Their conversation between them probably lasted to less than 5 – 10 minutes, whilst the remainder of the time they spent on their respective phones. I have no idea what they were doing.  My guess is telling everyone what a fabulous time they were having at the restaurant, and then LOL and OMG’ing along to what ever comments they got back.

Kennith is a little obsessed with his iphone - and I am hinting at the scale of it – he does not leave his iphone alone.

We are watching a movie.  Kennith is on his iphone.

We are driving.  Kennith is on his iphone.

We are eating a meal.  Kennith is on his iphone << though I think he has reduced this since I raised the issue a while ago>>.

The kids are going ape shit.  Kennith is on his iphone.

My phone it not an appendage it is merely a tool to ensure that should my kids be involved in an accident I will know about it.  However to contextualize the comment my phone is a Nokia XpressMusic, which is about as close as you can get to a piece of shit, other than putting an actual turd in your hand and using it to make and receive calls.

I really hate my phone.

I have a sneaky suspicion that iphones are a bit like remote controls for boys.  They must hold it all the time, and just keeping pushing the buttons – you know just because they can.  The beauty of an iphone is that you are surrounded by applications, so you can download them and sit and play with them, and then just as you start to maybe start interacting with real live people, you download another application and it all starts over again.

I have fantasies about taking the phone and throwing it over the wall, or atleast as far as I can throw it, which will probably bounce off the wall as I cannot get the range required to get it over the wall.

For now I think this image does sum up iphone irritation.

Charlotte is planning a party – her child’s party and that is about as painful as an enema with VIM.

Watching Charlotte spinning out of control and turning Mommy-Partyzilla is mildly amusing, but a bit unsettling because I am exactly the same, so it is resulting in some post-trauma flash backs to my own experience with me planning and orchestrating parties.

For me parties stop being about the kids who are coming to the party and all about how I am going to outdo myself from last year.

The parents who I need to impress.  The right cake from the right bakery.  The outfit my child will wear.  The photographs.  The organising.  The lists.  The party packs. It all gets too much, too quickly, and I spin out of control, as I add another stupid thing to the list of things to do and to stress about.

And so it goes on – my 6 week stress run up to my kid’s parties strip the life and the joy out of them for me. Every last morsel of joy.  Sucked out.

I hate kid’s parties.

No, you misunderstand, I like coming to YOUR kid’s party.

I HATE arranging, organising, paying way too much, stressing, getting annoyed with stupid people who do not rsvp, wanting to yell at people who rsvp on the morning or the night before to say they are not coming, or “oh yeh, do you mind if we come….” and the worrying that everything will not go to plan.

I hate the associated stress that comes with organising my kid’s birthday parties.

It is January, and you know what?  I cannot tell you the joy I feel that the next time my “turn” pops up is June.  I get 4 – 5 months of happiness and raucous party abandonment and do not have to give it a second thought.

I NEVER enjoy my kid’s birthday parties.

I am too busy, too exhausted, too frazzled to pay attention to what is going on.

Mentally I have a checklist and I am too busy ticking off what needs to be done and when, to actually have a normal conversation.  Logically I keep telling myself “it is only a kid’s party, calm the hell down…” but then I do not. I blow it out of proportion, and when I start booking the ponies, the jumping castle and the magician, then I know I have gone too far.

Problem is I can’t pull myself back, and the only way to behave when you are going OVER THE TOP is to step it up and see if you can book a bucking bronco as well.

Trust me, when my turn comes, I will be thrown in amongst the non-sensical-crazy-blubbering-saliva-on-your-chin-RAMPANT-madness that infects nearly every mother when they know their child’s birthday party looms.

Why is it that fathers do not seem to have their ”I am fkn losing my mind” party gene?

Next time around I would like testicles – as they seem to be linked to a relaxed mood and party planning – this ovaries and oestrogen lark is really a bit much.

Good luck Charlotte.

I will be there with my brood, and some screw top wine – for me, not my brood, they can get their own.

If you opened a bag of marshmallows and Flings and threw them on the lawn and let the two-year olds fight it out, they would probably have an equally as good a time, but I know that once Mommy-Partyzilla fever hits, it is just downhill and an anxiety attack from there on in.

Good luck!!!

Alison was abducted, brutally raped and tortured, and then left for dead by Theuns Kruger and Frans du Toit in 1994.

Alison crawled from the scene after these two had left her for dead – with her throat slit and her intestines in her hands, she crawled to a road and eventually flagged down help.

The story is part of the fabric of our society.  We all know about Alison.  We are in awe of her ability to repair her life, and go on to become a motivational speaker, and make her life work, and become a valued member of society – when Theus and Frans could have left her for dead, or she could have lived and continued to life in the darkness of her experience.

Theuns Kruger and Frans du Toit are looking to apply for bail.  I think we would all sleep much better knowing Theuns and Frans remained firmly behind bars, and never had the chance to touch let alone hurt another person.

There is an on-line petition for Alison Botha, to petition for these two monsters to not be released – you can go along and slot your digital signature on.

Background: -

Johannesburg – Two men who raped Alison Botha in Noordhoek, in Port Elizabeth, in 1994 and then slit her throat, could get parole soon after serving just 17 years of their sentence.

Theuns Kruger and Frans du Toit, who’d left her for dead, were both sentenced to life behind bars in August 1995.

However, in terms of legislation which came into effect in June last year, all prisoners who were sentenced to lifelong imprisonment before 2004 and have already served 13 years and four months, can apply for parole.

Du Toit and Kruger raped Alison, stabbed her more than 30 times with a knife and tried to slit her throat 16 times. She was left for dead in the veld. They’d told the Port Elizabeth High Court that the devil made them do it.

Alison’s aorta and larynx were not severed, which enabled her to breathe. She had to gather her intestines and tuck them into her shirt while she held her head on her body with her other hand.

She staggered to the nearest road, where a medical student saw her and rushed her to the Port Elizabeth Provincial Hospital.

The following morning Du Toit and Kruger used the bloodied knives with which they’d slashed Alison to butter their bread.

Kruger, who is doing his time in Pretoria, appeared before the parole board on December 14 and is said to be bragging to other inmates that he will be out of there soon.

Puleng Mokhoane, the Free State spokesperson for correctional services, said Du Toit had appeared before the parole board at the Grootvlei prison in Bloemfontein on January 10.

Frightened she said the “necessary procedures” would be followed. Alison had not been aware of the possible parole for Kruger and Du Toit before being contacted by the media.   She said she was extremely shocked as she’d already applied last year to appeal against their possible release should parole be considered.

“I now realise that I’d clung to a false sense of security and never even considered the possibility that they could be freed.

“I will be frightened if they are released and I would very much like to be part of their parole hearing.”

Sonwabo Mbananga, the minister of correctional services’ spokesperson, said parole applications were not granted or turned down by parole boards.

They are merely part of an “administrative process” after which the case is referred to the National Council of Correctional Services, where factors such as the Judge’s comments during sentencing, psychological reports and the prisoner’s rehabilitation are considered.

The final decision rests with the minister, Mbananga said.

SIGN THE PETITION – AT LEAST PUT YOUR HAND UP AND SAY NO THESE MEN SHOULD NOT BE GRANTED PAROLE!  NOT TODAY, NOT EVER.

There are few things in life that are as clear as this issue.  There is no conversation or debate to be had.  Men like this, people like this, should never be brought back into our communities.

http://www.gopetition.com/petitions/petition-against-the-release-of-alison-botha-s-attacker.html

My work, laptop, diary, workbooks and so on are spread over the dining room table, and it is all quite jolly.  I get a fair bit done, as all the kids are at school, so I get to put my head down and just get on with it. No distractions.  Unlimited supply of hot tea and day old bread.  What’s not to love?

Sat down this morning, got started.  Made some toast and some tea.

Was just thinking about how I had this great organisation going on my table, and at that point, I hit my tea mug over with my arm.

Hot tea running all over the desk and over everything I had so neatly organised.

My immediate reaction was to stuff the entire piece of toast in the general direction of my mouth, which would free up my hands to grab my laptop and lift it high away from the spillage.

I did all of this in a split second.  Comparing my split-second and catlike reflexes to a poised athlete – with a large piece of chocolate toast jammed into their mouth.

What I did not allow for was the rush of hot tea <freshly made> pouring into my lap.

For just a moment I started singing Kings of Leon – Sex On Fire …. I really have no idea what the lyrics of that song mean, but seriously my lady bits were on fire, so it made sense to sign the song.

But for some reason I do not unsubscribe, though I am itching to.

I probably endure it as there are some of them that really resonate with me.  I scoff and tut-tut them, but the truth is that there is some “truth” in the rather sickly sweet emails and “universal love” messages that appear on my screen each day.

I tend to “delete” most of them, but my eye can’t help doing a quick scan and read.

Today’s email resonated with me a bit.

It dovetails well in to some of the stuff I am working through Dr CBT.  Most of it comes down to what you think the other person knows, but the reality is that they do not know what you want, so are not aware they are not giving you what you want.

In short.  Communication.

The other person doesn’t know, so they do not react accordingly or give you what you need, so you get angry and frustrated with them because they are not doing what you want them to do.

But they do not know.

And so it goes on.

I struggle with the line between not-assertive/assertive and demanding.

Assertive communicating allows for you to express what you need, in a manner that the other person is clear on what you would like them to do.

You make your point, without being judgemental and attacking.  You make it clear what you need in a situation.

You then give the other person the opportunity to respond.  The key difference between assertive and aggressive is the “demand.”

Aggression is you telling someone your preference, and then demanding they act accordingly.  You may demand internally – so you imply it – but it is the expectation that the other person HAS TO DO WHAT YOU WANT OR NEED THEM TO DO.

Assertiveness is you telling someone your preference and allowing them the opportunity choose to either go along with it or not.  It’s a preference and not a demand.  You realise that it is what you want, but you accept that the other person does not have to do anything.  You accept.  What you want is a preference and there is no universal rule that makes it everyone’s MUST DO.

Yes, you would prefer them to go with your preference, but you remain in the space where it is a “preference” and not a “demand.”

It does not mean you are not disappointed when they do not do it the way your preferred, but the key is to keep the thought that it is your preference that they do something, and not your demand.

You cannot force anyone to do something that you want, that they do not want to do – and expect a good result.  Simple concept, difficult to apply.

The reaction to someone not going along with your preference is annoyance.  The reaction to someone not going along with your demand is anger. ** key point.

I make an assumption, and then my assumption turns into my fact, and I start to plan/create feelings based on that – instead of communicating effectively and allowing the other person to state the way they feel, and then I check in with them to see whether my reality is their reality.

I walk in to a conversation with a pre-determined set of demands, because I have internally already had this conversation, so the conversation is not the exchange of preferences, but merely me stating my demands, having decided the outcome, and getting very angry when it does not go to plan.

<<Side bar – it never goes to plan ….. but this does not stop me from repeating the exact same “conversation” over and over again…>>

I saw this on the Daily Love and I read it and thought “Yep that is exactly what I do…”

I had an “ah ha” moment (love those!) over the Holidays. You know there’s a saying that goes something like this… If you think you’re enlightened, spend a week with your family. You know what I’m talking about.

All those times you thought you had grown and become “so spiritual” go right out the door and BOOM – old habits come back like an itch you just can’t scratch.

When they first got here, I was so happy – and then the first hour passed and I noticed some of my old stuff coming up.

And I was shocked, I was SURE I had outgrown it. I went from an almost 30-year-old man into like a 5-year-old boy around them. It was SO funny.

A couple days later I was talking with my dad and I found myself really irritated at him.

And I didn’t know why. So I started asking myself while I was having a conversation with him “why do you feel this way?”

After a few minutes of inquiry I found out that all I wanted was for my dad to say I love you and ask how I was feeling.

And the irritation was coming because that unexpressed expectation wasn’t being met. And my dad had no idea all this was going on inside me.

I was the one who was aware of the Love that I wasn’t “getting” and I was mad about it.

My dad wasn’t aware of this. He has and does Love me the best way he knows how to, and he is a pretty kick ass Dad!

And this isn’t to say I didn’t get Love from them. No, I got a lot of Love – but there was a certain kind of Love that I felt was missing – and I got angry with them because I thought they were withholding it from me.

But my AH HA moment was the moment I realized that I was mad at THEM for something I was supposed to do.

So the breakdown is this… People give us Love the best way that they know how to. They can’t give it any other way than they do. And if we are trying to get orange juice from apples over and over again, not only are we going to keep getting let down, we are actually insane! Haha.

After I started treating my father this way, it was like an instantaneous shift in our relationship. And I didn’t go to him and tell him all this; I just started giving more Love.

My issue that I am having at the moment is that I cannot speak when something needs to be said.   I cannot tell someone what I need from them.  When I do not get what I need, I am hurt, and I then turn that into anger.

But I am not telling the other person what I need  – so they do not have the opportunity to give it to me.  Do you see how fked up this way of thinking is? I am not sure if you are familiar with it.

I wear it like a familiar shirt, over and over again, even though it clashes with everything, and I do not have a pair of shoes to go with it, I still drag this behaviour out and keep wearing it.

I stand there, and it feels like I am standing with my hands crossed over my mouth and unable to speak.  No one is stopping me from speaking.  I am stopping ME FROM SPEAKING.

The result is I get frustrated and then angry, but this only contributes to the situation that I cannot speak when I need to about something I want to change or that I want to happen.

I know how I feel, I know what I should say, but I just can’t come out and say it.

Then the issue gains momentum, and instead of being about one thing, by the time I say something it turns into a violent emotional puke and it is about 12 things, and comes out garbled.

It does not come out in a constructive manner about discussing the issue – it becomes about the fact that I am having a freak out.  And instead of reasonable conversation, it is me screaming.

I am frustrated.  But I can’t seem to speak out about what I need.

I am not sure if this condition is only limited to me, or you may also be a frustrated-communicator ….

The ability to speak in an assertive – non aggressive - manner and say what I think or feel on a subject, without feeling bad is one of the main things me and Dr CBT are tackling to start this year off.  Part of the trick is to practice it, so it means trying to communicate, knowing you are not so great at it, and maybe it not going as you planned it in your heard.

But then you get better for next time.  I am in Grade R for Communicating Effectively at present.

Maybe I am not quite ready to remove myself from the “Daily Love” mailing list – there is a bit too much there that resonates with me.

I am not a big television watcher, as I don’t have the time.  Lately I have just realised it is not enjoyable.

When I do have the time, I would rather be doing something else.  Usually sleeping, or reading, but just something else.

I used to often put E-Entertainment on to unwind when I had a few minutes, but I found that I was always watching the Kardashians doing something.

I am as intrigued by Kim Kardashian as the rest of the human species, but at some point I realised “shit this woman really irritates me” – two non-relevant facts 1.  Do you know that her dad was OJ lawyer?  2. Before she was the “celebrity” she is now, she used to pop along to rich people and help them organise their wardrobes.  True story!

It might have occurred after she spent a few million on a wedding and it last 39 minutes.  One minute she was in a white bikini which his name on her arse, and the next she was filing papers for “irreconcilable” differences.  I am not sure I can have the same respect for her once she bedazzled Mrs Humphries on her arse.

I realised the amount of time that family wastes of our precious time, and how much money is thrown at them to do it.  It is all so senseless.  I am fine with senseless entertainment.  I may even entertainment that involves dwarf throwing onto velro … I might if it was entertaining and if little people were having a good time.

But Kim and her troupé are just not entertaining, or maybe they are and the video editing specialist just suck.

I cannot deny she is drop dead gorgeous.  I cannot deny that I am jealous that she has gone from obscurity to probably one of the most “popular” people in the world, but what exactly is she contributing to my life or yours?

I have never heard something come out of her mouth (or her families) that makes me go, yes, I have learnt something new today.  Kim I want to be her.  Can’t say I have ever had that thought.

I realised that when I watch E the flashing lights and the high-pitched sound, started to affect the way I felt and reacted.  I know there are warnings about light sensitivity and so on, I am sure that is not the case, but the channel does make me feel anxious and a bit jumpy.  Granted most things do at the moment.

I could not put my finger on it exactly, but something about that channel started to make me feel “not great” – unfortunately it also made me want to sit there for three hours and absorb everything about the Kardashian clan.

At some point I realised, that watching people just because they were put in front of us to watch, is probably not the best way to while away time.

The Kardashians do not add any value to my life – I walk away from that show having lost a few hours of my life, and for some reason prizing being well made up with nothing intelligent to say as a commodity.

There is nothing about watching them for four hours that makes me feel good, teaches me something, makes me feel like I have improved my lot in life.

It does make me question how it is possible that these girls can have perfect hair and makeup all day and all the time, but you never see them touching their makeup up.

They are totally hairless, but you never see them have to go and have their hair removed.

There never appears to be anyone around making their bed, washing their floors, cleaning their lounge, but they never do any chores.

The girls never appear to be sitting with a wad of bills wondering how the fuck they are going to pay them.

They never stand in queues at the local grocery store waiting to pay for their trolley of goods, whilst their hungry, tired child is screaming for a chocolate bar.  They never go grocery shopping, but some how there are always groceries.

The girls never appear to have a real emotion.  Everything appears to be “placed before us” and we eat it up as it is reality because it is called “reality television.”

Reality is not perfect hair.  Reality is root regrowth and not having time to make an appointment to get it seen to.

Reality is not perfect makeup.  Reality is digging in your bag with one hand, whilst you drive to drop kids off in the morning, and attempt to put makeup on, while you listen to Cape Talk, ask your kid’s their homework, and discuss the latest adventures of the Smurfs.

Reality is not perfect manicured hands and feet. Reality is one toe nail ripped off, 9 chipped toe nails, and one thumb nail hanging on because you have covered it with a band-aid until you get time in your day to phone to make an appointment, let alone go.

Reality is not bouncing out of bed, with perfect clothing and your house miraculously being clean.  Reality is lying in bed ignoring the screaming in your house and hoping the kids leave you alone for 5 more minutes so you can just sleep a bit more.

Reality is waking up to find your 2-year-old has emptied the sugar into the washing machine, and made herself a peanut butter sandwich, and put peanut butter all over the counter, kettle and knife drawer.

Reality is standing there amongst the chaos of your kitchen in your dirty jammies, your hair that looks like a bird shat in it, your leg hairs at varying degrees of growth as you stand in your dirty kitchen sipping your cup of Earl Grey tea wondering how you can suck up the energy to get through this day.

That is reality.

The Kardashians do not add value to my life, and at the end of the day what exactly am I watching them for?

That is not and will never be my reality, and I am starting to worry that we are being sold that idea of REALITY, and we are gullible enough to just eat it up.  I would venture to say it is not entertainment either – there is no relaxing or fun to be had from watching this ridiculous family script their way through a propped up life.

Anyway long blurb, short blurb is E Entertainment is no longer on my list of things to watch.  Ah well, there is always Crime Channel and Comedy Channel.

If there is a shift or you take away a key element, or add something extra, I am likely to have a little spin out.  And this is the reason I make lists.  I always have a list, and I like to tick my things off my list, as then it makes me feel “in control” and that I have got it all buttoned down.

This morning I am driving to work.  Traffic is shocking.  My phone goes off, I hear it ring, but cannot attend to it and navigate an interchange.

I hear my phone beep a phone message.

I smile.  I love people who sms me a message, rather than leave a long fangled phone message.  I do like sms people.

I am in traffic, and in neutral. ,I dig my phone out.  It is an sms from a vet in Bergvliet saying “Hi we have your dog.  Thanks Carol St Francis Vet Clinic 021 712 0357.”

Hmm, I am thinking Carol is tucking into the tipple a bit early this morning.

I just left home.  My dog was there, and Bergvliet is several miles from Parow, even for a fast dog that might be bending the time/space thing a bit.

I call Carol – Carol tells me she has my staffie.  My brain is trying to compute.  I try to explain to her I do not have a Staffie.  She re-explaining to me that actually I do have a Staffie and she is at their vet.

I am starting to speak to Carol like she is a special needs person, and I am really to busy for these rather bizarre phone calls.

So she goes “I am sure microchips don’t lie.  We have your dog Annabelle, it is a red and white Staffie….”

Annabelle went missing about a year and a half ago.  I ran ads, I contacted vets, I put notes on Facebook, I cried, I worried, I felt terrible.  I healed.

I am floored. Once my brain started working, I decided to re-aim my vehicle towards Bergliet, and sure as sh*t there was Annabelle.

Older, fatter, but still Annabelle.

She looked at me like I had just come back from the shops, after buying some wine.  She was not going to tell me where she had been for the last year and a half, and instead decided to pant and leave saliva all over my car’s front seat.

Anything can be forgiven the day you get back from the dead.

I brought Annabelle home and explain that I had moved on.  I had mourned her death, I had got a new puppy.   Dexter looked at her and his hackles have risen, there appears to be an usurper in his midsts.

As my friend Joyce says, it is the dog version of the Bold and the Beautiful, where the dead husband returns to find his wife has now remarried … and has a new family … because in the Bold and the Beautiful, dead husbands and dead dogs always come back.

Moral of the story: Microchip your dog/cat.  That shit works.

Actually it was me who brought the book to bookclub.  I liked the book jacket, and I liked the blurb.

What I did not like was that it was written in first person and in a diary entry format.   And once I flipped through the book, I was reluctant to read it.

The result was it lay in book club, and no one touched it.  Finally I picked it up – like an unloved child – took it home with the other 4 or 5 books, and thought: “I might get to it if I have a gap ….”

I read the book …once I had got past the first few pages, and the character of Eva, the mom started to unfold, I was gripped.  She was the quintessential ”reluctant” mother, and strangely I started to see certain aspects of me in her, which made the story feel more familiar.

The story strongly debates the age-old argument of nature versus nurture.

Did Eva’s lack of affection for her son shape him into the sociopath he was to become – or was his fate predetermined from birth?  Could she have “saved” him by being a better mother?  And what makes a mother, better, if you just don’t have the maternal gene?

The book looks back on Kevin’s life, his mother, Eva describes her coldness toward her son and his strange behaviours, in gripping detail.

The book does not open with a sucker punch, but slowly starts to unfold.  The entire time you are not quite sure what to make of the characters – so you reserve judgement, or at least try to.

Eva starts to question if her son is normal.  She sees and experiences him and something in her starts to question him.  Her son is alert and intelligent, and even as a toddler soon starts to get the upper hand in the relationship.

She is a first time mom, and totally out of her depth, so she is not sure if she is making assumptions because she is inexperienced, or because there is really something just a bit off about Kevin.

The book was TRULY brilliant.  Even years on, it is still one of the most powerful and thought-provoking books I have ever read.  It was a story that really sat with me, long after I had handed the book back to bookclub.

No matter how many books I read, and I do read several, this one still tips the scales as being the story that just sits with me.

I am not suggesting it is an enjoyable read.  It is very unsettling, but the characters feel real and the author shapes this family so well, that you can’t help finding yourself lost in the fiction.  .

I heard there is a movie coming out soon-soon, which I believe is brilliant, so very keen on going to see that.

If you are going to see the movie, try to read the book before you buy popcorn and a move ticket …..

We Need to Talk About Kevin

A Novel by Lionel Shriver

2003 / 400 Pages

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!

The happiness that school has finally started and that you have survived the school holidays.  The reality of handing large sums of money over to school outfitters and stationery store.

Can you say “how fast can my Xmas bonus disappear?”

There is a certain joy as you hand your child over to the teacher and think “thank goodness, that gets me at least 5 – 6 hours a day where my child can whine at someone else…” You try not to punch the air in happiness as you skip out of the classroom.  You wave good-bye to your offspring – or just run out and not wave good-bye.

Sometimes you are able to hold back until you get to the car, and then you can scream whoop-du-fkn-whoop at the top of your lungs.

Again, this might only occur in my neck of the woods, your reality may be far different.

I do not think that school teachers are being paid enough.  I have no idea what they are paid.  But what ever it is, they are not being paid enough. If they were being paid more, we may have negotiating power to insist they only take the mandatory 15 working days holiday a year.

When I was at school, we had to fill in a form in standard 8 about what you wanted to be when I grew up.

I filled in “school teacher” as I thought “winner, I love school holidays…and how difficult could it be?” My career counsellor looked at me and said “But you hate kids ….” and I agree that this detal may well be the flaw in my rather fantastic plan.  Instead I wrote “vet”.

This December/Jaunuary I was seriously considering offing myself with a bottle of wine, and car exhaust fumes if school holidays carried on for much longer.

At one point Kennith looked at me and said: “I am really tired of doing things with the kids ….”  I wish I could pass a reply in judgement, but the reality is I had already had the thought two weeks ago, and just been chewing the inside of my lip in the hope I could just survive until the 11 January.

This year Connor headed to Grade 4, and Georgia started Grade 1.

Georgia was dead excited about being in big school.  She only showed a mild annoyance with me that I deemed to hang around in her class while I looked on to see she was settled in. She wanted me to bugger off and leave her so that she could do some serious colouring in.

Her first week has gone off swimmingly, and she is as happy as a bat in guano.  I am already drowning in the deluge of school notes and co-ordinating her extra-mural schedule.

Isabelle started her first day of school today.

I was a bit blasé about the entire thing.  You know, what with being an old hand at this and all.  Love them and drop them.

Isabelle is so supremely confident that I thought I might just send her to school with the bus and enough money to get home.

I realised that judging by the other moms and their super kean keanness around open day, I should probably arrive in person for the first day.  I diligently went along and did the “first day thing” with the drop off, her sleeping mattress and her funky pink school bag, and packing all her stuff in the right place.

Unfortunately it ended it as all “first days do” with her clinging to my leg, screaming like her limbs were being removed, and the teacher nodding at me that it was okay to leave.  Me looking rather forlorn as my off-spring screamed and the tears ran down her flushed pink cheeks.

I did not so much punch the air as I got into the car, as let out a rather sad sigh and wished it had gone better.  I already regretted that we had reached this milestone so quickly – remember when she was born, it was just the other day.

I feel a bit guilty now about judging new moms so harshly that they want to sms the teacher during the day, and start fretting about Junior.

It is all I can do to not call the school to check on Isabelle … I am sure she is fine … or at least I really hope so.

First day of school pictures – trying to get that “thing” that is each child, and I think I have got it in each of these little montages/collages.

<<Connor – January 2012>>

<<Georgia – January 2012>>

<<Isabelle – January 2012>>