I really hate stick figure families

Do you drive around and see cars with the stupid little “family” stickers on the back window?

A saw a comment on a website recently and thought it was apt: “I see those little white family stickers everywhere…nothing like letting the robbers/kidnappers/child molesters know exactly how many little boys and girls are at your home and whether or not you have a dog for protection or not…how stupid is that! Why not just send them an engraved invitation..”

I really find them quite naff.  I am not suggesting you get a butter knife and go outside and scrape them off your back window, you did not put them on for me, you put them on because you thought they were cool.

I think if I saw one or two of them then they would be novel, but the moment they are selling at every stationery store within a 10km radius is when you realise they are about as original as fuzzy dice.

I am so over the “dad” braaing and the “mom” shopping … I really do not like them.  I don’t hate them, but I think they are a bit naff.  Like mullets are very naff, and home perms are very naff — so that gives you a loose scale of comparison.

Other things I find make me throw up in my mouth a little bit are:

  1. Women who call their husbands “hubbie” – is this so the husband can call them “wifie?”  The phrase that usually tips me over the edge is “Let me just check with my Hubby…” For goodness sake get a vocabulary, or speak like an adult.
  2. When a pregnant person refers to themselves as being preggies or preggers …. really does it take too long to say “pregnant” ?
  3. LOL – I do think that LOL is sort of over.  It has been done, enough – I am at the point where I see a LOL and a cringe a little.  I perceive it a bit like farting in public.  Okay by accident, but if you start doing it to punctuate sentences then your social skills need some serious attention.  Let’s try and use all our consonants and vowels next time.
  4. Personalised baby on board stickers – please shoot me now.  I seriously want to run up to people who think that their baby is the “one true ruler of the universe” and smack them.  Hard.  With my Pick ‘n Pay grocery bag.
  5. We all know how I feel about smiley face icons – or sad faced icons ….. stop, stop, stop using them for the love of gd!!
  6. People who use the phrase “breast is best” and stand there and sing about how wonderful a bonding experience breast feeding is.  Usually oblivious to another mom who is  standing nearby who has been through hell and back trying to breast feed, and it did not turn out to be “best”.  Breast is great, but it is not the only viable option, and lauding your stupid tag line over mothers who have struggled makes them feel pretty shit.  Do you think tweaking the “breast feeding is best” mom’s nipples until they bleed would be too kind a gesture?
  7. People who stop their entire lives when they have a baby.  Everything is about “their angel” sleep time, or nap time, or bath time or what ever the fk time. Get a life.  People have children on the way to the field that they plough, and then continue to plough the field.  Get a grip, get a life, the world he does not stop because you have ejected a human being from your vagina.
  8. Moms who are constantly crooning about how wonderful thier child is, and special and just needs us to coo along.  Most times these kids are dead average, and in a sweet way, but the mom feels she must gloat when her child brings home an attendance certificate.  When did we become so enamoured by mediocrity – by telling our kids they are so fkn wonderful all the time, for every little thing, does not only build thier self esteem, it also starts to give them an unreal perception of reality.

Okay that is my rant – it really was just aimed at those stupid stick people stickers, but then got it’s own momentum.

You know how it is.

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Moms who search for Stuff … for other people ….

I spend my days finding things for other people.

My favourite is when the conversation follows this thread.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: Here it is ………

The two possible (and most likely) responses:

Child: Thanks Mommy!!! Thanks ….

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

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

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Mom, what’s a lesbonian?

I listen to 567 CapeTalk when I drive.

Today I collect Georgia and Connor and while we are in the car, there is a discussion on the radio about Phumeza Nkolonzi, 22, who died after an unknown gunman kicked in the door to her home in the Cape Town township of Nyanga and opened fire three times in silence.

The term Lesbian was used, and I hear Connor’s cogs in his head turning over and processing the word.

As predicted he turns to me and goes: “Mom what’s a Lesbonian?’

This was the juncture that all parents reach, when you are going to cross “that final threshold…” from which you can never return – the entire ToothFairy and Santa Claus fantasy is over, we have moved straight on to se.x.

I let a few moments go by – primarily to steele myself for this momnt – decided I would go with the simple explanation, instead of trying to soften the blow and go into a long story.

Me: “Lesbians are girls who have sex with girls ….. like a boy has sex with a girl …. but a lesbian does not feel like that about a boy, she feels like that about a girl, and that is a Lesbian…understand?”

Connor: “Yes…… <and then the little hamster is running in his head and the next question comes> …… how does that work, girls have inside bits …. <and he makes the shape you would make if you were showing someone a cup shape with your thumb and middle finger..>

I glance at him – I am on the N1 at this stage, negotiating traffic …..so now he has figgered out the two inny bits …. so he goes “how does that work …… what are they going to put in there …..”

Me: “What do you think?”

Connor: “Fingers?”

Me: “Sure, that can work…”

Connor takes this information aboard and I explain how girls have sex with girls, and that is referred to as a lesbian, and if a boy has sex with a boy it is referred to as homosexual or gay.  And then I go on to explain that people love who they will love, and if they are a girl and they do not feel those feelings for a boy, and feel that way for a girl, then that is fine.

Connor: “Boys have outside bits <he indicates that with his two pointy-peter fingers…and I can see him trying to work this out> and where do things go in…they don’t have an in part..?”

Again, this is a juncture that all parents must get to with their children – I am glad this one is officially behind me.  Your turn is coming, so brace yourself.

Either you cross this bridge with your child now and discuss it honestly or start pointing at the sky randomly to try to distract your child and say you are sure you just saw Superman.

I chose to blunder ahead.

Me: “Okay, so where do boys have an inside bit?”

Connor: “Er ……….their bum???”

Me: “Yep that could work …….”

Connor: “Gross….”

Me: “My boy, that is the way it is, girls love girls, and boys love boys, and boys and girls love each other too. You love fishing, no one makes you love fishing you just do.  And your sister loves Smurfs.  Nothing I say or do is going to make the two of you not love those things, we all love differently.  As long as you are true to yourself and not hurting anyone, then you are free to love who you want.”

Connor – nodding as the fishing analogy is hitting a spot for him.

This awkward moments parenting is what parenting is about.  I realise this conversation might repulse people and make people angry who are against homosexuality, and I get that.

I understand the biblical message that explains the “religious” stance on this, but I am not teaching my child a religious or belief exercise here.  That is a seperate discussion, at another time.

I want him to be accepting, and I would rather him have frank conversations with me about what he hears and thinks, than him finding this out via another route.

Connor’s other winner question from last week after he saw one of those flag advertising behind an aeroplane was: “Mom, whats MAVERICKS?”

Mavericks by the way was a much easier question than me trying to explain the Israel-Palestine frucus …. it took me abotu 15 minutes, and hten I realised I(again) that I do not totally understand why two nations hate each other in the name of religion and holy land.

Trust me Mavericks is far simpler to explain and understand.  Pretty girls dance and men pay them.  That’s what I said.  Life would be simpler if the Israel/Palestine problem could be explained that simply.

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Save Green Point Park …. use it!

On Sunday we popped along to the Green Point Park.  In Green Point.  In the event the location was unclear by its name.

It is a lovely large park, which is beautifully maintained.  It has lovely walk/dawdle areas and great play areas.

The kind of place you could take a basket, a blanket, a clutch of kids and let them run around until they fall exhausted into a heap, whilst you lie on the rolling lawns and read a novel, or just lie there and scream at your kids at a distance.





You know, that stuff, that you do not mind if fellow picnickers look at you and your unruly brood with disdain and judgement.  As long as I have my 2 litre wine box near by, I really do not care who judges me.

Only kidding.  Really, I only drink wine out of bottles.  With screw tops.  No cork fancy pants for me.  I like to keep it real.

But back to all things park related.

Seldom do I get excited about parks.  But this one is supremely good – I walked around going “Wow, kids how cool is this!!”  “Wow, have you seen this?” “How cool is this garden?”.

I like Kirstenbosch as much as the next picnic crazed person.  But it is a bit of a schlepp and costs a bit.

By the time I drag myself through the entrance which is always 2km from where ever I have had to park, I usually hand over a hundred rand or something similar to the very nice smiley person behind the perspex glass marked “no firearms allowed…”

When you are a family of five and really just looking for somewhere to eat your 6 x portuguese rolls and tin foil chicken from Pick ‘n Pay, well then it starts to not just be a picnic, but an outing.

At Kirstenbosch Gardens you start shouting things at the kids along the lines of: “Have a good time running on the grass.  Go, hop, skip, just do something that does not involve sitting on top of me and the picnic blanket I brought.  I paid for you to enjoy the garden.  Now go and play in the garden — GO NOW, do you think money grows on trees?”

But a free park is something special to behold.

Normally the free parks I have been to, have used condoms wrapper lying around the picnic bench and an old bottle of Black Label under the jungle gym – and is in a general state of decline.  That is sort of the free parks I have grown used to.

The Green Point Park and Biodiversity Garden is in a class of it’s own.  And to not stress a point, IT IS FREE!

So what ever your budget is this one definitely comes in under the wire.  There are also no annoying hawkers trying to sell you something or want to paint your kids face at R30.00 a pop!!

Just fresh air, lots of grass and the hope of a quiet few hours of kids being kids.  Playing on stuff.  That you did not have to bring.

As we entered the park, I was a reading a sign showing me a map of the park.  I am looking at the map and ooh’ing and ah’ing, and Connor is finished so he nips over to look at the sign that lists all the things you cannot do in the park.  No doubt to see if they allow fishing — the boy is a born optimist (obsessive compulsive fisher person)

He goes – totally unrehearsed: “Mom you can’t drink wine in this park!” at the top of his voice (he is looking at a martini with a red cross through it – clearly Green Point Park does not like cocktail hour)

<the couple walking past with thier dogs did get a laugh…>>

So here is my message, other than do not bother bringing along martinis as you cannot drink them in the garden.  The sign is very clear about that.

Cape Town has a divine free garden open to the public.

The Green Point Park and Biodiversity Garden – it is so adult and child friendly it will make you gasp. It will make you feel all smug as a Capetonian.  You puff out your chest a bit and go “look what we have done” even though you had absolutely nothing to do with how the park got there.

The trick is, let’s use the park.

The more we use it, the longer it will remain. Ignore it and don’t visit it, and someone with an accounting badge and a mean disposition is going to take it away from us.  And convert it into a shopping mall or another hideous block of flats.

Go to the PARK!!  Get your arse outside.

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Barney is back .. that stupid purple singing dinosaur …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sorry, that shit is not flying on this end.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheese and rice!

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Is your husband cheating on you?

Oh Gwen …….I am not sure exactly where to start.  But that being said one must High Five “Yer Bay” for that response.

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

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

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

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

This evening the kids are eating dinner.

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

No discussion, no argument, just bath.

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

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

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

Seems clear.  Unambiguous one might even suggest.

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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Maybe why Treena shouldn’t be allowed to have sex …. let alone a baby

I seriously wonder at some people some of the time — yahoo questions and answers does often make one realise that there is indeed stupid questions … and people who really should not be permitted to breed …. ever

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Over Population ….

This image taps into my idle mind ramblings of whether it is right or wrong to have one child or three children, and whether as parents we are “permitted” to raise an opinion, based on our rather awkward position on the matter.

I think it is very easy to grumble about the state of the world with poverty, global warming and Justin Bieber – but when it comes to examining the world from your vantage point one chooses to have (or not have) as many children as you can afford {or would want to,because you can.}

It sort of gives the finger to what ever is happening in the world.

Do I think that with three children our carbon footprint is a tad big, and that we have added to the strains on the planet rather than lessened the strains had we chosen to have none or just one?  Definitely.

I wonder if the argument would be that no one should have more children, because there are so many children already and so many that need good homes.  Pick one that is already here, rather than add another?

What ever the argument, our intrinsic programming is that we have a desire to reproduce (not to just have s.ex but to propogate the specie.)

To have a child {usually of our own DNA}, to continue our line, pass on our unique genetic code to the next generation.  We often choose to do it for fairly selfish reasons, and it is all about us and the mini-me we hope to one day meet.

When faced with the gurgling bundle of newborn, the selfishness is all but forgotten, and we just hope that our imp will never sing a Justin Bieber song, or do drugs!

Though drugs might be forgiven.

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Stay at Home Moms …. kill me now!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one is screaming.

No one is arguing.

No one needs a bum wipe.

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

But then last Wednesday Isabelle was sick and stayed home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{like Reluctant Mom, please pop along and vote over at Kidz World Blogger Awards}

Another Party Over, mommy has a lie down …

I had Georgia’s party this weekend at Bugz Playpark – the downside is that you cannot bring anything to the venue, the upside is that you cannot bring anything to the venue …. the result is you have nothing to stress about, as the elves take care of all the bits and pieces on your behalf.

Totally winner winner chicken dinner stuff.

You tick a few things off on your list, and then you give them Kennith’s credit card, and then you enjoy the day.

The rest is taken care of.

The only thing I had to do on the day was go and collect the cake, the remainder of the day was pretty much easy sailing.  Of course about an hour before the party I start to feel that manic feeling that overcomes me when ever I am hosting/attending a party {social phobia much?}

I arrived at Bugz Playpark, and everything was set up.  The food was better than I anticipated.  They made party packs, there was cooldrink, there was Smarties and Jelly Beans.  The venue looked really sweet (I have not used Bugz Playpark inside venue before)

There was really absolutely nothing for me to do, other than stand around and appear useless.

The party hostess set up, she fetched things if I asked, she put everything out, she face painted, she cleaned up … bless her cotton socks.

In keeping with my love of birthday parties and RSVP’s, there were two moms who cancelled on the day as thier girls were sick, and there was one child who arrived who had not RSVP’d … but I took this all in my stride.  Honestly I did.

My cousin decided on the last moment to come through with her three kids, and all I did was ask the friendly and efficient hostess to add an additional party pack – sorted!!

I would like to tell you how good I was that I did not stress out, and that I did not swear and cuss, but I do have a small confession, I had Mommy’s Little Party Helper in the form of a beta-blocker.

Basically medication that supresses your body’s reaction to anxiety and stress.  You still feel anxious and stressed, but you do not break out in sweat, your heart does not race, and your breathing does not become rapid and shallow (all three standard for me) so I stood around being cool and calm, no matter what was happening.

I realise it is an absolute “cheat” but right now I admit that there are a lot of things I cannot handle, and any bit of assistance I can get, I take.  {I have a very limited supply of the beta-blockers so have enough for 5 events/functions/stressful situations where I feel I need a Get Out of Jail Free Card}

It was a great party, the kids ran around and had fun.  We actually ended up not having time to even cut the cake.  I also do not think anyone could have fitted any cake in – there was just too much food for both adults and children.

I loved when the one little girl said: “This is the BEST party I have ever been to, EVER!”

Bless her.  The cheque is in the mail.

It really was a good, easy party – and other than the RSVP thang, everything else was all quite lovely.

Happy almost Birthday Georgia!

{Georgia’s birthday is on the 20th of June and her and I are going to have a spa afternoon after I collect her from school.  Can you say bliss?}

Random photos from the day, I actually forgot my camera at home, so we had a use a mik-and-druk camera}

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Have I told you how much I hate birthday parties?

I love your children’s birthday parties, but I truly do not enjoy the planning and co-ordination that goes into a birthday party for my children.

I would love for them to have a truly spectacular birthday party.

I would love it more if I have absolutely nothing to do with the planning, and just come as a guest.  I want to be rich enough to employ a party planner, and then give them a large wad of cash, some basics outlines and walk away from the entire matter.

For one, I procrastinate.

I do not get all pinterest and make a huge album of great ideas for birthday parties.

I also think that kid’s birthday parties have lost touch with reality – moms go all out to prove they can throw the best party, either to indicate how much they love their child or to show up moms who cannot order a Happy Meal without forgetting the toy.

It is just all gone on so overboard.  The end result is that you also need to up your game or your party just looks like 2 cupcakes and a cheap candle!!

I barely get in under the wire to book a suitable venue and order a cake on the right day.

Then as I think I am getting some sort of momentum, I put together the invites, and this is about the part where I truly lose what is left of my very delicate mind, and my very thin level of ability to like other people.

What the helvetica is it about parents (yes moms) who cannot RSVP timeously?  Get the invite, decide if you like the child enough to go, check your diary, make a decision, rsvp – easy as shite.

I supply an email and a cell number, so in no way does the person actually have to speak to me.  You can sms or email me anytime.  Even at 2 am.

Really, just a “howzit, see you at the party” or “howzit, sorry won’t be at the party” – less than 144 characters, decision, push and send response should use up less time than it takes you to change a tampon.

But, each and every birthday party is the same shite.  Send invites.  Make it very clear in the best possible language you would appreciate it/love it/offer free blow.jobs if they just rsvp by the date you have indicated.

Usually in bold uppercase, and if you are feeling slightly pissy then you would add italics as well – I have considered attached a LCD light  so the date and time that I am begging for an rsvp for flashes.  Repeatedly.

Even with all of this more than 1/2 the stupid and rude parents do not rsvp.

So, I am stuck wondering if they are just not “rsvp people” and I should still plan for them to be there – you know cover the cost per child, order a party pack and all that, as if they arrive.

It is not the parent who is going to feel like a right chop, but the kid who is going to stand there like “orphan annie with no party to go to” as I go “hey what I surprise, did not realise you were coming, errrrr…………..” , or do I assume that they are “not rsvp people” an dnot coming, but are just rude as fk not to tell me.

Am I the only person this happens to?

Should I take this as a personal slight?  Are my children that unpopular, that parents do not RSVP in the hope that they hold out to see if they get a better invite for the same day?

Every year this crap annoys me, and this year is no less annoying.

Next year Georgia/Isabelle/Connor will be having a “take my two best” friends to a movie and a lunch – pick two friends, and bring them, that is all.

Fk this dozen kids shit.

Do I sound a bit annoyed?  You have no idea!!!  Just RSVP for cheese and rice, what the hell is wrong with you?

<<official club badge, I am president, busy looking for an executive committee, if interested please let me know ….. >> 

Mommy Bloggers go for Gold …. or just a button ….

So the Mommy Blogger competition is on.

10 lovely mommy bloggers battle it out.  The competition is thinking about narrowing it down to three finalists, they will getogether and the final will be fought out as a mud fight – with actual mud.   It’s like a wet t-shirt competion, but not.

I am really hoping to get to the mud fight round, so if you are keen to see a bit of mud slinging, maybe some foul language, and the likely possibility of someone crying with snot, please pop along and vote for your favourite blogger.  The more votes, the more likely the blogger you would like to see covered in mud, will be.

Easy as that.

You can vote every day.

You can vote from every email address you own.

You can vote for any blogger on the list – we never find out who voted for us or against us, no matter who many times we request to buy the voting panel and results.

You can offer to sell your votes, I suggest sending around a well worded email to all the likely candidates and seeing who takes you up on that offer.  All/Most of us do not make a living from blogging, but for all/most of us, we still want to win so we can sit and smirk in the admiration of dozens.

I, personally, have found a few Facebook pages where you join and then you beg a few hundred/thousand stranges to go and vote for you, and you in turn vote for them.  All a bit creepy, but when the odds are high and one wants to win, well then one must do what one must.

Stop procrastinating.

Stop being so “snoep” with your votes, just click along for goodness sake.

Reasonably quick, and totally painless.

PS: I can neither confirm nor deny whether there will be an actual mud fight! I can however almost promise a bun fight ……

Tattoos – Love them or hate them?

I am a little on the fence about tattoos, only because I understand how our taste changes.

I used to like bubble skirts, jelly babies plastic shoes and wearing odd socks.  Back in 1985.  It was cool then (sad but cool) and I fitted in.  If I wore that same get up now, it just would look, well pretty shite and sad really.

I started “thinking”about having a tattoo when I saw a girl at Goodwood Swimming Pool (that should have been hint enough, but I was young and much more stupid than I am now) with an “anchor/sailor” tattoo on her right arm.  No seriously, I shit you not.

She was super slim, tanned, confident and all the boys swarmed around her.  She had a white pair of shorts, a striped white and blue shirt and the anchor tattoo just made her look godlike, worldly and experienced –  I wanted to be her, and I wanted her tattoo.  Because I figured that tattoo would make me godlike and popular!

Every year or two I start running the idea in my head that I want a tattoo.  Then I remember how fickle I am about loving what I loved two years ago.  If I think I may have found something I like that I like/love enough to tatoo on my body forever, I stick it in the front of my diary and look at it each day.

My internal agreement is if I still like “that image” one year later I will get it done.

Problem is that by month 4 or 6 I start thinking it looks a bit naff.  By month 8, I think it is super crap.  By month 10 I have crumbled it into a ball and tossed it.

Remember when the rage was “tribal tattoos” which I like to call “draw an outline and colour in.”   There was not a toned biceps that did not sport one.  Mike Tyson got one on his face, but you know, he is such an upstanding citizen, so that makes sense.

I thought that tribal tattoos were pretty cool 5 years ago. But now they just look so “five years ago.”  My brother-in-law is a tattoo artist (not a colour by numbers tattoo operator, but an artist) and he says he dies a death every time someone picks a tribal tattoo out of the plastic flip file they have.

When someone reveals a tribal tattoo, I must confess that I minus 20 – 30 IQ points off what I anticipated was their original IQ was.

Then there was the fad of fairies/butterflies/maybe some more tribal and putting it just above your butt crack.  I guess so that it could sneak a peek as your jean pant waist band went down and your g-string sneaked out.  Yes in the beginning it looked sexy, but now I am afraid it just looks Parow from Arrow.  We had a “Kommin Xmas” party recently and the common thread was all the girls had a  fake”tattoo” on their g-string line … skanky much?

So the new “fad” is to tattoo your child’s name on your arm/neck/stomach or what ever.  Tricky if you have more than two, as then it starts looking like a cross word puzzle gone befok!

Again, love the idea. I love script – and I do love beautiful typography more than most other things.  But, and here is the but, is it not just a fad?  Sure you cannot hate a tattoo if it is in tribute to your child, so you must love it —- but why get it?

The fact that you have your child – and I perceive you have them with you every day, then why get their names on you?  Do you forget their names – or birth dates – there is medication for that, or at the very least memory-enhancement exercises.

Your kids are with you ALL THE FREAKING time. I look for times to hide from them, why would I want their names on my arm …. unless I have final stage dementia and need the memory push.  Yes, I agree I think it looks really nice.  Now.  But let me remind you that not too long ago you thought green loose-fitting pants whose crutch hung at your knees ala Hammer Time, was pretty doggone cool.

Now?  Not so much.

I have decided to staple post-it notes to each child’s forehead with their names printed on it, because when I am yelling, I often forget their name and have to work through all the names to get to the correct ones.  Sometimes I go through the dog and cat’s names so that does not really help the situation either.

Is the idea of your child’s name tattoo’d to commemorate a relationship?  The fact that you have that child is a permanent relationship – and is something you will think about every day, they will always be with you.  But why the tattoo?

In my opinion I do think it is a fad thing, I think there is a sense of peer pressure to get some ink, a name of your child, some stars on your wrist, maybe a chinese symbol on the back of your neck.

Is the idea to “prove to the world” that you really dig your child?  Like, she who loves them most gets ink?  Or is it just the latest in fads …. which are going to look a bit naff in about 5 – 10 years?  I have no qualm at the discomfort a tattoo will involve, I have no issue that a beautiful tattoo, is beautiful if done correctly and by a talented artist.

The qualm I have is that I won’t wear a shirt I wore 2 years ago, as it has dated.

I do not use fonts I used 5 years ago, because they have dated and no longer look appealing in my mind’s eye.

I have revamped this blog at least 5 times and it is only 2 1/2 years old – for me the option to change my mind, or change how something looks is a basic requirement.  If you took that away from me I would be deeply unhappy.  A tattoo is a bit static, and other than fading or bleeding ink on the edges, is going to be with you forever.

Listen if you have a tattoo, kudos to you, I am not suggesting anything above is fact, I am indicating my opinion on the issue.

Example of an awful tattoo on so many many levels …..

Like the idea, but this is just way way too big.  Again always looks great on nice clean young plump skin, my guess is not going to look so good peaking out underneath your polyester shirt at the old age home when you are 70!

Pretty tattoo … but is it timeless?

Also like this one ….

Do I like any of them enough to have it the rest of my life?  Not so much.  Well, not now at any rate.


Today was a bit busy.  I had some great Happy Helpers candidates I wanted to interview, and it made sense to met with them on Saturday – so it was a bit all helter skelter all over the show, but well worth it as I met some divine ladies!

I really can’t explain how jazzed I am by my Happy Helpers venture.

I sit around looking like the “cat who ate the canary” because I am super chuffed to be busy, and I really can see this plan working out.  I am gushing with confidence and the sense of anticipation – not quite happy, but apprehensively happy.

I am deeply suspicious of people who appear too happy, too much of the time.

But I am quite pleased with how things are faring, and no doubt there will be many bumps in the road of this new venture, but there we are.

I saw a blog post pop up on Harassed Mom, and I do quite like lists – I enjoy something that my eye can drift over and pick up  the message.

It is not speed reading as much as it is skim reading.  I am a skim reader.  Yes, there I went and coined a term.

Harassed Mom had a list, I thought “cool list” so I have borrowed the same, which I believe was in turn taken from Jenty, so here is my {drum roll… hushed pregnant silence,….}


Right now, I am …  Finishing a McDonald McRoyale burger after an interview with a divine candidate.

I’m currently obsessed with Happy Helpers …. it runs around in my head like one of those fat little pie-bald hamsters on those squeaky wheels.

Cannot live without … oxygen!

I’m reading …. I am reading several books at the moment, an Agatha Christie at the moment, and have three other books on my side table which I am trying to get through.  Damn I love reading – if I go to the toilet and forget to take a book, I will read the back of the air freshener can.  True Story!

I’m listening to … an inane conversation between a man and his wife, which has been going for about 8 minutes now.  He ordered the Cheese Burger Meal and cannot understand how he got two cheese burgers!!!  Either this guy needs to eat at McDonalds more or he needs to get a smack against the side of his head.  I would personally opt for the latter.

Favourite place in Cape Town … I must say that Sandbaai is probably one of my favourite places …. but to be honest any place with good child care, and a bar fridge would be heaven.

Favourite place in SA .. I went to the Drakensberg Mountains a year or two ago, and I think I swooned.  What a gorgeous gorgeous part of the world – lush, green and lovely, every vista looked like a post card.

Favourite place in the world … this is making the assumption I am a world traveler of sorts.  I love British History, so my idea of a truly good time will be spending my days bouncing through castles and museums in London ….

I’ve lived in … Kimberley and Cape Town.

Next up on my bucket list … well I need to create a bucket list, but the next “thing” I can think of is to take a cruise, on a large ship, that offers full bar, food and entertainment facilities, and allows me to lie on a fold out bed in the sun, read my book and fall asleep, then wake up and go to dinner …. Repeat for 14 days.

The last thing I crossed of my bucket list … probably the first, which is to draw up a bucket list.

I realized I was an adult when … the bank thought I was “old” enough to grant me a home mortgage!!

I realized I’d never be an adult when … I still get excited to draw money out of the ATM – that thrill never gets old.

In the movie of my life, I want to be played by … Cameron Dias + 40 kilograms!!

Best invention since the wheel…sliced bread, really sliced bread.  I cannot cut bread, I tend to mangle it and each slice is so thick it cannot fit in the toaster.

A house is not a home without … photographs on the wall.

This week I’m crushing on ….hot chocolate.  I made some this morning, and dropped chocolate drops in it, which melted, and then sprinkled yoghurt chocolate dust on top.  Wow!!  A bit like a religious experience.

I’m currently working on … turning tomorrow’s lunch over with friends into a Hello Kitty theme for Isabelle’s 3rd birthday!!  It is not going well, in the event you were wondering.

I’m really proud of … Georgia who has far exceeded our expectations of her.   She did “bonds of 8” in the car yesterday, and I was way impressed with how quickly she moves through the sums.

You’d be amazed if I showed you my … wine fridge.  I have not had a glass of wine in nearly three weeks …. my wine fridge has wine in it, which is a rare occurrence in our house.

I cannot survive winter without …. clean underwear and clean hair!

Signature dish … pasta … but I really think my risotto rocks it out of the park.

Guilty pleasure … McDonalds Egg McMuffin with egg, and a large chips and a standard hot chocolate, which I eat in the car, whilst I read Agatha Christie ……

When no-one’s looking … I often mouth “fucking hell” silently in an Eddie Izzard accent.

In my next life I want to be … someone who lives without regret ….

Every morning … I wish that I could sleep late, and am crushed when I can’t …. every morning!!

I believe that … there are very bad people in the world, and they are breeding more bad people … I do think the good people are losing the battle ….

I’ve really got to work on … not counting the minutes since my last glass of wine …..

Best advice I was ever given …stupid people are stupid people, and nothing you do or say will change them being stupid people, let them be stupid and move on with your day {granted I might have given myself that piece of advise, but there you are}

And to end my non related list, is a non related picture …. here is Dexter mid yawn.

First Words and other Magic Moments

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

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

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

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

I carry on working.

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

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

<Isabelle saying Cheese like a Pirate>

Would you donate an egg? You really aren’t using it much, right?

{I APOLOGISE IF YOU SAW THIS POST EARLIER – I pushed on the “publish” button, as you do, by accident mid-post}

I am not referring to the chicken eggs you buy from Pick ‘n Pay, I am talking about the eggs that you {possibly} have sitting in your ovaries.

Taking the general female structure in consideration, a woman is born with about one to two million immature eggs, or follicles, in her ovaries.

When a woman reaches puberty and starts to menstruate, only about 400,000 follicles remain.

With each menstrual cycle, a thousand follicles are lost and only one lucky little follicle will actually mature into an ovum (egg), which is released into the fallopian tube, kicking off ovulation {raging hormones, cramping and usually PMS symptoms that require  a long lie down with a cup of tea}.

Relatively little or no follicles remain at menopause, which usually begins when a woman is between 48-55 years of age. The remaining follicles are unlikely to mature and become viable eggs because of the hormonal changes that come along with menopause.

So the short answer is that we {the majority} of us are born with far more eggs than we need.

The only time I needed eggs was when I needed three to catch three {separate} sperms, after that, my eggs are of little or no use to me. I barely think about them, except when I see a really cute newborn photo on Facebook, then my ovary tends to just squeeze an egg out ….

So why are we so reluctant to act as egg donors?

I’m not using the eggs.  Someone else might really like to use them.

A need for egg donations has risen for a number of reasons.  Infertile couples have often turned to acquiring eggs through egg donation when the female partner cannot have genetic children because she may not have eggs that can generate a viable pregnancy.

This situation is often, but not always based on advanced reproductive age. Early onset of menopause which can occur in women as early as their 30’s can require a woman to use donor eggs to grow her family.

Some women are born without ovaries or other reproductive organs.

Sometimes a woman’s reproductive organs have been damaged due to disease or circumstances required her to have them surgically removed. Another indication would be a genetic disorder on part of the woman who can be circumvented by using eggs from another person.

Many women have none of these issues, but continue to be unsuccessful using their own eggs.

So there are many reasons why a woman may not be able to produce an egg on her own, and needs to enlist the help of another woman.  If it was a help ad it would read: “Eggs Needed: If you are a healthy young woman between the ages of 21 and 33,  has the time to commit to the donation process, and is preferably a non-smoker.  Take a few drugs, have a scan, give a life ….  please call me 0800 NEED EGGS!”

I have approached two agencies, but it seems no one wants my 40-year-old eggs.  Slightly rejected.  Much?  Very actually.  Have they seen what my eggs can do?  My eggs are like super freaking hero eggs, but no one wants old eggs.

Its all about the new and shiny ones.

I wonder if I am a bit pro the idea of egg donation, because it is not a decision I need to face.  What being old and all.   The decision is really out of my hands  {Unless someone calls and tells me they want my eggs, then we are game on!!} as age has sort of made the decision for me.

I think the notion of egg donation is a subject fraught with lots of emotional content.

Is it just a part of your body, that is manufactured and you can pass along to the next person much like you may do blood, bone marrow or your body parts when you leave this earth?  Or is it something intrinsically more personal?  A pre-child that you think about?  The fear of a child who looks like your children walking around out there without you?

Is your egg a child – your child – or a nearly child? – or is it a  bunch of potential that is wasted each month?

Is the idea of donating an egg the equivalent of giving a child {potential, that realistically you are never going to have} away to many?

I think I could argue why egg donation is really a wonderful thing – but I could also understand why woman are somewhat reluctant to do it.  My brain does feel a bit “overloaded” by this subject, so for now I am going to park it and will come back to it.

Have you donated an egg, are you the recipient of an egg donation, are you thinking that this is probably not something you would ever do?

Possibly the reason you have stayed away from the idea of donating your eggs {that you are not using, you cannot do it once it is walking around outside of you with a snotty nose, and a lollipop stuck in its hair … then technically it is not an egg … just saying} is that you have not had a chanc to find out how it works, or chat to someone who has done it already.

If you are wanting to know more and just let the idea run through your head – there is an agency in Cape Town, Sun Shine Egg Donors – they are always willing to assist donors and donor recipients.

Have an egg you are not using? These guys, they know gals, who would really would like your egg(s).

Giving it some thought, give them a ring, or drop them an email, or don’t.

I will show you mine, if you show me yours ….

I really do think a potential employer asking for access to your Facebook account is a bit of an “ambush” tactic.

What I say and do on my Facebook page, has got nothing to do with what I do at work, and visa versa, but I like this cartoon.

Babies in Tupperware?

On Friday I stopped in at Toys R Us, primarily to see if I could find the twin sister of Chocolate.

Afraid not.  It appears all {if not most} of the dolls/plastic babies available are of the blonde hair and blue-eyed variety.

The only not blonde babies were more a lightly steamed cafe latte colour than the rich bourneville shade I was looking for.

I started to feel somewhat enraged by the one-crayon-variety of dolls and toys available.  And I am blonde hair and blue-eyed, so my enragement is more out of “I want a black doll” than I would really prefer my child to play with a doll that reflects what she sees in the mirror.

I am not sure how parents who are not blue-eyed and blonde haired cope with this affront to their purchasing plans.

You know that you are making a scene when you approach a shop assistant {at Toys R Us} going: “Where are your black dolls?”

“Yes, I saw that black doll, but it is not black enough!  Why do you not stock black dolls???”  My voice might have gone up an octave on the word “black” just to show my annoyance.

When the sales assistant started to edge away from me and mouth the words “what the hell is wrong with this chick” was when I decided to continue browsing without assistance.

But seriously why have the ANC and COSATU not got behind this doll thing.  I mean really …. this is got to be more important than an acrylic pen.is on a piece of canvas.  Surely it must be!

When I thought nothing in the toy store could upset me, I found a baby in a tupperware container!  Baby too big squeezed in to a tupperware box.

I seldom go “WHAT THE FUCK”  in a toy store.  But this is definitely one of those.

The box started to look like a coffin to me.  The babies were hellishly real in every possible detail.

I totally get packing a plastic doll in a plastic box for sale – understand the concept, works well.  But when you are dealing with a doll that is so life like it is uncanny (and that is what they are trying to sell – life like looking babies and toddlers) then for the love of gd do not fold it up and stick it in a box!!

I am not sure of the options, but a large tupperware box stacked on top of each other, is really not appropriate to market this item.

These dolls are freakishly realistic.  They also cost about the same as a baby, so it is like having a baby, but getting a large tupperware box with it as a bonus.

I really am not sure of who {in their right mind} would buy a doll of this nature.  It freaks me out.  I stood there mesmerised for ages.  Not mesmerised in wonder of a glorious achievement, but mesmerised in a Ripley’s Believe it Or Not! sort of manner

I tried to take some pictures, but the reflection of the plastic “coffin” does not do them justice.

I cannot argue that these dolls are well made.  I cannot argue that the greatest care has been taken to make these dolls appear as life like as possible.  I cannot argue that who ever makes these dolls is immensely talented.

But this does not stop them being creepy, eerie and a bit scary … to me.

I get freaked out when I see Isabelle knocking Chocolate’s head against the fridge.  It upsets me, as I have no idea she saw me doing this to her brother, and is now mimicking my behaviour.  {just joking, no need to call child services …. really}

But Chocolate does not appear life-like – at a glance one can easily assess she is brown plastic parts with a t-shirt torso.

I am fairly sure I would not cope to see one of my girls “abuse” their baby doll, if their baby doll looked like a live doll.

However that withstanding, if these dolls rock your world, and you would like to get hold of the company that makes them to see if you can get hold of one, I will save you the need for google, and hook you up with their Facebook account: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Baltorinas-Unique-Baby-Dolls-Lifelike/302950328977