Sick Santa

Santa Clause gives me the creeps. I’m not a fan. It’s not just his florid face, wobbly belly or white beard. I have another reason for being slightly wary of the fat oke in a red suit. When I was a little girl I went to one of those Santa’s Grotto places while my folks did some last minute Christmas shopping at our local mall. When Santa put me on his lap to ask “if I’d been a good little girl…” he also made me hold his penis. In my hand. Just casually made me hold it. I didn’t think anything of this special treatment at the time. Such is the innocence of a 5 year old. In fact, I was very blasé when afterwards in the car trip home my folks asked about how it was meeting Santa, and I replied “Good. I even held his willy.” Not quite the reaction they’d expected. Of all the sick Santas in the world – we had our very own in little Sleepy Hollow. Small towns I suppose. They're a veritable breeding ground for all sorts of weirdos and vermin. Even those who come out at Christmas time it seems.


There’s no halfway when it comes to Christmas in the Kingdom. In this instance, I don’t mean Jesus’ Kingdom, although he makes a pretty big statement at this time of the year too. I mean the United Kingdom. They go all out here. More lights than Diwali adorn our high street. There’s even a ceremony held with a local celebrity to turn the lights on. Everyone counts down and cheers. There’s a concert with a stage outside the castle and everything. At any given time like a flashmob, there’s carolling in the street. Just random people all stood together singing carols and a guy with a scroll. And a hat. And a bell. There’s mulled wine. And Christmas jumpers. There is always the threat of snow. Actual snow. Supermarkets sell real Christmas trees. Everywhere you go, Christmas jingles ting merrily. There are ice-skating rinks set up in the parks. There’s even a place called Lapland (no not that kind of place….although I did wonder) where you meet real reindeer and all the elves and stuff. And then of course, there’s Santa. 
There’s no escaping the oke here. He’s in every department store. At schools. In churches. Emblazoned upon jerseys, decorations, banners, posters. Everywhere you look – you're greeted with his shiny smiling red face.

In South Africa, we’re not complete festive season philistines – we do the tree, the decorations, the reindeer trails. We deck the halls with boughs of holly. We leave a beer and mince pie alongside our jetmasters. We wear those ridiculous paper hats that make us all sweat bullets and pull the crackers at a table adorned with a stuffed bird of some variation with all the trimmings. We light a Christmas pudding and gorge ourselves on Quality Street chocolates. And after the lunch formalities are done – we all float hippo-like in the swimming pool because it’s usually too hot to do anything else. Or as is usually the case in KZN, it rains. Think humid afternoon downpours while everyone sits on a stoop getting positively pissed, while nibbling at leftovers that no one could believe themselves venturing toward again. It’s too hot for a Christmas jumper. Impressive ornamental lights strung along every street would be a waste because Eskom’s loadshedding schedule would put paid to their purpose very quickly. And they’d probably get stolen. Mulled wine would be like drinking tea on a day that’s 45 degrees. No one really stands on any street corners – certainly not while singing carols. Unless they’re begging. And that’s an entirely different kind of singing. Snow is not an option. Well, for obvious reasons.

The African Christmas Experience is very different to the British one. It’s sunny for starters. It’s holiday time. It’s chaos. It’s awesome. And I miss it very much. We’re on the brink of having our second Christmas as a family on this side of the pond. It’s a mind warp how different the holiday is. For starters, it’s not really a holiday. Not a real one at least. Schools close for like 10 days. And it's feck cold. And dark. And wet. Takes some getting used to, that’s for sure. But I reckon the universe is trying her best to get me to embrace our new festive reality. Especially when it comes to sicko Santa. Last week my son came home from school with a piece of paper that details his part in the school Christmas play. Of all the little poppets in an entire school….my slight of build, blonde haired little boy is...yip you guessed it... freakin Santa Clause. He’s not a reindeer, or a penguin, or an elf. He’s the father of Christmas. In all his red-suited glory. I have even had to pay good money for a Santa suit. Ordered via Amazon. Non-returnable of course. This year, I get to see if Santa's naughty or nice. I'll keep you posted.

Just no escaping it.

An Anthem of Awkwardness

After nearly two years in the UK, my son still misses South Africa. Still pines and cries for the land of his birth. It’s heartbreaking. He’s like one of those dogs you hear in South Africa sitting by the gate tjanking for his owners to come home. My son speaks often of a life that we’re astounded he remembers so well. He’d just turned four when we left. His pride in his heritage runs deep. Way deeper than mine, I’m ashamed to admit. He’s very happy to talk about where he comes from. He needs to. Often and to anyone who’ll listen. At school, when his British classmates speak of farm animals and domestic pets, he’ll describe a springbok or a buffalo. Regale them with tales of snakes in our garage, shongololos in the garden, my husband's earthworm farm and monkeys on the roof. 


In a genuine effort to try and reinforce his South African-ness, we do all sorts of things:
 - We show him many pictures of home. Of our old home. Of family and friends.
 - We still speak in our accents hey. We pronounce words ‘laaike’ ‘naaice’ and “yar” and “lekker”. The stronger his little pom accent gets, the further he deviates from our “fla-at” Saffa vowels. 

- We braai. Often. Chicken, lamb, steak, pork, you name it. We even use the Weber to do jacket potatoes. In the rain. In the cold. In the dark. No matter the weather. No matter the occasion. We braai. It’s just what we do. It’s in our blood.

- We’re happy for him to take his clothes off. In the house. Or on a beach in Scotland.
- He can climb where he likes. As long as it’s not on to the neighbour's shed (he’s done that) or out of the loft window on to our roof (he’s tried to do that), we’re comfortable that he climbs.
- We spend time with other Saffas living here. At their homes. Or ours. Not something the British do. Have people over. We Africans do it. Often.


At school, he’s been learning songs from other parts of the world. Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes in French for example. Or the De-yo Banana Boat song from Jamaica. Or a Kenyan greeting ditty. When the song has a different language, we translate it to English so he can understand what it’s all about. This gave me the idea of teaching him Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika – the South African national anthem. I told him that it was the song of his home country. A very important song that everyone sings, even the President. I can sing the anthem. But apparently I’m not great at singing in general. I always thought I was, but whenever I sing anything my husband makes a noise (and does the actions) of a kitten being strangled and my children tell me to please stop. I managed to sing the anthem ok. Well I got through the whole thing. Some parts I fudge slightly, but I’m better than 99% of all the white rugby players or cricketers you see on TV. Although that’s not saying much.
Anyway after I’d sung the anthem to my son, he said "So Mum what does it mean? What do the words mean?” And you do know what. I had absolutely no idea. No cooking clue what my own national anthem means. Disgraceful. I had to Google it. This is the Wikipedia translation of the lyrics of the South Africa national anthem, available to view for us ignorant little twerps.

God Bless Africa.

Let its (Africa’s) horn be raised,
Listen also to our prayers, 

Lord bless us, we are the family of it (Africa).

Lord bless our nation, 

Stop wars and suffering,

Save it, save our nation,

The nation of South Africa.
Out of the blue of our heavens,

From the depths of our sea,

Over our everlasting mountains,

Where our cliffs give answer,

Sounds the call to come together,
And united we shall stand,
Let us live and strive for freedom
In South Africa our land.

Once I’d read through the translation to my son, he says to me all big-eyed, “What is war? Who is suffering? Why do we need to save it?” In typical Ollie style, he went straight to those parts. Forget about the blue of our heavens, the depths of our sea or our everlasting mountains. My son wanted to know why South Africa needed saving. What a question. So many layers to that one. Where does one start? I decided that I’m not grown-up enough to answer the chap. I’ll cock it up. I can barely handle the dying and heaven and Jesus questions. I’m an absolute wuss. The other night the two of them were in the bath together and I heard Ollie say to his sister “I like it when you put that in my bum". I froze and back-peddled away from the door and went to my bedroom. Let them sort that shit stuff out themselves. I’m not qualified to deal with anything of a sensitive or awkward nature. I’m tactless. And rude. I will make things worse. So these kinds of things I merely ignore. And hope they go away. Or I wait for their father to come home.


For now though, I believe that there’s such bliss in his ignorance about South Africa’s past. He knows nothing of the country’s legacy of apartheid. A legacy of hate. Of violence. Oppression. Segregation. He’s not blinkered by any prejudice. He feels no shame or guilt on behalf of his forefathers and their complicity (intended or otherwise) in a system designed to persecute on the basis of race. He simply loves his home. And he’s extremely proud of it. It’s as simple as that. I understand that at some stage he will need to know the history of the country of his birth. Just as every South African child will need to know. To understand what happened. It’s why history is important. To put the past into perspective. To learn from it so one can focus on the future. But for now, it’s so refreshing that his reality is not clouded by any fact. It’s pure. His connection to Africa is visceral. Not learned. Or influenced. It just is. And there’s a beauty in that. Well to me anyway.

So what did I do? I did what any self-respecting mother in my situation would do when faced with a tough question. I dodged it and employed the ultimate weapon of mass distraction - confectionary. I bribed my son with chocolate buttons. On a Tuesday evening. Fridays are treat days in our house. He accepted the bribe. No questions asked. He knows when he’s on to a good thing. We now let Miriam Makebe sing us our national anthem every evening while they're having dinner. It’s safer that way. For my six year old. And me. Mostly me. And I'm happy with that.

Somehow this seemed an appropriate pic. Not really sure why.

“Those who educate children well are more to be honored than they who produce them; for these only gave them life, those the art of living well.” - Aristotle

I would have scoffed at this quote two decades ago. I didn’t have much respect for the learned ones nurturing young minds in the classrooms of the world. If anything, I pitied them. What a sad job I thought. I’m ashamed to admit that I agreed with that creepy little man Woody Allen who said, “Those who can't do, teach. And those who can't teach, teach gym.” To me, teaching was a piss-easy profession. Anyone could do it. How wrong I was.

I am ashamed today by my past narrow-mindedness. And just what a cock-rod attitude I had. I stand at this moment in complete awe of teachers. And this I say with no patronising undertone either. My respect applies to all teachers. Whether they teach 3 year olds. Or 13 year olds. It is a noble profession. And it’s reserved for the most gifted and talented of our humankind.

How do I know this? Well I now spend afternoons with my son at our kitchen table working out on his fingers how to add 5 and 3, the process of subtraction, how to count backwards from 20. We learn words like “c-o-m-e” and “b-y” and “d-o” for his weekly spelling test… conquering the ’red’ words, the bastardly tricky words you can’t spell out phonetically. We practice writing in full sentences, using correct spacing and full stops. We read his course work in preparation for his reading group. When they’re due, we also do his school projects. And this after a full day at school after his sports or clubs. It is slow. It is laborious. It is exhausting. For a five year old. And his middle-aged mother. There are often tears. There are often tantrums. And that's just me.

I simply cannot begin to imagine the responsibility of doing this every day, all day. Teaching dozens of children, each at different stages of development, each with their own unique personality and understanding of the world. All the piles of marking, setting the coursework, the never-ending admin. Being friendly and positive and encouraging. And all the while remaining a sane and sober member of society. It’s a job up there with running a country or directing a hospital. No less important or valuable to society in my opinion.

I know that I could never do it. For more reasons than simply being completely inept.

- I have absolutely no patience. Not even for my own children. I cannot fathom being patient with someone else’s child. Not even the threat of getting the sack from my job or being arrested would deter me from getting irritated with a child that doesn't get it. Or being sarcastic.

- I am easily distracted. How could I possibly foster an environment of focus in a classroom when I can barely manage it myself? I mop the kitchen floor with my feet while I’m scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, while I’m making pasta on the stove and on hold to speak to someone about an order from Gap. I simply cannot focus on one task a time.

- I can’t handle the noise. My daughter’s devil cry is enough to drive me directly to a G&T. The cacophony of children’s high-pitched squeals and excitable voices drives me crazy. I actually have to lie down after I visit a soft play. For two hours. In a dark and quiet room. With a pillow over my head.

- I am more than a little stupid. I have to Google everything. It would be mortifying to have my lack of intelligence exposed by a 6 year old. I’m not sure my ego would ever recover.

- I also like to be right. Even when I’m wrong. I’m not sure I’d be able to let a child have the last word. Any child. Especially not one who is actually right.

- The burden of responsibility is just so great. We’re talking about lives here. Real lives. Everyone remembers either their best or worst teacher. There’s no hiding from failure. No massaging the figures or winging the presentation. It’s all you. All of the time. And what you do matters. People remember it.

- There’s no big promotion, fat bonus or cushy benefits structure. Teachers are notoriously underpaid.

- The parents. The overbearing bolshy ones who think their kid is genius and deserves special treatment. I wouldn’t cope well with those types. There’d be bloodshed. And it wouldn't be mine.

- I’m way too lazy for all the work involved. No job should have that much work. It's just not right.

I have an opportunity now to be present for this part of my son’s life. To be present for homework and school and all that this entails. And this time has taught me so much. About him. About life. About myself. And mostly about the unsung heroes like teachers who quietly go about making a difference. On a very cheesy level, it makes me think of that Heather Small song “What Have you Done Today to Make you Feel Proud?” In response to her question, gosh where do I start? Well, besides handling the usual flotsam and jetsam of suburban mommy life, I de-limescaled our kettle, emptied the dishwasher and re-stacked the cannellini beans in our grocery cupboard. What did you do that makes you feel proud? It’s food for thought, innit? Food for thought indeed. That Aristotle geezer looked a fierce (and rather disturbing) chap, but my golly he was one clever Greek. Who just so happened to be a teacher.

"Aristotle Altemps Inv8575" by Copy of Lysippus - Jastrow (2006)

The Cringe Chronicles Continue

I do not have the ability to go any length of time without making a complete tit of myself. It’s simply not possible. Or if it’s not me, it’s my children. I have a few good weeks and I get all cocky and confident and then bam…I find myself off the wagon, having a cringe binge like there’s no tomorrow.

A couple of weeks ago, my son started school after an excruciating a very long summer holiday. On the first day of school, I spotted a woman who I knew was expecting a baby. She’s already got a troupe of kids. Four or five, I think. I lose count. Anyway, in the spirit of first-day friendliness I trotted up to her, looked directly at her tummy and said “Gosh, you must be due any day now. So exciting!” She looked at me deadpan and said, “I had the baby three weeks ago” and then proceeded to open the compartment of her pram underneath her seated toddler to reveal a tiny pink bundle. I gushed like an idiot over the newborn to try and mask the awkwardness. And then to fill the silence, I said: “Ah, Josh must be so thrilled to have a new sister.” She looked at me. Deadpan again. “Who’s Josh?” I let the question hang, pretending not to hear her. I mumbled a hasty goodbye and bolted.

As I was queuing with my son to get into his classroom, I remembered. Her son’s name is Dylan. There is no Josh. Not only do I tactlessly allude to her size, I insult her further by not even knowing her kid’s name. I avoid her now. It’s safer that way. And it’s ok because she avoids me too. My work with her is done. I outdid myself. Couldn't have cocked that conversation more if I tried. Well I suppose I could. I clearly have a gift.



At each of my antenatal consultations, they make you pee in a tube the width of a narrow hosepipe. I always end up with pee all over the outside of the tube. Pee on my hand. Pee everywhere. But this isn’t the story. The story is that for my first antenatal visit to this swanky clinic, I’m too lazy to walk to the ladies loo. I figured I’d use the disabled loo, which is located directly across from the consult room. The disabled loos are private. They’re always cleaner. There’s a lot more space. And there’s usually a mirror. After pissing all over myself, collecting a bit in my tube and washing my hands, I absentmindedly pulled a cord by the door that I assumed was the light-switch. An alarm went off. I could hear it faintly. I figured there must be an emergency somewhere. I pulled the cord again. It must faulty I thought. I gave it a final tug. The alarm screeched in earnest. I heard lots of shuffling feet. I opened the door to find three concerned-looking nurses – one with a key in her hand – standing in the corridor ready to swoop in. “Um, I’m so sorry”, I stammered. “It’s no emergency. I’m not a...er...disabled person. Just pregnant. I just needed to fill this.” I presented them my sample. “But I peed all over the tube. It’s ok. I do it all the time. And I pulled the cord because I thought it was the light-switch. It wasn’t. My bad. So sorry.” 
I skulked back to the consult room, pee in hand, face burning as a trio of nurses tut-tutted in my wake.

Following the medical theme, last week I had to go to a specialist dermatologist. I have waited four months for this appointment. In May while on a visit to South Africa, my father-in-law spotted a mole that he was worried about. Said it looked dodgy. So he cut it out and sent it away. My father law is a doctor. He's qualified to cut stuff out of bodies. Good thing he did remove it, because the mole turned out to be basal carcinoma.

Anyway, the day finally dawned that I was scheduled to have an appointment with a medical professional here in the UK to take a candid look at the other dodgy moles that may be lurking on my person. In my head I knew I’d have to be naked for the procedure. But I didn’t register this until she politely asked me to remove my clothes. I certainly didn’t think of it when I was getting dressed in the morning. I remembered with horror the fact that I was wearing a pair of knickers that should’ve gone to Jesus a long time ago. They’re certainly holy holey enough. They used to be white with blue polka dots. They’re now grey with beige splotches. And the elastic is shot. Which is actually just how I like them. They’re malleable to my ever-changing shape. They grow with me.
 So what if I have to cut strands of cotton from the seams. My gran used to say that you should always leave the house with your good underwear because you may get hit by a bus. Out of respect for the paramedics attending to you, she said, it was only good and proper to ensure your underwear was your best. In my head, I figured that if you did get hit by a bus, the state of your underwear is the least of your worries. So I’ve never bothered with her advice about Sunday's best underwear or matching my top and bottoms for that matter. Ever. Certainly not at 7.5 months pregnant. So there I stood… with my massive bump in ill-matching undergarments in a pair of knickers that shouldn’t be allowed out of the house let seen alone in public while every inch of my body is being scrunitised by a doctor with a magnifying glass type tool with a built-in torch thingie. Her assistant looking on and another nurse thrown in to join the party. When she said she was done, I’ve never scrambled so quickly into my clothes. My one-size-fits-all knickers have finally gone. They’ve retired now. To the resting place for underwear that’s delivered above and beyond the call of duty. Every time I miss them, I think of that hot room, those six pairs of eyes and that torch.

My son and daughter like to play in the boot of my car. They’re weird like that. They also like to eat yoghurt while they’re in there. I usually sit in the front seat and listen to the news or Facebook while they get on with it. One afternoon while they were romping in their boot fort, my son said he needed the loo. I said, “Ok well then let’s go inside”. He asked if he could come back to play in the boot after he’d been to the toilet. I said no. He quickly replied that actually he didn’t need the toilet after all. Typical. They played and screeched and jumped around. As they do. After about 10 minutes or so, my son said: “Mom, quick I’m having an accident! Quick, open the boot!” I whipped it open and my son sprang on to the pavement. Before I could ask him what had happened, he shook one leg and out from the bottom of his trousers plopped a big solid brown poo. Straight on to the pavement. He shook the other leg, and another log joined its friend. I stood horrified looking at his work, not quite believing my eyes. My son of 5 and a half, who’s been potty trained since three, had just crapped in his pants. On the street. Our street. Where we live. Outside our very house. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but I also didn’t want to draw attention to what he’d done in case someone came to investigate. My daughter, reveling in the drama of the situation, kept screeching “Uggh. Yuck. Look at Ollie’s poo! Look at Ollie’s big poo!” I had to practically muzzle her. How does one explain human faeces on the pavement outside one’s house? We don’t even have animals to blame. Not even a cat. Can you imagine the neighborhood banter? “Stay away from No. 27…they’re Africans. Their son defecates on the street. Barbarians.” I sent him inside to fetch a wad of loo paper while I stood guard over the crap. He remerged trailing a long while trail of toilet paper and I collected his business before I bolted inside. Shepherding my feral children indoors. I still shudder at the memory of the trauma of that little incident. My kids are now prohibited from playing in the boot. For Health and Safety reasons you understand.

Some people binge on chocolate and wine. Some folk binge-watch a series. Others binge on sushi. Me, I binge on all of those. And then I add a generous and regular dose of shame to the mix. I'm special like that.

Things that Go Bump in the Night

So I’ve been struggling to sleep lately. I toss and turn and listen to the gongs of the Catholic Church chiming each hour, on the hour. This state of perpetual wakefulness is dangerous for me. Not just because I am Satan’s spawn in the morning – grumpy, miserable and hateful. But also because in those hours between midnight and ridiculous o’ clock – I start to think. About stuff. All sorts of random stuff. And I ask questions. And that’s never a good thing. Here’s why:

Why do we say that a person lost their battle with cancer? “After a brave fight, so and so sadly lost their battle with leukemia.” As though they had choice in the matter? It implies a sense of responsibility for a battle that no individual has chosen.



Why too do we say that a woman fell pregnant or fell in love? What’s up with the falling theme? We say too that someone fell ill, or fell on hard times. So how can we possibly describe birth and love in the same way as we do sickness and bad fortune?



Literally where on earth is that Malaysian Airlines plane? How can an entire aircraft with 300 people simply vanish? Someone knows something.



Literally where on earth is Madeline McCann? How can a little girl simply vanish? Someone knows something.



What moron came up with the oxymoron ‘Holy War’? And how stupid is fighting and killing in the name of religion anyway. Seriously. We’re all shocked and sickened by the Holocaust, by genocide and war – and yet we continue to allow the carnage to continue. And what’s worse – we watch it live on television. We shudder. We cringe. And then we carry on with our lives as though nothing happened.



How come the people with the most wisdom and experience of life (the elderly) are treated the most appallingly? They’re hidden away to die. Instead of learning from their history, we negate the value of their experiences. We treat babies like demi-gods and they offer us nothing of real value until they’re no longer babies. How can a society have it so backward?

Why do dogs eat poo? All dogs. All poo.

Why do nuclear weapons exist? In an age of (supposed) enlightenment with the tenants of basic human rights espoused at every turn, how can there still exist the power to wipe out humanity? And who has the right to sanction this power?



How can a plane carrying innocent people be blasted from the sky? And no one takes any responsibility for it? It just happens. And we leave it at that. 


Why do good women – intelligent, kind, beautiful – struggle to meet good men? How come they seem to attract dickhead after dooshbag followed by cockrod? Where's the logic in that?

Cancer makes profit. It’s in the best financial interests for pharmaceutical companies and the health insurance industry for there to simply be ‘no cure’. 
People die so other people can get rich - in an industry ostensibly committed to saving lives. Really?

If olive oil comes from olives and sunflower oil comes from sunflowers…where does baby oil come from?


Celebrities pursue fame relentlessly. They strive to be recognised. Then when they achieve fame, they dedicate the same energy towards becoming unrecognisable?

How can ministers in parliament change portfolios after re-elections? What does a Minister of Sports possibly know about the Department for Correctional Services?

Shouldn’t everyone be an organ donor? Like it’s a given. Like getting a birth certificate or something.



Why do we sleep so much better to the sound of the ocean?

Why do dogs sniff your crotch? Every. Single. Time.

No fat, low fat, high fat. What’s up with that?

Why are the people who do the most important jobs in life – teachers, doctors, civil servants, charity workers - remunerated less than people who’re paid to hit balls, kick balls or hoop balls simply for the entertainment value of others?


Some pregnant women dream of a giving birth to a pineapple or an octo-baby. That would be bliss. Give me a mutant cyclops any day. I lie awake worrying about problems I cannot solve. And then I worry about worrying. And so the cycle continues. And along chimes another gong…signaling the ever-approaching dawn of daylight. And with it, comes relief from the things that go bump in the night. In my head. Hopefully the baby’s not the only bump that will emerge from my body come November. Sweet baby cheesus, I hope so.

Image from etsy.com

Two’s Company. Three’s...well Greedy

After debiting and crediting our brains out in the metaphorical spreadsheet of life, my husband and I have committed to something that will change our lives forever. We’ve made a decision that’s bigger than moving countries and packing in full-time employment for a second term on the domestic frontlines. This is bigger and far more permanent. We’ve chosen to shift the balance of a perfectly respectable nuclear family unit (in name mind you, not in nature) and venture into territories unknown. Territories that just may prove more primitive than the United Kingdom. We’re breaking all the carbon footprint rules. We’re cocking up a standard package holiday for four. We’re committing financial suicide. We’re having a third child.

“You have a boy. You have a girl. I don’t understand?”

“So was it …er… planned? Or did you have an er…slip up?”

“Shame. You guys are so brave.”

“Wow…that’s…um hectic.”

“But you’re just over the hurdle. One nearly 6. One nearly 3. You’re on the home stretch to getting your life back. And you’re starting all over again. Like from the beginning?”

“Why? But why?”
And then the refreshingly tactless and brazen, “You are f**cken crazy!”
Or the sage advice from musician-turned-life-coach Thor Harris who in his list of How to Live Like a King for Very Little says:
"Don’t have kids. They’re not miracles, they’re people. 7 billion is too f**cking many anyway. Find some other way to give your dull existence some meaning. By the way, they’re expensive.
"

All valid questions. All valid concerns. Many of which I can’t answer now. Or probably ever. My Virgo brain reels at the asymmetry of it all. Three is just odd. It’s called that for a reason. It’s one more than two, but one less than four. It’s in the middle. It’s a lurker. And it’s uneven. Not balanced. Nothing about us is balanced though. Never has been. Me especially. I remember one of my first appointments with my hippy lesbian gynecologist when I was expecting my firstborn. We were always her dawnie appointment of the day and she’d consult with us eating a piece of marmite toast. She made harry casual look frenetic. I loved her. She was just what I needed. The perfect antidote for an uptight paranoid schizophrenic like me. My husband couldn’t stand her. Figures. Anyway, at one of our appointments she fired up her ancient scan machine to do her foetal checks on our baby. Head, spine, limbs etc. And as she was working, she was quiet. Too quiet. And I was talking. As I do. Jabbering. Nervous as all hell. Trying to get a sense that everything was ok. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore; I couldn’t carry on twittering inane small-talk through the silence. I gushed “So, is it like all normal in there? Is the baby normal? Please tell me the baby’s normal.” To which she patiently replied, “My darling girl. If you’re asking me if your baby is healthy. Then yes. Everything looks to be in order. If you’re asking me for normal. That I can’t do. You sure as shite aren’t normal. I’m not normal. And it’s unlikely that this baby is normal either. And why aspire to normal anyway? Life is way more fun otherwise.” I’ll never forget those words. And how she delivered them.

I remind myself often of this conversation when I’m waddling up the high street brandishing my gargantuan bump, pushing my daughter in her pram while my son rides alongside on his scooter. And I feel a little…and this is going to sound bad. I feel…well embarrassed. We’re becoming a troop. People have to move past us. We physically occupy a lot of space. And soon it will be more. And we’re not Amish. I’m not a sister wife. I feel like I’ve been caught standing at a buffet of sushi, stuffing my face with the last of the salmon roses when there are 200 already piled high on my plate. And there's a queue of people behind me. I feel conspicuous in my excess. I am aware of so many women who are desperate to have just one baby. And here we are having three. And I'm not even a good mother. I'm pretty average on a good day. I feel guilty for that. And apologetic. I couldn’t care less if my kids poo in public, eat sweets off the street or take off their kit in the park…but I suddenly grow some restraint when it comes to my fertility? How does that work? And as some would say, it’s perhaps a little too little, a little too late. But it’s how I feel. And I have a lovely sensitivity-sanctioning mother-in-law who once said to me “feelings are never wrong”. So there you have it. Also in some pathetic effort to try and make light of our flagrant disregard for the population explosion, I have started telling people that we're African. And Africans traditionally have lots of children. It's our custom. It's also a pension protector. We raise many in the hopes that all some of them will take care of us when we're old and crumbly. The fact however that we currently live in Britain may somewhat negate the logic of this thinking. But I try it on for size anyway. And share it with anyone who'll listen.

And so while I clearly may not be able to answer the ‘why’ of this monumental decision as rationally as anyone (including myself) can process, we can acknowledge that this baby was indeed planned. Without hesitation. We both feel it's the right decision for us. And our family. He is most definitely a welcomed addition. Carbon footprint be damned. And yes there are too many people in the world…but are there enough good people? Have a look at the news. Don’t think so. We are delighted. He is already a part of the circus that makes up our home. Fancy some chaos with your morning coffee? Come to our house. His little kicks and squirms affirm his way of making his presence felt. His siblings eagerly await his arrival. As do we.

In the meantime though, I try to get a grip over my public fear of flaunting my fertility and instead focus on the fact that we are currently googling for a Galaxy. We’re looking to buy a pram that transports two human beings at once. We are those people now. I will soon be pushing a newborn and a toddler in one contraption. In public. The irony is not lost on me. My waistline is lost, yes. My ability to work fulltime, yes. The freedom to quaff an entire bottle of Prosecco at one sitting, yes. But the irony of being one who I once mocked…nope. I’ve clocked that one. Loud, large and clear. And normal never made it to the party. Not a chance. We may do excess. But we don’t do normal. Not in this house. And aren't we the lucky ones? Don't answer that. It's a rhetorical question.

Meet the latest addition to Cookoo Land. A fist-pumping greeting for y'all.

The Galaxy. Costs a third of the value of our car. No seriously. It does.

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.