Father & Son

Forgive the schmaltz that oozes off this page but I feel I owe it to Mike and Finn to publically declare their awesomeness.  I want to reveal the tender and knee-buckling love I have for them amidst all the confusion (and sometimes despair) of being a mother.

In life one tends to have preconceived ideas about things, especially when it comes to 'love and eternal happiness'.  (We also have these beliefs about motherhood but that is an entry for another day).  As we grow up we hope these ideas bear fruit and that they become more than just whimsical fantasies.  Hollywood, in its infinite wisdom, has reinforced our idealistic notions of relationships by selling us the love construct with all its Jennifer Aniston rom-com schtick.  The majority of us know a far more agonising reality.

After being dumped, for example, I have never had a guy stand outside my window, stereo aloft, begging me to come back.  Nor have I had a man burst into a room to publically announce that 'I complete him'.  No.  

I was the one buried in a pile of tissues, face down on the floor with No Doubt's 'Don't Speak' on repeat.  The demise of every relationship was like being hit by a truck, without the luxury of actually dying.  At the not-so-tender age of 32 I caught the proverbial wake up.  I had been conned; this 'happy ever after' was an ad, a marketing ploy, a sneaky PR campaign and nothing more.  It didn't really exist.  

So you can imagine my surprise when in September 2007 a serendipitous encounter on the side of a road in Mozambique changed the course of my life and all my previous misgivings about love, forever.  Driving to Ponta d'Oura with friends I see a guy who's car is bogged down in the sand.  Alone on a solitary surfing mission it turns out, we decide spontaneously to stop and help him.  We tow him all the way into Ponta and now we have a son together.

The pair of them embody all that is right with the world (although not always simultaneously).  I have big, fat, elephant-sized love for these boys - I adore them with a hugeness that could squash the whole planet.  Finn is besotted with his dad and when his baby face lights up as Mike walks in the room, I want to faint with gratitude.   They are magnificent beings and their relationship is gorgeous.

I count the blessings for having this in my life, every day.  The intensity of motherhood is chronic and unrelenting but having Mike's support allows for Finn to get the best of me.  So indestructible is the bond between father and son though, that Finn doesn't need all of me, and that is the holy grail right there.  It means there is space for me to breathe, that I can watch proudly from a distance as they do their thing, Finn refusing to even acknowledge my presence during his 'dad and me' time.  He's only 1 but he has chosen his hero. 

To Mike's credit, he has forged this magnetic attraction through dedication and hard work.  Since Finn emerged bloody and bewildered from the womb, Mike has been his greatest advocate and has involved himself in every detail of his care.   He has bathed with his son every night since the beginning - as a result, bathtime remains one of Finn's favourite activities (Mike is infinitely more adept at sinking the plastic balls into the mini basketball hoop - I basically suck at that).  In the mornings, our baby has a mini meltdown as Mike leaves for work and in the evenings, when his familiar form appears in the doorway, Finn literally falls over himself running to the door.  Ante-natal classes, baby books, nappies, night feedings, story time, tears, tantrums, animal noises, doctors, nursery rhymes, Mommy's angst and more - Mike has committed himself to all of these steps with dedication and integrity.

This reliable foundation is turning our son into a confident, brave and independent little man - he relishes life and loves people, grinning widely and with a fullness of heart at absolutely everybody.  His energy is like the gravitational pull of a planet and strangers are constantly drawn in, melting visibly as they reach out to fold him into their outstretched arms.  He is also fearless, bouyed on by the confidence Mike instills in him and more profoundly, the trust that his Dad is there for him.

To insist that these personality traits are all Nature and no Nurture, is to deny Mike the most fundamental truth: that his dedication to his little boy is helping raise a man.

The Mommy Wars

Finn has 3 words in his language repertoire.  Aside from their somewhat pornographic connotations, these are the words we say repetitively and in direct correlation to his actions.  As a result, this is the birth of his vocab.

1. Wow: everything in his world is new, so when he discovers a brick and can't quite believe his luck, we try to emulate his genuine enthusiasm and hope he buys that we are equally amazed at such a find.  2. Hot: It is a constant mission of Finn's to immerse his hand in boiling coffee or tea - he remains unconvinced of the dangers that lurk in every cup.  And finally, 3. Dirty: Finn loves to peer inside the toilet bowl, suck on shoes, stick his hand into the dustbin or put stones, ants, old chewing gum or cigarette butts into his mouth.  We are constantly yelling, "NO! DIRTY!"  Never moreso than at the Animal Farm recently when we turned to find him sucking on the bars of the pigs pen.

His mouth acts as a filter between him and everything else.  Whatever can fit into his gaping maw goes in.  We went camping recently and the kid was like the plant in Little Shop of Horrors; devouring leaves, mud, olives, donkey poo and charcoal.  He also morphed into Baby Godzilla yanking on tent poles and guy ropes, thundering around in trackie pants and blue stokies.  He abandoned day sleeps and opted instead for 12 hour wake-marathons which left me frazzled, every nerve on a knifes edge, ready to slay the first person who so much as looked at me skeef.  Luckily on this earthly plane we have grapes, and when he finally collapsed from exhaustion, I happily tucked into a bottle of the fermented kind called Chardonnay. 

Do whatever works I say; some mothers might call that irresponsible, I call it survival.

Allow me to introduce the elephant in the room: Mothers in Combat.  Gangs of women who think they're better than the next because of the choices they make in raising their children.  The competition for which there is no winner. 

The breastfeeders vs the formula feeders, the co-sleepers vs the non co-sleepers, attachment parenting vs. non-attachment parenting, the no-cry method vs. the Ferber method, the natural birthers vs. the C-Sectioners - a woman gives birth naturally and suddenly she is elevated to earth-mother status and all those lowly C-sectioners should grovel and bow at her feet in godly reverence; not before hearing of course that having a ceasarian is BAD for the baby you BAD mother.  (I opted for a natural birth but Finn had to be yanked out with forceps, let me tell you, there was absolutely bugger all 'natural' about that violent, blood-soaked scenario).  And let's not even mention the word vaccines too loudly for fear of inciting war.

Parenting chat rooms and discussion forums are rife with it; in this arena mothers have free rein to judge, villify, attack and undermine the choices of other (mostly vulnerable) women seeking advice and guidance.  Yet even closer to home you can find gossiping and malicious chit-chat, friends and family who skinner or say hurtful things about you.  This can paralyse your confidence and leave you floundering in a river of doubt.  My personal favourite is the moms who wile away their hours on the internet, flouting pseudo-scienctific nonsense on anything & everything.  Out pops baby and in pops a masters degree in childcare, from the University of the World Wide Web. 

It happens but it's wrong, because here's the kicker.  Regardless of what Its Royal Omnipotence, Google, might tell you, Formula is not made of poison, battery acid or mercury; Purity will not give your baby ADHD, Aspergers or a third head; homeschooling your kid will not turn them into a hopeless imbecile and useless to humanity forever;  feeding your child organic Quinoa from the seeds of a Shaman-blessed sapling will not render it a genius or immortal.  You gave birth to a baby, not a unicorn.

It grinds my gears like nothing ever will.  All new parents are clueless and fuck up constantly.  A third party is not required to remind you of your uselessness!  We already live in a bottomless guilt-pit how much more punishment is necessary?

The crux of the matter is this: if you love your child that is enough.  Whatever decisions you make based on this premise alone, are the right ones.  End of story.

And baby makes 3

It's taken me 10 months to get down with blogging because frankly, I've had my brain in a blender, the one that's labelled 'Mommy'. 

That said, it's good to be back. 

The most commonly-asked question, especially from the sisterhood is this: What is it like being a mother?

(Insert massive gaping hole of silence)

You try to explain to someone who hasn't had a baby what it's like to have a baby and as you fumble around for the words that could possibly sum it up, pulling all manner of metaphors and cliches out your arse, they say (whilst scrolling through the social calendar in their Blackberry) ... "Really, I can just imagine"

OK newsflash:

No you fucking can't.

I thought I could too and shockingly, have never been so wrong about anything in my whole entire life and must confess that I'm not just eating humble pie, but choking on it.  For every mean-spirited, judgemental, careless, throw-away remark I've ever made about mothers and parents, I duly apologise.  To my own mother and all the others who have single-handedly raised not one, but two or three children, I bow before you, unworthy.  All the Dads out there who think the sun shines out of their testicles just because they produced a child and that's about the extent of their responsibilities, shame on you and your hairy, shrivelled up sacks.  You have no idea the balls it really takes to be a man and raise your child. 

Let's just say for the sake of clarity that becoming a mom has given me truck loads of perspective.  And boy, does that suck sometimes.  Being a parent is the ultimate oxymoron.  It gives and takes away in equal quantities and just when you start feeling resentful for having to sacrifice yet another aspect of your life, a tsunami of guilt will crash into your headspace.  And while you sit grinding your teeth with this maddening conflict, your baby trips and falls, smacking his head on the table and right then your heart explodes and the tears (yours) come out of nowhere and you could happily disintegrate the table with one almighty punch as you swoop the screaming infant into your arms and swear eternal love & protection and fuck the pedicure you never really wanted it anyway.

And that just about sums it up, being a parent is a veritable cacophony of conflicting emotions, day and night.  This blog is devoted to all of us unsuspecting mofo's who got caught up in the moment of 'hey wouldn't it be fun to have a baby' and then realised the true meaning of the words 'life changing' and 'sleep deprivation'.

No parent anytime, anywhere will be able to properly describe the feeling of life going from relatively normal to categorically insane, in the time that it takes to push a baby out (worst case scenario: 24 hours).  

New parents: Welcome to the club.  Parents-to-be: Strap yourselves in!

Nine Months

Back in Umdloti and I am finding this last stretch of time both physically and mentally challenging. My days consist of waddling from one activity to the next, falling asleep at any given opportunity like a narcoleptic duck. The nesting urge has kicked in something solid - Mike & I spent the weekend DIY'ing and decorating whilst Kings of Leon rattled the window panes in the background. Domestic bliss oozed from every dusty corner as furniture was shifted, blinds were installed, vacuum cleaners sang and mozzie nets fitted to lend a distinctly Arabian nights feel to our little home.



Nine months is up.

We've had a ball with it and are madly, deeply in love - with each other and this child who we can't wait to meet and smother with amazement at his existence.

And so finally; with the right combination of committment, rugby shorts, hat and hammer the nursery is complete, the hospital bags are packed, the master bedroom is mosquito-proofed; and that's it from us until the next time I write when two has become three.

Birds of a Feather

You know you're pregnant when:-

1. You start thinking in weeks and wonder why no-one else around you understands what you're talking about
2. You eat everything and anything, and when people tell you that you've put on weight you smile and blame it on the baby
3. You think you might actually be able to get away with farting in public
4. People piss you off everytime all the time and for no particular reason
5. The words 'sense of entitlement' take on a whole new meaning especially when referring to parking, queues, aeroplanes and all-you-can-eat buffets
6. Baby City staff members know you by name
7. The sins of your past magically evaporate and you become a self-righteous, moralistic pain in the arse
8. Things like nipple expression, perineal massage and pelvic floor exercises become items on your daily To Do list
9. You start to keep an eye out for kid-friendly places and join a Mom & Tots Group even though the idea of it all makes you want to fall in a heap and cry
10. With monumentous effort you finally throw away that Size 8 boob tube that you used to wear in London with thigh high boots and hot pants
11. You realise that this is it. Life is never, ever going to be the same. Not never.

36.5 weeks (that's 8 months for the non-pregnants) and time appears to have stopped, even though my belly & boobs continue to expand at an alarming rate with annoying consequences. Bets are on for the actual arrival date of baby - the winner receives a years supply of condoms.

Tomorrow is Mike's birthday, and we will be celebrating with great aplomb. He has been working around the clock snatching 4 hours sleep a night if that. His nightly contract is over in a week and life will resume some semblance of normality. In the meantime its a heartwrenching thing to watch him lurch from one exhausted day to the next; I want to smash down Woolworths and all building contractors with their stupid shop fittings & tiles.

Last week we bore witness to a phenomenon proudly hosted by Mount Moreland (the village where we live) and 3 million swallows. The tiny birds migrate every year from the North and settle in the reed beds up the road from where we live for 4 months of summer before trekking off again to warmer pastures. At around dusk every day this vast number of birds come swirling down from the heavens creating what can only be described as a visual mind-fuck of nature; spectacularly grand in every way. Then as the sun dips behind the horizon, every single swallow dives into the reed beds and promptly disappears.

This is us setting up our spot to witness the action.

The official Ambassador of the Swallows is a woman by the name of Hilary Vickers. She is an obstreperous old bat, as colonial and uptight as her name suggests. If she catches you disobeying the rules of the conservancy, she will name and shame you on her special chalkboard at the entrance to the village for all the residents to see.

Mike & I are going to sneak out in the middle of the night and write on it in big bold chalk:-

HILARY SWALLOWS.

Pensive

Forgive the blog hiatus. I have been immersed in a lull. A kind of 'non' zone waiting for the days to pass. This short entry is testament to that.

With only 5 weeks to go all this focus on counting down time has robbed us of the present moment and catapulted us into an unknown future, clumsily guessing at what it will feel like to meet our little boy. 

Spent a week in Joburg recently to celebrate Le Baby Shower, which was held in a beautiful park with great food and croquet, just for something different. People lazed about in the Highveld sun from around 10 in the morning until well after 4 in the afternoon. Sign of a good day with good people.

Being back in Joburg did not endear me to the place anymore than when I left; if anything it allowed me pause to realise just how right it was to move away. It did, however, reveal that the absence of friends has left quite a void in my life. It was good to see their faces, hug and talk to them - they are the mud to my inner pig; when I see them I want to roll in them - delightful, wise, gracious creatures that they are. Intelligent, interesting, complex people who I miss out here in our little paradise. In thirteen years of being an intrepid traveller I have learnt the one miserable trade off. A constant undercurrent of grieving for those you leave behind.

According to the midwife, baby's head is engaged and preparing for the grand exit. He weighs 2.5kg and now feels like carrying a sack of flour in my belly, albeit one that migrates. As I lie in the bath watching the rippling movement beneath my skin, I am momentarily spooked.

Sigourney Weaver has alot of explaining to do.

Surfing Widow

It's 5am. The man I love is lying in deep repose by my side. We are immersed in sleep and comfort - enveloped in a cloud of duck down and duvet quite happy to die right there should the occasion call for it. It is so quiet and peaceful in our little slice of heaven that even the crickets and birds and the sausage dogs are silent.

Then it happens.

An offensive sound of inconceivable magnitude shatters my blissful reverie and renders me (unceremoniously) awake. I am referring of course, to the alarm clock. It is 5.45 - it is Sunday.

The gentle lion that was purring softly by my side is suddenly upright.

He stumbles around, naked in the semi-dark pulling on boardies, squinting to find a t-shirt; trying, but failing, to be quiet. In a feeble attempt at tip-toeing in flip-flops he sneaks out to procure a towel which he wrenches free from the towel wrack, sunblock which he drops in the dark 'fuck!' and wetsuit that he gets from the washing line, forgetting that our kitchen door slams if left unattended. Slamming his way back inside, he eats a banana and then 'tip-toes' back into the bedroom to kiss me goodbye. He stands just far enough away, assessing his chances of either a vitriolic attack or a loving reception. I can sense his cautious approach and open one eye a tiny crack. He bends down and leans in close.

'Chicken?...' he whispers, all banana breath & Factor 45. I look at him in silence for this is my favourite part....

'I'm going surfing' (Grin)

And it's then that I wonder who to bow down & thank for this magnificent man who wins the Most Obvious Statement of the Year award.

He kisses my face, crunches up the gravel path, wrestles his surfboard from its bag, wakes the neighbours dogs and speeds away in his big diesel bakkie.

A deep and resignated sigh emanates from somewhere under the covers - I'm so awake I could be solving complex formulae.


In other grand happenings, we saw footage of our son for the first time the other day - with a 3D scanner thingo that simply blows your mind. Here's a good one of him looking into the camera.



We were a little startled after this experience, epic as it was, and spent the rest of the day making silly errors of judgement.

Recently I decided to brave the inner sanctum of Baby City for the first time alone. Having crossed the threshold into a sea of expectant mothers and obedient fathers, I was faced with wall-to-wall infant products, shelves stacked high with every conceivable item of clothing, bedding, protective armour, maternity panties, breast pumps and feeding bra's. Newborn paraphernalia made of anti-inflammatory, hypo-allergenic, non-stick, non-break, waterproof, burn proof and shit-proof materials shouted at me from every corner. I tell myself to stay calm, stick to the plan, how hard can it be?

Inhaling the smell of baby powder deeply, I get into the zone and suddenly I am ROBO MOM.

I know exactly what I need, what I want, what it costs, which shelf its on, what colour it is and what its made of. I search and destroy like a heat-seeking mother-missile - the assistant says 'may I help you' I say 'no thanks' - I pay, I sign I'm standing on the pavement with the sun on my face and some bags in my hands wondering what the fuck just happened.

Is this what they call 'instinct'? Didn't think it applied to high end consumerism but who am I to question. We're 31 weeks now - 9 to go. Sporting a huge belly I'm prone to sudden bouts of irritation, I've lost 10% of my brain capacity, I snore at night, fart alot and fall asleep on the couch every afternoon.

It would seem -- despite all evidence to the contrary -- that I have turned into a man.