I took my wedding ring off. Once.

 

I took my wedding ring off. Once.

26 April 2024

I’m rather fond of My Grantie. In fact, I absolutely adore him.

 

In addition, I’m also partial to the institution of marriage and all that it represents. Maybe because I’m in a very happy marriage. Funny that! I love being one half of a partnership and being married to my best friend. I love the symbolism attached to marriage and as such I’ve never taken my wedding ring off. My Grantie put it on my finger at our beautiful wedding on the 6^th of April 1996, in my grandparents’ garden, in front of all of our gathered friends and family. And it’s a day that is forever immortalized in my mind as being absolutely golden. Every single thing was perfect! It’s no surprise then that I’ve never taken my ring off.

 

But perhaps, that’s not 100% true. Cause I did in fact take it off. Just once. And I didn’t really want to do it then either. I don’t remember the details too clearly, but I do remember crying a lot when I was forced to do just that.

 

I had always wanted a big family. And am so happy that I got to have at least three beautiful kids. In a perfect world, I’d love to have more. But alas, My Grantie was never keen and that ship has clearly sailed by now. My eggs are no doubt hard boiled and way past their sell by date. Which is a pity. If I thought that there was any chance of possibly sneaking another one past him, I’d give it my very best shot. Believe you me!

 

Not long after Luke was born, I was already eagerly looking forward to having another baby. But I had thought that 3 years would probably be a good age gap, so I was willing to work round about that schedule. Very patient on my part if you ask me.

 

And we were over the moon when I fell pregnant, right on schedule and our 2^nd baby was due on the 28^th of February 2001. I remember being so excited to announce our happy news. Wanting to shout it from the rooftop. Telling everyone that I could in person and phoning those that I couldn’t see to tell them too. Such an awesome time in one’s life.

 

Until it’s not. And you go for a regular scan and the doctor says that the baby is looking a bit small and they then spend a disproportionate amount of time looking around on the sonar screen. Being ominously quiet while they’re doing just that. Finally announcing that a follow-up appointment was needed just two weeks later. So I was a bit worried, but it would be fine. It would all work out. I was convinced of that.

 

But alas, the follow-up scan was not the joyous occasion that I had eagerly anticipated in advance. Sadly there was no heartbeat and I remember the doctor telling us this. And this awful, heavy, dreadful silence filling the room. For a seemingly very long time. Complete and utter disbelief. I simply could not comprehend that it was possible. Please say it wasn’t so.

 

Unfortunately it definitely was and a few days later I was scheduled to go in for a D & C at our local hospital. Not a nice experience at all. It wasn’t that it was physically painful. I don’t recall that at all. But emotionally I was completely and utterly distraught. Remember shortly before going into surgery, when the nurses came around and asked me to remove my wedding ring. I was gutted. I begged them to let me keep it on, as it meant that My Grantie would still be with me. But they wouldn’t budge. Protocol, policies, procedure and such was quoted. Which I do understand. They’re merely covering themselves, but it was symbolic to me too.

 

And so I took my wedding ring off once. But never again.

 

When I was wheeled out of surgery, it just so happened that my house doctor was also in the pre and post recovery room. He is a very, very dear friend, whom I love very much. And just seeing his familiar face meant the world to me. But it also opened the flood gates. Somehow think it was the first proper ugly cry I had had since my Dad had passed away two years previously. He assured me that all would be fine in the end, that we would have another baby and that he was very sorry for our loss. And I’ll always remember his empathetic kindness.

 

Of course, he was right. A few months afterwards, I fell pregnant again. And Amber was born with a mere 3 year and 10 month age gap between her and Luke.

 

One of the strangest things that I can recall with vivid clarity from that day, is that before and after my surgery, I was in the maternity ward at the hospital. I suppose it could also be called the gynaecological ward. And though I do know that it is not intentional, I thought that it was a bit cruel. Before and after my surgery I could hear babies crying. Lots of happy new fathers and siblings in the hallway outside of my room. New grandparents too. It was such a happy and wonderful place for them. And it struck me that there was clearly a lapse in compassion in the medical system.

 

Anyway, things obviously worked out the way they were meant to all along. Maybe it made me appreciate my kids all that more.

 

I still think about that baby every so often. Especially close to his or her due date. But the ache is no longer as harsh or as fresh as it had been. I still have some of the early scans pics and a few clothing items that we had bought. But time mellows things. And I did end up fortunate enough to have two more babies thereafter.

 

In hindsight I’ve thought it’s also uniquely symbolic that I did something so unique for that baby. Something that I didn’t do for any of my others. I took my wedding ring off. And for a small slice of time, it was just the two of us.

 

Now as for my Grantie, he’s never taken his ring off either. Because he can’t. His wedding band consists of two rings that are linked together. And they’ve become so tight that there is no way he could get it off again. Which suits me just fine…

 

 

 

 

Filling in official forms, makes my head hurt. A lot!

 

Filling in official forms, makes my head hurt. A lot!

25 April 2024

I’m rather fond of admin and don’t mind doing it at all. Weird, right? Cause I think most people hate it.

 

Now I’m not saying that I actively go out there and look for admin stuff to do, but I’m quite happy to just knuckle down and do it. It’s kind of non-thinking work. You simply just get on with it and usually you can see the results of what you’re doing. The pile of papers gets less, your inbox shrinks, stuff gets chucked out and everything sort of goes where it needs to go. So the end result is rather satisfying. In addition I'm methodical, so I find it all rather logical.

 

So given the above, it might be quite surprising to discover that filling in official forms, does not fill me with joy. At all.

 

There are so many senseless boxes to tick. And should you tick them or make a cross? The boxes are really small. You always have to use a pen and I’m more of a clutch pencil kind of gal, and have a great fondness for an eraser (my kids have urged me to not use the word rubber…). So many boxes seem to require the same information over and over again. And I sometimes find the simplest of questions on a form rather challenging.

 

I mean given the fact that my postal address and residential address is the same, why should I need to tick where I would like to receive my correspondence? It’s the same bloody place. Besides which, why does anyone actually need to know where I live? It’s not that I mind, but having to fill my whole address out twice means that there’s lots of room for error. Also, when last did I receive anything in my actual physical mailbox outside my house? Everything is done via email, right?

 

I’ve recently started a new job and I absolutely LOVE it!!! So grateful for the wonderful opportunity, awesome company, fantastic working environment, fabulous colleagues and really great bosses. In fact, I thoroughly enjoy my role in my new job. I’m learning and growing and I’d like to believe that I’m making a valuable contribution. Well, maybe not just yet, but definitely in the future. One that will hopefully increase as I skill up and become better at my job. For now, I’m thinking I’m probably more of a bother than a help, but in time I'm positive that this will improve once I’ve gained more experience.

 

But just the other day, I had to fill out a really, really basic one page form for my boss. So yes, it was a form for SARS with a lot of little boxes to tick and complete. And I had to fill in an employee’s personal details, ID number, Company number, employment dates, financial details, etc. But let’s keep it real. I had all of the information in front of me. Albeit in a different format. It was a very simple matter of transposing information from one form to another. Hardly rocket science.

 

Apparently it was not that simple. For me. My boss printed a single page for me to complete. It didn’t take long for me to make my first mistake. In black ink. But fear not. Was I not issued with my very own bottle of Tipp-Ex at work? Surely this would be a very quick fix. So I painted the mistake away, blew the Tipp-Ex dry, made my correction and studiously completely the form. Delighted that I was finished, I took it to my boss and proudly gave it to her.

 

She took one look and said that it would not be accepted by SARS. So she printed me another copy. Felt a bit embarrassed, but it’s just one page after all and anyone can make a mistake.

 

Completed my 2^nd attempt and realized that I’d filled in a wrong line. Knew by now that Tipp-Ex was not an option. So I sheepishly went to my boss and explained that I’d unfortunately made yet another mistake. Apologised and asked her to print it for me again.

 

My 3^rd attempt went really, really well. And I finished the whole thing. Before I realized that I’d filled a December salary amount into a January block. I could not believe my stupidity. By now I was mortified. My first reaction was to drop my head on my desk and I got the most inappropriate and uncontrollable attack of the giggles. Couldn’t believe that I’d done it yet again. Cringed at the thought of bothering my boss yet again to ask her to print me a 4^th form.

 

Still I could not stop giggling. Eventually sent Grant a message and told him what an #eejit I was. Finally plucked up my courage, tried to school my face into a look of remorse (which I really felt, but I do tend to giggle inappropriately when I get nervous, ruining my sincerely remorseful look), knocked on my boss’s door and confessed once more. To top things off I giggled while confessing and over explained what had happened.

 

To be fair, she was most patient with me. Didn’t blink an eye. And went ahead and printed me another 3 copies. Just in case. And just as well… She's clearly a wise woman and had sized me up by this stage.

 

Delighted to report back that I finally completed the form accurately and without mistake. However it did take a rather disproportionate amount of time, paper and ink.

 

Now, this fear-of-form-filling moment of introspection, made me think of other forms. And I had to wonder if anyone else ever felt the same way?

 

And then I remembered…

 

There was this one time my Amber had to go to the doctor and I accompanied her. Once we announced our arrival at reception, the receptionist handed over a clipboard and form that needed to be completed with Amber’s personal details. I knew for a fact that I DID NOT want to complete this form. In addition, I could turn my aversion into a learning experience for Amber. Which made me think. Had she ever really filled out an official form of any kind?

 

I delighted in handing the clipboard over to her and informing her that it was time for her to fill in her own form. One of the “perks” of being an adult.

 

It was a lengthy process and she had lots of questions along the way. And hey, I so get it. I also find forms confusing. Clearly, I’m not very bright. Not saying that she isn't. But I know for a fact that I'm not. She was a first-timer.

 

We got to the bit where they asked for the contact details of her next of kin. So I told her that she could simply add my name, surname, contact number, etc.

 

The following question on the form was, “Relationship”.

 

Now I didn’t think that would be a hard one for her to complete. In my opinion, the relationship question was an easy one. I’m her mother, hence my details. Piece of pie.

 

Until she stumped me with a question she whispered loudly to me…

 

“Why would they want to know if I’m single or if I’ve got a boyfriend?”

 

I guffawed. As did the receptionist.

 

So there you have it. Forms are truly baffling. To many of us. In addition, it’s also clearly a hereditary condition. Sorry Amber!

Having three children basically makes you a bouncer

 

Having three kids basically makes you a bouncer

21 April 2024

Having ONE child makes you a parent. Having TWO makes you a referee. THREE or more? You’re basically a bouncer.

 

I somehow foolishly hadn’t quite anticipated everything that my role as being a mom would encompass.

 

I had anticipated the flood of love. The labour-intensive honour of looking after a small and needy baby. The privilege of showing an eager and inquisitive toddler the world. The miracle of joining and enabling a young pre-school child in discovering their world. The years spent guiding a young child through primary school. The challenge of teenagers, eager to explore their boundaries and experiment with greater independence. The responsibility of nurturing a child into an adult who is responsible, kind, confident, caring, loving, capable, has a great work-ethic and everything else that goes along with raising a fully-fledged human being.

 

I was all prepared for the above. I didn’t quite know how I was going to achieve it, but I knew what the end goal was. And I was fairly confident that I would be able to pull it off, growing alongside them. Stretching not only their boundaries and understanding of what it would all entail, but also mine. We’d be in it together. A partnership of sorts if you like.

 

Now what did really take me by surprise was some of the by-products of raising children.

 

And few things sum it up better than this random quote I came across a few days ago. In fact, it captured it perfectly. Having one child makes you a parent. Having two makes you a referee. Three or more? You’re basically a bouncer.

 

Having only one child, when I had my Luke was fairly uncomplicated. Yes, it was challenging and we both had to muddle through this parenting thing together. But I had way more time with only one child. My attention wasn’t divided. And I was only dealing with one set of challenges at a time. When I was potty training, then I was potty training. That was the phase we were in. No other distractions or difficult areas of parenting to traverse. When it came to teaching him anything for the first nearly four years of his life, he was my sole focus.

 

And then, when he was 3 years and 10 months old, Amber was born. And things became a little bit more tricky. In fact, I was super complacent before Amber was born, thinking that I would absolutely rock this two-children parenting gig. I mean, I’d already done it once before, right? How hard could it be? Surely I was an expert by now? I’d already done all of the challenging stuff once before.

 

But somehow, because Luke was already nearly four years old, he had become fairly independent in many ways. Able to bath himself, dress himself, brush his teeth, eat on his own, etc. And when Amber was born I was once more flung back into full-time dependence from a teeny tiny little baby. I had forgotten in the nearly four years that had passed how big the time investment was with a small baby. Cooking supper with a baby on your hip. Your life divided into roughly four hourly feeding intervals. A quick trip to the shops no longer merely entailing putting a safety belt on a child in a booster seat. No way sirree bob. It encompassed a cumbersome snug-and-safe baby seat. A torture device to carry. A huge baby bag with extra nappies, a spare dummy, blankets, snacks, usually more than one different change of clothing in case there was an explosive nappy situation, to name but a few critical essentials. The explosive nappy thing happens more often that you can actually imagine. These are always hugely impressive. In a bad way, if you catch my drift.

 

When Luke and Amber were both tiny they were firm friends. But once they got a little bit older I discovered that my kids were not immune to what inevitably happens. Siblings do what siblings do. They bicker and annoy each other. The vie for attention and they want the same toy or even random object. Who knew two kids could fight over an empty toilet roll. But hey, they do. So in addition to parenting two kids, I also played a starring role as referee. I swear they would get a kick out of just bickering. And developed it into a competitive sport of sorts. Hence, I refined my role as referee. Yay me. Sigh.

 

Cole was born two and a half years after Amber. And this time I wasn’t surprised by the needs of a small baby and the addition of another child into the mix. Amber was still relatively small and at one stage I had two kids in nappies. I’ve spoken to many people with three kids, and they all seem to feel roughly the same. The jump from one kid to two kids is sometimes quite big. But by the time you add a third child, you simply just go with the flow and they’re born into the chaos that already exists. Nothing really fazes you. You’re already doing multiple things at the same time. In my case I was doing the primary school run with one kid and helping Luke traverse the whole new world that was school. Homework in the afternoons after school. Packing lunch boxes, school sports, constant play dates with friends, helping at school cake sales, Cubs on Friday afternoons, karate lessons twice a week and so it goes on. Amber was a very attached toddler and demanded lots of my attention. We’d do fun things together at home in the mornings while Luke was at school and baby Cole just chugged along and did everything and went everywhere. So I was juggling three kids at three different stages in their lives and all of the challenges that forms part of that.

 

And then Cole got slightly bigger, developed his own personality and became a little person. And then there was definitely 3^rd player in the game. Imagine having a 3 year old, a 5 year old and a 9 year old. Now I’m doing drop-offs at 3 different schools with 3 different drop-off and collection times. Everyone is doing some form of extra-mural. Luke was doing school sport, karate and Cubs. Amber was dancing and doing Playball. Cole was swimming and doing Playball. And all of them wanted playdates all of the time. It was wonderful. It was wild. It was absolutely crazy. Yet I didn’t even realise it at the time. It was just life. And I completely and utterly loved it!

 

However as they got even bigger, my role changed once more. In addition to being a Mom I was now not only a 3 player referee. But also a bouncer.

 

It was ridiculously busy. Manic at times. And involved a lot of mental mathematics to keep it all together.

 

But here’s the thing…

 

I loved every single minute.

 

Moreover, I was desperate to add a 4^th player to the game.

#truestory

Us women have the most important job when it comes to home projects

 

Us women have the most important job when it comes to home projects

20 April 2024

Have you ever had the dubious “honour” of assisting your husband or partner when he’s wearing his handyman-hat?

 

Now don’t get me wrong. A bit of home DIY is always an exciting thing. Especially if it’s a project that I’ve requested. If you catch my purely selfish drift.

 

Putting something up in the garden fills me with great excitement. Adding a repurposed shelf, a mirror, or a picture is awesome. And then I’m all eager. Usually asking for weeks before the handyman-hat gets donned and the task is done. And I so get it. For the handyman in question, one has to work up the energy or perhaps appetite to do such a job. Sometimes it’s actually easier to have a whole bunch of these type of things that need to be done. And then rather than stretching them out and doing the odd thing here and there, simply waiting until you’ve got a veritable collection of handyman chores that need to be accomplished before you dust off the tools and work up the appropriate amount of relish to get cracking and tackle it all together.

 

However…

 

Something unexciting like redoing the wiring on the toaster, or sorting out the messy bird’s nest of wires behind the TV does not even slightly fill me with enthusiasm at all.

 

Dreary to the extreme. Yet I do know, that these kinds of projects are equally essential. Yes, they’re tedious. But it’s important as well.

 

Now the problem comes in when I’m roped in to assist. I’m a helper by nature. Eagerly throwing myself into any task to aid someone. Always willing.

 

But when you have the questionable distinction of being responsible for holding screws in your hand, or handing tools to the handyman, it’s not all that thrilling at all. Then there’s the vacuuming afterwards to remove all of the debris. And usually, inevitably, there are some supposed essential and critical bits, that have somehow become surplus to requirements. Why are there so often screws and all manner of odd assortments left behind once something has been assembled or “fixed”? Perhaps the makers of such items like to just throw them in there. You know. To add a dangerous element of surprise and confusion. Drawing out the torture? Evil bastards!

 

Alas, as a seasoned handman-helper, I’ve become accustomed to this. Hence there’s always a random jar or old ice-cream tub in our garage. Filled with leftover bits and bobs. Who knows, one day they might even be needed.

 

So to every other handman-helper out there, I feel you. The pressure can be unbearable, but somebody has to do it.

Duct Tape and Cable Ties - The modern man's answer to everything

 

Duct Tape and Cable Ties - The modern man's answer to everything

16 April 2024

I have a certain family member, who delights in seeing any potential breakage in his home, his car or anywhere else for that matter, as a challenge to whip out some duct tape, and create some magic.

 

Forget the old super glue or finding-a-new-screw method. That’s so old school and yesteryear. Why bother, when a good old strip (or rather a multiple amount of strips) of duct tape can do a much better job. Creating a delightful addition to a formerly beautiful item of furniture, or whatever else tickles your fancy. I suspect that this guy, finds the addition of a colourful strip of blue or silver duct tape far more aesthetically pleasing to the eye. Creating a wonderful uplifting effect on a previously functional item.

 

In fact, he takes his artistic creativity and flair to the next level. Not merely “fixing” something, ensuring that it looks almost the way it once did before he "fixed" it.. He rather opts for a quirky curve to a former straight up bedside lamp. Clearly improving on what was once there. After all, why not?

 

And then I started thinking about it a bit more. Doesn’t My Grantie do exactly the same? Our snackwhich maker is a missing a screw that we cannot find an exact replacement for. Hey, no problem! Blue duct tape to the rescue. Is it pretty? Hell no! But does it work? Hell yes! Problem solved.

 

Which started me thinking even more. Is this creative fixing obsession, merely limited to the humble duct tape in order to cure all ails? Why no, there’s another equally awesome fixer-upper solution to any problem that the humble duct tape can’t fix. Yip, you guessed it, cable ties. We have a variety of colours and lengths. And boy, does he love those bad boys.

 

And then once I started investigating, it came to light that the original family member I mentioned first, is also a firm believer in the restorative properties of cable ties.

 

Do you think there’s a pattern emerging here? Do they teach it at Boy/Man 101. Maybe there’s a subsection of the course material titled, “Duct Tape and Cable Ties – How to effectively use these on anything and everything”. Perhaps the follow-up module is titled, “Uplifting a once-broken item into a fixed creation of unequalled beauty”.

 

But hey, I’m not going to knock it. I’ve got a few fixer-upper tricks up my own sleeve as well. Albeit of a slightly different variety. Dinner a bit boring? Hey, presto! Just add garlic. Supper need a spot of pizazz? No problem. Cream and mushrooms will perk that unappetising sucker right up. Still no culinary joy? Fear not! A spot of chilli will effectively nuke and mask absolutely anything.

 

So, there you’ve got it. Men have their go-to tricks. And us gals have ours.

Please note that certain names were not mentioned in this blog. In order to protect "the innocent"...

If his man vegetables weren't attached, he'd lose those as well

If his man vegetables weren't attached, he'd lose those as well

14 April 2024

I am the proud “owner” of one kid who loses stuff. And a lot of it.

 

He doesn’t mean to do it. In fact he never does. However, he has alarmingly high “success” rate in doing just that.

 

Maybe it’s a skill? If it was a competitive sport, he’d be a gold medal winner. A leader in his field of expertise. A master of his craft.

 

What makes it such a wonderful “gift” is the unashamed reality, that’s it’s always unintentional. Pure happenstance if you like. An unexpected “surprise”. Every. Single. Time.

 

He has specialised in his field. Mainly focusing on items of a technological variety. And within that broad category he has done an extensive foray into cell phones in particular.

 

To date, he has “lost” eight of them. Yes, indeed eight. And I can list every single one. Can’t remember the exact order as I get a bit muddled up. But is sequence all that important?

 

Lost Phone 1 – Left behind in a bush after a long weekend away with a friend, to a destination about five hours away. Well, you see, they were all packed up and ready to go. The car was packed and the parents did a quick run-through of the house to ensure that nothing was left behind. So while the adults were doing dreary adult stuff, Cole and his friend played a game of soccer in the garden. Not wanting to damage his phone, or risk it falling out of his pocket, he put it in a bush in the garden, while they played. The parents once more emerged, rustled all of the kids into the car and off they set on the trip home. Sance Cole’s phone. We were lucky to get it back about a week later, as the friends knew of someone who was driving down from Knysna and who had said that they wouldn’t mind investigating the bush to see if they could find it and bring it along with them. Only took an hour and a half drive there and back for My Grantie to fetch it in Cape Town. Deep remorse, but the phone was safe. And it was retrieved. So all good. In fact we were hugely relieved.

 

Lost Phone 2 – Slept over at the same friend’s house. They were playing basketball in the driveway the following morning. The family was once again heading off on a holiday for a few days. Cole came home after the sleepover, only to realise that he’d left the phone outside in the driveway. Had to wait about 5 days until they were back again. Luckily they live on a kind of a small holding, have fencing and an electronic gate and brave dogs that guard the home in their absence. Deep remorse once again. But somehow the phone was not eaten by the dogs or trampled by their horse. So all good. It was a win. And we had hoped that the "punishment" of a few enforced days without his phone might encourage him to be more cautious in the future. What were we thinking?

 

Lost Phone 3 – Went to a party at the local cricket club for a friend’s birthday. The following morning at 6h00, we were both scouring the outside of the cricket club as well as the very large cricket fields and surrounds. Deep remorse. Have I said this before? Phone gone. Not all good.

 

Lost Phone 4 – Left behind in an Uber. Luckily had the Uber driver’s number. We both phoned him and sent him multiple messages and spoke to him. The phone was not in the car. It’s a mystery to this day. Phone gone. Deep remorse once more. Definitely not even maybe good at all.

 

Lost Phone 5 – Mugging outside a social bar when he was out one night. A couple of guys simply walked up to him, grabbed his phone and ran. He gave chase, but it was not good. Deep remorse, yada-yada-yada. Phone gone. Sigh.

 

Lost Phone 6 – Went jolling in Cape Town. Once again, mugged between clubs. Remorse, etc. Phone gone. Not again!

 

Lost Phone 7 -  Went to a fabulous New Year’s Eve party. At midnight the DJ urged everyone to take their phones out, put their torches on and wave it in the air. They bloody saw him coming. Phone snatched by an opportunist. Definitely remorse. Phone gone. Are we in a twilight zone?

 

Lost Phone 8 – Went with a friend to the beach. Had an awesome time. Asked some random strangers to keep an eye on their belongings when they went to swim. Need I say more? Remorse and anger from him about this one. He was livid. Phone gone. Yet again.

 

We’ve usually had an old phone lying around when he’s lost a phone. Nothing new. In fact, for obvious reasons, he hasn’t had a handset upgrade for a few years. It just seems a bit pointless. We’ve actually stopped doing handset upgrades for all of us. We rather just increase our data packages. So our stash of old phones have shrunk quite dramatically. Can’t imagine why…

 

And about two or three lost phones ago, we told him, that we really didn’t have anything much to offer him apart from a shrinking selection of old, outdated and screen-cracked hand-me-downs. He would have to buy his own handset. Now what really took us by surprise, was how scandalized and incensed he was by that. In fact, I am blessed with perfect recall of exactly what he said, “I can’t believe parents would expect their own child to buy their own phone”. Can you even hear yourself? On this occasion it suited him to be a child. Even though he was over eighteen. It tickled us pink. As is, he always has to pay for the reconnection fee himself and buy his own cell phone cover.

 

Losing 8 phones. It’s a skill. Don’t you agree?

 

However, he has not merely limited himself to technology. Clothes and shoes often suffer a similar fate. Bags and swimming towels too. School clothes were fair game. And as for camping gear and cooler boxes? Don’t even get My Grantie started. I learnt early on, while he was still in primary school, that it was essential and of critical importance that I never sent anything away with him on a camp that I wouldn’t mind never seeing again. That way, anything that ever came back from a camping trip or school sport’s tour was a wonderful bonus and surprise. Oh yay! Just look at this! We got the inflatable mattress back again. How lucky are we?

 

Then there was that one time, when he went on a sport’s tour to Oudtshoorn when he was still in Primary School. It was an annual and much anticipated event. Being chosen for one of the teams going on tour was an honour and everyone always looked forward to it. I can’t quite recall, but I think it was usually three or four nights away from home. And I remember My Grantie and I heading up to the school on the day that they were coming back from the tour. The road outside the school was crowded with touring buses as well as parents and kids with huge big smiles on their faces. So many stories to tell about their awesome matches and the fun they had on tour.

 

Our kid saw us and he was beaming from ear to ear and practically leapt from the bus. Bubbling over with excitement! Voice hoarse from screaming along the sport’s field, supporting his friends. Diving into a million stories before he was even off the bus. We walked around to the luggage compartment of the bus and got all of his goodies. Couldn’t help but notice that his hockey sport’s kit was conspicuously absent. We kept on hanging around until the very last bag had been unpacked. Still no hockey bag. It. Was. Gone.

 

Pray tell, why? Well, that’s because he didn’t remember to put it in with the rest of his luggage before he got onto the bus. In actual fact, he couldn’t quite recall seeing it again after his last match. Nope he didn’t take it back with him to their accommodation the previous day either. He thinks it was possibly lying somewhere next to the hockey field somewhere. At another school. About four and a half hours away. To give him some credit, he was surprised that he’d forgotten it and was deeply sorry.

 

To be fair, My Grantie was far more shocked than he should’ve been. We had been exposed to occurrences of this nature for a very long time already by that stage. I was accepting of the fate. We were bound to suffer some collateral damage.

 

My Grantie claimed loudly, that our boy’s promising hockey career was over. Hockey shoes are extremely expensive. As is a decent hockey stick. Not to mention the shin pads, sporting socks, sporting clothes and all of the other paraphernalia.

 

Alas, fear not. One of the coaches of the girls’ team had seen the clearly marked sport’s bag next to the field, saw the name of the kid on the bag and made the logical choice. Cause she also knew this kid. So she took the bag back with her to the overnight accommodation and popped it in the girls’ bus the following morning.

 

I have no words. Only my kid would be able to lose 8 phones, multiple items of clothing, camping gear, swimming towels and forget to bring his hockey bag containing all of his kit back from a sport’s tour.

 

Now that takes a remarkable amount of skill. I told you he was a master of his craft. A genius in fact!

 

I have no doubt that the future will be filled with similar “mishaps” of this nature. It’s par for the course. Everyone has different skills, strengths and weaknesses.

 

Anyway, in other news, he’s due for a cell phone upgrade of his latest contract soon. He's already been eagerly scouring to see what awesome-new-phone would be available to him. And I shudder at the thought. Wish me luck!

 

I met this totally new person when I had each of my kids. And it was never the baby.

 

I met this totally new person when I had each of my kids. And it was never the baby.

12 April 2024

Nothing quite prepares one for the magic of meeting your baby for the very first time.

 

It’s a uniquely surreal experience. Much anticipated, and it’s a day filled with excitement and so many emotions. Awe, wonder, amazement and gratitude are amongst the flood of many feelings that assails one. And I think the same can be said for most moms and dads. I do understand that there are exceptions to this rule. And I have deep empathy for those who don’t share the same emotions that I did, for whatever reason. There can be so many of those.

 

However on the whole, it is a life changing event that stands out forever more. Etched in one’s memory. It’s like finally unwrapping a gift that’s been brewing and cooking for nine long months. And even longer than that, for those of us who first started planning to have a baby. After all, conception might not happen immediately. It can be years in the making. And I think the same goes whether you give birth or whether you adopt. It’s about embracing a whole new life into your world and accepting full responsibility for this tiny, needy, vulnerable and impressionable little person. One who is fully and completely dependent on you for every single thing.

 

In fact, when you stop to think it about it, it can bring you to your knees. And make you feel like you need to sit down. If you had the time to do so.

 

It’s a mammoth task. One that takes an entire lifetime to invest in. As your kids get older, you may no longer need to feed and bath them and care for their most basic needs, but the nurturing and concern for their wellbeing and happiness never stops. For the rest of your life. I think that one of the facets of what makes it such a complex thing to wrap one’s head around, is that it’s not merely caring for their physical needs. That’s merely one rather one-dimensional part of it. It’s their emotional needs too. Ensuring that you play a vital role in shaping an adult who is well adjusted, before you let them loose onto the world. Confident, kind, loving, caring and completely equipped for the many challenges that we face in life.

 

I had given some headspace to this before having kids. But not much. I was too focused on having a cute little baby to love. And I just couldn’t wait for them to be born. For me, the wonder has never stopped. Not when they became toddlers, little kids, bigger kids, teenagers or even young adults. I absolutely adore my kids. Sappy, but true. Maybe it’s nature’s way? I also think that few things are more pure than a mother’s love for their child. It’s honestly a thing of beauty.

 

So imagine my surprise, when once I had my kids, the totally new person that I met, was not only the baby.

It was me.

 

As a Mom.

 

Now, that was quite a revelation and a big source of amazement.

 

Maybe I should have expected it, but somehow I did not. Oh I loved My Grantie absolutely. And I still do. I loved my mom, sister, brother, their partners, and my nieces as well as my whole extended family. And still do so to this very day.

 

But nothing could ever have quite prepared me for the rush of unconditional love that enveloped me like a warm comfy blanket, when I became a mom. I think motherhood does this for most of us.

 

I didn’t become a whole new person when each of my kids were born. In many ways, I simply became who I was always destined to become. I had just not anticipated the exceptional depth of feeling and emotions. The way it completely flooded me and took hold of my heart, soul and being.

 

I’ve heard it said before and I absolutely agree. Having kids, is like having your heart outside of your body.

 

To this day, it’s been the most joyous, most challenging, most fulfilling and most incredible experience of my life. And it continues to be just that, every single day. That doesn’t change when they get older. I’m still a mom. I’m still their mom.

 

And funny enough, like they’ve grown with my nurturing and love, so I have grown with their nurturing and love. It’s such a beautiful and honest exchange. Absolutely unconditional.

 

And I am so exceptionally grateful, for the phenomenal blessing of being a Mom.

 

And of getting to know me, as a Mom.

 

I think I like me. And that’s pretty cool.

Baby Luke - the one who made me mom when I had just turned 25

Baby Amber - with her flair for drama from the get-go. All purple and blue.

Baby Cole - I was 31 and absolutely thrilled that I managed to squeeze a 3rd baby past Grant

Jazz Cabbage and other funny phrases

 

Jazz Cabbage and other funny phrases

10 April 2024

You’ve absolutely gotta love a good quirky saying for average every day things. And even some not so every day things too. The slang code we use to describe stuff.

 

Now when it comes to certain illegal substances, I’ve heard multiple terms or phrases for Marijuana. I suspect we all have.

 

And most of them make me laugh. I mean why would you say Marijuana, Dagga or Dope, when you can rather say, “The Devil’s Lettuce” or “Jazz Cabbage”.

 

Not entirely sure why I find it so entertaining. Cause let’s keep it real here. I’m not a partaker of the good stuff. So how often do I ever talk about it or mention it in conversation? Hardly friggin ever. Yet, when I come across a boring description like Weed, I simply always pipe up with either “The Devil’s Lettuce” or “Jazz Cabbage”. How can I possibly resist? And then I usually giggle. True giveaway that I’m a novice. Don’t think serious Lettuce lovers find it all that funny after all. Jeez! You’d think they’d find it more amusing, especially if they’ve imbibed.

 

So how did I come across some of my favourite phrases? Well I was listening to the radio one day, and I think it was Wackhead Simpson and his wacky crew, who listed a whole bunch of synonyms for Weed. And I thought it was hilarious. Hence I try to use them often. You know, when I discuss weed and stuff. 😉

 

And then the other day, Grant and I were busy watching a series. Can’t quite recall which series it was, but the use of Cocaine was described and Grant and I both burst out laughing. Don’t get my wrong. I’m not into that kind of thing at all. Drugs destroy many, many lives. And addiction is a horrible affliction. So I’m not making light of either the drug, or the addiction people suffer from because of it. I think it’s a very slippery slope and it can get it’s clutches on you and take you down a horrible rabbit hole before you’ve even realised it. And I don’t wish that upon anyone I know. I truly wish that we lived in a world where drugs didn’t exist. Where their hold on people didn’t ruin so many lives and cause so much agony and destruction.

 

So my mirth is not directed at the problem that drugs cause. Or the drugs themselves. Maybe it’s more because of the irony of giving a horrible drug, such a funny and innocuous name. Making it seem harmless. Even fun. Which I know that it is not. And maybe therein lies the problem. Cause let’s face it, in the long run, I don’t think drugs are fun at all. It’s certainly no laughing matter.

 

But I suppose I have an unusual sense of humour and it tickled my funny bone. Most likely it’s probably a very common nickname. But it’s just that I’d never come across it before.

 

So pray tell, how was Cocaine described? Well it was called, “The Devil’s Dandruff”. And maybe that’s why it is so amusing to me. It’s a funny phrase. Seems so harmless. And is so at odds with the actual substance and what it causes.

 

So please hook me up, and share some of your funny descriptions or slang terms too.

 

 

 

Yes, I paint hollowed out eggs for Easter. Bite me.

 

Yes, I paint hollowed out eggs for Easter. Bite me.

8 April 2024

I do so love myself a festive season. Of any particular kind. Xmas and Easter? Bring it on. Sadly, we’re not very big on Halloween. Cause I suspect I could’ve gotten really sucked into that one big time.

 

So Easter was last weekend. And we had a lovely family meal with all of the kids and Amber’s boyfriend, Rob too. Such a super chilled and relaxing day.

 

And I know that most people don’t decorate for Easter. Look, I get it. It’s not for everyone. In fact, loads of people don’t even decorate for Xmas. You do you, and all that. Each to their own.

 

But I am so very, very fond of an occasion. Of any kind. And at this time of the year, Easter is as good an excuse as any. In addition, it gives me a marginally legitimate reason to decorate and indulge in some crafting.

 

So pray tell, what do I do? Well, I paint hollowed out eggs. And lots of them. Yip. I know I’m kinda nuts. And most people don’t really get the point it all. But that’s okay. Cause I get it. I grew up doing it and it’s an activity interwoven with many happy memories of wonderful times together. In the home that I grew up in when I was still a children. I enjoyed it when my children were little, when some of them were a bit bigger, and even now. They’ve all given up and no longer indulge. The youth of today. No stamina, I tell you. Even now, when I visit my Mom over Easter time, we all indulge and paint big time. And usually some of my kids will pick up their paint brushes too.

 

But as for me, I GO ALL OUT!!! And I absolutely love it. Never let it be said that I don’t go the whole hog. Cause truth be told, I’m rather fond of hogs too. Which brings me to another point? Why isn’t there a whole celebration for the wonderful, miraculous pig?

 

So here’s the thing. You don’t just randomly paint hollowed out eggs. First, you have to ensure that they get hollow in the first place. Which means scrambled eggs on the daily, or almost daily. In addition, there’s pancakes, waffles, flapjacks and the like. You’ve got to painstakingly making teeny tiny little holes, blow out the insides and then meticulously wash them. It’s also takes a bit of time for them to dry. Then you’ve got to give them a few base coats so you’ve got a solid colour to begin with. Having a wishy-washy background is not nice at all, and it diminishes the overall effect of the final product. So, I’m thorough. Ensuring that my foundation is good.

 

It is extremely fair to point out, that though I love crafting, I’m honestly not particularly artistic. At all. Juvenile at best. On a really good day. So I go for something that will have an overall good effect. Swirling curly-cues, symmetric details and a fair bit of fluffing it as I’m going along. Look, it doesn’t really mind if anyone else likes them. Cause I do. And it makes me happy. Not just the final product, which I invariably love cause it’s to my tastes. But because I love the process of it all. Even just unpacking my Easter eggs from previous years brings me joy. And I so love looking at them.

 

Apart from the odd egg shell that breaks from wear and tear and the difficulty in storing them without them becoming damaged or cracked, I still have most of my painted eggs. Every year, my need for storage becomes bigger and more complicated. Cause how do you really ensure that they don’t break? Eggshells are fragile things at the best of times. Without the benefit of the gooey goodness inside the eggshell, it’s even more prone to cracks and breakage. Let’s just say it’s complicated.

 

And through my collection of the creations of past years, it’s been wonderful to see how every year has a colour scheme or pattern of choice. I display my eggs proudly throughout my house on as many available surfaces as possible. All in the hopes that my cats won’t destroy them. So far, so good. But I don’t want to jinx it too much. I display them in glass bowls and vases, sorting colours and themes together and love the overall effect. Such a fun thing to do.

 

So this year, my colours are red (beeeeeeg surprise), white and black. And I’m loving it. So awesome and I’m loving the end results.

 

Found it quite funny that I’ve had quite a few friends sending me messages or commenting, saying that Easter does not feel complete without seeing my egg collection posted on Facebook. So hurry up already. Most flattering and sweet.

 

Alas, I’ve promised my Grantie that I’ll finish up this weekend. And pack it all away again. Mostly I suspect he’s just tired of scrambled eggs. Can’t blame him really, I’m also feeling as though I’ve peaked on my egg consumption. Because of his heart, we watch his egg intake in general and usually stick to 2 eggs a week. But we might have relaxed those restrictions a little bit over Easter. Not too hectic. The kids helped with the eating of eggs too. But I think we’re all tapped out. In addition, we finished the last marshmallow Easter eggs a few days ago. So it really is time to move on.

 

So I give to you, Easter 2024. Enjoy! Yes, I know I’m mad. Grant reminds me often enough.

 

Actually, on second thought. It wouldn’t be fair to pack everything up straight away. Cause the newly painted eggs have not yet had their chance to shine in the spotlight. To enjoy being displayed. So perhaps I’ll stretch it out for just a little bit longer. But will refrain from tackling anymore. Restraint, is a very, very hard thing to do. But I’ll give it my best shot.

 

Anyone for scrambled eggs?

 

My Grantie's cooking adventures. Or lack thereof.

 

My Grantie's cooking adventures. Or lack thereof.

6 April 2024

Aaaaahhh! My Grantie and cooking. He does so love to try out a new recipe. Quite the budding chef, I tell you.

 

So pray tell, how does his "trying-out-new-recipe-cooking-adventures" go? To be honest, rather well actually. As he doesn't cook them.

 

He masterfully peruses the world wide web. And finds a delectable dish that he's absolutely dying to try out!

 

We're all informed of this rather loudly. He heralds it, if you like.

 

It starts off with a proclamation - "I'm making supper tonight. I want to try something new and different. And I've found this awesome recipe. It looks really easy". It is fair to point out at this juncture, that there’s no purpose in wasting a good heralding, without ensuring that you’ve got an audience. So he does like to guarantee that we’re all assembled in the same vicinity.

 

This is known as Phase One. We've seen this pattern repeated often before. At this stage, the kids and I share looks. Amber always sniggers. Not even pretending to hide her mirth. Sometimes out of earshot (though also sometimes intentionally within earshot) she'll mutter something along the lines of, "We all know what that means".

 

Phase Two of his culinary master plan is to head off to the shops to buy the ingredients. Occasionally he gets all of the necessary ingredients. However, this is not guaranteed. Probably mostly because he doesn’t always make a list, but rather just peruses the recipe on his phone, whilst doing the shopping.

 

Then for the duration of the day, he speaks about this endeavour. Much planning involved of when he should start with his preparations. And beautiful visions of how good the end result will be. As well as  proclamations of his culinary brilliance.

 

During Phase Three he goes over into action. Ingredients and cooking utensils are assembled. And to be fair, he does really try. Prepping ensues with lots of concentration, attention to detail and dedication to his task.

 

The real problem, seems to always lie in Phase Four. Namely the effective execution of his cooking adventure. It mostly starts off really well with great gusto and eager enthusiasm. But invariably, he hits a proverbial snag. And becomes stumped.

 

Maybe it's the monotony of reading a recipe over and over again, trying to decipher what it all really means. Interpretation can apparently vary greatly. And I can't really blame him. I can so identify. Which is possibly why I'm less adventurous in the kitchen. I suppose I do have quite a vast and tasty repertoire (At least I’d like to think so. Everyone eats what I prepare and dish up. There’s a chance they’re fearful of not liking it. Who can tell?). And fairly often, I add to my collection of dishes. But somehow new recipes are often tricky, labour intensive and generally demand a greater investment of time. This is properly proportionate to the reason why they are so delicious in the first place. Ingredients are no doubt more exotic. Techniques are sometimes different. Spices and flavouring unusual and unique. But there is without a doubt an element of complexity.

 

Which leads us right up to Phase Five. This phase is more often than not announced with a, "Babes can you quickly help me please".

 

And how can I deny him? His recipes are always nice. The intentions are so pure, albeit that they're mostly aimed at his stomach. And he's usually done lots of the legwork by this stage.

 

And thus, I sweep in. And somehow, he conveniently disappears.

 

But I know this. It's part of our dance. So I'll cook the meal. Actually happy to make something new. Ever hopeful that I'll be able to add it to my cooking arsenal in the future.

 

It's usually absolutely awesome! And we're all thrilled with the end result.

 

And then follows Phase Six. Now this is the bit where My Grantie asks us if we all enjoyed the new recipe he cooked for us. Which leads to lots of ribbing, teasing, comments and laughter. He always says this with such confidence and glee. Delighted with his mastery. Even gloating if you like, with an evil glint in his eyes.

 

Finally he follows this up with Phase Seven. Where My Grantie makes me a delicious cup of coffee. Thanking me and praising me for my efforts. Ensuring that I'll help him again next time.

 

He's a very, very clever man. Can't fault his logic, devious scheming or dedication to his craft.

 

The end justifies the means. And we all win.

 

In other news, he's cooking supper tonight.

 

Now in the interest of full disclosure, I must amend the statement above. Cause here’s the thing. Since I wrote this blog yesterday afternoon, it’s only fair that I give an update as to last night’s cooking plan.

 

Cause yesterday morning My Grantie phoned me, to let me know that he had a wonderful idea for supper. Moreover, he’d already gone to the shops and had bought all of the ingredients. He also informed that he would start preparing the chicken so long. Dicing and marinading and getting everything at the ready.

 

I left home at about 4pm yesterday afternoon and only got back again, close to 7pm. So perhaps I was foolish in assuming that he’d be preparing the meal. You know, the meal he conceived of and shopped for. Imagine my surprise when I got home just before 7pm and the kitchen was pristine. I foolishly asked him if he’d already prepared supper and had he packed it away somewhere, as there were no telltale delicious smells either.

 

And he looked at me as if I’d grown another head. “I never said I’m making the supper. I thought you would”.

 

Speechless. Alas, lots of the prep had been done. It didn’t take too long. And it was very yummy indeed. So much so, that both of the boys and My Grantie had some for leftover lunch today. So who’s the real winner here?

 

My Grantie. Well played, Baby. Well played.

Foefie, her Robin, and the twenty year age gap

 

Foefie, her Robin, and the twenty year age gap

4 April 2024

Funny how having an age gap can sometimes play a role in a relationship. Yet sometimes also not.

 

This goes for all relationships, albeit friendship or romantic. So many of our pre-conceived ideas are woven into our perception of a number. When you break it down like that, it’s odd, right? I was never really all that much into maths… I mean is there really a wrong or right?

 

From my observation of romantic couples, there’s usually a relatively small age gap. The man is generally older. Usually by a maximum of five years or so, but mostly it’s less than that. And the most commonplace norm. Give or take, here and there. When the woman is older, there are always comments and a fair bit of ribbing that goes on.

 

My Grantie is just shy of five years older than me. And it’s funny how it’s impacted on silly things. Like our frame of reference when it comes to the music we grew up with in our childhood homes. Which also makes sense, as there is more than a ten year age gap between his parents and mine. It also played a role in the music we listened to, once we became teenagers. Which is the age when most people first start diving into developing their own sense of taste with regards to music. As well as what they’re exposed to on the radio at the time. What was popular, what was being played at parties, what they slow danced to when they had their first smooch, and the like.

 

And as for fashion choices, age can definitely play a role here too. Back in the day, My Grantie had a blanket jacket. Shudder! Gladly I never witnessed it in the flesh. For those of you not in the know, those jackets were made of the kind of grey stuffing recycled fabric, that is used for dog’s blankets nowadays. I somehow just missed that fad. And I’m ever so grateful for it. Nothing wrong with it per se, I just skipped it because of timing. Lucky me!

 

My sister is nearly seven years younger than me. Loads of commonality having grown up in the same home. She listened to my music when I was a teenager, whether she wanted to or not, as I had a keen interest in music, and tried to lay claim to the Hi-Fi at home as much as possible. When my annoying parents weren’t annexing it, that is. And by definition, we also listened to our parents’ music choices. Yet, she soon also developed her own musical and fashion choices. And thus by default, I was exposed to her “younger” tastes.

 

Now what is interesting to me, is the fact that my darling sister’s husband is exactly 20 years and 6 months older than what she is. Quite a substantial age gap, without a doubt. Yet it’s never been an issue. Her husband, Robin has always been youthful. In looks, his outlook on life and basically just the essence of him. And as the years have passed, their age gap has become less noticeable, and the gap has shrunk. However when they first got together, she was just twenty years old and he was forty. It was a thing. Mostly I suppose because at age forty, you’ve got some life experience under your belt, not just years. She was an unencumbered twenty year old, having just finished studying, on the brink of starting her life. A huge blank canvas to be filled. Whereas Robin had already done a fair bit of painting on his canvas. It stands to reason. He had two previous marriages, three kids and loads of living he’d done already. And she had not.

 

I remember them being in the starting phases of their relationship. There was a huge spark. Though in hindsight, the term spark seems far too mild. Katrine came home one night from going out with him (one of their first dates) and sat on the bed with me and My Grantie and we spoke about it. Was the age going to insurmountable? Should she dive in further before she was even more smitten? Was there too much stuff and “baggage”? Now baggage as such, is not a necessarily a bad thing. But it takes a brave twenty year old to take on two ex-wives and three kids – let’s keep it real here. And I remember saying to her, that the future is always uncertain. What if he was the one? And that having a chance at unequalled happiness in the now was worth the risk in my opinion. Could she really turn her back on it?

 

I don’t think my words were particularly profound, but she’s often reminded me of them and what an impact they had. And she has always said that Robin feels that he owes us a huge debt, for batting for him in those early days. But I saw with utter clarity, that you can’t deny yourself in the now, for fear of a possible what if sometime down the line. I’ve always believed that love conquers all. That it’s the most powerful life source on earth. Able to accomplish anything. And that if you followed your heart, yet still went in with your eyes wide open, you would find true happiness and fulfilment. And I know that in their case they did.

 

The rest I suppose, is history. She was already more than halfway in love with him by that stage. And him with her. I’m sure he had many of the same concerns at the time. But their love was strong enough then. And continues to be even stronger now. Yes, it was challenging. Especially in the early days. No doubt about it. A huge help was the fact that Robin’s awesome kids absolutely adored her from the get-go. They’re clearly very bright kids. Robin said that from the first day they met her, whenever they saw him or spoke to him on the phone after that, she was the first person they asked about. And they nagged to see her and spend time with them. She filled a hole for all of them. And it wasn’t just Robin who fell in love with her. But it was a family. How precious and special is that. For a large part of his younger two children’s lives, they lived full time with Robin and Katrine.

 

Almost twenty five years later and they’re stronger than ever. They’ve both found true love. Their beautiful daughter, Honey is now seventeen years old. And they’re such a fabulous blended family. The other kids are adults now, have all flown the nest and are living in different countries. In fact, my sister recently became a granny. How cool is that! Twenty year age gap. Pfffffft! So what!

 

So here’s the point I’m actually coming to. Shortly before Robin and Katrine got married, he wrote her, without doubt, one of theeeee most beautiful songs ever. It’s called “I got lucky”. And it’s an extremely poignant song about second (or third) chances. And love. The magic of finding your person. And I absolutely love the song. It’s heart achingly sweet. The melody is beautiful. But add that to the very significant lyrics, and the songs becomes even more special. A true tribute to love. Hardly surprising that he sang it to her at their wedding.

 

I listen to it fairly often via Spotify. And just two days ago, I was driving in the car with Cole, and I played it and said to Cole, “Just listen how awesome the lyrics are. The words are amazing”. And as we got to the opening line, “Saw you standing in the gold of the morning, In the garden of your Momma and your Father’s house”, The One and Only Cole piped up… “He should’ve said, say you crawling in the garden”. So salty and so typically Cole. It made me burst out with laughter.

 

My boys have somehow adopted a bizarre age gap code. Honestly don’t know where it comes from. But both of them never wanted to date girls more than two years younger than them. Remember both of them commenting on friends in High School who were dating younger girls. For example a boy in Matric dating a girl in Gr 8 or Gr 9, and both of them saying, “It’s like dating a child”. So funny. And it always made me laugh. Personally, I feel that there’s lots to say for the advanced maturity of girls as opposed to boys. However that’s a topic for another day. It’s also fair to note, that the age gap between a 14 year old and a 18 year old is rather big. And that the gap clearly diminishes as one grows older.

 

Alas, an age gap is what you make of it. Cause all you need is love. Love is all you need.

 

I have included the Spotify link to Robin’s song, “I got lucky”. And just for fun, I’m posting a few of the first lines of the song lyrics too. Enjoy!

 

https://open.spotify.com/track/2e7cvYJnIJosrfoar0slxT?si=e241c9a596b6434a

 

Saw you standing in the gold of the morning

In the garden of your momma and your fathers house

Saw you standing in the gold of the evening

Oh lo, there's a smile upon your mouth

 

All the birds in the sky that day

They sang to tell me you were on your way, oh

Everybody has some bad luck, it's true

I got lucky when I found you

Family pic - Xmas 2023

Wedding day - 13 June 2004