YMCA … big with gay people ….

Connor and I were sitting watching “Come Dine with Me!”

At some point in the evening’s entertainment – on screen – someone put on “YMCA by the Village People” and the guests at the dinner were dancing, only as you can after way too much wine, when you forget your inhibitions and when someone puts on YMCA.

There is a universally accepted dance that includes hand movements, and no matter which era you were born in, and how “cool” you think you are, you will tend to do this particular dance.

I am sitting glazed over staring at the screen – it was about 15h40, and I was seriously wondering what the earliest is that I can get kids in to bed today.

Connor goes: “This is a song that gay people like!”

My brain starts to process what he is talking about …. so I frown and look over at him and he  explains further: “Daddy says that this song is one that gay people really like.  And gay people sing it.   One is a builder, and one wears a policeman suit …. and ……..  ”

The problem with these opportunities for a life lesson, is really some times you just cannot be arsed to have to go “Okay, okay, let’s back this truck up ….”

And like me, today, you frown, purse your lips together and make a mental note to have a discussion with your husband about the possible stereotyping of gay people and the connection with The Village People, and how your 11-year-old son is processing this information.

I will add to my list of things to discuss.  But on another day.  Today I am just too tired to broach anything.

On another subject, if you grew up the seventies and eighties you might be familiar with those round black sweetie balls you buy and suck, and suck and it finally dissolves in about three weeks time.

I bought a pack a few weeks back, and the phrase “nigger balls” came in to my head without me even thinking about it.

When I realised the term had just popped in to my head I blanched.  But I could not get rid of the phrase.  We have three small sweetie jars on top of the fridge filled with these black sweets, and I think of the phrase when ever I open the fridge door.

Cripes …. it is such an incredibly socially bad bad name, and we used it all the time when we were kids.  That and the “petrol boy” —- triple cringe!

 

In case you are sitting with only one line of the lyrics, and all you have is ” …. ta da da …young man …..young man…” like me, then it might be better to be stuck with the full set of lyrics, so you can sing it to yourself as you go to the toilet, make yourself a cup of tea ….

But you will realise on browsing through the lyrices, that “young man” pretty much encompasses the entire thing.  Possibly Connor’s snap judgement of the song was not that far off after all.

 

Young man, there’s no need to feel down.
I said, young man, pick yourself off the ground.
I said, young man, ’cause you’re in a new town
There’s no need to be unhappy.

Young man, there’s a place you can go.
I said, young man, when you’re short on your dough.
You can stay there, and I’m sure you will find
Many ways to have a good time.

It’s fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A.
It’s fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A.

They have everything for you men to enjoy,
You can hang out with all the boys …

It’s fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A.
It’s fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A.

You can get yourself clean, you can have a good meal,
You can do whatever you feel…

Young man, are you listening to me?
I said, young man, what do you want to be?
I said, young man, you can make real your dreams.
But you got to know this one thing!

No man does it all by himself.
I said, young man, put your pride on the shelf,
And just go there, to the Y.M.C.A.
I’m sure they can help you today.

It’s fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A.
It’s fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A.

They have everything for you men to enjoy,
You can hang out with all the boys…

It’s fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A.
It’s fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A.

You can get yourself clean, you can have a good meal,
You can do whatever you feel …

Young man, I was once in your shoes.
I said, I was down and out with the blues.
I felt no man cared if I were alive.
I felt the whole world was so jive …

That’s when someone came up to me,
And said, young man, take a walk up the street.
There’s a place there called the Y.M.C.A.
They can start you back on your way.

It’s fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A.
It’s fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A.

They have everything for you men to enjoy,
You can hang out with all the boys…

Y.M.C.A….you’ll find it at the Y.M.C.A.

Young man, young man, there’s no need to feel down.
Young man, young man, get yourself off the ground.

Y.M.C.A….you’ll find it at the Y.M.C.A.

Young man, young man, there’s no need to feel down.
Young man, young man, get yourself off the ground.

Y.M.C.A….just go to the Y.M.C.A.

Young man, young man, are you listening to me?
Young man, young man, what do you wanna be?

Is it a Matric Dance or a Wedding?

My daughter is 7 and showing no signs of being pushed forward 11 grades, so with that in mind my thinking about Matric Dances now might have an entirely differently perspective as my daughter is in Grade 1, versus when she is sitting in Grade 12 and I have Matric Dance Intoxication Fever!

I was sitting at the hairdresser (yes I appreciate how suburbs that sounds) – at a certain point no matter who much shampoo I lather on it still looks like crap, so I need to bring a qualified person and professional help.

I was sitting there and the lady sitting next to me is explaining how she and a few friends had clubbed together and “sponsored” a student’s matric dance dress.

I smiled as I sipped my tea, and thought what a great idea – I mentally started wondering how I could do that, you know find 4 like minded people and throw a few rand towards a girl’s dress from Truworths and some blingy shoes.  PROJECT my inner voice screams – clapping hands simultaneously, so exciting.

I nearly spat on the GHD emblazoned mirror when she (the person sitting next to me, sorry did not catch her name) said that they were presented with a bill for R5 000.00 – for JUST THE DRESS!

A girl who cannot afford a dress, went to a store that sells dresses for R5 000.00 and thought hey that’s okay for my sponsors  First off, I think this girl is either not doing well at Grade 12 “Life Skills” or needs a slap against the side of the head, or a bit of both actually.

Then I started wondering how much money are parents spending on Matric dance dresses and Matric suits for boys?

I get that it is a big day, but my concern is that as parents you are sitting there and putting down 2 months bond payments on junior miss or junior mister to have a cool party and a snappy outfit.  The idea of reasoning with a hormonal whiny desperately-needing-peer-approval child seems like something a bit alarming.

I can’t recall matric dances being this big a deal back when I went.  Back in my day, we spent R150.00 on a dress, borrowed shoes from your aunt, and did your own hair and makeup.

When exactly did matric dances turn into the extravaganza which they appear to be now – and more importantly if they do cost as much as I am thinking, then am I the only one who is having a serious sit down with my child in grade 10 and explain that they have 2 years (or more if they fail) to save towards their matric dance.  What ever they save, I will match – and that is the limit of what they have to spend in total for the entire day.

But my daughter is in Grade 1 and my son is in Grade 4 – I have a few years yet before this is really is a big issue in my world.  But seriously how much money are parents spending at the moment?

I saw this image on Super Mom and had to laugh (and cry a bit) as I think I had a very similar matric dress ….

I remembered this from Cat’s  Juggling Act of Life  Blog that she posted some time back -  and this makes me smile sort of lopsided every time I see it …. crikey, it is all sorts of wonderful … who knew you could get a dress, stockings and shoes to match that perfectly … GO CAT!!!

Promise to dig mine out – I need to get them scanned in as it was a bit before digital or CDs actually ……

The one where the cake saw it’s arse … bad parenting guide #453

While writing the earlier post I started rummaging through my head thinking about all the rash parenting decisions I made, and when I look back at them now I cringe.  No doubt one of my kids will be on a psychologist’s couch discussing the damage of my parenting choices and directly referring to this blog as evidence.

I am the first to out myself, so let me tell you this rather classic story of where I totally lose myself to the nagging of a 3-year-old.

I bought a chocolate cake and it was sitting on the counter.  We had one of those floating centre table numbers in the middle of our kitchen back then.

Connor is about three.  He sees the cake, and starts going on and on about how he wants some cake.  I explain that he can’t have cake now, but later after dinner he can have a slice.

Connor is like a terrier with a bone, and keeps going on and on about the cake.  I restate my case that he can have it later and he keeps nagging that he wants some cake now. Nothing makes me <further> insane that repeat conversations.  And this one is going on and on like Groundhog Day.

I recall standing and leaning on the counter and looking at him and thinking all sorts of profane thoughts about him, the cake, why I was in this situation, and how it was all Kennith’s fault.  This was 2005, everything was Kennith’s fault.  He did not actually even have to be home (which incidentally he was not much) for it to be his fault.

I am standing there, looking at Connor, looking at the cake and Connor is whining and I am pretty much at the end of where ever my really short tether is.

I look at him.  I look at the cake.

I pick the cake up … I take two steps, I open the kitchen window and I throw cake, container and plate out the window. Right out the window.  I close the window and walk back over to the table, rather nonchalantly.

Connor goes in to immediate shock, and his eyes are huge.  I look at him and go: “Okay the cake is now gone, is there anything you would like to ask for?”

Needless to say, the cake discussion had come to an aprubt end.

I was not proud of myself – but I was at that point where I would have given anything for the constant whining about the frkn cake to stop.

From that moment onwards I was able to use the phrase of “Please, ask for that one more time and I promise you it is going out the window!”

{On a later occassion I did eject a toy out of the car window whilst driving on the N1.  Connor and Georgia were fighting about the toy and they did not want to stop.  I said “Okay pass the toy here…” and then it got left on the N1 somewhere … not a great advert for not littering …}

“To Smack or Not to Smack” … that old onion

I will confess that when I started this business of parenting, I was under the impression that discipline meant a smack.

A smack would teach you that the consequences of your action/inaction would lead to discomfort and that might give you pause for concern next time you were in the same/similar situation.

A smack is not meant to be hitting a child until they are bleeding or bruised or fading in and out of consciousness.  A smack is a swift movement of your hand that is aimed at your child’s rump.  With the idea that it sends the message : “Hey bum, ears are not working.  Maybe bum can send a message to ears to say hey ears, wake the fk up!”

Seemed simple enough in principle.

Before Connor I had never really been around children.  I was the youngest in my family, the youngest in my wider family circle, and for some reason just never really came in to contact with children.

When I did I realised that they were a constant source of embarrassment.  I would ask a question and people would laugh at me.

Connor was the first baby I held for any significant length of time.  I thought that babies (like puppies) were born with their eyelids sealed.  So more novice you could not get.

I think the reality of most of us going from adults into parents is that we mimic our own upbringing.  Monkey see, monkey do stuff!

I was especially harsh with Connor, and was quick to punish (snap upbringing).

I did not want to be “those” people who are ostracised from society/public/friends because their child is a brat, or cries over nothing, or does anything that might remove from the joy of social occasions for people who do not have children.

I did not want to be stuck at home forever just because “we had a child” I wanted to continue what we usually did, within reason.  And Connor’s end of the bargain required him to behave according our rather rigid rules.  Poor guy!

Shame, I do pity the first child with Learner Parents.  Learner Parents cannot but fk up in the name of “I thought I was doing the right thing” – how else are they going to learn?  Been there, done that!

I recognise now that we were much too harsh, and especially with a child like Connor – who used to burst in to tears if you spoke in an angry tone to him.

By the time Georgia came along I must confess we had learnt a little (though not terribly much) but we were much gentler (and better) parents.  I still didn’t have much other options other than “I am counting to three, if I get there and you have not done/have not stopped doing what I asked you to do then you will get a hiding!”

Two problems with this system.

You have to do something if you get to three.  If you get to three and then warn again, and just do not do what you threatened/warned then your child is going to know that they have the upper hand, and they will know that they will able to always push you and you will cave.

The other issue is that you leave very few options as discipline if you are resort to a smack as a first measure.

At the time that was really all I knew.

In 1996 I went to the UK to visit my brother Bruce.  Him and his wife had been talking about Super Nanny and I bought a book and watched her show.  I was amazed at the “other techniques” I just did not realise existed that did not have a smack as the option.

I felt sick to my stomach that we had failed as parents and had been so harsh with Connor.  I recall standing in the bookstore in Glasgow and skimming through the Super Nanny book and feeling like I had been such a terrible parent.

I did not return a reformed from the UK a”non smacker.”  I still did not rule out a smack, but it got shifted to a “real point of last resort” when we felt we had exhausted every other method within reason.

I think we are still pretty strict parents, but that being said I think we have definitely mellowed from the first few years of Connor.  If I went back I would probably do it differently, but that would be because now I have plus eleven years of parenting under my belt, and woudl look at a situation totally differntly.

In some ways I definitely let somethings just roll on past and I do not make a fuss, but with other things I think I am still “I vant to year vun klik or else!”

I am definitely not an advocate against smacking children, and at the same time would not suggest it as the only course of action.  I am still a bit on the fence on it – presently we smack as a last/final/no other option — and it is very seldom.

I don’t think good parents are born — they are created with the shifts of experience and learning.

We do what we can with what we have got.  But for a me a good parent realises that what is right today, may not be right tomorrow and they realise that parenting is not an absolute point – it is a point of departure and we all learn a bit more each day.  From others, from ourselves and from our kids.

Remembered some rather important information …

After Isabelle’s “your child is beating up other children” note from school I will confess to feeling that familiar wave of panic that swept over me, telling me the best course of action was ANY ACTION.

I am sure the school meant it only as a progress report, but that is not what I am read I am afraid.

I used google, found a speech therapist and made an appointment – tick done!

I don’t mind running up a ladder sometimes, as I feel useful as long as I am moving.  I have found in my furor to get going I sometimes do not check the ladder before starting, only to realise it has been against the wrong wall all the time.

So I am still running.  I decided to take a wee step back just to ensure the direction of where I am already galloping!

I read comments on my earlier post and I realised I was being hasty.  No, she does need speech therapy assessments - REALLY - but I was using the first therapist that google vomited up.

There was no way to establish (for me) whether it was a reputable practice or whether speech therapy person was qualified and experienced enough to handle what I was about to present her with.

I think thanks to Nikki Heyman who gave me a “just stop and think” moment.  Once I calmed down, drank a cup of tea and shoved a bag of Chuckles (which are ON SALE at Woolworths by the way),  I realised that there was a Speech Therapist and an OT at my older kid’s schools.

Both my kids have used their services since pre-primary, and I have been happy with the assessment, and the progress the kids made.

So I cancelled the “made in a hurry” appointment and I have booked Isabelle first into an auditory test first, and then a few days later into a speech therapy assessment at a practice I am familiar with.

I am almost sure that her speech issue is not related to her hearing – but as I am starting from ground zero, it is better to go in and ensure that everything is where it is meant to be before we start trying to figure out where the symptoms are coming from, and take it from there.

Contributing factors I might not have mentioned:

1.  All my kids have spoken late – though granted not this late.

2.  Isabelle also sucks her thumb which is probably not a helluva help to the speaking thing.

3.  I stuttered as a child and had speech therapy.

4.   First mistake of speech therapy – sending your English child to an Afrikaans speech therapist (please remember this was circa 1977/8) so I came out of that speech therapy rolling my r’s and with a more guttural tone to some of my words.  My mom and grandmother nearly shat themselves, and I was hastly sent back to another teacher to try to fix that little problem. Everyone was so busy trying to make me not speak like someone from the Boland, they forgot to notice I lisp my “sssss” which is unfortunately considering my name, and the result is that I often have to say my name 2 or 3 times for someone to hear it correctly.

The worst I have even been called is Chester!

 

{Kennith took this photograph of Isabelle im December ….. one of my favourites, gets her forehead with the worry frown on it perfectly}

My child does not speak …. at all!

Isabelle is at a really terrific school, she has been there since January this year.

Isabelle turned three in June.  All good.

I might have spoken about this earlier on my blog, but the “strange” things about Isabelle is that she refused to move to solid food when she was younger.  We had been on pureed food until August/September 2011 – pureed to an inch of it’s life.

It was not that she picky about food, you could get it in her mouth.

But if the food you gave her had a texture i.e. even mashed potatoes, she would gag, gag, and then projectile vomit it out.  When this happens – several times – you start to feel that fine pureed food is easier.  You are less likely to be digging chunks out your hair, so you go with what is easier, and does not require a kitchen spray down mid-way through a meal.

The result was she ate yoghurt, and pureed vegetables.  I could not add meat to the vegetables as it would give the puree a grainy feel and if it went in to Isabelle you could pretty much guarantee it was going to come straight back out again.  On you.  On the cat innocently walking by.

That got sorted (probably more because Kennith decided to step in as he was frustrated) and now she is on normal food and that seems to be okay.  She is more likely to eat vegetables than meat, as I only introduced meat late last year.

There is nothing wrong with her growth, weight and size.  She is big for her age, both in height and weight. Her development is fine, she moved off nappies and got through nights without nappies or wet beds much earlier than our other two.

But she is a fair sized girl. I purchase clothes in the 4 – 5 age range, and some shirts go off Georgia (who is 7) and straight on to Isabelle.

Let’s just say you would not describe her as petite!

Once we got over the food issue, then it gave me time to start focussing on the other things that were just not “quite right.”

Isabelle does not speak.  I am not suggesting she does not sounds, she does, and they are audible from 100 kilometres away, but she does not form words and speak.  She has maybe 4 – 5 words that she says “MUM” “Oof” “Da” “peez” and that might be about it.

I sort of understand what she is saying by the tone of what she says, but no one else does.

I have tried not to panic and run around like a headless chicken.  I used the logic that all kids develop on a different scale and rate, so I should just be patient.  Worked quite well up until now.  Very “mature universal mom” thing going on here.

I got a report from her school – which I forgot to read and which lay on the kist unopened for about 4 weeks.  I saw a note at the school with ticks next to the children’s names whose reports had been returned.  Of course I said quietly to myself “reports, what reports? ….shit ….”

Found report and read through and was a bit alarmed.

The school has raised some concerns (it was in a red bold font) that Isabelle has not progressed with speech in the last 7 months.

She is still not making words.  She is making sounds that are not linked to any words (spoken outside Star Trek!) and worse, because she cannot communicate she is showing signs of aggression and getting in to scuffles with the other kids.

Cripes – my kid has become THAT kid who is beating up/on other kids up for the crayons.

I am a bit alarmed.  I am not blind to the problem, but I have been patiently waiting and thinking, no worries, she will get there.  SHE WILL GET THERE.

When I look over the list of what are considered “average” speech development milestones for a 3-year-old – Isabelle has reached none of these milestones – NONE:

Vocabulary around  150 words. (nope, barely makes 5 words, and those are not even super recognisable)

Able to give name, age and sex. (nope …..)

Produces 3-5 word sentences. (er …. still nope)

Marks plurals and possessives. (right ………… I think we are aiming a bit high on this one ……)

Uses verbs ending in –ing, e.g., “walking, running, etc. (cripes ….. do I get points if she actually is able to walk and run and jump?)

Answers questions with “yes” or “no.” (well she grimaces and screams …. actually she does sort of make an “essss” sound and a ”nooohhhhhh” sound, so you know hat I am going to take this one as a tick in the positive direction)

Begins to use descriptive words, e.g., big, hot, color words, etc. (skip this question…..I am feeling somewhat perturbed right now..)

Begins to express feelings. (she expressed her feelings, but in interpretative dance …. no words required)

I have made an appointment with a speech therapist for an assessment.

I was hoping to wait a bit as we are in that wonderful medical aid self payment gap, but I also think I can’t afford to wait 2 – 3 months and address it then.

I do believe that every month that goes by whilst we do not address the situation will affect her in future development milestones.  The risk with Isabelle is that her speech developed issues may knock on learning development problems that are really going to come up and smack us in the face when we are trying to get her ready for Grade R.

Speech therapist assessment booked for next week Wednesday.

Yes, I am somewhat worried that my baby is a bit of a pumpkin head and this speech thing is robbing her of some development experiences she should be enjoying, and isn’t.

{insert huge mommy guilt!}

Just let me eat my damn AERO ……

I am in my room this evening trying to finish some work.

The evening has already a bit edgy, and the kids have been screaming and fighting with the dog.  Popcorn and apples were involved.

I have a lot to finish and just want to go to bed.  The sooner this lot can be packed away, the sooner I can eat my 100grams of AERO dark and drink my LARGE CUP of Earl Grey tea.

I have been thinking about this all day, this is my moment – my sublime moment.  It is almost within my reach —- if the kids would just go to sleep.

Isabelle is in bed, and she is screaming.  I am trying to ignore her, but she is going on like a lunatic.

We had a disagreement about bedtime. I wanted her in her bed with the lights off.  She wanted to lie on my bed and scream at me to change the channel to ceebeebies.

I won that round {because I SAID SO}, and put her in her bed.

She disagreed with my decision. SHE REALLY DISAGREED!

I throw door open and say WHAT!!! with a certain mix of frustration and exasperation.

Isabelle is lying there pointing to her general groin area – the universal sign for needing to go to the bathroom.  For goodness sake, just get up and go to the bathroom – she is big enough to get out of bed and open the door.  Why lie there and scream like a banshee, for goodness sake!

I hold out my hand and we walk to the bathroom.  Isabelle is so damn cute, I do struggle to remain upset with her, but I am slightly less than happy.

We walk in to the bathroom, I slip and whack my toe against the tiled corner of the shower stall, and nearly fall on my arse.  My catlike skills were the only thing to save me from going arse over tit on the bathroom floor.

Isabelle slips and falls and smacks her head against the edge of the toilet.  Her catlike skills have not been fully developed.

I am effing and blinding and on the verge of a crying jag – toe whacking is really sore stuff. Isabelle is screaming again/still and pointing to her head with large crocodile tears are running down her face.

In amongst all of this mayhem I hear Georgia’s voice: “The dog wee’d on the floor, and I wiped it up, so it was slippery….” did you fall?

I love kids bedtime. Remind me to kick the damn dog.

FAN.FRIKN.TASTIC!

Sunday Bath Time … and other capers

 

Connor and Georgia in the bath ….

Connor: Georgia you SCRATCHED my winkie!

Georgia: Sorry …

Connor: Georgia, look at that it is BLEEDING …

Georgia: Sorry …..

Connor: Uggghhhh GEORGIA ….. geez that hurts ….

{…………..pause……………..}

I am feeling compelled to rush in and check:

1.  How a winkie got scratched while the kids were bathing.

2.  How deep a scratch is …. exactly on a winkie … to make it bleed ….

But do I really want to know, do I really want to get involved?  How does one really deal with this? Decision, decisions.  What would Tommyc Zoom do? {unfortunately I am at that point where I think in ceebeebies…. don’t mock me, soon you will be here ….. trust me once you experience Little Cook, Big Cook as much as I have, you may want to just take your own life}

{…………..pause……………..}

Quiet voice ….

Georgia: Mommy, Connor is not forgiving me for scratching his winkie.  I said sorry, but he is not forgiving me …..

Georgia:  Mommy tell Connor to forgive me ….. MOMMY!!!! MOMMY ……………MOMMY TELL HIM!!!

{…………..pause……………..}

Connor saunters in the room, I can see he has not actually dried himself correctly and has still put his jammies on … either that or he has a serious personal sweating problem that needs medical intervention.

Connor: Mom, can I play computer games on your computer?

Me: No Connor ………. can I have some time by myself ………..

Connor: Mom I will turn off the sound …

Me: Awww Connor please …… if you are here I will not be by myself ………

Connor: Mom PLEASE …

Me: What are you going to do for me?…….

{…………..pause……………..}

Me: Go tell Georgia you forgive her and help her out the bath.

Connor: Okay ……….

How many more insane Sunday Nights do I have to have before I can ship this lot off to boarding school?

My room now has Connor playing a game, whether the sound is on or off is a bit irrelevant, as he is making the shooting sounds, Georgia is hanging over him cheering him on, Isabelle is eating a large bag of Flings whilst trying to demonstrate how she does a balla-ma-kissy, Dexter is jumping on the bed and then getting kicked off mid-Isabelle roll … and Andy Pandy is on television … something about teddy beddy and mopping!!!!

<                  >

Me …….counting the minutes until I can send them to bed.

<                  >

When Kennith gets back I am going to treat myself to two uninterrupted days and nights of no children, semi decent wine, and what ever B&B will take me!

Cripes!

Why not try a book …. go on, pick one up.

As our kids are getting bombarded with games and more tv channels than there are hours in a day, the lowly old paper and ink book seems to be slipping out of popularity.

I love books – in an obsessive compulsive way.  I buy books because I love the smell and the feel of them. I always have a book nearby – like an emergency parachute to save me from idle time, or stupid people when the conversation really reaches an impasse.

I can spend an entire afternoon at a book store, and still feel that I was “rushed” – money spent on books is never a waste.  I have a book shelf in each child’s room, and they are crammed with books.  Granted there are story books which have become colouring-in books, but that besides they still work as reading books, through the crayons.

I love reading more than pretty much anything else.

If you can combine wine, chocolate and books then you have a corner of what I would call heaven.  If I have nothing to read in the toilet, I read the instructions on the “air freshener” can – dude, I gotta read — like must!!!

With Kindles, ipads and what ever else, the idea of paper and ink book is in fear of extinction or the very least a decline.  Why read when you can watch the movie, or have a voice read it to you, and all you have to do is do the “swish” when the “digital” page turns?

I feel strongly that books are important.  I think that kids who are brought up without books, and without a love of reading are missing out.  I am not sure how to qualify or quantify it, but I think that a generation without books will be poorer.

Characters I have created are far more real and have more depth and “substance” than nearly every character-created-from-a-book-and-put-on-the-screen by a clever bloke or blokette in Hollywood.

If you have a kid at school, suggest an initiative to the teacher that every child in the class, donate a book to the school’s library on her or his birthday. That way the classes’ library increases by 24/26 books a year.  How cool and simple is that?  And how much does everyone benefit?  A great deal.

You can pick up a really good book at Bargain Books for R20.00 – R60.00 — some real gems there.  Books and stories that don’t age.

The more kids are exposed to books, the more likely they are to respect them and build a keen love of them.  The more they love books, the more they love reading, the more they love reading, the more they love books, the more they read and so it goes.

Time reading is never wasted.  That is unless the time was spent reading Shantaram, then consider it a total waste of time, and I feel your pain!

Instead of toys, give books for birthdays.

My friend Tanya Roberts who lives in New Zealand sent books to Connor when he was a baby, and I have passed those books to Georgia and then on to Isabelle, and I still read them.  She introduced me to The Gruffalo and I am eternally grateful.  Without a doubt my favourite story.

She also sent me Hairy Maclary books – another character who has crept into our story times.  I in turn have gone on to buy these books for other children.

Toys we were given have been discarded or broken, but the books we have been given, are still with us, and when the books are passed where my kids use them, I pack them up and donate them to a needed pre-school or children’s library at a hospital.

I have a Kindle, and as much as I love reading, I realised that part of the “reading” process is selecting the book, and holding that book in my hands. The Kindle has been relogated to the drawer of my desk, sadly seldom seeing the light of day.

I think that if we do not actively develop a love of reading in our children from a very young age, they will grow up thinking that watching the movie, or listening to the story on which ever device they have access to is so much “easier” than boring reading, and in turn they will be robbed of the experience of exercising their imagination.  And more importantly learn to read and spell using all the letters of the alphabet.

Go on, develop a love of reading in your child – even if you are not a great fan ….

Moms who search for Stuff … for other people ….

I spend my days finding things for other people.

My favourite is when the conversation follows this thread.

Child/Kennith: I can’t find the widget, I have been looking for it, do you know where it is?

Me – internal dialogue: Actually I have no idea where the stupid widget is, and as it is your widget, and if you would put something away in the right place for one, we would not be having this conversation.

Me – what I say instead: Hhhmmmmm, I saw it in the spare room cupboard, take a look in there.  Third shelf on the left hand side.

Child/Kennith: {sighing in irritation, you know because they have been looking for so long} I can’t find it!!

Me – clearly annoyed, as the widget has now become my problem, and I wonder again why no one in this house can keep their shit together – If it is not in that cupboard, try the kitchen drawers or the passage cupboard!

Child/Kennith: {sighing in irritation, you know because they have been looking for so long} I can’t find it!!

Me – realising that screaming out instruction is not what the person is looking for, what they want is me to stop what I am doing, to come and help them find the widget.   Not sure why I just did not reaction quicker and drop what I was doing to come and find their sh^t.

But Kennith and the kids have learnt that if they cannot find something, then blame someone, and try to drag mom in it to help find the stuff.

I find my own shit because 95% of the time I have put it away so know where it is. The other 5% is the time I spend because someone has used my thing and has not put it in the correct/previous place.

I stroll over to the spare room, look on the third shelf on the left hand side ….

Me: Here it is ………

The two possible (and most likely) responses:

Child: Thanks Mommy!!! Thanks ….

Kennith: Great, thanks …. I really want you to speak to Priveledge about putting things in the right place ………. you really need to manage your staff!!

Me – reaction to both… {sighing … but mentally whacking him against the side of the head.  With the desk}

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Barney is back .. that stupid purple singing dinosaur …

When Connor was a baby/toddler he was never allowed to watch television at will.

He was only allowed to watch the things that we put on for him.  Part of the reason (and this was before the joy of ceebeebies) was that I did not want him to be exposed to the adverts and also there was not a dedicated channel dedicated to younger kids, and Cartoon Network did not exactly fill me with joy, actually it still doesn’t.

So he got all the usual stuff Teletubbies, Postman Pat and Bob the Builder.  We had tons of Videos {look at us rocking it old school, but in our defense this was back in 2001, so videos were a bit more popular than DVDs back then.) and we could glue him to the tv for 3 weeks solid with the amount of stuff we had, so it was not like he was starved of choice.  Connor liked Teletubbies and he also liked Bob the Builder.

We had Barney but Connor was not interested and only showed an interest in Barney at around 4 years old.

My kids do not appear to be interested in Barney when they are smallies, but take to him around 2 1/2 and 3 1/2 or older.  The result is we get a few years break when we forget about Barney and the precocious children who sing along with him, but then someone pulls a DVD out and then it all comes back to you in horrific colour.

Isabelle has proved she is not the exception.  She has never shown an interest in the annoyingly happy purple dinosaur until about two months ago, but now she is hooked.

When she comes in to the tv room, she goes over to the cabinet where all the DVDs are packed and points at the Barney one and she goes “MUM, MUM, MUM….”

Late last week she does the usual, sits on the couch, Dexter (our Boston Terrier) hops up, and the two of them sit there absolutely dumb struck as Barney sings his way through “I love you, you love me….”  I am sure Dexter wanted to make a run for it, but Isabelle decided to hold him near so he wasn’t going to be going anywhere.

I am not sure the expression (for both of them) is love and enjoyment, it looks a lot more like shock and despair!

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Fun with kids over the weekend …. she is not having it!

I know the right thing to say is to be all, geez I love motherhood, and gee willy this weekend stuff is groovy fun and then add a super happy Facebook status update about how happy I am!

Sorry, that shit is not flying on this end.

Kennith is gone for about a month – not gone as in dead, however that might get me sympathy and people offering to bake me lasagna and take my kids so I can have a lie down.  But no, worse, he has gone off to feel challenged.  Nothing says “challenge’ like losing 30 kilograms, and carrying about the same weight up a stupid mountain in Russia.

As you can imagine by my tone, I am really thrilled he has sought out this challenge.

Of course it makes the challenge of morning get-kids-to-school and get-kids-sorted-in-the-evening and try-and-remain-sane-on-the-weekends-whilst-your-kids-are-trying-to-drive-you-to-insanity the challenge I get to face, again and again.

But the problem with my challenge, is no one gives me a high-five and likes my status updates!

Such is the life of the little woman in the background, with three snotty kids clinging to an appendage and fighting with each other about {add anything varying from toothpaste to who looks out the car window}.

If I add the 30 days away to the long list of weekend hikes, running up table mountain after work, and cycling around the peninsula, whilst I am wondering if I can chew my tongue off and choke on it at home with three screaming children, then yes I am really excited for him!

Holler-holler!

Kennith left on Friday and this weekend was my first weekend “alone” - really alone if you consider that my lovely divine I-fall-at-your-feet-in-adoration Privelege was also off this weekend.

I think it did not help that I felt angry, because I was not feeling the joy of this entire experience, and had been suspicious that this was going to go very badly.  Very quickly.  For me.

I wasn’t worried about Kennith at all.  30 days of no kids, and pursing your challenge — what could be more fun??

My kids can smell fear. Probably because it leaves streaks in my panties.

They get wired, find a way to push every possibly button I have, work as a synchronised pack of relentless hyenas to drive me stark raving mad.  One long minute at a time.  It all gets going at about 06h00 and keeps up until about 20h00.

I watch each minute that passes.  Each minute!  I start wondering if I can put them all into bed and say goodnite at 2pm.  I have tried, they are too bright for that as soon as they figure out the difference in night and day.

I know I should tell you that I rose to the occasion.  Unfortunately I failed miserably.

I really tried to do the good mom thing.   Gd knows I tried!

I went for a nice walk – spent the entire time screaming at Isabelle to get out of the frkn road.

I made a roast chicken and all the trimmings as I thought it would be nice for us to sit around and have a family lunch (minus the dad of course) – that worked well until it didn’t.  The constant arguing and bickering and then Isabelle screaming because she was not going to eat any of my hard pressed cooking.

I hired a DVD for them – and then realised I could not sit and watch it with them without wanting to off myself.

I made them chocolate toast for breakfast – and then decided to go and sit somewhere else as I could not stand the arguing over everything.  How do kids find a way to argue over chocolate toast? Trust me, mine do.

I took them to a park today even though it was freezing – and then I lost Kennith’s umbrella, and of course they were arguing, and bickering and then I just got “gatvol” and figured I would rather be home and warm and they can argue there.

I took them to McDonalds for lunch – I also decided to sit at a separate table.  At McDonalds.  I really just needed a few minutes of not having to listen to the constant arguing and bickering.  This all worked until Isabelle fell, from a sitting position, only to smack her ear against the table – so then I sat with her whilst she bawled her head off.

I let them make and bake biscuits this afternoon – again an exercise is self-restraint, as I was sure I was going to hit one/all of them with the rolling pin!  I hate how other people can do this and it is fun, but when I do it, it really is like torture.

I have never glanced so much at the clock that stands in our kitchen area as I did in the last two days.  I waited for the minutes to tick by so we could get to 19h30 so that I could bark at them to go the *FUCK* to bed!

Today was not a good day.  This weekend was not a good weekend.

I am THANKFUL – TRULY – it is over, and that I survived, and more importantly that I managed not to commit what ever the term is where you off yourself and your children!

Dude/Dudette seriously if you are wanting a happy-go-lucky blog, I seriously suggest that you google mom+blog+really happy ….. because that shit is not happening over here.

Try again tomorrow, it might all be a bit better.  Or it might not.

Cheese and rice!

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My kids are trying to drive me insane {well more insane} …

I think I am a pretty consistent mother.  I understand the value of a clear message, with a clear outcome, combined with a clear threat.

I speak clearly – use the correct tone, and I have had my kid’s ears tested in the event of deafness.  None has been found.

However I am thinking I need to do a retest on that hearing test or, I need to accept that my kids are deaf, or they are able to filter me out to a point where one could class it as a super power.

This evening the kids are eating dinner.

Connor is nearly finished dinner, and I know  that the moment he is finished, he is going to start to negotiate with me about tv/bath/blowing on his vuvuzela, so I nip it in the bud.  He is about 5 mouthfuls from the end, so I tell him that he finishes, he runs a bath and gets in.

No discussion, no argument, just bath.

Dinner over, he leaves the table heading in the general direction of the bathroom.  Great, I think, tick, task accomplished.

About five minutes later I hear him blowing the vuvuzela (I actually don’t make this up) and chasing his sister around with what appears to be the plastic flag pole from a SA flag we bought for the World Cup.

I have no problem with any of this other than the fact that he is not in the bath.  So I bark “CONNOR GET IN THE BATH — NOW!”

Seems clear.  Unambiguous one might even suggest.

Five minutes later, I hear his sister shrieking because he is blowing the vuvuzela in her ear.  Again none of this I have an issue with – but he is still fully dressed and clearly nowhere near the bath.

“CONNOR GET IN THE DAMN BATH — NOW! NOW!!!!”

I am standing in the kitchen doing something that involves retrieving a piece of lego from my dog’s throat – and Connor saunters in, still holding the vuvuzela.

“Moooooooooommmmmmmmmmm (he does this with a particular whine when I know he is going to ask me something he already knows I am goingto say no to) Can I bath after Georgia.  I don’t like bathing with Georgia, can I bath after Georgia?”

At this point, I am up to my wrist in dog saliva, the lego block is just out of reach, and I have realised I have now pushed the block down into his stomach, so he is either going to shit it out or it is going to be joined by other lego blocks and maybe they can build a city in there.

“CONNOR GET IN THE BATH — NOW —- I TOLD YOU TO GET IN THE BATH FOUR TIMES, I AM SERIOUSLY LOSING MY SENSE OF HUMOUR.  I DO NOT CARE IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO BATH LATER — GET OUT OF YOUR CLOTHES, GET IN THAT DAMN BATH, AND IF I SEE YOU AGAIN STANDING IN FRONT OF ME, NEAR ME, DRESSED AND WITH THAT VUVUZELA I AM GOING TO SHOVE THAT VUVUZELA SOMEWHERE YOU MIGHT NOT LIKE ——– NOW.GET.IN.TO.THE.DAMN.BATH.NOW.GO!!!!”

I miss the days when parents would issue one instruction, and strike the fear of gawd into their kids, and sometimes follow it up with a smack on the side of the head.

When I was a kid there was no discussion and negotiation. You did what you were told, quickly, or you suffered the immediate consequences.

To illustrate:  I was about 6 0r 7, and my mom warned me not to sit on the counter next to the stove top.  She warned me, I did it anyway.  I leaned back and put my hand on a red-hot spiral stove top – and I burnt the spiral shape into my hand.  I knew that if I cried because I had got hurt and I had already been told not to do it, I would have got bliksemmed until my arse bled, so I climbed off the countertop, went to my room, and sobbed into my pillow until I was called for dinner. I never said a word about the burn, and I did not cry when I was out my room, because I knew the fact that I did not listen, that consequence would have been worse that the spiral blister I had on my left palm!

I hate to say it, but I really miss those days.  This  “we care so damn much about our kids that we do not want to beat the crap out of them”generation is just not working for me.

Patience is not my strong suit/suite/word I am not sure how to spell.  Cheese and Rice!

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Stay at Home Moms …. kill me now!

If I have ever spoken derogatively to a stay at home mom, I would like to offer my sincerest apologies.

If I have ever used a tone in my voice to make it sound like the fact that I have a job to go to (that allows me to brush my teeth and leave the house) is in any way better than your situation, please let me offer my humblest apologise.

I am working from my little corner in my house.  Each morning I wake up and get out of bed, as if I have a place to go to work.

I shower and brush my teeth simultaneously, dress, scream at kids to get ready, throw kids in car, forget something and have to go back, scream at kids for fighting in car, try to explain to Connor that I am slightly not interested in his Star Wars sticker collection ….. check that everyone is buckled in, reverse, argue with Georgia over {insert several options}, check time realise I am late …. get a bit stressed

I stick to a schedule that in my head I need to be “at the office and working” no later than 08h30.

All of this “drop off madness” goes on for about an hour.

But then I have three kids safely deposited at various schools across the northern suburbs, and I head home to make some tea, a nutella smeared sandwich and quietly (yet happily) work until about 16h40 and then I dash off to grab kids and it all begins again.

I have quiet content working time from 08h35 - 16h40.  Bliss does not even begin to hint at it.

No one is screaming.

No one is arguing.

No one needs a bum wipe.

I just get on with my day and it is all rather blissful.  I am a little worker bee content with my lot in life.  Happy. Happy. Content is me.

But then last Wednesday Isabelle was sick and stayed home.

My day descended into crying, moaning and the constant pulling of the corner of my jacket and the high pitched whine of “Mem, Mem, Mem …” in ever louder repetition (from Isabelle, not the maid, though she also calls me Mem….go figure).

Isabelle was off sick on Wednesday and Thursday.  Thursday I said that even if she has the bubonic plague she is going to school on Friday.

I don’t care if she infects every last child in her school, as long as I can have a few hours away from that incessantly whining and crying.

50 kids sick is a small price to pay for my 8 hours of peace and mental stability.

Friday arrived and she was still really sick.  I dressed her for school oblivious to the fact that she was coughing up a lung and green coloured sputum.  I just wanted her to go to her place where they make something arty with a Marie biscuit and she gets to play with her little Asian friend, and be 2km away from me.

Kennith called and said I really should not be sending her to school.

I cussed, only because he was right and I knew that the next 8 hours were going to be painful and only one of us was going to get medication.

Geez Louise!  At least I had today to send her off to school – and I think I might have hummed in happiness after I dropped them off.

I have absolutely no idea how stay at home moms cope.  I am convinced they are made from a certain mettle (not sure how to spell that, too lazy to go and google it) which I appear to have an alarming under supply of.

Stay at home moms, I seriously have no idea — like none —- how you do it, and appear to remain sane!  I don’t envy you, but I am amazed in wonder and humbleness.

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First Words and other Magic Moments

I have been lamenting for some time that Isabelle, who turns 3 on the 10 June 2012, does not talk.

She makes sounds which are variations in the level of screechs, but one would not consider it talking.

Last night I am sitting in my “Les Nesman” office, and there is a glass next to me.  The glass incidently, is not filled with wine as is the norm, but with Tonic Water and three slices of lemon.

Isabelle saunters in to the area, and she is holding her plastic juice bottle, filled with Oros even though it is around 6:30pm.

I carry on working.

Isabelle comes up behind me and as clear as the day is bright goes “CHEERS” and knocks her bottle against my glass.

I guess we can put that down as her first word.

<Isabelle saying Cheese like a Pirate>

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.

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