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.

Sharing is SO not caring

Type "my child won't share" into Google and it will return some 304 million results.  Granted, it is kind-of embarassing (read: mortifying) when someone brings their kid into your home and suddenly yours is overcome with possessiveness and will not relinquish even one small plastic car to his bewildered guest.  You consider child-play therapy and possible medication until you go to that kid's house and exactly the same happens in reverse.

I was told by our Top Tots instructor that kids don't 'get' the concept of sharing until they're at least 4 years old.  Some people never learn this act of kindness and are horrible, selfish meanies all the way into adulthood.  It's the prospect of this happening that drives our obsession to make our children play nice before they've even learnt to communicate properly. 

Socialising children is only made excruciating because of the manner in which we are judged.  Raising a child under the scrutiny of others is really where the horrors lie.  Fear of embarassment or exposure in public is the very reason we type "my child won't share" into a Google search engine.  Sometimes I want to say 'OK seriously, they don't want to share their freaking toys.  They're 2 years old and have no idea why we're yelling at them to SHARE! SHARE!' but I am compelled to do the opposite, and so is every other exasperated parent and this is how it plays out: the moms plead with the kids to give each other a turn, the kids cry because they don't really understand what the fuck's going on, there is alot of noise & confusion until a mediocre compromise between the warring factions is reached.  You realise this intervention method is a pile of crap and you sink into the couch ashamed at your inability to parent (no really, this is how we think).   

Some experts suggest that we 'let the kids sort it out themselves' but there would be alot more noise involved, and possible violence. 

Discplining in public is another thorny issue. 

I'm so jealous of people who've got this down pat.  The veteran disciplinarian! The parent who can pull their kids into line with one withering stare.   I always want to sit them down and say 'OK how much for the secret formula.  An arm?  Here, have both'

People think the kid throwing a decent sized rock across a busy path of shoppers is a real brat and could use a good hiding; they look to the mother to see what will happen next and have framed & blamed her in 4 seconds flat.  No-one realises that this mother is about to implode with embarassment, that this mother is aware of every single beady eye watching her, that this mother could happily exterminate the child on the spot for causing such a scene but loves the child too much to actually do so.  That mother was me; today at Lifestyle Shopping Centre.  Did I smack him in front of this audience?  Of course I didn't.  I knew he was melting down in the baking sun; hot, thirsty, hungry and frustrated.  He threw the rock to get my attention, thanks mate, I got your message.  A drink, some food and a swift exit home fixed the problem more promptly (and gently) than a 'klap' to the ear.

The pressure to smack your child, make them share, shut the hell up in quiet places, to be socially groomed and appropriate at all times; is immense.  To the point where it's sometimes more hassle than it's worth taking your child out in public.  

The only place you can truly relax is at home.  With the blinds down.  

And the doors locked. 

Firmly.

Storm in a Sippy Cup

Finn turns 2 next week.  You know what this means, right?  Shit is about to get crazy up in here.

In these past 10 months, the kid has been a learning, developing, vocabulary spewing, hair-growing cuteness machine.  His mannerisms have produced an array of so-funny-you-can-die-laughing moments.  I have (on more than one occasion) had to restrain myself from physically crushing him with love.  I have also (on more than one occasion) wanted to throw him into the sea.  The bitter sweet dichotomy of being a parent.

I was in a furniture shop with Finn yesterday, who had missed his afternoon sleep, and was wildly flinging himself across the floor, bolting from bunk-bed to bunk-bed bouncing on the mattresses, opening & closing chests of drawers, shrieking and ignoring all admonishments from me. (Children who don't sleep you see, become stark raving crackers). The shop assistant looked like she was going to faint.  I had become THAT woman with THAT child.

"Oh, he hasn't had his nap today" I say sheepishly, hating myself as the very words come out of my mouth, knowing the shop assistant could give two shits about his sleep patterns and just wants the unruly brat to stop leaping on her furniture.  I carry him, practically upside down, to the car where I strap him in like a wild animal and wait for my pounding heartbeat to slow down.

And here we are, at the pinnacle of toddlerhood, the terrible two's.  I've been dreading this much like one dreads going for root canal, mostly because I know all the stories are true; I am no longer the fool who thinks "that will never by my kid" - my naive little self had a very big wake up call, oh, 2 years ago now?

This new stage of Finn's life plays itself out in various ways, most of which are adorable, like talking - there is no cuter thing on this green earth than a child learning to speak.  And then there are the 'not so adorables', like tantrums.  Finn's life is currently a whirling mass of frustration.  Unrelenting.  He wants to try everything but can't; he wants to say everything but doesn't have the words; he can't understand the world and all its intricacies and has only ONE way to express himself.  Loudly and tearfully.

It's like a mini storm, so intense it raises the roof, rivers of tears, shouting and wailing, a child so bereft and inconsolable you don't know whether to run or hide.  Of course you do neither but jeeee-zuz, it takes a guts full of courage to face the rage.  Stay calm, don't shout, breathe, take it, let it wash through and over you like a freak wave.  When it passes, and it does, you silently wish you still smoked and carry on.

Now, public tantrums!  That's some next level shit right there.  Finn had one recently where he threw himself prostrate on the stairs outside a restaurant.  Some people stared.  Others shifted uncomfortably, as if a bad smell had just entered the room.  It was short-lived and luckily on the beach, so the crashing waves drowned out some of his yelling.  The prevailing lesson from that however, is that society lacks empathy and can be unforgiving, which is only relevant, when you are on the receiving end.

And so it hits us.  Life with a 2 year old is unfolding.  For the first time ever, I have ordered parenting books off the internet to help guide me through these waters.  If only Finn knew just how terrified we are, he would be laughing all the way to Clamber Club.  But I think he is afraid too, of all these big, big feelings and everything that he can't understand, and so together we will negotiate this rocky terrain with hard hats and soft hearts for no-one is more loved than this little boy-monster.

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.