A Bluster of British Banter

So it’s happened. After 6 years of life in the UK. After moving into four different houses. Birthing our third child. Settling three children into two different schools. Settling myself into a social circle of new friends. Getting indefinite leave to remain status on the long road to citizenship. Learning to drive through the eye of a needle along narrow roads. Navigating buttock-clenching four lane traffic circles. Parking three miles from anywhere to avoid having to parallel-park. Driving a lot less. Walking a lot more. Getting used to the constant drone of living under the Heathrow flight path. Working for myself. Cleaning for all of us. Learning to survive homesickness that hits the solar plexus. Learning to survive camping. Learning to enjoy camping. After a complete transformation of lifestyle/culture/family/friends/career. After all this time. I am now someone who talks about the weather. A lot.

My European work colleagues have dubbed me “the weather girl". In my email intros, I not only make small talk. I make small talk about the weather. It’s become my weird little trademark. I look out of the window and write about the 50 shades of grey (both rubbish), that it's cloudy with a chance of meatballs or perhaps as Pooh says "it sure is rather a blustery day". When there's actual sun I bring out my jazz hands. It’s cringey. But I can’t help myself. I have become incapable of starting any sentence without: “Greetings from a gloomy Windsor” or “A sunny hello from southeast England”. I can’t remember how I used to do email intros before. I draw a blank. In the same way I don't know how I filled my time a decade ago before I had kids. I honestly couldn’t tell you.

If there was a barometer of Britishness, I guess weather banter would be pretty up there. Along with drinking two litres of tea a day, popping to the pub for a pint and listening to the Queen’s speech at Christmas. It’s a safe topic. It changes every five minutes so there’s plenty of subject matter. It’s inoffensive. It’s impersonal. It’s perfectly British in every way. I even engage in a wee weather chatter with the checkout ladies at the supermarket. “Brrr...by golly, it’s cold today. We’re in for some snow apparently.” Sometimes they run with it. And I get a little “Yeah and it’s cold in here and all.” Sometimes not. And I get a raised eyebrow, no eye contact and my groceries are scanned in record speed and I’m sure there’s mumbled nuance of “nutter” directed at my derriere.

The weather here is not just a conversation starter. It stops traffic. It closes train lines. Roads. Schools. It gets under your skin. In your bones. Obviously, I’m used to a more moderate climate down south, where unless it’s kak hot, kak cold or there’s a kak load of rain, it’s not something we spend a lot of time talking about. Weather chat is a first world privilege. Apparently the average Brit spends the equivalent of four and a half months of their life talking about the weather and it comes up in conversation three times in a typical day. An actual study was conducted. Someone took the time to research it. It's a hot topic. A hot mostly cold topic, if you will.

Oscar Wilde said: “conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative.” So there I go. Or perhaps I’ve already lost it? Along with the age-defying chub that apparently used to cushion my cheekbones. Who knows? All I do know for sure is that for the last couple of days I’ve been working on my couch with my coat and scarf on. The radiator is on max, but the arctic breeze that creeps up through the suspended wooden floor takes my breath away. Yesterday, I looked outside and typed: “Greetings from Windsor! Today we had 20 000 or so people visit our town. Along with the inimitable Jack Frost. He snuck in overnight on a cloud of ice, snow and slush. The bastard. I hope you’re enjoying warmer climes wherever you are and you’ve received a less frosty reception to the start of your day.” And then I made myself a cuppa. As is just as customary in these parts. Where it's currently cold. Kak cold.

Snow flaming cold 

Loved. Calm. Happy. Peaceful. Brave

Raising a child is a lot like baking a cake. You gather all the ingredients, put them together and hope for the best. Well that’s I how bake anyway. Hell, that’s how I parent. Nothing is guaranteed. Sometimes the cake rises to the occasion and sometimes it’s a complete fuck up flop. It’s never fool-proof, no two cakes ever come out the same and you never quite know how you’ve done until the cooking time is complete. You can’t open the oven door halfway through and add in the baking powder, or mix it a little more thoroughly or remove the nuts you shouldn't have added. You simply have to give it a jolly good go and wait it out. And you only ever get one chance with that cake. This is exactly how I feel about being a mother. Did I over mix it? Is it completely cooked through? Will it sink in the middle? Will my kids look back on their childhood and think ‘hell yeah, we had a good one’ or will they need to breathe into a paper bag and work through all sorts of neuroses that a therapist will tell them I was responsible for? Too much squawking, sarcasm, passive aggression and perfectionist tendencies – my arsenal of arsehole attributes that are kryptonite for my kids. Any kids, really. But mine mostly on account of them being mine. And by then it’s too late. And I’m a lush because our children are emotional train wrecks. It’s a sobering thought.

A thirteen year old South African girl who was badly hurt in a car accident on Christmas Eve got me thinking about all of this. She sustained terrible head injuries and it looked like she wouldn’t make it. She has though. She woke up. She breathes on her own. She lives. She’s got a long road to recovery ahead of her, yet every day she’s defying medical odds. It's a remarkable story.

Sitting at her bedside in the hospital, her mum recently asked her to point to a set of emotion cards that reflect how she felt at that very moment. She chose the cards: Loved. Calm. Happy. Peaceful. Brave. This is a young girl who literally has part of her skull stored in her abdomen for safe keeping because it was so badly damaged. And while she’s faced with some big obstacles, she’s still able to reflect with such positivity and gratitude. There’s no blame, anger or pity. Just those five wonderful words. That’s one extraordinary child. And those are a set of extraordinary parents.

I’d give my one clean-ish kidney for either of my children to look back on their childhood and say, "I felt loved. Calm. Happy. Peaceful. Brave.” What a gift that would be. Not just for them because they’ll be delightfully self-aware little souls ready and able to conquer all of life’s challenges, obvs. But also for us as their parents. Until then though, we try. Hard. We lovingly watch the cakes we’ve baked. We do our best. And we hope for the best. Because only time will tell how they turn out. Well, time and my daughter, she’ll tell the world. Inspired by an amazing young South African girl a continent away, I asked my daughter to choose just two words to describe how she feels about her life. She looked me straight in the eye with all of her seven years and sass, and said: “Mmmm, I feel unsure and um, weird. Why would you ask me that? How much wine have you had?" Sobering thoughts indeed.

I'm very grateful for all the cake in my life. And my children. Not in that order (well some days) but they're worth every burn in every sense of the word, every catastrophe cake-related or otherwise - and all the sass. And to that warrior young woman down south, I promise I will strive to love bigger, keep calm(er), be happier, foster more peace and be braver so that my children learn to do the same. Big-ups to not being a bad mamabaker. Big-ups to being a bad-ass mamabaker - in the making.

Me, My Sass and I

From Kiara's Mum's Blog