Life's A Bitch And Then Your Car Breaks Down

Recently, we went on holiday.  Not just any holiday mind you.  This was a 7-day, kid-free, naughty, indulgent, sanity and marriage saving bonanza. 

It had been three years since my husband and I had spent more than one night alone.  Towards the end of this tenure as prisoners in our home, life was becoming suffocating and drawn out.  The inevitable dreariness of routine wearing us thin with its sameness.  When you have children, the spontaneity of life is extinguished, like pissing on a fire.  Some people fly in the face of convention and hitchhike through Africa, newborn strapped to their backs, risking the elements and sneering at common sense.  The thought just about blows my head off.  Instead, we become trapped by our neuroses, doing everything by the book 'cos let's face it; it's easier.  A kid in a good routine & familiar environment functions better.  Fuck your needs, they really don't count.  

I discovered this website where mothers and fathers can post anonymous confessions about their lives.  http://www.scarymommy.com/confessions/ Nifty idea if it weren't so depressing.  I challenge anyone not to feel suicidal by Page 10.  Facades are dangerous and insidious, and OK fine, I suppose we all subscribe to our own bullshit as a survival tactic.  But at some point you have to say no, I need a break or, I need out of this relationship or, I need help.  

Cue my Dad's wedding present.  One week at a 5-star resort in White River, Mpumalanga - self-imposed kid ban.  My mom, bless her soul to heaven and back, offered to have Finn for the week.  The plan was to drive to Johannesburg, drop Finn off, then continue on to White River. Two hours into the journey, my car broke down.  Not just a teeny tiny easily fixed little nuts & bolts problem.  No, it broke right the fuck down.  The mechanic in Estcourt (to where we eventually got towed) told us we needed a whole new engine that would cost 17 grand and take a week to fix, at best.

At this point I am screaming at the universe to suck it!  I've waited three years for this motherfucking holiday and now I'm in a nightmare that someone would probably tell me 'builds character'. I don't NEED any more character, I have a three year old OK, I fart character.  Luckily I have a resourceful husband otherwise someone in Estcourt would be dead right now.  Probably him.  Seven hours later we were in a hire car en route to Johannesburg.  The start of our holiday was a train wreck.

Fast forward 24 hours and the universe is (only just) forgiven.  Once we became ensconced in our lakeside cabin, complete with fireplace and cosy blankets, we sank into genteel oblivion where every minute ticked by in a lazy, sleepy, unhurried way.  To the childless person that sounds like meh, so what?  To us hopelessly strung out parents; it was awesome on steroids.  Each morning when we woke at whatever time, spent an hour in the bath, read a whole magazine uninterrupted, ate a meal without telling someone to sit still and stop standing on the chair, was a kind of rebirth.  Every night we drank red wine and talked as if we'd just met; solving problems, planning futures, having whole conversations without being distracted by the verbal diarrhea of an energetic toddler.  We were like two stray magnets finally reunited, sighing with relief that we hadn't lost our way; we were just stressed and broken and tired.  This glorious indulgence with and in each other continued unabated for seven whole days.  A nuclear fallout couldn't have killed our buzz.

I came to the conclusion that this should be a pre-requisite for every parent.  No, a law!   Like having your car licensed or a passport renewed.  'Have we had our annual No Brats Break?  Well look at that, no we haven't.  And there are no real excuses (we had to drive 6 hours to deposit Finn with his grandmother; I would've driven 12), and no, we should not feel guilty.  I am literally a better mother since I got back.   

As parents, we will never come first.  But once a year I am willing to look my child in the eye and say, I love you, but it's my turn to be the Most Important Person of the Year.

And next time, we are flying.

I Hate Goodbyes

Last Saturday was the worst day of my life.

My son dropped his afternoon sleep!  180 minutes of precious freedom.  Gone.

For those who don't get it, a kid's nap is like a holiday OK?  A shot of heroine straight to the brain stem.  Instant bliss, the return of serenity and oh god it's so sweet, to just be still and do nothing - in the overall sense of the word nothing, as in stare-at-the-wall nothing, as in sit-on-Facebook-for-3-hours nothing.  I must confess I don't understand it, my kid has the energy of a thousand suns he should be sleeping 20 out of 24 hours.  But no, he's over it.

This is why they invented school.  It had jack-shit to do with the industrial revolution, which is what history will have you believe.  It was a bunch of parents sitting around going 'OK how do we get these kids out of our hair for half the day?  Wait, I know ...'

You may ponder what could be so exhausting about this parenting thing that I shed actual tears over an afternoon sleep?  Allow me to explain.  When you are in the presence of your child you are two things:

1) A Slave

Since they are incapable of doing anything by themselves you have to do it!  All of it.  Wake up (really fucking early), change nappy, make breakfast, supply tea, set up table, help feed, clean up mess, change clothes (yours and theirs), brush teeth (yours and theirs), wipe face, brush hair (not yours, you can no longer be bothered), play games, throw the ball, build puzzles, change nappy, read stories, snack time, make food, set up table, help feed, clean up mess, repeat playtime, lunch, set up table, make food, change nappy, help fee ... you see where I'm going with this?

When they are old enough to speak they will order you around like the hired help and you will be powerless to refuse.  Why?  Because if you don't the child will starve and when they say 'please mommy' after you've been ramming it down their throats to remember their manners, they could be asking for a unicorn that shits rainbows and you would say yes.  Slavery is nowhere near dead my friends.

and 2) A Bodyguard

Finally, your little darling could use some fresh air, so you pack a mountain of 'in cases' into a bag and head for the beach.  You have now entered the zone of Paranoid-As-Fuck-Mommy and become capable of killing people with your bare hands should it be necessary.  Anxiety does not even begin to cover it.  Your nonchalant offspring on the other hand, saunters around like a tiny president, complete with sense of entitlement and delusions of eternal life.  In the background is you: scanning the environment for rogue waves, vicious dogs, kidnappers, drunk drivers, falling coconuts and broken glass. 

And this is just one example of one day out of thousands and thousands and thousands.  The relentless pursuit of perfection is exhausting, the emotional minefield of fear is exhausting and the physical toll of the schlepp is exhausting.

That afternoon sleep was the life raft onto which I clung as I sailed through the choppy waters of the mornings.  It was the salve on a wound, the gin to my tonic, the boerie to my roll.  I will mourn it like the passing of a good friend, my old mate, Mr Peace & Quiet.

* Sniff * 

The Truth Hurts

I read this recently Biggest Lie Ever! and decided it was time.  Here are:-

My Top 5 Pregnancy & Parenting Euphemisms 

5. Being a mom is the best thing in the whole world!

Yes it is.  But sometimes it isn't.  And that's the part they always leave out.  Sometimes it's bat-shit boring.  Sometimes you feel like bailing, cashing in your life insurance policies and hitting the high road.  Sometimes you would give a vital organ away just to catch a break from the relentless grind of routine and early, early mornings.  Sometimes you can barely fathom the amount of physical pain you are in, just from lifting, carrying, schlepping, bending over baths and changing stations every single day, several times a day & through the night.  Sometimes (often) you will think 'this is the hardest thing I've ever done in my whole life' and shake your head in disbelief at the silly people who didn't warn you about this part.  It doesn't make you a bad parent, it makes you normal.

4. Once you get the hang of it, breastfeeding is easy, and the most natural thing in the world

* Sigh * If only.  Did you know there are women who hate breastfeeding?  Who find the whole act utterly repugnant and cannot physically bring themselves to do it?  Here is just one example.  No-one mentions the hell of those first 6 weeks.  In the grip of my own torment, my older sister sent me a version of her experience:-

"I remember lying naked on the couch and sobbing while covering myself with gripe water so that my baby would latch onto my burning nipples. It was a horrific start to motherhood following a painful emergency c-section and really no idea what I was doing.  I've realised no-one tells you this stuff, because it is a really brief period, and once everything kicks into gear, all is forgotten. The amnesia is essential to having another baby."

Breastfeeding is difficult.  A curse of a-thousand wrinkles on all the chat forums and women out there who make other mothers feel like shit because they couldn't get it right.

3.  Kids put strain on a relationship but over time things will return to normal

Excuse me while I finish laughing my ass off.  Let me tell you how it really goes.  You have a baby.  Your baby becomes more important than your husband.  You realise this isn't temporary.  There is a massive paradigm shift in your relationship and things are never quite the same.  The End.

2.  Pregnancy makes you feel like a goddess

At around 5 months pregnant, when the morning sickness has passed and your skin looks photoshopped, you have a really cute belly and all you want to do is have sex (thank you hormones) then OK, you can get away with the goddess talk.  But when you're 9 months pregnant and you've gained 147 kilos, have varicose veins, heartburn, water retention, and can neither sleep, sit nor stand? Well then I'm afraid the word goddess is replaced with glutinous mass and the whole entire universe can just go to hell.

AND THE NUMBER ONE SPOT GOES TO:-

1. Labour pain is just like period pain

Whoever is reading this out there in the big, wide world; kindly pass this on to the sisterhood because they don't need to be lied to for one more second.  It all ends right here, right now.  

When you go into labour, the early stages are maybe a bit like period pain, yes.  Fine.  But that only lasts for what, like, 3 hours?  This is the point at which you are still able to talk, breathe, smile and even walk up & down a little whilst holding gently onto your hubby's hand who's making funny noises. You might even manage a wee little frown every time you feel that pressure coming on.  Cue second stage labour.  

It's right about now that you start to wonder what goddamn moron wrote in all those magazines you read, that labour feels like period pain.  You wonder if in fact, these women don't belong to a sadistic cult that lull you into a false sense of security and then send you crashing headlong into more pain than you're ever likely to feel.  This is when you lose the ability to make sense.  All you can muster is a primal bellow; you wish you didn't sound like this in front of your husband and five complete strangers but your body has taken on a life of its own.  It feels like your insides are killing you - you're fairly positive every organ is being pulverised by your contracting uterus which kinda makes sense because it's trying to squeeze a human being out of your vagina.  The midwife makes you walk around to help the baby's movement down the birth canal but every time a contraction hits, you crumple like a stack of cards.  The pain is so intense you can't even see, your eyes roll back in your head and it's all you can do not to die right there on the floor.  If anyone says the wrong thing or touches you in the wrong place, you want to stab them repeatedly but can't muster the energy.  This can go on for up to 12 hours.  Sometimes you even vomit and shit yourself.  

So let's conclude:

Labour pain is NOTHING like period pain.  Labour pain is like bring crushed alive.  Period pain is labour pain's bitch! 

Murder, She Wrote

It's actually been proven.  Whining is the worst sound in the world.  If you can be bothered to read it, here is the data: Somebody, Please Shut That Kid Up!

Every parent leaving hospital with a newborn baby, should receive standard-issue Pro-Musicians Earplugs as part of their post-natal party pack.  These handy critters have built-in passive noise level filter technology allowing you to hear the music (screaming child) with full acoustic content, whilst protecting your ears from the more dangerous noise levels and frequencies.  This is obviously necessary for the child's (your) survival.

As the infant gets older however, and the crying becomes more of a paint-stripping whine, a more robust solution is required, such as these:-

Your child will very quickly learn to either write, or use sign language.

My son has recently taken to saying 'mommy' repeatedly to get my attention, even if I am sitting right next to him.  'Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy' (yes Finn) 'mommy, mommy' (YES FINN) 'mommy, mommy' (YES WHAT THE FUCK I'M SITTING RIGHT HERE OH MY GOD!!) is what I feel like saying but I don't because that would make me a bad parent.  I also consider duct taping his mouth shut but by then I've wandered off into very-bad-parent-land and have to just leave the room.

Oh hello wall, let me climb you for the umpteenth time today.

Animals have it so easy.  They don't put up with any crap from their young.  Take the lioness for example; lying in the African sun, cubs chewing on her ears, headbutting her face, swiping her tail, climbing on her back - after a while her tolerance runs out and she's like, fuck off!  And biff, she catapults them into the savannah with one swipe of her giant paw.  If they don't get the message ('cos kids are stupid like that), she abandons them to go kill a buffalo or some shit.  

Imagine the possibilities.  Much like you have a fantasy list of what you would do if you won the lottery?  I have a fantasy hit list of people I would kill in toddler-induced frustration if only I was allowed to.

Sho! All this talk of violence and bloodshed in a blog about babies.  But I guess if I wrote about all the cute things my son does that would bore the pants off you right?  

I thought so.

Holding It In

(Warning:  This is a blog post about poo.  And wee.  If you are a parent, you'll find this to be a perfectly acceptable topic of discussion.  Otherwise, you will most likely feel like puking.) 

I never, ever, ever, ever, EVER thought bodily functions would be so significant as to warrant a written article, on my blog, on the internet. If it wasn't so disgusting it would be downright fascinating. But, from the instant a baby pops its head out of your vagina (or C-Section incision), the world will only turn on its axis if the infant shits and pees like a normal human being.  In the first few weeks of its life you are taught by doctors and midwives that your baby's bowel movement is just about the most important thing to happen in its day.  And so you observe (with scary precision) every utterance from its miniature sphincter.  

Projectile vomiting.  You read about it, you hear people talk about it but like bungee jumping, you can't ever really know the adrenalin rush of emerging from a waterfall of vomit, until it actually happens.  Which is usually at the following times: on your way out the door, before guests arrive for dinner and/or as you step out of the shower.  The amount of fluid that is ejected from a stomach purported to be the size of a MARBLE, is somewhat of a scientific anomaly and should really be studied in textbooks. 

But if you want to know the real definition of anticipation, then take your potty-training toddler on its first nappy-free outing.  With the threat of public urination (or worse) hanging over your head, you subject your child (loudly) to a stream of socially unacceptable questions every 15 minutes.  'Do you need to wee?  Do you want to make a poo?  Are you sure!?' and so it goes on.  But the humiliation doesn't end there.

If you're lucky enough to actually make it to a toilet and someone is unlucky enough to be stuck in the cubicle next to yours, they will be treated to a conversation that goes something like this:

'Pull your pants down. Sit nicely, OK hold your willy down so you don't wee on the toilet seat, good boy.  Have you finished?  You're having a poo?  It's OK I'm holding you I won't let you fall in.  You want to sing? (dear god) baa, baa black sheep have you any .... you want to get off?  OK let me wipe, no, don't pull your pants up yet I have to wipe your bum.  Bend down touch your toes, I can't see your bum properly.  Theeeeere we go.  All clean!!'

Freud, the skanky old coke addict,  might've been onto something.

Needless to say we survived uShaka Marine World (sans nappy) without so much as a wayward piddle.   I'm not sure if this was due to Finn's powers of retention or sheer luck, but I'm convinced I almost died from the suspense.

Mr Priceless

Me, my 2.5 year old, Mr Price Home.

I'm facing the wall of bed linen, frantically searching for something cotton, something white-ish, single bed come on, come on!   I know I have a window period of about 47 seconds before the attention span of my son runs out.

My time is up (where's the freaking single bed linen!) I turn around to look for a shop assistant and in that billionth of a second, Finn is gone.  I know he hasn't bolted out the door because I'm facing it and in my mind I see his glee as he races up the aisles of fine bone china and glassware, I see the outstretched hands as they take in all the pretty colours, I see his clumsy feet tripping over each other and the glorious majestic sound of shattering glass and falling shelves.  But nothing happens.  I'm clasping my hands together staring at the ceiling, I look like I'm praying.  I probably should be.

No sooner had that thought bubble taken flight, it was blown away like a fart in the wind. 

'YEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!'

I skulk around the corner and there he is; inside a baby's cot, chucking all the brand new pristine white 200% cotton pillows, sheets and soft mohair, untouched blankets onto the floor, jumping up & down on the specially aerated, anti-fungus, sterilised, a-thousand rand perfect mattress with his dirty shoes - and yelling at the top of his lungs.

Holy hell that's my child.  That's.  MY Child.

I consider running away.  But some do-gooder will report me to child welfare.  I weigh up the benefits of spending years in prison versus admitting he belongs to me.  Prison almost wins.  

A member of Mr Price Home comes bolting across the showroom floor, grabs Finn under his arms and yanks him out.  And then it goes next level.  Finn takes the cuddly soft toys surrounding the cot and throws them at the shop assistant.

'NO!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!'

I'm trying to leopard crawl out of the shop wondering if prison overalls come in pink, but he spots me.

'MOMMMMMMMYYYYYYYY'

The entire world is staring; even the guy in orbit has ceased his space travel to get a load of this shit.

I take a deep breath, count to 4000 and then I go all Trinity from Matrix on his ass. Double somersaulting over scatter cushions and this week's 'Special Offer' I pick him up with one-hand (potentially) dislocating his shoulder; knock everyone dead with the rage that is emanating out of every pore of my body, fly down the escalator, windows shattering as I pass, and throw my child (who has suddenly realised the magnitude of poo that he is in) into the car.

I lock it.  I unlock it.  I walk away.  I come back.  There is a guy in a white BMW gawping at me I think he is afraid to get out of his car.  Finn is sobbing, it's not even 10 am and I still don't have any single bed linen.  Jesus fucking christ.

As my anger ebbs away, I look at Finn all red in the face, covered in tears & snot staring at me through the window, his impossibly massive eyes imploring me to take off the black leather cape and become his mommy again.  I open the door, he dissolves into my arms and we sit on the floor in the parking lot with the cars inching past our toes.

People keep asking me when I'm having the next baby.  Well I can tell you that as I sat there leaning against a greasy wheel with my weeping child, I saw my ovaries taking a walk, little suitcases in hand, hats on their heads, waving goodbye as they went.

So, not anytime soon it would seem.

Do Your Bit

Dettol SA to Donate R1 million to the Children's Hospital Trust by liking this Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/DettolSA?sk=app_280138192049916

The Red Cross Children's Hospital was built in 1956 and is the only stand alone, specialist children's hospital dedicated entirely to children in southern Africa.
The Hospital is a public tertiary and secondary level hospital in Cape Town, and is dedicated to delivering word-class paediatric treatment, care, research and specialist training. As a referral Hospital patients include very sick children who need highly complex interventions to recover.

With your help, Dettol will be donating R1 million to this great cause. Dettol is asking mothers to become heroes by liking the Dettol SA Facebook page and thus adding momentum to their donation. The Dettol SA Facebook page will also be sharing valuable tips and information with South African mothers pertaining to sustainable family health and hygiene. It has been found that many diseases affecting child mortality can be reduced by 75% by adopting good hygiene habits. 

The Facebook page will also have a Q and A section where mothers can ask parenting and family health questions. Mothers, along with Dettol, will also be given an opportunity to answer other mothers' questions using the valuable knowledge they have gained from caring for their families.

Every mother wants to protect the health and wellbeing of their children. Get on board with this great initiative and improve the health of your family, as well as that of the sick children at the Red Cross Children's Hospital.