Bad Mommies Are Out There

I know its been forever since I did a post. Hell, some of the new mommies probably don't even know who I am. Hi! I'm Sheena. My daughters name was Kiera, she was beautiful and gorgeous and passed away in 2004. Every now and again I still feel a maternal urge to do some writing, and Exmi won't let me quit being a member of this blog, so I make do when I can.

Today though, I want to do something different. Britt is my best friend. Her and I were knocked up within a month of each other. Our daughters used to have play time while in utero, Britt and I would stick our tummies together like dorks and giggle. We had so many planned lunches, girl days, arranged marriages for our girl kids.

Needless to say, it didn't pan out that way, but we were fortunate to not let the loss of Kiera get in the way of our friendship, or affect my ability to simply adore her (now two) children, who I also happen to be Godmother to.

This is a story written by Britt, who is barely literate half of the time so she must have spent hours doing this correcting her bad spelling, but it touched my soul and encompassed everything about her family in a few short paragraphs. I'm so happy for her, and for all of you, who have your children on a daily basis and follow the motions of being a family. Without further ado, I give you 'Saturday Mornings':


I wake up to the light filtering though my dark red curtains, note to self: get darker curtains. Its 06:30 and its Saturday - awesome I got to sleep a whole hour later than usual. I creep out of bed so as not to wake the sleeping giant of a man I call hubby, but most importantly not to wake the small now pajama less little girl who somehow crawled into my bed last night with out waking me - no wonder my whole left side is numb - no pajamas mean one thing - wet bed, so the coffee I was aiming at will have to wait I will sort out the bedding first.

Tiptoeing into the kid's room shared by both Nik and Cully-boy, I peep over the cot ever so slightly and find my son still asleep, I can't help the smile that pops onto my face. Ok B, I think to myself, go get the bedding, throw in the washing machine and get that cup of coffee. Making it to the kitchen while very skillfully maneuvering over the toys, I realize I forgot the pillow case, not wanting to have wasted anytime I turn on my heel to fetch the pillow case, upon turning round I kick a ball which goes flying, hitting the wall and then smashing the hollow black plastic bike over, making a deep hollow drum sound that the drummer of the greatest rock band in the world would be proud of - I hate that bike. I am frozen, I listen - the house remains quiet and relief washes over me again I start back to the bedroom this time watching my every step.
On entering the bedroom I notice movement in Cully-boys cot. This time with the stealth of a panther I crouch and peep over the side of the cot - his eyes are wide, darting around looking for me, he sees me, jumps up and smiles, he is cute so I smile back. Moving the wet bedding to my left arm I collect my ever growing baby and move towards the kitchen, not forgetting the pillow case. But he moans and pushes me towards my bedroom, this means only one thing - he wants dad.

Now there are two things I can do: option one: I could take him to dad where by I will have the chance to dash like a mad woman to the kitchen in aid of my coffee, leaving Dad to deal with Cully-boy and if I calculate correctly I could be sipping coffee in 5 minuets or option two I could be the best wife ever and let the hubby sleep in, coffee will take longer than 5 minuets, the need for coffee over rides my need to be nice. I walk into the room with Cully-boy now jumping up and down in my arm, he is big now so I cant really hold on to him very well so just as we get to the side of the bed he jumps out my arm and strait onto Dad's tummy - so much for a peaceful wake up. The hubby; always a smile on his face sits up and plays with Cully-boy and in-between bounces request a glass of juice as he has his hands full and he is so extremely thirsty. So off to the kitchen I go, I dump the wet bedclothes in the washing machine and turn it on, pour some juice and fill the kettle.

I turn to head back to the room, but there is no need my husband walks in with Cully-boy extended a full arms length from him and in-between heaves is able to tell me that my son has done a pooh, nappy is faulty, it stinks and he thinks he does not feel so well anymore. I must say that this tiny fault in my husband amuses me greatly. Has he ever smelt himself after game of rugby?? In a full roar of laughter I eventually take Cully-boy, as the hubby dashes to the bathroom. Letting my son know what a good boy I think he is for encouraging his father to go for a morning sprint I change his nappy, now this has become a skill as Cully-boy finds it very funny to see how fast he can flip himself over after I have unfastened the nappy and scramble around the bed, so with one hand firmly on his chest the other hand gets busy at pealing, wiping, unfolding and folding - told you it's a skill. My husband peeps his head around the corner and asks if it safe to enter, I giggle some more at his flaw and hand Cully-boy over to him. I must say when there is no brown threatening pooh, my husband holds his son close and they are the best of mates.

They disappear into the lounge and play. I peep over at Nikita who is now awake, but clearly not impressed to be woken up, I mother her telling her how wonderful it is to see her princess face, and she eventually manages a smile. I go back to the kitchen with the thoughts of hot coffee filling my mind when I find that I filled the kettle but did not switch it on – damn it. As soon as Dad and son see me in the kitchen requests for food come pouring in I resist the urge to ignore them but I find myself making more juice and some breakfast. The kettle has boiled but I decide to take the now mountain of food to my two boys, the water will still be hot when I get back. Once they've been set, there is silence in the dining room as they both quietly munching away.
I head back to the kitchen but, am stopped by Nikita who "has a HUGE problem". She "just can't decide what to wear". So I follow her to her bedroom and pull out her favorite dress, no she is not in the mood for a dress, ok so I find her new Barbie outfit and for the first time ever in her four years she does not feel like Barbie this particular Saturday. Reaching for a pair of jeans and a cute top, apparently these jeans hurt her - they did not hurt her the other day but apparently she just knows they will hurt her today if she wears them. Eventually after what seems like hours she decides to wear a stained pair of yellow shorts and a teeny tiny pink shirt that is clearly far to small for her, satisfied with her outrageous choice in clothing we both head for the kitchen, I don't even bother looking to see if the water in the kettle is still hot - I know its not, so again I turn on the kettle and make Nikita her multi colored cereal, she is not impressed - the milk is cold.

I warm the milk up and now once again happy, she bounces off to join the boys in the lounge my first instinct is to tell her to stop bouncing and walk slowly, but I am too late there is multi colored cereal and milk all over the floor. I can hear the kettle switch off, but Nikita is now just dying of hunger so I start the cereal ritual all over again this time not forgetting to warm the milk up, she walks off to the lounge this time very slowly to enjoy her tasty breakfast. I am just in time to clean the mess as Cully-boy has noticed the very interesting white puddle with multi colored bits, in no time at all he is down on all fours and with open mouth and wagging tong he tries desperately to lap up all he can see. I grab him and give him a bowl of dry cereal, now this may seem mean, but he is very happy to eat it like this and I know it will land up on the floor eventually so there is less labor as I will only need to sweep.

This time I am clever I switch on the kettle, for the third time I have done so while I dash to clean up the mess and then stand by the kettle while hearing the faint cries from the desperate family for more juice, but I refuse to move. Do you know how long a kettle takes to boil? Yes - forever. The washing machine and the kettle switch off at the same time and once again I am sitting with two options: option one: make coffee, enjoy - hang out washing later or option two: hang out washing and come back and boil kettle again.

I come to the decision that South Africa is in an energy crisis and all the people governing this country would appreciate me saving electricity and not boiling the kettle four times for one cup of coffee, so finally I make my steamy awesome cup of coffee and retreat to the lounge while sipping it all the way there. As I sit down, I receive a wink from the husband, a multi colored smile from Nikita and a cuddle from Cully-boy. And suddenly I realize - who needs coffee at 06:30 in the morning anyway.

Bad Mommy Moment

Hannah has recently taken up Belly Dancing with me. We go to the classes together and we have a ball. She loves the shimmies and shakes and she's super-flexible - able to do far more with her tiny limbs than I ever could. All in all, it's a great mom-daughter bonding time.

Two weeks ago on belly dancing night, it was a particularly cold evening to be going out. Hannah was really keen to go, so I couldn't say no. We enjoyed the lesson, but when she came home, she began coughing. I didn't think too much of it and sent her to bed.

The next morning, she coughed through breakfast. Having forgotten about her coughing spell the previous evening (bad mommy moment number 1), and knowing that she can be a bit of a drama queen, I told her to give it a rest and eat her breakfast. She got ready for school, all the while coughing and complaining that she was feeling sick. I rolled my eyes and put it down to tiredness from the fun the night before. Later that morning, I waved her a cheery goodbye at her classroom door.

The phone call later that day went something like this:

"Hello, Mrs Dunlop?"

"Yes?"

"It's Mrs X from XX Primary. Hannah's here in my office and she's having an asthma attack and she has a temperature. Could you come and fetch her?"

Um, why yes, I'll fetch her, and while I'm about it, I think I'll knock my head against the closest brick wall, all the while chanting: "Bad Mommy. Bad Mommy."

Your homework for this week is: Write a Bad Mommy Moment post from the past 2 weeks. Don't be shy: you know you've had one...

Discipline

Discipline. It’s that quintessential life principle that gets drummed into us from day bloody one.

I need you to know this before I continue, I hate rules. I loathe being told “no, you can’t do that”. So, when it comes to discipline, I battle. But, as life has grown me up and made me think about things over and over again, I’ve developed and stick to my own set of rules.

For that, I blame my parents. They weren’t ever particular sticklers for the conventional “be a good girl, keep your mouth shut, do as you’re told” rulings. In fact, their lives weren’t even remotely good examples of “keeping their mouths shut”. For that, I am eternally thankful, even when it makes me unpopular. I don’t have the ability to keep my mouth shut when something irks me, annoys me or is shown to me as an injustice. Above all of that, I can’t stand people who beat around the bush. Either be direct, stick your neck out, say what you mean to say, and we’ll deal with it. People who try to pussy-foot around an issue, generally don’t get my respect or my abiding.

This is one good reason why SheBee and I can live together. Neither of us are pussy-footers. Some people call us fullashit, but we call a spade, a spade.

When I was growing up, my folks used their voices. Alot. I cannot think of a time when they weren’t talking. Heh. My mom also had a very unique way of telling us when we were in the shit.

If I’d been a bit of a naughty shit the day or night before…Mom would simply make me a beetroot sandwich for school lunch. Now, beetroot sandwiches are actually great freshly made. But, leave them in your lunchbox for the four hours between leaving home and lunch break and, well, by the time you whip them out to eat them… all you have is a pink, soggy mess. That was generally enough to let me know I’d been a bit of a shit. Trust me, having your school friends look at you askew because you’ve got soggy pink bread for lunch, makes you feel distinctly UNcool and it works pretty darn well.

I digress…

When it comes to discipline, when it comes to rules, when it comes to the “no, you can’t” and “yes, you can” debate for Cam…I’m not all that conventional.

I’m not a smacker. I have a simple rule on this, if she smacks someone, I’ll smack her hand. Undoubtedly, I’ll kiss it better and give her a love afterwards but, I will never smack my child in anger. I can’t do it. It’s just not me. And that’s not me being weak, that’s me knowing that that’s how I want to raise my child.

When it comes to enforcing a rule though. I’m a shouter.

Now, in our house, our rules are not conventional. The primary rule in our house is bedtime. And I will shout about it, if I have to. Generally though, I win before I have to shout. I’m a negotiator, true, and I believe that gentle reminders for about half an hour before bedtime make things easier.. “after this Gummi Bears, it’s bedtime, okay?” generally garner a very cute “okay” response and there’s not much hassle beyond there. Face it, No kid likes to be told it’s time to go to bed, fuck, I hated being told it. But, it has to happen. And it does. Most of the time.

Oi, nobody’s perfect and anyone who says they are is simply another one of those things I cannot stand - a liar. =)

So, in our house and our lives, we don’t have the “eat at the table; children should be seen and not heard; no, you can’t wear a ballgown to school; dessert is only for after dinner” rules. We have good ones. Cameron is a stickler for please and thank you and is learning, very well, how to share. We don’t care about drawing on the walls, as long as it’s crayon. We don’t care about paint, as long as it’s on the sheet and not on the carpet and yes, we can throw stuff in a bowl and make a big mess and pretend to bake. Yes, on the floor. No, I don’t care if it makes a mess.

Someone pretty random in my life that I went to school with, Wendy, taught me a critical life lesson about child-raising many, many years ago. She, in passing, whilst we were sitting at a soccer game (don’t ask questions just accept, people…) said to me: “having three kids is hard. But I just don’t worry about anything that a shower or a good cloth can fix”.

I can never thank her enough for saying that. I am anal about cleaning the house. But, when it comes to Cam’s mess, I let her have her mess.

And, funnily enough, it’s Cam who says “Mommy, I want to clean” or “Mommy, I want to wash the dishes”. She knows that mess means cleaning up afterwards. Most of the time. Again, Nobody’s perfect, and anyone who says they are is, you guessed it, a liar.

So, yeah, Rules. Mine aren’t normal. But, yes, I’m a shouter. A big one. I am not scared to raise my voice to make my point when trying to cajole a three year old away from a tantrum.

So, if you ever see a short lady walking down the street holding the hand of a little girl wearing wellington boots and a fairy princess dress whilst they sing and eat ice cream BEFORE dinner, that’s us.

Living our lives our way, thanks very much.

The Shoes

Dear Cameron,

As you grow (and my word, you are growing so fast and so awesomely), you have one element of life as a girl of which I am so proud and yet, it is so very tiring.

You, my girl, from your earliest days, have been and always will be, a shoe fetishist.

The good kind though, you do not demand the purchase of a million pairs of shoes all at once. The good kind is the type where you LIKE a pair of shoes, and will NOT let them go. Not for toffee or bribery or anything I can muster up to convince you that “no, those shoes are really done for now and you should really wear this pair”.

You, my Cameron, are stubborn. This is not your fault. It’s genetic. And when you LOVE something or someone, you LOVE them. Wholeheartedly, and without inhibition.

And so, when you LOVE your shoes, you really do LOVE them.

You see, Cameron. I’ve known this about you since birth. I knew you would be a shoe fetishist. I have an affinity for shoes, and I love my favourite pairs and yes, I wear them to death’s door and just cannot let them go. Just one look at Mommy’s “smartie slops”and you’ll know this to be true.

Your very first proper pair of ’shoes’, were a pair of Vans that Anne bought for you on your first birthday. Before then, it had been booties and little slip on guys that you loved in much the same way - those red and blue ones stick in my mind particularly. You loved those slip-ons.

So, then appeared the Vans. With the velcro and the cool skulls and whilst some parents of other children would look a little askew at the ’strange parents who let their one-year old wear shoes with skulls on’, we did not care. You loved those shoes, and we loved that you loved them and we all loved how divine they were and how much they embodied your definitive coolness.

You wore those Vans everyday. You loved them. Even on the days when I would have to wash them.. you’d wait for them to dry in the sunshine just so that you could slip them on again and feel cool again.

My babe, you’re the coolest kid, even in your socks. Don’t forget that.

Then you grew some more, and those Vans needed to ‘move on’. And we found what you term your “sky present shoes”. A little pair of camo slip-ons, with a buckle and thick sole. And you loved them from the moment I put them on your feet.

And every day since that you put them on.

But those ’sky present shoes’ wore thin quickly, and we spent months cajoling and going shopping for new shoes. Hells, it got to Winter and you refused. You said “I will wear them with socks!”.

And, you stubborn girl, you did.

And then we finally found - your pink dancing shoes.

With the velcro and now that you were bigger, you could put them on and take them off by yourself and you loved them. LOVED them.

But, you were nearing three, fast, and being the tomboy you are, they started to fall apart quickly.

So, I spent six weeks trying. Taking you shopping, showing you shoes, purchasing no less than three pairs of shoes that you took some kind of a liking to in the stores and bringing them home.

You wearing those new shoes, proudly.

And the moment we’d walk in the front door, you’d sit down, take those lovely new shoes off and demand your dancing shoes.

I got to the point once where I just sat and sobbed over it.

Your stubbornness was defeating even me - the most stubborn of all. I’d tried everything - rainbow shoes, shoes with laces, shoes with little heels, shoes that sang, shoes that were pink, shoes that were green, anything).

So, i gave in. I caved.

I phoned your dad whilst I was at work one day.

And asked him to try and take you out shopping and see if he could get you to fall in love with a pair of shoes, and keep them on for more than five minutes and somehow, SOME.HOW, we could eliminate the ’sky present shoes’ and the ‘dancing shoes’ from the equation. I was desperate at this point, determined to somehow get new shoes on your feet…

The next day, a Friday, you woke up and we had our morning cuddle and I began the ritual of trying to catch you into wearing clean clothes for school and get your shoes on, and your face clean. I try and make it fun, I promise. And really, I do, with “spiders” and Super Mommy Powers and flying whooshing noises and cuddles and promises of “yes, i’m sure you can have a pony one day, Cam-Cam, if you’ll just let me get your socks on”…

So that Friday, I looked at you, you looked at me, and I said what I say every day:

“Cam-Cam, what shoes do you want to wear today?”

(and I hope and pray, every day, that you’d ask for not-the-dancing-shoes or not-the-sky-present-shoes).

And you looked at me, laughed and said:

“Mommy, you know, I want my new rainbow shoes”.

Feeling Bad

Okay, I know every mother goes through this, and I know it's not the end of the world, but I am feeling a little [okay, a LOT] guilty. Today is The Kid's first time at day care. It feels like I'm admitting that I'm not capable of looking after my own child by myself. Not capable of being a mother, because I have commitments other than my child. The first draft of my thesis is due on the 18th of July, and while I initially thought I'd be able to study while The Kid was home, I discovered I cannot. He demands my full attention.

Which I have now just deprived him of. And dumped him with a daymother. It was slightly heartbreaking, I wont lie. This morning, getting him dressed and ready, he seemed to sense my apprehension. Either that, or I was mistaking his usual moans and groans for something they weren't.

I walked into the daymother's house, with him on my hip, placed him on the playroom floor, and another kid crawled over to him with a ball. My kid took one look at this other baby, opened his mouth so his dummy fell out and just started bawling. And then most of the other kids started bawling too. They seem to set each other off. The daymother quickly ushered me out with assurances that my child would be just fine, he needs to adjust to other children. I didn't even get to kiss him goodbye. I know it's probably better that way, and he probably would have cried even more had I picked him up, but it made me feel awful.

If not for my sister who was with me, I probably would have cried. I managed to last a whole hour before I called the daymother to check on my child. She said he was perfectly happy, had just had his breakfast and was smiling and laughing. I couldn't hear crying in the background, so I was amazed she'd got my child to be quiet.

Oh well. All I can say is she's going to have her hands full with that one. I know I shouldn't worry, as she is the mother of one of The Boyfriend's closest friends, but I cant stop thinking about him!

Tell me it gets better? I know I'm being such a wet blanket, but it would be nice to hear other mommies' first-time-at-daycare experiences, please!!

My Darling Boy

You are driving me insane.

You're breaking rules and laws and I don't know what to do to how to handle it.

I want to curl up and go to sleep... or ignore everything that's going on and pretend it never happened.

Letting you carry on and do what you like regardless would be so much easier than trying to fix it or change your behaviour.

I can't do this alone my darling Damien, you need to pull finger too.

rant post, block your ears kids

For fuck sakes. Woman at the robot in front of me? Buckle your kid the hell up! Do you not realise that if you slam on the brakes the first thing going through your child's mind, next, will be his ass? Literally.

Did no one ever tell you that while the ankle biter sticks out his arm a truck will magically rush past and chop it off?

I think sometimes you mothers out there need to wake the fuck up and read the newspapers. Children DO die. Children DO get involved in car accidents. Children DON'T live forever. Some of us bury them before we ever imagined.

Buckle up and sit your arse down on the chair, not on the back shield or in between the front seats!

Stop being such a pussy, and be a parent.

Child Protégé, Indeed.

(Crossposted from SA Parent Life)

So, there you were, all newborn and fresh and cute and your dad and I were swallowed up by new baby love.

Then, after six weeks of “continual awake/asleep/feed me/change me/and that’s all I do – isn’t that easy?” phasing… the worst thing happened.

All of a sudden, you were AWAKE. AWAKE and staring at me. Goading me to “go on, now entertain me”.

So, we did. We bought the bloody expensive Baby Einstein. Convinced ourselves we were, as a result, nurturing your hidden talents and growing ourselves a true blue child protégé. We just KNEW we were the BEST parents ever.

Of course, that was the exact moment you started to totally ignore the television.

So, back to the world’s largest baby superstore we went. And invested small African countries’ GDPs in “educational toys”, utterly enamoured by the idea that WE were doing the BEST for our little pumpkin. SHE was going to grow up and CHANGE the world.

And we brought them home, showed them to you, and you gave them exactly thirteen seconds’ attention before throwing them back at me.

And turned your attention back to the television.

So, we kept on going. Trying everything. Reading. Reading to you and with you was a HUGE priority in our lives because someone (and approximately fifteen child-rearing books) said…

“You know, children who read from a young age really learn to talk faster?”

And there we were, talking to you and reading up a storm. CONVINCED that we were STILL growing a child protégé. I even went as far as saying:

“Well, my daughter is already mouthing words and making word-sounding babbles. She’s SO clever”

Why did nobody stop me and say something like “Oh, you’re going to regret this one…”

And then, you were walking and talking. You said “mama” one Thursday night and I just held you and cried and laughed and smiled.

I WAS SO PROUD.

Until, of course, the day came. Anyone who is a parent knows this. The day comes where you begin to regret being so eager for your child to speak and talk and communicate.

And yes, folks, that day was a Tuesday morning.

You’d been sick, poor thing. There’d been mess and vomit and pooh.

So, I cleaned us both up, started the mammoth laundry task. Tried to pry my fatigued eyes open to remember how to turn the machine on.

Both of us so tired and grubby.

And there I was, standing beside the machine. And you called me that name I know and love so well now.

“Mama?”

So, I turned and looked at you, my poor little sick child.

“Yes, Cameron?”

And you looked back at me, with your innocent eyes, all your precious teeth grinning at me.

And then you said, “F*ck.”
.
“Children are natural mimics who act like their parents despite every effort to teach them good manners.” ~Author Unknown

Blasphemy

Duplicate post from my site

I can't believe that our *government decided that easter was falling during an inconvenient time so they promptly shifted it one month back! Ok, I can.. just wanted to appear shocked...
Whats next Christmas in November??

I told my boys because its a leap year the easter bunny only gives easter eggs to adults.. They weren't happy... Now before you go all "shame man, cruel mother" on me, consider the facts...

1. they are 13 and 9 years old..

2. they pretend to believe in the easter bunny for the chocolate..

and if they can play this game why cant I play along?

;-)

B

*government - I have since been told that the government is working in conjunction with the moon phases and Equinox… I am not aware of how dangerous this Equinox is but proceed with caution when encountered..just to be safe.. Weather is kak here at the moment so I am going back to bed..

Over and Out!

P.S. sorry its a copy but work has me strangled at the moment... :-)

Letter of Intent...

It was not something I wanted to do but they pushed me and pushed me until finally I had no choice..

There was a meeting in the kitchen..
Three present and counting. One exhausted, frustrated, unappreciated mom and two skulking scared boys...

I gave them both copies for which they signed for so that there is no "But I didn't know!" plea's later on.

The document in question is an official Letter of Grievance.

Dear Spawn of mine,

1. I will no longer sign homework books - Tired of living a lie
2. I will no longer make lunches for school - It ends up in the bin anyway.
3. Your bedroom will no longer be cleaned by the maid - I can't afford the danger pay she demands.
4. If your dirty plates are not packed in the dishwasher then all meals will be served on the dirty dishes.
5. Clothing left on the floor will not be washed - alternatively teach your clothes to get up and walk itself to wash basket.
6. Bad attitude will be dealt with by the only means available - whips, chains, sticks, slops, cups, whatever.
7. Shouting and screaming at each other falls under Bad Attitude - see above
8. Money for airtime, shop,etc will have to be earned the old fashioned way - suck up to you Granny Outlaw, or sell unwanted crap to unsuspecting friends/relatives.
9. Trips to school, youth, shops, friends, etc will be charged for accordingly - I am not the free taxi service previously abused.

The above are to be strictly adhered to and any deviation from them will result in my complete resignation as you Mother and will have further repercussion such as emergency evacuation from the family home (for your own safety of course).

I think I am being very clear and look forward to a happier environment for everyone concerned.

Signed,
Mother

Well, After many jaw dropping minutes. I finally told them that this is the reality that they have built and since I have not quite reached that point I am just showing them what is on the cards if their behaviour does not buck up smart smart!

Sigh Of Relief

There I was thinking that my period was a week late. There I was thinking I'd have two anklebiters under the age of two years old. There I was thinking that The Boyfriend would freak out and leave me to be a single parent. There I was thinking I'd have to go through the whole morning sickness party again.

But I can breathe a sigh of relief. I'm not a parent-in-waiting-for-the-second time. Nope. Instead I only have one anklebiter. And a definite need to take my birth control regularly.

I just never learn my lesson, do I?

The Kid Got His Shots Yesterday

And has been unbearably miserable ever since. Took him to the Baby Clinic to get his vaccination boosters, and to get a check up and get weighed.

He's a whopping 7.4 kg and only 16 weeks old. He didn't cry much when he got the injection, but when we got home, all hell broke loose. He woke up hot, he woke up because he was too cold, he woke up because his dummy fell out his mouth, because he was miserable and because he was sore.

Eventually at about 3:30 am I gave up and passed the buck to The Boyfriend. Then I sat outside and had a cigarette and a bit of a quiet sob. Sneaked back into the bedroom, and The Kid was lying in the middle of the bed, with The Boyfriend rubbing his back. His eyelid were slowly drooping and he eventually nodded off. Every time I woke up to check on him, I saw he had schooched closer to The Boyfriend, and was practically sleeping in his armpit. It was very, very cute.

I'm a little jealous that The Boyfriend coped so well with The Kid. I dont know what's wrong with me. Patience seems to be in short supply this week.

Let Go, Let TV

This is a post from my Restless Blog I thought was a good "bad mommy" entry:

I'm SO tired. It's 8:00 pm Sunday eve. it's been a LONG weekend, and my husband's at work. My daughter needs attention (as most normal kids do); I played with her a bit, tried to draw with her, "read" with her some - but finally kind of gave up. Quite frankly, I just don't have it in me anymore tonight. Because she's merely 18 months, her language is still very foreign to me and I spend most my days pretending to know what she's saying and "pretend" talking with her. Actually, I've done this since she was born. (That may be why she "talks" constantly). It's absolutely THE cutest thing I've ever heard and witnessed, but tonight - I just can't do it. I can't fake not being tired and I can't play with her and her toys she plays with in her own random way. I'm just plain exhausted. That's why daddy is suppose to be home on Sunday evenings: to save mommy from going insane.

So, I'm doing the thing I told myself I would never do BEFORE having my precious daughter: letting go and letting the TV babysit her.

BTW, in my defense, I AM forcing myself to still do the pretend "I'm so excited Kai-lin is on too!" + big fake - I don't want her to feel like she's watching TV alone - smile.

Is it bedtime yet?

A close shave

[this is a duplicate from my blog]

Black as White: Chapter 25 - A benediction

The humming machines, surrounding the sleeping and heavily bandaged child are starting to get to the woman who sits typing away on her computer and she frowns a little looking over at the man who sits close to the bed, holding the sleeping child’s hand in his and looking tortured.

It’s been a trying couple of days.

The phone call from a derange Dingbat with the curt instruction, “Get to Such and Such Hospital Pickle is dying” had embedded an unbelieving fear in her heart. By the time she arrives in hospital, the doors to the operation room have been firmly shut and The Dingbat sits on a bench in a waiting room looking lost. Lebo is clutching her hands in silent prayer and jumps to her feet when the woman rushes in.

“What is happening, where is she? What happened?” the questions are quick, fired in staccato fashion, commanding results.

“She is in theater sisi! She was ran over by a car. Her legs are broken and the doctors say there is something wrong with her head,” in her distress Lebo has abandoned English, and replies in her Sesotho, a language the other woman barely understands.

The Dingbat makes a half hearted attempt to get up, she slumps back in her chair and for the first time in years, she calls her daughter by her preferred name, “Bridget, my child …” the younger woman looks away.

Not now mother, she is thinking. Not now.

Whirling she makes for the nurses station. It’s a futile walk she knows, the doctors working on The Pickle will not be available. The only option is a vigil.

“Who are the doctors working on the little girl who just came in?” she asks the competent looking nurse who reels off an impressive sounding list. Jotting them down on the notebook the woman must have grabbed out of habit she asks, “Do you guys have wireless Internet in this hospital?” The answer is yes. Thank God for medical aid, Al Gore and the forward thinkingness of the man who decided to put a coffee shop in the hospital.

Flicking open the borrowed cellphone she has been using she starts making calls.

“Pappy, our little girl in hospital, being operated on …” She doesn’t get to finish, before the volley of questions begins. She tries to answer them but she is on edge.

“Just get here dammit!”

“S4, get to Such and Such hospital, Pickle was in an accident. I need you. And bring me a laptop please.”

“Lovely 1, Pickle is in Such and Such hospital. Please round up the girls, it looks bad. I need you guys.”

Heading back to the waiting room she watches he mother crying with aloofness. Not just yet.

“Did you let Daddy know?” she asks looking at The Dingbat who nods looking stricken.

When S4 arrives, followed closely by three terrified-looking women they all converge on her and surround her with love. For the first time since she has had the news, she is sobbing.

The group practically carries her out to a nearby restaurant and order her a drink.

“For the shock hun, medicinal,” Lovely 2 says in an attempt to lighten the mood. They head back to the hospital with sandwiches for Lebo and Dingbat.

The young woman pulls out the laptop and tells her blogging chums. She chats to a friend who is in England, she chats to another friend. Any one. Take me away from here WWW.

The Pappy arrives, he is sobbing, he wants answers, we have none. Bringing up the rear is The Bells, my father, the man capable to kissing away my fear. He kisses my forehead and says, "I'm here and your mother is sorry."

Seven hours after walking into the hospital, the doctors come into the waiting room.

“Who are the parents?” One asks the assembled group. The Pappy jumps up and looks at me expectantly. I stand up, then immediately collapse back into the chair. The laptop has crashed on the floor.

Jesus no. Please no.

“She is going to be fine.”

It’s a like a benediction.

At 4 in the morning The Pickle wakes up.

“Mammo? Can Mr Darcy come live with us please?”

I’m sobbing as I answer yes. I hate cats, but I love my daughter.

Peace And Quiet… For A Little While At Least…

My darling Damien… the centre of my li’l universe, the bane of my existence, the apple of my eye, the one who drives me insane… is going on a school camp for three days. He’s coughing like crazy- I think because he’s trying to smoke less for Flower’s sake- but he wants to go, and it’s a school curriculum requirement… and I need him to go.
The last coupla weeks I have not wanted to be a mommy anymore. I haven’t mentioned the Damien drama in a while because it seems that sometimes that’s all I post about- but it never ever goes away. We have good days and bad days, but it never goes away. Frankly, I am exhausted bunnies.
I am so tired of arguing with him.
I am so tired of repeating myself.
I am so tired of his lack of respect and his total lack of deference.
I am so tired of being constantly suspicious.
I have never met anyone so selfish and it breaks my heart… what the hell did I do to make him this way? How can he be so self centered, I’m pretty damn sure that’s not what I taught him.
It’s like nothing matters and no one counts unless he benefits directly.
You want an example of why he exhausts me so?
My bedroom has two doors. My flat used to have a verandah- enclosed before I moved in- and my bedroom had a glass door leading onto this verandah. It’s had a bookshelf in front of it for the longest time and I don’t use it. I lock my door and keep the key with me- partly so Taxi will leave Grampa Scratchy alone for a bit, but mostly to keep Damien out of my bedroom and my things. The other night I went into my room to organise clothes for work the next day and feed the old man and such like and I closed the door behind me. The next thing- Taxi appears from behind the curtains at the glass door! I go and look and see the door is open, and the bookshelf on the other side has been pushed back far enough to allow Damien’s skinny frame access to my bedroom as and when he likes.
So now I’m seriously pissed off.
Not only has Grampa Scratchy had no peace since I don’t know when- but Damien has been sneaky enough to come and go into my room as he pleases without moving the bookshelf enough to be noticeable from the livingroom.
Fucking hell.
I pulled the door shut and locked it, and those keys are now inside my locked bedroom.
Just thinking about how he screws the people who are supposed to be on his side pisses me off all over again.
What the hell am I going to do!!?!
How the hell is he ever going to be a grownup!!?!

The Baby-Sitters

Yes. I am a bad mommy. A bad mommy that loves to blog and read others' blogs. This is how I entertain my child while I'm blogging. Meet, The Babysitters:

Pissed off is an Understatement!

Grade 8 (Standard 6) is understandably a difficult year for anyone...

But we are now in the second month of the year (less than 6 weeks into the school year and my son has had his school bag taken and stuff removed from it four times!!!
Now you must understand... His bag is on the field next to him when it gets taken...
So Far he has had his stationary, His School Jacket and today they tried to take his School Pullover..
Add to that he has had a fingernail ripped off his first week at school and he is a victim of a school bully (not at all related to theft) and it makes for ONE VERY VERY MAD MOM!!

I have been to to the school twice and I plan another visit tomorrow.. I am not sure how I am going to deal with this but I can tell you that I have it in mind to go there with a leather strap and lay into each and every kid that might be responsible.. :-@

Not sure if I will be allowed to so will ask first.

Anybody have any better suggestions on how to deal with is??

Frustrated and Angry Mom

P.S. Where is the law on stringing kids to bonnet and going for joyride??

Missing the beat

I suspect I am missing the beat as far as raising The Pickle is concerned.

I had to be away from home this weekend and she practically screeched to be let go to the farm to be with the Pappy!

Yes, he is the Alpha Parent, but honestly, you know what it does to me to see her twirling the phone and telling her Pappy all about school. Sometimes regaling him with stories I hadn't been told.

Every picture drawn has Pappy doing heroic things like waving enthusiastically. Sometime the Mammo is not featured at all!

I know she has been living with him and everything, but I am jealous as hell.

More worrying is The Pickle totally loving the Pappy's soon-to-be-wife.

I'm going to start whispering bad things about both of them while The Pickle is asleep.

Nah ... I probably carry on doing the best I can and taking comfort in knowing she owes me for hanging around my tummy fro nine months and making me puke. Surely then, she'll feel a little obliged to give me a morsel of affection?

Did I say that?

Things I probably shouldn’t say to Ciara, but do anyway :

1. I am going to sell you to the next person who walks past the house.
2. I would take you back, but they wouldn’t give me a refund.
3. I WILL beat you.
4. If you don’t stop whining, I am going to jump off the tallest building I can find.

Some days being a mom is so rewarding.

Other days I would prefer to stab myself repeatedly in my left eye with a hot poker.

Territorial Issues

My daughter had a narrow brush with death yesterday.*

I've never been awfully big on sharing, and despite the general consensus that the role of mother carries with it an implicit compulsion to share surrender everything one owns, I am still not big on sharing.

I mean, I can deal with having to dole out half my share of the slab of chocolate after the rest of the clan have wolfed theirs down like starved beasts. I can live with having the kids empty half of my shampoo into the bath to make bubbles. I'm even starting to get over the indignity of having my one weekly shit interrupted as one of the small people barges in, incapable of waiting a single moment longer to enlighten me on the intricate comings and goings of monsters,vampires bamfires and imaginary friends.

But when I've taken the time to agonise over a little self-indulgent purchase on what will most likely be the only trip to London that my company ever sends me on; When I've fastidiously battled the wills of my seven other personalities and left that expensive perfume bottle sealed in its box, saving it either for a really special occasion or for my mother's upcoming birthday, at which time I'll be too broke to be able to buy her a decent present; When I'm having a Saturday morning lie-in for the first time in so long, I can't believe I once lived a life in which this was common practice; Then, upon waking up to find my daughter wafting breezily through the living room, that familiar and seductive scent wafting off her in overwhelming waves; Upon tearing through my underwear drawer in search of that precious bottle and finding it gone; then I am so very fucking not okay with sharing less inclined to be persuaded to refrain from bludgeoning the brat to death with a blunt object remain calm and reasonable.

* She walked away from the incident having suffered no physical harm, but having gained a new-found respect for Mommy's Things.