Georgia gets hitched …..

Georgia has this boyfriend Jamie – that she adores.

I do realize that 5 ½ is a bit young to be “going steady” but allow me to explain the situation in a bit more detail. 

Georgia used to be at a creche and there was this little boy there named Jamie. From the get go, she spoke about Jamie in soft soothing tones and with a certain sparkle in her eye.

I did not really take much notice as she was also pretty excited about Emma.

At the end of 2008, I took her out of that creche and moved her to a pre-school, so that she could get started on Grade 0.

Jamie remained at the previous school.  Georgia was very sad that Jamie was not at her new school, but she had Emma (Emma had moved schools) and I thought that she would soon forget Jamie.

She didn’t.

Georgia probably spoke about Jamie twice every week.  She didn’t see him, or hear from him, but she referred to him in conversation at least twice a week and reminded me how much she liked Jamie, and that he was was her boyfriend and she was going to marry Jamie.

One evening she bravely told Kennith and I that Jamie was her boyfriend and she was going to marry Jamie.

Kennith told her that she was not allowed to have boyfriends (he was teasing her), and Georgia burst into tears and sobbed big crocodile tears.  Kennith then decided to retract that statement and indicated that she could have boys how were friends, but not boyfriends.

She sniffed and smiled through her tears and told us that Jamie was her boy ….. friend, and she was going to still marry him.

In November last year I called Jamie’s mom and told her that Georgia was still rather taken with Jamie, and maybe we could arrange that Jamie and Georgia got together for a (supervised) playdate.  Jamie’s mom said that Georgia should come to Jamie’s birthday party – and as an extra surprise Jamie was moving to Georgia’s school next year.

Georgia was beside herself with excitement – on both counts.

This year she was even happier and not only was Jamie in her school, but he is in her class.  Georgia is as blissfully happy and in love as any 5 1/2 year old can be (who has remained faithful to her man even though she has not seen or heard from him in more than a year – I know adults who are not that committed).

Today when I fetched her she was telling me that she was looking at Family Barney cards – I have no idea what family Barney cards are, so I just let her prattle on while I attempted to drive.

When I stopped the car she showed me three cards – one had a little girl on it, one had a little boy on it and there was one with a little puppy dog.

So Georgia goes: “This is Kennith when he was a little boy, this was you when you were a little girl and this is your dog!” 

Me: “Okay…”  (clearly the images look nothing like us, but why disagree over this small detail) 

Georgia: “And you and Kennith were best friends…..”

Me: “Sure, Kennith and I are best friends ….. “ 

Georgia: “And you married your best friend…..”

Me: “Yes, Georgia I married daddy and daddy is my best friend.”

Georgia: “And Jamie is my best friend and I am going to marry my best friend ………….” (she sort of squeeled that part out)

Me: “Georgia my love, you can marry Jamie when you turn 37, okay!”

Georgia: “Thirty seven, that is when I am going to marry Jamie…thirty seven”

She was so blissfully happy, I did not want to break it to her that maybe Jamie might have other plans at 37!

 

This is Jamie, who is possibly my future son-in-law …

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Catch you on the flip side ….

We are off to Drakensberg to celebrate the wedding of John and Natalie.    We are so thrilled for them, and dead excited to be part of their wedding.

We fly to Durban in the morning.  Then we drive up to the Drakensberg (I have never been to the Drakensberg and my geography is pretty sketchy, so I am even sure I am 100% sure exactly where it is.  But Kennith seems to know and we have a GPS, so no doubt I can read my Kindle and not worry my pretty head about details like directions.)

The idea is to stay there and do what ever it is that people do in the Drakensberg, attend the fabulous wedding, and hang out with a group of friends who will be joining us there.

Next Friday we drive up to Johannesburg, and stay there a few days.  Seeing more friends and just hanging around sort of stuff.

On Sunday we get to squeeze into a stadium with a few thousand people screaming for Bono, The Edge, Adam Clayton and Larry Mullen.  Of course I am sure that Bono will stare into the crowd, and see me back in row 175 and seat 54. and pluck me from the crowd so he can sing me a personalized version of “With or Without You!”

Nothing like a bit of delusional ism to keep you going.

The thing about this trip is we are doing it sans kids.

Usually there would be a split about now in terms of reaction.

Some moms are going to go: “Fabulous, lucky you, wish I could get a break from my set!”

Then there is the second set who are dialing ChildLine as they read this and thinking: ”Who does this woman think she is abandoning her children to go gallivanting all over the country side.  The scandal.   The indignation!”

Then there is a third set which would usually gasp a bit and go: “I could never leave my junior, I couldn’t be away from them for that long.”

I usually am okay with some adult time away from our kids, but I am actually not okay with it right now.  It is also a long time.  We leave Friday and we are back Monday after next.

It is too long, and I have been stressed and anxious this entire week, and right now I actually do not want to go.  I miss Isabelle too much already and I have not even left the house, so this week is going to be torture.  I appear to have moved from the first set of moms to the third set.

I felt out of sorts yesterday, and last night and this morning I have been totally out of sorts.

I woke up around 2am this morning and just could not sleep.  I just felt anxious and stress, and wanted to wake Kennith up and tell him that I was fine to fly to the Drakensberg to attend the wedding, but then wanted to fly home, and then I would fly back to attend the concert, but I did not want to stay away that long.

But I didn’t as I knew he would probably freak his bean, and then we would have a huge fight.

It wasn’t like I had not known about this trip 4 months ago.  I had.  I just had not paid much attention to it.  But it is here now.

My bags are packed, but I am loathe to leave tomorrow morning, but there we go, I am leaving, and it is meant to be this great week, but I am dreading it.    Listen it is a great week that has been planned, and actually I have had to do nothing.  Kennith has organized everything, all I am doing is arriving, but the problem is that because I know how much I am going to miss the kids – and how bad I feel being away from them – I think will take a bit of the smile off this week.

So there we go, I am out of here for a week.  I am going to miss my kids crazy, and especially  Isabelle.  Just tying this is making me feel even sadder.

As my penance I am going for a full body wax at 7am.  I thought I would do it without taking a Syndol just as punishment for abandoning my kids.

<just as extra penance, I was so out of it this morning, I put this stuff called AO Sept – which is like acid for your contact lenses – directly into my right eye ball this morning.

It burnt like a m*therf*cker.  I can’t actually tell you how much it burnt without the aid of profanity.

I thought my cornea was being dislodged from my eyeball.  We are not talking mild discomfort, we are talking silent-scream-while-you-bang-your-feet-on-the-floor-and-claw-at-your-eyeball pain!   I actually called my optom friend because I thought clearly it would require an eyeball transplant or something.

I spent the day walking around with an eye that is so blood shot it looks like I am bleeding to death – I have just started a new job, so that looked totally fantastic.  It was agony and I was in mild to severe discomfort for the entire day.

It is still pretty red and feels pretty grim – oh joy, possibly it will hide my crying tomorrow morning…>

Gone fishing …. or being murdered …..

So this weekend Kennith and I are going away for the weekend with girls we have met through my blog and some forums I chat on.

When I saw we have met, I really mean I have met.  And I am dragging Kennith who has become the reluctant husband along with me.

This morning while Vera was waxing my personal bits, I was telling her the story and what we were doing this weekend.  She asked me how Kennith feels about being dragged along on a weekend with people he actually does not know.

I said, well, I am not sure, because I had not stopped to ask him.  She raised a finely plucked eyebrow and carried on ripping my hair from it’s roots.

Vera commented that not many men would agree to go along for this sort of weekend, and Kennith was quite a trooper/unusual/not like most men.

I had not actually given that much thought.

Here we are going away on a weekend, where the girls in these three couples have struck up a friendship, albeit a strange one.  We seem to find something in each other that resonates with us and on what appears to be an agreed liking for each other, we have committed to spending 48 hours together – away in a cabin, next to a river/dam/water mass.

I really had not considered that I am “forcing” Kennith – and the other girls are forcing their respective partners – to spend a weekend with two other men that he might not be friends with, and possibly might not choose to be friends with if the choice was left to him (Possibly, they might prove to be bosom buddies and be spooning by Saturday night.  One never knows what happens when boys go up a hill and there is an open fire, see what happened in Brokeback Mountain and all).

The choice actually is not being made by him.

I planned this weekend, and he said “no we are not doing it, we don’t even know these people” and then I told him to stop being a “Nancy boy, what is the worst that can happen, it will be fine, not get it together” and then he said “okay” begrudgingly and I carried on planning this weekend.

Actually he is quite a sport and has taken ½ days leave today, and is doing all the shopping for the weekend.  As reluctant as he is, he is still getting behind this idea in a big way.

So yes, Vera, as you remove my deeply rooted pubic hair with maybe a bit too much force – you are correct.  Kennith is a little unusual as far as “most men” go.

I have always admitted that Kennith is not “most men” – he supports me and gets behind my seemingly insane ideas.

He stands next to me and supports me when most other “men” would have abandoned ship and headed for the hills.  Though we do have boy and girl roles, I do think as partners in a relationship, our roles as man and woman are sometimes blurred, and he often picks up some of my roles, as I think I do his.

I like that I have a Kennith who does stuff that maybe not all men do, and whose take on our life is not “old school and traditional.”  He is an active inclusive father, and we do not look at it as something strange.  If I am an active inclusive mother, why should he not be an active inclusive father?

About two weeks ago, my mom and my aunt were staying with us for the weekend.  I was away on the one day, I can’t recall where I was – but I was out.  Kennith was sorting out the kids.

I got home early evening/late afternoon and my mom and aunt were sitting at the dining room table finishing dinner. They were talking about Kennith in hushed tones of awe, as if he had just turned water into wine, while walking on the water, and wrestling with the lions in the den.

I though “Okaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyy.”

Once I got past them, I went to find Kennith and check on the kids.  He had them all in hand.

I asked what he had done that had created such awe in my mother and aunt,  and he commented “nothing really.” I asked him what he had up to this evening.

He said he had fed the kids, got the kids into the bath, got them into their jammies, and they were downstairs watching television.  He had fed Isabelle, and was waiting for me as I enjoyed bathing with her.  I said “okay, anything unusual” and he said “No, but your mom and aunt did keep looking at him and smiling…maybe they aren’t used to a guy doing stuff.”

I went back and sat with my mom and aunt at the dining room table.  They commented again that Kennith was such a super man, and should have a cape and maybe wear his underpants on the outside.

I sort of smiled and drank some more wine – I might have chugged it a bit actually – and then went on with my evening.

Later I was chatting to Kennith about his super-man status.  He raised something that I probably had not really thought about much.

My mother and my aunt are not used to men who help out with “women’s work.” They are used to men who arrive home, complain about their heavy day, kick off their shoes, put their feet on the coffee table, and wait for their wife to bring them a cold beer in their favourite glass.

While they read the newspaper, the little woman goes off and finishes dinner which she serves with a flourish.

Same man eats dinner, and pats his wife on the head and complements her on the great meal.  Burps in appreciation and goes to settle himself on the couch and watches a bit of footie on the tellie.

When that is done and he is ready to go to bed, he will wink over at his wife and say “Honey are you coming to bed” – to which is wife will say  “Right there honey” and she will be.

What he does not see is that she has spent the day running around after kids and the house.

She has prepared the meal from scratch – no Woolies throw-in-the-microwave faire here – and got kids homeworked, bathed, jammied and in bed, and done a host of other activities.   The kitchen is spotless.  She found time to go to the bottle store and restock on the beer.

She has done a bit of gardening, probably some grocery shopping, stood in queues for paying electricity, completing Tim’s school project on owl migration, and spent 15 minutes making herself pretty and presentable before Mr. Husband got home.

So she will appear next to her husband, while he goes on to tell her about the difficult day he had.  She will not think for a minute to tell him that Tim had flushed the cat down the toilet and she had to single-handedly go in and rescue the cat, and then wash the sh*t off the cat, while Tim and his brother Larry watched.

And what’s more she will be ready to have sex if and when he wishes it.  All this she will do without uttering a word of complaint, or reflect on her situation and go “Fek, I got the short end of the stick here in this relationship deal.”

But times are different – thank heavens for that!

Kennith does not “help” out with the kids.  He has responsibilities that include the kids – his kids.

I confess, I do sometimes say “please help me get the kids out of the bath” as if it is my duty, and he is being a real help by helping me.

I also confess that we have taken on different roles in our house – most of the children related things fall to me to deal with.  But at the same time Kennith does all the grocery shopping and most nights he cooks, or he brings home take aways, or he takes me out for dinner. He does not expect a meal to miraculously land in front of me.

Well maybe he does expect it, but the cold reality has hit him that if he waits he will go hungry.  Maybe he has taken on the role of “hunter and provider” in our little family as he is tired of waiting for the food to magically appear out of the oven he bought me that I still do not quite know how to use.

So yes, a few things might have changed since my mom and my aunt had their kids, and maybe our home operates a bit differently to theirs and even to other households I have seen.

Even now I see friends where the  guy has a limited role in terms of house and kids – fortunately that is not my household.   Both Kennith and I have chosen that he takes an active role.  Okay I chose it, he sort of got beat into doing it, but damn, does that boy do a good job now!

Back to this weekend – I am really excited about going away with my internet chums.

It is a bit like internet dating, but without the pressure of “whether we will need to have sex.”  I am really hoping that they are not thinking we are all going to be having sex, as I am sure that was not what I had  conveyed.

So I am officially “Gone Fishing” and will see you on Monday!

If you don’t hear from me on Monday, and you need to report me as a missing person to the police as my “internet chums” have turned into nothing more than “serial murders who stalk innocent prey like me on the internet” get the police to look in the direction of Swellendam near some log cabins.

Camping with kids + wine bar fridge ….

There really is something bleak about coming home after a holiday.

I also got the irony that I managed to win a Best Parenting Blog at about the same time that I was drinking a Mojito in Zanzibar, whilst I had shipped the kids off to their grandparents, with the nanny in tow – I get the humour in it!

Running away from home is quite surreal and especially if you have opted to do it without kids.

One quickly reverts to your former single/time-before-your-uterus-squeezed-something-out self, where you just lie around reading, eating junk food and yours is the only bum you have to wipe – ah the joy of the small things in life!

I will confess that from about Wednesday last week, I was starting to pine, especially for the warm, squishy feel of Isabelle.

Kennith and I are really fortunate that we are able to go on holidays without the kids.

My mom has retired and lives about an hour up the coast from us.  She has a large house and an inability to think quickly on her feet.  This inability assists us, as she cannot say no when I ask her if she can look after the kids.  So every now and then we get to abandon them and head off to places undiscovered, and though I am wracked with guilt (strangely I am, even for all my bravado) it is still a delicious treat!

The kids enjoy being with their granny and oupa, and Kennith and I get the benefit of sleeping until we wake up – which in itself is such a rare treat.  I also get to see what it is like to go to the toilet without company!

This was the longest time that  have left Isabelle and that was a bit hard for me – there were several moments where I just wanted to call it a day and head back home, and pick up my mucus and drool soaked 16 month old for a cuddle, and to sniff in the warmth of her urine soaked nappy.

I did return from holiday and have been thinking that Kennith and I should start to holiday with the kids.  My concern is how much of a holiday will it be for us?

Kids are hard work.  Ask any mom (and dad) and they will admit that kids out of your house are much harder than kids in your own home.

I do not think I am quite ready to pack luggage and take kids on the plane, but I am definitely going to start hunting for some kid friendly holiday places nearby – partly to sooth my guilt for leaving them behind on this holiday and partly because I think it will be cool.

Whatever direction we head with the kids needs to include a small bar fridge for wine, and babysitting facilities for when Kennith and I look at each other and realise that taking kids on holiday is actually not a holiday.

I know several moms who would rather not holiday than holiday without their kids.   I respect that there is a parenting continuum, and they may be in a different place on the continuum than where I choose to be.  I am on the end sitting with the chilled glass of wine, and wondering what all the fuss is about!

I know when I tell people I am going away without my brood, they hit the speed dial number for child services and start removing me from any “mommy and toddler” playgroups.

I have always said I really love my kids, and I am willing to admit that I really like them as well – which is a subtle difference.  My kids are funny and clever, and sometimes when they manage to go an entire hour without someone spilling juice or complaining because “he/she is looking at me” I start thinking that maybe I should stop fantasizing about running away from home so often, as before I know it these warm summery days of their childhood will be over, and all I will have is too many bottles of Chenin Blanc to show for it.

Last week Kennith and I got to just sit like two amoebas with the highest functioning decision whether we were going to drink a beer or a cocktail.  I could lie and read my book – undisturbed – until the drool ran out of my mouth, and formed a sticky congealed pool outside my mouth on the beach chair as I drifted off to sleep.

While acting like I did not have a care in the world, I knew my kids were safe, well cared for and getting a dose of sunburn on a beach along the East Coast.

Holidaying without kids is like having your cake and eating it as well. You get all the blissful stuff of a break from reality, and a chance to remember why you enjoy parenting, and then you get to come home to sun burnt faces and warm hugs.

But now I am googling “camping with kids + wine bar fridge” and seeing what I can locate.

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 ….

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.

Afternoon delight, cocktails and moonlit nights …

I don’t know what is going on either, but Kennith just sent me an email about a bungalow in Zanzibar and that he is trying to book.

I don’t know when, I don’t know how.  I don’t know if he is trying to tell me he is running away to Zanzibar (he has pulled this move before … ) and leaving me with the kids, or we are both running away without the kids.

He had me at “…..do not forget the full body massages for $5 (R40) while you are lying on the beach…” Can I get a holler-holler!!?

Now I can’t stop singing this stupid song out of my head …

“Aruba, Jamaica ooo I wanna take you
Bermuda, Bahama come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego baby why don’t we go
Jamaica

Off the Florida Keys
There’s a place called Kokomo
That’s where you wanna go to get away from it all

Bodies in the sand
Tropical drink melting in your hand
We’ll be falling in love
To the rhythm of a steel drum band
Down in Kokomo

Aruba, Jamaica ooo I wanna take you
To Bermuda, Bahama come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego baby why don’t we go

Ooo I wanna take you down to Kokomo
We’ll get there fast
And then we’ll take it slow
That’s where we wanna go
Way down to Kokomo

To Martinique, that Monserrat mystique

We’ll put out to sea
And we’ll perfect our chemistry
By and by we’ll defy a little bit of gravity

Afternoon delight
Cocktails and moonlit nights
That dreamy look in your eye
Give me a tropical contact high
Way down in Kokomo

Aruba, Jamaica ooo I wanna take you
To Bermuda, Bahama come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego baby why don’t we go

Ooo I wanna take you down to Kokomo
We’ll get there fast
And then we’ll take it slow
That’s where we wanna go
Way down to Kokomo

Port Au Prince I wanna catch a glimpse (er maybe not so much ….)

Everybody knows
A little place like Kokomo
Now if you wanna go
And get away from it all
Go down to Kokomo

Aruba, Jamaica ooo I wanna take you
To Bermuda, Bahama come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego baby why don’t we go

Ooo I wanna take you down to Kokomo
We’ll get there fast
And then we’ll take it slow
That’s where we wanna go
Way down to Kokomo

Aruba, Jamaica ooo I wanna take you
To Bermuda, Bahama come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego baby why don’t we go

Ooo I wanna take you down to Kokomo”

I know it is not the same place, but they never made cool songs about Zanzibar in the late 80’s, so you work with what you can get.

Of Hikes and Tears ….

I apologise for no new posts in the last week.

I dragged myself kicking and screaming on a 5 day hike – the result of drinking and decision-making covered earlier.

The hike offered wonderful views, aching legs, more sweat than I knew my pores could excrete, and many moments where I wanted to lie on the ground and sob like a baby.

Just got home, trying to get my arse into gear, and will blog in the next few days.

Tonight we have a dozen people coming over for dinner – tomorrow I am alone with kids and scared shitless.  Sunday Kennith is off to do the Argus – I would be happier if he just read the Argus.  I’m thinking that I am going to be wishing for the peace of the hike quite soon.

Drinking and Decision Making ……

We have friends who like to hike and attempt to be/get fit.

Usually these plans are concocted at about 11pm after copious amounts of wine. Suddenly everyone has a plan of how we are going to get fit and what adventure we are going to attempt next, and starts brain storming wild ideas that involve lycra and sweat.

Good sense (and experience in these matters) tell me that when I wake up the next morning, we really did not mean what we said the night before. We are quite happy to spend our days lying around and mimicing a sloth.

Recently while tucking into a particular delicious bottle of Haute Cabriére Chardonnay Pinot Noir, Joyce says: “We really need to get fit this year….”

To the chorus of “Yes, yes, yes, we must…” slurp of wine, spill a little on the table, throw some Caribbean Onion & Balsamic Vinegar Lay chips into your mouth.

“Yes, yes, we must, we must.” Lots of head nodding – even some wild gesturing was added.

Joyce says: “I have an idea – let’s do a hike.”

“Yes, yes, we must, it will be so cool..” more wine slurping, a little less spillage, a few Chuckles in mouth – some get in the mouth, some miss and roll across the table.

“Yes, we must do something about this getting fit thing.” Cheering all around.

Joyce says: “I think we should do the Whale Trail!”

“The Whale Trail – what a fabulous idea – I hear it is really pretty.” A little more wine, chips are finished, trying to dig the last Chuckles out of the red bag.

Joyce says: “We can even slack pack!”

“Slack pack!! That is my way of hiking, excellent I will have someone to carry my wine, that sounds fabulous.” Chuckles are finished.  Trying to suss out how much wine I can get out of the bottle before I need to impose on my host to offer me another bottle of this nectar of the gods.

Joyce says – a little too enthusiastically:  “ I am going to find out – who is in if we can go – come on who is in?”

Everyone is excited, and saying yes – people are putting their hands up and congratulating each other for being so keen.  There is more pouring of wine, another bottle is brought and it is all happy fellows.

Next morning we receive an email from Joyce. She has actually found out about the Whale Trail and now appears to be on a first name basis with Luleka from the Cape Nature Office.

Joyce then proceeds to book, and heckles us – mercilessly – to pay and then it just starts to get all surreal.

I put it out of my mind – a bit like the Soccer World Cup, you know it is happening, but really it is so far away that you don’t really take stock of it.

Last time (circumstances were similar) they organized the-hike-of-death affectionately called the Otter Trail. I managed to fall pregnant on the eve of departure.  I am sure it was my body’s natural defense mechanism to get out of poo’ing in a long drop. So I managed to get out of that one, and pleaded pregnancy. Listen there are few times one can play that card, and I felt that this was the time.

Unfortunately this time, I am all out of ideas – I even took a pregnancy test last Sunday, just in case – hike starts Saturday!!

No kids and the big green flying machine ….

This past weekend Kennith and I escaped from our lives for a few days.  It was not impromptu. I am not going to try to appear like we live these carefree lives, where we run off into the sunset like teenagers and drink gin and tonics in the afternoon.  Nope, this was a weekend away sans kids that was planned down to the last detail.

It was the first time I was going to leave my 7 month old baby, so that was quite traumatic for me.  I was convinced I was going to pull out at the last minute, and end up giving Kennith an ultimatum about not going without her.  I managed to wave goodbye – albeit with much difficulty and a large lump in my throat – on Friday morning as we headed to Cape Town International and risked life and limb flying with our airline of choice (financial not personal).

By the time I got to the check in queue I was a little tearful – both because I was about to fly and because I had left Isabelle behind.  Almost on cue a woman appeared behind us with a  tiny baby in a pram.  This little thing was bleating at the top of his lungs.  As the baby cried, the more I started to cry with him.  I also started to release milk, which is not the ideal look one is trying to pull off in the airport.

I managed to compose myself sufficiently to eat an extremely yellow lemon-and-poppyseed muffin and drink some bad tea, before we found our rather narrow and cramped seats on the large green carrier. 

There were three kids on the plane – none mine – and I really felt sad when I heard them cry …. in the beginning.   

I realized that I might have 30cm width to sit in and the guy in front of me practically in my lap, but the little space I had was all mine.  I managed to bend my body like a contortionist to get my book from my bag, and then sat with my book reading.  Now if I had a child anywhere near me, this would have been a totally different picture.  I would be imagining reading,  and would have been sorely disappointed when reality played out – with kids going wild within the confines of the metal box I was flying in.

I would be stressed from the three hour preparation to get to the plane.  I would be sweaty and exhausted.  Further agitated that the kids would have played with all the entertainment I had brought with to keep them occupied for the duration of the flight – the plane had not even taxied off yet.  Things would be looking terribly bleak for the next two hours or so. 

I would be wondering how I was going to get the air hostess person to serve me a bottle of wine before 9am! 

I would further be stressed by the looks I would be getting from my fellow passengers – who would be travelling without kids – because like captive buck, they would be looking at me nervously wondering when my predators were going to strike.

Instead, I looked down and continue to read my book.   A certain bliss and peace came over me.  It was shattered as soon as our pilot, who no doubt got his license from a correspondence college and had not completed the practical leg of his course successfully as yet.

We spent the weekend acting like we had no children and drank way too much – all because we knew that there was not going to be a snuggly bug coming for a cuddle at 6am, or my daughter announcing to me at about 5:30am that she was going to the bathroom.  I browsed book stores, we hung out with friends, and we even managed to sit and stare at the television uninterrupted on Sunday morning watching Fawlty Towers – it was all quite idyllic.

It was great to act like we were childless and care-free!  Of course we missed our sprockets, and when we finally got home around 10:30pm it was lovely to find them all knotted up in their duvets oblivious to us giving them good night kisses.

Maybe being a mommy is not so bad, if I can run away from home every now and then.