The Joys of Winter Break

So those nasty people teachers at the school did it to me again.

They have closed their doors for an entire three weeks for the winter holidays.

Three weeks!! What bit of my sanity will I loose in the next THREE WEEKS?

Needless to say, the perpetual messing has already commenced. The (what seems to be) constant bickering / toy tug-of-war / affection one-upmanship. Yup, they are all here already.

I have always had this insane (rather common) desire to name my house something or the other. You know when you drive around in neighbourhoods, you see the name boards: Willow Ridge; Wind in the Willows; Finally!; Toad Hall and my favourite, the perenially South African favourite: Kaya Costa Baya. I have never found something that I like enough.

Well. After spending a week sofar with a 3,5 & 12 year old, I have thought of the perfect name for our humble, untidy abode:

The Shriek Shack.

Yessiree. That will do just fine, as it is a good description of the general activity within the house.

If it is not me at the kids, it's the kids at me. If not the kids at each other, my mom at the kids. The kids at my mother-in-law. All of us at the cats & dogs.

Eish... roll on bed-time!! That magical moment, when after telling everyone for the seventh last time to "GO TO BED!", and they actually do, and the silence descends like a warm snuggy blanket...

..and what is the first thing that pops up in my mind?

"Uh, it's so quiet now. I think I will go to bed".

How is that for lame.

Tomorrow we have Princesses 1 & 2 doing the Karate grading as well as entering the combat competition. That should prove interesting. Although, from past experience with Princess 1, not half as interesting as eyeballing the assortment of parents on the side in those nasty, plastic, cold, community centre/sports club chairs.

Thank goodness the Sport Club Pub is merely 10 meters away. Nothing to help ease the pain of parenting like a double little gin & tonic.

Watching the poor Sensei getting fifteen toddlers between the ages of 3 and 5 lined up for ANY activity is highly amusing. It is like watching someone herding cats.

With a drink in hand, it should prove highly entertaining...

Deep Puff

Dear Diary

Last night was Princess 2's variety concert.

Oh my goodness..was she a star.

For all of 3 minutes, I beamed like a proud chicken who has just laid her first egg, silently mouthing: "That's mine!"whilst furiously stabbing my chest to everyone within a 5 meter vicinity of our table.

There ARE times when I feel like a good mother, and last night was one of them.

I couldn't believe this lanky, self-assured young woman on the stage, casually chatting to the audience (something she has NEVER done before) like a seasoned pro, was actually produced - not too long ago I might add - from my own body. (No-one would guess that 30 minutes earlier she was close to fainting and throwing up with nerves!!)

It scared me to realise the years are flying by so quickly.

Do I tell her I love her enough? Probably not.

But I do. With a fierce burning in me.

She was my first true love.

Born from my body.

It just seems you drift away from your first baby after the second, and the (energetic) third ones.

And before you know it, the little chubbalux who's nappies you used to change, is asking you if she can borrow your lipstick! Hmf...

No wonder I feel OLD.


Princeling is doing alarmingly well.

He has suddenly developed an appetite fit enough for about four or five toddlers.

According to dhe Quack, he is making up for lost time - as he was a tad behind for his age weight and size.

This was due to the fact that he never breathed properly (as a result of the continuous silent asthma) and his cells never got enough oxygen.

He now promptly finishes off two bowls of oatmeal, a fried egg, a slice of toast & a packet of 2 Min Noodles - and all of this before 11:00.

The first thing he says in the morning? "Mommy, I want shumfink to eat now!"

So, I spend the first 4 hours of my morning alternately cleaning and running to the kitchen to do the next breakfast course for Mini Master.

The child has picked up two kilo's in two weeks!!

..and believe my aching back and serious grunting when I tell you - it's noticeable!!!!


So last night, after the concert, we had to take Princess 1's friend home (the Bulgarians - yes he of the .45).

I had to make good on a promise to pop around for a drink afterwards.

So the show ended at 9. 9:30 I dropped Princess 1 at home and we quickly popped over.

Where we were wined and dined with fancy cheeses, cold meats, olives, water biscuits, Melba toast - the works.

I even drank TWO WHOLE beers.

But now, I have to tell you, The Lord & Master of the Manor has A WEAKNESS.

Hehe.

He is an early riser. Always has been.

This naturally means that 8:00 the aircon shuts down, 9:00 the offices get locked, 9:30 the lights go off, and believe you me, 10:00, the front door is LOCKED.

Nobody home.

He will watch 24 with me. It will be THE MOST EXCITING EPISODE EVER. I turn to him, heart racing from all the excitement Jack had to endure for the last hour, gushing": "Wow!!! What did you think of that??"

And his response will be"an extremely startled: "Huh??????"

We will (finally) have an hour alone in the lounge to just BE and will be watching a program, when I hear that familiar deep breathing, with the ensuing puffing...

You know, ...deep breath....puff...deep breath... puff, deeper breath...PUFF..

"Hey!! Are you sleeping??"
"No, no, no! I am just resting my eyes".
Ja - whatever.

I tell you this all, so that you can understand the situation when I tell you that we finally left the Bulgarians at....

..Ta-dah!!!...

1 am.

Ha!!! This for two old fogies. One a school night, nogal.

He was sat though. The little rheumy, pink rimmed eyes. The stifled yawns. The furious blinking.

Needless to say, the fact that he had three beers didn't help either...

I though, on the other hand, was the Belle of the Ball.

The fact that I had two huge glasses of beer, DID help.

But sadly, this morning, I paid the price.

I had to drag my butt out of bed. My eyes felt like The Lord & Master of the Manor's must have felt like around 11:30pm last night.

I had a serious headache.

The fact that I drank 3 - yes THREE mugs of coffee at the concert - after being only on tea for the last 10 months, added to my extreme discomfort. (I won't say anything about the beer.)

So..early to bed for me tonight...

It is now 9:30 pm - and all is quiet in the house... the sound of heavy puffing (not that kind, you pervert), gently flows from the bedroom.

...Nighty night!!!

Where is the Magic?

Dear Diary

OK. So what is the fascination with my things?

They are ordinary things.

Lipstick, make-up, foot creams, brushes, hairclips, nailclippers, CD's, my cellphones.

So - why do I find them all over the house?

Where I DID NOT LEAVE THEM??

Call me obsessive-compulsive. Maybe I am turning into my mother as I grow older (goodness knows, I have heard the familiar echo of her voice many a times while shrieking at the kids)..

But I like my things neat. And tidy. And packed away.

So why, why do my children find them a source of endless treasure???

Does my daughter not have her own CD games? So why are my disks forever lying around?

Does she not have her own manicure set/roll-on/hair brush (oh no, hang on with the brushes, this is unique - I found 4 in The Lord & Master's car over the weekend - he drops the kids in the morning and that seems to be optimum hair brush moment for Princess 1).

Why are the lounge scatter cushions the best thing for a doll's tea party...on the floor?

Is it OK to learn to walk around the mess instead of bitching about it all the time? Even though this means by 14:00 I can apply to be a star on Clean House?

I am afraid I will never get used to it. This is a VERY HARD THING.

And that my family will never learn.

Is it possible for one husband and his brood to SO continuously miss the (open) laundry basket upon undressing before a bath?

But then again, this is the MAGIC house.

Because things pack themselves away by MAGIC.

Beds make themselves by MAGIC.

The laundry washes, dries and promptly hangs themselves up by MAGIC.

The clothes and toys MAGICALLY jump off the floor and hop back into the cupboards.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner MAGICALLY appear on set times.

Children MAGICALLY get fed, bathed and dressed for bedtime.

So, is it fair that Mommy needs a bit of MAGIC herself to survive?

I'd Rather Do Washing Than Lunch

Dear Diary

I think I am getting old.

Yup. There. I've said it. (Not out loud, but it was in my brain.)

I don't want to go out anymore.

Gasp!! Shriek! Shock!! Horror!!

I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to.

I don't want the schlep of doing my hair.

I don't want to fret what to wear. (And then get to the mall and the other women my age - the ones with the BODIES, look like they stepped from the covers of Vogue).

I don't want to spend hours getting the horde ready to go out.

I don't want to count to 300,509,890,299 (10 doesn't do it for me anymore) when Princess 2 goes into a screeching fit because she "hates those shoes" and yanks the whole lot off YET again...

I don't want to order the entire kids menu, only for it all having to end up as take-aways, as the jungle gym or the childless couple next door was more entertaining.

I don't want to have to call the waiter at every meal as the soft drink was spilled on the table and the floor YET AGAIN (why do they ALWAYS provide tall, top heavy glasses for kids?? For crying out loud - they can't even see above the table, let alone reach high enough to drink out of those classes including that long straw...)

I don't want to (should I take them with) run after the kids while I try and have a pizza (formal restaurants are strict NO GO zones with toddlers - it's pizza or our local family-friendly steakhouse.

I don't want to (should I not take them with) feel guilty the whole night because I dare have a time away. For MYSELF!

I don't have the energy to deal with my Mom's guilt trip. "Mom, we want to go out tonight." Her (without skipping a beat: "Will you be feeding/bathing the kids before you go? What time will you be back?"
(My mother has serious security/saftey issues, see. Living in South Africa clearly doesn't help either....)

I don't want to come home at 11:00 (GASP!! SO LATE!) and the kids all all running amok in the lounge ("They JUST didn't want to sleep and he kept on asking for you.." best said in your most feeble, most exhausted voice that you can muster, while blinking your tired eyes like an owl caught unexpectedly in a spotlight), the entire house smells of fishfingers (Lord & Master doesn't like fish so Mom & Mom-in-Law uses the odd opportunity to splash out - besides the fact that I am not there to cook), and each and every window is shut tighter than a clay oxen's butt, and every, and I DO mean EVERY, light in and outside the house is on.

I don't want to feel guilty about spending the money on going out instead of spending it on my kids or SOMETHING ELSE THAT IS MORE IMPORTANT.

I don't want to drive home after spending money to be faced by beggars on every street corner (I see they bus them in these days - four per robot or stopstreet - sometimes with the obligatory helper to steer the blind) and be forced to acknowledge my own financial well-being and the financial not-so-well-being. Let me be for goodness sake - I have my own guilt- trip issues...I don't want your poverty on my brain (while I drive home with the take-aways on my lap). I know, I know. Mean-spirited bitch, hey? But hell, there are some days....

I want to stay at home.

I don't want to have to decide.

Leave me alone.

Don't phone me. (I know you are going to ask me to come out and then I sound like the party pooper when I always say no.)

Don't do any surprise visits. I will be in my fat tracksuit with the holes on the knees. My hair will be in a clip and my fringe will be oily. I will have no make-up on. I will have oatmeal on my (very old and stretched) jersey. I will be wearing my incredibly cheap and nasty mass produced plastic Chinese slops. (Whose maker, by the way, should get the Nobel prize). I will probably have a red and sweaty face because I am doing some or other filthy hobby/cleaning job. I will be tired and irritable because I have been picking up and cleaning after the brats the whole day - weekends provides a WHOLE DAY's opportunity of messing, you see.

And of course, as you have pre-planned the visit, you will look great, smell of perfume and as always, your figure looks good in anything.

I want to be at home.

My kids are safe here.

Princeling can climb, run, jump and anything else he fancies, as much as he wants to, and I know he will be (relatively) safe.

After three years, anything that can cut & maim him have done so, and has been packed away.

The pool has a fence and a net on.

The double gate system is (99.9% - apart from the time with the dog) in place.

Anything that he can hang himself up/against with - has been trimmed/chopped/tied up.

I can relax here.

Don't expect me to come for a social braai or a restaurant visit with my kids in tow.

IT IS NOT RELAXING RUNNING AFTER A DEMENTED THREE YEAR OLD!!!!!!

He runs faster than me anyways. There is no ways I can catch him.

And when I do, he scratches, howls and bites. (You know that little maneuvre when you want to pick them up and they pull their shoulders 'in' so they slip through like an eel and you end up with half the jacket and a half-dressed squirming, squealing child on the floor?)

And no - he does not have any psychological issues, he is quite normal - as any mother of an average 3 year old can assure you...

And people STARE. And shake their heads. And mutter: TSK! TSK! under their breath.

And even though you always say, fuck the people, we ARE the people, you do care.

And you can feel your face getting hotter and hotter. And your hair is suddenly SO irritating.

And you can see they are all commenting amongst themselves that that is a seriously naughty child and that YOU have no control over him. The frozen smiles and stiff next as their eyes casually saunter over your little scene and the stiff lips as they mutter, mutter, mutter. The partner's eyes quickly darting to your table before they look away....dead giveaway.

But boy!!! Who are the first to jump up and lecture you about child abuse should you lose the plot and smack him on the butt....

So you end up hissing idle threats. Cajole. Plead. Buying the toy/hamburger/chips/Coke/chocolate mousse/balloon/toy car that nobody is going to use/eat. The item you would NEVER under normal circumstances buy.

So no. I have decided.

Give me a boring weekend at home any day, thank you very much.

I'd rather do washing than lunch.

Chewey The Licky

This is Morgan...my poor departed brak.

May his little soul rest in peace.

May he catch as many cats as he can without getting kakked on.

May he eat only eat fillet steak from now on.

May he FINALLY catch that Hadeda...

May he never be scared of thunder and lightning again.

May he bark at the gate as much as he wants to.

And may the tree grow much better where we buried his little fury body...

What a Kak Week or Two!!

Dear Diary

It has been forever since my last confession.

Where do I begin? Princeling got bad flu (as you will remember by my last writing).

Friday afternoon (two weeks ago), he couldn't breath..made these funny gasping breathes.

Took him to the paediatrician, who promptly admitted him to hospital for severe respiratory distress. Drip in , blood test, nebulising every two hours, steroids twice a day, the whole lot.

Mommy slept in the horrible lazy boy next to the cot. Only found out two nights further it can actually lean back more than what I had it on.

So anyways, child is ok - battling to breath a bit, but getting better. Mommy getting more and more tired. By Sunday the doc says - OK Monday morning you will probably go home.

In the interim the blood results come back.

* A 74.6 count allergy to cats (I have 3)(doc says he has never seen such a high count in a child) (should be less than 0.35),
* 30 something to dogs (we have 2)(should be less than 0.35),
* house dust mites(2.72 - should be between 0-0.35).(Thank goodness we just got rid of the carpets and put in wooden floors)
* horses (4.86 - should be less than 0.35)-Tonto will have to go, slight milk, infant milk (formula).
* & cows. No more milking Daisy then..

* Oh - and he is testing positive for asthma. (eosin Cationic Protein 65.90 (should be between 0-15)).

What fun.

Sunday morning, the child does not look well. Something is up.

He is listless, the tummy looks like a drum and he is farting something real bad. Stinky.

Monday morning 11:00 we are at home. Princess 2 (in the interim) has contracted tonsillitis (yes the fun never stops when you are a parent). Princeling, Princess 2 and I all in the bed, catching up on some much deserved sleep. 3 o'clock he sits up. "Mommy - I am coughing..."

And then the puking begins. And doesn't stop.


I phone the doc at his room - not there (somewhere in the hospital). He phones me back at 6 when he gets to paeds (where I eventually left a message for the sister in charge). Explain everything..."OK Mom, you have to bring him back immediatly.."

So 6:30 we were back at the hospital child dripped up again.
Rotavirus.
Good old fashioned seriously contagious gastro.
And the child pukes.
And vomits.
And pukes some more.
Eventually he couldn't anymore. Was just dry retching. 1 o'clock he (and 1:30 me) finally passes out.

Then next morning - the diarrhea starts... eish....the smell. Ugh.

We stayed there until Thursday morning - when we were finally allowed to go home..

Now, I find it interesting, after I have done my Internet research (amazing how knowledge is now available to us) that Rotavirus has an incubation period of 2 days.

Which means if he started feeling sick on Sunday/Monday - he must have gotten it on Friday at the hospital - as we were not in contact with any strangers outside our house the week prior.

It is transmitted via fecal/oral contact.

Now, I also find it interesting that in the whole time there - out of the staff of 15-20 who rotate during day & nite shifts, I only saw 2 sisters/nurses actually wash their hands in our ward. This was also mentioned by two other mothers in the same ward.

Note - the 2nd time we were in the 'gastro' ward...

There were no diposal bags for soiled nappies - except for the big communal bin in the room (with the broken lid). Well, there were 2 actually (both with broken lids): one for domestic and one for medical waste. The people were friendly enough - but everytime my child's bed got soiled, I ended up cleaning it myself as the staff took so long to come and help... (After requesting new linen a few times....)

And this is a private clinic, for which (thank goodness for medical aid) my medical aid probably paid through their noses....

Ah...to live in Africa. It IS defintely an experience you cannot explain to someone. You actually have to do it to appreciate it.

Friday morning Princess 1 felt nauseous. So she stayed home from school. On Monday too. Then The Lord & Master of the Manor got sick.

(Sheesh -don't these people know how to wash their hands?????)

OK - he did have bladder infection...but still.

Sunday some Mini Cooper Driving Marketing Schmuck Woman charged past my house at top speed (just as a friend of mine & her husband were coming in through our front gate), the dog ran out, and she hit him at about 120km per hour.

Thud.

Not even screech of tyres....she stops about 5 houses down, she went so fast.. I suppose I should be grateful she stopped.
Jumps out of her car.
Wails like a banshee..."I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry...I know they are like children...wail, wail, wail".

Now this is all while my dog is lying in the road, blood pouring from his mouth - all four legs stiff like pegs.

Yeah, whatever, cow.

So my friend's husband (who is a policeman) kindly offers to put the dog down with his .45.


Er...horror.

'Eet ees beeg bullet. We taik heem inside. I shoot queek.' (They Bulgarian see.)

The dog's heart is still beating strong.

'Okee. Maibee yhou taik dog to the vet. Maibe hee survaive. Leelte dowgs sometimes veery strongk.'

So I take dog to vet.

Where he promptly gets dripped up and morphined out. Two days and R6,000 later (divide by 7 for the Yanks), we put him down. No broken bones or organs, just the serious brain damage. Can't hear, can't see - no response in the pupils.

Is it OK to cry so much over a dog, who your main conversation with was: Voetsek, blerrie stupid dog."?

By Tuesday afternoon I couldn't see out of my eyes.

We fetched Morgan and buried him in our garden. Now poor Toby is alone...

I think I cried for the loss of his little life, for the light that was snuffed out in his bright little eyes.
For the pathetic little strange-voiced barks he gave at the vet ("he doesn't know where he is or what is going on"), for all the times I was ugly to him, ignored him.

For all the times he was happy to see us.

For all the times he barked at people at the gate or strange sounds in the night - keeping us safe.

For all the times we chased him around the garden, with his tongue flapping wildly, yapping happily.

For the times in summer we would chuck him in the pool with us, and when upon getting out - he would charge down the garden like a lunatic.

For his little brown spotty nose.

For his surreptitious licking.

We used to call him Chewey the Licky. (He looked like Chewbacca but licked too much. This dry little hot tongue - and he was so fast, you would think to yourself: 'Did that dog just lick me? I am not sure').

The sheepish look he got when caught out at something.

The shivers when the Highveld thunderstorms approached. And then he would practically try and climb on your lap because he was so scared of the thunder and lightning.

I cry for him because, in spite of what I thought I felt about him, I loved him a lot. And he was a part of our family like very other member.

Needless to say, it was a hectic week.

Who am I today?

Happy that my son is better.
Sad that he now has to use an asthma inhaler twice a day.
Sad because my cats had to banned to outdoor living (and this in winter).
Happy because my daughter is better.
Sad and tired.
And feeling sorry that I did not take the policeman up on his offer immediately.