AWOL pram wheels, MIA Coppers and a Brain on Sabbatical

I’ve had one of those weeks where I should have been excused from life. For my safety and the safety of those around me. I should’ve clicked ‘pause’ and skipped the week altogether. It all started when I made my husband take a day off work. Which if you know my husband or his work, is not an easy feat to achieve. It’s like pulling that wobbly tooth when you were six and desperate for one of those big shiny one rand coins. No matter how hard you wriggled or twisted or fiddled…the little bastard tooth remained attached. You didn’t have the balls to sever the tooth from the gum in one swift and final tug. There’d undoubtedly be blood and pain. And it was all a little too feral for your taste.

This should’ve been my first hint at the carnage to come. Wife does not mess with a man and his work. Wife will be punished. Karma will mete out appropriate punishment. In my case punishment will be epic. I only do epic failure. There’s no middle gear for me and my stuff-ups. It’s fifth gear all the way baby. The reason for the day off was to drag reluctant husband and sprogs to the visa offices in central London to an appointment for our Schengen visas. Visas are required for a family holiday to Spain in August. Husband did not need to attend as he was not applying. His company is arranging his visa. For work trips. Naturally. I begged him to accompany me to help with the wild ones. He kindly agreed after the begging turned to blackmail. This happens sometimes in marriage. It’s not uncommon. No cause for concern. The day’s leave took weeks of planning, schedules were drawn up, train times consulted; it was a bloody mission and a half. And that was before we’d even left the house. On visa day, after my son finished school, we bolted for the station and arrived 90 minutes later at our destination with the panicked crazy eyed and dishevelled look familiar only to families with young children. We all recognise it. It’s code for. “Thank **ck we got here alive. It was close though.”

Except we weren’t allowed into the building. Why? Well for good reason. And no it wasn’t as a result of the mammoth poo we both pretended not to notice festering in our daughter’s nappy since Ealing station five stops before we arrived. It wasn’t the dinosaur that my son refused to remove from underneath his hoodie that he pretended was a bazooka and periodically and with horrifically accurate sound effects used to gun down anyone we passed. All suitable grounds for disbarment, I concede. We were barred simply because the appointment date I’d been issued a month previously was in fact the following day. I was a day early. I’d worked as frenetic and tirelessly as the Obama army okes trekking Bin Laden to convince my husband he needed a day’s leave. We’d completed a leg of The Amazing Race equivalent. We had a small tree’s worth of paperwork. We were there on the wrong day. Come back another day. The next day. Rinse and repeat. There was nothing we could do. So we turned around and made our way back to Windsor. We caught two trains and lugged our baggage (literal and figurative) and attachments (literal and figurative) back to the car park where we loaded aforementioned baggage and attachments into the car and headed home. I even joked that at least I’d chosen the day before and not the day after. I commiserated that evening over a goblet of Pinotage and contemplated taking wine with me for Dutch courage on my solo mission. The next morning, I realised with horror that the wheel attachment which allows my son to stand up against the pram was missing. Not in the car. Not in the garage. I even checked the nappy bag. When you’re panicking, you do stupid things. We’ve all been there. I called my husband 16 times. This procedure is our code for emergencies. He curtly informed me he had no idea where the wheels were. This is the censored version of our conversation. Apparently he’d excused himself from a conference call to Russia with the head of something or other for fear that his family were burning alive in their terraced house. So frantic was his wife’s efforts to get hold of him. He’s ever the calm Noah though. He figured I’d left the wheels in the parking lot while I was loading the pram into the boot and he was loading the kids. He imparted this wisdom and then promptly hung up. I figured he was right. Not something I do lightly. Or often. Or with any kind of grace. 

I called the parking management to see if the wheels were perhaps handed in to the office. Nope. They had a pair of wellies, a dog leash and a trike. But no pram wheels. The frustrating thing about the loss of the wheels is the fact that they’re completely useless without the attachment that’s on the pram. You simply can’t use them. Also they cost me 60 pounds. That afternoon en route to the station for Visa Mission Part Deux, I scoured through every bush in the parking lot for those wheels. I opened bins and dug in the trash. My kids helped. Not a good sight I’m sure. Woman and her children ferreting in trash. But I was desperate. A desperate mother supercedes all levels of desperation. And they cost me 60 pounds. Without the wheels, my son would have to walk the three kilometres through Paddington station to the visa offices. I’m not a wussie mom. My kids are tough too. My son especially. He had spinal surgery when he was 10 months old. He’s a tough little cookie. I’ve even made him go to school after he puked the same morning. I’m that kind of Mom. I’m not scared of a little discomfort. Mine or theirs. But that’s a long way with no wheels for a 4 year old’s legs that when you measure are only really the length of two rulers. I had no option though. With AWOL wheels and a looming appointment in the city, we had to go. Did I mention the wheels cost me 60 pounds?

Long story short. We got to the visa office. Without police escourt or in an ambulance. Our appointment was two hours delayed and there were some tense moments. We all had a little cry, but we left having made an application for the visas. My son was a superstar. We walked at a snail’s pace and stopped for more breaks than there are adverts in an MNET screening of Grey’s Anatomy, but the oke walked the entire way. There and back. I bribed him with a Burger King Happy Meal and two toys of his choice from the charity shop. I even agreed he could have a machine gun if they had one in stock. Fair play. The oke is crafty. He knows when I’m in a weak spot. And more to the point, when he’s in a strong one.

And so began my relentless pursuit to crack the case of the missing wheels. I pretty much stalked the parking office. They got to know my name. They started to sigh when I approached. I suggested they use the CCTV camera footage to track the wheel’s last movements. “Not going to happen in this lifetime Mam” was the attendant’s reply. I wasn't even offended by the matronly 'Mam'. My only concern was for the wheels. He suggested that as the wheels were clearly important to me I go to the police station up the road, report them missing and see if perhaps they hadn’t been handed in. I perked up. A new lead. It was a Saturday afternoon by this time after two days of solid search. I asked long-suffering spouse to accompany me to the police station to catch a wheel thief. He refused. I tried a different tack and asked long-suffering spouse to drive me to the police station and wait in the car. He agreed. With conditions. When I arrived at the station, it was closed. Not a soul in sight closed. My first thought was that there was a drug bust or some kind of terror attack on the Castle. Yes my mind goes there. Until I peered closer and noticed a sign on the door with the opening hours. I nearly fell over. And no not because the doors opened. The police station operates on standard weekly business working hours. Can you believe it? Ok so yes the irony is not lost on me that a thirty something woman wants to report her pram wheels missing. To a police station that only opens from 9am-5pm on the weekdays. It's closed on Saturdays and Sundays. It’s one case of ridiculous after another. But c’mon. Do criminals in this country commit crime in working hours only? I think not. Crime is taken very seriously here. They even name and shame people in the local newspaper by printing their misdemeanours and their sentences. It’s my favourite part of the paper. I love it. Most people get cuffed for driving without car insurance, which is illegal here. That’s seriously as hardcore as it gets. Ok so sometimes someone tries a bit of cheque fraud or starts a brawl outside the pub. Be still my beating heart. My case of the missing pram wheels would fit right in. I can’t help but contrast this to the many times I visited the Hillcrest Police station to report my garden furniture or Weber stolen for insurance claims. Or my son’s stolen bike, or his second bike, or his third. There was queue each time. A long queue. With some serious unsavouries in attendance. And I’m not just talking about the policemen. The condition of my husband driving me to the police station was that once he did; I’d agree to drop the case of the missing pram wheels. Not talk about it. Not think about it. Give it up. Accept defeat. And move on. 

So in the spirit of moving on (but not necessarily forward) since we’ve arrived in the UK, I’ve become a different person. I forget things and orchestrate all manner of cockups in my own little choir of chaos. Visa day/s and wheels aside. My track record of disaster is growing at an alarming rate. I lost my hand/nappy bag at the local Tesco. Inside were my purse and all four of our passports. It was handed in to customer services. Not a pound or document missing. Apparently I left it in the baby changing room. I joked that I could’ve left my baby and taken the bag. Didn’t go down well. I gained no laughs. I did lose something though. My pride was lost that day. It’s on the floor at the exact spot I noticed the bag was missing and proceeded to go into public meltdown. One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest public meltdown. I locked my daughter in our house for over an hour while my son and I lurked outside in our PJs and no shoes in freezing cold weather waiting for the locksmith to let us in. There are still neighbours who won’t look me in the eye. I posted my son’s school application without a stamp. I then cried like a baby in front of the entire post office. I dropped a brand new i-phone 5 into the toilet. Yip. Submerged piece of Apple technology that gushed water like the gutters after those floods we had in Durbs a couple of years ago. You know the floods where the Wimpy on the Beachfront joked they were serving burgers and ships, not burgers and chips. It was cheesy, but so apt.

On Wednesday, I reversed into a parked car in our street. I was late to fetch my husband from the station. I had already reached the end of the cul de sac when I realised that I had left something in the oven. And the oven was on. I debated risking it. But I figured the neighbours would be a damnside more pissed at me if I burned the block down than they were when I locked my kid inside my house. My conscience and efforts to avoid being a social pariah got the better of me and I decided to nip back home and turn it off. I hit reverse and it was all fine until it wasn’t. There’s nothing like the sound of metal crunching metal. My kids were in the backseat and they were both fine. In fact my son asked me to do it again. He even pointed to a blue Ford Mondeo parked alongside us and said “Now get that one Mom!” No one came running. Not a soul came out when I got out of my car (yes in my PJs….it was 7pm at night), but I could feel the eyes. Those judgy eyes. I sprinted home, turned the oven off and grabbed a pen and paper. I proceeded to write a note that I wish had read like this: "Dear Sir. Your stupid black car got in the way of mine. Black cars are so difficult to see. For reasoning that completely eludes me, they were apparently cool about a decade ago when everyone suddenly got one. But now they’re just difficult to see for those approaching middle age. I couldn’t help hitting it. But you can help where you park. And it’s not good to park on the side of a road where you can get in the way of other cars. Especially mine. Let’s call it quits. You park like a tool and drive a black car. I smashed into it. Reckon we’re even.” My note actually read: "Sorry for being such a twat. Here’s my number. I live at 6 Ellison Close. I am so sorry. I will pay. So very sorry. I am South African. Only been here 3 months. So sorry. ”

I keep thinking that when my family and I packed, sold and donated our possessions before we embarked on this crazy journey, I put my brain into one of the boxes. I probably bubble-wrapped it. It's most likely stored in my Mom's garage with my wedding photos and Matric certificate. Thing is. I want it back. Just like those pram wheels. I fear though that I’ve sadly lost both. Forever. Gone, but not forgotten.

My exhausted son on the floor of the train after Visa Mission Part Deux.

The Windsor Police Station opening times. I googled it. Just to be sure.

The 'present' with note I left for someone. Not my best gift.

SA Kid's 21 Rules to Live by in the UK

1. Sand is good. There may not be Skip Auto in Britain, but mom has discovered Persil. She moans that she’s going to die if she has to do another load of *beeping* washing. But she won’t die. She’s just prone to melodrama. She's also a little bit lazy. She hides it well. The laziness. Not the melodrama.

2. Eat with gusto. Even if the Poms look on aghast, don't lose your appetite over it. No one judges a kid. It's Mom and Dad they judge. Mom worries a lot about being judged. Dad worries about pretty much nothing.

3. Dance like no one’s watching. They are. But they'll do nothing except gesture and laugh. So shake it like a Polaroid picture whenever and wherever the mood or sugar rush strikes.  

4. Just like when you're ambushed by a lady doctor with a moustache brandishing an injection at the clinic, the cold is sneaky. It creeps into your bones and tries to ruin your fun. Don't give in to it.

5. Unlike the moustache doctor with the injection. The cold will not win. It can take away our sunny skies, but it can never take away our freedom. (Homage duly paid to William Wallis for Braveheart mis-quote.) Tackle the elements head-on. One layer at a time.

6. Extended aeroplane and car trips are best taken drugged. (Homage duly paid to Valagren Forte and Dr. Grumps for prescription.)

7. Sticks are the most fun ever. They can be swords or guns. They can also be sticks. Just don’t beat your little sister with one or beg to sleep with it. It’s a world of pain either way. For you. Not your sister.

8. Sticks can be fashioned into nifty fishing rods. You will however struggle to catch anything besides a plastic bag. Mom is not sure there are actual fish in the Thames. She reckons the sewerage and serial killers are to blame for this. 

9. The slides in the park are intended to take abuse. Mom agrees. The other moms. Not so much. They hide their children and look away. Mom cheers and takes pictures. She sits alone.

10. Heights should never be an issue. Climb as high as your mom will let you. Then climb a little higher when she’s not looking. Wait until she’s on her phone. She’s never looking then. She's still sitting alone.

11. Trees are for climbing. Don't miss an opportunity when you spot one. Don't worry about falling either. Mom is there to catch you. It’s her job. Dad pays her. He pays for everything.

12. Swans are crafty little buggers who’re not as innocent as they look. They beg incessantly. They make hissing noises and they have very ugly black feet underneath their surface beauty. They should however be treated with respect. Mom says they can drown you with their long windy necks.

13.  A ball, any ball, can be hours of entertainment. As long as you play with Dad. Mom is useless.

14. Thumbs Up and Mexican Waves must be busted out when you're instructed to pose for yet another photo. Posing to 'smile for the camera' is lame. Shake it up a little. You'll get some initial resistance. But stick with it.

15. Why walk when you can run? There’s no fun in walking. Only old people walk.

16. Booze and braais are the fundamentals of any Saffa kid’s childhood. Learn to appreciate both. 

17. A love of flowers does not make you a pansy.

18. There is always time for monkey business. Just be careful with a pencil up your nose. Apparently you can poke through into your brain.

19. No self-respecting African kid leaves the house without sunnies. It’s just not done.

20. Shoes and clothes are always optional. Shoes more so. Clothes can only be removed at home. People don't like naked kids in the parks here. My sister proved this when she did a runner from Mom in the park without her nappy. We left just before the police. Mom is convinced she heard the sirens. 

21. The African culture is a friendly one. We wave. We smile. We make eye contact. We understand that these gestures are unlikely to be acknowledged. This is no big matter to us. We will continue to extend them regardless. It's just how we're raised. Ubuntu and all. Viva Africa. Viva.

Will the Brit in Britain please stand up?

25.  I have met some interesting people since landing on the island. Just this weekend we met an Irish gypsy. We were on a train to Kensington Gardens to meet a long-time SA school friend and visit the Diana Memorial Children’s playground. The gypsy guy was very kind to let my son take his seat next to the window on the train. He had a few teeth and a couple of these were gold, but otherwise from outward appearance you wouldn’t have pegged him as a traveller. Until he told us. “I’s an Irish gypo,” he said. He then pointed at our children and asked; “Is this all ya kids?” We figured the one screeching and jumping on the seat like a banshee and the other trying to climb out of the window were more than enough. We were wrong. “Seven I’s got. Me and the missus ‘ave been married for 15 years.” They’ve virtually had a child every two years for 15 years. Respect. I can’t stop bragging that I’ve sired two human beings. Via C-sections noggal. I’ll bet the gypos don’t do Caesars. They’re way too hard-core.

I was devastated when he got off at the next stop. I wanted to ask him where his kids were. About the gypsy weddings, Holy Communions and prom dances. I wanted to know where gypsies get the cash to afford all that bling and finery if they don’t have a regular job? Why don’t they spend all that cash on a house or a car? Why do they have to use horses? Do they treat their horses well? What’s up with all the grill-work and fake tan? So many questions. So little time. My husband joked that I should’ve asked for his number. I agreed. I wasn’t joking though. 

I was invited to a mum’s coffee morning last week. I nearly wept with joy at the gesture of friendship and then I nearly wept with fear that I’d scare the bejesus out of them and they’d never invite me again. It was ok. I think. I tried not to talk too much. But for me that’s the equivalent of being a wino at a wine farm. Restraint and discretion have never been my strong points. We spent a lot of time talking about the Oscar Pistorius case. Not by my initiation. I’d rather gargle paint thinners. But there’s genuine mystification by the media-savvy public at large here that he’s allowed to continue his life as normal. I explained that’s just the way it works in South Africa. Most public figures have had some brush with the law. Murder, fraud, corruption, or a combination thereof. Oscar’s no different. Well he is different. He’s an amputee and has to put legs on. But he can still shoot someone. Legless or not. So not that different. 

To move the focus off Oscar and in the spirit of sharing which is something we Saffas do… I lifted my leg on to the table and rolled up my jeanpant. I then tried to pass off the scar of the teen tattoo that my father-in-law surgically removed from my ankle as a Great White shark bite. I had them all but convinced until my plot started to resemble the opening scenes of Jaws. Midnight swim in the ocean turns into carnage. Except I wasn’t pulled to pieces, just nibbled. Eventually I had to confess the far less interesting truth that 14 years ago I was in Soho in Londontown. I was young, slightly tipsy and in love and a tattoo seemed like a good idea at the time. Not so much in the sober light of day. We’ve all been there. Done that. Not necessarily with the ink to prove it. But probably close. I think I should’ve stuck to the Jaws sub-plot. Or maybe a stabbing? Clearly I’ll have to work on this. In the group, I met a mum who’s Irish, married to a Mauritian man and they have two children. She explained how on a trip to Mauritius to visit her husband’s family they were stopped in a roadblock where the police assumed that her husband was her driver. The fact that a white Irish lady would be married to local man of colour wasn’t very plausible to the Mauritian coppers. She described the traffic as chaotic; no one obeyed the rules of the road. And there were animals - goats and cows and the like - lurking all over the place. Heart of Darkness indeed! Only I could relate. Except hearing about racial stereotyping, roadblocks, traffic carnage and animals on the roads made me so homesick. I couldn't feign shock and horror. I couldn't be derisive. I could only be proud. In a weirdly nostalgic way.

Our neighbour is a lovely German lady. She’s married to a Cameroonian man and they have three children. My son enjoys playing with a boy at school who’s Portuguese. He’s equally as fond of a chap in his class named Nigel whose family originally hails from Jamaica. I’ve met a Polish mum who’s been in the UK for over 10 years and a German mum who’s married to an Albanian man who came to Britain as a refugee. The man who owns the local newsagents is from India. The private dentist up the road is South African.

I have met some interesting people since landing on the island. And you know the funniest thing? None of them are British.

The Union Jack (British) or Jacek (Polish), Johannes (German) or Jakov (Albanian). This flag should really be re-named the Union of Jacks from all Nations. #Just Saying.

Knock, Knock, Who's There?

24.  So after three mental months in the kingdom of the Royal ones, there’s something that I’m still struggling to get my head around. I’m slowly getting to grips with the trolleys, the trainwreck teeth and even the nursery. (Side note on the nursery: I received another sms from my son’s school informing me and I have to quote this verbatim to do it proper justice:  “Following a recent uniform sweep, we have noticed Oliver does not have the correct socks. Please note that the correct colour socks for this term are plain grey or black. Thank you".  My son’s socks are light grey with the day of the week printed in lumo along the fold. I thought they were fab. Educational yet with a discreet splash of colour. Nope, the sweep has revealed that they’re not acceptable to the uniform police. Bad mother. My parent chart in the staff room overfloweth with black marks. I’m even getting used to that. I’ve come to expect it. I will most likely cock up anything related to school. It’s a given. I recently received an sms from the school late in the afternoon reminding us about the next day’s pyjama day. I naturally knew nothing about it. Naturally. I couldn’t even confirm that the sms was intended for me. And I swear I don't drink in the day. I only dream of that G&T. There are 200 kids in the school. I tried to call the office but it was after 5pm. I couldn’t call another mum as I don’t have a single number. They don’t do that. Share numbers, pleasantries, smiles…Sharing is not caring here. I was terrified that I’d mess up and parade my little boy into the school dressed in his bear pyjamas and he’d be viciously mocked and taunted. Kids can be so cruel. I slept badly worrying that the trauma would result in years of therapy for my son. And maybe a serial killer adulthood. All because his mum didn’t pay proper attention to school notices. The next day we left the house with him dressed in his PJs but with every item of his uniform hidden in the pram so that if I spotted any kid in his class not in civvies, we could whip them off in the bushes faster than George Michael does in a public toilet. The first kid we saw was in Shaun the Sheep PJs and I could’ve kissed him. I didn’t of course. I felt like a rockstar. I am learning. Slowly, slowy catch a monkey. 

What I’m still not getting though is the sound of the front door bell ringing or a knock on the front door. It sounds like I’ve been taking pink pills. I haven't. Bear with me. In South Africa we live fenced within our palisade, electric, gumpole or precast variation. We drive into our homes through a remote access gate. You very rarely can simply stroll up to someone’s front door and knock on it. Think about it. The only people who rap-a-tap-tap on your door in SA are those who you’ve invited in. You know exactly who to expect when you open the door because you’ve buzzed them in. It’s all we know and there’s a private dignity to it in my opinion. In this place, people are perfectly able (and willing it appears) to ring your front doorbell at all hours. There’s no 8-foot fence. No razor wire. No reinforced "guy stands in front of it with a swinging big-ass metal ball in the advert to prove it's strong" gate. No dog protecting your space. I struggle with this. And I struggle too with who rings my door bell. And why. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. No, it’s more like the conversion pursuant Mormons (who my son scared away), the woman raising money for hospice, the research survey people, the school raffle kids, the guy taking catalogue orders. I’m not a tight-ass. I support the hospice and RSCPA by shopping and donating to the charity shop. I will sponsor a walk for breast cancer. If I have cash, I always support the tin-toting ballies standing at the supermarket entrances. Who doesn't? I’m also not an unfriendly psycho freak. I have friends. I don’t have agoraphobia. I just don’t appreciate having someone at my doorstep with a clipboard at 6pm at night. At that time, my house is like George Orwell’s Animal Farm. My kids are feral. So am I. My kids are tired. I’m tired of them. There’s washing drying on the radiators. There’s food on the floor. It's not pretty. And neither am I. I am in my manky PJs and my face is usually smeared with moisturiser that I’m too lazy to rub in so I just leave it to sink in by itself. It means I look like a Geisha and not in a good way. I've also got about 6 months worth of chav re-growth to deal with that I keep putting off. Seriously. To have to greet a stranger on my doorstep in this state isn’t comfortable for me or the intruder visitor. Mostly for me. 

One evening last week, I was bathing my kids when the doorbell rang. I have to admit that I do leave them alone in the bath on occasion. They don’t go through an entire bath unsupervised. That would result in a Carte Blanche profile I’m sure. And again not in a good way. But if I can hear two sets of voices and splashing sounds while I’m getting the PJs, we’re all good. That's my litmus test. Mothers are blessed with freakishly good hearing. They’re still alive. Still breathing. Speaking of breathing reminds me that I once had a very narrow bathtime escape. Back home in SA when my daughter was a couple of months old and very floppy in the bath ring. Ok in the spirit of full disclosure, she probably was too young for the bath ring. You get impatient with the second one. I asked my son to watch her while I nipped up the passage to turn off the oven before his fish fingers burnt and could be bounced off the walls. I was literally 20 seconds. I did run. I promise. When I got back, my daughter had folded over double as only those Anne Geddes posed babies can and her head (which granted is abnormally big) was submerged under the water and her short little arms were flapping about like Nemo. After I’d plucked her out spluttering and checked for signs of brain damage, I said to my son: “Ollie. What happened? I asked you to watch your sister”. To which he replied indignantly, “I did watch her. Her head went in the water. I watched it.” Never a more contextualised lesson learnt that it’s probably not wise to let your older one look after your younger one if the age gap is less than a decade. Just to be safe mind. Especially in the bath.

So last week when the doorbell rang downstairs, I honestly wasn’t too happy to leave them alone. I raced down the stairs, flung open the door and was greeted by…a man-child with a clipboard. He launched immediately into his spiel and I cut him off by asking him for a brochure as I didn’t have time to talk. He said he didn’t have a brochure. I said it wasn’t a good time. He asked me if I’d been touched by cancer. I told him yes but reiterated that I really couldn’t talk. He responded that cancer is a silent killer and sufferers need all the support they can get. I repeated that I understood, wanted to support, would go online but really had to go. He said that it would take five minutes to sign me up for a couple of pounds a month and that I could save a life. It was the “save a life" comment that was like the petrol bomb to a thatched house for me. I told him that I was sorry. I told him I had my own lives to save and that my children were drowning in the bath upstairs and I had to go. I promptly slammed the door in his face. I’m pretty sure that on his clipboard in the space for comments next to our house number he’s written: “Rude and crazy single foreign (Australian?) woman. Very weird white face. Hysterical tendencies. Children at drowning risk.”

Since Cancer Guy, I’ve been waiting for the doorbell to ring. Not for him. I don’t think he’d brave it. I’ve been waiting for Child Services. Seriously. I’m in the same expectant state of emergency as I was when we had our home assessment interview with the teacher at Oliver’s school before they would accept him. Yes they really come to your house. I’ve got all my contraband (booze, chocolate and the like) ready to be hauled into the cupboard under the stairs. I’ve got the appropriate toys stacked neatly in wait. Floors are clean. I’m ready. Only thing I have to let rest on a wing and prayer is my kids. I can only hope that my son doesn’t feel the need to make any inappropriate comments. I never can tell when he’s going drop one with Hiroshima effect. One of his most memorable was the time we were walking out of the Pick ‘n Pay in Kloof. I was heavily pregnant with my daughter. He was sitting in the trolley noshing on a packet of Flings. As we emerged out of the Fields Centre into the daylight, we were greeted by the sight of a typical late summer’s afternoon storm cloud. All dark and brooding. He looked up at me and said as clear as day and louder than any mother wants her child to say anything except maybe ‘please’ or ‘thank you’. He said: “F*ck Mom, I think it’s going to rain.” If he pulls one of those, we’re toast.

If it's 6pm on a weekday, knock at your own risk.

British Nursery School - Pass. SA Mum - Epic Fail

23.  Another massive learning curve since leaving the sunny shores of our homeland has been getting to grips with the schooling system in the UK. Further to my education in peanuts and sun cream, there’s apparently a whole lot more to learn. And not just for my son it appears. He’s doing fine. It’s his standard grade mum who may need some extra lessons.

Since beginning nursery school in the year before Grade R, my son’s school bag bulges daily with new additions. Not with jerseys or raincoats as you’d think. Or rocks, makeshift homes for shongololos or sticks – as were the ubiquitous little treasures I’d discover back home in South Africa. Not quite. Not here. Here the oke comes home each day with a little more homework. I’m no stranger to a homework book. I'm not a complete cretin. Only difference is that I'm used to the homework book for a four year old with a little apologetic note from his teacher on how he was hit in the head by a rock. (True story. No stitches.) Or that he spent time in the grow-good chair because he clobbered the boy who threw the rock. (Sad, but true story.) Or that he had an accident in his jocks and the soiled clothing has been quarantined in the plastic Pick ‘n Pay packet in his bag. (Rank true story.) I like the homework books where there’s no actual homework. It’s more like housework. And I can deal with housework. This homework thing. Not so much. I simply don’t think I’m qualified.

My son has been issued with a plastic chart that details sounds, phonetics, letters, pictures, vowels and consonants. It’s called a Vowel Grapheme Chart. I hate the bloody thing. He’s been told to protect it though because he’s upset if I use it as a coaster for my teacup or his little sister tries to slide on it on her bum along the kitchen floor. I’m not really sure what do it with it this chart. So we look at the pictures. I tried sticking it in his room next to the Thomas the Tank Engine poster, but the school asked for it back. Then there’s what’s called a Woodland Pack with shapes, letters, numbers and a handwriting kit. It’s proper. And I’m clueless. Like seriously clueless. My son has to teach me what to do with his charts and graphs. He’s four. I’m significantly older. And I have a degree in English. I should be able to do this. It should be piss easy. Except it’s not. It’s hectic. Everyday after school, I eye out his bag anxiously wondering what’s in his homework book. It taunts me. Eventually like a plaster where the only way is a clean rip, I open his book and read what the day’s exercise is. And like most things with motherhood, I pretend I know what I’m doing. I don’t want my son to know that his pre-school homework terrifies me. He should only be able to recognise my shortcomings when it comes to geometry or physics in post Matric. I shouldn't disillusion him now. It's too early. I should have at least another decade. Moms are supposed to be superheroes. They conquer all the bad stuff. They make you laugh. They’re fun. They give you nice food. They cuddle. They smell nice. They’re not supposed to be too thick to work out your Vowel Grapheme Chart. It’s just not how nature intended. In my opinion, nature doesn’t intend for your four year old child to be worrying about the difference between a curly c and a kicking k. But then that’s just me. I can’t really comment though, my record is appalling. Last week I received a text message from the school to inform me that my son has the inappropriate attire for Physical Education (we just called it PE). Could I please furnish him with school-approved plimsolls at my earliest convenience. Plimsolls? I had to google plimsolls. And they’re those tennis takkies that we wore in the 80s. Why couldn’t they just say that? My IQ dropped another 5 points below my Shame Q.

On the day before he’s due to go back to school from half-term break, I decided to clear out the poor desiccated snails in his bag. I’d already seen the homework due for the holiday. We’d already plodded my way through it. Ollie taught me how to sound out his letters and we learnt how to use those to create words. What I hadn’t seen was an A4 piece of paper I'd overlooked hiding between his library book and his ruddy Vowel Grapheme Chart. Was it another newsletter? Another reminder about the emergency procedure protocol? No it wasn’t. It was my worst nightmare. A school project. With research and stuff. And you have to hand it in. Something actual. On paper. And there’s a deadline. I nearly had to breathe into a paper bag. Can I find a job before the deadline? Not likely. It’s in three weeks. And more to the point, who’s going to hire someone who battles to do homework with a four year old? Can I pay someone to do it with my son? That just seems wrong. And people will know. And those people will judge.

Later that evening, while he was in the bath, in what I assumed was a casual tone (but was obviously laced with latent panic and hysteria)... I mentioned the project to my 4 year old. He looked knowingly at me with his beautiful blue eyes, shrugged his slight little shoulders and said: “Oh yah that. I know about that. It’ll be fine Mom. Don’t stress. It’s not hard. We’ll do it together.”

Just three short months ago, I was pleading with my boy to get up off the floor of the supermarket after he insisted on padding around pretending to be a dog. He spent the equivalent of three days in the naughty corner after he smeared dry cement on the bonnet of our car and used the running hosepipe to create ‘art’. I won't even tell you what damage he wreaked to the pool pump cover. Now, he’s teaching his mother how to do his pre-school homework and reassuring me that we can do his research project. What does this say about him? He’s growing up. He’s learning. He’s probably realising that his Mom is actually clever clueless. What does this say about me? I really am more than a little bit stupid. Maybe it’s the wine? Does wine make you stupid? And the biggest learning to date: If this is pre-school English? How in the hell am I going to handle Maths? #Dogshow #Mum-who-can't-cope