The Saffas Guide for Surviving Winter in the UK

1) From January to March, avoid paying too much attention to the Facebook or Instagram posts made by your SA-based loved ones. They’ll be crammed with filtered selfies set against the unmistakable backdrop of the glory that is an African summer. Swimming pools. Braais. Beaches. Blue skies. Sunglasses. Sunbathing. Sundowners. Sunshine. Anything with the word sun. Just don’t go there. It will break you. It will be your kryptonite. There is no more homesick a soul than a Saffa in the dead of winter in the UK.

2) Get out of the house. Being holed up in a 150sqm space with any humanity – especially including your spouse and kids – will start to feel like an itchy rash. One that you scratch and pick until it bleeds and becomes rancid. Layer up and venture outdoors. The park. The High street. Anywhere. Take a drive if you’re too lazy or it’s pissing down. Just get out of the house. Get some fresh air. A different perspective. There’s something magical about snow, embrace the experience. If you don’t, your kids will. African laaitjies love snow. The novelty value is epic.

3) Find a local coffee spot. Where the java is good and feral animals kids are welcome. Where you can sit companionably and sip a brew amidst a throng of humans who’re also blowing frost smoke from their mouths, stemming dripping snot from their noses and clenching their buttocks together to retain some warmth within.

4) Eat good comfort food. Salads do not provide the kind of sustenance required to physically break through the months of January through March. You need clotted cream and butter. Rich and creamy sauces. Baked puddings. Pastry. Bread. Potatoes. Carbs. Real carbs. Banting be damned. Cauliflower pizza bases won’t cut the mustard, an extra thick stuffed crust just might.

5) Drink good wine. Play the grape geography game. Sample a selection of your favourite grapes from different wine-making regions around the world and rate them. Learn to pare wines with flavours. Wine can warm the cockles of the coldest heart. There’s nothing that good wine can’t fix, especially with a chunk of cheese. And it’s medicinal. Grapes are healthy. One of your five a day. And cheese is dairy. Another of your five a day.


6) Chuck away the scale. Spring is for when you have to take action against your wobblies. That’s why it’s a verb as well as a noun. Let your body have three months to build up adequate defence against the dark beast that is the British winter. Harry Potter doesn’t conquer Voldemort in the first book. He needs time and practice to master his magic. He needs to train up his co-dependent backup team comprising Ron, Hermione, the giant forest man and the owl. His balls also have to drop. This takes six more books. Have patience. Be gentle on yourself. You’re up against a massive challenge. Mother Nature is no wussy. 


7) Plan and book your European summer holiday. Get a good deal on flights and accommodation by being an early bird booker. It also gives you something to live for look forward to when you’re scraping a thick layer of ice off your windscreen with your fingernails or you’ve snoozed your phone alarm seven times because you literally cannot get out of bed to face another cold, dark and depressing day.

8) Online shopping. After the hype of Christmas is over. The New Years hangover is cured. Kids are back at school. And just when you feel all hope is gone, the retailers come to the rescue. With insane discounts and special offers. And your sales stash is delivered right to your door. No one needs to see how many cases of prosecco you’ve stockpiled or the harem pants you’re finally daring to try. Shopping releases serotonin, the happy drug. And if it’s a sale purchase, it doubles the release. Scientifically proven, I’m almost certain.


9) Binge-watch a series or five. Snuggled under the blanket on your couch, catch up on that incestuous team of medical interns and attendings at Seattle Grace Hospital, get Litt-up on Suits, or cringe at the OCD Leslie Knope on Parks and Recreation. Winter on the island is built for streaming series. It’s why the internet is super fast.

10) Be social with friends. Host dinner parties. Attend dinner parties. Visit soft-plays where your kids are free to run wild and you can pretend they’re not yours. Do lunches. Brunches. Spend time in the company of others. Don’t tunnel-vision your world around your own family unit. It can’t be healthy. I’m pretty sure it’s what sets off serial killer tendencies.

Remember that this too shall pass. The bitter cold will become bog standard cold. The days will lengthen. The darkness will fade. And you’ll emerge a paler, fatter and stronger version of your former self. You will be a slight lush, mind. But then there’s always spring for detox. Or so they say. In the meantime, in the words of the ever-wise but constantly misunderstood Dory from Finding Nemo:

"Hey there, Mr. Grumpy Gills. When life gets you down do you wanna know what you've gotta do? 
[singing] 
Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. 
Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming. 
What do we do? We swim, swim."

Couldn't have said it better little fish.

Fans of the Dory Shoal of Life

A Life Less Ordinary

To our dear Alex

You've been with us 8 weeks today. Well you’ve actually been with us a lot longer if you count the time it took for you to prove, rise and bake. We don’t count this time because you were pretty useless while you were gestating. You’re pretty useless now to be honest, but every day brings with it new developments you’ve mastered. Right now it’s focusing your eyes, holding your head up and smiling. These keep you pretty busy. But before we all know it, you’ll be able to wipe your own backside and nourish yourself with a menu beyond the limited culinary offerings of my mammories. And if you’re anything like the rest of the male species in this household, you’ll be teasing me in no time at all. For how I love to sob like a toddler watching Nashville and Grey’s Anatomy, my obsession with a spotless kitchen floor and the industrial looking spanx I wear to hold in all my jiggly bits. It all goes so quickly, this crazy thing called life. Right now though, for such a little soul you’ve transformed the dynamic of our family in a very significant way. We can’t remember what life was like before you arrived.

I thought I’d take some time to clue you in on a few rules of engagement for surviving your tenure in our cooked little household. A cheatsheet if you will. Your siblings have got their roles waxed. Granted they’ve had nearly a decade of combined practice. You’re coming in on the third intake. And it’s a tough crowd. You’re the new kid starting at a new school mid-way through the term. Everyone knows the drill. Everyone has their little cliques. You’ve got to somehow ease in and learn the ropes without being a pansy who gets pushed around. No mean feat my boy. Your mum’s got your back. Not too much mind, because a momma’s boy is the devil’s work and will bring you a world of pain of an entirely different nature. Think of these as guidelines, open to interpretation as you see fit.

Don’t be too quiet. Make your presence known. This lesson we’ve already learnt. The hard way. We took you to view a property we were looking to rent and when we got back into the car after we’d seen it, we suddenly realised we were missing something. You. We’d left you inside the house. We had to ask the agent all shame-faced to re-open the door so we could retrieve you, our 5 day old infant snuggled in the car seat we'd stashed in the corner of the lounge. We did this twice. Forgot you. The agent started getting all judgy-eyed on us. We haven’t heard from her again. Or there was the time we forgot you in the carrycase compartment of your pram parked outside our front door for 20 minutes while we had tea and cake inside with visiting family from South Africa. You’re a little chap, so your physical presence isn’t particularly robust. In the daytime, you sleep like the dead. It’s no wonder we forget you. There’s an awesome movie you’ll see one day with this memorable quote that goes: “nobody puts baby in the corner.” The line is meant to symbolise not hiding your talent and learning to shine. Well we do put you in the corner at the moment. But don’t let us – metaphorically speaking. Squawk. Remind us that you’re here. That you want to get on stage and dance like Patrick Swayze.     ** Reserve your squawking for between the hours of 8am and 8pm. Please and thank you. **

Drama is your friend. It’s here to stay, whether you have any thespian inclinations or not. Forget theatre of dreams, our home is a theatre of chaos. Whether it’s your sister screaming blue murder because I didn’t cut the crusts off her toast. Or she’s screaming blue murder because I did cut the crusts off her toast. Or when your big brother hollers his head off after she’s thrown his Transformer into the toilet. And she hollers her head off because he's clubbed her on the head as a result. Drama is an added extra on your ticket into this family. The small print disclaimer one never bothers to read. Don’t try to query it. There are no returns or refunds. It’s just the way it works with family. Cool thing is you get to choose your friends a little later on. And you can befriend as calm and rational companions as you like. For now though, you’re stuck with the melodramatic madness of your kinfolk. Forewarned is forearmed.

Pain and discomfort are a healthy part of life. So whether it’s a stubbed toe, headlice, grey teeth or a head injury, we’re not a family who shies away from injury, personal or otherwise. Your siblings had to poke and prod every stitch of the scar left by my caesarian section. When my basal carcimona was removed, they were bleak when it started to heal. Your brother literally digs his wart out. The more blood and gore – the better it seems. Your circumcised penis gave you instant street cred. The fact that your junk looked so feral all swollen and red with that cap thing the doctor put on and the string designed to cut off the circulation, elevated you to cult status. You’re a hero. A wounded soldier. Use this power wisely. It will come in handy later when they want to use you to test drive their grand plan to slide down our stairs inside a cardboard box.

Peace and quiet was a state reserved for those 40 weeks you were snuggly settled in utero. Noise is your new normal now. Silence died. A brutal death. Your siblings were the murderers. They're the masters of the volume control in our home. I have a good go at raising the decibels every now and again. Usually when there’s a god-awful mess I’ve discovered or I’m trying to referee a brawl that involves spitting, punching and biting. Find a happy place in your head where you can retreat. And a theme song. Your birthsong could work. Mine is Ho Hey by the Lumineers. Your brother’s is Pharrell Williams’ Happy or Baha Men's Who Let the Dogs Out. Your sister’s is Paloma Faiths Only Love Can Hurt Like This and Meghan Trainor's All About That Bass. We don't judge each other's taste in music either. Or I'd never have married your father. He thinks Eminem is an artist who produces real music. 

Affection is non-negotiable in our house. You will be cuddled within an inch of your life. You’ll have no doubt already clocked this. We’re a cuddly clan. Your siblings pretty much maul you to pieces every chance they get. All in the name of affection. Embrace it. Literally. And give back as good as you get. We have a massive three-seater leather sofa that we all pile onto for cuddles and tickles and general maulings. You’ve got a spot there too. It’s small. But it’s all yours.

We don’t bath every day. We sometimes wear the same clothes two days in a row if they pass the smell test. We’re as ambivalent about health and safety as we are hygiene. We eat a lot of cinnamon buns. Your Dad has an unwavering reverence for Man United, whether they deserve it or not. Your siblings get naked. Often. Your mum spends a lot of time mopping and sweeping the floors. She moans about this. Loudly and often. We all enjoy braais and we need to get out to be exercised in the parks like dogs. Or we all get cranky. We laugh. Often. 

Welcome to the family little guy. The other day you arched a stream of pee directly onto your face and into your mouth. You looked startled for a moment. And we waited to see how you'd react. And... you beamed. You flashed us a massive gummy grin as if to say "Seriously guys. I see you and I raise you. Pee is nothing. Show me what else you got." Your Dad and I laughed uncontrollably. We laughed until our tummies ached. I peed a little in my pants. This happens. Three kids have wrecked my bladder control. I smile thinking about it. We are so proud. We reckon you'll be just fine. I look so forward to being a witness to your life less ordinary.

Lots of love, 

Mum

“I don’t know nothin’ ’bout birthing babies, Miss Scarlett!”

So I recently gave birth to a baby. A lovely little chap – all 9 pounds of him. And as I quote Prissy in my heading from the classic Gone With the Wind, I too am as clueless about the whole birth thing. Even with my third tour in the trenches, I am no wiser to the whole process. I just have a broader context. More frame of reference. But I'm still clueless. We welcomed our third child five or so weeks ago. True to the life and times of Sally Anne Cook, my birth experience with the most recent addition to our brood was not without its fair share of drama. My son entered this world while the theatre staff were bopping and swaying to Wilson Phillips’ Hold On. I kid you not. It was cranking full blast from a boom box they’d stashed alongside the infant resuc table and a tray full of shiny metal tools. I sang along in a drug-induced haze. I imagined that I was tapping my foot and shaking my booty, aestheticised and a dead weight as they both were. This song is not a bad theme song for life and it became especially appropriate as our little oke had to spend the first 48 hours after his birth in neonatal with whafts of oxygen being squirted up his nose.

The crazy did not stop there. As we entered the theatre, my husband’s iphone died. It simply turned off and refused to turn on again. Fortunately we had mine. The very same one that enjoyed a trip in the lav. Our delivery room team comprised an Aussie anestheticist with his Saffa assistant, a Zimbo midwife, an Asian gynae and a British paed. It was like the United Nations in that room. At one point during the operation, I passed out. I always do. My lips went blue my husband said. My blood pressure plummeted. Machines started squawking. I saw stars. A few clicks of the good juice, and I was back. The music continued. I also thought that my heart was being ripped from my chest. This isn’t a metaphor, I genuinely believed the ferocious tugging was not only going to result in the detachment of a comfy foetus from my womb, but also the messy extraction of my heart. Possibly a lung or so too. A buy one get one free deal. I told the specialists as much. They chuckled and carried on with their extraction. Nodding in time to the tunes. I wasn’t joking. I kept expecting to see my kid clutching my pounding heart as he was pulled out. This paranoia may or may not have had something to do with the drugs. Can't be sure. I am as melodramatic without drugs.

Over the course of my three night, four day sojourn in the hospital, I saw some things I won’t forget in a hurry. Some good, some bad, some downright disturbing. This motherhood gig is like nothing else. And like most things, you’ve really got to experience it to fully appreciate the journey.

When you put a group of post-partum, hormone-crazed women in a room together, deprive them of sleep and all home comforts, there will be some sharing. Ok, so a lot of sharing. Descriptive blow-by-blow accounts of labour and all the bits associated with squeezing a human being from an orifice. Completely uncensored descriptions. No episiotomies barred. Every stitch shared. One woman described how her birth was so quick she’d blown a hole in her nether regions. Literally a hole. Sweet baby cheesus.

Catheter-wielding c-section inmates pad the corridors in question mark postures dragging clear bags of lurid yellow pee. I named my pee bag my designer accessory. I told the nurses it was a one-of-a-kind collector’s edition. They didn’t get it. No one else has the same DNA as me, I had to explain. So my bag was an exclusive - a Sally Cook Original. The joke was weak. I didn’t get a great response. I kept trying though. I'm nothing if not persistent, especially with jokes in bad taste. 

And then there’s the lactating. Mammories out, all shapes and sizes. Lots of manual expressing going on and a whole lot of colostrum comparisons. Debates about the state of nipples. And then the heat. Screw hospital ward, boiler room is a more appropriate description. One night at around 2am, I woke in a pool of wet. I was soaked through. I called the nurse and weepily informed her that unless she turned the heating down, I was going to die. Literally burn to death. I told her that spontaneous human combustion really existed. I’d seen it on The Daily Mail. I have the app on my phone. I offered to show her. She tut-tutted, mopped my brow and promised to do her best. I imagined the temperature cooled a few degrees and returned to a feverish doze. In the morning I discovered that the heating is fixed at a certain temperature in the hospital. Not even God can change it. 

Lights blaze at all hours. Alarms. Babies crying. Snoring that you can’t believe comes from womenfolk and not the Gruffalo or his brethren. Groaning. Weeping. And then there was the lady who shat the bed. Twice. And the babies. The little ones in neonatal. 1.6 kilograms of human being. Mothers who live in hope. Who forgo sleep and food to sit alongside their child’s crib, watching the machine’s every digit. And pray.

Women from all walks of life arrive perfect strangers and depart having shared the most intimate of experiences. In technicolour detail. Part of you knows that you’ll never see each other again. And that’s possibly why you’ll freely share whether you’ve had a bowel movement, how many milligrams of custard-yellow colostrum you’ve drained from your mammories and whether your baby’s poo is still black or has progressed to the green stage. National Geographic has nothing on a maternity ward.

I left the hospital a few shades of shame poorer, but a beautiful baby boy richer. Armed with my single pack of Ibuprofen and Paracetemol – the NHS’s answer to c-section pain relief, I relaxed squashed between the two car seats of my youngest children. Every mile we ventured further from the hospital and closer to home, I could feel the awkwardness dissipate. That’s until the very next day when I sent my husband in search of a nipple shield. He called me from the store all quiet-voiced and sheepish. “Sal, they don’t sell them here,” he said. “Yes they do” I replied. “I saw them two weeks ago. They definitely sell them. Just ask someone.” He replied, “I did. They say they definitely have never and will never sell nipple caps. They’re not that kind of store. They suggest we try online for adult entertainment merchandise.”  

Ah, the joys of motherhood – as undignified, awkward and awesome as it is.

The boy

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.