When I Was a Little Girl...

• We learnt to swim before we could count.
• We learnt to climb trees before we could read.
• We learnt to cartwheel before we could write.
• Formal school began at 6. Before that, we played outside. Nature was our classroom and jislaaik what an education she gave us.
• Strangers were friends we hadn’t met yet.
• Our teachers didn't only educate us, they were a shoulder to cry on, discreetly helped us with little ‘accidents’ and wrote us letters to keep in touch after we’d left their class.
• Pocket money was doled out in coins. A bank account was for grown-ups.
• Barefoot was standard attire. Shoes were for school. Or church. Or a trip to town.
• We never needed an invitation to visit friends.
• A photograph was forever.
• Going to the cinema was as big a treat as a birthday. It happened once a year. If that.
• The TV was hardly ever on in the daytime – unless there was test cricket. Then it was on all day.
• Running to answer the landline telephone was a huge deal. So too was the greeting.
• Sport was compulsory at school and took up way more time than homework ever did.
• There were winners and losers in school sports days.
• We knew our academic aggregate and what place we came in class.
• Riding bikes, skateboarding or rollerskating in the street was as natural as being outdoors in the first place.
• Rain never stopped play.
• Helmets, shinpads or kneepads didn’t exist.
• At birthday parties, the whole class was invited. There’d be a garden, a pool and a table of treats. No party bags, entertainers, bouncy castles. Games we made up ourselves. We’d leave barefoot, with wet hair, exhausted and mildly sunburnt yet happier than pigs in…well, you know.
• Dress-up was a simple as rummaging through mum’s cupboard.
• We dried our hair in the sunshine.
• Air-conditioning was opening a window. Heating was wearing an extra jersey.
• We ate meals at a table.
• We drank milk or water.
• Milk was full-cream. Butter was real.
• Peanut butter sandwiches were a staple in many a school lunchbox. As were peanuts.
• There were no frozen ready-meals.
• We never had takeaway.
• Potato, rice and bread weren’t the anti-Christ.
• Protein and fat were simply food groups as part of a balanced diet.
• Gluten, dairy or nut allergies were very rare, almost unheard of.
• Coming from a divorced family was the exception, rather than the rule.
• Friends’ mums were Mrs 'so and so' and their dads Mr 'so and so'.
• Please and thank you were non-negotiable, always.
• We were hardly ever ill. Going to the doctor was so rare it was a novelty for us – as were antibiotics, plasters and medicine in general.
• Roasties doused in Mercurochrome were badges of honour.
• We spent every Sunday evening with our grandparents. It was family tradition.
• Beach holidays were all about family. All of us swimming, frolicking in the rock pools, collecting shells and lying in the sand.
• Eating out at a restaurant was only for special occasions, like birthdays or school awards.
• Books were revered and treated with respect at all times.
• Encylopedias were the oracle of all knowledge.
• A trip to the library was an adventure.
• We kept in touch with friends who moved away by letter via post.
• Our aunt and uncle were our second parents, our cousins as close as siblings.
• We believed in fairies, unicorns, the Easter Bunny, Tooth Mouse and Father Christmas. And heaven.
• We respected the rule of the wooden spoon. Or mum’s flip-flop. Whichever was closest to hand.
• The elderly were heard, their histories valid and stories relevant.
• Wildlife was all around us – we simply had to step outside.
• We said ‘I love you’ in person.

My little girl is growing up in a very different world to this. A world where she’s taught to be suspicious of strangers, her school uniform requires three sets of shoes, she'll most likely own a phone before a bra and exploring the wildlife in her own backyard is a challenge simply because there’s no wildlife and there’s no backyard. She can read, write, count to 100 and watch war being broadcast live on TV – yet she can't swim, climb a tree, cartwheel or ride a bike. She’s four years old.

As much as the digital era has connected us in terms of communication and access to information, it’s also disconnected us from a much simpler way of life. One where we look each other in the eye, speak English in full sentences and give actual hugs. She’s missing out on a life where the outdoors is the ultimate entertainment. And it’s not just enough; it’s everything.

Today she may be able to use an iPad, navigate my iPhone, channel surf on Netflix and scan my groceries in a self-checkout. Later, she can become prime minister, lead a trip to the moon or develop a vaccine for a flesh-eating virus. She can be or do anything she aspires to. And don’t get me wrong – that’s truly remarkable. But so too is looking back on a childhood rich in adventure where the memories last a lifetime: The fun of pulling fat juicy sticks of sugarcane from a passing truck, the joy of jumping into a silo stuffed with mielie kernels, the excitement of spotting a rhino in the veld or the sheer exhilaration of racing tractor tyres down the bank to the river. Memories like these are pretty remarkable too. Well worth their weight in all the free Wi-Fi hotspots in the world, in my opinion. I can only hope that one day she agrees.

Sally all scrubbed up - with 80's voortrekker-inspired dress and in shoes, no doubt. Prepped for a photo. No digital, deletions, edits or filters. It was film all the way baby. Twas a serious business. A serious business indeed. I'm pretty sure in my head I was outside playing amidst the fruit trees with my sister and cousins.

A Diary of Delirium

Over the last couple of weeks we’ve had an unwelcome guest in our new home. Not mould. Or rats. But pretty close in my opinion. We’ve been plagued with the lurgies*. Full-blown flu I think in some cases. It wasn’t pretty.

I played the dutiful Florence Nightingale role for a good 10 days before I started losing the plot. My patience (sparse on the top at the best of times) started wearing thin and I began getting properly annoyed with my collective lumps of useless human who needed hydration, medication, basic nourishment delivered with a care and kindness that I just can’t muster on demand, certainly not with any credible consistency.

When every member of my family had coughed up bits of their lung, vomited and thrashed around in a feverish fugue with no pallor or appetite and endured a prolonged state of feeling shiteness, I thought we’d seen the back of a particularly nasty bug. I sent the beast packing with strict instructions not to bloody return – alone or with its evil creepy little friends. We then proceeded to have a lovely Easter weekend.

Monday

Easter Monday dawned and that’s when I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck. This is not an unfamiliar feeling I must confess. When I’ve klapped the wine too hard the day before, I can wake feeling slightly tender in the cranial region with a throbbing behind my eyes. And droogies like no tomorrow. But this wasn’t that. This was something else. Something else entirely. A beast that not even two paracetamol, a litre of water chased by a strong cuppa, fresh air and a pair of sunglasses could vanquish. Not even close. I skirted around the edge of the day mindful that there was a tarantula wrestling with my immune system. I’ve had three kids for goodness’ sake. I can handle this. Or so I thought.

Tuesday

I slept fitfully on Monday night. My throat on fire. Hot and then cold. Tossing and turning. Needing water every five minutes. Then needing the loo. Tuesday dawned. As it does. Just after Monday. Every blady week. Like clockwork. Set your watch by it. The day was my husband’s first day back at the office after his near-death by man-flu. There was no question, he had to go in. And so I crawled out of bed like an abused dog. Limp, cringing and wretched. Waiting for the next kick. Fortunately I had a friend and her little girl coming over and so I simply had no choice but to go through the rituals of getting up, getting dressed and at least dipping my toe in near-normal. We had a great day at the park though – the sunshine and brisk wind was a salve to the sickness lurking within. I pushed through Tuesday and when my husband arrived home that evening, I escaped to the serene sanctuary of my bed, feverish hallucinations dancing around my room where I didn't even manage to draw the curtains before I succumbed to my coma, slack-mouthed and fully-clothed.

Wednesday
My body surfaced to consciousness before my head. My shoulders literally had to peel my head from a crevice in my pillow. I simply had to wake up though. I had work to do. Not just my children. Yes that work too. But other work. For a company who pay me. Not in bear hugs, slobbery kisses and gappy-toothed grins. In actual money you can take to the bank. As such, they expect work to be delivered. I showered with legs like jelly. Got a lift to the train station, bought a ticket and boarded the train. The next 60 minutes were like when Bridget Jones eats those mushrooms on that beach in Thailand. Except not as funny. But just with the blurry, cringe-worthy, off-her-face bits. I felt completely out of it. The scenery whizzed by, people got on and off the train, it chugged along. The entire trip merged into a weird psycadelic haze. I stepped off at Richmond and had to sit down on a bench like an old person before I consulted the attendants three times on how to catch my connection to Hammersmith. I have made this journey many times, but on that day it was like my first trip. I lurched into the meeting, glass-eyed and wild-haired. I know I spoke. Not sure what I said. I have vague notes that I can mostly decipher. But pretty much most of those hours are lost in an ether of “I have no idea”. I was swept home in sea of urgent commuters. I stepped off the train in Windsor and walked home along the river watching the swans veer in and out of my field of vision like white-cloaked vampires. I sought sleep with a pillow over my throbbing head. I dreamt of an army of swans riding the train, their ugly black feet clawing the seats with their long necks craning out of the window, eyes slanted and beaks opening and closing as if conversing with the wind.

Thursday

I rolled out of bed like a lump of dough. Collected my bleating boy-child from his cot. Stumbled downstairs into a kitchen too bright and sunny for my senses. Proffered Easter eggs to my children for breakfast. Made my way to the couch. Covered my head with a cushion and waited for the effects of the sugar high to kick in. It doesn’t take long. Running around, screaming like they're being murdered, clubbing each other like they want to murder - until the humourous becomes hurtful – as it usually does. I actually look forward to when the crying happens. It means the game is over and I’m the comforter, not the baddie who broke up all the fun. At lunchtime, I hauled out more Easter eggs before collapsing on the couch in my customary foetal position. It was only when they’d stripped naked to go outside and play with the hosepipe and I was seriously considering letting them go, I mean 10 degrees isn’t that cold is it, I called for back-up. I phoned my husband and informed him that he had two options. The first involved an ambulance and the emergency room. Neither would be for me. The second was to come home. The man is wise. He came home early. My fever broke early that evening and through a fog of sickly semi-consciousness, I could finally feel that things were in fact going to be ok. I was going to make it. We were all going to make it.

Friday

Still a little tender with a pall of hangover sitting on my head, but feeling a lot stronger, I ventured into the great outdoors with my friend and our large brood of children for a picnic and stroll. Fresh air and sunshine do wonders for the woozy-brained and wonky. And that's me on a good day. Even better when recovering from an ebola-esque virus that nuked our entire family.

Mums don’t get sick. Well that’s according to my daughter. We’re always there. To do the washing – the most remarkable of my maternal skills if you read my son’s Mother’s Day card - to make the food, to clean. At the peak of my fever I asked my little girl to lay her lovely little cold hands on my raging forehead because the sensation of cool was heavenly. She rested her hands on my sizzling skin for a while and then she said, “but Mummy’s just don’t get poorly, so I don’t understand what is going on here.” I said to her “Mummy’s do get sick sweetheart. We’re only human after all.”

To which she replied, “But you’re not just a human, are you? You’re a Mummy. ” I blacked out for a bit then, but apparently I told her that yes I wasn't just a Mummy. I was a swan.

During this past week of feverish flights of fancy in my head, I’ve thought of a lot of things. Cool blue swimming pools, ice packs, lying in soft rolling green meadows, vampire swans, swans on trains. I’ve also thought that no matter how much money you have, how much domestic help - when you’re in a death-grip with the lurgies and feel like the dog’s bollocks, there is nothing you can do except ride it out and hope to come out of the other side. Stronger and more swan-like. Because let's face it and I've said it before many times, those swans are not the gentle, graceful little creatures we like to think. They're robust creatures, made of some seriously tough stuff. They can take over the world. Forget the triffids. Or the vampires. Wait for the swans. They're coming for us. Just wait. 

* an unspecified or indeterminate illness.

Relocate. Rinse. Repeat

So we’re moving house. Again. It seems the last three times in three years weren’t enough. The universe reckons one more would be a laugh. Four for the win, ek se. We’re a little frazzled by the whole fiasco. I didn’t greet the news of having to relocate our three ferals and all our earthly possessions with much grace. No surprises there. I had a massive tantrum after my husband called to drop the bombshell. And then I sobbed with hysterical heaving and hiccuping, as I do. My little boy was so frightened, he started too. A sympathy sob for his mama, bless his heart. We were in the car outside the Tesco after the school run on a regular Monday morning. I then proceeded to do a week’s grocery shop with a traumatised puffy-eyed baby boy clinging to my neck like a vervet monkey and mascara lines emblazoned down my face that I only saw three hours later. No one batted an eyelid though. This is Britain. I also appear to have developed a weird rash on my face and neck. And four mouth ulcers. And a pain in my sternum, not unlike what I imagine is the start of a heart-attack, but without the actual heart-attack.

Physical foibles and gratuity for coronary no-show aside, I now have my grown-up pantie on and I've got a grip. And I’m trucking forward. What else is one to do? Tis the reality of renting, innit. We deal with it. Or live in our car. And our car simply isn’t big enough.

The benefit of moving physical form four times in three years is that one acquires certain skills. We’re somewhat sussed when it comes to shipping up and shunting off.

1) Have less stuff. We regularly recycle our kids’ toys, clothes and crap belongings. Mostly without their knowledge. “Oh that dolly! She’s gone on a holiday. And she’s having such a lovely time, she’s probably going to stay a while longer. Like forever.”

2) Sentimenal stuff is still just stuff. I’ve struggled a lot with this. But at the end of the day, exactly how many of your kid’s drawings/reports/cards/random-stuff-they-drew-for-you can you actually keep? You can't keep it all. There's simply too much. You'll end up on reality TV where they park a skip outside your front door and a woman with a clipboard has to make her way through all the piles of your hoard. And there's soft music and lots of hugs and everyone ends up crying.
A good friend of mine gave me a tip about precious artwork that you feel too bad to bin. She uses it as gift-wrapping. What an ingenious idea, I thought. It’s delightfully personal, it saves cash, time and you’re legitimately making use of paper that lurks around, gathering dust and cluttering cupboards.

3) Make friends with the removals crew. They’re the chaps who’re physically hauling around the guts of your home. Best you be nice. Also when you’re a repeat customer as often as we are, it helps to have service with a smile and banter about how much your collective brethren have grown.

4) Leave a couple of days overlap between your move-in and check-out dates. It gives you some valuable breathing room. No planning is ever sufficient – the moving beast runs deeper and wider than you initially forecast.

5) Don’t move too far, if you can help it. We’ve literally moved within a 3km radius three times. It's cheaper of course. But it’s also helpful when you’re hauling carload after carload of random gear you’ve forgotten to pack from the garden shed or camping equipment stashed in the loft.

6) Don’t get rid of your moving boxes. Pack them flat and store them. You never know when you’ll need them again. You can’t just go to the supermarket here and grab some boxes from the recycling at the back. For reasons of health and safety, it's not allowed. I'm not entirely sure why. There must be latent bird flu or some ebola-esque virus that the folks who like to lick the inside of cardboard boxes may be exposed to. On top of their other issues.
Anyway, so you need to buy boxes. As in pay actual money. And they get delivered. Not without irony, in other boxes. I got too cocky when we moved into our current house and I sent our set of boxes to the recycling, figuring we wouldn’t need them again. Fooled me twice, shame on me. We’ve now just forked out £70 for a new set. I’m keeping these babies under my mattress. They’re worth more than at least one of my kids. Possibly two.

7) Give your broadband/TV/line rental provider as much warning as possible to schedule the re-installation in your new place. We’ve been slow off the mark with this, every time. As a result, with our last move we endured a week without internet or TV before paying through our teeth for wifi from a private network selling off chunks before the installation guy came and I heard the hallelujah chorus in my head. We nearly didn’t make it though. Forget the stress of moving. I could move every month. Raising kids without broadband or beebees on the other hand, forget it. I don't have that level of skill. My mothering simply doesn’t stretch that far.

8) Pack light. Have more boxes and less stuff in each box. Sounds counter-intuitive but there’s nothing worse than seeing a box with its bottom fallen out and all your stuff splayed out in all its glory for the world to see. The indignity is appalling. And moving day is fraught with enough trauma. Also, always invest in double-wall boxes - it's all about adequate under-carriage support. For moving - and so much more.

9) Be nice to your neighbours. This is very relevant in Britain where you can see, hear and pretty much smell them from all angles. They’re the peeps you turn to when you’ve run out of visitor’s permits, halloween treats or need space in front of your house for the removal van. We’ve hit the jackpot with our neighbours in Windsor. Ok, so yes there’s the Queen – and she’s pretty special I'm led to believe. But as far as commoners go, we’ve had lovely, friendly people on all sides who we've even liked enough to braai with - the ultimate South African endorsement.

10) Just roll with it. All the carnage and chaos. All the inconvenience and the this-is-so-kak-I-can't-possibly-cope. It passes. I promise.
For me, hopefully the ulcers, rash and pre-heart-attack do too. I have new neighbours to meet. Psychotic Saffa mother to three feral children who share a penchant for frolicking buck-naked brandishing sticks and who scream like they're being murdered... is enough of a challenge for my new resident status pending approval. Not sure I can add any more freak to that show.
Time and a new postcode will tell. Until then, we move. Forward.

Bye bye Bourne Avenue. Thank you for the mouse cupboard, enormous bath and such happy memories. We'll miss you and all your residents.

Hello new home. Thank you for the bin. Front and centre, ready and waiting. Be gentle on us please. We may be feral, but we're fragile, friendly folk too.

All Roads Lead To The Place of the Elephant

There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it. *

When I envisage my birthplace, these words echo in my head. Even though I wasn’t actually born in Ixopo. I was born 50 miles away. In a city called Pietermaritzburg. Named after two chaps Piet Retief and Gert Maritz who were Voortrekkers – farmers from the Cape who, in 1840, went in search of new land. Greener pastures and all. They found it. A place nestled in a picturesque valley at the foot of range of spectacular mountains. With flowing rivers and good soil. The whole shebang. A veritable real estate jackpot. If we were talking New York, Donald Trump would’ve been all over it. In between polling for presidency and pissing off a whole lot of Islamic folk.

Piet and Gert weren’t the only fellas to find this lush posse. The Zulu people did too. First. The Zulus named it Umgungundlovu, which means “Place of the Elephant”. I must admit, I prefer the Zulu name; it rolls off the tongue a little better. Also I like elephants. Majestic, empathetic and beautiful creatures they are. To me, elephants are blessed with the wisdom of all of Africa’s deepest secrets.

Whatever the name, this place holds the memories of my childhood.
Running in the veld. Plotting alternate realities in my mind. The long, dry grass whipping at my knees. Skittish of the snakes and wild animals that my mother warned me were lurking behind the koppies.
The warm Berg wind that rushed from the stately Drakensberg Mountains through my hair, whispering a story. Omniscient and reassuring like an old friend who knew me well.
Sundays at Midmar Dam waterskiing until my body ached and I fell asleep in the car on the way home, sunburnt but sated.
Watching the mysterious Umgeni River, a thick brown snake of water making her way to the sea, confident of the journey she would face. Never missing a turn.
Afternoon thunderstorms, the air charged with anticipation at the welcomed release of rainfall to cool and revitalise.
Green hills in the summer, turned golden in the autumn and winter.
Blue skies as far as the eye could see.
My view framed by hills that stretched far and wide into the mountains.
Warm starry nights filled with promise and magic. Upon which I launched all my childhood hopes and dreams.

Pietermaritzburg, Umgungundlovu or Sleepy Hollow as the locals call it.
Whatever the name, this place to me will always be a one-word description.
No matter how many continents, oceans or miles separate us.
To me, this place is home.
The home rooted in my heart.

* The opening sentences of the novel Cry The Beloved Country, written by Alan Paton, 1948.

Home

Ref: Gossipguy: https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19282536

Learning to Let it Go

We’ve had a fad grip our family over the last month. What began as a moderate-to-mild fervour has morphed into a frenzied obsession. If you’re thinking hoverboard or helicopter-drone with in-built camera, nah… it’s neither. Yet. Although at times I reckon I’d have found either of these preferable – notwithstanding the dangers of explosive spontaneous combustion or facial mutilation by inanimate flying object. Three years behind the cool kids, we’ve finally been hit with the phenomenon that is the film Frozen. In all its Disney Technicolour and ballad-belting glory.


Until recently, my four-year-old daughter wasn’t remotely interested in a talking snowman, an ice queen or a rugged mountain man and his reindeer steed. She preferred binge-watching the 25 million episodes of Thomas The Tank Engine on Netflix and if she fancied a series shake-up, she’d opt for a session with Peppa and her weirdly plausible piggy family. As one does. Despite being a bit slow on the toy trend uptake, she isn’t a complete social cretin. She knew about Frozen. She went to four Frozen-themed parties in three months. She even tried to watch the film when a friend lent me her daughter’s copy. She sat for 20 minutes and then started trimming her toenails with her teeth. It was after she’d hauled out her toy box and lined up all her Thomas trains to "tour through Sodor" that I eventually turned it off. I returned the DVD. She simply wasn’t interested. And that was fine by me.

All this changed when she was given an Elsa dress for her birthday – complete with sequined bodice, hoop skirt and white cape. She unwrapped this unassuming little gift, drew in a deep breath and her soul literally swooned. It was as if in that moment she realised that she'd been granted legitimate access to a bold and exciting new world. A world of princesses and castles, curses and ice crystals. She batted her big blue eyes at her father who relented to purchasing her Frozen on iTunes as an early Christmas gift. Since then she has voraciously consumed the film on every device in our home. For three weeks straight. The gift that keeps on giving. Over and over again. We’ve lost her. To the Arendelle in her mind.

On roughly her sixteenth viewing when she’d started lip-syncing the script, I finally watched it. I knew the basic plot from the party circuit, but I’d never actually sat through the entire feature length version. I’m not going to say it changed my life in the way that it has my daughter’s. But I did chuckle. And I confess that I did choke up. I’m human. I have a heart. So I’m not entirely immune to the Disney film formula. And the magic it evokes. Epic sagas where an unlikely hero or heroine emerges from a cast of witty, funny, damaged but always likeable characters and discovers the true meaning of love, friendship, or *insert life lesson here* set to the soundtrack of scene-sweeping orchestra music and catchy lyrics. This film however created a slightly deconstructed version of the tried and trusted Disney recipe for success. And going off-piste with the plot paid off. The box-office rake-in certainly reflects this.

The cursed ice queen isn’t a power-hungry psychopath. She’s a demure young lass with some icy superpower that she can’t really control. And we all know that with great power, comes great responsibility. She knows it too. And it terrifies her. Her younger sister, the princess with a mega-watt personality is the story’s real heroine. And she’s the one sans special powers or shiny snow wand. The strength of the bond between sisters and an unconditional sibling love ultimately saves the day - no man is required for the job. In fact, prince charming reveals himself to be less dapper don and more douchebag. The shaggy self-effacing mountain man who was raised by trolls, isn’t himself a troll at all. He’s the unlikely love interest. Comic relief comes in the form of a slightly camp, very climate-confused snowman. It’s a refreshing change. Disney did good.

One question though continues to baffle me. Why do my daughter and scores of other little girls want to be Elsa? Elsa is hardly in the story. She spends a helluva lot of time holed up in her room or hiding in her ice palace. She’s anxious and rather aloof. Anna is fun-loving, feisty and fearless. Open and warm, she embodies all the attributes that I’d love for my little girl to aspire to. Heck I aspire to them now. I asked my daughter what the Elsa attraction is, assuming of course that it would be the queen thing, the power she wields with her snow wand. Nope. Nothing like that. It’s the “pointy heel ice shoes that she wears in her ice palace”. And her blue dress. I asked my son what character he’d like to be. Sven, the reindeer was his instant reply. "Why?", I asked. “I’d actually love to be a dog Mum. In real life. But there is no dog in Frozen. So I’ll be the reindeer. It’s the closest thing.”


So with my son the reindeer and my daughter the ice queen, I’m going to channel my inner Anna and soldier on until the next Disney fixation grips our family. In the meantime though, my daughter can have her Elsa fantasy. Four year olds need all the magic they can get. We all do. Who I am to judge anyway? I spent years dreaming of being Frances "Baby" Houseman pulled from the self-confidence-challenged corner into the limelight by an adoring adonis in Dirty Dancing. Or perfecting a jaw-dropping transformation from geek to goddess like Sandy and her leather-clad sexy self in Grease. So I've been there.

This week as we were getting ready to leave the house for school, my little girl emphatically declared: “I don’t need to wear a jumper for school anymore.” When I asked why, she didn’t miss a beat in her response, “Because I’m Elsa, Mummy don’t you know? The cold never bothered me anyway.”

Elsa - in all her blue-gowned glory. Who doesn't need a jumper for a school anymore.

A Milestone worth Marking

So I’m a couple of weeks shy of celebrating a big milestone. And it’s not what you think. I haven’t reached happy harmony with my body fat percentage, completed a half marathon, saved any money or stopped drinking wine for any noteworthy period of time. Don’t be ridiculous. This one is way more important than any of those. I have spent an entire calendar year as a home executive. Full-time mum. Housewife. Or whatever the politically correct term is these days. I’ve avoided social services, any trips to the emergency room and I’ve never actually followed through on my repeated threats to get into my car and drive to The Kingdom of Far, Far Away. “Yes, where Shrek and Fiona live,” I’ve shrieked at my daughter as I’ve picked up my handbag and feigned a theatrical search for my coat and keys.
Emotionally abusive parenting aside, we’ve made it. The lightest of lighter shades of pale, but more or less intact as human beings. Physically at least.

I have to mark this milestone. At the start of the year, we had a newborn. Another one. We moved house. Again. My daughter started school. For the very first time.
And so began the juggernaut of morning, noon and afternoon school runs. Rinse and repeat. Every day. My husband consistently clocking up the air miles for work. Scrambling into taxis destined for the airport lugging his lurid pink Samsonite suitcase. Homework à deux and the trauma of trying to tutor my children with limited propensity and even less patience. Countless trips to ballet, swimming, football. Lugging a baby everywhere, with increasing and understandable resistance on his part. There have been tears and tantrums. Mine mostly. Occasionally my children’s. I’ve begged, bribed and bartered my way through my brethren’s brawls. With each other. And with me. And I’ve discovered devious ways to deal with dirt. Hide or ignore it. I’ve never worked harder. I’ve had never had less money. I've never had worse re-growth. It. Has. Been. Epic. It has also been one of the best years of my life.

I’m immensely proud at having emerged from a whole 12 months of parenthood with three children and no blue lights or sirens. Fist-pumpingly proud. I wish I could put it as a sub-heading on my CV, under key life experience, survival skills and superpowers. Maybe I will. It’s certainly relevant. Don’t let anyone say otherwise. Forget woman scorned. Try mother judged. Try them apples.

Ok so I do whinge. I do whine. I’m more than a little overt about sharing my disdain for dealing with human effluent. Just this weekend when my son dropped the rim blocker into the toilet while he was squatting monkey-style on the seat and I had to put my hand into the bowl, dodging his bobbing faeces, to try and retrieve it. I had a lot to say about that experience. Most of it not fit for repeating, in any syllable, shape or form. There was some retching involved too.

I go positively postal when my kids moan that they don’t want pesto on their pasta or pasta with their pesto or that the bowl is too big or not big enough. When they turn up their nose at a simple steamed carrot. Or waste perfectly good food because they suddenly “don’t like it” when just two days before they’d wolfed it down and declared it their absolute “favourite favourite”. I’ve resorted to showing the little imps images of starving African children I’ve gingerly Googled. Emaciated hollow-eyed souls whose desperation is as terrifying as it is touching. Children who are dying to live. I'll admit that it’s rather rough around the edges this method. But it works. Suddenly piles of pesto pasta start disappearing into little mouths and there’s no more talk about flecks of basil that look like bits of bug or pasta that pongs like puke.

 In fact there's no talk at all.

I’m not a martyr mother who silently soldiers through. I can’t parent with poise.
I do know though how fortunate I am. My issues are not real issues. They’re first world problems. In this country, never has there been a statement that can represent such a literal reality. We’re all healthy, we’re all safe and we have everything that we need. My husband argues that we need a Playstation 4, but then he doesn’t watch Downton Abbey and won't cry like a baby when it ends forever on Christmas Day. So what does he actually know anyway? Not much of any value. Obviously.
At least once a day, amidst the deluge of domesticity, I take time to acknowledge how incredibly blessed we are. I promise I do.

I’ve also got to recognise that had we not upped sticks and moved to The Not-Always-so-United Kingdom (talk to Scotland), I wouldn’t have this milestone to mark at all. We wouldn’t have our little boy Alexander. I wouldn't have experienced a rewarding and roll-with-it year at home with our children. I wouldn’t have been an often willing and sometimes reluctant witness to their lives. To all the moments that make up a childhood: the good and the best, the disgusting and disturbing.

I moan a lot about Britain – but thank you oh climatically challenged little island for this year. I will remember it forever. Parts I will treasure. And parts I will bury deep within the recesses of my psyche. I’m a full-time mother with three kids. Glorifying the great and repressing the repugnant are skills that come standard. They’re like factory settings. Part and parcel of the job description. Every mother knows that. Even the rookie ones like me.

The Ferals. Clothed, fed and intact. For now.

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.