to one side.

'GNH GNH GNH!'.

I retrieve green potato and pretend to chop it to.

She grins, but with faint suspiscion.

She crawls towards me with one sock on, the other in her hand.

'Oh did your sock come off? Give me your foot and I'll put it back.'

'Gnh gnh gnh' - she holds out the foot which is still socked.

'You've got a sock on that one, give me the other foot.'

'GNG GNH GNH' - she sticks the same foot out at me more pointedly. I acquiesce and put the second sock on over the first.

She grins and crawls away.

Language hey? It's over-rated. There's a myriad ways of expressing oneself, as many ways of understanding others.

Maybe sometimes it just requires listening in a different way.

sunday evening finds me ...

2011-05-01T21:47:00.001+02:00

... slightly sunburnt from an afternoon on the beach (30 plus degrees in May!)

... digesting lamb

... creeping round the girls room with a head torch putting away clean, sun-dried laundry

... admiring (as always) husband's DIY prowess

... looking forward to another public holiday tomorrow

... eating the last of the Easter eggs (please god let them be the last)

... blogging in bed

... loving that Frieda's gotten into chapter books, we finished Fantastic Mr Fox tonight

... smiling after finding a small plastic chicken under my pillow

... being grateful

such a bad idea

2011-04-28T21:32:00.000+02:00

Nutella Cookies.

I could happily consume a jar of Nutella very quickly, now it seems I could happily consume a jar of Nutella plus 125g of butter plus more sugar than I like to think about in almost the same time.Such a bad idea.

Another bad idea?

Baking these cookies when one's youngest is battling serious constipation. Need I elaborate?
Didn't think so.

Sadly that didn't put me off the final product in the slightest.

sharp as a ... not so sharp thing

2011-04-27T22:52:00.000+02:00

I may not be breastfeeding anymore, I may be getting much much more sleep than I was a few months ago but still, the babies have stolen my brain.

I forget names (I never, ever used to forget names), if something's not written down it ceases to exist for me, I spent a morning with a friend recently while her birthday present languished forgotten in the boot of my car (that'd be you H), I accidentally logged myself off Springpad and drew a complete blank on my password thereby risking my very existence.
I make lists of things I need to tell friends, I've downloaded an App to help me keep track of my cycle, if it wasn't for facebook I'd be forgetting birthdays left, right and centre. I grapple to find the right words and more often than not, I don't.
I make teetering piles of items I Must Remember to Return to my Mother, I stick Post-It's on the front door to remind me to turn the sprinklers off.
I have to remember to remember in a way I've never done before.

However ...
I can detect the distressed cry of a child of mine almost before it's uttered.
I can sense an ominous silence.
I can judge the millimetre difference between adventurous clambering and certain death.
I can pick up the first faint signs of fever on a warm brow.
I can accurately predict how various bodily functions will affect the play of our day.
I can feel hunger.
I can smell fear.
I can read their little body's language better then I can my own.

And ...
A few weeks back we all spent the night at my mother's house. I was awoken from a deep (and somewhat wine-induced) slumber by the sound of something falling to the floor in the kitchen.
In a nanosecond I knew exactly where I was, computed that the dogs hadn't barked so the source of the noise couldn't be too sinister, heard my parent's door opening and could tell, by the sound of the footfall, that my mother was going to investigate.
I jumped out of bed to join her and she started when I appeared at her side, as silent and stealthy as a ... well, silent stealthy thing.
While she stood in the doorway still shaking off the fog of sleep and trying to work out what I was doing, I established that the breadboard had fallen over, knocking a cup to the floor. I cleaned up, gave her a hug, turned off the light and was back in bed and asleep before she'd gotten back to her room.

Intuition, experience, logistics - same skills, different applications. Like the difference between book smarts and street smarts, for now I've traded social smarts for parental smarts.
And I'm a pretty sharp parent. As sharp as a ... well, a very sharp thing.

sunday evening (well it was when I started)

2011-04-25T19:17:00.000+02:00

I've mentioned before how Frieda's not as into craft as I am. But still I persist.

Being a non-religious traditionalist I like the idea of ritual around annual holidays, if Easter isn't going to be about the resurrection of Christ I'd still like it to be about more than just chocolate. I'd like to imbue it with traditions that give it a relevance to our family, rituals the girls can look forward to and participate in, special Easter activities and festivities.
At the very least have a few tricks up my sleeve to occupy us during the 4 day weekend, the weekend in which winter traditionally puts in its first earnest appearance.

So I blew some eggs (my eyeballs are okay, thanks for asking), bought some stockings, unearthed the wallpaper glue, dug in my precious paper stash to cut some scraps and got two eggy-related projects ready for Frieda and I to tackle during Stella's naps.

Sad to report Easter craft semi-fail on both accounts.

We kicked off with egg-dying.
Frieda only wanted to use dhania leaves,
[Discard collection of feathers, leaves and assorted lace we'd collected during the last week.]
and only wanted to use one per egg.
[Abandon mental image of lavishly dyed and decorated eggs.]
Then she wanted to stir vigourously.
[Watch despairingly as lone leaf undulates in waves of tea.]

The best of the bunch ...

Moving on.

During the next nap we decoupaged the hollowed eggs. Or rather I did. It went something like this:
'What stinks Mum?'
'Nothing.'
'Something smells really bad, this glue smells really bad.'
'No it doesn't.'
'Then this egg smells really bad.'
'No it ....' I lean in for a sniff, 'DOES! It smells really really bad! I'm sorry baby, you must've gotten the one egg which didn't wash out properly. Chose another one.'
'No thanks Mum, I think I'll go and find Dad.'

I halfheartedly decorate two eggs alone. Hey, at least I got a moment alone!

Maybe next year ...

millions of children are assuming everything is amazing and will always be that way *

2011-04-20T23:31:00.000+02:00

The other day we visited our favourite place and I packed a small chocolate bunny in our picnic. I told Frieda we were going to practice egg-hunting and hid it while she closed her eyes and counted to ten.
Then I did the whole 'cooler, warmer, very warm' thing until she returned victorious with her prize and plopped down onto the blanket next to her sister (still as yet unaware of the joys and lifelong relationship with chocolate she will no doubt embark on in the near future) to unwrap it.

Holding its plump chocolately goodness in her hand she turned to me with a grin and said, 'And when I've finished Mum I'm going to hide an Easter egg for you to find.'
'Oh, I didn't bring another one sweetie, but that's ok, enjoy yours.'

There was a long pause as she looked at me earnestly. And then, with only the smallest trace of reluctance flickering deep inside her big blue eyes she said, very seriously, 'Well then you can have half of mine Mum.'
Could you hear the sound of my heart breaking into a million shards of love and tenderness?

Could there be a greater act of love from a nearly 4 year old?

* from the Manifesto of Encouragement , one of those things I'm usually deeply cynical and boring about, but this line got me - and a couple more over there if I must be honest.

Remember to stop and view the world through the eyes of children. There is no happier place.

mein gott it's goot!

2011-04-20T10:51:00.000+02:00

Stella can't eat bananas. Seriously, I may as well feed the child a bag of cement.
Frieda's not that into them.
I'm not a huge fan having eaten far too many when I was pregnant with Frieda (Oh wait, I'm seeing a correlation here ...).
Husband likes bananas but can't really be expected to solely consume all the bananas which still somehow manage to make their way into our house.

Banana bread however - we'll all happily eat that. (Except Stella who still has the whole er ... solidity ... issue to contend with.)

And really, when it comes to banana bread there is no contest. Julochka's Grandma Goot is The Ultimate Banana Bread Babe of all time.
Don't take my word for it. Make one today.
With or without chocolate.

And incidentally, a good Mama, when baking banana bread a couple of days before Easter, takes the time to blow the eggs required in order to have blown eggs (or hollowed eggs) available for decorating over the Easter weekend.
This Mama was good, but who knew blowing eggs was such hard work!
I think I may have had a harder time than the chicken who originally produced them.
Seriously, for someone who narrowly managed to avoid natural labour twice this was some exertion. I had to check my eyes for burst blood vessels afterward.

I think we'll only have a few eggs around for decorating this year ...

sunday evening

2011-04-17T22:05:00.000+02:00

Maybe that's all I got this month: Sunday evenings.

I got plenty to say, could make time to say it. Admittedly I've been spending plenty of time on Pinterest but still, I really should be able to manage more than this. But you know, sometimes you just don't feel like doing your homework.
I guess I'm holding my breath, sliding up that squeaky bedroom window, and with my shoes in my hands darting across the damp dark lawn to swim in the lagoon, pretending there's no school tomorrow.

~8~

This time of year, my god it is sublime. It's ... subtle. Subtle in a way that February in Cape Town is utterly not. Clarity, cut, colour - it's like the seemingly endless days of late summer/autumn are each perfect diamonds, most definitely gems, each one handcrafted for perfection.

The temperature is perfect, subtle. The breezes are soothing, subtle. The light is clear and gentle, subtle.

It's marvelous.

I've been cooking. Clafoutis, it's my new best thing. Ragu, it's my other new best thing, and just to stir things up a little, we're eating it with yoghurt Naan. We're like, so cosmopolitan.

I've been dusting off the old CV (not updated since 2009 I discovered), and have made a list of potential people/companies to send it out to. Nothing like expressing your satisfaction to make one dissatisfied.

I'll send some emails this week.

Wait, maybe next - who takes anything seriously in the short week before Easter? Who takes anything seriously in the short week after Easter for that matter?

I'll send those emails soon.

But mostly I've been remembering this and this and omg actually just all of this - wowee to the motherfucking zeee, life this April is good.

sunday evening

2011-04-10T22:09:00.000+02:00

Eating previously melted white chocolate covered wafers found in the bottom of my bag. Found while looking for my diary which seems to have disappeared leaving me in fear for tomorrow's lack of lists. Lists which would no doubt help reboot my brain. My brain which is still ailing after last night's festivities. Festivities which looked something like this ...

I have no words to describe such an evening.

Where the hell is that diary??

7 april

2011-04-07T21:44:00.000+02:00

A friend had a baby this morning. No doubt she spent the day in that happy hormone cloud, the weight of her newborn boy in her arms the only thing anchoring her to earth.

In the same hospital another friend sleeps on a chair tonight, by the bed of her child, awash with fever, awaiting test results in the morning.

Across town, yet another friend lies in Recovery. The results of her PET scan earlier this week were good, but despite this she had major precautionary surgery today, removing all the glands and some of the neck muscles from the side of her face.

Mutual friends of hers and ours took their son home today. Born 6 weeks prem he's been declared healthy and strong and released, to meet for the first time the world outside, and his eager older brother.

And another aftershock hits Japan.

Life is weird.

autumn camping

2011-04-06T22:45:00.000+02:00

I've said it before, and I'll say it again ...

... we love to camp.

wah wah wah dot

2011-03-29T11:55:00.000+02:00

I've been round and about doing other things on the internets recently...

I guest-blogged my version of how to make cake pops over at domestic sensualist, julochka and Bee's very fab food blog.

My penguin cupcakes appeared on a cupcake tumblr but now I've lost the link and can't actually justify any more time spent searching for it. Especially as anytime I google 'penguin cupcakes' I get back to me - that post alone accounts for two thirds of the traffic I get on this blog.

Then I wrote a post for a Cape Town destination blog and get this, they edited me! Shocking. Content and style. Hurrmpf.
I've been hatching a number of plans to start writing more commercially, but editing ... [narrow slitty-eyed glare], not sure how I feel about that ...

Oh ja and then of course I've been pinning. And pinning. And pinning. And pinning. In fact someone should make one of those cheesy blog labels saying 'Gone Pinning' 'cos I'm sure there's more than a few lean blogs out there as a result.
Ooooo it's an (p)interesting thing Pinterest. Crap name, interesting concept, fascinating participation. I've a deep and meaningful one brewing about this ...

my baby

2011-03-27T22:36:00.000+02:00

She rests her warm palm lightly on my cheek as I lie with her in the middle of the night. Four fingertips trace slowly down my face, conveniently brush an annoying strand of hair from my nose, then snag on my lips.
One finger hangs there a while, then drops heavily to the bed.
Her breathing is deep and smooth.
Then, in one quick decisive move, she rolls over and nestles back until she perfectly spoons me, her head under my chin, her toes on my knees.

She's getting tall, my small girl. Growing fast, but still my baby.

When Frieda turned 1 she seemed so big, so grown-up. But when measured against her nearly-4 sister, Stella is still a baby.
My baby.

gotta keep'em laminated

2011-03-23T17:26:00.000+02:00

... with apologies to The Offspring. Imagine how disheartening to think that thirty-something mother's of two laminate while singing horribly distorted versions of your greatest hits?

Mind you they can't be such spring chickens themselves. And I bet they'd laminate everything in sight if they got a cool laminating machine from their husband's for Christmas.
Unless they're too busy touring the world and rolling around in their piles of money that is ... sigh ...

Anyhoo.

I laminated (amongst other things) ...

a family picture for Stella's high-chair

6 gold stars with portraits for the 6 points

of Stella's star-shaped birthday cake - not pictured.

('cos we ate it too fast)

some frolicking kitties for the enclosed porch window outside the girl's room -

(the desperately-in-need-of-beautifying home of dying cacti and bikes)

... and I'm nowhere near stopping.

[insert title here*]

2011-03-21T22:55:00.000+02:00

*options:
baking with leftovers
human rights day cookies
ebony & ivory
must.bake.cookies.
take that crappy oreo filth

Any of these would be applicable here. Cookies baked with leftover chocolate cookie dough and white chocolate melts, on an important public holiday, for no other reason than I had to bake.
You know when you have to have to bake?
Yup, like that.

got grass

2011-03-20T21:42:00.000+02:00

Yup, a scant 3 weeks later and we have lawn.

Unfortunately I'm missing some pics in between. The extremely arduous phase when we were sifting and sorting and reworking the exposed soil, removing rubble and broken glass, old plastic bags, bits of broken china etc.
There was even an interesting moment when Husband unearthed one high-heeled shoe and the remnants of a dress ... our eyes met over the girl's heads and we wondered whether it was time to herd everyone inside and call Forensics. The old guy we bought the house from did say his wife had died here ...

Anyhoo this lawn'll need all the help it can get in the next little while. We bought cut metres from a grass ~~dealer~~ farmer on Friday, frantically worked to get the irrigation system installed on Friday evening and finally got to lay it yesterday, in 35+ degree (celsius!) heat.
It's still looking a little off-colour but we've been assured with enough watering and fertilising (ahem) it'll take.

Clearly the area still needs a lot of work (like removing that manky string mop from the shed roof!), but we're getting there ...

solidarity

2011-03-18T14:14:00.000+02:00

Thinking of you.

I am SAHM

2011-03-17T22:54:00.000+02:00

With nothing more pressing, nothing more immediate, on the cards, it seems I am, for the next little while, to continue being a Stay At Home Mum.

I'm cool with that.

Frieda's settled into 5 mornings a week at her Montessori school ('I do lots of important work at school Mum, so when I get home I need to just play okay?'), Stella is in a good routine and by god, she's gotten cute.
She barks, she moo's, she sniffles her little nose when I say 'bunny'. She loves a picture of a 'baba' and pretends to rock dolls to sleep. She rolls a ball back and forth to me, climbs onto chairs and calls for approval, she waits in anticipation as I build elaborate towers out of blocks and then smashes them down with great glee.
Who wants a career when you can spend your mornings with that?
The girls increasingly play together, I have help with the house, regular play-dates and outings and afternoons with Granny.
It all sounds pretty idyllic no?

But as ever, because this is life, there is guilt.

Not so much parental guilt, I'm not really into that. But guilt when I'm not loving it, when I don't feel it's idyllic, when I'm tired and frustrated and, as you'd say in Afrikaans - gatvol ('had it up the ass' is the best translation I can come up with - sorry!).
But I had a revelation recently - I don't have to love every minute. I may be 'lucky' and 'privileged' to be home with my kids (and I know that I am - hence the guilt see?), but actually, it's my job, and no one loves their job every day. And if I have a bad day, if I've got girl trouble up the ass, it's not 'cos I hate my kids, it's 'cos I'm not loving my job.
I'm cool with that.

Here's another dilemma:
A friend recently sent me a link to this article, about 'keeping-up parenting' and how mothers lie to one another about how they parent. The gist is that we lie to create the impression of being better, more involved, parents. Sometimes I have the opposite problem, sometimes I feel I need to gloss over how much I enjoy being home with my girls.
I see, or imagine I see, the looks in the working Mum's eyes when I do this kind of thing with Frieda. I see, I definitely see, the envy, the guilt, when I mention we spent the afternoon in Kirstenbosch. I try to be gracious when asked 'how can you stand it?' (meaning full-time child raising - true story).

Ai, what is it about women that we judge each other so?
My until-recently SAHM-buddy started a contract job a few weeks back, and within her first day was made to feel bad first by a female colleague in her new office (for working shorter days, as per her agreed contract), and later by another mother while she was collecting her kids from school (for working at all).
We can be such bitches.

I know I'm lucky. I know this is a stage in my life. In theirs.

For now I am SAHM, SAHM I am.

And I'm cool with that.

she's 1 today!

2011-03-11T15:01:00.000+02:00

'mum! there's a bug on the windowsill waving goodmorning to us!'

2011-03-05T11:18:00.000+02:00

make it grow

2011-03-03T10:00:00.000+02:00

Our house is well over 100 years old. We've lived in it for nearly 8.

The week we moved in, just a couple of days before we got married, Husband pulled up all the carpeting (beat that for a pre-wedding stress reliever) and the work pretty much hasn't stopped since ...
We've come a long way.

But the nature of a project like this is that one's never really finished, there's always going to be more to do. Equal parts inspiring and frustrating.

Our favourite thing in the world is Starting A New Project.
Second favourite: Making it Happen.
Less favourite: Completing Project.
Worst thing ever: Snag List.

And so we live with various projects in various stages of completion, with tools always unpacked 'cos we 'just need to finish up ... ' Sometimes it makes me MAD and sometimes I kinda like it.
I think it's good for our girls to watch and learn from us fixing up our own home, but often I wish parts of our house were more kiddie-friendly, slightly less 'don't touch that!'.

But on to our New Project. This one is for the girls. We're making a garden.

One week ago: Weird, virtually unused corner of hot, over-grown crazy paving next to the pool.

(dontcha just love those air-bricks on the right ... ?)

Same view after last weekend:

The plan is to fence off the pool and plant a small (4x4m) but to be deeply appreciated patch of lawn. A bit of green space for the kiddies, a bit of head-space for the grown ups.

Still not sure what to do about those air-bricks though ...

baby got back

2011-02-27T22:22:00.000+02:00

I like big bundts and a cannot lie ...

And finally I have my own.

and then just like that ...

2011-02-25T19:37:00.000+02:00

... in the last week I :

~ went to a rock concert
~ slept for 9 unbroken hours
~ drank espresso
~ started a major DIY project
~ varnished a door while the girls occupied themselves at my feet
~ varnished my fingernails
~ went cycling with a friend one evening
~ cooked a meal which will happily feed 3 generations
(okay so it's macaroni cheese, but my Dad's had a craving and the girls love it)

None of these I would've thought possible three months ago.
And suddenly it all is. Just like that we're here, a space in which it feels there is infinite possibility.

a bit meany

2011-02-21T15:03:00.000+02:00

I'm sorry, I can't help it, but this is why sometimes I hate reading blogs ...

I’m especially fond of mornings so I wake up very early so as not to miss anything. My
day begins with a French press of coffee with rye toast, plum jam and almond butter or perhaps a bowl of Irish oatmeal with real maple syrup. Always there is writing in my
sketchbook journal (poetry, free verse, laments) and a morning walk along the beach
with my dog after my son heads off to school.

I am passionate about collecting records and play music on a portable record player in my
studio or I listen to NPR's ‘tiny desk concert’ series for soaring inspirations. And then
I write, and write and write some more as words dance across the page. Occasionally I
pontificate in my journal, illustrating my thoughts with polaroids and often I take one of
my very many cameras out to take pictures. Lately I am most fond of my Holga camera.
I make endless pots of tea in a vintage silver teapot and of course there is chocolate for
brain food. Creating is such a beautiful act of worship in my daily life and so good for
my soul.

Seriously, who lives like this? It seems so contrived.
Must the butter be 'almond', the oatmeal 'Irish' and the maple syrup 'real'?

I guess instead of being such a turd I should be happy someone's following their bliss. And obviously avoid reading about it if it irks me. And also acknowledge this wouldn't be my cup of tea (not even brewed in a vintage silver teapot) even if I had the choice to live like this. Which I guess I do, as do most of us, really.

But what's more fun than the occasional bitch?

me2

2011-02-17T22:43:00.000+02:00

Last time U2 came to South Africa was my final year at Varsity.

I was already with my now husband (we're nerdy like that) and as broke students, just post the long summer holidays, we'd resigned ourselves to not being able to afford tickets and tried valiantly to stop up our ears every time someone started gushing about how excited they were ...

3 days before the band was due to play in Cape Town I got a call at my Mum's house (pre- mobile phones), there was an Aussie on the line. He was high up in the Lighting crew (ha ha I'm so funny) and knew my cousin in Melbourne. She'd given him my number and he was phoning to tell me he'd left 6 GOLDEN CIRCLE (that's good, very very good) tickets at the reception desk of the hotel he was staying in. For me.

Gobsmacked.

Now-Husband, my brothers, their squeezes and I went along and had the time of our lives - all the sweeter for being so unexpected, and so thoughtfully arranged by both my cousin (thank you again girl!) and her friend, who could just as easily have decided it was too much bother to get in contact with little ole me on the southern-most tip of Africa.

I've not seen many live international acts. SA is a long way to come for most of them and I confess my taste in music is not that, um ... current.
But those that I've seen have for the most part been totally and utterly amazing (the exception was Lenny Kravitz, we worked as ushers and so got freebies for that one thank god 'cos he was dismal) and all of the experiences have had an added component of sentimental value.

Paul Simon was the first. He came as soon as the UN cultural boycott was lifted against SA in 1992. He got some flak, many people thought it too soon to start celebrating democracy, but as a starry-eyed teenager I were thrilled and having been raised on his music, emotionally overwhelmed.

Sting, Midnight Oil, Burning Spear, Snoop (yup, as in Doggy Dog [there's a whole other story to this one 'cos let me tell you no one was more surprised than I to discover that the man is sex-y!]) were all seen with some of my best girl friends in the world.
Girl friends who, while they might not necessarily let me sit on their shoulders to get a better view, can talk crap endlessly during the inevitable live concert waiting, can comment on the passing fashions at will, are always happy to queue for the loo together and never too shy to jump up and down and scream 'ohmygodIloveyouSnoopyoudirtydog' etc.

And now, tomorrow night (tomorrow night!), U2 again.

U2 again and one of my best girl friends again and big concert stadium fun again and missing bedtime/bath time again and, and, and ... the excitement, it overwhelms me.

candy love

2011-02-14T11:08:00.000+02:00

We don't do Valentine's here.

Call us cynical. No really, do. We like it.

But we do do craft. Well, I do, and I like to try and rope Frieda in. I've realised this is often merely as a means to justify doing some silly cutsie project I've been harbouring a fascination with for years.
Frieda's not that into craft projects, she'd rather play an elaborate game involving a small Buzz Lightyear, 3 or 4 assorted fluffy animals (a woolly mammoth, a turtle, a puppy and a giant Piglet), a long red ribbon, two random plastic pieces which fell off the mop and a box of tissues.
Say no more.

But still I force her to get involved, no doubt enjoy it more than she does, hold out a secret hope she'll get more into it as she gets older, and placate myself that maybe Stella will be really crafty.

So we made these for Frieda's classmates:

She actually enjoyed it. And ate far too many sweets. And was very happy setting off for school this morning with a bag full or surprises for her friends.

But for the real spirit of Valentine's, read this post from the fabulous today is my birthday!

Now that I love.

rash

2011-02-11T15:41:00.001+02:00

Stella has had an unidentifiable rash over most of her body for most of this week.
Diagnosis is 'baby measles', a handy pediatric fallback for an unidentifiable infant rash.
It seems to not have affected her too badly but proven to be a handy parental fallback for explaining away behaviour which could otherwise be the alarmingly early onset of Le Tantrum.
Pleasedeargodno.

Despite this (or because of?) I've been out 3 nights this week in a rash of social engagements not seen round these parts since ... well since last time I was getting decent sleep.
As a result I'm tired today, foggy, scratchy, possibly a little hungover. I can't remember what I was planning/hoping to achieve so instead I'm baking brownies.
Not such a bad compromise.

And it was possibly a little rash - dizzy from the excitement of missing suicide hour, slightly crazed by being out, drinking wine, while Husband fed, bathed & bedded the babies, a little annoyed by the twenty-somethings at the next table calling each other Do, Ray, Me, (did I mention drinking wine?) - to fire off a post about abbreviated names without thinking about how we most often give silly little names to those we love.

Abbreviations as terms of endearment can never be wrong. My nearest & dearest call me Mols and I love it. Parents, lovers, kindred spirits - they should all have license to use cutsie diminutives.
But never on facebook.

That just gives me a rash.

not okay

2011-02-09T22:40:00.002+02:00

This tendency, by the youth of today (I'm speaking to the twenty yr olds here), to abbreviate names.

I'm totally down with J-Lo, LiLo etc. I enjoy playing that game too, but there's a far more ridiculous trend I've been noticing on facebook and elsewhere.
Ryan becomes Ry.
Dylan becomes Dyl.
Tara becomes Tars.
Sara, Sars.
Brian, Bri.
Laura, Lau.

Not okay.

'Dyl & Lau's Big Day!' scream the album names.
'Love you Tars!'
'Happy birthday Bri!'

Perfectly decent short manageable names abbreviated away to mulch.

Call me Mother Grundy, or Mommy-G, or just Mo-G, but I think it's not okay.

I think it's l-a-z-y.

un~be~lieva~ble

2011-02-07T21:35:00.000+02:00

I found the spider.

On our bedroom ceiling at about 11 pm the other night.

There followed a funny sequence of events in which Husband tossed a shirt up at the offending beastie (we have very high ceilings), gingerly stuffed shirt into wastepaper basket and carried it out to the perimetre of the property where, quickly and with great skill, he attempted to flick the spider out into the street.
Of course, as in all good spider stories, we then had that moment where he got spooked and, convinced that the spider was on me, on me omg it's on me, he let go of the shirt. Necessitating opening the gate and carefully retrieving his (previously crisp white) shirt from the road, hoping all the time that the neighbours were indoors.
In his defense he didn't scream like a girl once.

***

My sister-in-law left for work one morning last week and found a R100 note lying on her front step.

When she got home that evening someone had taken a dump outside her living room window.

***

I met a 3 year old today who is so lacking in any kind of sweet tooth (no cake, chocolate, sweets etc) that he doesn't eat grapes 'cos they're 'too sugary'.

***

Last night Stella choked on the medicine I was trying to give her for her sore throat. In her Dad's arms, in the dark, she made a retching noise and he started hopping around making disgusted noises.

I was a bit annoyed - man up dude, it's just a bit of baby barf.

Turns out she'd not puked at all.

But the cat had earlier, and he'd just trodden in it.

***

I've got social plans for the next three evenings. Plans which involve leaving the house, probably in make-up, drinking wine and hanging out with awesome people.

A few months back in sleepless hell I'd not have believed this could be possible.

Life is funny. Funny ha ha and also funny strange.

perpetual motion

2011-02-06T20:02:00.000+02:00

'Mum. Mum. Mum'
Frieda's trying to get my attention, lying on the sofa in the corner of the kitchen.

Stella's in her high chair campaigning for more grapes, I've a bull terrier underfoot, a phone call to make, lunch on the go, the dishwasher half unpacked, multiple lists compiling in my head ...

'Muuuuuum.'
'Yes Frieda?'
'Mum. Stand still.'

'You're always moving so fast Mum. Stand still for a minute.'

It's unnerving when 3 year olds are so perceptive.

I've a friend who's a high-powered attorney. She gets home at 3.30pm everyday and dedicates herself to her young daughter 'til bedtime. No phones, no texts, no chores, no housework (note: obviously she has ample domestic help but even so ...).
She and her girl play, chat, hang out for 2 hours before supper, bath. bed.

Sometimes I wonder if in some ways her daughter, though she sees so much less of her Mum, gets more of her in that short time. Quality over quantity.

This is the dilemma of the stay-at-home Mum.

one big one, one small one

2011-02-02T19:48:00.000+02:00

It's the second time this week I've found myself cooking dinner like this:

Seems crazy hey?
Especially as we're virtually eating the same meals these days, the four of us.

But still, the girls like things chopped finer, flavoured slightly blander, and so weirdly it's easy to cook the same meal in two pans. Chop the same onion, a third of it smaller, the same carrot, diced a little finer.

And then of course I can do this:

Decide to whack in a load of chillies and spices without having to hold back at all. Makes for much more adult eating.

Just got to remember to keep the right spoon to the right pan!

PS I promise with my hand on my heart I didn't notice that phallic butternut on the right 'til after I'd taken these. No really.

WARNING: BIRTH STORY! TMI! FOR SERIOUS!

2011-01-31T22:03:00.000+02:00

[You know who you are: read at own risk.]

It was nearly a year ago I got home from waddling round the mall to find my brother playing ball with Frieda in the front yard. I jokingly looked at my (non-existent) watch and told him to stand by for my water's breaking at 5pm.
Ha ha ha.

They did.

At 5pm my water's broke as I was frying sausages for Frieda's supper. I called my husband, on his way to get a haircut. He asked if he had time to get it done anyway, this being our second child of course I said yes.
I called my Mum to come and collect Frieda. Standing there leaking, sausages burning, I looked over to see Frieda standing in a puddle.
'I had a wee Mum.'
This should've been my first clue that I was soon to learn the real meaning of 'multi-tasking'.

By the time my Mum and husband got home I was contracting, seriously enough to be unable to talk while in the middle of one, grinning inanely and trying to pretend everything was dead normal for Frieda's sake.
We kissed and hugged our first baby goodbye, brimful with the knowledge she was completely unaware of, next time we saw her there would be two.

To hospital, contractions close and getting stronger, this much I remembered from last time.

But again, once we got there, the disappointing news that I'd not dilated at all. However this time we knew we wanted to stick it out, and we did.
The next few hours were ... interesting. If I can say that the most uncomfortable experience of my life was also one of the most precious to share with my husband, that I've never been in such pain, but also laughed as much, that I've never been so scared while simultaneously so excited, then I'd be telling a true story, but a weird one.
We worked in 15 minute increments to pass the time until my next examination at 11.30 pm. 15 minutes in the bath, 15 walking, 15 on the labour ball. During contractions I needed to be held, inbetween I wanted to be left the fuck alone. My husband was amazing.
Oy those contractions. The scariest thing about them was the inevitability. With period pains or stomach cramps one sometimes feels one starting, only for it to taper off or not be as bad as you expected. With labour pains the first twinge means it's a-coming, and it's going to be as bad as you anticipate, if not worse.
A rubber mallet swung at full force into your spine while a knife blade is plunged and twisted into your stomach. There's no position you can find to alleviate them, nothing to do but breathe. Breathe and try to find a calm place within the onslaught, relax your shoulders, breathe into the pain. Truer words were never spoken.
And then it stops, and you're totally ok. Like have a chat, have a wine gum, make a joke ok. Crazy shit man.

11.30 pm check up. Nothing happening.
Nothing where it should be that is, plenty was happening outside let me tell you. By now I was losing my sense of humour, spitting wine gums across the room, cursing, whimpering, caught in this thing over which I had no control, no way but forward, no way of knowing what the time-line looked like, the only certainty being we were nowhere near the end.
12.30 am. Nothing happening.
Oh except the vomiting. And the exhaustion. 'Til now I'd been trying new positions for each contraction, trying to stay active in the moment. My husband, my dearest, my light, showing limitless creativity in his suggestions of how we tackle the next one. But now I was done. I couldn't get up, I couldn't spend one more minute on that fucking labour ball, I didn't want a chair, I didn't want a bath, I just. wanted. it. to. stop.
Or start for that matter. Let's move on, let's transition, let's have a frikkin' baby already!

That's when I heard the magic word: epidural. Hallelujah praise baby jesus yes fucking please.

Peace.

A weird peace. I feel nothing but I'm cold. A distant tremor like a train passing far away, a look on the monitor reveals a massive contraction, my toes tingle.
Husband dozes in a chair, I feel ill, disembodied and, inevitably, guilty. I can see from the baby monitor that my girl is in there, now working alone. She's riding those waves while I watch from the shore.
The nurse comes in and puts another blanket over me. 'Try get some rest,' she says, 'we'll check again at 3. Try get some rest my dear.'

I think I must've dozed off for I wake with a start. And a panic. My legs, totally immobile, are flopped together, I need to move. I need to move my legs. I need to move my legs!
Panic rising in my throat, I put all my energy into keeping my voice steady, calling for my husband. Poor guy wakes, totally disorientated, and by the time he gets over to me to adjust my position the nurse has arrived too.
She examines me and grins. 9 cm dilated! Game on! My heart surges anew with adrenalin and enthusiasm. I'm transitioning, my body's caught up, we're going to have this baby!

But then, an ominous beeping from the monitor - she's in distress.. The nurse calls my doctor. It's 4 am. The four of us, him on the other end of the phone line, wait and watch the monitor. Her heartbeat dips again. Doc says he's coming in and through a haze of emotional overload I realise he's asked the nurse to call in the standby theatre team.
He's there in minutes, examines me himself, checks the monitor readings, gives us the news.
I'm well dilated.
But she's not engaged.
And she's not happy.
And as I've had a c-section before, he thinks it's time to call it quits.
Though I'm sure he didn't actually use that word.

5 am by the time we got up to theatre. The hospital was still and quiet. My long-haired anesthetist joked that he thought he'd sorted us out hours before with the epidural. Then he noted, just for interest sake, that my heart seemed to miss every 4th beat. Funny guy. Not.
But they were a nice team, put us at ease and, as is always the case with c-sections, it felt like mere minutes after being wheeled in that they were passing me a funny, creamy, oh so warm little thing with one wild rolling eye-ball and a deeply suspicious expression.
Apparently I turned to my husband and said, 'Aw let's have another one.'

Nearly 11 months later I most definitely do not want to have another one, but I can still recall the feeling of each moment of that wild, wild night. The pain, the fear, the excitement and of course, the joy.

And now I've finally gotten it written down for prosperity. Sorry y'all!

16 hour cookies

2011-01-30T21:36:00.000+02:00

I never pay any heed to the 'preparation time' given in recipes. It's always bullshit in my experience. Especially when baking. I bake to relax, it's all about the journey.
Which is reason the one why I've not been baking lately, not enough time.

Reason the two involves the extra kilo's I'm still carrying courtesy of young Stella.

Reason the three involves the relative unpleasantness of baking in 30+ degree heat. Not so relaxing.

However despite all the above, I've been achin' to be bakin' (alternative title for this post) and this weekend I overcame these obstacles like so.

Last night after the girls were asleep, while finishing up supper, I weighed out all the ingredients. Much later, post dinner and the final episode of Sons of Anarchy, season one (part of our life quest to find a series as good as The Wire, we're not there yet), I mixed up the two batches of dough and refrigerated overnight.
This morning, I took the dough out to soften first thing, and then tackled the cookies during Stella's morning nap. Resourceful no?

They worked out grand.

They worked out so grand that Frieda went around with the recipe and a cookie exclaiming, 'They look just the same!' Clearly I don't get it right often enough.

Of course in an alternate universe, involving less 3 year old participation, I'd have made them like this ~ checkerboard. Now that'dve been impressive. Maybe one day ...

So I made the time, thoroughly enjoyed the journey, didn't die of heat exhaustion turning the oven on during the day but I fear I confirmed just why I shouldn't be baking right now... when it comes to the eating I have no restraint.
Just one more before bed ...

I hate summer

2011-01-27T22:30:00.000+02:00

Also, Africa. I hate it. And Observatory. And being a Grown Up.

3 words: Total Bug Onslaught.

First there were flies.
Granted making fish pie on a hot summer's afternoon was possibly not the best idea, nor was creating a makeshift fly-shield from an upturned colander and a page torn from a magazine, but we wanted, nay needed, a run to the park before supper and what could be better than a late afternoon trip to the park in the knowledge that supper's ready and waiting at home?

Round about then we encountered the spider. You know what else I now hate? Kirstenbosch Gardens.
For if we'd not spent an idyllic 3 hours there the day before, picnicking with guinea fowl in shady spots, walking around collecting acorns and interesting leaves, paddling in a stream while Stella slept in the pram under low-lying branches - if we'd not done that we'd probably not have collected the ENORMOUS RAIN SPIDER I now noticed clinging Cape-Fear-style to the bottom of the pram as we left the house.
The pram which had travelled back from Kirstenbosch in the boot of my car. The pram which had spent the night parked in my hallway. The pram which was now packed to the hilt with hats and toys and had my chubby and delicious baby strapped into it.
(This is the part where I hate being The Grown Up. This is not the first time.)
Staying calm I thought I'd wheel the pram out the front door, then attempt to flick the spider off it (and hopefully far away), all the while being casual and informative about spiders in general for the benefit of my two small children.
Wheel pram out. Lock gate. Look down. Spider gone.
Freak the fuck out.
Stella out the pram, extract essentials (my phone, her yoghurt), wheel pram back inside and go to the park in the car.

Later, tired and hungry, I can't help but feel smug that supper is ready and waiting. It seems so seldom I get it right. Good mother.
I lift the colander and gag. You know the expression 'black with flies'? I get it now. Black. With. Flies.
I give the pie to the dog, and scramble eggs for the girls which we eat in my bedroom on the other side of the house.

But that's not all ...
Seems I also hate small independently owned spice shops. 'Cos if I only ever bought spices and dry goods from corporate giants I bet I wouldn't be facing the highly undesirable task of emptying and fumigating all my kitchen cupboards tomorrow to purge ourselves of the weevils which've suddenly started appearing in our dry goods. Or at least there'd be a Client Services type I could complain to.
'Dear Mr Fargo, the very cheap (but admittedly delicious) breyani rice your brother-in-law helps you import under the radar from Pakistan seems to have given us weevils in our muesli,' is just not going to fly ...

Urgh. Flies.

A quick recap of tomorrow's To Do list then:
1. Buy proper fly net food covering thingie
2. Gingerly unpack pram, shake everything out and investigate all nooks and crannies (remember to pee beforehand)
3. Develop response for very likely scenario in which I don't find spider (example: sell house)
4. Fumigate kitchen and possibly throw away a lot of otherwise fine foodstuffs

So much to look forward to.

facebook is so weird ...

2011-01-25T10:12:00.000+02:00

My cousins had a baby last night and while there's no way I could accuse them of 'live-birthing' (I've seen some of that shit and it's scary), they did check-in with regular updates on facebook, keeping their combined total of over 1000 'friends' up to date on when her water's broke, how far dilated she was, when they had the epidural and finally The Photo, a scant 25 minutes after the baby was born.
Weird.

I mean, great for all of us who were interested and eager for the news, but still - weird. Am I the only one who thinks so?

I made a big hoo-ha about taking a break from facebook a while back, and this is not the first time I've questioned the sanity of the medium. I enjoyed my month off but inevitably I got back on, there's just too many people I really enjoy interacting with. I missed them.

The other day I was looking for that setting where you can choose which 'friends' to hear more about on your news feed and which to ignore, but it seems to have gone in the latest of the regular facebook make-overs. (Really spell-check, do you still not accept facebook as a word? Really?)
What I did find was the page where all the gazillion people you could possibly be 'friends' with resides, so I had a brief flip through that. So weird.

There's a couple of people listed there with whom I've 30+ 'friends' in common, yet we've not hooked up. I know them, as in I know of them, some I was at Varsity with etc, but we're not friends (as in the no inverted comma's definition) so I've never thought to send them a 'friend' request. And interestingly if we've that many people in common I must've come up as one of their suggested 'friends', and they've not sent me a request either. I feel like this means we understand each other. Or they've no clue who I am. Either way, I'm more than ok with that.
But there are people there I've 20+ 'friends' in common with and I've definitely never met. So weird.
The majority (both known and unknown) share 5 'friends' with me. There's over a hundred of these. Inherent proof of the 6 degrees of separation theory?
Weird.

But here's the weirdest. I've had facebook suggest I befriend some of the bloggers I read. (Oh c'mon spell-check - bloggers? Not a word? Hellloooo, it's 2011.)
People I've no 'friends' (or indeed, friends) in common with, never had any interaction with on facebook. I've not searched for them, I assume they've not searched for me, but yet facebook knows to suggest them to me.
That's weird.

Know what else is weird? I'm off to have a shower with a surgical glove taped over my hand.
Sounds way kinkier then it really is.
Stupid wound.

child abuse

2011-01-23T21:59:00.000+02:00

Forgive me for continuing the theme (the theme being: woe is me), but check out the latest in my collection of injuries.

Hmmm, doesn't look as impressive as ~~I'd hoped~~ it is. But observe in the background, the grinning perp.

She has 4 teeth and she knows how to use them. On me. Nobody else mind, just me.
'Cos she's practically weaned but still wants a piece of me?
Or just 'cos I'm delicioussssss?

PS Very difficult to photograph one's own upper arm.
PPS Yes, that is my arm. Not my thigh. I lost weight breast-feeding, but not that much weight.

the tipping point

2011-01-22T15:32:00.000+02:00

Slicing potatoes for creamy potato bake. Baby asleep, Child occupied, Friday evening stretching ahead. Weekend to follow, all was right with the world.

'Til I cut off the top of my little finger.

Slice. Pain. Expletive.

Finger straight into mouth.
Mouth fills up with blood.
Revulsion.

In the bathroom I spit, run the cold tap, yelp as water touches the wound.

Trying to avoid looking at my finger I glance up at the mirror and recoil from the ghoulish image of my blood stained mouth. In my mind I'm yelling 'Medic!', the result of (too) many viewings of Band of Brothers, but the reality is it's just me. Me with two small children in the house and as usual what this means is 'shut up and deal bitch.'

Massive wad of cotton wool to try and stop the bleeding. How can a small finger bleed so much?! Awkward one-handed plaster application.
Vigorous kicking of dog as it attempted to lick up blood spatters. I will NOT have my pet so happily consuming a part of me.
Hesitant return to pan of chopped potatoes to find and remove big chunk of skin. I find it! Retch!

Feeling faint. Must.lie.down.

And as much as in the cold light of post-trauma I feel like a wuss for this, I phoned my husband, begged him to come home, just managing to keep a big fat cry at bay.
At the end of a week of back to school, back on antibiotics for a persistent throat infection, back into the swing of real, full time, mostly solo parenting, this little finger on my ~~right~~ left threatened to tip me over the edge.

OUCH.

reflections

2011-01-16T20:52:00.000+02:00

When I took the second photo below I'd forgotten about the first. From a series of spontaneous shots I took almost exactly a year ago to try and record the Bump, frame the Bump, get perspective on the Bump.

27 January 2010

That top is still wearable. The frangi-pani's lie again in swathes at the foot of the tree. I'm still taking mediocre spontaneous photos in the reflection of my car's windows.
And she's been out just longer than she was in.

candy crumbs

2011-01-12T22:51:00.000+02:00

It's a good thing my intention with these is to crush them even finer to make real peppermint bark.

And as a dear friend in Canada heeded my call and made the effort to send these to me I'll have to make another batch real soon. It just wouldn't be right otherwise.
I'll stash some for a batch when you're home too my dear - thank you!

PS love the stamps :)

3/10 things I lovetohate that you do

2011-01-08T22:48:00.000+02:00

I don't wear a watch. I stopped years ago when I always used to get excema under the strap, I never have since. I have a clock in most rooms of the house, consciously located so I can glance at the time whenever I need to.
This is my clock in the kitchen.
This is the one I look to when I'm stuck under a child (especially relevant when I was still nursing), stuck stirring a sauce, stuck on the couch with my feet up for 5 seconds.

Leaving my kitchen clock like this is just.not.on.

Even Postman Pat agrees; clear the timer on the microwave old boy! And close the goddamn door!

deliriously hot ...

2011-01-05T22:15:00.000+02:00

... me in my little black sundress. Ha ha, forgive me a moment of wannabe MILF-dom.

Ahem, I digress.

Cape Town is sooooooo HOT!!! 38+ degrees CELSIUS for the second day today!!! Same predicted for tomorrow!!! No wind!!!

Awesomeness. (And totally unapologetic use of CAPS and multiple annoying exclamation marks).
!!!
There's a few more.

Snapshots from an idyllic summer:

~ cruising down a highway this morning, thermometer showing 38 degrees, ice-cold aircon blasting, gorgeous soaring opera on the stereo
~ jumping in the pool between appointments, arriving for lunch date a little damp around the edges
~ blissful child-free late lunch with thermometer showing 38 degrees, ice-cold white wine, gorgeous soaring opera in the background, unfolding vista of sunbaked Cape Town stretching around us
~ arriving home a little wine-fuelled, planning to throw together a few things and take kiddies to beach for late afternoon romp, only to have plans dashed by a 3 yr old who didn't 'feel like the beach'. Wtf? I thought that kind of crap only started around 12?
~ throwing self, 3 yr old and baby into the pool instead (Stella's first swim!) and staying there 'til we got all wrinkly
~ supper with husband on back patio, thermometer showing 31 degrees (8pm!), ice-cold bull terrier nose on leg (she was chasing ice cubes round the floor), gorgeous sounds of pool pump throbbing in background (hmph)
~ swimming at 10 pm for the second consecutive night
~ staying up too late packing for dawn run to the beach tomorrow

Can I take a moment for how different I'm feeling about the heat compared to last year?

tasting the love

2011-01-03T22:23:00.000+02:00

Dinner tonight was risotto, with wild mushrooms collected by my youngest brother in the forests of Saarsveld.

Mushrooms, garlic, wine, parmesan, risotto, topped with fresh rocket picked from my mother's garden not two hours before.

For dessert, chocolate brownies baked this afternoon by my sister-in-law.

What's noteworthy about this meal is not how incredibly delicious it was (and it was!), nor that it seemed to taste better for it's parts coming to us from those we love. What's worth noting is that that is what was exceptional about it, we knew where the ingredients came from, we know the kitchen in which those brownies were baked.

How is it we can say that about so few of our meals?

quiet

2011-01-02T21:18:00.000+02:00

It's really quiet out there today. Been raining all day, gentle summer rain.
The occasional fog horn from the sea, the afternoon call to prayer, but mostly, quiet.

A relief after the relentless wind of the last week, the fanfare of Christmas and NYE. A welcome start to the year. The gift of a quiet summer Sunday.
A pause before it all begins anew.

I've nearly finished breastfeeding. Down to just 2 feeds at night. It's been much easier than I anticipated, I'm equal parts relieved and saddened.
It's such a weird thing nourishing a child from your own body. The umbilical cord gets severed at birth but the bond it began stays so much longer, forever one might argue. But most especially while you're still feeding your baby from yourself, your body working tirelessly to produce that which your child needs to physically thrive.
Chemically there are lactation hormones at work, hormones which make a breastfeeding mother stress less (although some may disagree!) etc, but emotionally there's this strange thing going on. This knowledge that you are the person keeping this other person alive.
Sure anyone could pick up formula from the corner store, your baby wouldn't expire if you did, and you know this, but still you've an emotional involvement, a dedication, which runs deep.
Added to this your scheduling is all around those feeds, every other time-based decision, plan, commitment, has to factor in when and where you'll be doing the next feed.
Add it all together and that's some noisy head-space you got there.

And then you stop, and suddenly there's some quiet. There's a full tin of formula in the kitchen, enough frozen mush in the freezer for a week. There's rice cakes and dried mango and grated cheese aplenty. There are other hands around to administer all the above.
And there's your baby, starting her life-long relationship with FOOD. Experiencing the tastes and textures and mind-blowing array of what's on offer. Learning to work her tongue and jaw, working those gums and (in our case 2) little teeth. Watching her sister and parents eat, learning to recognise smells, colours, shapes. It's huge.

So while she's distracted I step quietly back, and find that my head is quieter too. That there's some space in there quite keen to be filled with other things, some thoughts and feelings whose silhouettes I recognise as they emerge from the fog.
There's some slightly different life to be lived out there, and while I've no illusions it'll be any calmer or less hectic then any other part of my life, for now I'll savour this quiet place from which to view it, and slowly start making some plans to live it.

bring it

2011-01-01T00:13:00.000+02:00

Do you know what's quite fucking rad? Yes, rad.

I have no idea what 2011 has in store. Not a clue.

2007 began filled with anticipation at becoming parents. 2008 found us still in the throes of that life-changing event. 2009 arrived with the certainty that we'd like another one. From the beginning of 2010 we were expecting her any moment.

2011? A blank slate. A new page. A beach with nary a footstep on it.

This is rad.

30 dec 2010

2010-12-30T20:23:00.000+02:00

If my intention with this pic a day thing was to have a little visual diary of my December 2010 then I should really be posting a photo of our medicine shelf. Yes, we have a dedicated shelf in our kitchen which we've started calling The Medicine Shelf due to how much meds it's stored over the course of the year.

If my intention was to try and grasp just one moment from each day for one month at the end of this fleeting year, then I should be posting a photo of myself on the couch, reading a magazine, while the Child watches endless David Attenborough, the Baby works out the mechanics of various noisy toys and the Husband takes his turn to nap, before we pass the Baton of Responsibility, re-up our antibiotics and swop horizontal positions for an hour or so.

I'm not really sure what my intention was, although I've enjoyed it thoroughly, and I haven't taken any photos today (scintillating as the subject matter on offer was), so gasp I'm not going to post one.

And to further confirm my problem with completing things, I may not post one tomorrow either.

Husband and I have strep throat, and antibiotics. The girls are so far germ-free and will soon be climbing the walls. It's not as bleak as it sounds, but it's not very fucking cheery either.

I think I'm done with you 2010.
Good.Bye.

28 & 29 dec 2010

2010-12-29T11:29:00.000+02:00

A lovely day with friends yesterday ended abruptly with the onset of a sore throat, by nightfall aching limbs, sore eyes, the chills.

Why it should be surprising that 2010, the year of the sick, should end on a similar note I'm not sure. Hopefully this lurgy will not see the new year in with us.

Pics from last year December. One year ago when there was only one.

Back to bed I go.

27 dec 2010

2010-12-27T21:37:00.000+02:00

One last Christmas present,
~ a few hours childcare from my parents
~ a bike ride round the Peninsula with my babe
~ an exquisite seafood lunch
~ a reminder that I live in a beautiful place, and am loved by beautiful people.

26 dec 2010

2010-12-26T18:52:00.000+02:00

Hot. Hot. Hot.
Splash in the pool.
Gammon for lunch.
Nap.
Stollen for tea.
Take dog for a run.
Gammon for supper.

25 dec 2010

2010-12-25T20:40:00.000+02:00

And the reveal ...
Badly focused. Just like me right now. Yaaaaaaawwwwwwn.

Burp.

Goodnight.

24 dec 2010

2010-12-24T10:05:00.000+02:00

The official story is we have to take this box to my SIL's tomorrow, that it contains 'work stuff' for her. But I can tell by the look in her 3 and a half year old eye that this isn't holding water ... I daren't gift-wrap it, then we'd be discovered for sure ....

Merry Christmas!