firstborn

On Friday night I was weeping in the kitchen.

It had been a tough week with Frieda, a particularly tough day.

'I just feel like she's not happy,' I wailed to my husband, 'I'm sure her atrocious behaviour is because I don't have time for her like I once did. I don't play with her like I used to. She watches too much television, I'm sure it's that making her crazy, but when Stella needs feeding or putting to sleep or I want to cook a meal or just have 5 fucking seconds peace it's such an easy option.
'She's driving me insane. She's so defiant. So wilful. She spat at a complete stranger yesterday. I'm raising a monster. It's TV. It's me. It's those bad influences from school. It's, it's, it's ...
'So fucking hard to deal with on so little sleep!'
Sob sob sob sob sob sob sob sob sob sob sob sob sob.

You get the picture.

My husband's a saint. He let me prattle on, wallow in a puddle of snot and self-pity. He made a delicious curry while he waited for me to calm down.
Then as he fried the roti he said:
'Fuck that. Don't take it on board. She's your firstborn, you're always going to feel one step behind 'cos you're learning, everything is new, you're growing together.'

My firstborn. My first baby, my first toddler, my first three year old. My first port of call for any passing fit of parental guilt.
I've mentioned before that the last few months with Frieda have really been more challenging and new and hard than having a newborn. I still haven't been able to actually write about the nitty-gritty though - part exhaustion from dealing with it, part not knowing where to start. Or stop!

And I don't want to make out like it's always hard. In so, so many ways she is being marvelous, miraculous, mischieviously deliciousness. She's taken to saying 'You're welcome' when you thank her for something - where oh where did she pick up such a quaint Americanism? (oh god, probably from the TV!) Her games of Mummy & Baby Wildebeest have progressed to my being a wildebeest, her being a Mummy Lion and the fun part being where she chases me and drags me back to her cubs to be ferociously eaten. She loves her sister and plays lovely games of peek-a-boo to enthusiastic squeals of delight from Stella. She tells me she loves me when I most need to hear it.

But the fact of the matter is - she's my firstborn. Every step of the way with her, every single step, will be the first I take with a child of mine. That's the truth, the joy, the drama and dear god make give me strength, the challenge. Oi vey.

However there's another parenting truth which has proved itself valid to me over and over (and over) again.
Just when you think you cannot stand another minute of some behaviour or habit or routine, the little darlings change it up.
Since Saturday Frieda's been an amicable and delightful little girl. Either her survival instinct kicked in and realised I was considering infanticide or my letting off some steam has enabled me to parent differently since then.
A bit of both I reckon.

meringuetangs

A friend's son loved my chewy rose-water meringues so much that for his 6th birthday recently I made him his own batch.
In blue this time.

Meringuetangs is what Frieda calls them.

pithed off

I finally tried my hand at jam-making this weekend. Marmalade to be exact.

You know, while I've always appreciated the vastly superior taste of home-made jam, I've never gotten why jam-makers are so often well, smug about their efforts.
Fruit, sugar, water, boil - what could be easier?

Well ... here's how my experience panned out.

Me: I think I'll make lemon marmalade.
Husband: You should use those left-over oranges.
Me: Ok, I'll make lemon and orange marmalade.

I set to work, using a very basic recipe as a guide (it's my first time see). I start diligently removing the pith from the fruit and rind of 8 or so oranges and lemons.
Husband comes in.

Him: You don't have to remove all the pith, the pith is what makes the jam set.
Me: My recipe says remove pith.
Him: My recipe (this being one he once read but is nowhere in evidence right now) says not to.

I fall for the idea of slacking off a bit (I've only done 3 fruits by now and am already getting bored). I start chopping fruit roughly, pith 'n all.
I juice the same amount of fruit, add an obscene amount of sugar and set the whole lot a-boiling.

Right: jars. I gather our motley collection of jars and start packing them into the dishwasher (sterilise and clean in one go - I love it).

Husband: You can't run those with the paper labels still on you know.
Me: #!%&*!

Start soaking jars in hot water and scrubbing at the labels. Fucking hell, I've just discovered the hard part about jam-making!

Much, much later; wrist cramping, humour disappearing, jam too thick, rinds still to hard, flavour a little too tangy - I'm starting to hate home-made marmalade.

Husband: Maybe grate in some ginger to lift the flavour.
Me (spewing pith & vinegar): Ja ok, but what about the fact that there's virtually no jam, just a bunch of rinds all clumped together??
Husband: Hmmm, maybe you shouldn't have added the pith.

Me: Seriously?? Are you taking the pith?

Luckily, it looks very good. And I'll grudgingly admit the ginger saved it. And once it cooled it was much less ... dense. Actually, it's not half bad - think I'll go make some toast.

one of those days ...

... when the weather's shitty and you're all stuck at home, and there seems to be nothing else to do but make up a batch of clay sweets 'n biscuits and invite a bunch of plastic farm animals round to tuck in.

You know those days right?

hi mum!

So my mother's found my blog.

Not that I was keeping it a secret or anything. I just hadn't really mentioned it before. But then someone did and now it's out and after a second of ohmygodwhathaveIwrittenwhatwillshethinkdidImentionthatthingthatsummer I've remembered that it's all about blogging like nobody's reading. Not even your mother.

So let's give a great big Molly's Blog welcome to my Mum - HI MUM!

And here's a couple of links to get you started:
Some for you
and
some for Dad
and
some for laughs.

Now bugger off and pretend you're not there!

the one about home schooling

Some weeks ago the girls and I went to the library, arriving a little early. We sat on the steps with a couple of other people, waiting for the Children's Section to open.

A thin and nervous looking woman arrived with her daughter, the girl quite tall but probably eight or nine years old.

The librarian must've been delayed, it was a few minutes after 1, and with some theatrical sighing the woman asked me if she could leave her daughter in my care until the doors opened.

The girl happily came and sat next to us and started chatting to Frieda.
The mum stayed a few more moments, glancing twitchily at the other people standing around, then she left, sharply telling her daughter to stay close to me and not to talk to anyone else, pointedly looking at a lone man standing nearby.

By this point I was judging, obviously.
I understand the importance of wising your kids up to the world, but I felt like don't leave your daughter at the library with strangers if you're so hung up.
Then I berated myself. You don't know anyone's history, this woman may have had real reason to be so apprehensive. But then again, if she's so worried, why leave her daughter there?

The library opened, we went inside, the girl asked if she could leave her bag near me while she went to choose books.
She was chatty and friendly, even sat in on some of the stories I was reading to Frieda. She was taking out an enormous stack of books and had a little moan that her mother always made her take out some Afrikaans books too.
Her mother took a long time coming back. I was starting to wonder what I'd do if she'd not made an appearance by the time we were ready to leave ...

Eventually she appeared, just as twitchy as when she'd left. Asked me if her daughter had 'been any trouble'.

And that's when she uttered those loathsome words: 'I'm home-schooling her.'

Ah yes, of course you are.

I know there are some really great people out there who home-school. I read their blogs and often find inspiration in some of the activities they do with their children. And I totally understand how you'd chose to home-school rather than send your kids to boarding school if you live deep rural. But ...
Really? To choose to do it in an urban environment, to spend all day and everyday together, to be your kid's parent, teacher, life-coach, guidance counsellor, disciplinarian, bum-wiper, playground buddy to infinity and beyond?
Say what you like I think it's just. not. healthy.
For anyone.
Twitch twitch.

in her head

Last week we spent a morning at Kirstenbosch Gardens, one of our favourite places.

We did some balloon modelling (thank you Kirstenbosch for your kiddie's holiday programme - we love you) and then trundled around the Gardens for a few hours.

Frieda explored, I trailed behind zombie-esque, Stella soundly asleep in the pouch.

We watched some guinea fowl with unseasonal chicks, some older boys climbing trees. Frieda had her snack sitting on the giant low branches of an old oak tree, a stranger touched my heart by offering me a much appreciated cup of tea, without even expecting a chat in return.

Kirstenbosch has a new project, a temporary pavilion housing a sculpture exhibition and an amazing wall of vertical vegetation. The structure is mollusc-like, drawing you in to the centre where most of the sculptures are housed. Read more about it here.
We went in to explore.
Frieda loved the circular structure and, predictably, how the circular passages carried her voice shouting 'Sculpture sculpture sculpture' as she ran around and around.
In one side, out the other and off we went in search of new adventures.

It was only that evening, in the warm confessional dark of her bed as I tucked her in, that she said, 'I don't like that new house at the Gardens Mummy.'
Silence for a while and then, 'I don't want to see those sculptures again.'

I can understand how she may have found the work disturbing. Big bronze sculptures of human figures with horns and weird-shaped heads. Supposed to represent the wilderness in humankind or some such. I'm not a big fan myself.
But what interested me was how she showed no signs of discomfort when we were there. In fact I'd have said she hardly stood still long enough to really notice anything about the pieces.
Something stuck however, and she didn't like it.

I remember that strange headspace of childhood. How your responses to things, people, places are determined by the feeling you get from them. Not always able to articulate the exact source of your disturbance, you go with your gut.
It's an invaluable trait, one which I'd like to encourage in my kids. I decided not to try and work out with Frieda why she didn't like those sculptures. It's enough that she's that sure that she didn't.

Luckily, Kirstenbosch is filled with a lot of work she does like.

And we'll be back to visit those.

daddy moose

Last weekend Father's Day was rather over-shadowed by The Birthday. Compensation felt in order.


Spicy with a hint of lemon zest, Big Daddy Moose biscuits seemed a worthy cookie with which to celebrate the father in our household.

The biscuit cutter was a gift from our favourite Heather. When I drooled over her haul from IKEA in NYC I did particularly like the look of the cookie cutter set. And when she got home, she gave it to us.
Thanks Heather!

And thanks babe, for being a wonderful Dad.

3 butt dawg

so-so stephanie, posted this yesterday which reminded me of this picture:

We call it her 'police badge' stance.

Too much birthday/school holidays/soccer - this is all I got in me for now!

oh, and ...

If you're a pro-lifer and believe a person's a person from the moment of conception then ... Happy 1st birthday Stella (for some time this week).

But let's not do that again this year ok?