Down South Debrief

So we went back to South Africa. As a family. For the first time since we left. For the first time in nearly 4 years. In my head of course, I’d been back. Many times. I’ve dreamt of taking our children back to where they were born. Back to where their Dad and I were born. Back to where we grew up. Built a life together. To the warm and welcoming east coast. To the KZN hills and valleys that we know. And I believe know us. Back home.

We landed at King Shaka after a 24-hour journey. The first thing that hit us was the heat. As it does. Cloying. Humid. Hot. Distinctively Durban. And then the sense of space. The outlook in South Africa is so open. In every way. The horizon. The landscape. And more than that. There’s an abundance of spirit in the people too. We talk. We share. We’re unreservedly ourselves. And that’s rare. You don’t find it in the UK. I don’t think you find it anywhere else.

On our first night, I literally made my husband record the sound of bullfrogs and beetles outside our bedroom window. We marveled at the absence of aeroplanes blazing a path above us, of sirens shrieking in the night. What a treat it was. To close our eyes and fall asleep to a chorus of nature. To sounds like no other. We spent our days in the sunshine under that great big African sky that I speak of so often. We lazed in sparkling blue swimming pools, bobbing about on lilos. We spread out our pale bodies in the shade. We walked on the beach. Enjoyed the delicious crunch of yellow sand between our toes. The children clambered on the rocks. Chased crabs. Collected shells. We walked along the Umgeni River with the dogs. We meandered in the Midlands. My son tried his hand at fishing – the fish are safe, let’s put it that way. We visited majestic Michaelhouse. Mandela’s awe-inspiring museum. We ate good food, drank good wine and enjoyed the company of those closest to us. It was a time to treasure. And all too soon, it was over. All too soon, it was time to say goodbye.

It never gets any easier. No matter how often you do it. You’re leaving. They’re staying. The simplicity of it is brutal. Except it's not that simple though, is it. My coping mechanism is to focus on the little details associated with the departure. I shepherd children. Organise luggage. Keep a check on the time. All of this so that I don’t have to acknowledge an inconvenient truth that’s as conspicuous as it is out of my control. The heartbreaking reality that milestones are being missed, our children’s lives are unfolding a continent away in all their unique glory and there are human beings whose absence in our day-to-day lives will never feel right. And so I fiddle with zips, check passports and find mindless tasks. And long after we’ve boarded the plane. After take-off. After the mayhem of the meal service. And long after the children have finally succumbed to sleep, when we’re flying high into a dark expanse of nothingness, I fall apart with the sadness of it all. And then, of course, I pull myself together. As you do. It never gets any easier though. No matter how often you do it.

South Africa was too hot and too wild for my daughter. She missed the twinkling fairy lights in her little bedroom. Her toys. Her bath. And the cold. She missed the cold. My little one is too little to express his opinion just yet. But for my eldest, it was an unforgettable experience. A memory that I know he will cherish forever.  

"I feel light in South Africa, Mum. Like I can just open my arms and fly. I love it. I love it all. Even the snakes. It's a special place. It's our special place." 

I couldn't have said it better myself, my boy. 

"In South Africa our Land"

Totting-Up My Totes Awks

So my eldest is at an age where he's anxious about making silly mistakes. And being laughed at. He's constantly asking me for reassurance. “Mum I tripped, fell and bashed my face. And everyone laughed.” “Mum, I split my trousers at school. I can’t wear them. Children will laugh."

I explain to him that it’s ok to be clumsy or make silly mistakes. And it’s ok to be laughed at. It’s what it means to be human. Unless he’s hurt, he should join in and laugh too. Learning to laugh at oneself is a very necessary skill to survive in a world that's altogether a little too serious. 

I’ve got a wealth of experience in being totes awks. My cup runneth over. From peeing in my pants when I was in 6 in class one to peeing on the motorway when I was 33 and beyond, I’ve endured many a cringe-worthy moment. And I'm never sure whether I was awkward because of the situation or the situation was awkward because of me...

• Binning my husband's cash collection of rent money. And then making him climb into the apartment building’s communal tip to scrounge around to find it. It was £780. 18 years ago. Worth all the soggy lettuce and rancid teabags he had to ferret through in my opinion. But then I wasn't the one standing on a trampoline of black trash bags.
• As I was about to be put under for a revision of c-section, the anaesthetist asked if I had any concerns. Naturally I replied: "What do you mean besides dying?" Deadpan face. No reaction. I ploughed on: "Actually I'm nervous about the gown staying closed over the top half of my body. I'm worried that you'll all look at my boobs." There was an awkward silence before he replied: "Don't flatter yourself Mrs Cook. I'm sure we'll all control ourselves." And then it all went floaty as the drugs kicked in and I passed out. At that point, I'm certain they all laughed at me. And my very unremarkable rack.
• Reversing into a parked car in my street for fear I’d left the oven on.
• Actually leaving the oven on. And only realising when I was at the children’s swimming lessons. And they were both flailing around in the pool. In a blind panic calling my neighbour to beg for help. To break into my house. And check on my two corn bread loaves baking in the oven. Oh and to please turn off the oven on her way out.
• Swallowing a R2 coin whilst playing a game of coinage. This too shall pass I remember thinking. And it did. The shame though. Not so much.
• Handing in an empty bottle of lemonade for the Tombola collection at my children’s school. I had no idea what Tombola was. They kept reminding us to bring in our bottles. I figured it was a recycling exercise. How was I to know they were intended as prizes. And that an empty lemonade plastic bottle wasn't a prize. Except for those people who don't like lemonade, I suppose.
• Driving to school with the television remote in my coat pocket instead of my cellphone. 
• Being sick on account of too much red wine. All over my library book. And then in my inebriated state, trying to wash the sick off the book by running it under the bathroom tap. 
• Being the responsible adult two glasses down when my daughter shoved frozen corn up her nose. Twice. Also discovering that she'd eaten more than just a few of my birth control pills.
• Tripping and breaking a new pair of shoes when I was a teenager. Trying to fix them with a nine-inch nail and a hammer. And then begging my sister to go back to the store to convince the manager that the mangled shoe with a bent nail protruding from the heel was like that when I bought it.
• Washing a friend’s borrowed silk dress on a hot wash and having it come out 50 shades of every colour it never was to begin with. 
• Getting a tattoo at 18. Instantly regretting it. Spending a fortune of our savings in a futile attempt to have it lasered off. Ending up having the tattoo cut out. By my father in law. Before he was my father in law.
• Vomiting my heart and a chunk of my lung into a flowerbed at 10am in the morning in front of about 100 random strangers after a very merry girl’s night out. This public spectacle wasn't way back in my youth either. Well there was plenty back then too. But no. This was last October.

When he’s a little older, I won’t need to explain to my beautiful boy just how well I’m acquainted with totes awks. He’ll be able to see for himself. How I languish in a league of cringe-worthy that he'll never come close to competing with. For now though, it’s lovely to be the stable and sane person he turns to for support. It's a privilege to be the person he thinks I am. And one day when he finds himself in a situation where he wants to crawl into a hole and die from the shame, I'll be there. Ready and waiting to say: "Don't worry my boy. Did you know that when Mummy was your age she used to eat dry chunky dog food out of cupboard in her aunty's kitchen..."