Tuesday, 30 September 2014

World Toilet Day

World Toilet Day
30 September 2014

You well and truly learn something new every single day.  As in really.  Every single day.

Cause the key word here, is “day”. 

Now we all know the old faithful’s – Valentine’s Day, Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, etc.

You know.  Standard, garden variety, ordinary days, dedicated to special people or special occasions.

These are things we’ve grown up with.  April Fool’s Day on the 1st of April, Boxing Day on the day after Christmas. 

Though these holidays are honoured, they are not public holidays, i.e. you still have to go to work and to school.

It is but merely a way of bringing attention to something of significance.  In order to commemorate something or someone we hold dear.

I remember a few years back hearing about Grandparent’s Day, and thinking, “This is really pushing it now”.

Not that I don’t think grandparents deserve recognition for all that they do.  But most likely Father’s Day and Mother’s Day covers them too.  Also, this would be a new world holiday.  Not something old and recognised like the others.  It most likely wouldn’t stick.  And though I know that technically Mother’s Day and Father’s Day hasn’t been around forever, it has certainly been around for a lot longer than I’ve lived.  And garnering accolades and recognition for parents, was always going to be an easy sell.

Yet, every single day, I happen to come across a new “Day”, of some or other kind.  Special “Days” are promoted on TV, in print media and social media too.

Many of these are for awesome causes.  World Disability Day, World Anti Animal Cruelty Day, World Deaf Day, World Arbour Day, and so on and so forth.

But sometimes I hear about “Days” and I think to myself.  They’re just making this crap up.

Literally.  Don’t believe me?  Now just take World Toilet Day, to mark my point. 

It gave me a bit of a laugh when I first heard about it.  World Toilet Day – seriously???  Bummer!  It is a bit like scraping the "bottom" of the barrel.

Until, I gave it a bit more thought.  This really is no laughing matter. 

I take running sanitation for granted.  I have grown up with it.  And see it as my due.

But I live in a third world country.  Where many of my fellow citizens aren’t afforded the same luxury.

The simple luxury of flushing.  So automatic, I don’t even think about it.

Yet all over the world, but a small percentage of people are actually fortunate enough to have this basic human right.  Which for me, is largely linked to dignity.  Never mind sanitation and hygiene.

And thus, this year, on the 19th of November, on World Toilet Day, I shall have a special thought for those less fortunate.  And make my kids aware of this too.

I would imagine that World Days such as these, create awareness.  And hopefully force the issue with governments.  Making them realise that they have a responsibility to their people.  And that they are accountable. 

Cause whether you’re a have.  Or a have not.

You should have a loo.

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Sunday, 28 September 2014

There's a dollar in my g-string

There's a dollar in my g-string
28 September 2014

Bet that gave you pause for thought.  As captions go, it’s a good one.

Ambiguous.  Enough to intrigue and make one inquisitive.

Words are magical like that.  They can have numerous meanings.  And depending on the exact setting, the interpretation thereof can be pretty entertaining.

Interpretation is also largely affected by the sex and age of the person doing the interpreting.  If you know what I mean.

For thirteen year old boys, even an innocuous word like, “shoe” could have a suggestive meaning.  And they could most likely just as easily turn something arb, like “telephone” into something dirty.  Heaven help you when it comes to slightly more dodgy terms.  Like those reserved for computers. Where it’s all “memory stick” this, “hard drive” that, “mouse pad” here, and “import” there. 

But then again, thirteen year old boys are not really known for their restraint.  Or their common sense.  And don’t even get me started on appropriate and inappropriate.  They don’t understand the difference.  And have no comprehension of decorum.  Nor are they able to accurately gage the possible reception they’d receive from their audience.

However, back to g-strings…

There are medieval torture devices, that are more humane.  Less uncomfortable.  More palatable.  Less painful.  Easier to fathom. 

Yes, I’m not really a fan. 

What tipped you off?

And thus as far as g-strings go, this is the only one I’d like.

Though it would be better if it was someone else’s.

Cello, that is.

G-strings - Don’t wear them.  Nor do I play the cello.

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Thursday, 25 September 2014

Smelly boy

Smelly boy
25 September 2014

I so enjoy all of my kids.  Depending on what they’re up to, their attitude, and the amount of lip they give me, I enjoy some of them more than others.  On some days, more than other days.  This fluctuates, like the gentle swell of the ocean.  Quite obviously, I completely and utterly love them all.  But at time, to be honest, the like factor can fade.  You know – the whole fluctuating, gentle swell of the ocean thing.  But all in all, I just adore them.

There is something magical about having three kids.  A delightful busy-ness that I find charming.  I am grateful for my age gaps, as well as the sexes of my kids, as they are all in very different phases of their lives.  And I learn something new about them and about me, every single day. 

Perhaps one of the greatest surprises to me, has been the vast difference in my boys.  They are polar opposites.  In every single way.  Yet for the most part, they get along really well.  They have testosterone in common, if nothing else.

I mean, I knew that all of my kids would be different.  The warning signs were there from early on.  Even their pregnancies were different.

But somehow, after having Luke, and finding out I was having another boy, I had thought it would be a bit like revisiting Luke as a baby, toddler and little boy, through Cole.  Yet nothing could be further from the truth.

Luke was quiet and shy.  Engrossed in whatever captured his attention.  He liked factual things.  Real stuff.  Absolutely mad about dinosaurs, and could name hundreds of them accurately, by the time he was three.  Then he discovered WWI and WWII, and that was it.  Book, after book, after book.  His favourite at the library has always been non-fiction.  Then at about ten, he discovered soccer, and life has never been the same.  Obsessive.  But this is his nature.  When he takes to something, he completely embraces it, and runs with it.  Getting all he can from it.  Eating it, living it, breathing it.  He has a capacity for retaining knowledge (if only he would apply this to school work), and for remembering intense detail.  His nickname at home is Wiki, at times.  As he is a bit of encyclopaedia about certain things.  But he’s not a nerdy kid.  He is most certainly not an academic.  He has a huge big circle of friends.  And they get together often.  At sixteen, socialising, has definitely been stepped up a notch.  He’s hell of a naughty.  Of the feeding friends laxatives variety.  Of unplugging the teacher’s computer mouse variety.  Of succumbing to coughing during hair inspection, so he can try and slip past the beady eye of the teachers, and get away with his longer hair, and bristle beard and ‘stach in desperate need of a shave.  You know – just plain naughty. 

Cole on the other hand, doesn’t do subtle.  He’s a tornado.  He can also get obsessed with things.  But more mechanical type things.  Whereas Luke was mad about superheroes, Cole did cars.  He did eventually do a very healthy, very normal superhero phase, but much later.  He also eventually discovered dinosaurs.  But much later too.  His current obsession, is paper jets.  And his bedroom looks like a tip.  He’s forever doing prototypes of different designs of paper jets.  Using alternating types and sizes of papers.  Playing with wingtips, and trajectory, angle of flight release, amount of muscle power needed to throw.  Comparing accuracy with speed, etc.  Quite scientific, for a little kid.  He might not be using all of those words, but from observing him, I can see that it is exactly what he is doing.

Luke hit puberty very, very early.  By twelve, his voice had broken, he was sprouting hair all over, and I was about as popular as chopped liver.  And quite obviously, as the years have passed, this has got exponential.  The hair is still sprouting, and he’s growing at a rate of knots.  I’m hoping that eventually, he’ll catch up with his feet.  But he gets in my car on the way to school, or going out, and depending on the destination, he smells pretty awesome.  Like he’s shaved, and used men’s body wash.  Deodorant too.  Because he has.  When I fetch him, depending on the destination, and what he’s been doing, he can smell pretty rank.  Particularly, after hockey practice, or the gym.  When he’s been out with mates, I sniff for the tell-tale sign of cigarette smoke, alcohol, or girl’s perfume.  I’m not really good at it.  Too obvious, and I can’t pick anything up.  Which doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s not been doing anything.  But he smells like a mini-man.  Or a teenager. 

But Cole?  Well, irrespective of the time of day, where we’re going, or where we’re coming from, the type of weather, or what he’s been doing, Cole always smells the same.  He smells of little boy.  Of dog.  And of sunshine, even if it’s been raining.  Of playing.  And outside.  And running around.  Of being hot and sometimes a bit sticky from running around playing.  Always intermingled, with a hint of citrus.  Not from a bottle, or an aerosol can.  But from eating oranges, and naartjies, minneola’s too.  In summer this hint changes a bit, to peaches, and grapes, strawberries too. 

I love kissing him in his neck, and breathing in that scent.  So heart breakingly familiar.  So pure.  Yet soon, it will change, and he’ll turn rank too.  As boys do.

But for now, I’m savouring it.  Breathing in deep lung fulls of Cole.  Imprinting it on my mind, to hold forever more.  Still I know, it won’t last.  I’ve forgotten Luke’s little boy smell.  And it makes me so sad.

Not that I don’t enjoy his big boy smell.  I just don’t get to savour it often.  As physical affection with mothers is just sooo uncool.  Something to be endured under duress.  No lengthy hugs allowed.

So this afternoon, I will fetch Cole from school.  And give him lots of hugs, as I usually do.  The whole afternoon long.  And evening too.  He still indulges me, and partakes.  Generous with his love.  And I’ll sniff his little neck, and smell that doggy-running-hot-sunshine-outside-little-boy-citrus scent.  And try and put it in a little box in my memory bank, to take out and sniff when I want to, once he’s bigger.

And I’ll actually do the same with Luke.  If he’ll let me.  Cause soon, he won’t smell like teenager anymore too.

Every stage and phase is precious and special.

Growing up, is hard for moms.

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Tuesday, 23 September 2014

I think my son was hoping he's adopted


I think my son was hoping he's adopted
23 September 2014

So there I was, pleasantly minding my own business, enjoying a bit of me-time in a lovely, relaxing bubble bath, when my youngest stomped into the bathroom.  Stomped I tell you!  Never mind knocking, or quietly asking if he can come in.  Like an invasion, he burst through the door, nearly taking it off the hinges, banging it against the wall.

And asked me The Question.  You know – The Question.

“Am I adopted?”.

My mouth was still flapping open and closed, and I hadn’t even had a chance to reply, before he said,

“Are you keeping a secret from me?”.

I’m not entirely sure what he was aiming for?  Was he hoping I’d say ‘yes’ or ‘no’? 

I mean, let’s be honest.  We’ve all had that moment where we’ve thought – “Please Lord, let me not really be related to them.  Is there an escape clause here somewhere?”.

And so, I did the only logical thing.  I gave him the honest truth.

“My boy, I can’t lie to you.  I’m not keeping it a secret any longer.  I’m sorry that I’m the one that has to tell you, but you’re not adopted.  You really do belong to us.  I grew you in my belly.  And Daddy and Mom (that’s what all my kids call my mom, their granny), were there when you were born.  And everyone took lots of photos and a video too.  That baby is you.”.

Still, I wasn’t convinced what he was aiming for.  My answer seemed to satisfy him.  Yet he demanded that Grant show him the pics on the computer in any rate.

I remember this so clearly as a child.  Wondering if I was actually adopted.  If everyone was keeping a secret from me.

And I think it’s probably very normal.  And for a while, I think some of us really cling to that hope.  Until you realise that you do indeed have your dad’s nose.  That your hair is the exact same colour as your mom’s.  And that your sister looks a bit like you (maybe she was adopted too?).

I absolutely love my family.  The one I was born into.  As well as the one I gave birth too.

And I suspect my Cole is delighted that we’re his real family.  Until he becomes a teenager.  In which case he’ll be seriously bummed, that there is no out.  He’s stuck with us.

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Visible proof that I grew Cole

Monday, 22 September 2014

My children have insatiable in-holes

My children have insatiable in-holes
22 September 2014

I find it a little bit odd.  But my children seem to be obsessed with their in-holes.  To be truthful, it’s really rather boring.

In addition, I think there might be a leak.  A possible connection.  Cause their out-holes are pretty busy too.

Could the two be related?

They seem to spend an inordinate amount of time concerned with food, and feeding themselves.  It is a huge big focus in their lives.

I quite simply don’t understand, why I can’t feed them daily.  Once only.  Without all of this three-times-a-day-excluding-snacks nonsense.  Once a week would even be better!

Because due to their obsession, it has become my problem.  To cater to their culinary needs.

I find this particularly annoying over weekends.  When I tend to indulge them a little bit, with a nice leisurely breakfast, at least once.  Perhaps flap jacks, or pancakes.  Maybe even waffles.

These breakfasts, tend to run rather late.  And I always feel as though I’ve no sooner finished with the breakfast "fun", and tidying up thereafter, before one of the hairy horrors asks what we’re doing for lunch???


Personally I think they should take to foraging.  Maybe at the neighbours?  Grazing at leisure. 

And as for their out-holes.  Sometimes, I fear they might be upside down.

To the best of my knowledge, the out-holes should be reserved for excretion.  Of rubbish.

But at times they can sprout the biggest loud of drivel verbally.  Out of their in-holes.  Droning on and on. 

Perhaps in an attempt to quieten their in-holes from talking utter rubbish, I should rather focus on feeding them instead.

Despite the fact that it is a thankless never ending task.  Costing time and money. 

And when did they get so fussy?  More-over, is it possibly my fault?

This one likes a thin spread of butter on school sarmies, that one likes it thick.  This one prefers it toasted, but it must please cool down, before I sandwhich wrap it so it doesn’t sweat. 

They all love my spaghetti bolognaise.  But two of them want to know if can they please skip the bolognaise and only have the plain pasta instead???

Mushrooms, vs no-mushrooms.  No onions please.  For some.  Loads of pepper for one, but nothing for the others.  Egg on toast a winner for two of the three.  But one quite simply can’t even look at it.  And so it goes.  Meal after meal.

Which actually points to one thing and one thing only.  They should all service their own bloody in-holes.  And leave me out of it! 

So I can service mine.

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Friday, 19 September 2014

I toyed a bit with stalking in my youth


I toyed a bit with stalking in my youth
19 September 2014

It is amazing how certain things fade with time.  How the memories become hazy.  And glossed over with a gentle sheen and shine.

No longer quite as sharp.  Quite as defined.  Quite so accurate…

Grant and I did a spot of spring cleaning over the weekend.  Going through loads and loads of old boxes.  Filled with a whole host of goodies.  Mostly sentimental stuff.  My very first dress and pair of shoes.  My baby blanket.  My kids’ first art works.  Old cards.  Lots of mementoes holding special meaning and significance. 

Others might look at it, and see a bunch of old papers.  Faded with time.  Crumpled.  Looking a bit worn.

But this is not so.  These old, seeming worthless papers, contain magic.  My magic.  More valuable than gold.  At least to me.

Cause amidst the many treasures I found, were all of my love letters to Grant.  So very, very sweet that he kept them.

Pages and pages of heartfelt declarations of undying love.  Absolute adoration.  Blossoming romance.

These date back to the very beginning of my matric year, when I was a brand new seventeen year old.  All bright eyed and bushy tailed.  Optimistic.  Na├»ve.  Open hearted.  And experiencing my very first true love.  Actually my only true love.  Right in the thick of an abundance of hormones.  Practically seeping out of every pore.  Filled with idealistic dreams of life and love.  Glass half full.  And all of that.

And looking over these letters, one thing became blatantly clear – I WAS A BLOODY STALKER!!!

I cringe just looking at them!  Haven’t even had the heart to read them.  It will be too mortifying.

All needy, and desperate.  Over eager and just so available.  Willing.  Ripe for the picking.  And pick my Grantie did.

I offered myself on a platter.  Heart, body and soul.

Really!  No shame whatsoever!!!

It’s like I had no filter.  Every single corny romantic piece of hogwash I’d ever read by the time I was seventeen, was squeezed into those letters.  In addition, every single romantic movie, or soppy TV ad, somehow featured largely too.

I clearly had a vision in my head of what love looked it.  What it meant.  What it would entail.

Not only did Grantie keep the love letters, he kept every blessed card.

The letters are painful to look at.  Meticulously decorated.  I must have used tons of coloured khoki’s and pens.  Spent hours and hours decorating them colourfully.  In time I was meant to spend studying.  I’m not even arty, and looking back, I must confess to being a bit surprised at the creativity I used.

I’m guessing that if I were to indulge and read them, this is what I would most likely find - loads of lamenting about having to study.  How boring school was.  How hard life treated me.  What a twit my brother was.  How annoying my sister was.  How completely and utterly out of touch and embarrassing my parents were.  How I didn’t have nice clothes.  How outdated and embarrassing our house was.  How mortifyingly odd, uncool, and strange my family was.  Did there really have to be so many of them?  I didn’t get enough pocket money.  Having a curfew was so lame.  Whinging about piano practice and mean teachers. 

On and on and on I droned.  What a bore!

And judging by the amount of letters, and the I’m-so-available-and-desperate drivel I was writing (okay so I did have a quick glance), I’m extremely surprised the boy didn’t run a mile.  Even worse, I sound equally as self-involved as my teenage son.  Confident that I knew more than all of the adults in my world put together.  Moaning about exactly the same stuff he moans about.  Saying the same things.

It’s like a time warp.  Put on repeat.

And all I can think, is that my mom’s biggest wish must’ve come true.  The wheel has turned.

And I’m now the one suffering at teenage hands.  Though to give her her due, she never really looked pained at the time.  But in hindsight, I’m fairly surprised she didn’t turn to drink.

Maybe sometime, I’ll read these letters.  For now I’m too embarrassed.  Not willing to do more than gloss at them.  And take a pic from afar, to show you my decorating prowess.

I’m sure the only missing factor, is the sense of smell.  Have a certain degree of confidence, that these letters, were rather liberally bathed in perfume.  Or mostly likely cheap deodorant.

But how blessed am I not?  I’m sure that many of those painful, and terribly vulnerable wishes, expressed in my letters have indeed come true.

I married that boy.  And I did have his babies.  Exactly the three that I wanted.  I’ve stayed his best friend.  And I still enjoy his company.  We have lasted. 
We live in a little house.  Like a real grown-up, I do grocery shopping and cook supper.  We’ve had us some kids.  We have pets.  We both drive a car, which means that eventually I did get my licence.  We have braai’s in the summer.  And I’ve finally learnt how to crack an egg without breaking it.  We both earn money.  We visit our folks over weekends.  We spend time with our friends.  Some of them still the same people, from way back then.  We pay bills.  I fill in school forms.  I help with homework.  He watches the news on the TV every night, like an adult.  We put in petrol.  We have computers.  I don’t have to practice the piano anymore.  We don’t have a curfew.  We can kiss and hug in front of our parents.  We don’t have to do our own homework anymore.  We lock up when we go out, like the responsible people we’re trying to be.  He has tools in his garage.  I have an electric beater, and know how to work the washing machine.

Basically, I’m living the dream.

This is all I ever wanted.  And I got it.

Trips overseas would’ve been nice.  A fourth baby too.  A big double story house with a pool.  Maybe a holiday cottage.

But I got the best bits.  The core of it all.

Dreams do come true.  And I’ve got the husband, kids and bills to prove it.

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Wednesday, 17 September 2014

Bribing my kids? Or providing incentives?

Bribing my kids? Or providing incentives?
17 September 2014

It’s the old carrot versus the stick debate.

When encouraging your kids to do certain things, what approach is best?  Threatening with dire consequences and punishments?  Bribing them to do your bidding.  Or coaxing them with the possibility of a reward at the end of it all?

Personally I think the carrot wins every time.  Why wouldn’t it? 

Cause I think with the carrot approach, you engage.  You encourage honesty, as opposed to deceit in order to avoid the much dreaded dire consequences and punishments tact.

Kids work towards a goal.  And isn’t working every day, at a job, exactly the same thing?  The lure of the salary check, waiting at the end of each month?  The main reason for pitching up daily, and doing your thing.  Cause without the buck at the end of the month, there surely is no point to it all.

So, I’m definitely more a carrot type of girl.  But I like to shake things up.  I don’t like calling it bribery, which is kind of, “If you do this, then mommy will buy you this or give you that”.  It sounds pretty nasty to me.  A bit like bullying to get my own way.  Which to be truthful, in essence it is.

I prefer to look upon it as an incentive scheme.  That has to be earned over a period of time.  A form of enticing my kids to do their bit.  To play their part.  To toe the line.

I mainly battle with one kid – the littlest of the lot.  He has to be gently coaxed, with a carrot at all times.

Being simply good and behaving, for the express purpose of being good and behaving seems like a pointless exercise to him.  Having ADHD means that he loses interest fast.  Very often, can’t stick to something.  And lacks staying power at the best of times.

Working towards something he really badly wants, is often the small difference between me losing my marbles.  And hanging on to them with a thread.

The past week, saw him on his absolute best behaviour at school.  He was working towards a plastic soccer ball incentive.  The type that costs R10.  That he could buy with his own saved up birthday money.  The type of ball he would kick over the neighbour’s wall on the first afternoon.  Or kick high up into the trees.  Or over inflate with the ball pump at home.  Or let the dogs chew.  Or sit on and pop by accident.  (All these scenarios have actually happened.  Most more than once.  Twice.  Or thrice.)

Yet, it tickled his fancy.  Wouldn’t break the bank.  And was a pretty harmless carrot I thought.  Additionally, when I came up with the suggestion, he was delighted.  And thus he really, really wanted it.  And thought it worthy of his efforts.

A win-win.  For me.  For Cole.  And for the long-suffering and very patient Mrs Fick.

This week, sees him working towards a packet of jelly snake sweets.  A bit more pricey at about R12.  Yet so far so good.  We seem to be on track.

And I’m suspecting we’ll hopefully be in for yet another good week.  A win-win.  For me.  For Cole.  For the long-suffering and very patient Mrs Fick.  As well as for my sweet tooth.  I don’t really believe in rewarding with food treats, but the end justifies the means.  And Cole subscribes to sharing.  So I presume that all of us with get a snake.

It is hard knowing what to do.  And how to motivate them to deliver their best.  What works for one kid, won’t work for another.  What is deemed suitable as a reward this week, might not work at all the next.

Perhaps the biggest lesson as a parent, is to remain fluid.  To interact.  And to make them a part of it.  Which will have the additional reward of having them engage.  Feeling inclusive.  Working towards a mutually beneficial goal.  Letting them feel like they have an input and can make a decision for the greater good.
Which they do.  Good behaviour vs bad.

Letting my mind drift to next week’s incentive so long.  Perhaps yet another plastic soccer ball.   The type that costs R10.  That he could buy with his own saved up birthday money.  The type of ball he would kick over the neighbour’s wall on the first afternoon.  Or kick high up into the trees.  Or over inflate with the ball pump at home.  Or let the dogs chew.  Or sit on and pop by accident.  (All these scenarios have actually happened.  Most more than once.  Twice.  Or thrice.)  …..

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Tuesday, 16 September 2014

Every so often, I hear about this really nice kid

Every so often, I hear about this really nice kid
16 September 2014

I’ve heard whispers of him.  This really nice kid.

Apparently he’s pleasant to adults.  Polite and full of respect.  No mention of disdain, or feelings of entitlement.  Furthermore, he’s helpful.  Kind.  Happy to lend a hand.  Takes his dishes to the kitchen.  Eats what’s on his plate.  Is nice to younger siblings.  Doesn’t back chat.  Or whinge, moan and groan.

Imagine my surprise, when I found out he was mine.

Isn’t that just rich!

You spend a lifetime raising a child.  Years and years.  And quite often the reward you get is dubious at best.  Questionable at most.  It isn’t tangible.  Or quantifiable.  Especially when that kid is a teen.

You get grumbles.  And bickering with siblings.  Complaints about what he doesn’t have.  How his friends have more freedom.  More pocket money.  Cooler clothes.

And then you hear from another Mom, “He’s a perfect delight!”. 

And you have to stop yourself from saying, “Are we talking about the same child?”.

It’s funny that.  Though in a way I suppose it makes sense. 

At home they can test the boundaries.  They know that they’re loved.  Accepted.  Unconditionally.

But at a friend’s house?  They pull out all the stops.  Apply all those endless lessons, manners, and etiquette niceties you’ve taught them. 

All in all, they’re really rather lovely.

So here’s the thing – I’d like to be a fly on the wall.  To witness this for myself.  To be able to fully believe it.

The same thing goes for all of my kids.  I get the attitude.  The nagging.  The worries about them being polite, and chewing with their mouth closed.  Saying please and thank you.  Remembering to hang up their towel.

Whereas the moms of friends?  Well they get my kids at their very best.  The kids I’ve been trying to raise.

But I get it.  Cause in return I get their nice kids, when they’re at my house.

And when I tell their moms, they too say in disbelief, “Are we talking about the same child?”.

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Saturday, 13 September 2014

At least I'm not going grey!!!

At least I'm not going grey!!!
12 September 2014

There seems to be a bit of a hair pattern emerging here.  But despite the fact that my previous post also regarded hair, I’m not obsessed at all.  Or not too much in any rate.

The point is just this – at forty one years of age, I’ve got lots to be grateful for.

I’ve got my health, my fabulous family, I live in a beautiful area, I have my passions, I’m creative, etc.  Currently I’m even happy with my weight – a rare occurrence.

So, all in all, lots to be thankful for.

But like everyone else, I’ve also got my fair share of problems.  Nothing insurmountable.  Just the usual run-of-the-mill-type-of-things.  We’ve all got them.  Money, lack of time, constant rushing around, too much to do in too little time, the demands of raising cheeky kids, and so on and so forth.

And I’ve just realised that it’s all about seeing the good in life.  In appreciating the wonder.  Giving thanks for goodness.  Staying positive. 

It really is the small things, that end up being the big things.

And thus, amidst it all, I’ve come to the conclusion, that of all the things I worry about, at least going grey is not one of them.

Can’t imagine anything worse.  Well, technically I could.  But going grey is most likely pretty grim.  A visible reminder that you’re ageing, and starting to get past your prime.  That time is marching on, and that the okay-ish looks are coming to an end.

Yip!  Sooooo glad I’m not going grey.

Instead, I’m going silver.

Which is really kind of cool.

I told my daughter I’m going to save a bunch on accessorising from now on.

I’m wearing my bling in my hair.  Way easier!

No need for messy, do-these-earrings-match-with-this-top-nonsense?  Or, which-tacky-bracelet-would-look-nice-with-these-jeans?  Then there’s the, should-I-go-with-white-or-red-today?  Cause we simply all know that silver is just sooo in.  In fact, it’s the new gold.  Except it’s silver.  And nicer.  More universal.  Just plain better in every single way.

I’m practically glimmering and shimmering.  All of the time.


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Tricks of light can be unkind. This glimmer is however mostly camera flash shimmer. On this occasion.