Over the Airwaves in a Land Far Far Away

On my daily commute I listen to two hours of BBC news radio. I listen to reports on everything. The war in Syria. Unrest in Central African Republic. Ongoing Obama-care drama in the States. Bolchy Boris Johnson’s efforts to pull himself out of the hole he dug for himself with his controversial cornflake analogy. The Madiba tributes from back home. I hear it all. And for the most part, I enjoy having a vague idea of what’s potting in a local and global context. It makes me feel connected somehow. Connected to time and place. Also it feeds my curiosity. Being of course the nosiest person I know. If you’ve seen the size of my schnozz, you’ll understand that there’s literal correlation too.

Despite the varied content mix, what I struggle to hear most is any news report that involves children and their suffering. I vacillate between a genuine desire to be informed and utter terror over exactly what I’ll hear. I want to know what it’s about. But I know it’s something that will haunt me. It’s a tenuous balance.

I listened recently to a report by a British journalist who worked with an aid organisation in the aftermath of the typhoon in the Philippines. Based in Tacloban, she did a daily audio diary for the BBC. She described the conditions and spoke to the locals as they tried to re-build their lives. She told a story about a remarkable boy she’d met and interviewed. Before the storm hit while people were being evacuated, this boy and his dad remained behind at their home to protect it from looters. They believed the storm wouldn’t be as bad as predicted and feared they’d lose their valuables if their home was abandoned. This had apparently happened before. It was agreed that his mum and sisters would flee to higher ground. As the storm approached, fierce winds ripped their house apart. Everything was destroyed. They tried to take cover, but this proved impossible. A wall collapsed and crushed his father to death. The boy remained at the scene holding his dad’s hand until the rains came and the water rose and threatened to drown him. He simply didn’t want to leave his father. When he couldn’t stay a second longer, he swam away and was miraculously rescued.

The following day, he was reunited with his mother and sisters who thankfully were unharmed. When asked about how he’d told his family about their father, the boy replied, “When I saw them, I didn’t need to tell them. They could see from my face what had happened to my father.” The journalist commended his bravery. To which he replied: “I am the man of my family now. I must show courage to take care of my mother and sisters. It is my job. My responsibility. I am honouring my father.”
This boy is 10 years old.

I sit as I drive thinking to myself what a privilege it is for me to travel in a road-worthy vehicle with fuel that is readily available, that I can afford to buy. On a road that is safe. To a home that is warm. To a family that is healthy. To a life that is free. What a privilege indeed. I suppose that in order to truly embrace a real sense of gratitude you need at times to be kicked in the face with a news story like that. I got home that night and squeezed the bejaysus out of my children. Talked to my husband about more than just how his day was.

It’s these haunting news stories. A brave child facing a tragedy. Horrific child abuse cases. Child kidnappings. Trafficking. Teenage gang violence. These are the stories that make me squirm. They creep into my head and my heart. The discomfort I feel is good I’ve decided. It’s a cheap lesson for me to appreciate my own life. Acknowledge what I take for granted. And then suck it up and try to be a better human being with a better attitude. I owe this to my children. To my husband. I owe it to a 10-year-old boy in a village in Tacloban. I owe it to the world.

A Boy Named Oliver

Exactly five years ago a couple of hours after our son was born, my best friend asked "How do you feel? What does it feel like to have just had a baby?” Hormone-flushed and drug-giddy, I confessed, “I feel like a rockstar. This feeling is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I am completely blown away.” Today as I type this, sans drugs or post-partum hormones, those exact words sum up how I’d describe my feelings about our son Oliver. He takes my breath away. In a multitude of ways. I am genuinely in awe of our little chap. I am in awe as much today as I was when I first unraveled his swaddling blanket and looked in wonder at the miracle of him.

From the very beginning, Oliver was an easy baby. Happy little guy. Fed well. Slept well. No teething drama. Social. Travelled easily. Loved his nanny. A contented soul with a serious and quirky little frown who quietly took in the world and everyone in it. We marveled that for a couple of twits who’d jumped headfirst into parenting having read none of the books and with no cooking clue, we’d clearly been given just what we could handle. He was eight months old when our lives were turned upside down. A surgical procedure we understood to be simple suddenly turned serious. MRI, neurosurgery, tumour. Big words with a heavy context. Especially when you mark the word ‘infant’ in the patient category. Oliver required surgery that would prevent him from losing the use of his legs and control of his bladder and bowels. The risks associated with the surgery were high. The risks of not undergoing the procedure were equally as complicated. We were devastated. And utterly terrified. Being as grown-up as we could, we ventured through each scenario. We tried to be rational. We tried to weigh up our options. But through all the serious talk, we kept coming back to the subject where neither of us could remain objective. This was our child. Our precious baby boy. We doubted ourselves at every turn. Were we making the right choice for him? Should we operate? Should we wait? Was he going to be ok? What if he wasn’t? The magnitude of our indecision and the what-ifs we pounded back and forth were agonising. The uncertainty of our course of action gnawed at the foundation of the shaky confidence we’d been able to fudge together in our short time as parents. It was a tough couple of months and we took strain.

Eventually, we agreed to the surgery. Mindful of the risks associated with the operation and the fact that any complications could lead to issues further down the line, we felt we couldn’t live with ourselves knowing that we didn’t at least try to rectify the problem. On the day of his surgery, I was led into the operating theatre while Tim said goodbye to his son in a little pre-op cubicle. Tim was stoic and yet at the same time fought to keep his composure in the face of sheer terror and uncertainty. My gentle husband with the biggest heart. We avoided eye contact with each other as we feigned upbeat reassurances as much for our son as for ourselves. My job was to accompany Oliver into the operation theatre and hold him as the anestheticist put him under. Our boy didn’t struggle or squirm as the mask was gently placed over his face. His blue eyes were wide and trusting, as he looked straight at me. He was completely relaxed and he even gave me a little smile as he slipped into unconsciousness. Holding my baby’s vulnerable body like that in a room where a team of specialists prepared to extract a mass of tissue from his spine was the hardest moment for me. I didn’t want to let him go. I wanted to bolt out of the door carrying him in my arms. To me, it was this moment that I became a mother. In the truest sense of the word and all its meaning. I understood as never before, the fierce and instinctive need you have to protect your child. How deep those waters run. How powerful that instinct. And how you can never go back.

The procedure was scheduled for four hours and within two, we’d received word that Oliver was out of surgery in recovery and we could see him. Our neurosurgeon, a man of few words yet with an aura of palpable calm, gave us the news that he was pleased with how the operation had progressed and the outcome as he could see it. He confessed how nervous he had been about our son’s procedure. He’d spent weeks reviewing, researching and planning for it. In his 20 years of practice, he’d performed countless operations of a similar kind. But never on a 10-month old baby. The burden of that responsibility weighed heavily on him and he was man enough to acknowledge it. We were impressed by his grace and humility. In the ICU when Oliver first opened his eyes, we could see him process many things as he regained consciousness: the strange environment, the unfamiliar sounds, the pain and discomfort. He flashed his trademark frown and his face crumpled. But when his focus cleared and his gaze reached us, that mischievous sparkle in his eyes was there and he tried to lift up his little arms in welcome. We were both overcome with gratitude and relief. He was still the same Ollie. Our Ollie. Our champion. Our brave boy. He was going to be ok.

Five years on and that happy chap with those piercing blue eyes is now a little man. Sensitive and perceptive but with a wild streak that sees him climb higher, run faster and jump further. He’s a far cry from the infant lying in a cot in the ICU ward at St Augustine’s hospital. Except in many ways he’s not all that different. He is just as brave. Just as strong. Just as determined. He can still make my heart swell with the sparkle in his eye or when he lifts his arms into my embrace. Five years ago today we welcomed a courageous and special little boy into our lives and he taught us the biggest lesson we’ve ever learnt as parents.

The small stuff truly doesn’t matter. Where you live. Your job. What car you drive. How much money you have. This is all irrelevant. So too is the other stuff we agonise about as parents: how little our children sleep, whether they’re ahead or behind their peers in milestones, how much mess they make or the quantity of butternut they ate for supper. It’s when you’re faced with the big stuff, the truly life-changing stuff – that your role as a parent is put into glaring perspective. You understand then that your greatest job is to love your children. Take care of them. Do your best. Make the tough decisions in their best interests. Cherish every day. Take nothing for granted. This is all that’s truly important. The rest is fluff. Some parents face far greater challenges than ours. Obstacles far beyond what we could ever comprehend. Life or death situations. For these gladiator parents, having only the fluff to worry about would be a privilege. We were the lucky ones. Ollie taught us this lesson. We will never forget it.

In the United Kingdom of Competition, Subtle is for Sissies

In advertising in the UK, they let it all hang out. Like the vaalies on a Ballito beach in December. Everything is out there. The view can be shocking at times, but you’re spoilt for choice with something entertaining to see. There are few advertising campaigns I’ve seen here with suggestive or subliminal competitive wordplay. Few gentle nudges, nifty allusions or discreet suggestions. Here the advertising is in-your-face…our brand-is-better-than-yours, stick-that-in-your-pie-hole obvious.

In South Africa, we’re accustomed to advertisements that shrewdly reference a particular competitive advantage. Campaigns can’t reveal a rival brand’s name. As a result, everyone tries to outdo everyone else by being clever. And cool. And by mastering the art of being subtle. It’s bloody hard work. No wonder they’re all paid so much. Silver-tongued ad execs sporting the industry-ubiquitous uniform of Polo and Paul Smith, with the right touch of faded Diesel jeanpant and artfully constructed chaotic hair, spend a lot of time (and their client’s retainer) developing strategies intended to grow market share and build brand equity. In offices adorned with expensive African art amidst the gurgling sounds of a gleaming coffee machine and/or koi pond, creative teams will spend hours on a brief – revert after revert striving for perfection. No matter though how intelligent, witty or ‘on-brand’ their campaigns may be, they can never say by name that their client is cheaper, better, faster or bigger than a rival brand’s product. In the UK, they can. And they do. And I love it. For a subtlety simpleton like me, it’s bliss.

On the radio every day this week, I have heard an advert by Microsoft’s Outlook about how Google Mail scans your personal messages in order to serve you specific advertisements based on the contents of your emails. Outlook positions itself as more private than Gmail. Outlook says it straight… “We do not scan your personal emails. Gmail does. We are private. Gmail is not.” Refreshingly to-the-point and effective. The same with supermarket advertisements. Acado says they’re cheaper than Tesco. Tesco promises to give you a refund if they’re not cheaper than Sainsbury’s or Morrisons on the same items. Asda promises to beat the lot of them. They all try and outdo each other and it’s a complete dog-show of competitive price wrangling – but it’s awesome. Why? Because we, the consumer, are at the focus of it all. We’re the prize at the end of the race. There’s something refreshing about this state of transparency. They all want my money. And they’re not ashamed to say it or fight over it. The playing field is level, so the lot of them can bash each other to bits in efforts to try and secure my purchase. And at the close of play, after all of the TV ads have been flighted and the catalogue pages printed, I can make the ultimate choice by voting with my wallet. Oh the power of it all.

I don’t do subtle very well. I’m too stupid. I’m also lazy. So to be told that I’m getting the best deal and it really is the best deal, what a win. Easier than being told that my supermarket is “Good for Life” or “The Difference” or is “Inspired by Me”. Quite frankly I don’t give a baboon’s blue bottom. All I want to know is that I’m getting the best products at the best price. I’m the easiest consumer to market to. I will shop where it’s convenient. I like shiny things and big signs. I will buy anything that’s half price. Usually in multiples of quantities I never need. I like rewards, vouchers, discounts and free stuff. Don’t give me complicated innuendo or fine print. I don’t have time and I’m too tired to try and figure out any witty repartee. I will always opt for simple and straight up.

Britain may purport to be the bastion of all things educational and cultural, but when it comes to advertising, their contribution is like Walker Texas Ranger – crops up everywhere, is as subtle as a jackhammer and is usually engaged in some kind of confrontational headlock with a competing party. I find it all most delightful. But then I would, wouldn’t I? I’m about as discreet as a heart attack.

According to Tesco "Every little helps." It sure bloody does.

The One About the Poo in the Soft Play

I visit the garden centre in my neighbourhood because it offers a soft play facility. A soft play is basically an indoor enclosure where your kids can run rampant while you snatch some time to contemplate a cup of tea. There are rules. This is Britain. Of course there are rules. No shoes are allowed. Socks are mandatory. Children are supposed to be supervised at all times. You pay per hour. No food or drink allowed. No screaming. No pushing or shoving. Just calm and orderly play. Well that’s the theory anyway.

On this particular visit, my daughter was in the soft play while I sat chatting with mums from my son’s school. We were enjoying a good natter when an almightily commotion erupted from inside the soft play. Screams and shrieks and pandemonium. Mothers elbowing to get out, trying to shepherd kids scattering in different directions. It was chaos. My first thought was that a child had been seriously injured. There had to be proper carnage to warrant that level of noise. My next thought was that it could be my daughter. I bolted from our table with my heart in my throat expecting to see my little girl with a protruding bone from her arm. Or worse. Another child’s broken arm as a result of being clobbered by her. What I found was nothing of the kind. There she was happily playing in the corner of the ball pond, hidden behind the slide – without a scratch. Completely oblivious to all the chaos - which is very unlike her as she’s usually thick in the midst of it. The soft play was desolate. Not another child in sight. She hadn’t seen me, so I left her exactly where she was. As one does. Making my way back to our table, I asked a woman lurking nearby what all the fuss had been about. Wide-eyed and choking with indignation she replied, “Some child defecated on the floor. There’s faeces all over the place. Can you believe it!” She pointed to a blue mat with a small smear of brown smudged across the surface. “And what’s worse,” she continued, “another child trod in it. And then another child puked all over the place.” She was mortified. Disapproval and disgust etched all over her face.


I looked around at clusters of unsettled mothers flapping like hens. Their children straining like dogs on leads to get back inside. I had a panicked thought that perhaps my child had whipped off her nappy and proceeded to do her business on that bright blue mat. It wouldn’t surprise me. She does hide in the cupboard with the rubbish bin. She drinks bath water. She wears her potty on her head. Before I could make a move back inside to check, wide-eyed lady informed me that the child who’d perpetrated the "offensive" deed had been removed from the premises. Poor little blighter I thought. The child who’d stood in the mess was noshing on a doughnut to help ease the shock. Milking the attention for all it was worth, I guessed. The socks he was wearing when he’d stepped in the business had been disposed of. Staff proffering Ribena and paper towels were attending to the vomitter. A cleaning lady dressed in one of those suits that reminds me of bee keepers trudged past us towards the soft play. She also had gloves. A mask. A bottle with disinfectant and an industrial roll of blue paper towel. 


Before she got to the entrance though, disapproving wide-eyed woman to my left mumbled, “I hope everyone gets a refund. No child can possibly play in there after that. I would never let my child near there. Think of all those germs.” As if on cue, my little girl chose this moment to pop her blonde head out of the ball pond, step daintily over the poo on the blue mat, circumvent the puke, and push the door open. “Hello mummy,” she said as she lifted her arms up. Wide-eyed lady’s eyes got wider as I picked up my child and gave her a kiss. I bid a fake farewell and walked away. But I could feel those massive eyes boring holes into my back as I took each step back to our table where I reported to the girls that the commotion was just a spot of poo. No cause for alarm. None whatsoever. We promptly ordered another round of tea.

On the way home in the car, I ran through all the things I wish I’d said to wide-eyed woman. “All that fuss you made for a little poo and some puke. Seriously lady, I let my kids eat sweets off the floor. I have caught their vomit in my bare hands. When my son was a potty-training toddler he climbed up a set of drawers to poo on our kitchen counter. He was so proud of his work he called me to show me. Delighted and overjoyed by his accomplishment. My husband took pictures of it on his phone and messaged it to our friends. My son also did his business on the side of the road on the way home from school while his nanny stood guard because she knew he’d never make it home to the toilet. I’ve changed endless poo nappies and puke-sodden sheets. I’ve wiped and cleaned and disinfected. Every mother has. It’s part of having children. It’s a part of life. Get over yourself. And shame on you for supporting that a child be vilified as a result of having a toilet accident. Who are you to judge anyway? Have you seen the size of your eyes? You must have. Can’t miss them. Take those gigantic judgy eyes and go and play in the traffic and I hope you stand in the biggest pile of dog shite. Then I hope you puke. All over your prissy white shoes.”

That’s all I’d have said. That about covers it. Subject closed. On poo and puke. Probably not for long though. I do have two young children after all. Poo and puke are as constant in my life as the sun and the moon. I’ll keep my normal eyes open for that lady. Till next time big eyes…

The scene of chaos.

To my Daughter on her Second Birthday

Dearest Gabriella

01/11/11 - The fact that this day two years ago marks the day you were born is a double layer cake of emotion for me. It’s a weird dichotomy that even I (self-confessed Madame Motormouth) struggle to describe. On the one hand it feels like just yesterday I looked into your little face for the first time and you held my gaze with your trademark quizzical frown as if to say “Yes it’s me. I am here. I am your daughter. Get a grip now Mother…let’s get on with it shall we.’ That look was exactly what I needed. I can still remember so much of that day. All the edges are still clear, time hasn’t blurred any lines. It’s all still there. Every part of the experience of the day we welcomed you into the world. On the other hand however, you have become such an integral part of our lives. You're so woven into the fabric of our thoughts and memories that to record your time with us as only two years seems wrong somehow. It’s not profound enough. It’s too brief and seems too trivial to mark the impact you’ve had on all of us.

I have watched as you have tackled each milestone of your development with such grace and purpose. Focused but with a gentle and relaxed attitude that means even when you struggle, you don’t let it get you down. You persistently and cheerfully keep trucking along. It’s almost as though you recognise already that failure is part of the journey. And you’re ok with that. Granted, you will still throw yourself on the floor in mock hysteria at the news that you will not be getting the scone you’ve asked for five minutes before bedtime, but this is less to do with how you deal with life’s blows and more, I believe, with your penchant for performance. Within five minutes you’re back to your cheerful self. Crisis averted. Happiness restored. You will persevere to get it right. Whether you’re fitting blocks on top of each other or hanging up your coat. You don’t give up. This could later perhaps be construed as stubborn, however to me it’s a sign of strength that I hope to help you nurture in the right way. This strength runs in your family Gabriella. Your great-grandmothers, grandmothers, aunts… these incredible women that you either sadly didn't ever meet, or those who you share life with now – are (or were) blessed with extraordinary strength of character. Embrace this legacy with pride. It is your birthright.

Your lightness of spirit has been a source of wonder for me. I think this is because I am for the most part, a grumpy cow. I have to dig deep to be cheerful. My default setting is to be rather negative. I’m a glass shattered kind of girl. But you’re genuinely and consistently happy. And this is a marvel for me. You’re happy even when you should be miserable. I’ll never forget when I took you for a round of vaccinations at the clinic and I brought your brother along. With his big blue eyes he took in every part of the process of how I had to hold you down for the nurse to administer those injections. How you scrunched up your face and bawled with the shock, pain and indignity of it all. It was when he began to weep uncontrollably that your cries stopped. You followed him with your eyes and offered him a brave smile. Trying to communicate before your words were ready, before you could speak. To make an effort to comfort him and let him know you were ok. When we left that nurse’s room you carried on smiling, the picture of cooing calm while I led your sobbing brother out into the waiting room. One mum even believed that it was he who’d had the vaccinations. He was that distraught over the whole experience of witnessing your pain, our sensitive little Ollie. In the car while he cried some more and I tried to soothe him, you maintained your eye contact and offered him your gummy smile as a gift. He accepted it. Seeing that you were your usual non-fussed little self helped him to come to terms with the whole scary episode. Being happy is your default setting. You choose it. At the right moment, every moment. I am so in awe of this gift.

You love with all of who you are. And this too is a gift. You’re tactile and affectionate. Your Dad is the apple of your eye. You are your Father’s little girl, no doubt about it. He wept with joy at your birth. On that day and today and forever he is so incredibly proud of you. Since you were a tiny baby, you have rested your head on his chest and there you will remain perfectly still and content in the cocoon of protection within his arms. With me, you snuggle into that nook just below my ear, underneath my hair. This is your place. When you need comfort. When you’re just saying hello. You lavish both your father and I with equal attention and affection. But your true adoration you reserve for your brother Oliver. He is your protector. He is your confidante. Your playmate. Your partner in crime. He is your world. You follow him everywhere. Copy his every move. Nothing he does will deter you from trailing in his wake. You love him unconditionally and the bond you share is remarkable. We have discovered you both fast asleep in each other’s arms on your bottom bunk. I have witnessed you gently pat his arm when he is upset, whispering, “It’s ok Ollie. It will be ok Ollie.” You shower him with spontaneous hugs, kisses and (mostly) unrequited affection. You sing to him. You tell him stories about the moon. You laugh together. You cry together. You love no else in quite the same way. Your faith in him helps him to feel more confident in himself. You have taught him just as much as he you. My hope is that this bond remains as strong as it is now in years to come.

So to my little girl who walks on her tippy toes, dances in the wind and looks for the moon and stars at every opportunity – happy birthday to you sweetheart. Stay just the way you are. Never give up when the going is tough, choose happiness everyday and love with all of your little being. And life will continue to remain the source of joy and delight it is for you at this very moment. And you will be rich in life Gabriella - beyond all measure or imagining.

With all my love….and in due course with many toasts of birthday champagne cheer that you have already developed a taste for.

Your grumpy baggage of a Mother…who is so very proud of you. x

Gabriella - our crazy beautiful little girl.

In the UK, the Postman always Rings Twice. It’s his Job.

When you post something in South Africa, it’s like playing the slots at a casino. Your hope is always to achieve success. You back yourself. You give it a gamble. But the odds are always in favour of the house. And mostly you lose. You feel angry and frustrated. You want to kick something. But you don’t. That would be silly. And possibly painful. When it comes to the SA postal disservice, you figure (and you’d be right) that you’d be better off putting your parcel in a Moses basket and ushering it gently it along the banks of the Umgeni River. Waving goodbye with a handkerchief, blowing kisses until your bobbing little basket is out of sight. Enya's Orinoco Flow playing in the background. You know the tune. Don't pretend you don't. "Let me sail, let me sail, Let the Orinoco Flow, Let me reach, let me beach on the shores of Tripoli. Let me sail, let me sail, Let me crash upon your shore, Let me reach, let me beach far beyond the Yellow Sea." You so catch my drift. Come to think of it and changing the tune slightly...Pigeons may also be a more effective mode of postage. Cheaper with less attitude and more intellect. Santa's reindeer. Aladdin's magic carpet ride. All better alternatives. It’s no wonder the private courier services industry in South Africa is a thriving cash cow. A nifty niche with targeted demand. Privatisation at its best.

In the UK, the postal system is a machine. Ok, so admittedly the actual post office is not my favourite place. And it never will be. I still get a creepy Silence of the Lambs feeling when I visit one. My public Britney-Spears-esque meltdown at the Windsor post office in our first couple of weeks will haunt me forever. And possibly the staff. Probably not though. They've got thicker skins than those gnarly granadillas my Gran used to grow. But I have to give credit where credit is due. The postal system in the UK is reliable and safe. And most of all, it works. In July, I sent my father-in-law in South Africa a gift for his birthday. He sadly never got it. It was sent to a post box noggal. I know what you're thinking and you're wrong. I didn’t mark it: “To Grumps. Somewhere in Howick. On the River". It was properly addressed with a real name, codes and everything. And a stamp. Lots of stamps in fact. I’m gun-shy now when it comes to stamps…I err on the side of over-compensation.

 It was also marked as a "gift" and I stupidly included the correct "monetary value" of the gift on the customs declaration. Epic fail. I understand now that this is the equivalent of waving a red flag to a charging bull and expecting a pony ride. You're not going to get a Mary Poppins canter around the auditorium. You're going to be mauled. Proper. Expect nothing less.

The parcel was tracked having left the UK on the day after I posted it. She had a fighting chance par avion across the African continent until she reached the RSA border. Then we lost her. No sight or sign of that little parcel. She was apparently ‘unable to be located’ in the quagmire of sorting in South Africa. I contacted the British Royal Mail who sent me an apology letter for failing to deliver. Literally. Enclosed was a cheque to recoup some of my costs. A real cheque that I deposited for real money. The Royal Mail took responsibility for a parcel that was lost in South Africa after it had successfully reached South Africa. That’s service. It’s a little stupid. But it’s service. My latest efforts to send parcels home involve marking on the customs declaration “Second-hand item. Sentimental. Granny’s crochet work. No value whatsoever. Except to family of Granny. Granny is dying by the way. For reals.” So far, so good.  Deliveries are going through. No one seems to notice I've had like eight grannies thus far. Not surprising really.

It's no surprise either that Amazon outright refuses to ship a majority of goods to South Africa. No wonder they won't accept any claims for non-delivery. They tried it. It didn't work. Grannies notwithstanding. Goods posted were "unable to be located". People were pissed. When Amazon first made attempts to ship carte blanche to sunny SA, I can just picture the scene in a sorting depot in Pinetown or Pietersburg when the first packages starting rolling in... it would've been like one of those sales at YDE where everything in the store is a hundred bucks. The result is a complete dogshow of grab whatever you can. Almost like looting. Exactly like looting in fact. Frenzy. Frothing. Grown men and women kicking and scratching each other like feral monkeys fighting over a banana. No skaam. No dignity. For Amazon, the current set-up is solid business practice that simply makes sense. If you keep getting kicked in the balls, you’ll avoid the people who kick you in the balls and the places where it happens. And you’ll wear a groin guard for protection. Amazon’s groin guard is restricted delivery to SA. I don’t blame them.

So in efforts to fly the capitalist flag and show my support to the global e-commerce giants, I’ve been making up for a lot of the purchases that Saffas back home can’t make. Amazon, e-Bay, Ikea, Gap, Banana Republic, Boots, Cath Kidson. I’ve been there. Added to my basket. Proceeded to checkout. And the next day….a parcel is waiting for me. In its original packaging. Nothing missing. Nothing damaged. It’s slightly addictive. Getting exactly what I pay for. A novel concept that I’m slowly (and dangerously) beginning to accept as my new status quo. 


The UK may not be able to offer many of the qualities of life we Saffas deem important. Madiba. Archbishop Desmond Tutu. Swimming pools you can swim in. Petrol attendants. Jonny and his Rotis. Boere and their wors. But they do have a working postal system. And that’s not too shabby. I don’t miss the SA Postal Office in the least. I have only come to develop greater scorn for their lack of service or accountability and their overall inability to deliver. On any level. The glaring disparity between two public service offerings has never been more contextualized for me. The righteous Royal Mail may be very British and unsympathetic when it comes to dealing with a sobbing mother who posted her son’s school application without the stamp she’d just bought. But they earn their Royal stripe every time they deposit my post through my letterbox or ring my doorbell with a parcel. On time. Every time. So I am perfectly happy to trade a boerie roll or two for a box of bed linen from Cath Kidston. Swap my pap en sous for a Royal Mail postie with a smile. For now. We'll re-visit this subject in a couple of months or so. In January I'm thinking. At the height of a time I'm led to believe when ex-pat sentiment resembles something like: "WTF, this place sucks ass. Where's the sun? I can't do this much cold. It's just not right. It can't be normal. Are the Poms cold-blooded. How do they cope? They must be reptiles. That makes sense." The novelty of buying stuff online and actually receiving it may well have worn off by then and I'll be willing to trade everything I've acquired for a sunny day and a stukkie droewors. We'll see. I live in hope and denial. I am African after all. That hasn't changed.

Postman rang twice. I wasn't home. He left my package. I got my package. Still blows my mind.

My CV of Motherhood

On the 8^th of December, I’ll have been a mother for five years. I’m just out of the starting blocks really. Still a novice. Striving to acquire a set of skills in a career where the job description changes every day. Working to attain some kind of qualification in a life-long profession from which I can never retire. Even when I can’t report for duty because I’m too old to dress myself, too frail to get out of bed. Even when I have no teeth and I have long hair growing out of my long nose. I’ll still be a mother. My children may have to wipe the drool from my face, fetch my teeth, uncork my champagne and clip my nosehair… but I’ll still be their mother.

Unlike other jobs, my performance review I do on myself. I usually find areas that require massive attention and my assessment is far more regular than the standard annual review. I’m my own boss and for the most part, I’m pretty hard on myself. Failure is not an option with this job. I can’t do half-day or go freelance. I lean on my colleagues for support. My colleagues are other mothers. A sacred sisterhood tethers us; we understand each other’s fears and insecurities. Share in each other triumphs. We give everything to our jobs. We may not give all of our time. We may have sideline gigs in other companies with other bosses and colleagues. But don’t let this fool you – our hearts and minds are always invested in the most important of our jobs. Being the best mothers we can be.

If there was such a thing as a CV of Motherhood – mine would probably read something like this:

Profile:

Sally has successfully conceived child/ren. Children baked upside side both presenting Frank Breach position. Natural didn’t not come to the party in any shape or form. Successful births assisted by ludicrously well-paid professionals wielding scalpel, forceps and much-desired anesthetic.

Experience:

Weaning: has been achieved. Despite maximum chaos, unfortunate waste and frowned upon bribery with confectionary to encourage vegetable intake…. transition from liquid to solid food is mostly complete. Unless yoghurt counts neither as a solid nor as a meal. In which case, weaning still has a way to go.

Teething: Not too big a drama for either child. This may be as a result of regular administration of tranquilisers or encouraged ‘sips’ of alcohol before bedtime.

Potty training: 50% complete, notwithstanding occasional set of skidmarks or lashing of urine all over the walls. Littlest currently uses potty as a hat. Work required there.

Sleep routine: Well established. Mostly. Save for occasional nightmare or random requests at 2am to watch Cbeebies. Success in this area can most likely be attributed to the same methodology applied to teething gripes – pharmaceuticals.

Education: One child is present and can be counted at school. He is not however always able to count without incident to 20 – although does use words like “poorly” and “ridiculous” which hopefully balances things out. Also shows aptitude for art and artistic construction. Other child shows promise in letter and word recognition and reading. Both are masters in manipulation and emotional blackmail.

Physical health: Good. Conquered spinal surgery challenge. Only two courses of antibiotics (ever) for near 5 year old. None so far for 2 year old. No broken limbs. Although this is imminent with the eldest whose attempts to fly are becoming increasingly more perilous as he strives to reach greater heights.

Dental health: Drama when eldest planted his face on a wet laminate floor. Two front teeth needed attention after they turned grey. Dentist was consulted. Two front teeth are as dead as a door nail. But mercifully can stay. Youngest has sprouted set of gnashers that will most likely require attention in later years. Massive relief that orthodontic work is free for children in the UK.

Mental health: Appears ok although there is slight concern over eldest child’s fixation with beheading barbies and the youngest child’s penchant for hiding in cupboards in the dark. Continued monitoring highly suggested.

Behaviour and social aptitude: Eldest child favours independent play, shies away from attention and is happy to follow children who want nothing to do with him. His stalkerish persistent tendencies can not be dissuaded. He remains steadfast in his devotion to being rejected over and over again. Youngest seeks to be the leader and craves attention all of the time.  Regrettably neither is too afraid to launch into a fist-banging floor-thumping tantrum in the supermarket.

Special abilities: From the sublime to the ridiculous. Eldest son can watch SpongeBob SquarePants for two hours straight without breaking eye contact with the television. Youngest will cry when she can no longer see the moon while driving in the car at night.

Skills

Sally has amassed a number of skills as a mother, including, but not limited to:

Pain management. Bribery. Negotiation. Distraction. Conflict resolution. Damage control. Waste management. Medicine dispensing. Food services. Transportation services. Calendar scheduling. Hairdressing.

Potential Areas for Growth

Sally can afford to improve in the following areas of parenting:

Patience. Less use of foul language. Less hysteria. Less use of television as a form of play. Less administering of drugs. Less administering of sugar. More praise. Less ridicule and mockery. Less concern over dirt.

Conclusion

Sally is a mother to a sensitive and perceptive little boy with a kind and gentle soul. Her daughter is a confident and joyful little girl who dances when she walks. Sally began her career as a mother with no previous experience, little skill and limited knowledge. Initially she set the bar way too high. Her efforts to attain perfection in cleanliness, calm and order were constantly thwarted and she soon came to understand that these attempts were futile. She lowered the bar as she realised that perfection is not the attribute of a successful mother. A happy child is. Sally’s methods may be different. Her approach is never standard and rarely supported by the professionals, however she has her own way. She genuinely makes it up as she goes along. Sally believes in the “poke it and see” school of parenting where routine is indeed hallowed practice, but rules are mere suggestions open for interpretation and can be adapted for individual taste.

Sally will most likely never receive a glowing parenting recommendation or boast a faultless record. And she’s ok with that. Why? Because she does the best she can. Always. To her, her children are tremendous creatures of humanity. Just the way they are. A pair of happy little souls who’re loud, affectionate and slightly cuckoo eccentric at times. But who light up her life. All of the time.

Day one on the job. Meeting the bosses.