Time flies when you are having fun

My *sis is graduating today.  I cannot believe it.

When I met my husband she was in grade four and still wore pigtails.  Where has the time gone?

I was reminiscing this morning that I bought her first miniskirt, and she refused to wear it because it was too short. In fact she made her mom return it to the store for a bigger size so that it would sit lower and thus be longer.  Now, well perhaps I am just an old fuddy duddy, but she wears skirts that I would classify as a belt.

In the wink of an eye she is all grown up and wearing her graduation gown in a couple of hours.

Sis I am so incredibly proud of you!

Much love




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.