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…

 

 

 

 

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.

Man-logic. Evidently it's a real thing.

 

Man-logic. Evidently it's a real thing

26 March 2024

Man-logic. It’s a foreign concept to me. Unchartered territory. Though I’ve been on the receiving end of it often.

 

I wonder if men feel the same about girl-math? Because that is also a real thing. To be fair, so is girl-logic. So there is that.

 

We all have our own unique reference system. Possibly based on something as random as our gender. So weird, given how advanced humankind is, and how far we’ve come, that so very often it still resorts to which bits you’ve got.

 

Grant and I love watching Survivor. I know. Judge me if you want to. But I’ve simply always loved it. Maybe it’s just Jeff Probst. Then again, who could really blame me? Because just look at him. He’s Jeff Probst. Which is more than enough explanation. Need I say more? So why am I rambling on about Survivor? Well, whether you know the principle of the game, or whether if you don’t, I’ll give you a quick rundown. Eighteen strangers are dropped off in a remote location. And they’re usually divided into two teams of nine contestants each. Think NO amenities. No spare clothing. I don’t like to think about bathrooms and how they go about that particular necessity, but basically there isn’t any. Which is why I choose not to think about it. Occasionally, if the producers are feeling generous, they’re given a bag of rice. Yet no flint to make fire. No pots. No bedding. Nothing. They’re basically given a water bottle, access to a well and a big pristine beach, mostly with a bit of a jungle attached to it, and then they’ve got to figure it out. Rewards like flints, cooking utensils and fishing gear can be acquired by winning challenges. Every three days or so, a contestant from the losing team (after a challenge), gets voted out. And so the numbers dwindle. Until you’re eventually left with one ultimate survivor. On day 27 or something. Can’t remember.

 

But basically, in order to eventually win and become “The Ultimate Survivor”, you need to make alliances. The big twist in the game, is the fact that the people that you include in your alliance, will eventually be voted out. By you. Yet, you need them to vote FOR YOU at the final tribal council. Really clever twist. Now what I find ironic, is that so very, very often, alliances are based on gender. Kinda like, “we’re a bunch of girls – let’s stick together”. So weird. I had always imagined that there would be more important factors to consider. Yet, more often than not, it’s once again simply decided, because you’ve got the same equipment. It is odd, right?

 

So what exactly is girl-math? Well long ago, shortly after Cole was born, I was a real porker. And I decided to join Weigh-Less. As they do every single week when you go for your weigh-in, they quite obviously get you to stand on a scale, and they record your weight on your very own chart. Really nifty, so you can track your progress, or lack thereof. And I remember weighing myself at home, just before I left to go weigh in for the first time. And I couldn’t help noticing that there was a 400g difference between my scale and theirs. And so, since the first week, whenever I weigh myself at home, I automatically take off 400g off the number on the scale. Cause why wouldn’t I? More than nineteen years later and I still do it to this day. It’s girl-math and it suits me perfectly. Regardless, I can fault that particular logic. Makes sense to me.

 

Anyway, so the point I’m trying to make, albeit rather lengthily, is that men and women are supremely different. On so many levels.

 

So take my beloved Grantie, as an example. We absolutely LOVE our cats. But for longest time, there has been a ginger tomcat that comes calling after we’ve gone to bed. He doesn’t cause a fight or anything. At least not anymore. He simply saunters through the cat flap and helps himself to the virtual smorgasbord selection of cat food that we’ve got. For our cats. Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind. Feeding the hungry and all. But My Grantie takes it very badly. Mostly because initially this ginger cat used to terrorize our cats and fight with them. However by now, they’re used to him. They just steer clear when he’s around and lay low. Watching him with extreme boredom from a safe distance. Which somehow incenses My Grantie even more. Where’s their fighting spirit? Why don’t they stand up for themselves and boot him out? A contributing factor, is also the fact that this is indeed not a poor homeless and hungry stray. He lives a mere three houses away from us and has a very happy home life, I’m sure.

 

Regardless of this hapless cat’s circumstances, Grant takes exception. He’s got a low-level radar system, that stays primed and ready, right through the night. Cat flap noises often causes him to get up and investigate the cause. Even though we’ve got two cats. And they both use the cat flap too. What can I say? Boy-logic at work. Though to be fair, once Grantie’s meds kicks in, he sleeps deeper. And occasionally the offender does trespass without being caught in the act. Now as for me? I could sleep through a bomb going off. Or a band rehearsal. And have done so many times in the past. The band rehearsal. Not the bomb. Noise doesn’t faze me in the slightest. Still marvel at the fact that I woke up for my babies in the night when they were little. It’s a miracle!

 

So My Grantie has devised a cunning plan to thwart the ginger cat’s unwanted presence in our home. A deterrent, if you like.

 

A wooden rocking horse ornament. Yip. A rocking horse. I. Have. No. Words.

 

The wooden rocking horse is meticulously and strategically placed just inside the cat flap every night. So the “perp” gets sufficiently frightened and deterred, should he want to enter.

 

Yip. Every single night.

 

Grantie recently went to Joburg for a work trip for two nights. And every night he reminded me to place “the fierce beast” just inside the cat flap.

 

So here’s the next obvious question. Does it work? Is it an effective deterrent? Is the tomcat appropriately traumatised by the horror of a beautifully ornate wooden rocking horse?

 

Well, of course not. I suspect he thinks we’ve merely decorated. Or placed it there to welcome him.

 

Regardless, it gets placed nightly without fail. Much to my amusement. And I think our cats’ and the tomcat’s too.

 

Boy-logic. It is absolutely priceless. And I do love it so.

 

Either which way, it’s got huge entertainment appeal. So I’m all for it.

 

 

Attention-seeking-sneezing

 

Attention-seeking-sneezing

16 March 2024

Sneezing is one of life’s greatest free pleasures. Personally, I love sneezing. Random fact. Sure you’re delighted to know this about me…

 

But I can imagine that if you’re a sinus sufferer, then perhaps sneezing is not all that much fun. I suppose for them it’s accompanied by itching in the nose, a post nasal drip, a constant upper respiratory irritation, congestion and the like.

 

Now My Grantie is a sinus sufferer and takes antihistamines every single day. And has for pretty much most of his life He also knows what his triggers are. So he avoids dairy products and the like, but still he gets it. It would obviously be worse without the meds, so grateful for any minimizing of his symptoms.

 

However, when it comes to sneezing, my man is a frigging pro. He doesn’t do a gentle dainty sneeze. One of those fun ones that I love so much. Nope, he goes all out. Picture ear piercing volume, which kind of sounds like an extremely loud shout. Imagine an overly dramatic animated version of sneezing, like you’d see in a kids cartoon. Multiply by one hundred. And you might get close to what I’m dealing with. They’re simply always unexpected with no advance warning at all. In addition, he has a fondness for multiples. Nothing as conventional as a one and done. No sirree, bob. That would be boring.

 

Personally, I’ve got a theory. He lies in wait. His timing is impeccable. He prefers silence. It assists him with the element of surprise. He has a personal preference for confined spaces. Like the car. Where there is absolutely no escape at all. Now our car is never quiet, cause we’re always listening to music. Yet I still never expect it. Another fondness of his is late at night in bed. But he’s not all that discriminate. Any random opportunity will suffice.

 

And because of the unexpected element linked to him sneezing, as well as the deafening volume, I’ve resorted to calling it his “attention-seeking-sneezing”. Sooooo excessive and flamboyant. He’s got a dramatic flair for it. And he indulges in it often.

 

Maybe he’d actually like me to have a heart attack? Or perhaps he simply loves the way it makes me jump and flinch. Who can tell? What I do know however, is that it’s a passion he indulges in extremely frequently. With great obvious enjoyment.

 

Now my sister, Foefie (her name is actually Katrine), has heard him sneezing often. So she’s also been on the receiving end of one of these little surprises. And the first time I called it his attention-seeking-sneezing, she laughed. She could so identify.

 

Cause here’s the thing. Foefie’s husband, Robin (whom she fondly calls her Sock), does exactly the same. In fact, he’s upped the ante.

 

She recalls that one night in bed, he surprised her in the death of night with an extreme session of attention-seeking-sneezing. So much so, that she actually counted.

 

Twenty seven times. Yip! Twenty seven. Now that’s taking this underappreciated skill to the very next level. She did however confirm, that nobody really feels like a bit of tonsil hockey after one of these. Not all that endearing and enticing in making one indulge in the late night romantic arts at all.

 

So here’s where I’m at. The “Loubser” brother-in-laws are truly gifted. For now, Katrine and I are avoiding telling the two of them about each other’s skills. Sure, they’ve heard each other sneezing before in the past. But nothing too hectic. My fear is this. Once they know that each of them now have an impressive sneezing reputation to uphold, they might take it to the next level. And neither of us think we’re strong enough for that. Perish the thought.

 

Just picture it.

 

Competitive-attention-seeking-sneezing. And absolutely frightening thought.

 

Gesundheit! Say it! Don't spray it!

 

 

 

Sharing with my lovely husband

 

Sharing with my lovely husband

8 March 2024

Aaaaahhh! Marriage. It’s all about compromise and sharing right?

 

And you have to choose your battles on what to compromise on. As well as on what to share.

 

Yip, I don’t mind compromising and watching this weirdly intriguing documentary on identical twins given different diets and seeing the impacts on their health. One eating strictly vegan and the other eating “normally” (see what I did there?). Would I ever choose to watch this on my own. Hell no! That’d be weird and it doesn’t interest me in the slightest. But he’s kind of keen and it’s an easy compromise and now that I’m watching it, I’m super intrigued to know how John is going to adapt to his vegan diet and if Jovan is going to thrive on his “normal” diet (yet again, see what I did there?). I mean seriously, why would anyone ever voluntarily give up bacon? And as for Carolyn and Rosalyn…

 

However, I do not want to watch “yet-another-WW2-documentary-or-movie-on-the-horrors-of-war”. Strange, but true. So, bite me! Doesn’t mean I’m not horrified by past atrocities, WW2 in particular. But it’s grueling, heartbreaking and I know how it ends. Not making light of it. I just don’t choose to watch it often. Very well aware of what happened without the help of additional vivid images, videos, audio and survivor stories. People suffered unparalleled cruelty. I’ve watched lots of stuff about it in the past. Some of them brilliant, But, I’ve gone there. Before I graduated in the art of compromising.

 

This is exactly why I don’t even ask him to watch Virgin River or Bridgerton with me. He’d hate it. Probably as much as I’d hate anything war related. It’s a compromise. See! Now don’t get me wrong. I know exactly how Virgin River or Bridgerton are going to end as well. Which is exactly my point and why I choose to watch those. Girl meets boy. Usually a delightful meet-cute. Evil past lover resurfaces. A plethora of misunderstandings ensue. The occasional accidental pregnancy gets thrown in. Picturesque scenery. Male eye candy. Frequent interfering and meddling parents. Always a fabulously quirky best friend. Song and dance thrown in liberally. Near catastrophic parting. Followed by joyful reunion and lots of kissing. The end. Absolutely perfect! Who wouldn’t choose that?

 

Now occasionally, My Grantie deems a romantic type chick-flick worthy of indulging me. But it’s a challenge. Is he being sweet and thoughtful? Yes, very much so. However, his unsolicited bloody commentary is a real mood breaker and passion killer. “What an idiot”, “Nobody says stuff like that” (Yes, Baby, they actually do. Did you not just hear Noah in the Notebook say it? I mean for goodness sake!), and probably my least favourite – “Stuff like that doesn’t happen in real life”. Talk about a buzz kill. Definitely not chill AT ALL!

 

So, we watch stuff that we both like. A lot! And believe you me, there’s loads of middle ground. Just taking a simple example like watching a commonly enjoyed series. But compromise is not just about TV. It means occasionally making him his favourite dish. I can’t even stomach the smell. But I do it, cause I love him and it makes his heart so incredibly happy. Doesn’t mean I don’t make something else for me and the rest of the family to eat. Look, I love the guy, but I ain’t eating that.

 

I think the same can be said for sharing. I’d like to think I’m generous by nature. So will always give him the best of everything to my ability. And my favourite is when he doesn’t even know it at all. Just a small kindness. Nope, I really can’t even think about having any more biltong/chocolate/nuts/juice, etc. It’s all you, Baby! I enjoy it most when he’s blissfully unaware that I’m doing this. Just because. Now I’m not into sharing that much when it comes to KFC. Hey, I’m not a saint. One has to draw the line somewhere. And everyone’s got their vices. Mine is still the Colonel’s very best blend of eleven herbs and spices. Mildred, my Kentucky loving alter-ego, is a beast! And that chick’s got an insatiable appetite when it comes to that particular weakness of hers. She's voracious! Look, I don’t question it. I just feed her.

 

But my Grantie so generously shares with me too. He lets me sleep on his pillow with him and share the exact same spot on the bed. Hey, I’m a cuddler. And absolutely nothing in this world beats spooning. Btw, I like being the big spoon and hugging. Just so you know. He knows this and he knows it makes my heart go pitter patter. And you know the old happy-wife-happy-life adage, right? Does he die of heat and most probably claustrophobia? Yes, he does. But him getting hot, clearly translates as me being hot. Obviously! So I ain’t complaining.

 

Another excellent example of sharing is jelly sweets. Lawdie, I love me a gummy sweet. You can suck on it. You can chew it and gobble it up. Or you can use your front teeth (obviously keeping your mouth closed) and meticulously chop it in halves and then quarters and then eights and sixteens and then … And then you can try to squish all of the bits into one side of your mouth, count the bits with your tongue inside your mouth and move them to the other side of your mouth. All without them melting first. I think this is a under-appreciated skill. With regards to the counting, I might have a secret maths thing going on.

 

So when it comes to gummy sweets, nothing beats a red or black, right? The juiciest and sweetest flavours. My best! I mean who likes the measly yellows or greens? Well, oddly My Grantie does. Why would anyone willingly choose yellow and green sweets? Well, we’ve got a theory. His mom absolutely loves yellow and green sweets, so he reckons he was deprived as a kid. Any mixed sweets from his youth, and his mom would swop out yellows and greens with him. Which means, that he’s got an unquenchable thirst for those colours. And I sooooo don’t. So I get Grant’s black and reds and he gets my nasty colours. Yippieeeee! This is just little old me. Winning at life. Yay! Btw, does anyone else find the brown Smarties boring? I mean they taste the same as the other colours. And I know it’s just a colourant that they add to make them look pretty. But, brown? Seriously! It just smacks of having no imagination. And lack of effort. Come on Nestlé! Up your game already!

 

Sharing and compromise definitely makes life infinitely sweeter (😉). In fact, it makes all of life sweeter. Especially when it comes to red and black gummy sweets. In addition, it makes me happy. The fact that it makes others happy too, is a wonderful additional side bonus. Now don’t even get me started on the magical ripple effect of kindness. Life changing!

 

 

The gentle and sometimes forgotten art of husband-manipulation, but it's actually about plants

 

The gentle and sometimes forgotten art of husband-manipulation, but it's actually about plants

6 March 2024

It’s official. I’ve stopped killing plants. Most of the time. Or should I rather rephrase? I can now fairly safely say that I’ve stopped killing everything green. Look, I’m not saying that I don’t kill anything, but my success rate is definitely up. I’m probably at a solid 80% most of the time. Unless I’m dealing with a plant with a mean disposition. Yes, you actually get those. Sooooo dramatic!

So it all started with my eldest child, Luke. A few years ago, he did the absolute worst and most unthinkable thing. He moved out. How bloody rude! I vividly remember him being about 4 or 5 years old and promising me that he’d never leave me or move out. Hey, it was his suggestion. I was obviously thrilled, that in his 5 year old wisdom he decided this. And it just so happened to coincide with my wishes too. Win-win, right?

We had it all figured out. We’d buy a house next to ours, with a handy and cutesie little gate separating the two properties. I’d paint it red, but if he felt strongly about it, I’d consider green or blue. In fact, we toyed with the idea of a lovely ladder over the fence between the two properties. That way we could still do regular Friday evening movie and pizza nights and I’d be on hand to make special breakfasts over weekends, alternating between pancakes, flap jacks and waffles. I’d even weigh up my options on increasing my breakfast treat repertoire.

 

And then he simply left and moved to Stellenbosch. Rather rude if you ask me. This was NOT part of our deal. I thought we had a plan. Or rather an iron clad agreement. Pffffft! 5 year olds! What are they like? So flaky!

 

Alas, back to plants. So there I was, pining away cause Luke moved out. And I desperately needed something happy to think about, other than him moving out. And leaving me… In addition, I needed something to keep me busy. Firstly, I eye-level de-boyed his room (ensuring that his bed and pretty much everything he didn’t take with him when he moved out was still there, yet some bits were discreetly stuffed in cupboards bursting at the seams), but I made it more Helene friendly. Soft touches here and there. Created an office and desk space for myself, moved a few things around, decluttered, shifted some things, and made a happy place for me. Added some pics above the desk, my favourite Dr Seus pic, some Van Gogh prints, a few old colorful bottles, and then I picked a few hardy stubborn leaf-things from the garden that I hadn’t managed to kill yet. Personally, I was convinced that the plants that hadn’t snuffed it yet, were doing so to spite me. Or maybe they were simply testing their endurance and stamina? Either which way, there were a few die-hards in the garden. Mostly our bamboo/reed, which became invasive years ago. I think it was trying to claim the house for itself. We’re currently at a stand-off. But, back to my “office”, it actually started to look quite homey.

 

My super talented cousin, Jacques is the most incredible leathersmith and I remember seeing the most magnificent shelf in his home. A simple wooden plank, with leather straps and I asked him if he could maybe make me some straps. Lucky me, he gave me a set of straps. I raided the garage for a plank and immediately added my brand new shelf. Extremely impressed with my decorating skills by this stage. I’m a hoarder and collector of the very best kind. Or worst kind, depending on your perspective. Grant’s opinion fluctuates. Back to being an antiquarian/compiler/amasser/accumulator of things, I dug out a few bits and bobs and liberally sprinkled my newly decorated haven with my favourite things – stuff. Yay! Don’t you just love stuff? Such a delightfully broad description of simply anything. As well as everything.

 

However, I was never going to be spending money on doing this. And I only had so much space to fill, so once my office was dutifully cluttered, I had to find another space to spice up.

 

And then it dawned on me… I had this particularly ugly corner in our “garden”. Maybe I could do something there. It was more just a slab of cement, with vibracrete walls around it. Beeeeaaauuuriful! Our trailer used to stand there, two old discarded cement bird baths I was going to mosaic one day (had not done anything since I got them about 15 year prior), random cement block bricks, our three hideous black bins, some loose planks and other odds and ends as well as a plethora of leaves from the neighbour’s tree. Like properly ugly. Moreover, we absolutely NEVER use our front door. So every time we left home or came back, we had to walk past this eyesore. As did our guests. It had gotten to the point, where I didn’t even see it anymore. You know how that happens right? Selective blindness and all that. I simply averted my gaze without even knowing it. Looking straight through it multiple times a day. Hey, it’s probably a coping mechanism of sorts.

 

So I set my conniving sights on this spot and did what any good self respecting woman would do in a situation like this. I plotted and planned. Might even have made a mindmap of sorts. But basically, I made my long suffering husband, My Grantie, move the trailer. I vowed to find a different, yet still easily accessible spot for the bins, and I would incorporate the bird baths and anything else I could find to try to beautify this blemish on our property. But how to go about this endeavour? Well, that takes a wee bit of planning. And I love me a good old planning project.

 

Timing is everything when it comes to this. I gave My Grantie a three day lead time. Not that he was aware of this in the slightest. And I went about setting the stage. Always did have a penchant for acting… So I earmarked the Saturday for this project, which meant that besides plotting in advance, I kicked off my master plan on the Wednesday.

 

Started my campaign on Day One by looking morose and sad, “Cause I’m missing my boy so much and I need something to distract me. Can we listen to Norah Jones and Tori Amos again?”. Minimised wearing eyeliner. Always guaranteed to make me look emaciated and sick (read deathly unattractive). Sloffed around in unattractive PJ pants and hunched my shoulders. To be fair, I did still brush my teeth and shower. So I didn’t go full crazy on him. A girl’s got to have some standards and dental care is everything.

 

By the morning of Day Two, I suggested needing a project. Also mentioned Norah Jones and Tori Amos again and threw in some Sinead O’Connor for a bit of variety. You know, spice things up. By the evening of Day Two, I mentioned maybe trying gardening again. My statement was met with raised eyebrows and general concern for plant life everywhere. Pretended to agree with him. You know, not wanting to seem too eager. Or as if I had already planned everything (evil laugh in my head). Soundtrack for the evening of Day Two was, “Eric Clapton – Tears in Heaven”.  By the morning of Day Three, I suggested doing some necessary clearing out and possibly tackling the ugly corner, “cause it looks so bad when anybody comes here”. By the evening of Day Three, with a bit of gentle prodding from my side, mildly suggestive comments and some “spontaneous” suggestions, I could see that he was no longer looking as horrified and that he was warming to the idea considerably. Considered trying the “Celine Dion - My heart will go on” approach, but suspected that he’d see right through me, cause I’m not a Celine Dion fan at all. Overkill is a very dangerous thing and a trap one can easily fall into. After all, subtlety is the name of the long game. Thought if all else fails, I could resort to “REM – Everybody hurts”, if I needed to pull out the big guns. But I let that stew for a few hours. Just keeping it in my back pocket for in case.

 

By the time we went to bed on Day Three, it was all his idea to tackle the ugly corner. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!!! Pure evil genius! By the way, for any other notes and helpful tips on how to “manage-your-man”, please feel free to reach out to me. This is indeed a free service that I offer. At this stage. I’d consider doing a workshop if there’s enough interest. I’d like parties of 10 max. So might have to split multiple groups up. Note to self – side hustle business opportunity right here, baby!

 

By the morning of Day Four, we were all up bright and early and Amber and Cole got roped in too. Siestog! It was all "Daddy’s idea", so I told them that we should just humour him. He was taking Luke’s departure really hard. Fully playing on their emotions and their love for their Dad. Yes, I was overcome with a heady sense of power. Can you really blame me?

 

By the end of Day Four, the trailer had been moved, the bins were no longer an eyesore, the wood scraps moved and those that could not be repurposed chucked out. The bird baths were in position and filled with soil that I stole from an unused corner around the side of the house where nobody could see or even go if they wanted to. I even unearthed some previous projects that I had refused to get rid of because I just knew that I would get a use for them some day. And there you were. Old shutters and window frames up against the walls, any loose pots dotted around, odd bits and pieces I’d picked up from thrift shops and fallen in love with sprinkled about liberally, and a random sprig of greenery here and there.

 

And then I unleashed my master plan. I spread the word about attempting to garden. And the plant cuttings, they came a comin’! My grandparents, my mom, friends, aunts and uncles, kind neighbours and so the word spread. I was relentless. And slowly, bit by bit, it started to take shape. Miraculously, stuff grew! Who knew I could do it? I set the bar low though and went for succulents. Those little suckers are hard to kill. They’re delightfully stubborn. I also profusely thanked every person who gifted me with plant cuttings, but warned them that this was indeed an experiment. Plant genocide could not be guaranteed. Funny thing though, is that plant people are extremely kind. And super understanding. As well as wonderfully encouraging.

 

Perhaps it is the love with which they gave me the plants, or the well wishes or happy mojo? Look, I don’t question it. I’m just grateful. Stuff grew. Hesitantly at first, not trusting me. Can’t really blame them. But as the weeks passed, they started to grow even more. Cautious at first. Then hopeful. And finally positively thriving. Trusting the “new leaf” (see what I did there) that I had turned over. And they rejoiced in their new home!

 

I was finally a grown-up. I could grow plants. I could propagate. I could see progress.

 

Apart from growing my three children, it’s been my most successful growing project to date. One that gives me pleasure and joy on a daily basis. I still build on it daily. And truth be told, I can highly recommend it. The pure unadulterated pleasure of eating granadillas from your own garden is unrivalled. Not to mention the tomatoes by the gazillions (they only thrived for one season, and then sulked and decided to high tail it out of my garden). And don’t even get me started on Kappertjies, or rather Nasturtiums. Such happy little flowers.

 

So, gardening. Try it! Who knows, maybe you’re not a plant serial killer either.

 

Hey, if I can be reformed, anyone can!

Please feel free to check out my cousin, Jacques Lombard’s Website and Facebook page. The man is a creative genius!

Belt & Band

https://www.beltandband.com/

https://www.facebook.com/BeltandBand?mibextid=ZbWKwL

 

 Before pic for evidence. Trailer, gross bins and lots of scrap removed already by this stage. I had even swept!

 

My unknowing minion, working like a trojan. So grateful!

My stunning shelf, courtesy of the leather straps from my cousin Jacques Lombard from Belt & Band

Some more after pics. Think these were taken about a year ago. So squint your eyes and imagine further growth and even more plants.

Love, love, LOVE! Makes my heart so very, very happy!

1st Kiss vs 1st Fart

 

1st Kiss vs 1st Fart
9 October 2014

Now this is true.  What causes more stress and discomfort, when entering a new relationship?

The first kiss?  Or the first fart?

Most likely, this largely depends on the sex of the person.

Now I can’t really answer for men.  Obviously.  But in general, they seem to encourage bowel movements of any kind.  And see them not only as a victory, but as a measure of manliness, and virility.  It truly boggles the mind.  Flatulence is celebrated.  Heralded as acts of greatness.  Boasted about.  Greatly admired.  And worse of all – shared.  With pride.

They’re pretty indiscriminate with their audience.  Anyone is fair game.  And they’re not really selective about venue or place either.  Quite literally, the world is their oyster.  Many have a fondness for confined spaces like cars.  Or open public spaces too.  I’ve often wondered if they’re similar to dogs, in that they like to mark their territory? 

Now I’m quite naturally not referring to my gentle and “sweet” smelling man.  Or not only to him. My family is rife with men.  Generally, they rejoice in farting.  Crude but true.  Don’t believe me?  Just ask the long suffering women in my family.  The wives, husbands, and sisters.  They’ll concur. 

As for women?  We don’t share the same enthusiasm as men.  We don’t celebrate flatulence.  We ignore it.  Pretend we don’t do it.  And simply never think about it.

The first kiss in a relationship is very special.  Hugely much anticipated.  Especially by the ladies. 

It is dreamt about.  Savoured.  And over the years, often taken out of the memory bank, and recalled with fondness.  Usually with a great deal of embellishment added for good measure.

I can’t exactly recall my first kiss with Grant.  I’m assuming it was pretty terrible.  Most likely uncomfortable and new.  Noisy.  All awkward and nose-bumpy, as we had to find our rhythm.  Our angle and our perfect head inclination spot.  In addition, we were rather young.  And I was probably a bit of a kissing novice.  I mean, how many boys have you kissed when you’ve just turned seventeen? 

But as for the first fart?  Well, Grant claims that it happened one night when we were sleeping. 

Yip, rather convenient if you ask me.  As I can’t defend myself.  Most likely he made it all up.  I was unconscious after all.  Defenceless.  Perhaps he imagined it?  Is he really a good character witness in the middle of the night?  It could’ve been a dream.  And surely he was unconscious too?

As for him?  Well, naturally I may not reveal the exact details.  Suffice it to say, that it involved a spade.  And jumping.

And I still laugh to this day, when I think about it.  And so does he. 

Which is pretty darn perfect.  An odd but special memory none the less. 

And isn’t it just true of true love.  A patchwork quilt of memories, all sewed together with love.  From the silly to the serious.  Special one and all.

Thus, for that simple reason, I cherish it all.  The first kiss and the first fart.  Yet, because of the laughter, and the shared embarrassment, the fart sticks out by far.

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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.  Naïve.  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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