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...