Sick Santa

Santa Clause gives me the creeps. I’m not a fan. It’s not just his florid face, wobbly belly or white beard. I have another reason for being slightly wary of the fat oke in a red suit. When I was a little girl I went to one of those Santa’s Grotto places while my folks did some last minute Christmas shopping at our local mall. When Santa put me on his lap to ask “if I’d been a good little girl…” he also made me hold his penis. In my hand. Just casually made me hold it. I didn’t think anything of this special treatment at the time. Such is the innocence of a 5 year old. In fact, I was very blasé when afterwards in the car trip home my folks asked about how it was meeting Santa, and I replied “Good. I even held his willy.” Not quite the reaction they’d expected. Of all the sick Santas in the world – we had our very own in little Sleepy Hollow. Small towns I suppose. They're a veritable breeding ground for all sorts of weirdos and vermin. Even those who come out at Christmas time it seems.


There’s no halfway when it comes to Christmas in the Kingdom. In this instance, I don’t mean Jesus’ Kingdom, although he makes a pretty big statement at this time of the year too. I mean the United Kingdom. They go all out here. More lights than Diwali adorn our high street. There’s even a ceremony held with a local celebrity to turn the lights on. Everyone counts down and cheers. There’s a concert with a stage outside the castle and everything. At any given time like a flashmob, there’s carolling in the street. Just random people all stood together singing carols and a guy with a scroll. And a hat. And a bell. There’s mulled wine. And Christmas jumpers. There is always the threat of snow. Actual snow. Supermarkets sell real Christmas trees. Everywhere you go, Christmas jingles ting merrily. There are ice-skating rinks set up in the parks. There’s even a place called Lapland (no not that kind of place….although I did wonder) where you meet real reindeer and all the elves and stuff. And then of course, there’s Santa. 
There’s no escaping the oke here. He’s in every department store. At schools. In churches. Emblazoned upon jerseys, decorations, banners, posters. Everywhere you look – you're greeted with his shiny smiling red face.

In South Africa, we’re not complete festive season philistines – we do the tree, the decorations, the reindeer trails. We deck the halls with boughs of holly. We leave a beer and mince pie alongside our jetmasters. We wear those ridiculous paper hats that make us all sweat bullets and pull the crackers at a table adorned with a stuffed bird of some variation with all the trimmings. We light a Christmas pudding and gorge ourselves on Quality Street chocolates. And after the lunch formalities are done – we all float hippo-like in the swimming pool because it’s usually too hot to do anything else. Or as is usually the case in KZN, it rains. Think humid afternoon downpours while everyone sits on a stoop getting positively pissed, while nibbling at leftovers that no one could believe themselves venturing toward again. It’s too hot for a Christmas jumper. Impressive ornamental lights strung along every street would be a waste because Eskom’s loadshedding schedule would put paid to their purpose very quickly. And they’d probably get stolen. Mulled wine would be like drinking tea on a day that’s 45 degrees. No one really stands on any street corners – certainly not while singing carols. Unless they’re begging. And that’s an entirely different kind of singing. Snow is not an option. Well, for obvious reasons.

The African Christmas Experience is very different to the British one. It’s sunny for starters. It’s holiday time. It’s chaos. It’s awesome. And I miss it very much. We’re on the brink of having our second Christmas as a family on this side of the pond. It’s a mind warp how different the holiday is. For starters, it’s not really a holiday. Not a real one at least. Schools close for like 10 days. And it's feck cold. And dark. And wet. Takes some getting used to, that’s for sure. But I reckon the universe is trying her best to get me to embrace our new festive reality. Especially when it comes to sicko Santa. Last week my son came home from school with a piece of paper that details his part in the school Christmas play. Of all the little poppets in an entire school….my slight of build, blonde haired little boy is...yip you guessed it... freakin Santa Clause. He’s not a reindeer, or a penguin, or an elf. He’s the father of Christmas. In all his red-suited glory. I have even had to pay good money for a Santa suit. Ordered via Amazon. Non-returnable of course. This year, I get to see if Santa's naughty or nice. I'll keep you posted.

Just no escaping it.

An Anthem of Awkwardness

After nearly two years in the UK, my son still misses South Africa. Still pines and cries for the land of his birth. It’s heartbreaking. He’s like one of those dogs you hear in South Africa sitting by the gate tjanking for his owners to come home. My son speaks often of a life that we’re astounded he remembers so well. He’d just turned four when we left. His pride in his heritage runs deep. Way deeper than mine, I’m ashamed to admit. He’s very happy to talk about where he comes from. He needs to. Often and to anyone who’ll listen. At school, when his British classmates speak of farm animals and domestic pets, he’ll describe a springbok or a buffalo. Regale them with tales of snakes in our garage, shongololos in the garden, my husband's earthworm farm and monkeys on the roof. 


In a genuine effort to try and reinforce his South African-ness, we do all sorts of things:
 - We show him many pictures of home. Of our old home. Of family and friends.
 - We still speak in our accents hey. We pronounce words ‘laaike’ ‘naaice’ and “yar” and “lekker”. The stronger his little pom accent gets, the further he deviates from our “fla-at” Saffa vowels. 

- We braai. Often. Chicken, lamb, steak, pork, you name it. We even use the Weber to do jacket potatoes. In the rain. In the cold. In the dark. No matter the weather. No matter the occasion. We braai. It’s just what we do. It’s in our blood.

- We’re happy for him to take his clothes off. In the house. Or on a beach in Scotland.
- He can climb where he likes. As long as it’s not on to the neighbour's shed (he’s done that) or out of the loft window on to our roof (he’s tried to do that), we’re comfortable that he climbs.
- We spend time with other Saffas living here. At their homes. Or ours. Not something the British do. Have people over. We Africans do it. Often.


At school, he’s been learning songs from other parts of the world. Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes in French for example. Or the De-yo Banana Boat song from Jamaica. Or a Kenyan greeting ditty. When the song has a different language, we translate it to English so he can understand what it’s all about. This gave me the idea of teaching him Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika – the South African national anthem. I told him that it was the song of his home country. A very important song that everyone sings, even the President. I can sing the anthem. But apparently I’m not great at singing in general. I always thought I was, but whenever I sing anything my husband makes a noise (and does the actions) of a kitten being strangled and my children tell me to please stop. I managed to sing the anthem ok. Well I got through the whole thing. Some parts I fudge slightly, but I’m better than 99% of all the white rugby players or cricketers you see on TV. Although that’s not saying much.
Anyway after I’d sung the anthem to my son, he said "So Mum what does it mean? What do the words mean?” And you do know what. I had absolutely no idea. No cooking clue what my own national anthem means. Disgraceful. I had to Google it. This is the Wikipedia translation of the lyrics of the South Africa national anthem, available to view for us ignorant little twerps.

God Bless Africa.

Let its (Africa’s) horn be raised,
Listen also to our prayers, 

Lord bless us, we are the family of it (Africa).

Lord bless our nation, 

Stop wars and suffering,

Save it, save our nation,

The nation of South Africa.
Out of the blue of our heavens,

From the depths of our sea,

Over our everlasting mountains,

Where our cliffs give answer,

Sounds the call to come together,
And united we shall stand,
Let us live and strive for freedom
In South Africa our land.

Once I’d read through the translation to my son, he says to me all big-eyed, “What is war? Who is suffering? Why do we need to save it?” In typical Ollie style, he went straight to those parts. Forget about the blue of our heavens, the depths of our sea or our everlasting mountains. My son wanted to know why South Africa needed saving. What a question. So many layers to that one. Where does one start? I decided that I’m not grown-up enough to answer the chap. I’ll cock it up. I can barely handle the dying and heaven and Jesus questions. I’m an absolute wuss. The other night the two of them were in the bath together and I heard Ollie say to his sister “I like it when you put that in my bum". I froze and back-peddled away from the door and went to my bedroom. Let them sort that shit stuff out themselves. I’m not qualified to deal with anything of a sensitive or awkward nature. I’m tactless. And rude. I will make things worse. So these kinds of things I merely ignore. And hope they go away. Or I wait for their father to come home.


For now though, I believe that there’s such bliss in his ignorance about South Africa’s past. He knows nothing of the country’s legacy of apartheid. A legacy of hate. Of violence. Oppression. Segregation. He’s not blinkered by any prejudice. He feels no shame or guilt on behalf of his forefathers and their complicity (intended or otherwise) in a system designed to persecute on the basis of race. He simply loves his home. And he’s extremely proud of it. It’s as simple as that. I understand that at some stage he will need to know the history of the country of his birth. Just as every South African child will need to know. To understand what happened. It’s why history is important. To put the past into perspective. To learn from it so one can focus on the future. But for now, it’s so refreshing that his reality is not clouded by any fact. It’s pure. His connection to Africa is visceral. Not learned. Or influenced. It just is. And there’s a beauty in that. Well to me anyway.

So what did I do? I did what any self-respecting mother in my situation would do when faced with a tough question. I dodged it and employed the ultimate weapon of mass distraction - confectionary. I bribed my son with chocolate buttons. On a Tuesday evening. Fridays are treat days in our house. He accepted the bribe. No questions asked. He knows when he’s on to a good thing. We now let Miriam Makebe sing us our national anthem every evening while they're having dinner. It’s safer that way. For my six year old. And me. Mostly me. And I'm happy with that.

Somehow this seemed an appropriate pic. Not really sure why.

“Those who educate children well are more to be honored than they who produce them; for these only gave them life, those the art of living well.” - Aristotle

I would have scoffed at this quote two decades ago. I didn’t have much respect for the learned ones nurturing young minds in the classrooms of the world. If anything, I pitied them. What a sad job I thought. I’m ashamed to admit that I agreed with that creepy little man Woody Allen who said, “Those who can't do, teach. And those who can't teach, teach gym.” To me, teaching was a piss-easy profession. Anyone could do it. How wrong I was.

I am ashamed today by my past narrow-mindedness. And just what a cock-rod attitude I had. I stand at this moment in complete awe of teachers. And this I say with no patronising undertone either. My respect applies to all teachers. Whether they teach 3 year olds. Or 13 year olds. It is a noble profession. And it’s reserved for the most gifted and talented of our humankind.

How do I know this? Well I now spend afternoons with my son at our kitchen table working out on his fingers how to add 5 and 3, the process of subtraction, how to count backwards from 20. We learn words like “c-o-m-e” and “b-y” and “d-o” for his weekly spelling test… conquering the ’red’ words, the bastardly tricky words you can’t spell out phonetically. We practice writing in full sentences, using correct spacing and full stops. We read his course work in preparation for his reading group. When they’re due, we also do his school projects. And this after a full day at school after his sports or clubs. It is slow. It is laborious. It is exhausting. For a five year old. And his middle-aged mother. There are often tears. There are often tantrums. And that's just me.

I simply cannot begin to imagine the responsibility of doing this every day, all day. Teaching dozens of children, each at different stages of development, each with their own unique personality and understanding of the world. All the piles of marking, setting the coursework, the never-ending admin. Being friendly and positive and encouraging. And all the while remaining a sane and sober member of society. It’s a job up there with running a country or directing a hospital. No less important or valuable to society in my opinion.

I know that I could never do it. For more reasons than simply being completely inept.

- I have absolutely no patience. Not even for my own children. I cannot fathom being patient with someone else’s child. Not even the threat of getting the sack from my job or being arrested would deter me from getting irritated with a child that doesn't get it. Or being sarcastic.

- I am easily distracted. How could I possibly foster an environment of focus in a classroom when I can barely manage it myself? I mop the kitchen floor with my feet while I’m scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, while I’m making pasta on the stove and on hold to speak to someone about an order from Gap. I simply cannot focus on one task a time.

- I can’t handle the noise. My daughter’s devil cry is enough to drive me directly to a G&T. The cacophony of children’s high-pitched squeals and excitable voices drives me crazy. I actually have to lie down after I visit a soft play. For two hours. In a dark and quiet room. With a pillow over my head.

- I am more than a little stupid. I have to Google everything. It would be mortifying to have my lack of intelligence exposed by a 6 year old. I’m not sure my ego would ever recover.

- I also like to be right. Even when I’m wrong. I’m not sure I’d be able to let a child have the last word. Any child. Especially not one who is actually right.

- The burden of responsibility is just so great. We’re talking about lives here. Real lives. Everyone remembers either their best or worst teacher. There’s no hiding from failure. No massaging the figures or winging the presentation. It’s all you. All of the time. And what you do matters. People remember it.

- There’s no big promotion, fat bonus or cushy benefits structure. Teachers are notoriously underpaid.

- The parents. The overbearing bolshy ones who think their kid is genius and deserves special treatment. I wouldn’t cope well with those types. There’d be bloodshed. And it wouldn't be mine.

- I’m way too lazy for all the work involved. No job should have that much work. It's just not right.

I have an opportunity now to be present for this part of my son’s life. To be present for homework and school and all that this entails. And this time has taught me so much. About him. About life. About myself. And mostly about the unsung heroes like teachers who quietly go about making a difference. On a very cheesy level, it makes me think of that Heather Small song “What Have you Done Today to Make you Feel Proud?” In response to her question, gosh where do I start? Well, besides handling the usual flotsam and jetsam of suburban mommy life, I de-limescaled our kettle, emptied the dishwasher and re-stacked the cannellini beans in our grocery cupboard. What did you do that makes you feel proud? It’s food for thought, innit? Food for thought indeed. That Aristotle geezer looked a fierce (and rather disturbing) chap, but my golly he was one clever Greek. Who just so happened to be a teacher.

"Aristotle Altemps Inv8575" by Copy of Lysippus - Jastrow (2006)

The Cringe Chronicles Continue

I do not have the ability to go any length of time without making a complete tit of myself. It’s simply not possible. Or if it’s not me, it’s my children. I have a few good weeks and I get all cocky and confident and then bam…I find myself off the wagon, having a cringe binge like there’s no tomorrow.

A couple of weeks ago, my son started school after an excruciating a very long summer holiday. On the first day of school, I spotted a woman who I knew was expecting a baby. She’s already got a troupe of kids. Four or five, I think. I lose count. Anyway, in the spirit of first-day friendliness I trotted up to her, looked directly at her tummy and said “Gosh, you must be due any day now. So exciting!” She looked at me deadpan and said, “I had the baby three weeks ago” and then proceeded to open the compartment of her pram underneath her seated toddler to reveal a tiny pink bundle. I gushed like an idiot over the newborn to try and mask the awkwardness. And then to fill the silence, I said: “Ah, Josh must be so thrilled to have a new sister.” She looked at me. Deadpan again. “Who’s Josh?” I let the question hang, pretending not to hear her. I mumbled a hasty goodbye and bolted.

As I was queuing with my son to get into his classroom, I remembered. Her son’s name is Dylan. There is no Josh. Not only do I tactlessly allude to her size, I insult her further by not even knowing her kid’s name. I avoid her now. It’s safer that way. And it’s ok because she avoids me too. My work with her is done. I outdid myself. Couldn't have cocked that conversation more if I tried. Well I suppose I could. I clearly have a gift.



At each of my antenatal consultations, they make you pee in a tube the width of a narrow hosepipe. I always end up with pee all over the outside of the tube. Pee on my hand. Pee everywhere. But this isn’t the story. The story is that for my first antenatal visit to this swanky clinic, I’m too lazy to walk to the ladies loo. I figured I’d use the disabled loo, which is located directly across from the consult room. The disabled loos are private. They’re always cleaner. There’s a lot more space. And there’s usually a mirror. After pissing all over myself, collecting a bit in my tube and washing my hands, I absentmindedly pulled a cord by the door that I assumed was the light-switch. An alarm went off. I could hear it faintly. I figured there must be an emergency somewhere. I pulled the cord again. It must faulty I thought. I gave it a final tug. The alarm screeched in earnest. I heard lots of shuffling feet. I opened the door to find three concerned-looking nurses – one with a key in her hand – standing in the corridor ready to swoop in. “Um, I’m so sorry”, I stammered. “It’s no emergency. I’m not a...er...disabled person. Just pregnant. I just needed to fill this.” I presented them my sample. “But I peed all over the tube. It’s ok. I do it all the time. And I pulled the cord because I thought it was the light-switch. It wasn’t. My bad. So sorry.” 
I skulked back to the consult room, pee in hand, face burning as a trio of nurses tut-tutted in my wake.

Following the medical theme, last week I had to go to a specialist dermatologist. I have waited four months for this appointment. In May while on a visit to South Africa, my father-in-law spotted a mole that he was worried about. Said it looked dodgy. So he cut it out and sent it away. My father law is a doctor. He's qualified to cut stuff out of bodies. Good thing he did remove it, because the mole turned out to be basal carcinoma.

Anyway, the day finally dawned that I was scheduled to have an appointment with a medical professional here in the UK to take a candid look at the other dodgy moles that may be lurking on my person. In my head I knew I’d have to be naked for the procedure. But I didn’t register this until she politely asked me to remove my clothes. I certainly didn’t think of it when I was getting dressed in the morning. I remembered with horror the fact that I was wearing a pair of knickers that should’ve gone to Jesus a long time ago. They’re certainly holy holey enough. They used to be white with blue polka dots. They’re now grey with beige splotches. And the elastic is shot. Which is actually just how I like them. They’re malleable to my ever-changing shape. They grow with me.
 So what if I have to cut strands of cotton from the seams. My gran used to say that you should always leave the house with your good underwear because you may get hit by a bus. Out of respect for the paramedics attending to you, she said, it was only good and proper to ensure your underwear was your best. In my head, I figured that if you did get hit by a bus, the state of your underwear is the least of your worries. So I’ve never bothered with her advice about Sunday's best underwear or matching my top and bottoms for that matter. Ever. Certainly not at 7.5 months pregnant. So there I stood… with my massive bump in ill-matching undergarments in a pair of knickers that shouldn’t be allowed out of the house let seen alone in public while every inch of my body is being scrunitised by a doctor with a magnifying glass type tool with a built-in torch thingie. Her assistant looking on and another nurse thrown in to join the party. When she said she was done, I’ve never scrambled so quickly into my clothes. My one-size-fits-all knickers have finally gone. They’ve retired now. To the resting place for underwear that’s delivered above and beyond the call of duty. Every time I miss them, I think of that hot room, those six pairs of eyes and that torch.

My son and daughter like to play in the boot of my car. They’re weird like that. They also like to eat yoghurt while they’re in there. I usually sit in the front seat and listen to the news or Facebook while they get on with it. One afternoon while they were romping in their boot fort, my son said he needed the loo. I said, “Ok well then let’s go inside”. He asked if he could come back to play in the boot after he’d been to the toilet. I said no. He quickly replied that actually he didn’t need the toilet after all. Typical. They played and screeched and jumped around. As they do. After about 10 minutes or so, my son said: “Mom, quick I’m having an accident! Quick, open the boot!” I whipped it open and my son sprang on to the pavement. Before I could ask him what had happened, he shook one leg and out from the bottom of his trousers plopped a big solid brown poo. Straight on to the pavement. He shook the other leg, and another log joined its friend. I stood horrified looking at his work, not quite believing my eyes. My son of 5 and a half, who’s been potty trained since three, had just crapped in his pants. On the street. Our street. Where we live. Outside our very house. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but I also didn’t want to draw attention to what he’d done in case someone came to investigate. My daughter, reveling in the drama of the situation, kept screeching “Uggh. Yuck. Look at Ollie’s poo! Look at Ollie’s big poo!” I had to practically muzzle her. How does one explain human faeces on the pavement outside one’s house? We don’t even have animals to blame. Not even a cat. Can you imagine the neighborhood banter? “Stay away from No. 27…they’re Africans. Their son defecates on the street. Barbarians.” I sent him inside to fetch a wad of loo paper while I stood guard over the crap. He remerged trailing a long while trail of toilet paper and I collected his business before I bolted inside. Shepherding my feral children indoors. I still shudder at the memory of the trauma of that little incident. My kids are now prohibited from playing in the boot. For Health and Safety reasons you understand.

Some people binge on chocolate and wine. Some folk binge-watch a series. Others binge on sushi. Me, I binge on all of those. And then I add a generous and regular dose of shame to the mix. I'm special like that.

Things that Go Bump in the Night

So I’ve been struggling to sleep lately. I toss and turn and listen to the gongs of the Catholic Church chiming each hour, on the hour. This state of perpetual wakefulness is dangerous for me. Not just because I am Satan’s spawn in the morning – grumpy, miserable and hateful. But also because in those hours between midnight and ridiculous o’ clock – I start to think. About stuff. All sorts of random stuff. And I ask questions. And that’s never a good thing. Here’s why:

Why do we say that a person lost their battle with cancer? “After a brave fight, so and so sadly lost their battle with leukemia.” As though they had choice in the matter? It implies a sense of responsibility for a battle that no individual has chosen.



Why too do we say that a woman fell pregnant or fell in love? What’s up with the falling theme? We say too that someone fell ill, or fell on hard times. So how can we possibly describe birth and love in the same way as we do sickness and bad fortune?



Literally where on earth is that Malaysian Airlines plane? How can an entire aircraft with 300 people simply vanish? Someone knows something.



Literally where on earth is Madeline McCann? How can a little girl simply vanish? Someone knows something.



What moron came up with the oxymoron ‘Holy War’? And how stupid is fighting and killing in the name of religion anyway. Seriously. We’re all shocked and sickened by the Holocaust, by genocide and war – and yet we continue to allow the carnage to continue. And what’s worse – we watch it live on television. We shudder. We cringe. And then we carry on with our lives as though nothing happened.



How come the people with the most wisdom and experience of life (the elderly) are treated the most appallingly? They’re hidden away to die. Instead of learning from their history, we negate the value of their experiences. We treat babies like demi-gods and they offer us nothing of real value until they’re no longer babies. How can a society have it so backward?

Why do dogs eat poo? All dogs. All poo.

Why do nuclear weapons exist? In an age of (supposed) enlightenment with the tenants of basic human rights espoused at every turn, how can there still exist the power to wipe out humanity? And who has the right to sanction this power?



How can a plane carrying innocent people be blasted from the sky? And no one takes any responsibility for it? It just happens. And we leave it at that. 


Why do good women – intelligent, kind, beautiful – struggle to meet good men? How come they seem to attract dickhead after dooshbag followed by cockrod? Where's the logic in that?

Cancer makes profit. It’s in the best financial interests for pharmaceutical companies and the health insurance industry for there to simply be ‘no cure’. 
People die so other people can get rich - in an industry ostensibly committed to saving lives. Really?

If olive oil comes from olives and sunflower oil comes from sunflowers…where does baby oil come from?


Celebrities pursue fame relentlessly. They strive to be recognised. Then when they achieve fame, they dedicate the same energy towards becoming unrecognisable?

How can ministers in parliament change portfolios after re-elections? What does a Minister of Sports possibly know about the Department for Correctional Services?

Shouldn’t everyone be an organ donor? Like it’s a given. Like getting a birth certificate or something.



Why do we sleep so much better to the sound of the ocean?

Why do dogs sniff your crotch? Every. Single. Time.

No fat, low fat, high fat. What’s up with that?

Why are the people who do the most important jobs in life – teachers, doctors, civil servants, charity workers - remunerated less than people who’re paid to hit balls, kick balls or hoop balls simply for the entertainment value of others?


Some pregnant women dream of a giving birth to a pineapple or an octo-baby. That would be bliss. Give me a mutant cyclops any day. I lie awake worrying about problems I cannot solve. And then I worry about worrying. And so the cycle continues. And along chimes another gong…signaling the ever-approaching dawn of daylight. And with it, comes relief from the things that go bump in the night. In my head. Hopefully the baby’s not the only bump that will emerge from my body come November. Sweet baby cheesus, I hope so.

Image from etsy.com

Two’s Company. Three’s...well Greedy

After debiting and crediting our brains out in the metaphorical spreadsheet of life, my husband and I have committed to something that will change our lives forever. We’ve made a decision that’s bigger than moving countries and packing in full-time employment for a second term on the domestic frontlines. This is bigger and far more permanent. We’ve chosen to shift the balance of a perfectly respectable nuclear family unit (in name mind you, not in nature) and venture into territories unknown. Territories that just may prove more primitive than the United Kingdom. We’re breaking all the carbon footprint rules. We’re cocking up a standard package holiday for four. We’re committing financial suicide. We’re having a third child.

“You have a boy. You have a girl. I don’t understand?”

“So was it …er… planned? Or did you have an er…slip up?”

“Shame. You guys are so brave.”

“Wow…that’s…um hectic.”

“But you’re just over the hurdle. One nearly 6. One nearly 3. You’re on the home stretch to getting your life back. And you’re starting all over again. Like from the beginning?”

“Why? But why?”
And then the refreshingly tactless and brazen, “You are f**cken crazy!”
Or the sage advice from musician-turned-life-coach Thor Harris who in his list of How to Live Like a King for Very Little says:
"Don’t have kids. They’re not miracles, they’re people. 7 billion is too f**cking many anyway. Find some other way to give your dull existence some meaning. By the way, they’re expensive.
"

All valid questions. All valid concerns. Many of which I can’t answer now. Or probably ever. My Virgo brain reels at the asymmetry of it all. Three is just odd. It’s called that for a reason. It’s one more than two, but one less than four. It’s in the middle. It’s a lurker. And it’s uneven. Not balanced. Nothing about us is balanced though. Never has been. Me especially. I remember one of my first appointments with my hippy lesbian gynecologist when I was expecting my firstborn. We were always her dawnie appointment of the day and she’d consult with us eating a piece of marmite toast. She made harry casual look frenetic. I loved her. She was just what I needed. The perfect antidote for an uptight paranoid schizophrenic like me. My husband couldn’t stand her. Figures. Anyway, at one of our appointments she fired up her ancient scan machine to do her foetal checks on our baby. Head, spine, limbs etc. And as she was working, she was quiet. Too quiet. And I was talking. As I do. Jabbering. Nervous as all hell. Trying to get a sense that everything was ok. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore; I couldn’t carry on twittering inane small-talk through the silence. I gushed “So, is it like all normal in there? Is the baby normal? Please tell me the baby’s normal.” To which she patiently replied, “My darling girl. If you’re asking me if your baby is healthy. Then yes. Everything looks to be in order. If you’re asking me for normal. That I can’t do. You sure as shite aren’t normal. I’m not normal. And it’s unlikely that this baby is normal either. And why aspire to normal anyway? Life is way more fun otherwise.” I’ll never forget those words. And how she delivered them.

I remind myself often of this conversation when I’m waddling up the high street brandishing my gargantuan bump, pushing my daughter in her pram while my son rides alongside on his scooter. And I feel a little…and this is going to sound bad. I feel…well embarrassed. We’re becoming a troop. People have to move past us. We physically occupy a lot of space. And soon it will be more. And we’re not Amish. I’m not a sister wife. I feel like I’ve been caught standing at a buffet of sushi, stuffing my face with the last of the salmon roses when there are 200 already piled high on my plate. And there's a queue of people behind me. I feel conspicuous in my excess. I am aware of so many women who are desperate to have just one baby. And here we are having three. And I'm not even a good mother. I'm pretty average on a good day. I feel guilty for that. And apologetic. I couldn’t care less if my kids poo in public, eat sweets off the street or take off their kit in the park…but I suddenly grow some restraint when it comes to my fertility? How does that work? And as some would say, it’s perhaps a little too little, a little too late. But it’s how I feel. And I have a lovely sensitivity-sanctioning mother-in-law who once said to me “feelings are never wrong”. So there you have it. Also in some pathetic effort to try and make light of our flagrant disregard for the population explosion, I have started telling people that we're African. And Africans traditionally have lots of children. It's our custom. It's also a pension protector. We raise many in the hopes that all some of them will take care of us when we're old and crumbly. The fact however that we currently live in Britain may somewhat negate the logic of this thinking. But I try it on for size anyway. And share it with anyone who'll listen.

And so while I clearly may not be able to answer the ‘why’ of this monumental decision as rationally as anyone (including myself) can process, we can acknowledge that this baby was indeed planned. Without hesitation. We both feel it's the right decision for us. And our family. He is most definitely a welcomed addition. Carbon footprint be damned. And yes there are too many people in the world…but are there enough good people? Have a look at the news. Don’t think so. We are delighted. He is already a part of the circus that makes up our home. Fancy some chaos with your morning coffee? Come to our house. His little kicks and squirms affirm his way of making his presence felt. His siblings eagerly await his arrival. As do we.

In the meantime though, I try to get a grip over my public fear of flaunting my fertility and instead focus on the fact that we are currently googling for a Galaxy. We’re looking to buy a pram that transports two human beings at once. We are those people now. I will soon be pushing a newborn and a toddler in one contraption. In public. The irony is not lost on me. My waistline is lost, yes. My ability to work fulltime, yes. The freedom to quaff an entire bottle of Prosecco at one sitting, yes. But the irony of being one who I once mocked…nope. I’ve clocked that one. Loud, large and clear. And normal never made it to the party. Not a chance. We may do excess. But we don’t do normal. Not in this house. And aren't we the lucky ones? Don't answer that. It's a rhetorical question.

Meet the latest addition to Cookoo Land. A fist-pumping greeting for y'all.

The Galaxy. Costs a third of the value of our car. No seriously. It does.

Wot’s a mum to do?

I am in a battle at the moment with my five-year-old son who keeps saying… “Look wot I done.” Couldn’t get more chav if he tried. Well he could I suppose. If we shaved his head and pierced his ears. We may think our South African accent isn’t so naaice and we laaik to hear posh speak, but we sound positively royal in comparison to a chav accent. The sound of chav sets my teeth on edge like someone taking a bite out of a brick of polystyrene. My husband says I am the biggest snob he knows…with the least reason to be. But I simply cannot have a child who speaks like dis and dat. So, I make him repeat every sentence. Every single time. Until I hear a distinct “t”. Until he gets it right. This is painful. For both of us. But he will thank me later.

According to his latest school report, he’s also battling with his handwriting and reading. Two areas of development that "need some focused attention". Nothing serious to warrant calling in any troops mind you, says his teacher. We just need to work on them. Devote the same time and energy as he does to his other classroom pursuits. Give the oke some random cardboard and sticky tape – and he’ll transform it into a dinosaur/robot/dump truck. Put a football in front of him and you’ve got a goal-driven Messi wannabee. He’s an active and capable young lad. There’s no issue with his comprehension of letters. He’s happy to read the title of any free new games on iTunes on the iPad or navigate the list of movies on Netflix. So we know the boy’s got smarts. He can read. When he wants to. He’s just not that keen to do it at school. He’d rather be outdoors climbing, kicking a ball or crafting a new creation.

For me, reading and writing are as natural to life as breathing, having a glass of wine or not shaving my legs in winter. So I am at a slight loss on how to help my child who doesn’t appear to share the same passion for words. When he was a toddler - about two and half I’d say – he learnt to ‘read’ a children’s book (David and Goliath). All we had to do was turn the page, and the oke would read out the words. He did this for the entire book. Word for word. Ok so it was like 10 pages with a massive font size and lots of pictures. But we figured he was a genius. He even said the word “philistines”. I mean seriously. How many toddlers can do this? Luckily we weren’t too quick to broadcast his talent, because it turns out that many children share the same gift. It’s called having a good memory. He’s got an incredible memory in fact. He’s inherited this from his Dad. Who can remember exactly how much I have over-spent on every purchase I wasn’t supposed to make since the dawn of time.

Whatever path our boy’s life takes – we know it will be unique and he will find his own way. I know too that we’ll figure out this reading and writing thing. Millions of mums have been in my shoes. Especially mums of boys. Part of me wishes I could say to him “You know what…many successful people in life are barely literate. So ditch school and follow your passion. Build, climb and kick your brains out.” And I don’t define success just in financial terms either. For now though, he at least needs to know how to spell “what” even if he says “wot”. Also, for my own amusement and base humour, I’m looking so forward to the next couple of years where he may come home with a piece of work from school that reads something like any one of the little gems below. Such genius I of course will frame. Like any muvver wot’s good. Innit?

Images courtesy of yup...you guessed it The good old Huffington Post.

“Ignorance is the Curse of God; Knowledge is the Wing wherewith we Fly to Heaven”

Thanks to the Bard for my header. Couldn’t have said it better myself. Literally couldn’t. So good thing he did. Not very long ago, I was the leader of my own little ignorance-is-bliss-and-I-know-better club. Until I had a child. And then another. And only now do I realise that I know nothing. And in fact, I never did. And that’s ok. You want to know why? When it comes to being a parent no one really has all the answers. There is no one-size-fits-all solution for conscious childrearing. All dem little chillens is different. And so we parentfolk make it up as we go along. And jolly good for us I say. Survival is designed around adaption, evolution, being a MacGyver when it comes to creating a solution that works best for you.

I only wish though I’d been told this before I had children. It would’ve saved much wailing and gnashing of teeth. But maybe learning it for yourself is the whole point? Designed to make you a stronger human being? Pffft. Sod it. I still wish I’d been a little more clued in. I feel it then my maternal responsibility to suggest gently to all future mums, without scaring the sweet living bejaysus out of them, to approach motherhood with no preconceived notions of superiority, ideas of best practice or judgment of other mothers. Knowing and accepting you know nothing (always and forever) when it comes to parenting is so much easier to deal with than failure. Well in my life book anyway.
Here are the tenets of motherhood I held true for all of five minutes before real life crushed them; one fantasy at a time.

Myth: Formula is the Anti-Christ
I was certain that no formula would ever darken my doorway. I would breastfeed exclusively until my child was old enough for cow’s milk. I would persevere at all costs. I would never surrender.

Reality: Breastfeeding exclusively while trying to maintain a fulltime job after 3 or 4 months of maternity leave is like trying to run up an escalator that’s headed downward. It is possible. A strong woman can do it. Some may call her a lunatic. But for most of us it’s the kind of behaviour that’s just too silly to try to maintain on top of everything else that’s built into the ‘full-time working mother’ job description. It’s difficult enough you’re sitting in the ladies loo during a 15-minute tea break at a conference with your breast-pump whirring conspicuously. Or you can feel a let-down soaking through your breastpads after a meeting has gone an hour over schedule. Supplementing with a formula bottle – a relief bottle as they aptly call it – is easy, does no harm to your baby and least allows you the dignity of maintaining some level of discretion over your mammorys and their function at work. No colleague should ever have to bear witness in sight or sound to the contraption you use to literally milk yourself. Takes awkward to a whole new level at the water cooler. Believe me, I know.

Myth: No TV for my Child
Educational games, puzzles, books, sensory stimulation toys. These will be the only fodder to fuel my little one’s mind, to entertain and educate him. TV will be reserved for David Attenborough re-runs or the Drakensberg Boys Choir recitals at an appropriate age.

Reality: CBeebies will at some point save your life and the life of your child. No question. Picture the scene: It’s 6pm, you’re battling suicide hour alone after a day from hell at the office. Your child has missed you. He’s cranky too. He’s screaming blue murder clinging onto your hip. You’re boiling rice and trying to strain chicken one-handed through a colander for his dinner. You’re tired. You haven’t sat down. And you just want to have little cry. Or take refuge in your nice quiet car and go for a ride to Ventersburg, Villersdorp, Vegas… anywhere really. Doesn’t matter. It’s at this point that a spot of “In the Night Garden” or “Teletubbies” will be the soothing balm to the beast. Stacking cups or building blocks my ass. TV will win. No contest. The box has its uses. And there’s no shame in administering as necessary.

Myth: My Children will Never throw Tantrums in the Supermarket
Before I became a mother, I self-righteously believed that women who are unable to control their feral offspring should not a) take them out in public b) have children in the first place. Yes I was perched at a very lofty height of sanctimonious delusion. And boy did I fall from this perch. Hard. Flat on my face.

Reality: Every child will, at some point, see a toy, sweet, ice-cream, cake *insert what’s relevant here*and throw a hissy fit when you refuse to buy it for them. It’s almost a rite of passage as a new mum. They will start to squawk and then eventually belt out their protestation at the top of their lungs. And unless you have the balls of steel required to ignore this, you will want to die with shame. You will try a gentle, yet firm ‘no’ and then launch into distraction mode. When this fails, you will start trying to speed up your shop, maneuvering your trolley up and down aisles as quickly as you can. When your child’s crescendo has reached fever pitch and people have stopped to stare outright, this is when you resort to the place you swore you’d never visit. Bribery. And voila…you become one of those mothers with your child sitting smug in a trolley eating a chocolate ring doughnut at 5.30pm. It happens. To the best of mothers. And to me. Don’t sweat it. Do your shopping online or without your kid.

Myth: No Ready-Meals. No Sugar

With my son, I’d spend all weekend steaming an array of vegetables and protein and pureeing them sans salt, butter or taste ready for his meals for the week ahead. He only drank water. Sugar was a no-no. This lasted pretty much for his first year. Then his sister arrived. And I found I couldn’t cope with being a food purist and a mother with two kids. Being the food police is a full-time job on its own. Just ask Gwyneth Paltrow.

Reality: Nutrition is important. I don’t deny this. But does every meal have to be painstakingly freshly prepared by your very own hand? Hell no. Life is too short to cube butternut for 45 minutes or boil chicken livers.  As a result, my children do eat ready-meals. They drink juice. They drink water too, but both would prefer juice. So do I come to think of it. Fermented grape juice. Red or white. To counter the much-publicised evils of foods with salt and sugar, we make sure they exercise. They eat plenty of fresh fruit. They brush their teeth twice a day – and visit the dentist…(Note to self: both are due a checkup.) And you know what’s ironic? In spite of the fact that they eat meals mostly prepared by Tesco, drink watered down Robinson and scoff the occasional bag of crisps and chocolate bar, our children are rarely ill and their pearlies still exist, are still white and look set to stay for the foreseeable future.

Myth: I will Read to my Children every Night

Reality: You are just too tired to read a book to your children every single night without fail. I knew I was up for another nomination for the Shocker Mom of The Year Awards when one night I sat on my daughter’s bed and I said, “Once upon a time there was a princess. She lived in a castle. She was very kind and very beautiful. And then she went to sleep. The end.” No child deserves that. So in the evenings when neither my husband nor I can do proper justice to a story ourselves, we requisition help from a higher power. Our children go to sleep listening to the wonderful stories of “Fantastic Mr Fox”, “The Twits” or “Charlotte’s Web” being read to them by someone who’s super engaging. Does all the voices. Who never gets tired. And who just so happens to be from an iPad. Judge if you will, but it works. For us. It wasn’t what we planned, but it’s the best we can do.

Myth: I do not need Anti-Depressants. I can Cope. I am a Supermom. I can Do it All. Perfectly

Reality: Post-partum hormones can inflict as much damage to a woman’s psyche as watching Fashion TV or too many episodes of America’s Next Top Model can. Immediately after birth you are expected to trot home with your perfect feeder-sleeper bundle of joy. Tend to home and hearth deliriously happy. Looking as slim and trim as your pre-natal self. Welcoming streams of visitors in to your immaculate home to coo over contented baby and enjoy freshly home baked muffins. This state of postpartum bliss only happens on Days of our Lives to actresses who were never pregnant to begin with, who troll around on a fake set all day. It is la-la land. What is real though is the rinse and repeat cycle of broken sleep, a grisly baby, a messy house and the struggle to settle your toddler back into a routine after your newborn has shifted the balance. You veer from euphoria one minute to a complete and utter emotional meltdown the next. You’re bloated and saggy, sore and weepy and exist in a catatonic haze of sleep deprivation and self-angst. It’s ok to feel as though you’re battling to cope. It’s even ok to admit it. To yourself. To your partner. To your loved ones. And most importantly to your doctor. Who can help. With drugs. Take them. You have nothing to prove.

I smile then when I see articles on Facebook being forwarded by pregnant friends, first-time-mums-to-be that read something like “Children Who Eat Sugar Have Lower Success at University” or “Why an iPad will Ruin your Child’s EQ” or “Breastfeeding Exclusively for Two Years Will Make your Child President”. And I have a little chuckle at the demonising of the McDonalds Happy Meal. Been there. Done that.

It’s only a matter of time before this expectant mum with her rosy glow of pre-maternal delusion will join our ranks. She’ll learn in her own way – to forge her path in the jungle that is motherhood. We all do. Until then, let her freely forward her Huffington Post articles of how to raise a perfect specimen of humanity. It’s good to daydream. After all, they say you should get all the sleep you can before baby comes. That’s not bullshite. No one lied about that one.

Fully Engrossed in Charlotte's Web

Losing his EQ to the iPad

The Camping Chronicles

So we drove two hours from home and spent two nights and two days in a tent in a field. With two kids. And we didn’t die. The experience was an eye-opener. Not all bad. Not all good. Kind of like trying an exotic dish for the first time. You weren’t completely sure to begin with, but you may need to try it a few more times to be certain of exactly how you feel about it. I’ve given the experience a lot of thought and I’ve decided that camping is a lot like making a speech…

You Need to be Prepared

- Never is there a bigger trainwreck (except of course an actual trainwreck) than when someone tries and fails to wing a speech. To go off script and shoot from the hip. With spectacularly bad results. I’ve watched it happen. I’ve clenched my buttocks in shame, horror and mortification for the person making a complete jackass of themselves on a stage. While the audience sits helplessly through the ordeal. Wincing at every word and trapped for the duration. Hell, it’s been me a couple of times – the git on the stage that is. Not that I knew it at the time of course. Although my wedding speech is immortalized on a DVD hidden away never to see the light of day unless my children beg me to see it when I’m a geriatric. Anyway, like a good speech - you cannot wing camping. There’s no going off piste. You need to plan. You need lists. You need stuff. 



- What stuff? Well less of what you think you need and more of what you don’t have a cooking clue about if you’re a novice camper. This is where a list comes in handy. A list from a professional. You need things like a basin for washing up, bin liners, matches, a dust pan and brush, dishwashing liquid, tea towels, wipes, paper towels… there’s a whole world of little necessities that mean the difference between feeling like you’re conquering this nature thing or being tempted to chuck it all in, crawl into your car and head home. The devil really is in the detail. Make the detail your bitch.

- When you’re packing to go camping for example, open your suitcase and remove everything except a rain-proof jacket, a pair of jeans, a pair of shorts, a hoodie, a few t-shirts and a few pairs of socks. Transfer these to a duffel bag. Take the duffel bag. Leave the rest of the clothes and the suitcase at home. Also leave your book. You don’t need make-up and any other form of footwear besides slops and wellies. Save the space in your car for torches, lanterns, towels, braai equipment, a coffin-sized cooler box and booze.

- Your tent is your Mecca. Seriously. Think big. Then double it. There’s no cozy in camping. That’s a deluded little fairytale brought to us by Disney. There’s nothing cozy at 3am in the morning when you’re sleeping 30 centimetres from your spouse and your sprogs on either side. And there’s a foot in your back and snoring hot breath on your face. Mankind was not meant to sleep with their children. Ever. It goes against nature. Get a big tent with compartments. Sleeping quarters, living quarters, cooking quarters. With an awning for when it rains. Because it will rain. At some point. It’s like Wimbledon. Rain eventually stops play. No matter the forecast.

- Make sure your mattresses are quality. There’s no fun in sleeping on the ground after your cheap-ass blow-up mattress deflates. This may be fine when you pass out after late night campfire revelry but when you wake up sober on the cold hard ground in the wee hours, life will never seem as bleak. Except perhaps at 4am when the sun starts to pound through the tent in tandem with your head.

- Make sure food is sorted. Again, an area you need to plan. You can’t forage in the depths of your freezer or grocery cupboard to whip together an impromptu meal. Get at least a two-burner cooker. With a monster supply of gas. There is no shame in gas here. This is cooking, not braaing we’re talking about. You want to have your bacon and egg at the same time as your coffee in the morning, not half an hour afterwards.

- Refrigeration is also something to consider. Invest in it if you can. If there are no electrical sockets at your site, freeze a ridiculous number of ice packs before you go and replenish perishables at a local store close by or on-site shop. Yes - you do need fresh fruit and veggies. Despite what every male on the planet thinks, one cannot live by bread and meat alone with a packet of potato chips or a few fried eggs thrown in for good measure. Constipation is never pretty. Less so on a camping trip when your ablutions are less private and you pretty much share your toilet time in half-walled cubicles and a dozen or so witnesses to your movements (bowel or otherwise). Like I said, never pretty.

You Need to Keep it Short

- Even the best speeches need to end. And the good ones usually end on a high. With you wanting more. It’s the same with camping. Stay a couple of nights. No more. It’s bloody hard work. Infinitely more than you’d think. Setting up, facilitating meals, washing up, ablutions, keeping order of the chaos. And believe me there’s chaos. Everything requires a lot more thought and effort than your usual day-to-day. Don’t try and be a hero. Leave with happy memories so you’re looking forward to the next time. If you overdo it, you wreck every positive memory and all you remember is the misery and pain of the final hours.

- This is remarkably like when you’re at a party and the mojito’s are flowing and you reach that crossroads in the evening when you can either leave respectfully having had a marvelous time. With your dignity intact. Or, you can stay on five hours too long and the end of your evening sees you being unceremoniously dragged home with scant recollection of the unspeakable things you did or didn’t mean to say. And you carry your shame with you into the next day (and usually forever) as you heave and dry wretch into the toilet bowl recollecting one painful flashback of humiliation at a time. It’s just like that. Well for me anyway.

A Lot Depends on the Crowd



- A tough crowd can kill even the best speech. If the feckers have no sense of humour. If they’re a deadpan uptight, miserable lot who don’t want to give you anything to work with. It's the same with camping. Go with people you genuinely like. All of the time. People you want to spend time with. And have already spent time with. When you’re sober. And they’re sober. Think of people you’d be able to be around after you’ve had a bad night’s sleep because your kid kept kneeing you in the kidney, you had to stumble way too many times blindly in the rain and dark to the toilet 100 metres from your tent, you’re rudely awakened by your kids at 5am and it’s wet and cold and you want to puke and then cry at the thought of walking 500 metres to fill a water bottle so you can wait 20 minutes to boil a kettle for a cup of insipid instant coffee…. Pick those people. If you’ve ever thought of punching someone in the face for any reason, you can’t go camping with that person. It will end badly. For both of you.

- Also, you become a parent to a whole tribe of children. You indiscriminately feed, take to the toilet, discipline, entertain and console any child. Regardless of whether they’re a part of your kin. So if you have a problem with any particular kid…if they’re a cretin when you’re at home, if they’re a whiner or a ninny or an irritating little bastard, they’ll only be worse when you’re in the elements. Nature brings out the best and the worst in people.

Lastly, I have to acknowledge a massive stereotype that I harboured about camping – and by extension campers. I thought they were all just a bunch of closet cheapskates. People who couldn’t afford a real holiday who made do with hanging out in a field, eating rehydrated food and drinking warm beer. I take it all back and I apologise to every camper I ever judged. Camping can be a serious business, with serious costs involved. Some of the tents we’ve seen start in excess of £1000 alongside some very fancy vehicles and when you see all the extensions and paraphernalia, it’s most definitely not a cheap pastime for poor people.

Camping is simply a different way of spending time in the fresh outdoors with friends and family. Getting away from the city and the Heathrow flight path (in our case) with the space to let one's children run free without the fear of them being nabbed by a lunatic or run over by a pantechnicon. Chucking out the routine and being presented with a different perspective. Enjoying laughs, long walks and late night fireside chitchat with marshmallows and a good red.

And like most things in life, you can go with it and embrace it with a positive attitude or you can let it suck and never consider it again. I’m hoping I’m in the former camp. Although I’ve come to the cringe-worthy conclusion that instead of me being too good for camping, perhaps camping just may be too good for me. Who’d have thought it? Not me in a million years, that’s for sure.

Pre-camping packing

Setting up camp

Casa de Cook

Madam testing out her sleeping quarters

The serious business of braai

Our outdoor chap loving it

Not so convinced of all this nature stuff...

No Time to Say Goodbye

We received shocking and devastating news last week. Our beloved nanny in South Africa took ill very suddenly and passed away. Her death was a shock to her family and her doctors are still doing tests to ascertain exactly what happened. For an active, healthy and fit woman in her late forties with no HIV or heart complications, it is very difficult to make sense of her death and the fact that she is gone. Being so far away compounds the sense of helplessness and confusion. We have lost a very special loved one and it is difficult to come to terms with it all.

How does one accurately paint a picture of a person who shared one’s life as an employee on paper, but who came to represent so much more than simply the business end of a childcare contract? With extreme difficulty. I wanted to share a few memories I have of Flora that will remain in my heart and that I hope will do justice to her memory and the type of person she was. What she taught me about being a mother. And the gifts of love, tenderness and devotion she gave to my children.

- Faith: and in this I don’t necessarily mean religion although her Christian faith was very important to her. When our son underwent spinal surgery, developed septicemia and was very ill, Flora never gave up faith. Not for a second. I lost faith every five minutes. Flora was unwavering in her support of our family and in her belief that it would all be ok. I am not good with public displays of emotion. I choose to weep in private and struggle to share my tears. On the day we heard there was a problem with our son’s spine, I came home to a very concerned Flora. I gave her the prognosis, trying my best to keep it together. I couldn’t. I sobbed like a little girl. Snot, tears, big hiccupping cries. She embraced me and I cried a massive wet patch on her shoulder. For five minutes we stood together. I have never wept like that with anyone before. Or since.

- An innate sense of calm. Flora never raised her voice or lost her temper. She would calmly stand by while I raged on like a lunatic. She’d gently shepherd my children away while I visited the dark side and she’d wait until I had come back. I always admired her sense of peace and calm in dealing with any situation. Whether it was snake in the garage, a burglary or the time our son let down three of the tyres on my mother-in-law’s car.

- Being present: It was after my little boy said one afternoon while we were playing outside – or rather I was tanning my legs while he threw the ball at me – that he preferred playing with Flora… I started taking note of how she engaged with our children. With her undivided attention. She’d never half-heartedly do anything. Playing in the puddles, painting a rainbow or building a fort for my son’s collection of garden creatures. She was there. All of her. And they knew it. Big lesson for me.

- Kindness and generosity: Every birthday our children would receive a special and thoughtful gift chosen just for them. When I suffered extreme morning sickness in my second pregnancy, she’d take calls from my GP and reassure him that I was indeed taking in sufficient fluids. When I came home after Gabriella was born, there was a posy of flowers next to my bed and a card congratulating me on our beautiful little girl and how proud she was to be a part of her life. No fuss, no fanfare. Just kindness.

- Humour: So much of raising children is about damage control. Curtailing the carnage and doing your best to ensure they don’t die. I tend to get very caught up in the stress of it all. To Flora, it was a joy. And she’d always find the humour in it. Her reaction when Ollie would do an arc pee across the walls – was to laugh. When Gabriella ate the dog's food, she’d laugh her head off. Ollie sticking peas up on his nose, when he pooed on the side of the road on the way home from school. When Gabriella drew her ‘art’ on the walls in koki pen. She embraced it. She delighted in it. In the innocence and playfulness of children. Such a lesson for an uptight stresspot like me.


We will all miss Flora. We haven’t had the heart to tell our son that she has gone. We haven’t found the words. How do you tell a child that the person they spent every day of four out of their five years of life they will never see again? My son asked about her last week. He came into our bedroom, sat on our bed and said: “When we visit South Africa can we see Flora and can she play with me again with my big yellow truck?” Out of the blue he mentioned her. He hadn’t for a while. This was on Wednesday. The day she died. On this day, she was in my son’s thoughts. I believe, in some way, he was in her thoughts too.

And so we bid farewell to a gentle soul who loved her sons with an unwavering pride and passion. A single parent who worked every day to educate them, provide for their needs. Who embraced and loved our children and was always there when we needed her. A true lady who lived with such grace. Who was my friend.

Hamble kahle Florie. Ngiyakuthanda


Below is the reference I wrote for Flora to help her to find a new family when we knew we were leaving for the UK. And she did find a new home. A lovely family. Who miss her and ache over her loss just as much as we do.


Sent on the 4th of February 2013

I write this mail in the hopes of securing our beloved nanny Flora a home in which she is loved and adored as she is in ours. We are in the process of emigrating to the UK and Flora will be available to join a family by the 1st of April 2013. I wish that we were able to take Flora with us (I have tried!!), however as attractive a scenario this would be for our family, it is simply not feasible for Flora as she is dedicated to her two adult sons and her family and community in Botha's Hill. I have tried to convince her otherwise, but alas she remains steadfast in her belief that this is her home.

Flora joined our family in 2009 when our son Oliver was 10 weeks old.
At the time we lived in an apartment in Musgrave and Flora travelled daily from Botha's Hill to take care of him and make sure that our home was kept to her impeccable standard of order. Flora quickly became a part of our lives and fitted into our routine with a quiet grace and dignity, instilling a sense of calm and humility that I can only aspire to. Being a new parent, I often erred on the side of hysteria and Flora was a welcomed validation to my newfound motherhood, reassuring me that I was a good mother and doing the best that I could. I needed to hear that. A lot.

At just shy of 10 months old, our son Oliver underwent neuro-surgery at St Augustine's to remove a tumour located on his spine which threatened his ability to walk and his bowel and bladder control, the outcome of which we were told was touch-and-go. Naturally as parents Tim and I were beside ourselves with concern. Flora made her way to the hospital to check on "her boy" every day during his two-week stay and I remember how sure she was in her conviction that he'd pull through. He did pull through and Flora was there to play the role that I as a mother juggling full-time work was unable to resume 100% of the time - she gently and carefully took care of our little boy when we couldn't. She tended to his post-op needs, and then helped to teach him to walk, count, decipher colours, animals and insects. And he has thrived and grown under her care into an active four-year-old boy who climbs trees and collects snails and shongololos; who is sensitive and perceptive. 

We moved to Kloof in Sept 2010 where Flora took on the added responsibility of fetching Oliver from school and maintaining a significantly larger home as well as 2 Labrador pets. In November 2011, we welcomed a daughter Gabriella into our family and once again Flora embraced our little girl into her heart and she became Flora's shadow. To this day at 15 months old, when Flora leaves at 4pm, Gabriella will sob without fail.

Flora in 4 years has never taken a sick day. She has never let me down. She has been my mentor, my support, my friend. I trust her implicitly with our most valued treasures in life - our children. I cannot recommend her enough.

If anyone is interested in meeting Flora with the possibility of employing her as a nanny, please drop me a line or give me a call and I'd be happy to facilitate an interview or provide additional details re salary, working hours, responsibilities, etc. Her preference is the Upper Highway area, and a live-out position.

Sally Cook

Camping: Why God Gave us Hotels for Holidays

This will be a two-part post. The before - now. And the after will come…well, er after. I hope with every fibre of my cynical being that there will be a difference between the two posts. Like the before and after pics of the women who drop the equivalent of whole children off their weight to reveal their slender, whiter-teethed and suspiciously tanned selves. I hope my two posts are like that – chalk and cheese different. This is my solemn hope. Time will tell. So too will the pictures. 



Ok, so this may be another revelation that completely astounds you - I have never been a happy camper. Literally or figuratively speaking. I am grumpy, lazy and to me nature is best enjoyed from afar and preferably above – taking in a lovely view with a bottle of something bubbly and a few nibbles. Or walking a gentle meander along a river or in park. Preferably en route to a table where there’s a bottle of something bubbly and a few nibbles. That’s how my nature intended. I have never had the slightest inclination to sleep on the floor, squat in the bush and eat all food groups that come out of a packet. It is less about creepy crawlies. I’m surprisingly unfazed about those. It’s the smell of smoke, the absence of any luxury comforts and the notion that this suffering must somehow all be part of an amazing experience. I derive more pleasure from having my head massaged at the hairdresser quite frankly. Or sitting in my car while I go through one of those carwash drive-throughs watching those massive foam flappers rub up against my car.

My two previous camping experiences may have shaped this slight aversion. The first was nearly 20 years ago at school when our class was on a leadership course where we had to stay for a night on a hill in the middle of nowhere. No tents. “Sleeping under the stars ladies” was the teacher’s enthusiastic pitch. The reality was very different. Rain. Cold. Dark. Not a fecking star in sight. A wretched night where I felt so sorry for myself, I actually cried. Real tears.

After that I managed to avoid camping for another five years before I caved in a weak moment. This time I roped in my sister. We camped for one night on New Year’s at Midmar Dam. Again there was rain. Ablutions were slightly better in that there were actual ablutions. Half a kilometre from our camp and shared between 300 odd strangers of course, but campers can’t be choosers. Clearly. Or they’d choose a guest lodge in Camps Bay. Clearly. The night was marginally better than my teenage hillside trauma, bar one massive exception. After midnight, after all the New Year’s drunken revelry and it was time to retire for the four hours before daylight, my sister and I were treated to the sounds of a couple having excruciatingly protracted and very enthusiastic sex in the tent alongside ours. Joy of all joys. In the morning, we donned our smoky clothes, packed our tent and were out of there before that first piece of bacon hit the Cadac skottel braai. We have never spoken of it since.

It’s no wonder then that every time my husband has suggested camping. I’ve said, “Awesome. Go for it. I’m happy to stay at home. Seriously.” In SA, it was not something I’d have associated with fun or a holiday. Lugging everything you need and more to sleep, cook and sit to a field where you set it all up and then you have to pack it all away, haul it back home and then pack it all away again. Seems like a blady mission. It’s bad enough having kids and going to stay a night with friends or your parents. You virtually need a trailer for all that paraphernalia. And that’s without having to take a structure to sleep under and your own bed/chair/stove/table. Also, the security aspect of camping has always worried me. There’s no exposure quite like being in the middle of a bush in the dark with no cellphone reception or armed response. So we never did it. Not once. Not even in our garden. And my long-suffering husband tried. Boy did he try.



Patience pays off it seems. Especially when combined with the emotional blackmail of a five year old little boy. The shrewdest move my husband has made has been to encourage our son to join in his camping crusade. His new recruit. A boy who swims in the Thames River, climbs any tree he can find and who asks me often if he can bring snails, worms and weird little insects to share his bed. He is also desperate to put anything on a stick and roast it on a fire. Added to this a 2.5 year old little girl who copies every move her brother makes, mimics his every request and will eat hot coal if he so much as suggests it. I never stood a bloody chance.

So in three weeks time, we are going camping. For two whole nights. With our British mates and their offspring. There will be 10 adults and as many children. My husband can’t stop smiling. We’re staying at the edge of the New Forest in Wiltshire on a farm. We need to take a tent, sleeping bags and all the stuff that one needs to be one with the elements. A list longer than what appears natural to me. I am begging and borrowing all the gear I possibly can. My husband can’t stop smiling. He of course wants to buy everything. I have asked him to restrain himself until at least the dust has settled on our maiden camping voyage and we can take stock, count the mosquito bites and wash the smoke out of our clothes. Have I mentioned that my husband hasn’t stopped smiling?


I have never been more outvoted in my life. Except for when I confessed at work that I believed Justin Bieber deserved his success because he worked for it. It is for this reason – the outvoted one – not the little lost boy singer - I am going camping with as open-mind as my bigoted and sarcastic soul will allow. May the force of all good camping karma be with me. Please. Especially between the hours of darkness. Daylight I can handle. I’m not a complete wuss.

Dogshow in the Department Store

It is pretty well documented by my own admission and by others that we’re 'the casual parents'. We let our children run wild in the park, let them take their clothes off if they want to and generally aren’t bothered about mess and dirt. We even let them bath and put themselves to sleep. For the most part, everything works out ok. Our kids never run that far in the park, we eventually locate their clothes and most stains don’t survive the wrath of a bucketful of bleach. We’ve also only had one near drowning in the bath and eventually after singing 18 renditions of ‘Fish Alive’ at the top of her lungs in her bed, my daughter will fall asleep. I know it. My husband knows. The neighbours know it. Even my son who has taken to sleeping with a pillow over his head knows it.

A few months ago, we had a parenting moment of terror that shook even us Harry casuals. It hasn't left my mind and I know my non-worrier husband who is pretty good about focusing forward and not dwelling on bad stuff… has thought about it too. He’s most certainly experienced the same coldsweaty-shuddery-panic-flashback as I have. He just doesn’t whine about it in quite the same way as I do. 



We were in the furniture section of a massive department store. The ferals were most indignant about being dragged along to what my son describes as “boring shopping”. All things considered though, they were behaving pretty well. The manager was still smiling at us and we hadn’t yet been asked to leave. There had been no tantrums or toilet Armageddons - which is probably why. It was a successful start to the shopping expedition. Of course we’d bribed them with the promise of all manner of sugary treats afterwards. We’re only human after all. Bribery and corruption is our Zuma method of parenting. Sadly, Gina Ford has never graced our doorstep. Ever. No offense to Ms. Ford, we’re just too lazy to read parenting books. Her books. Or any for that matter. It’s why we (ok so my husband) called the clinic the day after our first night of crying hell with our newborn son convinced there was something catastrophically wrong with him. The sister asked how the dummy was going. We were like… “What? We’re allowed to use a dummy? We didn’t know we were allowed to use a dummy.” We never looked back after that. We plugged our son’s mouth on that day and he sucked a dummy until just shy of three. We’re that kind of parents. The clueless-but-don’t-let-any-book-try-to tell-us-what-to-do kind of parents. Winging it mostly works for us, but when it fails. It fails spectacularly.

On the aforementioned shopping occasion, we were ordering a coffee table. Once we’d chosen it, we asked our bouncy pair of blondies to sit on the couch alongside the tills while we handled delivery date details and payment. Ok, so I'm sure this will come as a complete surprise, but I'm a bit of a talker. Apparently I'll find any opportunity to make inane small talk to whoever will listen. It’s a nervous thing I think. I begrudgingly acknowledge that I may have a slight problem and resolve to work on it. Talking it out clearly won’t help. That would be like drinking more gin because you’re an alcoholic. So maybe I should just learn to sit quietly in public places. The bus. The train. We’ll see. I’ll start in the New Year.

So I chattered on. My husband was just about to enter his pin into the credit card machine when my son pulled my sleeve and said, “Excuse me Mummy”. I was in the midst of a conversation about South Africa (naturally) and how the size of furniture compares to the midget sizes the British are used to – so I said to him: “Ollie, Mummy’s talking. Don’t interrupt me.” The oke is pretty good about listening and not interrupting his motor-mouth mother – but this time he was insistent and said in a little voice laced with panic, “Mummy, I am sorry but Gabriella is missing. I can’t find her anywhere.”

Those words dropped like lead. We both turned to look at the couch that our daughter had been merrily sitting on 5 minutes before. It was empty. We scanned the area around us. She wasn’t there. I started walking in between all the furniture. Methodically pacing aisle by aisle. My husband asked our son to stay put on the couch by the tills. He also started pacing the floor. All the staff spread out to look. The manager made a call to security to have all of the doors automatically locked. The department store is three floors with multiple exits. Panic started to to gnaw at all of us. Tangible and terrifying. I began by calling my daughter’s name quietly as I made my way past the linen section, past the crockery, past the home theatre equipment. I kept thinking she’d be there. Around the next corner. Looking at something shiny or pressing buttons she shouldn’t. She wasn’t. I started then to shout loudly -  like a banshee. I screamed her name, louder and louder. Other shoppers recognised our panic and started to help us to look. Sympathetic eyes. Serious faces. I tried to not be hysterical. Well more hysterical. I have a tendency for melodrama and I know that I can make a meal out of most things – but in this instance I had no barometer of the appropriate reaction to how to deal with a missing child. Does one ever? I was so freaked out it was difficult to focus. We kept calling hopefully to each other “you found her?” And the more times we’d hear “No", the levels of panic would rise.

It couldn’t have been more than seven minutes. Seven minutes that our two year old little girl was missing in a store full of strangers. Seven minutes of parenting hell. She was found by a staff member sitting on the bottom level of a bunk bed, not thirty metres from where we were. Perfectly unharmed. Completely unaware of the carnage happening in her midst. I burst into tears when I saw her. That precious little face. See I told you there’d be melodrama.

We left the store shaken and stirred. With a coffee table on order and both our children in tow. Tim and I then proceeded to drink alcohol at 11am in the morning, and the kids gorged themselves on all the treats they could eat. We praised our quick-thinking son for alerting us so quickly to his sister’s absence. We also bought him a big-ass plane. It was the least we could do. We basked in having things back to normal. Happy to be sitting at a table with our children. Both of them. They drive us completely batty. Virtually every day. But we wouldn’t swap them for all the polite, well-mannered angelic little children in the world. They’re our ferals – and that’s just how we like it.

From that day on, we’ve resolved never to take them furniture shopping, never to let either of them out of our sight and for me unless I’m alone, never to yak mindlessly to anyone behind a counter. Two of out of three we’ve managed so far. Still working on the third, but I figure 66% ain’t half bad. It’s better than half. It’s two-thirds better.

How they work best....as a crazy little pair.