growth

Have you also spent this last month looking at your kids, your pets, your home, your things and thinking what the actual fuck would I do with all of these if we had to flee?

Then doom-scrolling some more about the devastation in the Ukraine, making a comment about Zelenskyy being the hottest short guy in the world right now and going back to living your hyper-blessed life in your own deeply problematic and damaged country on this here burning planet?

What a time to be alive.

Because we are. We are alive and the wheel turns in the same ways it always has - the tide ebbs and flows.

Stella turned 12!

She planned her celebration down to the last detail, the group and the activities and the timings. We went to an indoor trampoline park - and took this 'album cover' photo on the way out - and then home to ours for pizza and movies and cake and a sleepover. 

I realised halfway through the evening that she wasn't doing great but she fiercely batted away all my queries, only the next day having a big sob about how she'd missed us at her party (us who were there throughout but just in the background making pizza and beds in the lounge) and wished it had just been the family at home and felt sad about one day living without us.

12 is hard y'all, that bridge between childhood and teen-dom is shaky and unknown and excitement for the future still so tightly bound to nostalgia for something which is not yet even really in the past. This photo was more prophetic than we'd realised.

Frieda - further along that bridge - went to her first big proper outdoor party recently, with DJ's and multiple dance-floors and cashless food trucks and (temporary) tattoo vendors. 

It was 13 - 18 year olds only, obviously no booze etc and heavily monitored (these parties are big business these days), but her first time alone in a big crowd with just her mates, her wits and (hopefully) her mother's voice in her ears ... 'trust your gut', 'stick with your friends', 'call me if you need to' and 'most importantly have fun'.

We were being very cool about it all, but as I drove away from dropping her off at a friend's to get ready I was surprised at how emotional I felt, and later - much later - when I'd fetched them from the party at midnight - hoarse, filthy and shiningly happy - and we were back home for tea and toast before bed she confessed to also feeling a small wobble as I'd driven away that afternoon.

The umbilical cord stretches, stretches very very far, but never breaks.

We rode off on our motorbikes last weekend for a grown ups trip up the coast.

As we packed the girls off to friends and grandparents for the weekend they both, separately, sincerely, and with no prompting, told us to have a really good time, to have fun, to enjoy the ride and the time away.

Is there any greater confirmation of parenting goals than your kids being lovely people - to you, their friends or themselves? I don't think so.

We spent the weekend at the edge of the ocean - reveling in the quiet and unstructured quality of time spent without any dependents, wondering at the luck of living in a place where even average middle-class folk such as ourselves can access places of such exclusive beauty, knowing that for the accident of birth us, and our children, could be leading totally different lives.

Watching the full moon Solstice tide ebb and flow, ebb and flow.. feeling tiny amongst the enormity of it all.

black lives matter

A friend of ours put this up at the popular Muizenberg beachfront just before dawn on Saturday, just before it got light enough for the security cameras.

Because even making a statement about equality for all races is a risky act these days.

Later that day I posted this picture to the Muizenberg Notice Board FB page (I don't think I need to tell you what a fraught place of radical division that is right?) and received the exact response I anticipated.

2 minutes later ...

'But ALL lives matter'

Le sigh.

In just under 2h the admin closed comments on the post because of the inevitable brawling taking place. No one was directly contesting the initial sentiment, but so many Whataboutists - 'what about gender violence?, 'what about slave labour in Libya', 'what about Covid' - and my personal favourite: 'Is the beach really the correct forum to vent these views?'

I say old chap, fuck yeah it is.

That said, 5 days later the post is still getting likes (only 9 angry faces!), and the banner is still up. 

The conversation is ongoing, and that is what is important.

Black lives matter, and if you want it in (a highly amusing) nutshell - watch this.

won't ever happen

We found a video clip on an old phone of Frieda, soft-faced and blonde curls, age 6, her voice so different, thicker - pre-tonsillectomy -  'I pinkie swear I'll never twerk.'

Stella, regularly, 'I'll never leave home, I'll live with you until I die Mummy. Or until you die, whichever happens first.' Her eyes become solemn.
She thinks a lot about death this one.

Overheard today: 'I will never, ever drink coffee.'

We've thought for months: 'Trump will never become president.'

nature wins! every. time.

My parents held out on buying me a Barbie until I was kind of over them. I suspect I'd not really ever been that 'into' them - all my friends had them so I should probably want one too right?

I now wonder whether that was part of my parents reluctance to buy one, along with the fact that they clearly disapproved and were probably not thrilled at spending cash on plastic crap.

We cracked and bought Frieda a Monster High Freaky Fusion doll for Christmas.

I think she's kind of over them, she's actually not ever really been that 'into' MH at all (she still calls the main character Jackie Laura - it's Draculaura - and she never watches it at home - not because it's banned per se, but I refuse to have that crap on in my house), but all her friends have them so she imagines she should too right?
I'd been reluctant to buy one because I sensed her lack of inherent desire, because I clearly disapprove (Monster High dolls make Barbie look like a wholesome girl-next-door type) and because really? I must spend cash on this plastic CRAP?

But at least she chose (from a toy catalogue which came in the post), the one who wears actual pants, and the childhood record will show that a Christmas wish was granted.
(Her sister, of course, chose a Spiderman figure who, in the interests of fairness and let this always be remembered as the Christmas of plastic tat, was also procured.)

Aaaand guess which Christmas present has been all but ignored?
Yeah, take that you freakish bat-eared large-headed marketing-driven twat.

Instead Frieda's spent the holidays ....

Excavating geodes.

Listening to 10 Phizz-Whizzing Audiobooks.

While endlessly, and meditatively, playing with Kinetic Sand.

Listening and sand.

Oh, and collecting rocks.

And foraging for wild herbs and flowers to bake into scones.

See more pics of the Good Hope Nursery Kids Foraging Morning here

Ugly, badly-made, profit-driven, largely plastic crap will continue to tempt her throughout her life - it still tempts me - but I'm so grateful that her true passions still lie in the real, the natural, the imaginative, the tactile.
And boy, she sure seems to love that pink top!

halloween grinch

I just ... don't really like Halloween.

Most of my reasons place me firmly in the 'old fart' camp, but strangely I'm okay with that.

1. Really? Since when is Halloween a thing?
It wasn't when I was a kid, or even a young adult, or even a not-so-young adult, but gradually the long arm of consumerism has elevated 31 Oct up out of the calendar and into a place in which money must be spent and effort made and something celebrated.
Oh no wait, nothing gets celebrated, except by the manufacturers of candy and fake blood - they're having a lovely time.

2. The candy is gross.
I'm not a sugar nazi. I have a firm suspicion that my youngest (she of the remarkably sweet tooth of course) should probably not eat too much of it, I suspect it makes her bonkers, but I'm not proactive enough to try and ban it and I think I have a pretty standard policy on sugar consumption (ie not enough to ruin dinner and/or make you puke), but I don't like shit sweets.
And because everyone's compelled to buy so much of it to hand out on Halloween, there's usually a lot of shit, fake, disgusting plastic-masquerading-as-candy candy.

3. Scary is not cool.
We live in a country, nay a WORLD that is completely and utterly terrifying on a daily basis. Scary lost its cool in my book a long time ago. Round about when I become an old fart probably.
Ditto: wounds, blood, violent deaths, embracing the dark side, jokes about Ebola, weaponry of any kind.

4. Entitlement is unattractive.
Already our kids, all of our kids, even the really nice ones, are becoming painful about expecting Christmas presents, birthday parties, chocolate at Easter and cash from the Tooth Fairy. Now we're encouraging them to run around with buckets demanding sweets from people not even related to them or obliged to put out because of a complex social code of reciprocal present-giving.
Really?

5. It blows.
The wind that is. Late October in Cape Town is howling, throbbing, blasting South-Easter season. An invasive and spiteful wind that chills you to the bone, even when the sun shines, that blows grit into all your exposed orifices (and some that aren't), that ruins your hair and your picnic and your mood.
It always blows on Halloween. Really not a good time to be outside.

HOWEVER, the good news is: there is wine. Plenty of it.

And if you're lucky there are friends who aren't old farts and arrange fun and age-appropriate Halloween events in which you and your children can participate.
Friends who make snacks, and provide safe and welcoming environments out of the wind in which to eat those snacks, and drink that wine, while the sugar-fueled children run amok in the night.

My grinchiness abated .... did a slight encore to accompany my hangover the next morning, and then went back into hibernation until next year.

The Littlest Jaguar and SHOUTY MUM, appropriately wind-swept.

this may #2

Tomorrow I'm off on my now annual pilgrimage to Joburg. That great diverse urban behemoth to the north which lots of Capetonians like to feel superior to but I LOVE to visit.

Also home to my bestie and her adorable smalls whom I haven't seen since September and her equally adorable husband whom I haven't seen since last year.
And 5 cats.

All of whom together could not possibly produce as much poo as I've had to deal with this last week.
Hashtagpuppy.
Not poo I'm responsible for anyways.

Last May I couldn't wait to get there, to escape my life and my trying small girl and the mundane humdrum of too long spent full-time parenting and a persistent cough I'd had for weeks.
Like pioneers of old I was keen to 'take the prairie air' for my consumption.

This May I'm racing to hit deadlines before I leave and popping vitamins and writing up lists for my au pair and feeling a little guilty about the Out of Office message I'm leaving in cyberspace to no doubt disgruntle the hordes of delegates who enjoy 'reaching out' to me on a daily basis to find out what the weather will be doing in Cape Town in June, or whether the hotel we've booked has humidifiers in all the rooms.
Seriously, 1st world problems are a real thing ...

Last May the surprising find after my 4 days in Johannesburg was how much my big girl missed me. I'd thought it would be Stella but in fact Frieda did some real pining.
This May it looks like it'll be the same.
Turns out my eldest, my independent self-sufficient and sunny child, still misses her Mummy. Bless.

Yesterday afternoon at 4:30, with a scant half an hour work time left in the day, I came out of my office for some reason and ended up romping on the lawn with both kids until the sun went down.
The emails called, but my heart called louder.
'We haven't done this for ages Mum,' says Frieda. 'These days you're always working or cooking supper.'

They've seemingly adapted so smoothly to the new normal. Au pair 3 times a week, Granny once and the rare Friday afternoon with me. Weekends are full of family time, mornings and evenings and stolen moments throughout the day when possible.
But as adults we tally up the time spent in hours or days and think it looks sufficient, considering the circumstances. For the smalls, used to big blocks of daily dedicated Mum time, just a couple of days without that becomes an age.
This time of intense work has taught me much about the challenge of the working parent, and while I have, and am, enjoyed the professional affirmation immensely, I'm really grateful I'm still doing this freelance, and really, really looking forward to a time of unstructured US.
It'll come again very soon.

But for now I need to stretch those heartstrings just a little further. This trip to Joburg is work and play, so I appease myself with that, and know without a doubt that a whole weekend with Dad is actually just what they all need. Junk food and You Tube and puppy-romping and Daddy Gym.
They'll have a ball.

As will I! See you on the flipside.

a little lunchtime trolling

The troll, in this case, being me.

troll

One who posts a deliberately provocative message to a newsgroup or message board with the intention of causing maximum disruption and argument

The National Elections this last week have been an emotional time for the Nation. Lots of nervous energy has been spent on speculation and optimism, and then disappointment when the results have not been as different as many had hoped.

The problem with being a Nation that once witnessed a miracle is that we forever maintain the hope we'll see one again. Does one get more than one miracle in a life time? I'd tend to say we are amazingly blessed to have witnessed one, and such a magnificent one at that.

I'd also tend to say that anyone who thought the ANC would fall, or even significantly shift, during this election is a fool. I don't get the 'So crushed #fml #sadforSouthAfrica' status updates I've seen around the interwebs.

I ALSO think that all those calling ANC voters 'idiots' (and much worse), are vile, bigoted sanctimonious twits.

A Twitter friend yesterday expressed this far more eloquently than I:

Amen Karen.

So THEN, I stumbled across this little corner of the internet, heavily populated by aforementioned vile twits, mainly of the expat variety, bitching and moaning at this post about their votes 'not being counted' and I just .... couldn't help myself. 

(Screenshots because I'm not tainting my blog with a live link).

Obviously this wasn't the popular approach.

Luckily I'm not going to 'loose' any sleep over this.

And then of course someone had to play this card ... so cute ...

Ah, SO much fun to while away a lunch break which I couldn't really afford to take but you know, when a girl's got to troll a girl's got to troll!

Viva South Africa Viva!

20 years today

I was 18. Voting for the first time, just like millions of my countrymen and women.

We were in the tiny seaside town where I grew up. In 1994 there were no designated voting stations. We pitched up with our green bar-coded ID book and voted. All of us.

It was heady, surreal and we knew it was HUGE - even without twitter, facebook, 24h TV, text messages or the internet, we could feel the vibe. Could feel the world's eyes, the enormous exhale, the teeth on edge, the fingertip tingling belly cramping slightly nauseous inducing excitement and apprehension: what next?

For us, what was next was to go down to the beach, huddle out of the rain in the deserted life-savers' shack, play cards, drink quarts of beer, smoke cigarettes, play djembe drums, and try and imagine how this would change the course of our lives.

On that grey and rainbow-hued day, I think this was kind of what I had in mind.

Frieda and her bestie - June 2013.

This country is so radically complex, but basically: humanity wins. Amandla.

why can't we all just get along?

In the light of the atrocities happening in Uganda, and the recent distressing news from Arizona, picking up this in the waiting room at my GP's office was a real shocker.

What the actual fuck fuckitty fuck?

I calmly read it, photographed it, and folded it up under my arm when I went in to see the doctor. I asked her about it before we went any further with the consultation, it being a bit of a deal-breaker in the continuance of our until now valued doctor-patient relationship.
Thankfully she was as horrified as I, and clearly from her reaction already suspected which staff member was responsible for disseminating this filth.
Really left me with a horrid taste in my mouth (and not just from the antibiotics either).

On Monday I took the girls out for fish and chips and were seated behind a table of men, all speaking Afrikaans.
The girls don't provide much in the way of stimulating conversation while shoveling hot chips, so naturally I eavesdropped.
Turns out this bunch of friends were counselling one of their group as he prepared to come out to his family.

It was a wonderful conversation to listen in on. The young guy's angst was real, and that was sad, but his friends were amazing, offering such insightful and affectionate advice - telling bits of their own coming out stories and really working to help him overcome his fears.
There was some joking too, and teasing about the kind of questions he needed to prepare himself for:
'Who's the man and who's the wife?'
'When did you know?'
'Have you ever slept with a woman?'
The group all laughed wryly at these, and made comments on how straight people just don't get it do they?

We're all so different, negotiating our way through this crazy world. But we're all so similar too, we all just want to be happy, and accepted. Even poor old 'Janet' in the article above.
And we all need friends to help navigate our way along this journey.

I left feeling so happy that this guy had such good friends, whatever the reaction from his family will be, and saddened that 'Janet' has clearly distanced herself from hers, and maybe her chance to really be happy.

the american job

Talk about hit the ground running.

After my weeks of idle layabout (doctor's orders you know), I embarked on a feverish 10 day job for some Americans.

Some Americans who work in the Communications Dept of a huge international firm.

Some Americans who work in the Communications Dept of a huge international firm and SUCK at communicating.

Add to that a 7 hour time difference, a complete lack of detailed brief, a complete lack of bigger picture perception and some pretty condescending ideas of how things work in Africa and what do you have?

A very stupid, stupid job. Which paid dollars. And is now over so ja ... I shouldn't really complain.

Debrief done. Over and out.

catch some poop Lady Liberty

facing extinction with a muffin and a cup of tea

My eldest daughter (and so, by association, my youngest daughter), are all into dinosaurs at the moment. Their drawings are of diplodocus, their games about T-rex's and triceratops. When swimming, they are not dolphins but plesiosaurs and nothosaurs.
We talk about extinction. How the dinosaurs world radically changed, but also how (besides for that last big meteorite - bam!), it took hundreds of years to do so, and in fact the age of the dinosaur was just one in a series of prehistoric developmental stages of earth.

I believe in Earth. I have faith in the forces of nature and the slow and continuous progress of evolution. I believe that Earth has the bigger picture, that it teaches us lessons in transience and perspective and scale.

Climate change. The end of antibiotics. Anti-vaxxers. Avian flu. War. Super power ridiculousness. Civilian revolt. The death of the oceans.

Human beings are just one more developmental stage in the glorious story that is Earth. Our time will come to an end, to make way for another species or manifestation of ourselves, they will learn from our mistakes and benefit from our successes.
Just as we've learned from the dinosaurs not to be so ... big.

And when we're gone, the tides will keep on turning, the winds blowing and the earth shifting. Creatures will evolve and breed and die and mutate, and we're damn arrogant to think we've been the greatest of them all.

But right now I've got applesauce muffins in the oven, a lovely cup of tea, a weekend ahead with my beloveds, a party tonight to celebrate the current clean bill of health of this friend.
And all that is pretty damn great.

'app'surd

I recently got a new phone (Samsung Galaxy S3 woot! woot!) and started the process of getting my apps in order.
I spent most of last Friday night upgrading, re-installing and downloading some favourites, exploring some new ones (such a rocker, I know). It's been fun.

As with everything in my life though I haven't found the time to do all I want to do. I still have some standard message notification tones, don't know whether I've gotten an email, a text, a Whats App etc. It pings and I run to it, stroking it's cool, lithe casing (because of course I haven't found the ultimate sleeve yet) and trying to convince myself it's not somewhat ridiculously big (it is really).

But I quite like this two-yearly upgrade. The perfect opportunity to change and refresh my digital life. I haven't installed Google Reader yet, and am really enjoying reading blogs online and actually commenting - remember that? I haven't installed Twitter so only check that when I'm sitting in front of my PC, and as a result only really check the accounts I'm particularly interested in.
I haven't installed Evernote 'cos I'd stopped using it a number of months ago. Trimming the deadwood all round.

There are however some drawbacks, I don't have a proper calendar app yet and twice this week have managed to forget events or double-book myself. Amazing how reliant I'd become on my phone to keep my life in order.
And on that ... another unexpected result is that I've no idea when to expect my next period. I'd left that wholly in the hands of a 'period tracker' app - just clicking on the start and finish tabs and forgetting about it completely in between, until the app told me to expect the next one.
I've stared long and hard at our family (paper) calendar trying to remember when I had my last one but have drawn a total blank. Guess I'll just have to wait and see and maybe tune into my body more closely to let me know when it's imminent. So old-fashioned.

God, talk about a 1st world problem.

fear

As South Africans we know about living in fear. Unfortunately we've reason to.

And I've often thought there is no worse fear than not feeling safe in one's own home. I'm not going to look for the stats but apparently we're one of the nations which spends the most on our home security - beams, bars, dogs and weapons, exorbitant monthly fees to security companies.

We've reached a point where one often feels safer in public, surrounded by people, then alone and asleep in one's home at night.

I've always thought that was weird.

But far weirder to not feel safe in public. To become a society which doesn't go to the movies, to shopping malls, to school for god's sake, for fear of lone psychopaths with semi-automatics, or coordinated terrorist attacks, suicide bombers or missile attacks from a neighbouring country. That is a whole different kind of fear.

Today I'll stick with mine thank you.

the twitter shitter

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.

a bit meany

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?

f*ck that

At 06h05 this morning, this Sunday morning, awake with the baby after another horrendous night of multiple wake-ups and feeds and winds and bad sleep I followed the link sent by a friend to read this article, Why Parents Hate Parenting from the NY Times Magazine in July.

The title felt apt.

But what a load of shit.

Seriously the 1st world needs to get its head out of its own ass sometimes. I am sofa king over this kind of 'journalism', quoting all kinds of 'studies' into the human psyche.
And really, does anyone, anywhere, really trust stats and research groups anymore? Any twat with a theory can manipulate both to his or her own end.
And on the subject of twats, imagine spending all that time and money to train as an academic sociologist only to base your field of study on whiny privileged middle-class 1st world assholes?
Am I ranting here?

Why is it 'surprising' that parents are no happier than non-parents? Where, pray tell, did it say we should be?
Who really thinks it's odd that (according to women in, shock - horror! Texas) child-rearing rated sixteenth of a list of nineteen pleasurable things to do, rated after housework (this time their italics not mine). Try doing anything 24/7 and see how pleasurable it becomes - you wouldn't want to orgasm that relentlessly (be honest now).

I also have a problem with the assumption that happiness is our natural default state, were we all so happy farting rainbows until stinky old parenting came along and changed the flavour? Are childless people just sooooo happy all the time?

What a load of shit.

Go ahead, read the article. No really. 27 000+ people Liked it on facebook so it can't be that wrong. And it got 630+ comments so it obviously hit a nerve. Although granted lots of those are from the same guy with an axe to grind, and quite a few of them are from commenters with plunging cleavages bragging about their wanton desirable childfree lives.

I'm not even weighing in on this debate. The reasons for and against having kids are so many and varied, and so intensely personal, that to rehash this one in the public domain is too boring for words.
I'm just continually astounded at how many people in the world have the luxury to indulge this kind of naval-gazing and self-absorbed crap.
Just get out there and live you stupid privileged fucks.

Ja ok, I'm ranting. And I may not even be making sense. Blame it on the kids sleep-deprivation.

And maybe I am currently 'one of those women who were once smart and interesting but have become zombies' but I seriously couldn't wait to finish this article so I could follow the link to Man Denies Owning Bag of Crack Found in Own Butt.
Now that's more like Sunday morning reading.

epic martha fail

http://bizcommunity.com/Blog/LouiseMarsland/2010/2/26/-Design-Indaba-conf-Martha-Stewart-flamed

As we like to say in SA - ag shame ....

(thanks SIL - can't wait for an eye-witness account!)