The Gift of Gabriella

When I was pregnant with our second child, I was expecting a boy. To me this was fact. I had no medical proof of the gender. I didn’t want or need any. I had my own special powers. I innately believed that the little being I was carrying was a boy. And for me, this belief was enough. I gave him a name. He was to be Alexander, after my late grandfather Alexander Robert Trevor Gray. I bought blue paint for the nursery. I even painted a whole wall myself before my ever-pragmatic husband intervened and toned the blue to a more gender-neutral grey. I kept aside all my eldest’s clothes. I envisaged another version of my son. I prepared myself for the arrival of our little boy. Somewhere in my psyche I’d convinced myself that I wouldn’t ever have girls. I’d be a mom to boys. That was that. I had nothing against girls. I just didn’t think that I’d be a good mother to a girl. I figured that boys were simple. Girls were complex. I wasn’t adept at complex – so simple is what I’d get. I had it all figured out.

At around 8am on the 1st of November 2011, our gynecologist delivered our healthy 3.75-kilogram baby. Into my arms he presented a dark haired, chubby-cheeked little girl. A little girl! I was in complete and utter shock. I’m ashamed to admit that for a while in that post-delivery drug-induced state, I actually believed that there had been a mix-up. Someone else had my boy. And I had been mistakenly given this little girl. She wasn’t mine. Despite my insane protests, I was kindly reassured that there was no mistake. She’d come from me. She was my baby. She was the complete antithesis of what I’d imagined. Of what I’d expected. My son was a bald, skinny and quiet little chap. He barely made a peep when he was born. I was holding a baby with a mop of dark hair, she was chubby and she screamed like a banshee the moment she'd drawn her first breath. And she was a girl. The anesthetist remarked “she’s a feisty one your daughter”. My daughter! The sound of that word ‘daughter’ was so foreign. In my mind I kept repeating, “I have a daughter, I have a daughter.” While my husband went with the nurse to bath her while I was being stitched, I wept. I wept at the shock of it all. I wept for being so stupid. For being so stubborn. For failing to honour her with the proper welcome into the world that she deserved. For allowing my own fears and insecurities to rob her of the first nurturing embrace she needed. For the shell-shocked fumble she ended up getting. On that morning in that theatre room of Parklands Hospital, I made a couple of vows. I vowed that I would get over myself. To her I vowed that she would be loved. She was my daughter. I was her mother. She would be loved.

And so began the process of getting to know my little girl. Of her getting to know me. Learning how to be her mother - a role that’s an ever-evolving journey rather than a destination absolute. I have written a lot about the wisdom I’ve gained from our son. The lessons I’m received from from him on how to live with feeling, to express oneself honestly no matter how difficult or painful. Truth is that I’ve also been taught so much from a little girl who I never gave the courtesy of a place in my imagined destiny. In just shy of two years of life, she’s shown me that love can be unconditional. She’s shown me that happiness can be found in a smile, a laugh, a song and a dance. There’s such uncomplicated joy in our little girl, it positively radiates from her. She’s been such a comfort in this time of transition. She’s been a constant for me. A constant source of delight. I understand that we’ve got a long journey ahead. Our relationship will go through seasons and not all of them will be good. Some will be tough. But I can honestly say that I’ve been blessed with a little soul who has taught me that happiness is a choice. No matter where one is. A million miles from normal. Under the most foreign of circumstance. One can choose to take the good from life. Find the positives. Belt out the Lumineers’ Ho Hey and dance around the living room like a lunatic with two littlies in tow. Jump on the bed and have tickle-fests after bath. Sing the Barney song in the car. Play peek-a-boo until it’s not possible to do it even just one more time. Moments of joy are everywhere. In the mundane. In the routine. They’re not just reserved for special occasions.



When I get home in the evening, I open the front door and every day without fail, there will be a little body that slams like a rocket into my legs. A greeting of giddy glee and pure unadulterated delight. I lift her into my arms she rests her head on my chest. She’s all big blue eyes, blonde curls and soft skin. “Love you”, I whisper. To which she replies, “Mommy I love you much. I love you most.” 



I never wanted a little girl. Now I cannot imagine a life without this girl. My daughter. We’re far away from that theatre room in Parklands Hospital. In so many ways. We’ve travelled a great distance together. I look forward to the rest of the journey with this precious gift. A beautiful happy little girl called Gabriella who has taught me to laugh more and worry less.

The Start of the European Appreciation Project - Spain, Siestas and Shedloads of Sick

Travel is one of the biggest bonuses that Adventure 20-13 affords us. We’re a plane, train or automobile ride away from Europe and all the culture, cubism or Caesar you can shake a stick at. We may though be better off with the States as our proverbial travel backyard. I say this because our son only ever wants pink milk and slap chips. At any time. In any country. I want to project an image of myself as a refined and cultured embodiment of a good education and a keen interest in history and world affairs. The truth is that I’m quite rude, very crass and wouldn’t know my Gauguin from my Guttoso if they gonked me on the backside. I fit better in America – just as well as my son’s palette it seems. Despite physicality to the contrary, we’re clearly related.

I resolve however to persevere with Europe and make headway into my mission to take in her sights and understand more of her sensibilities. If only to be in a stronger position to geographically pinpoint where each of her countries is located on the world map. Something I confess I am not currently able to do. And I did Geography for Matric. Yes, I know…Hit me Baby one more Time. # Homage-reluctantly-paid-to-Britney-Spears.

For our maiden European Appreciation voyage, we were fortunate enough to be hosted en masse for a week by our friend at her family home in Valencia. A beautiful four bedroom casita set in the rural hills in a region known as Olocau. Big enough to house our brood and the chaos we create and sturdy enough for the same reason. We had a week full of sunshine, swimming and off-the-beaten-track Spain. I’ve condensed my experience into a couple of memories that stand out. You’ll notice very little culture. But shedloads of chaos. Funny that.

• On our departure day, our four-year-old son was randomly searched at customs at Heathrow. A waifish little chap buffered between beefy security amidst a bustling airport is a sight to behold I tell you. He was curtly asked to remove his shoes. Taken aside. And then frisked. He took it all in his stride though. Cool as a cucumber as he was patted down by Attila the Hun. I wanted to ask the guard what he possibly could be packing on such a slight little frame? Bombs from Honey I Shrunk the Kids? Cocaine for little people? I withheld comment though. For once. Probably for the best.

• I tried to smuggle in a litre of milk for my daughter in my hand luggage. My more seasoned travel companions made me remove it before the security police laughed me all the way to the sink. What’s wrong with a little milk on a plane? A lot apparently.

• In Spain, driving on the right side of the road isn’t right. Neither are traffic circles when you approach them from the wrong side. We had a baptism of fire navigating the highways of Madrid en route to Valencia – a three hour journey. My husband lost five kilograms in perspiration and my friend and I toned our glutes with butt clenches at every circle, every entry and exit to a different highway and all the driving in between.

• Tom, the disembodied monosyllabic man who speaks over the satellite navigator app, is a douchebag. Exit to the right does not actually mean to the nearest right. It means at a right approaching at some point. So don’t get into the right lane. Stay in the middle until you miss your exit and you’re treated to the ‘recalculating jingle’. We got a little lost in the dark in an industrial estate in Madrid. We nearly killed Tom there. And left him in one of the 18 alleys he wrongfully took us through. It would’ve served him right. Fortunately lady luck smiled on us weary travellers and with a few blatant disregards of Tom’s cockeyed directions, we made it out. It was touch and go for a while though.

• On this very same car journey to Valencia from Madrid we had to stay awake to remind my husband to stay on the right side of the road. This was so we could stay alive. To achieve a semblance of consciousness, we spoke a lot of crap and ate a lot of crap. I spent much of the journey talking about the most psychotic murder documentaries I’d watched. Driving in the dark in a foreign country with a palpable fear of dying via road death, it somehow seemed an appropriate topic.

• The serial killer theme was given more context by the public toilets that were our pit-stops en route. Pit being the operative word. Spanish toilets make the South African toilets you get at home affairs look larney. They’re proper rank.

• According to the song from the musical My Fair Lady, The rain in Spain falls mainly on the Plain. Just not in Valencia. And not in August.  We packed 23 kilos of clothing for four of us, including nappies. Which I figured was pretty impressive. After having condensed our lives into seven suitcases – I proudly believed I had the packing thing waxed. Baggage beast slayed. Truth is, we could’ve packed a single change of clothing, a bathing suit and a towel each and we’d have been sorted for a week. It was over 30 degrees every day. My jeans and hoodie mocked me in the cupboard the entire week. I could practically hear the ‘nah-nah-nah-nah-nah’.

• The Spanish locals are in awe of children with blonde hair. Friendly locals patted our children’s heads everywhere we went. Not unlike in a petting zoo come to think of it.  But with less bread and fewer animals. And no cages.

• Few locals speak English in the rural parts of Spain. Thanks to our Spanish-heritage friend, we learnt to say "La cuenta por favor” which means “Check please”. But we did have issues with ordering an iced coffee that literally arrived as black coffee with ice. Looked like a glass of coke. Tasted like jet fuel. At least we could pay for it though.

• My culinary journey with tapas was born and then promptly died shortly after birth. We had two slimy fishy dishes served at a local restaurant which I gave a good go, but I’m not a fan of white soggy fish or slimy fish skin. So I ate a whole lot of bread and cheese. I was also very enthusiastic about the olives and chorizo. And the authentic paella that our host made on our last night. I committed culinary suicide akin to say squirting tomato sauce on truffles - when I made wraps for padkos with the leftover paella and added mustard and balsamic glaze to ‘season’. # Just-Not-Done.

• We drank a lot. Spanish beer is good and very reasonable priced. A quaffable bottle of Rioja sets you back about 2 Euro, which is less than the cost of the tolls on the highway. And it’s not battery acid. It’s very good. My advice – whatever you think you’ll drink, double it. When in Spain…

• The Spaniards take their siestas very seriously. Between the hours of 2 and 5pm, everything shuts down. Literally. Shutters are closed. Shades are drawn. You’ll struggle to get ice if your tongue was on fire during this time. Petrol is even harder to come by. Best place to be is lying prostrate on a lilo in a swimming pool. The pool will come in handy if you do manage to set your tongue on fire.

• Our return trip to Madrid airport for our flight back to the UK was…I’ll just say eventful. We set off at sparrows anticipating that douchebag Tom would lead us along the path of temptation and deliver us to evil. We were wrong. About Tom. He was uncharacteristically compliant. But we did encounter evil. And it came in the form of child vomit. Our two year old started retching approximately 20 minutes into the three hour journey and as if on queue in some pantomime for the seriously disturbed, my son followed suit. They vomited like you see on the movies. Like that scene in Bridemaids. Except not as funny. Not funny at all. We’re talking projectile vomit. All over their laps, the seats – I even found chunks in my handbag. We pulled over at the nearest exit. Changed their clothes. Cleaned as best we could. Then set off to catch our flight. The vomiting continued though. Pretty much the rest of the way. I ended up using a plastic biscuit tub to alternate catching the sick between each child’s up-chuck. When it was a well-timed tandem vom session, I used my hand as a cup. It was one of those moments where I had to remind myself that I chose motherhood. The two feral ones exist at least in part because of me. They didn’t choose me as their mother any more than I had any say whatsoever over their wussy lack of ability to hold their solids and liquids in a moving vehicle. Like a mantra, I kept reminding myself of this fact. If I hadn’t, you’d have certainly spotted two kotch-riddled little blondies on the side of a highway on the outskirts of Madrid brandishing a sign “Free to Good Homes”. I kid you not. It was that bad.

• To bid an authentic adiós or chau to Spain – we could only do it by making a scene at the airport. It’s just how we roll. No poise. No class. Just a shambolic dogshow all the way. In efforts to find my son…yip you guessed it… pink milk and chips, we trawled the airport. We eventually gave up and settled for doughnuts. No less yank but easier to come by at Madrid Airport for some reason. Afterwards we decided to buy some perfume for Granny Gail at Duty Free. Then we suddenly realised that our flight was boarding. Then we couldn’t find the gate. Then we started running. We eventually screeched to the boarding gate waving our children in the hopes they’d have mercy on the stupid tourists. We made it by a hair’s breadth. Grim faced crew waved us in and we did the aisle walk of shame in front of 200 passengers already strapped in and ready to go. Oh and I failed to mention… I had puke on my skirt. In my hair. And in my bag. A class act indeed. Watch out Europe – there’s a special breed of ‘culture’ heading your way. The Cook family.

Residency Revelations and Doing it Your Way - Your Best Way

So we were invited to a braai this past weekend. By a lovely South African couple who’ve been in the UK for 3 years. Present were the most Saffas gathered in one place we’ve seen since we queued through customs at Oliver Tambo Airport in March. We had a smorgasbord of locals representing the SA provincial trifecta of Jozi, the Mother City and good ol’ Durbs by the Sea. At every turn in this modest sized garden in the heart of Surrey, you’d encounter at least 20 home-growners jabbering away in conversations peppered with words like  “bru” “hey” “shot” and “yah”. Jock backslapping and friendly banter aplenty. The temperature hovered at a respectable 26 degrees. Beer and wine flowed as fast as the unbridled accents. The smell of boerewors wafted in the air. The children frolicked in a paddling pool. Buck-naked. Rotund and dimpled little bodies lathered in sunscreen, expressing delightful squeals of joy and shrieks of laughter. There were even two dogs doing the rounds looking for a stray sausage or an abandoned plate to pounce on. Every African can picture this. You can close your eyes and see it. Smell it. Taste it. Feel it. It’s a visceral memory we all share. It evokes home. Images of happy summer times with friends and family. The South African braai will always hold this for us. This afternoon was no different. It was the perfect setting for a perfect afternoon.

Except something cast a pall on this day. Not the weather this time. Not an arrogant Aussie or a self-righteous Brit. Miraculously it wasn’t one of our children either: puking in the paddling pool, clubbing another child in the face or destroying property. Thank goodness for small mercies. The source of our instant downer was the fact that virtually every couple we met (besides our hosts) absolutely hated life in the UK. We’re talking depressed and desperate hate here. Each couple took turns to confess their plans to head back to South Africa as soon as possible. No one enjoyed living here. “I fecking hate this hole.”“We’re outta here bru, as soon as we can” was the common sentiment. These aren’t newcomers either. They’re current residents of the United Kingdom. People who’ve committed in excess of seven years of hard graft, sworn allegiance to good old Lizzy and her posse and have absolutely no intention of remaining in Britain beyond what is necessary in their personal circumstance. Many have even had children here. Laaitjies who’re born to 100% South Africans, however their birthright offers them an undisputed claim to British heritage that will be wholly honoured and acknowledged by aforementioned Queen and country.

For us newbie 5 month olds with our freshly severed umbilical cord to Africa still tender and sore, it was shattering. We left the braai that evening feeling disheartened. And a little sad. We felt that perhaps we didn’t get the memo. We’d missed the boat. Did they know something that we didn’t? Why after 10 years in a country where a couple have been able to secure good jobs, purchase property, raise healthy children, enjoy travel, develop a network of friends – would their automatic default setting be to return to South Africa? And for little justification beyond, “We hate it here. We’ve always hated it here” and “We miss our family.” Is it really that terrible here? And if it really is so bad, why in the hell would you stay for 10 years?

I admit that I’m no stranger to the popular practice that sees Saffas arrive in the UK, achieve residency status, make some money and then head back to South Africa with the currency exchange rate in their favour and the sun on their back. Surely though there’s a little something called life somewhere in that equation. Tucked in between all the visas and residency permits. The hard slog and the homesickness. There is life in there. And under these circumstances is one really living it? At what cost? And for what gain? A passport to travel in Europe, a couple more zeros in one’s bank account. Hardly seems worth it to me. Certainly when it’s stacked up against the misery one needs to endure to achieve it. I can also appreciate that there’s a tricky lady called nostalgia who creeps into this equation with a pair of rose-tinted glasses on her nose. She starts making her presence known to Saffas pretty much the moment they arrive in a foreign land. She creates a hazy utopia, paints a pretty picture of life in SA that’s a mirage of unrealistic expectation. She cultivates a sense of ‘grass is greener’ and in this garden plants crafty little seeds of doubt that grow into mother-ass sized weeds that can choke you. John Wyndham’s Day of the Triffids springs to mind here. We did this book as a set work in Standard 7 English and I’ve spent 18 years looking for a context to reference it. Finally! Anyway, back to Lady Nostalgia. She’s dangerous. To give life in a new land a fighting chance, one needs to keep her banished until she can be enjoyed responsibly. Kind of like cane and crème soda. Lovely in moderation, but a complete dogshow if you over-indulge.

By no means do we possess the elixir of knowledge on how to handle living in a foreign country. We’re struggling just like everyone else. We’re taking strain with our new reality that sees virtually everyone we know and love located at best a 10-hour plane ride away over the expanse of an entire continent. We’re making this thing up as we go along. We’re doing our best. Through our experience on Saturday though, we’ve resolved that we’ll be damned if we’re going to be sitting at braai in 10 years time as residents of Britain bemoaning how bleak life is. Bitter and depressed. Lamenting about how we can’t wait to return to the land of our birth. No way bru. If we are still here in 10 years time, this will be home. We refuse to live life in future tense. We see enough tragedy and heartbreak of lives cut short, of destinies unfulfilled. If life is bleak here for us, we go back to South Africa. End of story. Finished and klaar as my Gran would say. Residency or not. We owe that to our children. We owe that to ourselves. And in a way, we owe that to Britain.

I’ll end off in the words of good old Frank, who’s eloquently managed to sum up the point of what I’ve attempted to achieve in the 1000-odd words before this. The point of it all. To strive to live with little regret. To do it your way. Your best way. Whatever that is. My sincerest wish is that it’s not being sad in a place that you hate away from everyone you love. I cannot conceive of anything that would be worth that.

“My friend, I'll say it clear I'll state my case, of which I'm certain. 
I've lived a life that's full. I traveled each and ev'ry highway.
And more, much more than this, I did it my way. 

Regrets, I've had a few. But then again, too few to mention. 
I did what I had to do and saw it through without exemption. 
I planned each charted course, each careful step along the byway. And more, much more than this, I did it my way.” - Frank Sinatra

Our children. Doing it their way.