Parenting styles

My friend Charlotte has been harassing me to do a guest post on her blog, personally I think it is genuis (not just because I wrote it) but when you are stuck for words you can harass your friends to do posts for you…wish I thought of it first.  Alas, I am doomed to be a follower.

Any the way, here if you would like to read, click here.



Sleepless in Marina (Part 2)

*caution this post contains rude language, because frankly after last night I cannot be bothered to be civil*

A good friend of mine says the first mistake that we make with our kids is we teach them to talk…then as if that is not bad enough, we teach them to think for themselves.
I am seriously reconsidering the teaching to talk thing.

Last night, at 3 pm the terrorist started calling out for his dad. Who of course is such a sound sleeper that a herd of leprous elephants can do the ‘can-can’ on his pillow without him so much as stirring in his sleep.

When I heard the first syllable uttered I thought: ‘Oh good, he isn’t calling me’ and I slowly closed my eyes again. On the fourth call I realised that I could pretty much hack of the husband’s leg and he would still not be getting up.

<Mind you I was tempted (hacking of his leg I mean, the only thing stopping me was  the mess that I would have to clean up afterwards).  You see the husband was favouring his flamingo move again last night-don’t know if anyone else’ husbands inflict this particular sleeping position on them?

Let me explain the hell that is the flamingo to those fortunate enough never to have encountered it.

Step 1: lie flat on your back, as close as possible to your partner.

Step 2: bend your elbow and put your hand under your head-what is important here is that it has to be the elbow on your partner’s side and if it is not in your partner’s eye/mouth then you are not lying close enough to them.

Step 3: pull up your leg until the knee is bent at a 45 degree angle and your foot is rests in the fold of your other leg.  Again this must be the leg with the closest proximity to your partner to ensure that they receive the full patella enema treatment.

Step 4: if you are able to snore-you have transcended to level 900 druid (ie. you are golden)>

So there I was, unable to sleep in any event, and realising that if I managed to wake up the spouse he would just bring the offspring to the bed and with that all hopes of getting any further shut eye goes down the drain.  So I put up my most patient face and voice (which is saying a lot-did I mention that it was 3 o’clock?), pad over to the offspring’s room and gently lay him down and swallow the urge to tell him “it is the middle of the night, now please go the fuck to sleep”.

He asks for his dad.  I say he is sleeping (again I have to bite my tongue to leave the expletives out of the conversation-have you ever heard how fast a toddler picks up on a swearword? BTW if he says something that sounds like “Fuckit” it is actually Rocket okay? That is my story and I am sticking to it).

He asks for his dad.  I say he is sleeping.

He asks for a bottle.  I say you already had it.

He asks for a rocket launcher/pony.  I say no (while shoving the dummy in his mouth), it is the middle of the night, now go to sleep.

Finally he quietens down and I manage to sneak back to bed (well the 2cm strip that is left open) and crawl under the duvet. Only to lie awake, until 2 min before I had to get up.

I am so tired that I was actually envious of the sleeping homeless man I had to climb over in order to get to the train this morning.


Silence is not Golden, but clear and sticky…

There are few things that can make a parent’s heart stop cold such as the sudden silence of a child that is out of sight…

I was on the receiving end of one of those moments on Monday night. We were having supper and the Terrorist had finished before us, the parental units, and he was set free from his high chair to play in his room.

Ever keeping an ear open to the goings on, we were gently lulled by noise of the Terrorist scratching in his toy box, when caught up in conversation we realised that it had suddenly gone quiet.  Too Quiet.  This is not the type of situation where you sit and debate who is going, you get up and run, cell phone in hand ready to dial the ambulance because you are definitely not going to like what you find.

He did not disappoint.

The terrorist, who should now be renamed to the trapeze artist, somehow managed to sail over the half metre of air between his rocking chair and bassinette, whereupon he promptly started climbing up on the shelves against the wall, to get to the highest of the three where we keep the waterless hand-sanitizer. There he was beaming and giggling to himself <the alcohol in the sanitizer perhaps?>, half emptied open bottle of sanitizer in the mouth, my hairbrush in his one hand and busily brushing his ‘gel’ into his hair.

My husband’s initial response was “Why is there hand sanitizer in his bedroom?” “Uhm, because sometimes it isn’t possible, although you may very well like to, have a bath after changing a soiled nappy”.

We were not sure whether he had drunk the contents of the now-empty bottle, or whether it had all gone into his hair. Once we had mopped up the sticfky remnants on the bassinette and what was around his mouth we decided that we had accounted for all the sanitizer and seeing as it tastes so bitter and he is the first the spit out anything that can be remotely associated with Buscopan, we can rest at ease that he didn’t drink any. We did however make him brush his teeth. Twice.

Made me think how very grateful I am that I have not yet moved him over to a “big” bed yet, and that for now, he remains behind bars (so to speak). I think it is safer for all concerned.



The dinosaur wars

I hate Barney, I am convinced that there is a paedophile under there.  I have no evidence to prove the contrary so I stand by my beliefs.

My worst fear came true when a number of months ago we were at a braai at a friend’s house and my son walked out of their’s room with a beaming smile and the purple devil dinosaur under his arm.  It took some cajoling to get it out of his sticky little mits and I confess to hiding it back in the child’s room on the top bunk, where only an adult can reach.  I know, I know, I am evil and will pay for that. Some day.  But this is today.

There is a moratorium on Barney in our house, scratch that, there is a moratorium on Barney, Ben 10, Spiderman, Superman and before my son was born, Pooh too.  Simply because he (Pooh, that is) is a dictator brat , and he took Eeyore’s starring role.

You don’t agree? Consider this:  he eats honey all day long and orders everyone around.  Doesn’t that sounds like a number of political leaders to you?

Unfortunately the Terrorist’s grandfather bought him a Pooh Bear and as my father is not one to buy these things on his own very often, that rule had to be bent.  I have made peace with Pooh, we are great chums now, he allows me to sleep several uninterrupted hours per night and for that I am eternally grateful, so dictator or not, we are now in a symbiotic relationship.

These rules are not in place just out of pure spite, because I get a kick out of it, they are there for some very good reasons. One being the most important of all of them…


The same reason I generally buy the toys that have an ‘OFF’ switch, or replace the new batteries with slightly worn ones, so that the grating song that I will inevitably hear at 6 am on a Saturday is not quite as loud as it would have been had it been bolstered by fresh batteries.

When all is said and done, what good am I going to be as a mother when I am in the nut house clutching my shins and rocking to the tune of “I love you”?

Besides, if he doesn’t have it he can’t miss it-right?

That was my plan, untill the husband so kindly pointed out that if I place him in school there will be Barney and I will have no control over it. None.

Time to research homeschooling.


I promise to get excited…soon

I didn’t get the birth that I wanted with the Terrorist.  I had a boorish, bully of a doctor that put the fear of God into me so that I conformed to his way if doing things.  I was told, obviously this was only done on occasions where my husband could not be present for the appointments, that I would be a 27 year old stuck in adult nappies for the rest of my life if I wanted to go ahead with a natural birth like my “birth-plan” stated. I was told that I am to small, that a bladder operation from 22 years ago would be undone and I may end up pushing my bladder out along with the baby etc. etc.

I was naive enough to believe him, when I went into labour before he could do the planned c-section I was pushed into a theathre so fast my head was still realing by the time they gave me an epidural and I felt like aliens had invaded my body. I had a severe freak out in the theatre and wanted to get up off the table with all my might, so that the husband had to press me back down.  I had no time to process.  It was like my body was possessed. I had no say.  It. was.terrifying.

Something that was supposed to be natural and joyfull turned into a painfull ordeal.  I was resentfull.  Who am I kidding, I still am.  Even now, when I find out a friend/acquintance/stranger is one of his patients, I advise them to run as far as their little feet can carry them in the opposite direction. I see red because it is an every day occurance that patients are bullied and duped by their doctors into doing what they, the doctors, want.

I am absolutely determined that this time around will not be the same.  I am doing my homework.  I am doing the research. I am making sure that I have the best caregivers, not only on the medical side but also emotionally, and to that end I am enlisting the help of a doula.  I have yet to get this okayed by the husband, but knowing me, I think it is vital.  I am very nervous, about everything.  The husband always jokes that I am a warrior..not the Xena kind, more like Stressed Eric (perhaps without the bulding arterie).

I have found a wonderful doctor that says that there is absolutely no reason for me not to be able to give birth naturally this time around.  He even gave it a fancy acroymn.  VBAC. My first appointment was like a breath of fresh air. For once, I was not treated like an ignorant naughty school girl that managed to get pregnant, but rather like a grown up that should have some say in how this pregnancy plays out. It really is a great relief.

Even so, I cannot help but get these fleeting moments of wanting to run into the hills screaming “What the feck where we thinking?”

I realise that this is what I/we wanted, we tried for seven months. (in comparison to others, that is like 2 seconds but to me it seemed like forever. Not that I am complaining, the process was not completely awful).

I am not feeling at all like I thought I would, this time around. I want to be happy, glowing, floating of fairy dust, farting rainbows that kind of thing.  Instead I am one anxious knot with neck spasms that is likely to go postal at the slightest provocation.

Maybe my fairy dust is buried under a pile of determination? Right will get them out as soon as I have been able to move again and finished my research on how to fart rainbows…


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.