Wasn’t Expecting That

So over this past weekend, I’ve watched something over and over. Not Friends. Or Parks and Recreation. Or The Office. Or Extras. Or The Inbetweeners. None of my usual high-brow television consumption - although I can understand why you'd think that.

I’ve watched this piece of film and I’ve been absolutely transfixed. I've watched it again. And then again. It made me uncomfortable to watch. But I couldn’t help myself. 

And I’ve thought about it. Often. And every time I’ve seen it. I have laughed and sobbed my way through each frame. Every single time. And I’ve been sober. I’d understand why you’d think otherwise though.

And no I’m not pregnant. Although I’d understand why you’d think that too. 

So what is it?

It’s a three and a half minute music video of Jamie Lawson’s single “Wasn’t Expecting That”. And my golly gosh, when I went to listen to the song, well, I wasn’t expecting that.

I didn't expect to be so touched by a video that’s intended to sell music. Or to be so moved by a set of lyrics that tell a story that’s by no means unique. It happens to millions of people all around the world. It’s happened to a couple I know. Hell - I worry it’ll happen to me and my family. It so easily can. 




So knowing this – and putting it all into some kind of rational perspective - I’ve tried to unpack why it is that I’ve fallen to pieces over it. Without booze. Or child-incubating hormones.

I’m not the easiest product of the female human species to work out at the best of times, so I suppose we can chalk up a good percentage of the why - simply to “Sally”. And that’ll cover it.

I think though that why I’m so moved by this has to do with the truth in the title. How real it is. What an accurate metaphor it is for existence. For simply being alive.

Life rarely happens how we expect it to. There are thousands of bumper stickers that speak to this. It's no great revelation. Being completely and utterly blown away by something delightfully unexpected is such an intoxicated feeling. Miracles make us believe that anything is possible. And in this crazy old world, perhaps anything is. We’ve certainly seen enough to prove it so. 

Conversely, a bad shock shakes us to the core. It’s no wonder it’s an actual medical condition. Once the shock subsides, we try to move forward. Vasbyt to get through and do what we can to find balance again. Heal. Find perspective. Resolve to learn and grow from the experience.

Whether you’re an intrepid traveller through life or choose to meander at a more measured pace, we’re all privy to the same carousel of chance and circumstance. No one beats it. Neither the Royals nor the Rothschild’s. No money or power in the world. 

This song pretty much sums up everything that it means to be a human being. Living a life where you love. Give of yourself. Be open. And it’s an incredibly risky endeavour. No question. You can get hurt. For sure. But offsetting the risk, if you take a chance and have faith in the journey, my goodness - well I believe it's exactly what life is all about. My belief in our reason for being.

And just how much this piece of music has made me look at the world a little differently and re-examine what’s important to me – well, I wasn’t expecting that. I’m grateful. For the song. For it’s message. For my life. For all of it.

Watch it for yourself, here. I'm pretty sure you won't be expecting that either.

The Parenting God that is Google

I’m not sure that I’d have survived my seven years of parenthood thus far without Google. Actually that’s not entirely correct. I’d probably be ok. A little wonkier, perhaps. More of a lush. Ok, so a full-blown lush. Less able to drive anywhere. On account of being a full-blown lush. My children though would be wrecked little creatures. Not fit for society. Not fit for much.

For knowledge, advice and reassurance, I’ve consulted the oracle of the internet every lurch along what I describe as my scenic route of motherhood. Which is basically a euphemistic way of saying that most of the time I'm lost, with no cooking clue about any of the paths I should stumble along next. I’m not built with that earth mother gene in my DNA. I find it all rather rough. All the mess and the mayhem. When my kids bleed, I want to bolt. I’m not worried about blood mind. That doesn’t faze me. Neither does any other human effluent. I just don’t like the mess. Or the stains.

I’m not a natural problem-solver either. I prefer to whine about an issue for a helluva long time before it remotely enters my head to try and solve it. It’s not ideal. It’s not very mature. It’s just how I deal. Once I’ve given a good tonk on the self-pity drum, I turn to millions of nameless, faceless individuals around the world. I turn to those who’ve experienced my drama. I turn to those who’ve found a solution. I turn to Google. And here not only do I find a plan of action, I find a space where there’s no judgment. No one who’ll call social services or question my ability to parent one child let alone three. And I don’t need to cushion my question either. I simply ask. Unflinching. Unapologetic. And with as graphic a detail as I can possibly muster. And I’m not shy when it comes to graphic. We all know that.

Do my daughter’s extreme temper tantrums suggest a brain condition? Or sociopathic tendancies?

According to my research, it’s too early to tell whether she has Oppositional Defiant disorder, which is characterised by defiant disobedient and often hostile behaviour toward adults and authority figures primarily. 

So, to rephrase, basically time and more tantrums will tell.

My six year old plays with his penis. A lot. I worry he'll break it. Just how much is too much? 

According to an article I read, clinical psychologist Lawrence J. Cohen, Ph.D., author of Playful Parenting (Ballantine, 2001), says that you should expect that your child will play. "That way, you'll be more relaxed, nonjudgmental, and matter-of-fact when you catch him in the act." 
Dr. Cohen also says. "It's crucial not to make your child feel ashamed." 
Empathise with his desire to do something that feels good, but gently tell him that it is a private activity that he should do in his own room. If he is doing it constantly and seems unable to be comforted by anything else, Dr. Cohen says, consider the possibility that he's stressed, bored, lonely, or anxious.

I had to laugh at this. I am never relaxed, I'm rather judgy and to be honest the whole business does freak me out a little. But I've restrained myself from telling him to leave his bits be. I've been very diplomatic. I do know that the chap isn't stressed, bored, lonely or anxious, which is good. For me as his mother. So his constant fiddling with his willy is simply due to his male-specimen-ness. He simply can't help himself. Apparently he can't break it, either. Which is good. For him.

How common are twins after you’ve just conceived twins?

Common. If you have conceived fraternal twins already, your chance of having another set quadruples.

We avoided a train wreck then. Going from two to four children would've been a challenge I fear that neither I, nor Google, couldn't conquer.

Can you die from morning sickness? 

Medically - it's not very likely. But it’s serious if you become severely dehydrated.

To me, morning sickness feels as though you are going to die. Every single minute. Of every single day. For what feels like eternity. Dying seems an attractive option if living involves heaving worse than your worst hangover every couple of hours. Sans having enjoyed the merrily pissed stage that rendered you this useless or being able to obliterate your consciousness with drugs.

Can you vomit out your foetus?

No. Despite a freakish healthy number of search queries related to this question - I cannot find anyone who wretched so hard, they brought up their baby.

I honestly believed I'd be the first case where this happened.

Can an existing c-section scar burst open with the pressure of full-term foetus? 

C-section rupture is possible, but very uncommon.

At 40 weeks, I was pretty sure this would be me. I mean c'mon...

Once, twice, three times a lady.. cow.

Can you squeeze milk spots on an infant? What if you do?

No. Don’t. You can cause scarring. It’s not a pimple.

I tried to squeeze a few. I couldn't help myself. It looked bad. Especially on my newborn. And people knew I'd done it.

What happens when a three year old eats contraceptive pills?

The child may experience vomiting or diarrhoea. But will live. 

Just don’t make a habit of leaving them on your bedside table. Cheap lesson that my daughter can pop pills out of their foil packaging. Cheaper lesson to ensure I always have additional contraceptives in store.

Best way to remove frozen corn stuck in a toddler’s nostril?

Wait for corn to melt, then encourage nose blowing.

And caution toddler that entire cob will sprout from nostril if such nasal-stuffing behaviour is repeated. And that this scenario applies to all vegetable, fruit or toys.

What does chicken pox look like on an infant?

Small red bumps that develop into clear fluid-filled blisters on a pink base. 

It's not meningitis. Or herpes. Or any other such horrors. 

Can a 6-month-old die from chicken pox?

Very unlikely. For healthy babies, chicken pox is usually more of a nuisance than a real threat to life.

Besides the concern about the threat to life - I was very disturbed by how chavvy the pox looked. I wanted to have a little badge made for him that read "I have chickenpox. I don't always look like such a minger."

Do you get more stupid after each child?

According to a Huffington Post article I found, although we may feel as though we’ve shipped our brains to the bogs after our babies come, there’s no actual science to back this up. 

Robyn Stremler, assistant professor at the Lawrence S. Bloomberg Faculty of Nursing at the University of Toronto says that a lack of sleep is the easiest link to make to attribute to our feelings of porridge brain. "...If you miss out on sleep, your brain does not function as well." 
Stremler points out that missing out on just a little bit of sleep over a long period of time has also shown to cause cognitive difficulties, particularly with complex "executive" brain functions (like multi-tasking, planning, taking in a lot of different pieces of information and organising them).

I was too tired to read the rest of the article and the washing needed hanging out, my child’s nappy was rank and there was a deliveryman at the door -  but this makes complete sense to me. And after three kids, I’m a dimwit. So that's saying a lot.

How much wine can you actually drink when nursing?

The official advice from the NHS is that "moderation is key". Research shows that occasional drinking, such as 1-2 units once or twice a week, is not harmful to your baby while you're breastfeeding.”

I was so thrilled to read the moderation part until I actually read the moderation part. The NHS website states: "Research shows that occasional drinking, such as 1-2 units once or twice a week, is not harmful to your baby while you're breastfeeding.” A small glass of wine (125ml) glass of wine comes in at 1.5 units, a medium glass (175ml) is 2.1 units, and a large glass (250ml) is 3 units.

So I’ve exceeded my weekly wine quota by double, virtually every day. 

My baby falls and hits his head a lot. Like everyday. Could he be drunk? From wine perhaps?

Apparently, minor bumps and bruises are an unavoidable part of developing motor skills and independence. As long as your child is under adult supervision and his play area is free of ungated stairs, sharp edges, and other hazards, most falls will not cause serious injury.

Also, apparently I don't drink enough wine to render him incapacitated, which could be attributed to his clumsiness. I blame the gargantuan size of noggin for his falling about. He inherited his cranium from his Dad. So I blame his Dad.

Helmets for infants?

I'm seriously considering one of these. Like seriously. They're as ugly as all hell. But so is a dented head. Not sure at this point which I'd rather deal with.

Infant ate half a tub of sudacrem. Can he die?

No. Most likely will have a sore tum and some interesting nappies.

Thank goodness for that. Mine actually ate a little more than half a tub. 

So cheers to you Google. And all your help in my many times of need. I'm even ok with you profiting off selling sneaky little ads to advertisers based on my searches and the emails I send. Them bastard little cookies. It would be pointless for me to have any beef with you over privacy even if I wanted to. You've got a motherload of dirt on me. I mean literally - a motherload. I ain't gonna be messing with you oh wise and powerful one. Not any time soon. Not least until my beasties are of age, out of the house and no longer need their mother for basic survival. Until then - it's you, me and the meta-masses.

Middle-age Musings

So today, I’m 35. When I was 15, the thirty-plus age bracket seemed an eternity away. A category reserved for grown-ups. With proper jobs, cars and kids and stuff. I could no sooner envisage myself in this group than I could as life as a policewoman or butcher. I also remember thinking that thirty-somethings must have all the answers. They’d figured out this life business. Because with age, comes wisdom, surely? That’s what they tell us. Finish school, they say. Keep your head down and work hard so you can go to university, they say. Education is key, they say. With it, the world will be your oyster, they say.

I stuck it out at school (with a few well-documented wobblies) and got through university. And a decade and some change later, there’s not so much wisdom. In fact, I seem to have undergone a process of reverse wisdom. When I was 18, of course I knew it all. At 20, I could’ve run the UN; I had answers to all the world’s problems. And my knowledge grew directly proportionate to the volume of wine I consumed. 
The older I get though; I seem to have fewer answers and a lot more questions. No matter how much wine I drink. And it’s a lot.

The only wisdom I can remotely stand by is that life is one ever-changing rollercoaster. Where one minute you love the rush and you feel like a rockstar and the next minute you feel rather queasy and you worry that you might just actually puke in the lap of the grumpy guy seated next to you. And he’s well groomed with not a hair out of place. And he has all of his hair. So he clearly doesn’t have children. So he’s not at all familiar with puke either.

As Lennon said, life happens when you’re making other plans. As a know-it-all teenager, I had a life mapped out that bears little resemblance to my current reality. I was going to marry Tom Cruise, Patrick Swayze or Brad Pitt. One of these leading men would arrive in an F14 straight from the set of Top Gun, teach me some Dirty Dancing and take me to a place where Legends of the Fall are made. I had it all worked out. Also, I wasn’t going to get married. We’d consciously couple and live a busy life with lots of parties. Children weren’t really a part of the scene either. Career-wise, I’d planned on being a psychologist. Or a magazine editor. We’d reside in Umhlanga with a white picket fence. And possibly a waterfall. I’d dress in tailored suits and wear heels.

Turns out, I was happily married by 25. To a man I’d met at 17. And he’s neither a Tom, nor a Patrick, nor a Brad. He’s a Tim. By 30, we were thrilled to be pregnant with our second child. At 35, I now have three children under my belt along with a livid red c-section scar that reminds me of how my body successfully (or unsuccessfully if you're one of those natural birth earth mother types) carried human beings to full-term. My physical badge of honour. Career-wise, I do did (and hope to again) work in magazines. Not as an editor though. As a publisher. We live a continent away from Durban. In a terraced house with no white picket fence. I do not own one tailored item of clothing. Also, I only wear heels for weddings. I literally own two pairs.

Tom Cruise came out of the Ron Hubbard cupboard screaming Scientology and got a little creepy. And he stayed rather short. Patrick Swayze danced his way to heaven – may God rest his beautiful soul. Brad Pitt is married to the epitome of female human perfection and they have enough children together to start a school. Point is - he became very domestic, very quickly. And therefore got distracted. I turned out to be not such a good listener. Or very sympathetic. And I’m rather psychotic. So good miss on the psychologist gig then. I’ve discovered that editing a magazine is bloody hard work reserved for the most talented of folk. Making money on the business side is a lot easier for a slacker like me. Ok, so by living in the UK, we may not get the Umhlanga Lighthouse or the views across the Bay of Plenty, but Windsor Castle and The Great Park are breathtakingly beautiful. Literally millions of people flock to see these sights every year and we pass them every day. That's pretty cool. I've come to realise that picket fences are pretty useless – aesthetically pleasing perhaps, but with very little actual function. Like garnish that you can’t eat. Or plastic fruit. So no big loss there either.

And as far as not getting married or having children, well I’m esctastic that I paid no heed to a silly teenage Sally and her ridiculous rules for life. I married my best friend who makes me laugh until I pee myself (it happens way too often these days…three pregnancies wreck a pelvic floor) knows me better than I know myself and who’s the rational counterbalance to my chaotic and hysterical. 
And my three children. The feral little beasts who are both marvelous and mortifying…they keep it real. And real-life beats fantasy any day. I’m living proof. We have an insanely busy life – with lots of parties. They just happen to be children’s parties where Elsa and Anna come out to play in various adaptations or Spiderman and the rest of the superheroes trample cake into the floor and fling themselves around on a bouncy castle until someone cries, wets themselves or pukes. Or any/all combination thereof.

Come to think of it, nowhere did happiness feature back in 1995 when I was daydreaming about life during accounting class. Grownups would harp on about happiness all the time, "Go on Sally - go forth on your journey and be happy." I ignored the happiness part and focused on the go forth part. To me, seeking happiness simply wasn’t important. Certainly not enough to dream about. Being educated, sure. Knowing all the answers, definitely. Wearing heels and smart clothes, yes, yes, yes. But happiness…not so much.

Sitting here now at 35, married with all my children and my car and my grownup stuff, I’m can honestly say that I’m happy. I’m ridiculously stupid. I'm journeying my brains out. I’m very thankful that I never wear tailored clothes and seldom have to toddle in heels. And I genuinely couldn't ask for more.

Here’s to the next 35 years of riding the rollercoaster of life, seeking the highs, navigating the lows, sharing the journey with friendly folk, avoiding puke (mine and other’s) and hoping there’ll be some more wisdom gained along the way. But I ain’t gonna hold my breath on the last one. I've learnt that much.

25 year old Sally. Happy and stupid. At my Hen's Party belting out Ice Ice Baby to a restaurant of people. Yes, I had a plastic glass plaster of paris'ed to my hand. Yes, those are heels. No they weren't mine.

Big Misses

So everyone always asks me what I miss most about our life in South Africa. In broad strokes, it’s an easy list: family, friends, the lifestyle. But life is all about the detail, isn’t it? The minutia of the mundane is actually quite important. Small is significant. And for me, it’s the little things that I yearn for the most.

Hadedas. Bunny chow. Cape Fish Market sushi. Christmas beetles. Those nuisance Vervet Monkeys. Driveways. Remote control gates. Lilos. Sun-dried linen and towels. Vuvuzelas. Biltong. Wilson’s toffees. Swimming in the sea. Rock pools. Avo on toast at the Essenwood Market. Meandering the Meander. Our Labradors. Fishing frogs out of the swimming pool. Our swimming pool. H2H chlorine. The tick-tick sound of a creepy crawly. Spriggs breakfasts. Charcoal braais. Simonsig Kaapse Vonkel. Black Cat Chunky Peanut Butter. Ouma Rusks. Any rusks. Thunderstorms. The stately Pietermaritzburg City Hall. The Sharks. Beach walks. Lazy afternoons at Makaranga. Fruit sellers on the N2. The smell of burnt sugarcane. Warm summer evenings. Warm winter days. The Comrades Marathon. Picnics at the Botanical Garden. Our veggie patch. My husband’s earthworm farm. The tree my son climbed in our garden. A garden. The rockery our dogs lounged in to keep cool. Storage space. Space. Air-conditioning. Milktart. DSTV. The vibrant South African flag. The Drakensberg. Midmar Dam. The view of the Umgeni River from my in-law’s deck in Howick. The quirky little town of Howick. The toe-curling drop of the Howick Falls. The magnificent Michaelhouse Chapel. Numberplates that end in ZN. Baynesfield Estate. Haybo. Shosholoza. Hambe and Sahle Kahle. Ultramel Custard. The Springboks. The stray cats at Oribi Airport. Crisp salty samoosas. 

Flipflop feet. Bare feet. Beacon Licorice ropes. Beaded jewellery. Flying ants after the rain. Lake Eland. Sally Williams Nougat. The misty troughs of Hilton. African women who baleta their children. Diemersfontein Pinotage. Wood-fired pizzas. Proteas. Archbishop Desmond Tutu. Car guards in parking lots. Parking lots. Naartjie clothing. Naartjie fruit. The smell as you walk into Woolworths. Derek Watts. Kauai wraps. Kauai. The Gandhi statue in Church Street. Gareth Cliff. Annique Rooibos baby shampoo. Giba Gorge. The Wavehouse at Gateway. Surfers. Surf culture. The Kloof village. Gambit and Frodo. Marie Biscuits. The Parlotones. Simba chips. Slap chips. Gumboot dancing. Van der Merwe jokes. Voetsak. Nando’s’ TV ads. Banana trees. The Tatham Art Gallery. The Jacaranda trees in the Epworth High School quad. The panoramic splendor of Pietermaritzburg from World’s View. Koeksisters. Friendly little geckos. Sarmies. Howzit, Bru and Howzit my Bru. Bafana Bafana. Boerewors. The Spur. Peel’s Honey. Hibiscus. The iconic Lighthouse in Umhlanga. Sunday night Mnet movies. Yellow sand beaches. Public holidays that represent a cause. Malva pudding. Piggly Wiggly cappuccinos. Carrol Boyes. The Stoker’s Arms. The Duzi Canoe Marathon. Johnny’s Rotis. Zapiro. Life from Stone Sauvignon Blanc. Shongololos. The sound and feeling of a stadium of people singing Nkosi Sikeleli iAfrika. 

At any random pause in the chaos of my day, amidst the multitude of my thoughts that are usually directed at keeping my children alive, I’ll remember something from this list. And I'll savour the reflection that forms the fabric of who I am and where I come from. Because no matter how far I travel, or how many years I’ve been away, I will always be South African. And proudly so. With such an array of treasured memories in my heart, how could I possibly be anything else?

Happy memory - our 18 month old son Oliver getting into the spirit of 2010 Soccer World Cup.

An Update on Life on Da Island. 2 Years, 4 months and 20 days in…

The Tracksuit People

People who wear tracksuits in this country don’t necessarily exercise. This came as a shock to us. Sportswear falls under the broad umbrella that is leisurewear. Trainers, hoodies, lycra – incongruously accessorised with very yellow gold jewellery. We call these folk the tracksuit people. Their natural habitat is outside The Golden Arches. Those of the Ronald McDonald ilk. Not to be confused with any royal gilt arches and such.

Employment status: it’s complicated.

Marital status: it’s even more complicated.

Dependants: multiple, often subject to paternity claims.

Hobbies: shopping (for sportwear) and loitering outside McDonalds.
Diet: fast food.

In South Africa, any attire will do for sports or leisure. On New Years Day on Durban New Pier beach, you’ll see more underwear-clad folk frolicking in the shorebreak than on an extended episode of the Kardashians Conquer Cancun. Ok, so there’s less makeup and fewer Manolos. But the heaving and half-naked still apply. And the heat. Always the heat.

Many Strikes, Gentle Blows

When there’s a national strike in SA, the protest action sadly often leads to violence.
In the UK a few weeks ago, there was a tube strike, the only violence I noted was a cluster of irate passengers elbowing each other in the groin to get on to tube carriages already packed beyond capacity. And they still called each other “mate” as they deftly trained a blow to each other’s testicles. “Sorry mate” was the parting shot. Not a panga. Or an actual shot. Mercifully.

A Little Rain Will Stop Play

In South Africa, sports days at schools are cancelled when the temperature hits 38 degrees and the humidity is 45. Or if there’s a raging thunderstorm and electrocution is a possibility. Or when there’s a fractious election and there’s a genuine threat of violence. Or when there’s actual violence.
Here, when there’s a little rain and the ground may or may not be slippery, parents are called to the school, a referendum is held, risk assessments conducted and the event is ceremoniously cancelled. On account of health and safety concerns. And then five minutes after we've all left, the sun comes out and dries up all the rain.

Waste Lots, Want Not 

Leftover food and unopened produce is donated to charity SA-side. Here it’s binned. Literally chucked into the garbage to be recycled. People who are starving or live on the breadline are deemed more at risk from cannelloni on its sell-by date than having nothing to eat whatsoever. Ethiopia and pretty much every sub-Saharan African country shudders. So do I. Goes against every fibre of my privileged being. As a result, we eat yoghurt until it crawls – and even then, I’ll still catch it and give it a go.

Not to be-Labour a point…but…

When politicians lose elections here, they resign. As do their entire cabinet. ‘Nuff said. Innit.

Sale Now (And Forever) More…

There is a sale on. All the time. Pre-season. Mid-season. End of season. I’ve never paid full price for anything. At any time.

Retail Revelations

In Britain, I often find myself opening my handbag to a bemused member of staff standing at the entrance of a store. So stringent has my conditioning been Saffa-side to open up and reveal everything. On my person. Or in my purse. And then everything I haven’t got, on the way out. The absence of utility boots, red overalls, a walkie talkie and rifle clearly doesn’t resonate with a thicko like me, because I still find myself doing it.
The folk who stand to greet you as you enter a store here are shop floor attendants. As simple as that. It’s their job to look pretty and smile and greet you as you enter. Even if you’re a Saffa. They’re not security guards. They're not assessing your risk threat. There aren’t even security guards at the banks. And there are none of those little stop/go green and red light door cubicles either. Not even if you’re a Saffa. No separate entrance. For us, or our battered, pummelled, worthless Rands. They take it all.

Do Not Park. Do Not Pass Go. Do Go Out of Your Bloody Mind. 

I’ve never spent more time looking for parking than I have in the street where I live. Sad, but true story. My children start to call for the “parking fairies” as we turn into our street. Our parking fairies must be with the Kardashians in Cancun, because the fickle little blighters are useless to us. The feckers are never around when we need them. This means I deposit my children in the first load of delivery. And then do multiple trips to my car ferrying the rest of the baggage from my parking spot five kilometres away. This may or may not be the reason I like to spend as much time away from my house as possible. The housework has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. I swear on everything that is good and holy in the world. I swear on my bleach.


Knock, Knock, Who’s There?

I still jump when I hear my doorbell. The fact that someone can actually reach my front door still blows my mind. And that there can be a man with a parcel intended for a neighbour who’s not home who entrusts me with said parcel, this still amazes me. We’d have our free local community magazine nicked back in SA. Can you imagine if a flatscreen TV was delivered four doors down? Peeps be like: “TV? What TV my bru? Yussus, mind the Rottweiler on your way out, hey. Don’t let the razor wire poke you in the naught, ek se. And duck for the sensors, blimmen ADT are going to start charging extra for false alarms.”

Still Alarmingly Useless with Keys

Speaking of alarms. I can go into my kitchen in the middle of the night without having to disarm one. This is on account of the fact that there is no alarm. I can also climb through my front room’s sash window when I’ve locked myself out. I leave it open. For convenience. And to save on Locksmith costs. Besides, there are no burglar bars. I’m still a numb nut who regularly locks myself out. Fortunately I’ve stopped locking my infant kids inside. Although it may be safer for all if I parented through a wooden door.

The Root of it All - is Hair

It’s commonplace for people to have their hairdressers come to their house to do their roots. This is not just a service for posh poppies. It’s for garden-variety gals just like me. And my fifty shades of unnatural beige.

The Buggy Brigade

This place is a mecca for prams. On account of people walking so much. I’ve never seen so many prams outside of Babies R Us. Big ones. Small ones. Double ones. Triple ones. Transporting human being/s, the family pooch, a spot of shopping, that evening’s groceries for dinner and an obligatory skinny decaf soya latte for mum. Or nanny. Or Australian au pair. This is Windsor after all.

Fiery Confessions

There is massive and possibly misguided trust here when it comes to fire and people with my loose relationship to health and safety. I live in a terraced property. This is basically a line of houses that make up the length of a street. If on any one of the six (no jokes) school runs I do daily, I happen to leave my son’s peaches steaming on the stove, or I forget my hair straightener plugged in on the sisal carpet in our bedroom, there’d be an inferno. And not just for us. For everyone. It would spread like a wildfire. This means, I’m regularly (read every second day) doing a u-turn after I’ve just left home to dash back inside to check that I did indeed turn off my hair appliances. And the steamed peaches. There should be a clause in our rental agreement that reads:
 “If you are injury or accident prone and are able render the most innocuous of household appliance a fire hazard, a terraced dwelling is not an ideal fit for you. Or your neighbours. Consider a free-standing dwelling on a big plot on the outskirts of town. Failing this. A shed. In a field. In deepest darkest Peru.”
We're saving like mad. For our own place. Away from anyone in a mile radius. Anyone who could die simply by being our neighbour. Where I can straighten my hair and steam my peaches in peace. We're doing well. Just three quarters of million pounds to go. Move-in date scheduled for 2059.

Petrol and Diesel are not the Same Thing

I’m getting very good at pumping my own fuel. I play a childish game at trying to make the fuel equate to exactly £30 or exactly £50. This means I’m rather distracted when I grab the pump, so I’ve nearly put diesel instead of petrol into my tank many a few times. I may not have parking fairies, but I definitely have petrol ones. My car is very much the kind that takes petrol. Apparently it’s very clearly an either or. There’s no androgyny on this. Not even a little bit. Not sure what will happen if I do put diesel in a petrol engine. You could well find out.

Summertime – and the living is Easy Easier

The British Summer with its addictive Wimbledon glory, 10pm sunsets and all the picnics, paddling pools, Pimms and Prosecco you can wave at with a frilly-edged white parasol…this is what keeps everyone going. It fortifies the Great British public for the winter ahead. Like fat little squirrels, people stuff all the summer goodness they can into their chubby cheeks while it’s there for the taking. No one says, “let’s do a picnic tomorrow,” if the sun’s out, the picnic is on. Like donkey kong. I spend a lot of time outdoors. Any chance I get, I shepherd my ferals to a park. To run wild. As mandated by their African roots. We eat most of their meals on the grass in the garden. In the sunshine. A garden we’ll be looking at in a few short months - through the rain, snow and sleet. For now though, the grass is one massive placemat. And Dave, our ridiculously fat domestic pigeon, is noshing his way through every morsel of mealtime mess we make. He’s dangerously obese. My husband said to me the other day, “it cannot be good for this country or mankind in general if that bird gets any bigger and continues to be able to fly. We’re blady close to Heathrow Sal. Could be carnage.” I nodded. “Yes, could be a doghow. No wait…a pigeonshow!" I figure Dave has more than enough winter ahead to trim his waistline. Let the bird eat cake. And clotted cream. And crispy pastry cases filled with custard.

Afrikaaners is Plesierig

In an unintentionally twisted ode (of sorts) to South Africa, my husband I have started to speak a lot more Afrikaans at home. The reason for this is twofold. Firstly, our son can finally now spell, so when we’re trying to argue with each other or I want share an inappropriate age-sensitive story (which is surprisingly often), spelling things out is futile because the oke is on to us quicker than SARS in tax season.
Secondly, it’s great to have a means to communicate that’s only ours – our guttural garbled Dutch-inspired dirty little secret. Sadly though, neither of us is any good at the language. Well the language that a true Afrikaaner would recognise as an actual language. So we butcher it. Proper. But it still feels good to know that our kids have absolutely no idea what we’re saying. The intended recipient often doesn’t either. But it’s fun. And reminds us both of home. Of most Afrikaans lessons at school where we both sat clueless. But we sat, nonetheless. And that's got to count for something surely? The sitting part, yes indeedy. The speaking part.. not so much. But we butcher on regardless, "'n boer maak 'n plan" I think that's how it goes. Dit is pretty much die meeste wat ek kan type sonder making 'n complete tit van myself. Although I fear it may be too late for that. Daardie skip het ge-sail. Innit.

The Ferals Feasting Al Fresco. Couldn't fit Dave in the Frame.

The Camping Chronicles – Part Two

Last weekend we went camping. Nearly a full year after our inaugural tête-à-tête with the tented ones. This time was very different. For a number of reasons. The biggest and most obvious is that we are now a family of five. Since we last canoodled in canvas, we have added another human to our brood. We smashed the nuclear family unit and went rogue. We’re now a ninja family unit, with all the shambles that the title implies.

I must confess I was terrified to venture into the elements with a six-month-old infant and a three and six year old in tow. I envisaged all manner of disaster – natural and otherwise. Death by hypothermia, dysentery, flooding, fire, lightning, tree-crushing, sepsis, abduction by foxes or wolves or eagles. And that’s just the list of natural hazards. We’re not talking about the axe-murderers who lurk about campsites or the sickos who steal children from holiday parks. These things happen. Read the Daily Mail. I even called our GP four days before our departure about my infant son’s chesty cough and snotty nose. I was hoping she’d say: “Under no circumstances can you take a baby into the bush. Are you stark raving mad!” But she didn’t. She reminded me of saline drops and Olbas oil and said to enjoy our time. “But we’re going camping, ” I said. “Outdoors, you know. With no heating,” I continued. “Won’t he get bronchitis? Pneumonia?”“He’ll be fine”, she reassured. “I’m not so sure about you though”, was her parting shot. Never a truer word said in jest.

So with no sick note precluding our youngest and I from joining the ridiculously excited remainder of the family - we set off to join our friends in the fields of England. Last year, we borrowed our equipment. We tried to wing it. It wasn’t pretty. Well for me anyway. My husband loved it. So did my son. If it were up to them, they’d still be in that field in the New Forest today. In the mud. Bushy man and skinny little boy frolicking together around a fire with sticks. My daughter and I were the skeptics. We like a warm bath, hot meal and a flushing loo that doesn’t require a torch a pair of wellies to visit. We’re funny like that.

The deal going forward with this camping thing was that if we had all the essentials, I’d give it a go. A serious go. With no guest lodge as back-up. My whining button turned to the mildly unpleasant setting. So three months ago, a pitch was booked and my husband became an online shopping fanatic. He trawled every camping site known to Google and stalked all the forums debating tent and awning dimensions. He became a man possessed. He once literally woke me up to show me a pre-owned roof box on sale by someone who lived 200 miles away. He just had to drive for 6 hours and the box would be ours. When he eventually slept, the man dreamt of racks. And not the kind of racks a normal red-blooded man dreams of, mind you. We’re talking about roof racks. Metal bars that straddle a car. Upon which you attach a roof box. Camping gear has become kryptonite to his credit card. The courier companies now know me by name. They’ve visited us so often. Our living room is littered with the corpses of cardboard boxes. He debated more about the type of tent to buy than I think he ever did about any of our major life decisions – love, marriage, the baby carriage. The net effect? Besides a seriously dented savings account…we now literally and figuratively own a shedload of camping stuff. Does that make us campers? It’s like when you bring home a new baby from the hospital and you have all the stuff. The cot, the nappies, the wipes, the steriliser, nipple shields…et al. But does having all the stuff make you a parent? I’m not so sure. Camping court is still in session on that one.

What I am sure about though are the lessons I have learnt from our second sojourn into the sticks:

- A tent that inflates with a pump is a godsend if you’ve got lots of ferals underfoot and one of you has to take care of them. Click-happy-camper husband was clever to buy one.

- An electrical hookup is non-negotiable. Well for me anyway. Electricity changed the world. Why should one suffer without it? You don’t get extra points for not having it. There’s no King of Camping who dubs you a true warrior of the wilderness if you manage to survive sans sparkle. You get nothing. You do get cold though. And dark. And a soggy cooler box with lukewarm beer and sour milk. And a phone/ipad/ipod with a flat battery.

- For us, cot campbeds are way more comfortable than blow-up mattresses. We’ll never go back to jiggling alongside each other. Well not on a camping trip anyway.

- You can never have too many lights. Darkness makes me feel vulnerable. It’s a South African thing I think. Fear of the dark and what creepies or creepos may lie in wait. I wanted to sleep with a nightlight on…for the children of course, but my husband initially refused on grounds of lunacy. I wouldn’t give up until he explained that we could all die in an excruciating canvas inferno if the lamp fell over in a strong wind and the tent caught fire. I begrudgingly acquiesced and agreed to forgo the nightlight. I’m not a complete psycho. And these things happen. Check the Daily Mail.

- Bringing a toaster is the way forward for breakfast.

- A fan heater takes the chill out of the air before bed and first thing in the morning when your kids wake up at ridiculous o’clock. This heater turns off when it falls over - so the risk of burning alive in the tent is very low. We checked this.

- We need to take an electric kettle next time. Quicker to heat the baby’s food and warm milk. Also nice for a cuppa. Especially at 5am when you need intravenous caffeine to start the day.

- We still need clothing and kitchen organisers to tame the domestic beast. I want to scratch my eyes out when the tent is strewn with damp towels, dirty clothes and grocery bits and bobs. And I couldn’t find a big flashing neon Vegas billboard in all the chaos, let alone the partner shoe to a pair of slip-ons hidden underneath all the debris.

- We can probably definitely take less clothes and food.

- I so need a Shewee and a Peebol. Google them. And a camping mirror for the tent. It may be camping, but I still have my pride. And I'm vain.

Moving on from camping and domestic necessities, I also learnt that:

- Children come alive on camping trips. The outdoors captivates them. They explore. And play. In a pack. And the pack takes care of their own. The older ones tend to the younger ones. They have the time of their lives. And it's these times that will form the fabric of the most treasured memories of their childhood. And let's face it - what's not to love? Days filled with friends and fun, extended bedtimes, less vegetables, fewer baths.

- Camping is a great way to explore Britain. To see new places and experience historical sites. At your own pace. On your own schedule.

- Camping with friends allows you the opportunity to get to know each other. Really get to know each other. Away from the everyday routine. Away from school pick-ups, drop offs, work commitments and all the flotsam and jetsam of everyday life. Free from conversations punctuated by “I’ve got to go…” or “Chat later…”.

- There’s no better feeling after a full day of adventure with your children than sitting late at night around a campfire with your friends. Toasting marshallows laced in Baileys. Drinking red wine. Talking nonsense. Laughing. The children sleeping soundly a few feet away. Feeling blessed. And bone-shatteringly exhausted. But content. And happy. And did I say exhausted?

Have stuff, must camp. That’s our motto for this year. Until next time... when the Camping Chronicles will continue.

Packed to the roof racks en route to Dorset - our second camping crusade

Confessions of a Housewife-in-Training

For a Saffa first acclimatising to life in the UK, it’s not just the weather, the lack of space, the Health and Safety psychoses, the Brits’ standoffishness or the insane parking – that really accentuate one's true distance from home. Both in miles as well as in mind. It’s also the absence of an important and valued member of the family. The domestic support who becomes an integral part of life as we know it in SA.
In Britain, unless you’re a Royal, reside behind the glossy black door at 10 Downing Street or are a bona fide toff, a person who lives on your property and takes care of your home and family is the exception to the rule. Down South, it’s most definitely the rule. For the middle classes certainly. Help is on hand and readily available. Especially for families with children.

And so it has been rather a rude awakening for me to come face-to-floor with all the responsibilities of tending to hearth and home. And conquering this juggernaut for the most part, solo. Bless my lovely husband - he is willing and able to help. His work schedule, however, is such that he’s just so rarely at home physically that his enthusiasm for domesticity although greatly appreciated, doesn’t actually count.

Cleaning my own house is something not entirely unfamiliar. We only had domestic help for 4 years after our firstborn arrived. In the 9 years before then, in between fulltime work, going out to dinners at venues without plastic tablecloths or kiddies menus – such is the life of the un-children-ed ones - we’d surface clean during the week and then do a quick blitz on a Saturday morning. We lived in modest-sized flats. It was no hassle and we figured we’d rather have the extra money for leisure rather than pay for help. That all changed when the babies came and we moved into a large house. We then brought Flora into our family. And she took care of our children, cleaned, cooked and managed our home. Exactly what I do now. Except she whined less. Cried less. And generally coped a helluva lot better than I do. I thought of her recently when my daughter tipped over in the pram and the handlebar landed squarely on my infant son’s head as he sat helplessly in the car seat and they were both screaming in the street. I imagined her smiling….and probably laughing at me…from heaven.

You’ve got to hand it to the Brits, they’re a nation who know nothing of the Third World plight, but most of the mums I know all clean their own houses and take care of their children with little or no outside help. Cleaning and children – the great equalisers that bridge the gap no matter your country of birth or mother tongue.


And so in support of my fellow Saffas who may too have been awarded the dubiously phrased title of ‘domestic goddess’ (an oxymoron if there ever was), I’ve come up with a list of tips on how to deal with life with kids outside of SA, without the domestic support:

- Invest in loads of storage. Preferably with lids. I have a multitude of boxes (with lids) and cupboards and drawers. Did I say lids? In fact I have an entire wardrobe in my lounge. Filled to the brim with kids toys, puzzles and books. Rather than tidy a deluge of toys, I simply lump everything into aforementioned box, drawer or cupboard. No mess. No fuss.
- Do little often. To me cleaning is like what they recommend for eating. Little bits often is the way forward. Instead of waiting until my home is a proper pit, I do jobs here and there, every day.
- Laundry has to be done daily. Laundry can kill you if you let it. It’s a demon bastard dragon that once you slay, grows five more heads and keeps on coming, teeth bared. It will never die. For that reason, I usually do a load or two every day. Small light loads. Less to hang out to dry. Less to fold. Less to put away.
- The iron should be for emergencies only. As a general rule, I don’t touch the iron. Only when my husband has a big presentation and absolutely needs his collar and cuffs flat or if he does actually look as though he’s been roughed around by a group of yobs, will I resort to such drastic measures and fish out the iron. I try to shake out the wrinkles when his shirts are wet and then drape them so they don’t need to be ironed. Life is too short to iron. Irons are the devil’s work. The heat is a clue. Hell is hot.
- Buy lots of cleaning products. Psychologically if you have all the stuff, you’re most likely to use it.
- Adopt the ‘sight and smell test’ for clothes. Clothes do not need to be washed after each wear. Obviously we’re not talking undergarments and socks. Those are one-wear only. I’m not a tramp. Jerseys and jeans can be re-worn. Especially in winter. When everyone sweats less. Spot clean any toothpaste/yoghurt/*insert anything kids eat or touch here*.
- Get your kids to do things. My children make their own beds, dress themselves, bath themselves, feed themselves and tidy up their own mess. I’m working on them finding their own way to school. It’s complicated though.
- Try and get out of the house as much as possible. Avoid letting them wreck your own house by going to parks and entertainment centres. Let them wreck these instead.
- Absolutely crucial is finding a group of mummy friends who’re ‘home executives’ too. You need a support group. In between school pick-ups, you can natter over coffee while you hide away from the laundry piles at home and procrastinate cleaning the bogs.

In as much as I moan and whine, which is simply my charming nature, I do feel privileged to be at home and able to spend this time with my children. Seeing my son’s face light up the moment he spots me waiting for him outside his classroom after school. The excited chirruping about his day's adventures as we walk together to the car. The way my daughter squeals with delight and rushes into my arms to greet me after her time at nursery. How she’ll painstakingly describe each of her ballet moves after every lesson as we walk home. And god help me if I try to rush her. They are little for such a short time. We’ll never share these experiences again. I’ll never get this time back. It’s priceless. And when you weigh this up against sweeping the floors and dusting the mantelpieces, it's so worth it. Not sure about ironing, washing and bog cleaning though. I'm not sure all of the maternal riches and warm fuzzy mommy-moments in the world can save those. Well me for anyway. Better mothers and more qualified housewives may disagree. And good housekeeping to them.