Yeah, so it's taken me a long time. Three decades or so. To accept that I am rather a different sort. And when I say 'different' I don't mean 'let's celebrate your individuality, you're going to be a star' different. I simply mean that I am bat-shit crazy. It used to be a source of great angst and I tried to hide it, which was futile and exhausting. And now I just let it all hang out. I own it. The hipster way of saying pretty much the same thing. Also I'm nearly 40 years old
ffs. It really is now or never. I've come to a place where my weirdness and I can coexist. Not always happily or in complete harmony, but we bump along together.
- I only read books, that are, like, actual books. With pages you can't zoom in on, but spines that bend. No screens. Ever. I associate screen reading with work. Reading fiction is anything but. The library, therefore, truly is my happy place. More so really than anywhere else in the world. If they sold good coffee, I'd be there every day. I'd likely move in.
- I've yet to see a single second of a single episode of Game of Throes. And I don't intend to. Ever. Medieval fantasy just ain't my vibe.
- A few months ago I had a hernia repair procedure. I woke up in a ward with a lot of women who'd just had laparoscopic surgery for endometriosis (or other stuff I shan't share) in efforts to fall pregnant. We had to wait for the general anaesthetic to wear off and we couldn't move. So we did what women do when they're off their faces on drugs. We drank tea, ate toast and chatted up a storm. In deference to their various fertility issues, when I was asked if I had any children, I avoided the question altogether by asking a question in return. Lying by omission I think they call it. This worked very well and I was rather chuffed with myself. Until it came time for me to be discharged and instead of meeting my husband at reception which I'd specifically requested, he thought he'd form a happy-to-have-you-home committee and burst into the ward with all of our children who threw themselves at me like a pack of puppies. I offered a feeble "Oh yeah, these are my kids. I forgot about them!" before bolting as fast as a freshly-stitched abdomen would allow. It was not a good day. I still feel shame thinking about it and the scar is a searing reminder that I should never pretend I don't have kids. It always ends in pain.
- Speaking of painful. I like hot things scaldingly hot. I literally microwave my hot drinks before I drink them. And cold things freezing cold. Except sparkling water which I like at room temperature because it helps keeps the bubbles bubbly. This does not apply to alcoholic bubbles. These must be arctic cold.
- Recently on an uncharacteristic night out. At an actual pub. Not just a PTA meeting or a parents evening at school. These sadly also count as nights out in my life. I went to the bar to order and said to the bar lady, "Could I have a bottle of Prosecco please. And can it be very cold." To which she replied "Certainly. And how many glasses would you like with that?" I said "Err, just the one, please." I smiled. She smiled in complete understanding. She turned out to be an Aussie. Obvs.
- I once took the entire biscuit tin to school when I was running late for pick-up. My children expect a snack. It's the stupidest thing I started years ago and now I can't get out of it. I usually bring them a sandwich, fruit roll, Tupperware of strawberries, something. It's the first thing they say when they see me after 6 hours at school. I go: “Hello sweethearts, how was your day?” They go: “What did you bring us to eat?” I brought the biscuit tin in a moment of desperation and tried to discreetly open it so they could grab a couple and we could get on our way. But they pulled it out and brandished it for all to see. They chorused. I cringed. Not my first cringe in the school yard. Likely not my last either.
- I push my trusty old double-pram-steed to school every day despite the fact that my children are 7 and 4 and don’t need a pram. But I need it. It carries the school bags, the bike and the scooter and the helmets. I also get a childish kick out of wheeling the pram into town after I've dropped them at school. And when people worriedly enquire: “Er, where’s the baby?” I scratch my head and pretend I can't remember where I left it. And just before it gets too awks, I announce: “Just kidding. My children are at school. I brought the pram for myself. I need it to carry my wine.” Some people think it's genius. Most make a hasty retreat.
- I like to do personal gifts for the teachers for Christmas. In December I decided that making a cake was a great idea. An entire cake each. Except I couldn't just make for the three class teachers. I felt I needed to make for the teachers' assistants, the head, the deputy head and the office staff too. This meant 12 cakes. I bought 4 springform 6-inch cake tins figuring I'd do three baking sessions. Badda boom. Mmm, what cake to bake? Orange and polenta was my current favourite, so I reckoned that would be a goodie. Except I failed to realise that each cake required an entire packet of ground almonds and polenta which cost a small fortune, plus the zest of two oranges which was a bitch on the fingernails, plus a saucy syrup that I had to boil for hours and reduce. Less badda. More broken. And one teacher has a nut allergy so I needed to make that cake separately and be sure not to confuse it with the others. A simple cake offering became Cakegate 2018. Never to be repeated. Apparently the cakes were lovely which is good because I laboured longer over them than I ever did any of my children.
- Speaking of broken. My daughter broke her arm while we were hosting a playdate with two other children. She fell out of a tree at a park. There was a lot of screaming. I went running. Only to check that the other children were ok. Not for her. She screams a lot. There was no blood. Her arm looked fine. No swelling. No visible damage. I then made her pose with her friends alongside the lake with her broken arm that we didn't know was broken. I asked her to please stop crying because she was ruining the photo. It was a full 24 hours before we realised her arm was broken because she couldn't move it and she was still bleating that it was sore. We didn't even give her pain relief because 1) we didn't have any 2) we didn't think she needed any. Yeah. Another parent fail. I succeed at parent fails.
- I've decided that I really like to help at the school disco so that I can dance The Macarena, YMCA or pull moves from Grease with a horde of pre-teens and any teachers I can drag down with me. My son does not like it as much. He says my dancing is the cringiest he's ever seen. And he says he watches a lot of bad dancing on Youtube so he's well informed. Regardless, I will continue to attend discos with the young uns. It is the best fun. And who knew you could dance without being rat-faced? I certainly didn't. It's great exercise, makes you feel fantastic and there's no hangover. Bonus. The fact that my son doesn't want people to know I'm his mum - well, that was bound to happen eventually.
- I still think wedges are pants. I still accost any random stranger Saffas I encounter. I still overshare to any random stranger I encounter, Saffa or otherwise. I still use the word dogshow for anything not remotely related to an actual dogshow. I still dream of big South African skies and the view of 'Maritzburg as you make your way down Town Hill on the N3. I still feel 25 until I try to do a cartwheel and then not so much. Or until I look in the mirror. And then again not so much.
- A million miles from normal I am. Today. Tomorrow. Always. And you know what, I'm totally ok with that.
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| Cakegate 2018 |
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Using a pram to cart the children cricket equipment. As I do. |
