Georgia and Chocolate …. racial slur or just child speak?

Georgia has a doll daughter named Chocolate.

When Georgia was two or three we went along to the toy shop and she could choose any doll she wanted.

She chose Chocolate, and then called her Chocolate.  Georgia took all of Chocolate’s clothing off as Chocolate had a t-shirt on – so Chocolate gets taken nearly everywhere with Georgia, in exactly the manner as she is pictured above.  <The plaster on Chocolate’s leg is due to a recent inury….>

Chocolate goes EVERYWHERE.  When Georgia was at pre-primary the rule was “no toys or dolls can come to school … with the exception of Chocolate…”

Georgia would take Chocolate, and when I arrived to collect Georgia most of the teachers and staff would say goodbye to Chocolate, and mention they would see her tomorrow.

I have recently put in a system where Chocolate can only go to school with Georgia on a Monday and  Friday, the remainder of the week Chocolate needs to stay home.

I spent a fair amount of time having the discussion that “Chocolate” is not a politically correct term to call anyone who has a skin colour the colour of chocolate.  But after about a year I gave up, and decided that I don’t actually find it offensive, and I find it “endearing…”

I have no idea how Georgia came up with the term, but as a child she did, and there was nothing about the term that indicated a sense of smugness or disdain or that it was discriminatory.

Chocolate is Chocolate, and Georgia says that Priveledge (our nanny) is a chocolate colour.   She also says her bestie at school is a chocolate colour – but her bestie has a name and is clearly not called Chocolate.

I remember the first time Georgia said “chocolate” and I cringed.  I felt it was so awfully politically incorrect – I recall the rucus about calling “peach coloured” crayons “skinny colour” and I recall that the term upset many people.

At the time I was all nodding agreement, but since then I think I have mellowed to the concept.

Would I have felt better if Georgia referred to her skin colour as black or coloured?

I know I should have a deep meaningful heart to heart with my child about how derogative the term “skinny colour” and “chocolate colour” is but I actually don’t think it is.  I am not going to convince her not to see colour, because that would be a bit stupid.

She can see that we are all different colours – and she expresses this, but she does not indicate that a “skinny” colour is better or more anything that a “chocolate” colour.  The colour is just a fact – the equivalent of her having hazel eyes and me having blue eyes.  It just is.

She does not mean it in a horrible way, and it is not offensive to me, but is it offensive?

Possibly I am in the minority.  Possibly this is one of the things that people have just blown out of proportion in the quest to be politically correct about everything, and maybe I need to see it in a more “factual” light.

Would it be better to refer to people by their pantone reference number?  I am around a Pantone 7401 matte not coated.

Update on Georgia … in the wars …

Georgia’s mouth looked pretty grim this week.

Her chin and bottom jaw were pretty banged up and bruised, with the result that she was not moving her bottom jaw to speak or eat, or brush her teeth.

Her gums were swollen, and I was not convinced that her teeth weren’t damaged.  We also couldn’t really see her front top and bottom teeth as everything that was either bloodey or swollen blue/black – and there was no way you could get in to see what was going on.

I know the right thing to do is to wait it out, and then things would look better, but I was convinced that the teeth that took the brunt of the fall were going to need to be pulled, or something very similiar, and each day seemed to bring a fresh crop of anxiety and panic about my daughter ending up looking like a troll, as I decided to “wait and see…”

Like any slightly hysterical mother I was disappointed that the doctor did not do what I thought was required i.e. a full head x-ray, a EKG, a full blood work up, a CAT scan and what ever else sound important – with a STAT at the end of it {I have clearly been watching too much Grey’s Anatomy}.  Instead he put a plaster on her chin and sent me and her on our way, wtihout ordering one unneccesary test. 

When I mentioned that Georgia has a tendency to fall/trip a lot, his response was: “Maybe she is just clumsy…”

Bear in mind we have come from a fall at school – where she was playing by herself and fell on her face.  Walking from the car at the ER to the ER door she fell again, I kid you not.  So you can see I might find it difficult to accept my child is  “just clumsy”- any the who, clearly I felt that we had been abadoned by the entire medical fraternity and decided to take matters into my own hands.

I was recommended to a really good (=great equipment but really expensive, and medical aid does not cover his rates) dentist in the area and took Georgia along to the appointment.

I love a doctor/dentist who takes the time to examine a child correctly when the mother is clearly having a freak out.  This guy clearly had met a few overraught mothers in his time, and knew exactly how to proceed.

There was also a television in the ceiling, and the dentist chair was covered in the same cow-patch plastic material they use for all Spur furniture – makes children feel safe if they think that there might be a Spur burger or Chicco the clown in the deal. 

Georgia eased in to the chair, he put the movie on and she opened her mouth and gave him a look to indicate the less he spoke, the more she could watch the movie.

He checked what he could.  He could not get in to her mouth as she could not open her jaw, so he used a small camera to take photos of the inside of her mouth.  He was concerned that her gum was very bruised, and there might be a jaw fracture.

I don’t exactly like to high five and say “see  I was right to be concerned” … but well, no doubt you know how it goes.  He did a full jaw x-ray and it showed that there was damage to her milk teeth, but the permanent teeth had not been damaded.  The permanent teeth that had taken a bit of the impact, did not have a root system, so were fine and would probably move back in to place.

By yesterday her swelling had reduced, the pink had returned to her gums, and the bruises looked much better. I could have left it, but it would have added to my worry.

I think the point I am trying to make is that when I took her to the ER, I should have insisted on a jaw x-ray, and should not have settled for being bustled out the door with a band aid, and a “call me if there are any problems…”

You mean more than the cut, the bruised chin, the teeth that are bloody, and the fact my daughter can’t move her jaw.  What other problems are you referring to?  Coughing up blood?

I stood there in silence and the doctor took control of the situation.  I really have no idea why doctors/people in white lab coats have this hold on me.  It is like I am fully in control and have vocal ability until I cross the threshold and then I turn into this simpering parent, and forget that this is actually my child, and last time I checked there is a bill that gets paid, hence the reason I am elevated from being a patient to a customer.

Note to self: I really must learn to grow a pair!

Monday morning and emergency rooms …

This morning was a pretty “classic” Monday morning.

You know the one where you wake up and then you plan on things going a certain way, and then next thing you realise almost nothing has gone to your plan.

Kids are doing the normal fighting and blubbering that has become standard fare for all mornings.

Jackson, my cat is available, so I get his cat box and try to herd him into the cat box so he can go to the Groom Room for a bath and a brush out.   Seemed easy enough, but the girls were fighting with Connor as he tried to keep the door closed {so the cat would not get out} and the girls were screaming they wanted it open, and there is Connor trying his best to get big cat into small box.

That done, it was get everyone in to the car, and the cat box.  Okay, all seems sorted.  I notice my flashing petrol gauge light and know I need to stop for petrol.

Went to drop Connor and Georgia off – I leave them at school.  Glance at my petrol gauge, and think, okay let me get to the Groom Room, drop Jackson, then I can stop for petrol.  I still have Isabelle with me so need to get her to school still.

I get a call from Teacher Lizette.

“Georgia has had an accident.   She is bleeding quite a lot and I think she might need stitches.  I am a bit afraid with the amount of blood there is….”

Me: “er …. right, I will be there in about 10 minutes…”

Drop Jackson off – which was more of a tuck and roll, than actually stopping the car and delivering him to the parlour.  I am sure he will be fine, and he has another 7 lives left, so it will be okay.

I speed off back to Georgia’s school – still with Isabelle, who by this point has started to get upset because we are not following the standard format of the morning and getting her dropped off at her school. Instead I seem to have driven all over the freaking peninsula and she is still trapped in the backseat, and she is starting to get really crinchy at this point.

Arrive at Georgia’s school – find her.  Crikey she looks like she has been on the wrong end of a domestic dispute.  Wow, she really looked grim – swollen lip, what appears to be broken teeth/tooth, bruised chin, cut on the inside of her now swollen lip and a cut on the outside of her lip.

So it is all blood, and gore and no way I could clearly gauge exactly where it was coming from.

What to do when unsure?  Pack up and head to the nearest Medi Clinic me thinks.

Georgia in car, high tail it to Isabelle’s school, could not think of dragging her along to the hospital.  Dropped Isabelle, back in the car, still ignoring the “good gawd your car needs petrol” light and think, okay I must deal with that, but let’s get Georgia sorted.

To the hospital, the usual wait in the uncomfortable lounge area, and this always leaves me wondering that if this is a long wait, how much longer must it be if I was at a government institution?

Finally got Georgia to see a doctor.  By now most of the blood seems to have stopped.  It was now obvious that the cut on the outside of her mouth would need stitches/pritt glue and would leave a scar.

Her one tooth looks like it is a blood tooth.  So the doctor patched her up, gave her some pain killers, glue-patched the cut and sent us on our way.

I thought I would stop at McDonalds as Georgia wanted an ice-cream and at that point I would have given her pretty much anything – she had been awfully brave at the emergency room.

Finished, then stopped at the chemist to fill the script.  I was nattering to Georgia about what she was going to do at home, and forgot about the petrol light.

About 50 metres from my house my car decided that it was no longer going to take my crap where I ignore his/her demands about petrol, and decided after splutter-splutter-choke it was just going to die and that was the end of it – it does not run out of petrol, as opposed to just decide to stop.

Fortunately it was walking distance from home.  Unfortunately there is no petrol in my car.  I might have to walk down to the local garage with 3 – 5 empty wine bottles and ask them to put petrol in it so I can fill my car and get to a petrol station and then put in a real amount of petrol.

On the upside at least it is near home, and well, that is really the only upside.

Quick to judge YOUR parenting skills …

I often sit in judgement when I watch parents cave in to their child’s tantrum.

I squint my eyes a little, purse my mouth, and I think “you really need to get control of that child, you are making your life really hard…” and then I tut-tut-tut and take another sip of my wine, as I feel rather self-righteous, because I clearly have this taped.

Snort. Snort.

This morning Isabelle asked for some watermelon for school.

Isabelle does not talk, so I had to work through several permutations until I got to what she wanted from me.  I could be the horse whisperer at my ability to put together sounds and movement to come out with Watermelon, I even impress myself some days.

I put the watermelon into a little addis lunch box, and sealed the lid.

I thought that this might tip open in her bag, so I wrapped the lunch box in a layer of cling film, to ensure the contents remained the contents of the box and not loose watermelon all over her bag.

G0od idea.

Isabelle disagreed.

She went mental.  Like apocalyptic mental.

Stamped her feet, screamed in a shrill ear-piercing voice, and gesticulated wildly.

I looked down at her, looked at my cling wrap handy work, looked back at her, thought “okay this child is seriously throwing a wobbly…”

Me:  Isabelle, stop, it is fine, let’s put it in your bag.

It was a bit like throwing paraffin onto a fire, she went more mental.  SCREAMING.

I could see the rather shocked expression on Priviledge (the maid’s) face.

I tried to reassure Isabelle, I used my strong mommy voice.  I used my mommy is in charge voice.  Then I used my threatening mommy in charge voice.  Then I used my mommy who has made a plan voice (sounds a little like McGyver from the 80′s).  Then I used my calm the hell down mommy voice. Then I used my please please please please let me do it this way voice.  I resorted to my mommy is very disappointed in you voice.

The only reaction from Isabelle was further feet stamping, higher pitch and louder voice, and still more gesticulation.

In the end I took the lunchbox out of her bag, took the clingwrap off, checked it was sealed correctly and put it back in her bag.

Isabelle immediately stopped her tantrum.  She pointed to her nose to indicate I needed to bring a tissue and wipe her nose as she had snot on her top lip, and did not like that.

I dutifully followed her prompt.

She put her little school bag on, looked at me knowingly just to ensure we were all clear on who wore the big girl panties in this relationship and then went on her way to school.

My two year old has me absolutely whipped!  I might try balancing a doggy treat on my nose next.

Suicide hour …..

I am probably one of the least patient mothers that have been put on this earth, but the two things that really make me doubt my sanity, and seriously wonder if I could throw myself under a train, is suicide hour and suicide hour.

The time between 5 and 7pm strikes the fear of gawd in to me.

I think if you are reading this and feel in any way like procreation, can I suggest you come and sit on the couch at mine for the 5 – 7pm shift.

The kids are tired, I am tired.

I want them to eat, get clean, pack bags, check homework, check homework list, realise I have not had the time to bake the dozen cupcakes the PTA has requested, remembered that I have totally forgotten about my 8am meeting, that all I want to do is drink 3 {large} glasses of wine, and get in to bed with an episode of Downton Abbey.

What awaits me instead is two excruciating hours of screaming, crying and hair pulling – and that is just my reaction the two-hour slot.

My kids at this point have come home from school. I have already been trapped inside a car interior with them, and the fighting, arguing, name calling and SCREAMING has been alive and well for a full hour.  I have already considered dropping them in Parow and making them walk home>

I get home – I do not climb out of the car as much as I throw myself to the safety of the floor in the garage.

I have wild fantasies of knocking myself out and being allowed to lie there and sleep for the next 2 – 3 hours.  Imagine waking up from a concussion to find your kids in bed, clean, fed, teeth brushed, and all the school things done.  Give me one of those concussions any day.

Instead, I do not get a concussion, just a graze on my chin, and then two hours of hell and a sore chin.

The hour in the car has already made me somewhat weary of my children.  I start thinking of those fucking happy mothers who are always updating their stupid Facebook Statuses on how happy Junior makes them – and they use phrases like “you complete me!”

At about this point, I have lost all patience and I have started to think awful graphic thoughts of those happy moms.

That being said the two hours does pass at some point – I have realised it does help to lubricate it with some Chenin Kak.

Lately I have realised that the two glasses of wine are a “must have” to be able to get through the “Classic Tales” bedtime story.

I am seriously starting to question the sense in all these stupid stories about the beautiful princess/pretty girl who has a prince fall in love with her at first sight.

Though for reasons of uncertainty cannot recognise her in the stark reality of daylight and needs to go around with a glass slipper to get every wench in the kingdom to try on a shoe.  She is meant to be the “most beautiful girl he has ever seen” but next day, zero recognition.

Am I the only person who finds the prince a bit of a problem?

Imagine spending all that time organising a pumpkin, six white rats and a fairy godmother to work make-up, hair and dress magic in less than 15 minutes, going to a party in glass shoes – which no matter how cute must be hellishly uncomfortable – meeting your prince, out smarting your step mother and your two ugly sisters.

Dancing all night and believing you have met your forever after.

Midnight strikes you need to dash, then as you wake the next morning to the idea of romance and ballrooms.

Your stupid Prince has not the sense to remember your name, where you live, your cell number, or what the hell you look like, so all he has to work with is finding someone to fit in your shoe – I mean seriously what the hell was he doing the entire time you were dancing with him and telling him about yourself?

Really – he remembers nothing!

After all that, the jerk’s only point of reference is the size of your foot?  I think this entire story smacks of a man with a foot fetish, and the inability to recognise people’s faces.

I think you must ask yourself, why is the prince not married before?  Why do his parents organise a dance for him to hook up?  Can this man not organise his own date – what is wrong with him that his parents need to step in for him?  Failure to launch, gay, needy, a mommy’s boy, the village idiot the result of inbreeding?  The options are pretty endless.

This entire story is fraught with problems.

I think the Prince has an undiagnosed case of Prosopagnosia – he clearly has a foot fetish and has the attention span of Dori.  If I was Cinderella I would call that Fairy Godmother back and chat to her about who else was on the market.

In the mean time, I will get back to organising my kids for a bath, and fighting with them to shovel spaghetti bolognaise in.

Small flirtation with co-sleeping ….

Isabelle has been a bit “off” lately.

Not a raging fever.  Not a rush to the ER.  But a runny nose, a slightly old-man-cough, and she tends to get a bit “throw a tantrum” more quickly than her normal turn around time – which even by my erratic parenting standards are a bit too often for sanity.

She really is a strong willed child, and I have realised I do things “because this will be eaiser for Isabelle” – loosely translated as “Isabelle is more likely not to throw a total shit fit if I do it this way, so I am going to, as I would like to avoid the shit fit if at all possible…”

This morning – I have no idea what time it was – I stumbled in to her bedroom as she was moaning {I think, in the bright light of day I have scant memories of the incident}.  I went to her, and she is old enough to get out of bed and follow me out the room.

Which places a parent at a distinct disadvantage when saying “Stay in your bed, or else!”

Somehow small blonde, cherub faces two year old pitter-pattering behind one does tend to blow one’s sails clean asunder.

I made an impromptu decision that it was easier to drag her in to my bed, than to stand and reason with her that staying in her bed for the remainder of the night was a possibility.

She snuggled in between Kennith and I, and we all fell asleep.  I fell into such a deep sleep I forgot that she was there.

This morning when I opened my eyes.  I felt this marshmallow-warmth and milky-breath next to me and there was Isabelle,  fast asleep.

I really can’t say I am overly pro co-sleeping, partly because it does not work for me.

I am too jealous of the peace, quiet and alone time  that bedtime/my bed conjures up after a mad chaotic day, and the idea of sharing it with a little person does very little for me.

That being said, it was such a nice warm fuzzy moment to wake up and have Isabelle neatly slotted in there next to me.

Cotton-candy marshmallow warm, sweet and squishy!

<isabelle will need botox injections early, she is always scowling and frowning …..>

Saturday morning adventures …. and mishaps

Saturday mornings with kids are filled with soft lighting, pillow fights, children presented breakfast to their parents as they wake up from a good sleep, everyone happy, shiny and just happy to be alive.

Well that is what the print media or ad campaigns will have us believe <<the image above is in no way an indication of how my family looks when it greets the big bad world in the mornings>>

The reality in my house bears a stark contrast to this rather “fantastic” image I have always held on to.

This morning Kennith left early for a cycle.  I think he was up at about 5 or 6 – it did not really matter as Isabelle had woken up at 3am and thrown up in her bed, so we brought her to ours.  She continued to do a few more hurls.  We then tried to turn the light off curl up and get a few hours more sleep.

Cuddling sleeping children is always a bit wholesome.  Cuddling sleeping children and sleeping deeply do not always go hand in hand.

So not much in the way of sleep between 3 and 5 or 6.  Georgia then woke up and came to get into the bed.  We attempted to lie there and few more minutes.  I put on CBeebies and thought I could squeeze another hour of me lying there and them watching television.

Ah, the fantasies that we all make ourselves believe.

But that fantasy came to a screeching halt when Isabelle threw up all over the bed, her doggie and herself.  Isabelle then screamed hysterically as she wanted to cuddle her dog to make her feel better, but that was tricky as doggy was covered in globules of vomit.

She screamed as a pulled all the bed linen off, and tried to put her doggie in the washing machine.

In the end I had to run a little dog bath in the basin, and hand wash her dog as if it was alive (keeping its head about water, talking to it, soothing it..) all while Isabelle stood next to me crying with snot running onto her top lip.

I thought I would finish it off by cleaning up the dog poo – it appears my dog has a runny tummy …. again!

Nothing says runny tummy and you really are having a crap morning, than the moment that you try to pick up dog shit and it flicks itself up and lands on your upper arm.  Then you start to dry heave. Your child starts to cry because they want you to come and get their doggy off the line as it is hung up by its ears and she wants it now, and then you heave some more as you realise the shit might have flicked in to your hair.

I do love Saturday mornings – thank fk there is only one Saturday a week, I may not be able to deal with more than that.

Connor likes to run …. I like to panic, we all have our roles ….

When we drive home in the early afternoon/evening from school, Connor often asks if he can get out the car and run home.

He is not suggesting running from school.  He is asking I let him out the car at  the top of our road, or the previous road – maybe 200 metres, or less – I am never a good judge of distance.

He asked me today and I was “er, do you really have to?”

Loosely translated as: “I really would prefer you not, because you are going to run, and I am sure a car will ramp off the road, and kill you as you run on the pavement, and I will need to watch as you get flattened to death.  Could you just stay in the car, with your seatbelt on and we can get the hell home in one piece!?’

But he asked again and used the “Can I? Can I? Can I? – repeat until ear drums bleed – argument.  Which, inevitably has the response of wanting to throw him under a moving vehicle.

I eventually stopped and let him out.

I gave him STRICT instructions to run on the pavement on the right hand side so he faced traffic.  I then proceeded to drive my car next to him.

Isabelle – who does not speak was screaming : ‘GO GO GO GO !!!” … I was driving so slowly that I even motivated a non-speaking child to acquire the ability of speech!

Georgia was yelling: “Leave him behind, leave him behind!!  Drive MOMMY, drive MOMMY!” … props to siblings who love each other.

Connor asked if Georgia wanted to run with him, she said: “If I run fast I will twip, and the car will get there quicker any way …” Bright girl!

When a car came down the road, I pulled to the side of the road and put my hazards on.  I realised I am a totally OVER PROTECTIVE parent, and staying CALM is just not really something I can do.

I can’t even let my kid run on the pavement without freaking out.

I try, for hells sake I try, but as you will note from my flashing hazard lights on the side of the quiet road, which is actually a crescent so gets almost no passerby traffic, to check that my 10-year-old child, running on the pavement, with ABSOLUTELY NO RISK of getting knocked over (well if you disregard cars reversing out of their driveway … which I did not) .. then I was totally panicking about nothing.

Tomorrow I can attempt something braver …..for me, not for him.

Kids are brutal …

I am not sure if when you think back to being at school they are happy thoughts, or you are possibly gripped by a sense of nausea as you reminisce over how mean and cruel kids were.

School is like a dirty petri dish of social pressure, with you having a bad-hair-year, buck teeth, braces if you were super unfortunately, and a combination of gangly limbs with bad skin.

To fit in to the “social structure” that exists at a school is brutal.

I would not wish it on anyone, and unfortunately I drop my kids off at school each day to go through it.  I am scared of high school for my kids, and they are years away from it – but primary and pre-school are bad enough.

I often get stories about who was mean to whom, who was horrible, who called one of them names and so on.  Some times my kids are really upset.  Often it makes me want to turn the car around, drive back to school, find the little sh&t and smack them against the side of the head.

I have twice phoned parents of kids that my son has had an issue with, and generally my experience has been, it has not really made a huge difference.

I have realised that it is rather naive to think all kids are going to like my kids, and really my kids do not have to like every one else.

As long as they do not beat the crap out of other kids, and visa versa, then that is the best I can hope for.  I can’t hope for anything more in the world that is the Nirvana of schools.

Kids are brutally honest, and really horrible little people, who say really mean things, and are too small to box in the face.

They say mean things to each other and hurt each other’s feelings.  This goes on all day, and sooner or later someone says something mean to your child and then your child is crying to you about how “everyone is mean to them….”  and you are going to feel like a dagger has been plunged in to your chest, and your “I am the lioness and I will defend my child” moment will happen to you.

I was lucky enough to have older brothers at the schools I went to (barring the Girls’ School) and they helped to pave the way for me arriving.

There is something “safe” about arriving in a school if you have had a sibling there already.  For one you know a few older kids, and you always have a posse in the event someone bullies you, and you have established “street cred” to a degree.

Well, that has been my experience.

Someone recently had a conversation with me about how they were feeling anxious about their child, who is considered “mixed race” and how this child will be accepted at school – and how they will be picked on and what they should do.

Honestly I have no idea.

I think the “trick” might be to give your child a safe home and a good grounding, that they know who they are, but we aware to teach them to bestreet wise and judge a situation for what it is – rather than what they think it is.

Tell them at home they are beautiful and clever, so they believe it, and have enough of the positive vibe before they get to school and get the snot kicked out of them.

After that there is really nothing you can do.

Kids are mean and really cruel.  If you have anything different about you, kids pick up on it and use it as the point to pick on you.

It is lovely to have a quirky child, but I like to try to aim my kids into the main stream centre – for their own protection.  They can be all quirky and skew eyes in the privacy of their home, but when they go into the “gladiator pit that is school” then I need them not to spread blood in the water to attract the sharks.

Connor is blonde.  Connor has blue eyes.  Connor is an attractive child, and does not have a third arm, or an eye in the middle of his forehead.

Connor does not really have a personal hygiene issue (more than any 10-year-old boy).  He is friendly, well liked, and has a good gaggle of friends.  Connor is pretty main stream as kids go  – so he just fits in.

Connor gets picked on because he has freckles.  That is what the kids decide to make fun of him about, and call him names, and that is what he comes home crying about.

I think my point is that no matter who you are, or what you look like, you will get picked on sooner or later.

Your child as well!!  So brace yourself for it.

Valentine’s Day Massacre …

Last night around 19h00 – Connor tells me he has an oral to present today.

I try not to smack him along the side of the head.  But he reasons with me that he already knows what he is going to say, so it really is not a big deal.  I ask him does he needs props or posters, or pyrotechnics, like previous orals?

He looks at me in a way that indicates “yes, there needs to be a light show and some solid gold dancers…”

I take a deep breath, and try to remember that I actually do like my children, but for a moment there understand why one would send a child in to the woods, with a little red cape, a basket of food and knowing full well that a wolf might well eat your little darling en route.

Knowing this, you still send them off.  And pack some food into the basket to elicit the interest of wild hungry animals.  I now so get these little fairy tales.  All makes sense.

I suggest that I print some pictures out for him, and he can use that. Connor agrees that will be fine.

I sit down to do this task, trying very hard to keep the anger I am feeling at bay.  I am so tired of being told last-minute things from my kids.  It is exhausting.

Anyway, I do the pictures, we get kids into bed - as Connor comes in to say goodnight he reminds (insert tells me for the first time) that tomorrow is a Valentine’s Day picnic, and he needs to bring a picnic blanket and picnic stuff!

I freak the hell out.  Kennith tries to calm the situation down, and explains that we have enough odds and sods in the cupboard to put it together, so really nothing to go bezerk about (however bearing in mind no one packed this basket with goodies, as it was added to the things I should tackle in the morning, you know, because my mornings are so breezy and relaxing……)

This morning, I am getting Connor’s stuff together for his picnic, I am chasing kids to the car, the usual chaos of the morning – you know how it goes.  Packing bags into car, and Georgia goes: “We have a picnic at school, please can I also have a picnic blanket ….”

I think the vein in my neck popped.  Like through the skin - blood pumping against the garage wall — or it just felt like it.

I know I swore like a sailor.  I do think my kids all took one step back from me, because this was what they knew was going to happen, and the day had arrived.

I mean seriously, it is their stuff, how am I meant to remember everything? And whilst I am remembering, rushing to work, doing all the other shit that is life, I must have the “crystal ball” skill to know all the stuff I am not told, but have to prepare for.

It really annoyed me this morning.  Like EPIC PARENT lose your mind stuff.

I stand there and weigh up whether I should just say “well fk it, if you did not remember it, you do not get it …” and then know they will be the only kid at school without.

That will be fabulous, so of course I can’t let that happen, and now I kick into higher gear than I was before.

Get them in the car, get them each a picnic bag, blanket, we drive through the traffic to the shop – traffic is hectic.

I am sitting there quietly trying to work through why I am so angry, and that I should not use the time to rant in the car, because Connor will take it all on as “his fault” and I am not wanting to make him feel bad.  I have the radio off, as I think I will kill Kino Kammies this morning if I hear his stupid voice.

I am focussed, I just want to drive and not kill anyone.  Just get them to school.  To their safe place.  I promise myself a McMuffin if I behave.

So we are driving, and I am thinking about what I will get at the shop, and that this really is not a big deal, it is fine, no worries, just remind kids AGAIN to please tell me with sufficient warning.  It is fine.  This chaos is fine.  Really fine.  I am trying to remain in my “calm” place.

Then suddenly I get this feeling.

This morning I told Connor twice to put the “photographs for his oral” into his school bag.  Twice!

My hands grip the steering wheel a bit tighter.

Me: “Connor, please let me you put the photographs in your school bag, like I told you twice.  Please tell me you did not leave them lying on your desk table.  Because I sat up late last night to do them.  And I reminded you twice they were on the desk and you must put them in your bag.  This morning.  Twice.  Do not tell me that they are still lying on your study table…”

Silence … and this little voice “sorry mom….”

I really do not know at which point it would be acceptable to lose my frikn mind!  I swear on my Mcmuffin, that if I do not remember it all, and do it all, it fkn just does not get done!

I am seriously at my wit’s end – and it is February.

Please bear in mind, I have notice boards with notes on them in each kid’s room.  I tell them – clearly – that they need to do something.  I remind them.  I remind them again.

I try to stay on top of all this stuff – for them.  But I get no warnings, I am constantly been put on the back foot.

They do not have the milk the cow, or walk 25 kilometers to school – most of it is done for them, I give them 2 or 3 things to do per day.

Small things.

The problem is they still do not do it – unless I remind them over and over again.

And then really it is just easier to do it myself.

But I don’t - they must do it – they must learn some responsibility … right?

I swear how the hell are these things happening in other people’s homes?  I have clearly got this entire chapter on child raising wrong …. horribly wrong.  Are there study notes someone can send me?

Is the solution to just let kids eat, sleep and shit, and you pretty much do everything else for them, because they do not appear to retain a memory of anything.  Nothing.  Except of course if you promise them a lollipop and forgot to give it to them – then they remember if forever and bring it up repeatedly as a sign that your promises are worth sh&t.

It does not matter how much you scream, threaten, curse, promise treats, threaten to take things away, give things for doing, buy stickers are prizes for getting it right - I am so over this stuff – nothing works for a long time.

I have officially been beaten in this parenthood malarky.

I really need a holiday.  From my life.

The one about the Potty …..

I am often amazed how life with kids arounds teaches you little lessons.  Constantly.

Small incidents that remind you of exactly where you are in the large fuzz that is the navel of life, and well things just happen.

This morning I got up bright and early.

I took 3 x Myprodol and a cup of tea and headed out to see the lovely Vera.  Vera likes to pour hot wax on me and then rip my hair from it’s roots with a smile and a wink.

I find the Myprodol makes our relationship better - I think you may want to apply that principle to several people, they do not all have to pour wax on you.  I actually know several people who will be made “better” if I took 3 x Myprodol, but any way, that is not the core of today’s story.

Vera does a mean pedicure.  I thought seeing as she was going to be seeing my butt crack, her seeing my Frodo feet probably would not affect her too negatively.  So I had a wax and a pedicure.  I had a lovely chat with Vera about life and the universe – Vera is very cool to chat to, and even when you are lying there naked barring a few strips of yellow cotton which is attached to your skin briefly before she rips them off, you still somehow chat to her – though you might be bleeding from your eyeballs.

I walked out  feeling that maybe today will be the day I sort some of my shit out.  Vera is a very wise owl and gave me some wisdom, and it is always nice to just unload to someome.

I treated myself to a healthy fat-melt-off-your-hips McMuffin and I slowly wove my way home.    I was all Dr Phil and Karma rolled up in to The Secret meets Oprah kind of moment.

I got home, made some more tea, prepared myself to sit down to work.  I was feeling positive, and almost happy.  I do not really hum or whistle, but if there was ever a time I was going to do it, this might have been that time.

I saw Isabelle had wee’d in her potty.

I again congratulated myself on what a clever two year old I had, and how she was potty trained and I was moving her to a big bed and how well she had adjusted to her school, and really what an absolute joy she was.

I thought how brilliant it was that I had a Vera who could wax me, pedicure me, and chat to me, and make me feel so much better.

I was thrilled that my job allowed me flexibility to work from home some days, and I was really feeling happy and just groovy.

I smiled at how I had it all so taped.

Then I poured the contents of the potty into the toilet, missed the toilet totally, and ending up with pee all over the mirror and the floor.

And so the day began.

The problems of big boned people ….

I fetch kids from school on Friday, get everyone in the car.

I must confess I am starting to view “fetching kids from school” as an hour or so of hell.  I am quite willing to outsource it right now.

I would actually seriously think about boarding school – for me, or them, so that I do not have to do the hour of child-pick-up-and-drop-off-hell every day.

Before you start tutting and clicking your tongue in judgement, please bear in mind that I am in about my 10th year of this driving back and forwards shit, and at a certain time, the shine it does go.

Believe me, it goes.

The problem right now, is that the moment my brood are in the car, the arguing starts.  The insane conversations.  All of them trying to talk to me at once.  All of them wanting something different from me whilst I am attempting to drive.

I can take shoes off kids – I am driving, kids are in the backseat, I can glance through school notes, I can adjust the sound on my radio, and I can hold two separate conversations, one normally about fish, the other about smurfs, and all of this whilst I try to negotiate traffic at two really busy intersections.

I can do all of the above, and peel and eat a banana, and it is not illegal, but I cannot talk on my cell phone as that is deemed too distracting and dangerous.

I don’t disagree with the “no cell phone” law, but the government should intervene and get fathers to drive kids home from school at least two days a week, so they can understand and appreciate what it is like, and then they can understand why moms  me drink copious amounts of wine, and sit rocking themselves in the corner.

10 years of this mania, twice a day, in a sealed car, with the high-pitched chatter of kid’s voices = no wonder I am on medication and have developed a few coping mechanisms.

But moving along.  So Friday we are in the car ….

Connor: “I don’t want to be rude, but when you got into the car, it went down a bit….”

Me: “…?”

Connor: “I was putting my bag in the boot, and when you got in to the car, I felt it go lower…. you know when you got in to it …. I don’t mean to be rude …..”

Me – glaring at him: “Great, thanks for telling me that, you are rude actually… next time think it, and don’t say it.  Good grief Connor – do you mind leaning forward so I can smack you on the back of the head?  Good grief……”

<<while I feel my soul die slightly inside and I start to rethink who is my favourite child>>

Georgia:”It IS RUDE Connor!!”

Connor: ‘GEORGIA!! …”

Georgia:”You are being rude, only adults can say that people are fat….”

Me: “Guys, guys, GUYS …GUYS please do not start fighting …. please, can we just get home without a fight….”

Me: “Connor, what the hell….”

Georgia: “It is rude to say someone is fat, you can’t say fat ….. Daddy is fat, but that is a bad word, so I tell Daddy that he is round ….”

Connor: “Georgia, that IS RUDE, you can’t say that Daddy is round …… that is rude.  Daddy is big-boned!”

Georgia: “NO HE ISN’T …. he is too round and I cannot feel his bones.  I am boney and you can feel me through my skin, I can’t feel Daddy through his skin…he is not big-boned …. he is round like a circle shape …”

<<me, sort of glad that the focus has moved away from my fat arse and how I make the car go lower when I sit in it….>>

Connor: “You are being rude Georgia …”

Georgia: “Mommy you know what I tell Daddy when I am being rude?”

Me: “No Georgia, what do you say?”

Georgia: “When someone is rude to you, the hurt is not important, what is important is the love ….”

Me: “Yes, Georgia, I think that will make him feel a lot better …… can we carry on now and go to McDonalds for dinner…?”

Freaking hell it is hot … and not in a sexy way

Today the temperature in Cape Town was registering 30 degrees, and that was at 8am.

By 12h00 it was around the 38 degree mark.

Fortunately I was firmly placed directly under the company air conditioning that blasted cold air onto my face.  Bless, bless, bless them. I sat there thinking cool thoughts, and feeling sorry for anyone who had to do manual labour in this heat.

Like all great moments, it came to a rather abrupt end.

Isabelle is at a new school this week.  The school is about 15 minutes walk from home, so Pepe is meant to fetch Isabelle.

This week the temperature is just too hot to expect Pepe or Isabelle to walk anywhere, so I have left to fetch Isabelle, and then the kids.  I go home and work a few hours from home to ensure I have done what needs to be done.

Today I spent an hour in my car fetching kids and trying to get them home.

It was not a little warm, it had passed fucking hot somewhere on the N1.

I suddenly realised that black leather seats in a car are not ideal.

I also realised that my road rage is definitely apparent when the temperature goes over 35.  I also realised that at a certain point you cannot turn the car air conditioner any higher.

I soon realised that I am willing to drive off a steep embankment if I am packed in to a car, with three children and it is so hot that my air conditioner just decides that it might as well send out hot puffs of air, as it is being asked to do too much.

It was an excruciating hour, and the kids were arguing constantly.  I really started to rethink why I have not run away from home sooner.  I had fantasies of the single life, and wanted to go on a 10 school tour to explain to school kids the benefits of remaining celebite and childless.

We get home and the arguing escalates.

Isabelle is screaming blue murder. Granted she started when I stopped at Pick ‘n Pay.  I told the kids I was running in to get them three times ice cold Fantas.  The reality was I needed to run in to grab myself a bottle of wine.  I realised there was no way I was going to make it through the evening without.

I had already stopped at Woolies before that, but thought, yep, I would be the bigger person and not do wine tonight.  15 minutes later, in a car, with three screaming kids and the outside temperature bouncing between 38 and 39, I felt a little pit stop was not a choice, it was a life necessity.

I am sitting here and I have little rivers of sweat running down my back and gathering in my Mr Price polyester underwear.

Kids + hot weather + short patience level = no fun!