when I grow up I want to be an old woman

There was a woman I followed on IG for quite a long while. A white American woman about my age, she is an illustrator with a big brain and often posted really insightful things.

She had very good posts in 2020 about George Floyd and the BLM movement, about allyship. She went to the Ukrainian border when the invasion happened and worked on the ground to assist fleeing Ukrainian refugees. I have a lot of respect for her. In most things.

I also followed her for her hair journey. She had, as I have, decided to stop colouring her hair and embrace the crone (my phrase which I employ more often and with less humour with every passing year). She has fairly wild hair like mine, hair with a mind of its own which requires a LOT of work if one has any interest in keeping it 'presentable' and a fairly tough skin if one doesn't care for social norms of presentability.

I have spent my whole life vacillating between the two. (The caring and the not caring, the work I've never really stuck with. I just ... can't.) 

Anyhoo. Emily and I were growing out years of hair colour and going grey together and feeling empowered and strong, she would post updates after hair dresser visits about not colouring her hair and how the grey was growing through and generally overshared in a way quite common to Americans and very gratifying to those of us more filtered but deeply curious.

And then one day, Emily appeared in a new headshot. With a bouncy head of styled curls, meticulously high-lighted and low-lighted in strands of multiple shades, woven together in a delicate and pleasing dance, and declared that she had decided to go back to colour because she 'didn't want to be seen to be giving up'.

Giving. Up.

Well fuck you Emily.

The irony of a B&W photo does not allude me. I went looking for a picture and found this one from exactly 1 year ago - 6 June 2022.
That felt like a synchronicity I couldn't ignore.

I no longer follow Emily, but I am still enjoying going grey. And every time I find a new silvery streak I sing Michelle Shocked to myself and think maybe, just maybe, if I give it enough time, my hair will come into its own in a full head of enviable silver locks. Maybe this is the glory it's been waiting for these last 48 years...

My grey hair, and this song lyric, is my daily reminder that aging is a privilege. One not afforded to everyone as I well know.

When I grow up, I want to be an old woman.

lucky draw

My Dad turned 76 today.

My brother is 44 next weekend.

We made them a half carrot, half chocolate cake to celebrate their 120 years of combined magnificence. 

Meat, potatoes, salads and wine. Cake.

Family.

These things that can be grounding, pedestrian, reliable, bask in the realm of miracles and wonder when you get old enough to understand how damn lucky you are to have them, to be here now.

Here. 

31 years down the line with my man.

He turned 50 in July, we've been married for 19 years this month, together for 12 before that. So many numbers, just numbers, but translated into years and months and days together? I mean, talk about miracles.

Keeps the home fires burning, makes it home wherever he is.

On the subject of numbers...

Two weeks ago I bought a raffle ticket at a local fair. Standing in the queue to fill in my details on the sheet I overheard two ladies behind me. One was very concerned that someone else would take her lucky number before she got to claim it on the form.

This got me thinking about what number I would choose - I don't really have a 'lucky' one.

I was handed the sheet open in the 40's. I'll take 47 I thought, it's my age this year so why not.

Then I heard the whispering behind me again and I turned to the worried woman: What's your number? I asked, so I don't take it accidentally.

47, she said.

You know that moment when the world just slows a little? This is so weird I thought. So weird!

Then I filled in number 48 and we joked about her winning and I went about my day.

This afternoon I got a phone call. 48 drew for the main prize.

It's a romantic weekend away in an amazing location.

I mean, what benevolent karmic gods of glorious fuck did I awaken with that one??

what I've been up to lately

Pretty much everything Lyndsay Rush lists here...

 ... her IG handle is @maryoliversdrunkcousin and she's the best thing on there right now.

I honestly couldn't love this list more. I'd get it tattooed down my forearm to read every day (if my friend Janine hadn't wisely declared NO WORDS as rule no. 1 for tattooing). 

Just making a fool of myself.

Instead I have it stuck up at my desk.

Making it happen.

It's my 47th birthday today and I have Covid. Well, my youngest tested positive on Tuesday and I've not been feeling very well so I'm going with I have it too.

Making a big deal.

47 weirdly feels quite seriously grown up! Not just as in the year sounding grown up, but I actually feel it a bit. It's hard to describe but I feel... capable of making big decisions. Is that the definition of a grown up?

Making it up as I go.

We've booked a weekend away, a cabin in the mountains with just us 4 and the dogs. I booked it months ago and I couldn't be more grateful, now that we're isolating and unable to see anyone else anyway.

...making a break for it.

The last few months have been fairly two steps forward, one step back. I should know by now that when I do a big optimistic beginning of the year post the universe is gonna have something to say about that.

Making a mess of things.

After my triumphant return to CrossFit I managed to slip a disc (old-fashioned term but a good description none-the-less) HANGING UP LAUNDRY. Way to feel like an old lady...

Booked off CrossFit for a long while, lots and lots of physio, lots of lame-ass walking for exercise.

Making a face.

But I did take advantage of the downtime to get a new tattoo. A paper airplane looping off my ankle surgery scar to show lightness and agility after that long time of infirmity. 

The irony of getting it now when I am once again somewhat infirm is not lost on me.

I've actually gotten really good at making a mountain out of a molehill.

Lots and lots of lame ass walking. Lame in comparison to rowing like a beast and busting out burpees and lifting huge weights that is. I've nothing against walking itself, I quite like it. And I do have some magnificent places to walk around here.

Making the best of things.

And after the walking, the resting. For a long while flat on my back was the only really comfortable way to be so there was quite a lot of that. Much to the joy of this floof.

Making my bed every morning.

We got away on a week long mini-break! It was delicious and affirming and super fun, it deserves it's own post. But it also allowed me to add a nice big thigh bruise to my list of ailments, after getting kicked by a cute but savage miniature horse.

I've really been trying to prioritize making a scene.

A beautiful autumnal visit to one of my favourite places with some of my favourite people.

Making it count.

And lots and lots and lots of lovely, rewarding, exhausting, hilarious parenting of these two prides and joy.

Making tiny, beautiful things I'll be proud to leave behind.

Let the birthday weekend begin!

Making my own luck.

take the cake

 I read something recently, a meme or motivational quote thingie, which said it takes bravery to be silly and play in times of great upheaval or distress*.

It was so good to read. Too often we let ourselves feel frivolous for taking time out to be silly, and too often we neglect to play.

Among my many blessings is being surrounded by people who don't let me forget this, and last week we had a good game.

It was a darling friend's birthday - 6 years since I wrote that last post about her and still every word 100% true - and she wanted to go for a cycle.

A cycle in pristine and tranquil Cape Point, past fields of bright yellow leucodendrons glowing against moody winter skies, the tinkle of a hundred winter streams all filled with singing froggies, ostrich beady-eying us as we raced past, herds of eland and bontebok, a porcupine in full quill bustling off into the undergrowth - nature brought her A game.

The human company was spectacular too. Our friend Sally is an accomplished cyclist and entertained us all by standing up on her crossbar while whizzing along, another friend joined late and steamed up behind us on his bike shouting 'Comin' in HOT', the kids were great - all old enough to be on their own bikes, full of chat and hilarity.

It was a Thursday and (besides the kids who were still on holiday) we all should probably have been doing more adult things. Some had officially taken leave, but most of us work for ourselves and had signed our own permission slip. It wasn't raining, it was a birthday, it was a chance to get outdoors, a chance to play - why the hell not?

My joy, as I flew along relishing all the endorphins, was compounded by the slight tenderness in my left arm - I'd gotten my first Pfizer jab the day before and it was such a shot of optimism and hope for the future. For a moment all things felt possible again.

Our ride ended with a picnic at the sea. Homemade guacamole and hummus, nacho chips and a (highly illegal - cackle - bottle of wine). And of course - because tradition - a homemade masterpiece of a cake for the birthday girl. Baked before and assembled on site.

How gorgeous?

A bet it tasted amazing.

Sadly we'll never know...

But he seemed to enjoy it a lot.

Raiding baboons are notorious at Cape Point. They have no fear of humans, no shame at chasing you off your picnic, no qualms about taking the cake.

I tried to stand fast for a bit - but as he hurtled towards me, hairy shoulders rolling, teeth bared, snarling and barking, I released that beautiful cake in a slow-mo arc across the grass, even in that moment having a small internal acknowledgement (enjoyment?) that when would I ever again just toss a complete, beautifully iced cake to the ground?

God we laughed and laughed and laughed. We love cake, but even more than that we love a good story. And most of all we love to be playful, to find the funny side, to have adventures together, to seize the day, to take the cake.

Last Thursday we were reminded of all of that - and in the light of the last month, my last post, it was a very well timed nudge.

*Also privilege right? I am aware of this, always.

in the bleak midwinter

It's day 4 of a 7 day storm, and we're back in lockdown.

The girls just finished school 10 days earlier than planned, booze sales are prohibited again, no gatherings (like, none), no restaurants, no galleries, no museums, 9pm curfew. They kept the beaches open this time, but in this weather this is only really good news for those restaurant owners who can go for a surf to distract themselves from the crippling debt and human cost of having to close their doors. Again.

Ostensibly this lockdown is for 14 days but I mean, we've all heard that one before.

So we're back at home. Except this time I'm also working. Or am I?

I spent yesterday compiling a document which might mean a pause to my current contract, and although it would be pretty shit to lose the distraction, satisfaction and paycheck that comes with actual work - it's also madness to try and put together an in-person event in this ridiculously unpredictable time.

I realised recently that I've possibly reached peak apathy. I just don't really care that much anymore.

I can't think about the future without waves of absolute gloom breaking over me so I just don't. And by future I mean everything from will I ever travel internationally to what options will my children have in this new world to how, with 67% youth unemployment, our country is surely heading down the tubes. See why it's better to just not think of it?

I have never been this apathetic in my life. I'm not even despondent because that would require too much feeling. I just ... have the biggest case of the whatevers ever.

Also an excellent time to have a midlife crisis. I turned 46 in May and it was hard. The actual birthday was lovely - I have the best friends and family - but in the weeks that followed I hit a real wall. But even that is ruined by the fukken pandemic.

As I texted a friend recently: what we've all got is the constant second guessing of all our feelings - do I hate my life or just the pandemic, do I want a divorce or just a vaccine, is this Covid or a normal midlife crisis?

It's all extremely boring actually.

BUT, there are rays of light and my god we need them...

Our big girl turned 14 last month and scored (as she always does) a beaut of a still, warm, winters day to have lunch out with her besties and cupcakes on our deck. After her tiny 13th celebration last year this was a big win, especially in light of our current restrictions.

The sun comes up every day (not much evidence of this the last few days tbh but ja, still she rises) and reminds us that we live in a beautiful place.

We have the most ridiculously lovely and infuriating collection of pets to comfort and entertain us.

In our home there is art, and beauty, and kindness, and love, and delicious food - and this, in the end, is the thing which must be enough for now. 

Just un-wedgie your big girl panties and get on with it girl.

11 on the 11th

Before we say goodbye to March - a quick tribute to the belle of the March ball...

Post swim hair, hot chocolate and croquet on recent camping trip.

This girl turned 11 on the 11th.

We went in to lockdown with a freshly minted 10 yr old - getting tweeny, but still very much a child - but in a year we've developed a tall, leggy, adventurous, hilarious, mature and even funnier big girl and I'm here for it.

She had a small party at the beginning of the month. Our lockdown has been so hugely eased and our numbers so very low at the moment, that it felt like a golden moment to seize - and so we did. 5 best friends, watermelon, cake and the neighbours pool - it made her so happy and also a wee bit nostalgic ('Remember when swimming with 5 friends wasn't a birthday treat Mum, when it could just be a normal Saturday?')

Crown Cake for a Crown Birthday

This child - with her hilarious comedic timing which has us all in stiches, her growing interest in food and trying new things, her beautiful singing voice, her deep love for her little cousins, her persecution complex that we favour her sister (we've taken to playing an imaginary tiny violin every time she mentions it - to her credit she thinks it's hilarious), her ability to still occasionally cause a massive scene about very little, her still-favoured panda bear stuffy that she sleeps with every night, her growing interest in the world and deep (sometimes difficult) questions about race, crime, sex and world events.

She's a keeper, our little star. 

13

A week ago we became parents of a teen.

That tiny little Frieda, who first appeared on this blog here, turned 13 on 20/06/20.

Never did we think her birthday would still be in lockdown, and such an auspicious birthday at that. And, as she mournfully pointed out, on a Saturday - perfect for a 13th birthday party in the 'old life'.
But, with all the resilience, calm and sense of humour she brings to every other aspect of her life, she didn't complain, and more importantly - didn't let it mar her big day.

Her toned down birthday wishes in lieu of a party included a socially-distanced walk with her bestie, a picnic on the beach and sushi for dinner.
She's been missing her pal so much, as had we all. Frieda and Amara have been friends since birth and Amara's been at our house at least once a week for the last 7 years.

Their contact the last few months has been limited to (sometimes all day) FaceTime sessions and fleeting glimpses at school (they're back, their grade has been back since 1 June, but in small allocated groups which they don't stray out of), and Frieda was wildly excited to spend a morning in her actual presence.

But we took it one step further - her family and ours have both been very locked down, and with them back at school we're all exposed to similar risks there - so we agreed with her parents that Amara would come for a surprise sleep-over, and thereby elevate a somewhat subdued birthday to new heights of epic-ness.

We set off for the walk as planned, met Amara and one other friend at the beach. It was beautiful crisp winter's day - they had their own picnic while we gave them space and hang out with lovely Kalk Bay's stone cairn sculptures, and then we said we'd give Amara a lift home.
But en route we deviated, headed back in our direction, and all laughed like loons as the penny dropped in the back seat and the girls squealed with glee.

Not the 13th birthday she'd planned, but turns out, the one she needed.

lock down (birthday edition)

Day 60, officially. Plus 11 for our household.

Totally laughable now that we thought we'd be done in 21 days. And what did we think 'done' looked like anyway?

Looking back, it's gone by quite quickly. As with raising small children, the hours drag but the days fly.
We've done all the same things everyone else in the world has done - vacillated between comfort and despair at pretty regular intervals.

Currently we've hit a bit of ennui...
Our 'lockdown diary', started with enthusiasm, is kicking around under piles of home-school materials and half-finished art projects. The school work we do is the barest minimum. We get out to take advantage of our 'exercise slot' (6 to 9am) at best three times a week. The kitchen is kept tidy, the bathrooms seen to once a week and high-traffic areas swept (and sometimes mopped) fairly regularly, but everything else is a bit murky and dusty.

There are a lot of screens in rotation, and there's been a LOT of the accompanying parental guilt about this. But a few things happened last week which changed my mindset about this a bit.
I had a chat with my sister-in-law in which she reminded me that my kids are not smallies any longer, and as the first generation to have access to this much online content who can really say at this point what the long-term effects will be? The convo got me thinking about my brother, a die-hard gamer and tech enthusiast, who is also possibly the brightest person I know.
Then this lovely poem by Hollie McNish.
And finally a rollercoaster ride, built entirely in Minecraft by my 10 yr old daughter, specially for me as a birthday present last week.
Encompassing an underground tunnel, a section through a glass-walled aquarium filled with fish and colourful plants, an LGBTIQ+ rainbow-walled section, the world's highest rollercoaster hill and a field of llamas I have to say it was one of the best experiences I've ever been gifted. It took her best part of two days and was all self-conceptualised.
The kids are alright.

And yes, it was my birthday. Lockdown birthday club whoop whoop.

Leading up to it I was apprehensive, thinking that maybe the reason we have birthday celebrations is to distract ourselves from the march of time, to literally sing and dance in the face of aging-related existential dread.
Nothing like reaching proper middle age in time of global pandemic to bring out all the anxieties.

But there was also a freedom in not being able to do anything special. No need to clean and polish the house for guests, no juggle to find an activity which suits all ages, schedules and budgets. No expectation of looking ones best or being goddamn cheerful.

And, as always with birthdays - lucky me - it was lovely. Turns out the essential elements - love, cake, friends - were still there, albeit very differently to in the past.
Love shown in small gestures and large, cake baked by me (red velvet) and more delivered by friends (chocolate, lemon drizzle, super decadent choc fudge biscuits - 'We have a cake BUFFET' my daughter declared the next day), friends who spontaneously arrived for a very socially-distanced glass of wine in our front driveway, perched on small fold-out chairs in the gathering gloom... giggles and commiserations.
Fortyfuckin'five is not too old to be reminded that we endure beyond viruses and screens and parental guilt and dusty floors.
Life it seems, carries on.

fortyfuckin'four

This whole week I've been nagging myself - you can't let May go by without a post!
May is your month, May is important.
Once a month is bad enough for the ol' blog - don't skip one!

I did this thing back in Feb. On the anniversary of Zahida's death. My favourite punctuation tattooed on my forearm ...

... for endings and beginnings, and the never-ending cycle of both, for things left unsaid ... for room to imagine ... to trail off and pick up another thread ... to pause and think ... to leave a space for someone else to occupy, or leave ... to assert yourself subtly ... or show doubt, vulnerability ... for life and whatever comes after ...

My 101 year old Granny slipped off in March.

In April we said goodbye to our beloved Khoki cat - our first baby, our friend for 19 years.

But still the sun rose every morning, some times more magnificently than others, and the world turned around the sun and, despite everything, it was my birthday.

And I decided that of all the lessons I'd like to impart on my daughters - this said in the knowledge that one never knows what will stick and what will not - I'd like one of them to be that you make your own fun, you have agency in your own happiness, and that birthdays deserve a party, no matter your age.

I spent my birthday surrounded by my bests. We hosted a lunch and that weekend, for the first time since mid March, I could walk. I could faff around the house making nice for my friends, I could prep a meal and lay a table, I could do a 'food board' ala Instagram, I could host and fetch another bottle of wine and more ice and a sharp knife and juice for a child ... I could WALK.

Even at the ripe old age of 4fuckin'4 my body can still heal. In the midst of my 40's I can do a highly responsible job for an international client and still know the value in taking a day off for illicit mid-week treats - this time an indulgent meal and a massage at the wondrous Babylonstoren ...

  

 

I am of that age where you realise it doesn't last forever. And as cliched as that sounds it's a real thing, and a natural thing. It's great that we live our 20's thinking it'll last forever, it's natural that we spend our 30's too busy to think of anything else much, and then the 40's come and with it comes loss, if you've been lucky enough to avoid it until then, and the reality of aging and the inkling that it will all end, it really will, and in that, the freedom to think 'fuck it, let's do it'.

I loved being young and feckless and living in the moment without even realising it. I love living in the moment and realising it, even more.
Best life, it's the only one worth living.