Sometimes it is good not to have anything sharp on hand

lest you commit husband-a-cide…

Last week I was busy flat ironing may hair while the husband was looking on, and he launches into this long-winded explanation about electrons and how they function and that they revolve around themselves  and bump each other and whatever (as you can probably tell my narcolepsy kicked in) and eventually it dawns on me that he is trying to tell me something about my electricity usage.

I immediately start to feel my blood pressure rise and prepare my indignant response that I have not used the fecking flat iron in almost five years and as such I am now allowed to make up for that saved electricity by reserving the right not to look like medusa’s second cousin (good argument-right?), but I digress…I finally cottoned on that he was making a reference to the fact that it is very easy to spot in which rooms of the house I had been as the light is normally on after I leave.

So very sweetly he asked me if I wouldn’t mind doing an electron dance about the house before I get in the car. I find it strangely comforting to think that I am dancing out the door every morning, just me and the electrons getting groovy!


Honesty is not always nice, but it is needed.

I started blogging because I was living too much in my own head and like my blog title suggested was getting dangerously close to losing a couple marbles.

I lived in my head so much that I would sometimes forget to voice what I am feeling and thinking and that lead to alot of strain between me and my husband.  He would get so upset with me (well still does) when he asks me a question and I wouldn’t answer, of course I would vehemently deny this because I did answer, problem was, in my head.

This is not a good place to be in all the time. I was feeling out of synch, isolated and like I was being a spectator in my own life, problem was, I was being a spectator in my own life.

I don’t know whether this internal retreat was a long time coming, or where it originated, but it got really bad right after the birth of my son and the car accident in Jan 2010.

It is already such a big shock to have a baby, everything you think you know or thought you understood about yourself can pretty much be thrown out of the window.  You will never be the same. You think that you have had nine months to prepare yourself for this, but really ten years would not be enough time to get your head wrapped around the chaos, the sleepless nights, the fear, awe, amazement and the utter horror the first time that baby starts to howl and nothing you do or say gets them to shut the hell up. I saw all of my friends who had their babies and they were totally in love with their little bundles and I was green with envy.  Why couldn’t I feel like that?

Then came the accident. And just when I thought I cannot get more lost, I was proven wrong. I. definitely.could.

I cannot describe the mind altering pain of those first couple of days in the hospital.  I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t do anything but lie on my back and wish I was dead, immediately thereafter to feel engulfed by the rush of guilt that I had just wished to be put out of my misery.  I was not allowed to feel like that, I had to be grateful. I was spared. I was alive. I would walk again. All the while I was screaming in my head, get me the fuck out of here. This pain is fucking excruciating, I want to DIE! Just let me die.  Why won’t you let me die?

Of course my son was also in his own little hell, a hell that he could not articulate in any other way other than crying, violent acne rashes, refusal to breastfeed, refusal to take a feed from a bottle and an inability to sleep for longer than what felt like 3 seconds at a time with hours and hours of screaming to break the tediousness that is sleep.

I hated every moment of it.  I hated my husband, I hated my son, most of all I hated myself for feeling the way I did/being the way I am. I was a perfect breeding ground for postnatal depression. I was the poster child for PND. And I wore my badge with shame.

In front of everyone I wore this façade of the doting mother who was ever so grateful for surviving that which we had. I cooed when it was appropriate to coo, I smiled and gurgled when everyone was watching, but all the while I had this deep dark secret that I kept locked in my head. I retreated in my head because that is where I was safe.  I was allowed to feel what I felt without the judgement. I was allowed to say that I was angry.

Only once in that hell did I try and reach out, I told a friend that I was so tired of everyone telling me I should be grateful, wasn’t a great reception to that observation, so I kept myself in check. I stopped talking apart from exchanging pleasantries.

But I am over that now. This festering feast is no longer going to remain in my head and corrupt everything that I feel and think.

Yes I had PND but for the first time in almost 18 months I can honestly say, I adore my son. He challenges me to be better than what I am, he makes me smile and when I think of him my heart swells.  I think I am finally experiencing that new-motherhood glow. It took me a while but I am finally getting over my anger too.  I actually went to church on Sunday and it felt good.  I did not feel like a hypocrite.

I am taking this in baby steps, but I am getting there. Starting with this post, I am moving a bit out of my head.


Could someone please call the fashion police

I love leggings as much as the next gal, in fact I confess that I own a pair of jeggings (cross between jeans and leggings).

But for the love of all that is good and holy, could someone please get the word out there that it should be worn with either a very long shirts or pants, for crying out loud.

Really is it too much to ask that these girls wear pants?

I may never be the same again after seeing what I did this morning…


“Blame it on the weather man”

I have always loved the rain, to me it feels like a new beginning.

Growing up on the Highveld you can see the rain “rolling” in long before it actually starts.  The air is fraught with the anticipation, the thunder, the crisp smell of the pending downpour, and then the smell of the soil right after the first drops fall, it is, in one word, magical.

I have never been inclined to blame my bad mood on the weather till I moved to Cape Town.  Let me explain.

See I have always had bone straight blonde hair.  I was, while living at home, one of those lucky girls that never had the need of a straightening iron-in fact I confess I had no idea what it was.  But then, I moved to Cape Town, and got acquainted with hair that ‘mince’ at the slightest indication of precipitation… leaving me with a distinct air of-well for the lack of a better word– poodleness.

There, I have said it, I suffer from poodleness.

What brings me to this revelation you ask?

Well honestly I am hoping you all will take pity on me and start a get-her-a-GHD-fund, but actually, I cut my hair yesterday, and my new bestie, Roy convinced me that rather than taking it all off like I was planning to do, to go with a timeless bob. Oh it was wonderful, it looked chic, stylish and like he said, timeless. BUT. Enter the rain/shower/someone’s sneeze. Now I just look.fuzzy.

Why is it that we are never able to recreate the style that the gods of the tresses dupe us into believing are so effortless? Half and hour with what I thought was a good iron this morning and still I am nowhere close to the beauty that was Roy’s creation. In fact it was so bad that the husband, who moments before were unable to spot a stain on his trousers a mere minute before, was able to tell me that something (in his words) was “not quite right”.  So much for my ‘big-style-her-fabulous-type-reveal” at work…

Ahh Curse you Wet Weather, I say as I grab my hat and get ready to head out the door.


This blows…

Sometimes it blows being an adult, and having to make grown up decisions.

I have been consumed by this burning desire/need to be pregnant again.  It is all I can think about, it is in my every waking moment, sometimes even in my dreams.  I don’t know what to call it, hormones, my biological clock ticking, nature, call it what you will, it is all consuming, like I am being possessed.

But I have been brought back to earth, very rudely.  And as I wipe the dust of my face and clothes, I have to concede that a VALID point has been made and perhaps trying to have another baby in light of certain circumstances on the home front, may not be the smartest move I have ever made.

So I will cease and desists…

Till things change…and here’s hoping that is sooner rather than later.


Mother Nature

*this post may contain imagery that can put you off your breakfast/lunch/food for life*

Things I learnt from her in the past week…

  1. Kids will get sick when you are home alone;
  2. There is no birth control available on the market that is quite as effective as a sick toddler;
  3. Anything that said sick toddler ingests is increased exponentially when projectile vomited down the front of your sweater;
  4. Ponstel makes kids hyperactive ;
  5. Don’t watch the second episode of Law and Order, because said sick toddler will wake you up 6 times that night to make you pay;
  6. As with giving birth, vanity is thrown completely out the window and you can be seen taking a bath with said sick toddler in water with little chunks floating around;
  7. It is not good to be a sympathy vomited. It tends to get. Very. Messy.
  8. And last but not least, all this fun and games comes to an end just as ‘Daddy’ gets home.

Pffft. This blows. Chunks.