Jumbo, jumbo

Running away to Zanzibar was definitely a wonderful idea that maybe was lacking a bit in the application.

Unfortunately it did require two aeroplane flights, and then a drive from the airport at Zanzibar to our lodge.

Sounds quite idyllic …. lest one is mortally afraid of large metal man-made structures in the sky that can plummet to the ground at any time, and it would seem sometimes without warning.

Landing had us experiencing serious cross winds, it was bumpy and shaky.  (Have I mentioned how terrified I am of flying?)

I had begun to harbour serious doubts that the pilot may have obtained his licence via correspondence. I know I cannot fly a plane, but something about landing when your nose is facing directly into the tarmac, surely spells a problem.

Once we finally rammed our large plane into the tarmac with so much force that it loosened your fillings – and in my case made me bury my nails into Kennith’s leg. 

The brakes were then applied which sent us screeching forward on what can only be described as a very SHORT runway. We finally stopped.  I know I said something quite eloquent like “Thank FEK!” and I meant every word of it.

You know it has been a bit touch and go, when the passengers applaud after the plane comes to a standstill!

I can’t say we embarked as much as we fell out of the aeroplane – and then threw ourselves to the ground to give thanks for the safe ejection from the plane of death.

Unfortunately at this point I realised a few things (1) Zanzibar International Airport was a bit of an over-exaggeration for both the International and the Airport part (2) Luggage off the plane and to you, was really an optional and not guaranteed (3) The terminal is more of a fancied up shed than a terminal.

It was all a bit haphazard and chaotic and you sort of just fell into a line, and watched them pull a cart from the plane with what appeared to be your baggage. There was baggage, whether yours was on the cart was sort of where you started to rethink your wardrobe and how long you could actually wear the same pair of underwear for.

Once I absorbed the status quo, we found ourselves a queue – always the slowest moving one, and managed to spend the next 30 – 45 minutes standing up close and personal with a few dozen other sweaty people.

We finally got to the front, paid our $50.00 per person, which was slid into the custom official’s pocket. We sort of looked quizzically at each other and thought, well we are hardly going to stand there and argue with him, so we smiled and thanked him profusely for letting us into his country.

My bag arrived – hallelujah – trust me, this is not the norm for when I travel, so I am in my full rights to celebrate a little.

We made it out of the airport through the throngs of guides/pick up people who were waving boards.

Found a friendly gentleman waving a board with our name on it – I have not done anything for this trip, so the fact that Kennith had organised that we were collected from the airport made me really sigh with relief (the other option is to arrive and just sort out your own transport.)

Then a very helpful dame came along and handed us a facecloth – clean, wet and soaked in jasmine. Heaven!

I may have stepped over the (imagined) boundary of proprietary when I finished wiping my face and hands, and thought, what the hey, I will just freshen up my armpits a bit! I noticed a little frown cross her polite face, but I was on holiday, it was a facecloth and I was really sweaty!!

We found our taxi driver – I liked the look of him, the taxi was clean … but my joy was short lived.

We then proceeded to take the drive-from-hell from the airport to our resort which was about an hour or so.

He had no qualms about overtaking and driving directly into on-coming traffic – it was not like this was something he did now and then, it was more where his vehicle appeared to stay for the bulk of the journey.

It was a very narrow two way road, without any emergency lanes to move into if there was a problem.

The only option, should something go very wrong, was to just veer directly into the population which appeared to like nothing more than to stand on the shoulder of the road and watch the traffic go by.

Clearly the custom is that if you hit your hooter in rapid succession – and do it with a cheery smile on your mug – this clearly absolved you from responsibility and from impending death. It was totally chaotic and your brain kept telling your body to prepare for a rather gruesome death in East Africa.

Long road with bicycles, vespa scooters (always with more than one person on it), trucks packed, like totally packed with people, and people hanging out the side, goats on the side of the road, large cow type things that seemed to wander about without any limitations or restraint.

And there we are hurtling down the road.

While we are overtaking a large truck, another car will be trying to overtake us – all this into on-coming traffic.

Kennith kept suggesting I not look, and read instead. I can say without a doubt, that during the flight I had already started to prepare my goodbyes and hope that my children knew I loved them and how sad it would be for them to get a call from OneTime Airlines to say that they were very sorry, but pa and ma will not be home.

But the problem with this taxi was that when they scraped me off this dirt road, would anyone actually know where or who I was or be able to do some sort of a CSI analysis on me as they scraped my lady bits off a donkey?

As things do happen, one does not always die in the head on taxi car collision as one imagined and we made it to the resort.

We then proceeded to head with shaky legs to the nearest bar, order a pizza, a large bottle of beer and congratulate ourselves on surviving to see another day.

So here we are in Zanzibar ….

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What the hell?

Why would someone search for that??

How much of a problem must you have getting an egg that you decide you need to google it to see if other people are struggling like you as well?  And how exactly does one get an egg from someone who is reluctant?

Which also begs the question – why is someone reluctant to give you an egg?

Let’s of course totally ignore that someone searched for “killing small babies” and that google redirected them to my blog …..

I don’t really want to die in an airplane crash ….

Very exciting time.

I am very excited about Saturday night.  The SA Blog Awards is being held at the One and Only in Cape Town and I wish I could be there – it is a cash bar, but I still would have liked to be there.

Seriously, how many opportunities like this are going to present themselves to me?  Clearly very few in my life time, but that being said we will need to miss it as we are going to be in ZANZIBAR!

I really do not get tired of saying that!

Can you come over for a lunch on Saturday?  Er, no sorry, we will be in Zanzibar.

Would you like to join us for dinner on Monday night? Sorry, would love to, but we will be in Zanzibar.

This is Dr E, your yearly enema is scheduled for Tuesday, can you make the appointment? As lovely as that sounds, I will need to miss it this year, I will be in Zanzibar!

Yes, one does not tire of saying it.  But I can well imagine one tires of hearing about it rather rapidly, so I won’t say it again.

My friends Alice and David will be going to the evening and taking photos and hopefully drinking too much.  I will be waiting in excitement to hear the outcome.

The reality is Tertia is an established blogger, book writer, and all around incredible woman.  She has not only been around the block, but she knows everyone on the block and well might have created the block as well.

I also acknowledge that I am officially the “great white hope” or the “total outsider” in this categroy, and losing out to her will not be a disgrace.

I will be very sad, desperately sad actually, and probably need an extra few Mojito to get me over the disappointing.  But I think drinks and a two hour back massage on the beach, should assist me in soldiering through this one.

The downside of Zanzibar is that I really do not like airplanes.  It is not the metal structure of the plane that is the problems, as much as the thought of me in them and them not quite making it to the other side.

Me – claustrophobic – in cramped economy seats.  Me with 2000 litres of highly-explosive jet fuel under my lady-bits.  Me with only a badly designed life jacket standing between me and shards of my body being strewn over the landscape.

I not only think the plane is going to crash, I am convinced of it, and then start to panic because I am the only person in the know.

When the drinks trolley shudders down the aisle I think it is going to knock a hole into the base of the plane and we are all going to die.  As happy as I am to see the drinks trolley, it does unfortunately cause me further stress.

If this trip is anything like the jaunt we did to Mozambique, the plane will be small, there will be some questionable repairs on it and the runway will be about the length of my driveway.  The plane will come in at an almighty speed, the pilot (licence gained via correspondence) will pull up the brake so hard that the entire plane will shudder.  We will slam into the runway, and know we have about 12 meters to stop before we run into the herd of cows peacefully grazing at the end of the stretch of tar.

I do drink Rescue, and then attempt to drink copious amounts of alcohol on board – even if it is the breakfast flight.  I live by the idea that in accidents, it is always the drunk person who walks away unharmed.

This morning in the shower I started thinking about what dying would do to the kids.  Not their dying, my dying.

When Kennith and I got married we drafted a new will and sorted out guardianship of the kids, so that did make me feel a bit better.  I must confess it did not make me feel any better about any of the flights, and I think I might have peed a bit at the thought, but I was in the shower, so who will know?

I am decidedly anxious today – I need to pack, and I need to hug and kiss the kids and leave them with a good impression of me in case I do not see them again.  Tricky to work out what you would say if it was the last time …. you can see why I am not the life of the party can’t you?

But if all goes well, I will have a great time, survive the trip, my luggage will arrive this time – however I did learn from my last experience and will pack my swimming costume, a sarong, change of underwear, toothbrush and hair conditioner in my carry on luggage.   Last holiday I ended up having to wear Kennith’s spare underwear!

I plan to buy a book in Johannesburg as I always do – a big fat period (as it Tudor, not menstruation) piece, so that will be my little present to myself – actually it will need to be Kennith’s present to me, as I am too broke to afford a book right now.

No blog updates this coming week I am afraid.

I will ask my mate Alice to post a comment update on this post with the results of Saturday -the Blog Awards, not my death – so if anyone is interested they can go along and take a look see.

Enjoy the long weekend, and travel safely if you are going away.

Good luck to moms and dads, I hope you survive the school holidays in tact!  Take comfort that it is much shorter than the June/July massacre we had to contend with.

Of eisteddfod and other brain numbing endevours ….

Yesterday I am sitting with Isabelle and Georgia in the tv room.

Georgia is colouring up a storm, and I asked her something about her picture.  Conversation finished I look back at the television to see if the teletubbies will actually just say good bye once without jumping out from behind the grass and going “uh-oh” for a change.

Georgia says – totally out of the blue: “I like to kiss boys!”

I go:  “What?”

She repeats: “I like to kiss boys!”

Of course I snigger and go: “I am sure your dad will love to hear that news, best you don’t tell him.”

So she goes: “I am a kissy-kissy girl,” and for effect says it twice.

Later the same evening, off to an eisteddfod prize-giving with Connor.

Which in short, is a very long hour of: children’s names being read out, kid comes up to the stage, faces the incorrect direction, is manually turned around by the teacher,  stares out at the audience as their name is repeated and it is announced what they did and their grade, kid smiles, shakes the hand of the certificate-giver and then goes to the end of the stage and waits for the rest of the kids.

Repeat this a few dozen times, and it is about as exciting as it was.

Once your child’s name is read out, your interests disappears totally.  It does not even taper off, it just evaporates instantaneously.

Our kid’s surname is very close to the beginning of the alphabet, so he is pretty much first up and from B through to the V’s is a very very long list – in a primarily Afrikaans school the names towards the end of the alphabet were rather numerous. I tried to read my book, but Kennith told me I was being very rude, and made me close it.

Kennith did come up with a good idea going forward, he suggested we pay the maid extra and get her to come and cheer for the kids next time.

I reminded Kennith that soon we will have two kids at this school and because one will be in junior phase, and the other in senior phase we will get to do EVERYTHING twice.

I decided not to make him aware that at some point we will have three kids at school and then well, we might just shoot ourselves or fake a heart attack to get out of these evenings.

Kennith looks at the programme and goes: “Connor is in Grade 2, right?”

My look sort of summed up that I really did not think he was being a very hands-on parent if he had no idea what grade his child was in.  However in his defense, he has no guarantee that Connor is his …. sorry, I was really bored, so my brain had started to stray.

I thought I would make idle chatter with Kennith as I was now past being rigor-mortis bored … and told him about what Georgia had said earlier in the evening.

To which Kennith responds in a hushed whisper which is always louder than you intend it to be : “You really should not encourage her with that sort of thing!”

Somehow something I am doing as a parent makes Kennith think that it is making Georgia a rampant boy-kisser on the playground.

Prize giving evenings are really slow and boring and you do feel an overriding urge to discourage your child from getting involved in these things to prevent you having to attend these evenings.  Maybe another reason why my “Best Parent of the Year” Award has been revoked!

The boogie man is going to get you ….

I am reading Jilliane Hoffman’s Pretty Little Things, and I am literally pooping in my pants as I get deeper and deeper into this book.  I brought it to work in case it got quiet and I could get through a few more pages – a girl can dream and all.

The short version (no spoiler alert here) of the story is that there is a serial abductor of young girls.  There is an investigator who has first hand experience as his daughter went missing/ran away 11 months earlier.

The serial abductors stalks his prey through the internet.  He uses a fake identity i.e. the image and details of the local jock, and then uses this to befriend girls on My Space or whatever social network is appropriate to the girl he is targeting.

Teenage girls are always going through some teenage angst where they hate their mother/father/brother/cousin and a good looking boy (an older man posing as a good looking seventeen year old) is always going to find a captive audience in an innocent thirteen year old girl (especially one whose parents just do not understand her.)

I am still reading it – but it has alerted me to the fact that predators no longer need to hang out at shopping malls to steal our kids.

Nope, they can march right into our child’s bedroom through whatever social networking site our child is using, and what is more we will pay for the bandwidth for them to do it.

The predator can then convince your child to willingly tell them everything about themselves, and the predator in question uses this information to lure the child in further.  If the idea of this did not make me so angry (and scared) I might even be impressed by how cunningly clever, and simple this plan was.

Then the predator, in some cases goes on to “willingly” coerce your child to present themselves to the pedophile in person at a location of their choosing.

I can honestly say I am not sleeping more soundly whilst reading this book.

I told Kennith about the book – as far as I had got in the story.

We both agreed that Connor shouldn’t go on line when we are not in the room on his Moshie Monsters game.

Moshie Monsters is a bit like social networking for young kids where Monsters (they design) are their avatars and they decorate their house and buy flowers – more innocent you can’t get.  But that being said, there is really very little stopping a creepy (and mildly creative) 45 year old man from logging on as a Monster, and saying he is 9 years old, and “befriending” my child and gleaning information from him.

Kennith and I are sort of looked at each other slightly wide-eyed, and wondering how we are going to deal with this going forward.  We want the kids to have computer/internet access, and we also do not want to sit next to them all the time while they are doing it, policing their every move.

The reality is becoming more obvious (and disturbing) that you no longer need a car and a bag of sweets to lure a child away from it’s parents/care givers.  All you need is internet access and a gullible innocent child and Bob’s your uncle on this one!

I am about ¾ of the way through the book – it is very good, maybe not the best I have ever read (that honour belongs to Michael Robotham with Shattered) but Pretty Little Things is good none the less.

I am not sure if we will be moving the computer into Connor’s room after reading this book.

The one thing I have realized is that neither Kennith nor I can risk technology getting ahead of us. We need to stay updated with social networking/facebooking/twittering/mix-it and every OMG and WTF – or whatever else is going to be available in the next 5 years.

We need to keep up what the kids are in to, and more importantly try to see the windows where other people can climb in to our kid’s bedrooms.  (listen, I find this entire subject as disturbing as you do, and I am freaking out as well …. )

There is no way we can sit and wonder where the hell it is all going, and why our kids can work the new iphone and we can’t set the clock on our eye level oven!

Unfortunately it is a whole new scary world out there, with real monsters that do wait under the beds.  As parents, we need to also realise it is an opportunist paradise for what can only be described as a “better off culled” part of our society.

I really am not going to be sleeping any better for the next twenty or so years.

You like me, you really like me …..channeling Sally Field

So today I woke up like an excited six year old at Christmas time.

I was really excited it was Monday – and it had nothing to do with going to work, or getting to see the sunny faces of my children – it had everything to do with whether I got shortlisted for the SA Blog Awards.

As much as I like to say I am a good sport, I am actually fiercely competitive, and always like to be in with a chance.

Kennith can testify to this – once he thought it might be a great family get together to do a FunWalk with the kids. What he did not realise is that I would turn it into a race.

I dragged poor Connor kicking and crying through the course.  I think at one point I might have started calling him names and suggesting that he was not man enough for this race (imagine mother poking fingers into son’s chest at about this point) ….  to which he reminded me through tears and snot that it was just a fun walk … no fun here mate, get your arse into gear and let’s beat the other kids!

Okay, so I am not the best at playing well with others, and that might explain my ability to spend a great deal of time with myself by myself.

But back to the focus of my frenzied excitement.

SA Blog Awards were going to short list today and I thought I would patiently wait until I got to the office to check the site.

It would seem that patience (adding it to the pile with good manners, mothering ability, ability to hold my tongue when speaking to bigots)  is not really something I have in buckets.

I started logging on via my phone while driving this morning … I felt a bit bad that I was using my phone whilst driving, but I put it down to an emergency of epic proportion.  If it makes you feel any better, I had dropped the kids off, and I was doing it while sitting at an intersection.

Phone found site, and then I squealed (should I appear less excited, is that the more done thing?)

http://www.sablogawards.com/Categories-2010/Top-Two-per-Category.aspx

I am really chuffed that I got to either be the winner or the first princess.  Of course the winner is better, but the first princess also gets to wear a crown and stand next to the big thrown and sort of lean forward to catch a bit of the spotlight that falls onto the winner … that will be me, sort of leaning forward to catch a bit of the light.  I may attempt to do a bit of photo bombing as well, let’s see how it goes.

So yay for the blog and congratulations to Tertia.  Super yay (said with a touch of a squeal) for all the votes and the very clever judges for voting – I realise I am sounding a little self-absorbed, but I am really very excited over here.

Thanks to everyone for voting and reading ….

<sidebar:  I took a bit of Mefilam this morning as we are off to Zanzibar on Friday.  As a result I am having symptoms of a mild psychotic episode.  That should be fun watching that develop through the day … at the office… with clients here… at the moment I have a very dry mouth and suddenly every sound is amplified and the office lighting is a touch too bright … my skin is also starting to feel mildly sensitive …. what fun today is turning out to be >

Puking is seldom fun ….

I almost forgot how much fun I had on Saturday night – it was a real humdinger but for some reason I seem to have blocked it out of my mind this week.

Coping mechanism no doubt.

Georgia (funny how she is featuring so much lately) comes into our room around 1am.  We are fast asleep and goes: “I need the toilet “ and then pukes on the floor.

She does however put her hand in front of her mouth so it spatters out between her fingers as she is heading towards our bathroom.

Again why she does not just go to the bathroom across from her room forever remains a mystery in our household.  She always asks for permission – which is endearing – however is less endearing at 3am as she leans over and whispers/shouts: “I need the toilet, can I go to your bathroom?”

So back to Saturday’s revelry.  Of course we scream – in unison –: “Bathroom, go the the bathroom!”

She goes, she throws up some more – some in the toilet, some not.

Kennith at this point has woken up, flicked on our overhead light and is standing in the corner like a scared three year old – the fact that he is naked is not doing him any favours.

Kennith cannot abide puke in any shape of form – he can swim in poo if he has to, but show him a speck of puke and he starts to blubber like the village idiot.

I look at him slightly annoyed while I clean puke off myself, off child, off toilet seat, off toilet wall, off toilet floor, off passage floor, off passage wall, off child’s bedroom floor, off child’s bedroom rug, out of child’s hair and a few splatters off bedroom door.

Child is all dressed anew, smelling mildly fresh.  I pack her off to bed, with a kiss on her forehead.

I get in to bed.  Throw the duvet with just a bit too much force over my bulk to show my irritation that Kennith, well, did nothing.  I close my eyes, make a little sighing sound and wait for slumber to appear.

Just before slumber appears, Georgia arrives for scene two (re-enacted, rather than any new features) … and pretty much goes through the same script, scene for scene.

Kennith is again in the corner – I have retained my part where I am cleaning up puke off various surfaces of the house.

It is all disturbing familiar.  All I am missing is the Sonny and Cher song playing in the background (reference kicks back to Ground Hog Day)

I am now a bit less amused than I was the first time, and am tiring of the role I have been cast in.

When aiming Georgia towards her bed this time – I decide to put a puke bucket next to her bed – well it is actually the mop bucket, but today it gets to be the puke bucket.

Georgia decides that scene three needs a go – this time before I had got myself into bed.

I must confess to losing out of the “Mom of the Year” Award at about this point.  I knew I was totally of of the competition when I heard myself screaming “for fuck sake, could you just puke INSIDE the toilet this time!!”

Any the who – once again I was scooping puke up – and redressing and … well you know how it goes as I have already covered this section earlier.

But I learn from experience, so I took Georgia, green bucket, puke towel and got into my bed with her.

Initially I miscalculated and thought the puking was all over and she can just sleep with us.  I put the puke bucket and the puke towel next to the bed within easy reach.

It is amazing the reflexes you possess – like crazy cat reflexes when a child in YOUR bed starts making that whoooggghhhh-whoooggghhhh sound.

Once she puked and we got that out of the way, I figured there was two ways to go about this for the balance of the evening.

I could either be up every 6 – 8 minutes with her retching over the toilet and me holding back her pigtails, or …. I could put the bucket in bed with us, with the puke towel and prop her up against me and sort of semi-sleep.

I went with that option as that way I could at least hope to get snippets of sleep.  When I thought I had it all taped, she decided to step the stakes up a bit.

She opted to throw in a bit of diarrhea for good measure.  There is a lot I can do in a bed armed with a puke bucket and towel, but catching diarrhea is not one of them.

Even with my incredibly proactive planning I was still up like a flipping yo-yo all night.

I must say it was challenging when she was poo’ing and puking at the same time.

The great thing about Georgia, is that even when she is sick, and retching into a bucket, she is still smiling at you and saying really sweet things.  Bless her cotton socks for being such a sweet little carrot.

Sunday she was pretty drained and lay around watching television most of the day.

I have no problem comforting a sick child at night, but the issue is the next day, the other well children do not acknowledge that you have had about 30 minutes sleep and let you take it easy … unfortunately not.

On the upside when Isabelle had an afternoon nap, we all had an afternoon nap, which was pure bliss.

So that is how we spent our Saturday night.  I can’t say that we are partying like it’s 1999 or anything over here.

<today is the last day to vote for the Blog Awards 2010 – please click on the icon on the right hand side to cast your vote>

Girls in cars …. praying

Yesterday on the drive home, Georgia pipes up from the back seat that I need to turn the radio off.  When I ask why, she says that she needs to pray.

Georgia has never struck me as uber-religious, but who am I to stand in the way if a little girl wants to have a chat with her creator?

So music goes off and from the back of the car I hear (add a lisp and a small speech impediment for effect):

“Thank you God for my mommy …

Thank you God for my mommy’s mommy …

Thank you God for my mommy’s mommy’s tummy …

Thank you God for my mommy’s mommy’‘s tummy where my mommy Celeste was…

Thank you God for my mommy’s tummy where Connor, Isabelle and me lived …

Thank you God for my mommy named Celeste ….

Thank you God for the pretty houses made of bricks …

Thank you God for the animals on the farm ….

Amen”

Down to the wire …

Second last day of voting for South Africa Blog Awards today … if you can please click on the icon on the right hand side of page to cast you vote – votes close tomorrow, so one vote today and one vote tomorrow and then … well… the fat lady has sang as they say.

Sometimes your decisions are not yours to make ….

So last night Kennith asked me what was wrong.

He noticed I just was not “there” – and he wanted me to explain to him why I was feeling a bit down/low/removed.

I answered that I really do not know, but I might have lied.

It was not a hard lie, it was more of an untruth, as I had not allowed myself the time and space to really think about why I was feeling to “just not there.”

About two weeks ago Kennith and I had a conversation.  We really need to stop having conversations in the kitchen.  They just never go well.  When ever we have a conversation with a fluorescent light above our heads, it normally ends in my crying or me being really angry.

Kitchen = not great places if someone starts with “we need to talk…”

Without dragging it out, as only I can do, the short of it is that Kennith wants me to stop with any ideas/further motion that surround surrogacy/adoption/fourth child or anything that can be related to these issues – in a nutshell – as some would say.

I stood there and took congnisense of what he was saying and really nothing he said could be argued against with logic.

However that did not make me feel any better.

I immediately started to feel like an insolent six year old who was being told off by her father and being warned that behavior in this regard would not be further tolerated.

Kennith however was very calm – some may say calculated – and stated his facts cleanly and without emotion – some may say coldly.  His case was crystal clear “there is no benefit to us as a family unit, and the risks are too large” so cease and desist.  Okay, he did not actually say cease and desist, but you get the gist.

I was immediately angry/disappointed/crushed/emotionally bereft – in equal and immeasurable quantities – that what I wanted to do was being controlled/stopped by someone else when I felt totally different.  (listen we can labour the point of the family unit and how we are all one and all the crap later ….)

I realized that there was no point in making a further case for any of these issues, as Kennith had already made up his mind.  His were logical reasons while mine were purely emotional.

He had not made up his mind in a rash moment of anger, or because the day had been a bad one.  He had given it thought, and weighed the issues up and decided that he wanted to tell me how he felt – and decided that the kitchen was a good place and the timing was just right.

Unfortunately it was a bit (well very actually) too crushing for me and I was unable to respond in an effective or emotionally mature manner.

When I feel “attacked” or “under threat” I immediately start to “baton down my hatches,” so to speak – and retreat into myself.  I chose to say as little as possible, because I felt I was screaming inside and that never translates well in adult conversation.

I know that nothing will be gained by swearing and screaming and fighting against the decision.

I know that nothing will be gained by drafting a funky presentation using Photoshop and PowerPoint to dazzle him.

I know there is nothing to be gained by falling on the floor and begging and pleading whilst I hold on to his pant’s leg and cry in a loud whining voice.

There is nothing to be gained.

There is nothing to be gained no matter what I do.

There is nothing to be gained so I feel ineffective, useless and just a little bit (very) crushed.

There is nothing to be gained so I feel resentful and angry and hurt.

I realise that my reaction is probably not the most mature.

I realise that my reaction will only further alienate Kennith.

I realise that there is nothing to be gained from feeling like I do, and by not just getting over it.  But there is nothing to be gained.

I realise all of this, but I still feel like ..

I am just not ready to hear the no, when in actual fact it is resounding, I am not ready to give up, but I must or I will drive myself to distraction, and hate Kennith for it.  I am angry that I do not get to make this decision by myself (insert angry six year old girl stamping her foot here).  I am angry, I am hurt, I am disappointed, I am angry, I am so very very angry, I am so very very hurt…

Will I recover?  Of course, don’t we all recover eventually given enough time.

How long do I need?  Not sure, really not sure today, but tomorrow or next week is another day, but I am just one of those that do not bounce back quickly ….

Some plans just do not work …

I took my youngest daughter along to a crèche this week.

I want to enroll her in January/February, but there have been some instances this year when our nanny was not available and I was put into what would only be called a stressful situation because I did not have a Plan B.

I get very stressed without a Plan B through F.

I opted to investigate Plan B which was to look at a crèche and maybe take her every Wednesday.  I figured she would get used to it, I would get used to it, and I would have a fall back plan in the event of something happening.

All seems like a good plan. Isabelle has been there once when I needed them as a Plan B and it was okay.

This week I decided to start the every Wednesday thing.

I already got anxious on Tuesday during the day.  Tuesday night I was feeling quite edgy.  Wednesday morning I was thinking this is not a good idea, but decided to put my head down and just get on with it – wearing my big girl panties and all.

Wednesday morning arrived, I got her ready.  But my heart really was not into it.

I kept thinking that I really do not want to be doing this – I really do not want to do this.  But I convinced myself that I need to act like an adult and just get on with it, and she would be fine.

Got her to the class – I was still really not happy with the idea.

I sat with her on the mat.  It was breakfast time so a little chaotic and there were all these babies and these two helpers were trying to do breakfast.  Shoveling drippy runny porridge into a group of babies is not my idea of a good time, and clearly did not fill them with the joy of life either.

The thing that disturbed me the most – and there were several things that disturbed me. There was a little girl who was at that point where she could crawl on her tummy but could only go backwards.

So she had gone backwards and was now stuck in a corner.  She was very sweet in her pink onesie, but sort of stuck there.  No one was helping her out of the corner as they were busy with the other kids.  She swung between crying sadly and smiling at me – it was torture to watch.

There was another little baby who was on her tummy, and could not roll over  – and she was also getting a bit distressed, and no one was helping her.

I sat on the mat with Isabelle – more for my comfort than hers – and looked out at all of this.  The more I sat there, the more distressed I got.

At one point I started to pat Isabelle’s hand.  I think I needed someone to pat my hand and tell me that it was going to be alright, because it really wasn’t.

I looked at what to me looked like baby-daycare-hell and then I thought “okay I need to leave her..”

I picked up my key, and stood up.  Then she looked at me, her eyebrow got a little crease, she looked at me, pulled her toy-doggy closer to her chest, and pushed her thumb further into her mouth.

I said “love you foofy-noof” and made to leave …. Isabelle looked at this, looked over at the other kids, looked back at me and then the crease in her forehead deepened.

I backed away further.  She assessed her surroundings, and sucked her thumb harder.

I got the to the gate and clicked it open – her eyes darted to me –now fully assessing exactly what was happening and put her head back and released the silent scream.

It’s that scream of anguish before the god-awful blood curdling scream that you know is coming.

And I left ….

The entire day I kept telling myself that this was a hugely shit idea and I need to go back and get her.  Then my other voice-of-reasoning  told me she is fine, and not to worry.  She will make friends and I will arrive and realise I over reacted and she had a great old day.

In the late afternoon  they combine the children that are left in the baby class with the children who are in the toddler class.  They move the babies over to the toddler class as both groups get really small.

When I got there, Isabelle was lying on the green mat by herself with tears streaming out of her eyes and down her cheeks – she was sobbing … all alone …. on the green flipp’n mat.

The first thing I noticed (beside her being alone, on her back, on the green mat, and crying her eyes out) was that her little toy dog – which is like her Linus blanket – was in another room.

Isabelle needs this little dog to comfort herself.  When ever she is distressed she rubs the little doggy’s ear, sucks her thumb and then feels better.  It is her little thing, and I had explained this to the class teacher.

So there my poop was all alone, crying her eyes out and no doggy in site.

The helper/assistant/satan’s maid servant returned to collect the last baby and then left the room, without so much as a backward glance at me or my destroyed child – no comment or mention that the day clearly was a shocker.

I scooped up my lump of sobbing flesh, gave her doggy to her, put all her stuff into her bag and left the crèche.

They can keep my damn money.  There is no way I will be darkening their door again. Isabelle can remain at home with Pepe and she can remain at home next year too – fek this as a plan.

I do not care if Pepe is off ill or otherwise detained.  I will just take time off work, but there is no way I am putting her into that school.

Kennith ever the economist said “well, you will save yourself +R1 300.00 per month” – then he realized that money saving was not quite the motivation here and quickly added “she is fine at home and also has the company of the other two kids in the afternoon, she will be fine, leave her at home.”

So that is that then – I am officially shelving any ideas to get her into a pre-school/crèche/caring facility and will leave her at home with Pepe indefinitely.

I do not recall being this traumatized when I took the other two to school, but I can honestly say I was totally distraught and I hate crechés/day care for babies.

Right now I am not ready for her to go to school and well that is pretty much that then … and because I am the mommy I get to make this decision, so yay for me!

The importance of keeping your nose clean ….

I appreciate that I worry about things that other moms probably have not even thought about.  It is part of my rather quaint/annoying personality make-up.

I am a natural worrier and, I find tremendous comfort when I can find something to fret about.

If I am not worrying, then I worry because I think I am missing something and not worrying sufficiently.  Instinctively I go and look for the thing to worry about and then take comfort in the worry as I now have my thing.

Listen, I totally understand how ludicrous this sounds, but this is my reality.

Sidebar:  Connor had huge ENT issues as a baby/toddler.  If there was an operation or something to be done around ENT, we have done them or done a course of treatment.  Me and the ENT doctor were tight.  Connor still has a tendency to have a nose bleed on most days – it sometimes gushes and scares the crap out of onlookers.  He also tends to often have a gummy nose that needs to be cleaned out rather than just wiped.

The morning routine for Connor, besides the getting dressed and eating breakfast is – brush hair, brush teeth, clean out nose, get school bag and get into the car.

I often realise when we get in the car that one of the above has been missed.

This morning I called for a quick check before I left the house and realized he still had a rather unattractive nose thing going on.

He said he had done it. I argued as the evidence showed otherwise.

I took him to the bathroom and did it for him, explaining that doing it was not enough, he had to do it properly.  I got annoyed that he did not do it, and got further annoyed that he did not realise the implication if he continued to go to school with his nose looking like it does.

We got into the car for a school drive and I thought I would share my concerns with him.

I also do realise that sometimes I am a bit “heavy” for my eight year old, but I prefer to err on the side of caution with him.

I explained to Connor that school is actually a really difficult place, and gets more difficult as the years roll on.

(I do take cognizance that Connor in general is a good looking kid.  He is tall, blonde, blue eyed and has attractive features – so nothing in his outer countenance creates any ridicule for him.  He is very friendly and has a good social network, so with that in mind he is not starting off too badly.  He is friends with the big kid, the small kid and all the kids in between.)

Kids are cruel by nature – and will gang up against someone they assume to be weak, or if “that” child has something wrong/different about them.  Especially if “that” child is drawing attention to themselves in a negative manner or even in a positive manner, that somehow erks the group.

On my explaination, Connor said: “Like a weak animal in a herd?”

Me: “Yes exactly like that…”

I continued to exlain that kids, by nature, will band together against a kid who is “different” or “has something that the group perceives is wrong/different about them.”

Kids will often form a bully group, which will push “that” child out of the group – sometimes the entire group will participate, or it might be one or two bullies.  But the group will often quietly stand by and not defend “that” child.

In theory the group will leave “that” child on the outskirts where he will then be an outsider.  He risks being further bullied because now he will be perceived as weak or an outcast, by passing bullies.

I did say that though Connor’s school is really good at kerbing bully behavior and in general the kids are nice, but he must be aware that bullying does occur.

It happens quickly and can go on far after the “thing” kids are picking on has been stopped or has gone away.  That stigma – will follow “that” child for years and make their life more difficult than it already is.

Connor cannot control what another child does, but he can control what he does and how he contributes to a situation.

I stressed that I never want to hear that he is a bully or that he is being mean to another child.  But I did say that he needs to be protect himself that he does not become the target of a bully or the group.

If he has a runny gummy nose, does he not think that sooner or later someone is going to turn around and say something mean?  Then if one person says something mean, then another person may say something mean.  Then the next thing he may be sitting with a crowd of bullies who are picking on him for something he cannot control.

I reiterated that he really cannot control what they do – but what he can control, is that he goes to the bathroom in the morning and makes sure he cleans out his nose.  Then at least twice during school he goes to the bathroom and does the same.

I tried to make my point by saying: “Please do not give bullies a reason to pick on you!”

I realise I might be acting a little bit over zealous in this regard, but I remember how bad school was.

It was really sh*t for kids who did not fall into the mainstream pile and who had anything wrong/different about them.  There was always one kid per class who was the butt of every joke and who was always ridiculed.

I do not want Connor to be “that” kid.

I do not want it to be your kid either – but my control can solely relate to my kid and what he does.  If I can keep him from being “that kid” well then I am going to start doing it now, and it might just be something as small as him having a gummy nose.

“That” kid always exists, and I cannot remember one year of school where there was not a child who got picked on.

Fortunately I was never “that” kid either.  I gave daily thanks that it was not me who was having to come to school each day, and have my life further complicated because I was the butt of the job or the runt of the class.

Connor watches National Geographic and it is easy to explain “pack mentality” to him as he sees it in wild life on the shows that he watches.

It is not a foreign concept as it happens in nature – naturally, but clearly with dire side effects.

Today I used the example of a wounded buffalo in a herd – the herd will start to ostracize the buffalo because it is slowing them down, or drawing attention to them as they try to move past a group of predators.

The herd will slowly push the wounded buffalo to the outskirts of the herd, making it harder for the sick buffalo to keep up with the herd.  Sooner or later the lion/bully is going to come along and start to look at the herd and go “well, who is easy pickings here” and who do you think they will pick?

Probably not the buffalo who is running in the pack – it will probably be the sick/ostracized buffalo is probably going to be the one who is taken.

I realise I may be offending many by trying to keep my son safe and telling him to just blend into the herd.

I do want my child to stand out for things and be unique – but he needs to first learn how to run with the pack first and understand and appreciate the workings of a herd – let’s call it social EQ for argument sake.

Once he has figured out those dynamics then he can start to stretch his “uniqueness” to run ahead or stand out.

Today he needs to just get the crap off his nose …..

What are the signs of a drinking problem…

There you are happily drinking your wine on a Friday night.  You pour the last glass, so you throw the box into the kitchen bin.

Yes, I do realise how trailer-park that sounds.

I am not going to start defending myself because I drink wine from a box, as really there is no defense other than it stores nicely and decants easily.

Kennith also bought the box for me, so it is very special and dear to my heart. Combined with the fact that I also have rather low standard when it comes to wine.

So I just finished the glass … as you do … it always come as a surprise as you reach for your glass, throw it back and realise it is empty … it is always a shock to me.

I thought to myself … I wonder if there is a new bottle in the fridge …then I thought, I did not actually squeeze the bag out … I just assumed it was empty and tossed it.

Parked my dignity.

Walked down to the kitchen.

Retrieved the box from bin.

Cut open cardboard, took out silver bag, gave it a good squeeze and for all my effort got about 12ml of wine and a “poof” of air… it really is a sad day over in my neck of the woods.

Sidebar:  I did google alcohol abusers versus alcoholics earlier this week.  I got really excited when I realised that I do not really match the traits of an alcohol abuser.  But then a bit depressed when I realised I matched a few too many of the traits of an alcoholic …. yikes …. still does not solve my box problem though ….

Wordless Friday …. doesn’t have as good a ring does it?

I am not one for just posting just an image as a blog post – but I got this image this morning from my friend Robby and I just thought, dang, I wish I had thought of that.

I must dig up a picture I have of Connor (this is not him above in case you are wondering) and he is sleeping on a table as new born babies do.  I am sitting there smiling all motherly into the camera.  When you look at the photo you realise we are in a pub and there are masses of cans and bottles all around him and there he is fast asleep amongst all of this and on a slightly less than sanitary table.

Not quite material for the “best mother” award, but there we go.

Girls in cars …..

After all my screaming , effing and blinding about brushing teeth, hair, getting school books, shoes, juice bottles, we finally fall into the car.

I manage to reverse out of the garage, and remember to open the electric garage first – it’s a small thing, but quite critical when one thinks about the things that could get your day off to a good start.  Its all in the timing.

I look at Connor’s hair and realise that the guy has not actually brushed his hair.  I REMINDED HIM THREE TIMES THIS MORNING – THREE FEKN TIMES!

I totally go off – – I am exhausted at chasing the kids in the morning to get stuff done, only to find that they get in the car and half of it has not been done.  Short of actually brushing their hair, brushing teeth, wiping their arses, and dressing them myself – really surely they must do something for themselves?

I pulled the car to the side of the road in a rather exaggerated manner to show my frustration.

I proceeded to yell at them – much to the amusement of the man walking past at the time.  I threatened them with all sorts of stuff – including leaving them at home next time this happens.  I warned them that this was OFFICIALLY THE LAST TIME, and this was the LAST warning.

I knew that this would make Connor think that he was going to get a free day to watch DSTV and play computer games.

I cut that one off at the pass.  I said that if I left them at home, I would be calling their dad, who would have to leave work, drive home to come and fetch them and HE could take them to school.

I warned the kids that if they thought me screaming was bad, then they had no idea what their father will do. (I like to use Kennith as the threat I can bring in when all else fails.)

I did exaggerate a bit and used very colourful language that probably was not appropriate for a 8 and a 5 year old.

I ended it with a very mean look around the car to ensure that the words were being understood – I also screamed DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME – in a rather shrill tone.  I put my indicator on, and pulled back into the traffic and tried to take three deep breaths.

Georgia always asks who I am dropping off first – I always drop Connor off first – but she asks the same question every day without fail – her little OCD thing.

Because she had asked and I had been such a mean mom, I thought I would make a change and instead of turning right to Connor’s school I turned left to Georgia’s school, so she would be dropped off first.

You know what they say about hell, good intentions and paving?

Georgia went off her head.  It was like I had just murdered Barbie and Ken in some gruesome family double murder.  She was screaming and really crying with tears streaming out of her big hazel eyes – streaming!

Some how I managed to keep the car on the road, and not veer into on-coming traffic.  Through the piercing screams of a five year old girl, I heard that she wanted me to drop Connor off first as she liked to talk to me in the car alone.

I thought about it and realized that when Connor is in the car, she does not say anything.  As soon as I leave Connor at school, then she starts to chatter.  I did not realise it was something she thought about or enjoyed, I just took it as part of the way it is.

On hearing Georgia’s protests, I decided – and partly because the screaming was quite convincing – to do a u-turn and go and drop Connor off.

Connor who does not really need an opportunity to speak, as he totally dominates the conversation no matter who is in the room, looks at her rather quizzically and says: ‘What are you going to talk to mommy about?”

Georgia, without hesitation goes:”Wild animals…”

And then proceeds to look out of the window staring at the trees.

I drop Connor off, and we say our good byes.

I pull out of the school parking lot on the way to Georgia’s school and she says: “You know mommy, I really like you!”

It was a very sweet drive, and she did not speak about wild animals once.  Maybe I need to start paying more attention to the alone time I spend with my little girl, and just make more opportunities to do it.  I like that she likes me ….

Fairly good parents …..

I am sitting trying to watch the Dog Whisperer – I feel if this guy can train dogs without screaming at them, I can learn some good tips from him and amend them slightly to train my kids.

The Dog Whisperer with Cesar Millan is really a brilliant show, I sort of stumbled on it, and thought this guy – he is the sh*t.

He speaks a lot about the energy you bring to the situation and that dogs can pick up on that.

I really like his move where he taps the dog in the ribs and the dog practically turns to jelly.  It just stops doing what ever it was doing – or even thinking about doing.  Cesar does not even raise his voice – he also does not attempt to break the rib – he just taps the dog like “remember, I am watching you…”

I have never watched him threaten a dog, or do anything remotely raise-your-eyebrow – I gotta get me some Cesar training – so I am trying to mimic a Hispanic man with slightly grey hair who is about 1.65 metres tall and speaks in even metered tones …. the challenges we set for ourselves!

There I am watching a bit of television and trying to keep Isabelle out of the cat food.  Georgia is drawing on her rather large sheet of paper that her favourite dad bought her.

Georgia says: “What is that hat that Jesus wears called?”

Georgia is known for asking the oddest questions at the strangest times.  The other day she said: “What is your mommy’s mommy’s name?” which had absolutely NO bearing on what we were doing or talking about at the time.

Back to Georgia’s headwear question.

I was initially a bit puzzled as Georgia has a speech impediment and Jesus sounds like Bejeshush or something similar.

I do speak (almost) fluent Georgia so I got the question, but then I thought “Hat, what hat?”

She then started to do a bit of a mime indicating what she meant –clearly she was referring to the ring of thorns that has become a rather popular image when JC is depicted.  So I thought well then I have to explain thorns and bleeding, so I opted for: “It’s called a crown.”

She seemed reasonably satisfied and called me a clever-mommy.  I went back to television – see this parenting this is dead easy.

Georgia: “Mommy, does Jesus have fairy godparents?”

Talk about a question right out of left field.  I do have some religious issues that I am working through, so I really find this a difficult subject to deal with when I speak to my kids.  I never want to lie to them about religion.  But at the same time I do not want to turn them into agnostics either ….. well then be if they want, but it must be their choice, not because I am all I-have-not-made-up-my-mind-and-stuff, but I digress….

Me: “Er….. I am pretty sure he doesn’t.”

Georgia sits there for a  while and ponders this problem.

Georgia:”Mommy I think he does, so I am going to draw him with fairy godparents.”

How does one even begin to go into a discussion with a  five year old about Jesus and God and where fairy godparents come into the equation.

I decided to opt instead to make the volume on the television louder to avoid any further uncomfortable discussion about religion, small elf people and why Jesus’ fairy godparents did not help me out of what really was a rather grim situation.

Life’s little lessons ….

Connor and me driving home from school on Friday.

Connor: “There is a boy in my class, he is not in my class, he is in the other English class, and he was born deaf.”

Me: “Really?”

Connor: “But he had an operation and there is this thing inside his head and then there is this thing stuck here behind his ear and now he can hear. He has an operation – but it was a really expensive operation, but he can hear.”

Me: “It is called a cochlea implant and it is an expensive operation, but isn’t it wonderful that he can hear?”

Connor: “Mmmmm …. but it is so expensive that not everyone can afford it.  What about the poor kids who are born deaf who cannot have an operation because it costs too much money?”

Me – choking back a lump in my throat: “Yes my boy…”

Connor: “It really is not fair … “

Me – a little tear escapes from my eye and travels down my cheek… “Huh-huh…”

Connor: “But life is not fair is it?”

I am convinced that Connor is an old soul trapped in an eight year old boy’s body ….

Santa Shoe Box Project

This is such a cool campaign – really easy to take part and do something small for a needy child this holiday season.  The website is easy and efficient and the most difficult part is trying to “choose” a child to donate to.

I have my list – one child gift box from every member of the family – please go along and register it is really really easy and such a good thing and you really do not have to do much to make a difference – even if it is just a tiny difference.

I get all sad and weepy if I think that there is a child who does not get to open a gift on Xmas day – so this is a really nice campaign – give us much or as little as you can.  Get your kids to decorate the shoe boxes.

Please visit www.santashoebox.co.za and click to join.

Chariots of Fire ….

(This post was meant to go up on Friday, but following a series of unfortunate events, it only was posted today…)

I seldom look at myself in wonder, but today was one of those days.

This morning I got out of bed at 04h35 – it was not because a child was sick, or someone had wet their beds or because my waters were breaking.

I got up to slip myself into my rather fabulous camel-toe lycra pants, pulled on a comfortable yet support-offering bra.  Added to this little fashion statement was my bright green long sleeve running shirt (I know it is amazing what a person possesses who actually does not do any exercise what so ever – amazing stuff).

Clipped a light to my forehead.  Strapped a Garmin Forerunner thing on my arm and went to meet my new running buddy Alice for a little run.

Granted when she opened her door, and stepped out she looked at me with an expression that could only be interpreted as “what the fek are we thinking…”  But then off we skipped for our little walk/run/stumble.  We did a good hour of sweating and panting and felt like we had conquered the universe single handedly.

I got home and everyone was still asleep – and it was still dark!!

I have NEVER got out of bed by choice – EVER!  So besides being impressed by my ability to do something vaguely exercise related, the fact that I had to leave my warm and snuggly bed to do it, needs an award in it’s own right.

I got home, took a bath – I even made Kennith coffee.  I know the wonders just do not cease in this post.

I checked kids were up and getting ready for school.  I picked out some pretty clothes for Georgia as it was casual day.  I was so the mom from The Brady Bunch … I am sure I heard the theme song in the background.

I headed out the door with my Earl Grey tea in hand on my way to meet Vera – she of hair ripping fame.

Alice had in fact given me two Syndol that I did chew back about 45 minutes before, so all clean, shiny and drugged I was off to meet the infamous Vera.

Vera was all happy – I was all suspicious.  I was nervous she was going to hurt me, so I started to babble uncontrollably – I do this when I start to feel threatened.

I decided to relinquish control of all things body hair to Vera.

I said: “Why don’t I get undressed, I will lie on the bed with a pillow over my face to smother the screams and you can do what ever you think needs to be done.  The less you tell me the better … how does that sound to you?’

Vera said: “Okay, but how much do you want me to leave on?”

Me: “Let me leave that decision to you – I will not ask what you are doing, and I will not tell you what to do – let me just lie here and act like I am somewhere else, and let’s see how it goes.”

And well, off it went.  Vera worked like a bomb – I think she started with a set of boundaries, but then abandoned them at some point.

There were no social boundaries – and absolute no nook or cranny that Vera did not find.

She EVEN waxed my arms – hairy gorilla arms solved.  I did not realise the problem could go away that quickly.  I cannot tell you how elated I am.

At one point when she was spreading my butt-cheeks I did feel like I was in a scene from Prison Break, but seriously when I say that was the least of the “body invasion” moments I really mean it was the LEAST OF THE PROBLEMS I had to face.

I do not want to lie to you – it was not the best most fun morning I have ever had, it definitely hurt a bit, but it was not as bad as I anticipated.  Vera left me with two eyebrows (also waxed into shape) and the hair on my head.

I think I have found my new BFF ……. when I tell Kennith about my waxing experience, his question was “Did she wax your back?”

WTF?

Seriously that was his question … now I am embarrassed that I have a hairy back when I did not realise that was even an issue.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair ….

I have mentioned before that I have some strong genetic links to a hobbit. I have little tufts of hair on my fingers, my toes and other parts of my body that are best not mentioned.

I also hate shaving, not just a bit, but really a lot.  I just do not have the time.  The odds of me in a leisurely shower taking time to shave is pretty much non-existent, I can count the times on my one hand when I have had a bath alone in the last two months, so shaving is an event in my house.

Part of the reason that I really do not make the time, is that it a pointless exercise for me.  If I shave now, by tomorrow morning I will have stubble, and by tomorrow evening full 5 o’clock shadow across my legs and other regions.

I cannot quite express how bad the situation is, without showing you pictures – and even I realise in doing that will be crossing a line that neither of us will be able to return from.

Though the hair on my head if reasonably light, the hair on my body has a distinct Mediterranean feel about it.  The only redeeming characteristic is that I do not have hair on my back.  One sometimes has to be reminded of the small things to be thankful for.

To cut a long story short, I am over the idea of shaving, and have opted out of it for a bit now.

It does nothing for me and actually just wastes my time. I have chosen to live a non-shaved life for about a month plus.  It has had limits on my wardrobe and I live in fear of being involved in some sort of traffic accident and them taking me to hospital, while I am unconscious.

At least if I was conscious I would be able to explain why my bikini area looks the way it does, but lying there immobile, is not going to do me any favours and I know there will be photos on YouTube with captions.

Once the hair situation gets to a certain level, you really do start caring less, because it just is so ridiculous and you realise the time it is going to take to shave through the forest you have cultivated.

I went for a run/stumble last night.  Kennith asked me if I experienced much wind resistance as he looked at the mountain gorilla hair on my legs.  My leg hair was sort of curling over my socks – even with my rather low standards, I realise that is not something that should be allowed.

I was hoping to just stop caring, but I am not quite there yet – so all is not lost quite yet.

I have an appointment with Vera for tomorrow morning at 7am.  So while you are snuggly wrapped up in your duvet, or having your first bowel movement of the morning, think of me as Vera stands and pours hot wax on my nether regions and pulls it out.  Hair, roots and all, with all her might.

My friend Alice has been trying to convince me to have a Brazilian (the wax, rather than a person who was birthed in Brazil) and have Vera do it.  Alice suggested taking two Syndols and I would not feel anything.  I am sure even after two Syndols I will feel someone taking the hair by the roots outta my crack, unless Syndols have got really good lately.  But with that in mind, I will stop and grab a crate after fetching kids from school this afternoon.

I got strangely suspicious of Vera as she appeared to get more excited the more I explained how much hair I have.  But I made the appointment and there we are – I am already getting all nervous.  I know there is going to be crying and screaming.

I can’t promise you before and after photos – though I am tempted to do them.  I might not even blog tomorrow as I may need to be hospitalized for trauma, but that is what I have planned for 7am tomorrow morning.

What have you got on?