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…

 

 

 

 

The dating scene - it's a jungle out there

 

 

 
The dating scene - it's a jungle out there
29 June 2014

I can’t even begin to imagine entering the dating scene again.  Few things could be more unpleasant.

My Grantie and I have been comfortably together forever.  No, really.  Forever.  Well, technically it’s twenty four and half years.  Forever, I’m sure you’ll agree.

And suffice it to say, that after this length of time, we’re most certainly comfortable with one another.  I’ve seen his bits.  And he’s seen mine.  Repeatedly.  Not letting anyone else see them ever again.  Just putting it out there.  Well, he can see them often, but I’m not crossing that line with a stranger.  Nor would I want to see a stranger’s bits either.  Don’t mind glimpsing them in a movie or on TV, but not in the flesh.  Thank you very much.

But I suppose entering the dating game, is about lots more than just body bits.  In fact, maybe that is one of the easiest barriers to cross in hindsight. 

It is but flesh value.  Can’t really hide it once revealed.  It is what it is.  What you see is what you get.  Blemishes there.  Physical shortcomings or strengths exposed.

However, intimately more scary, is sharing the inside bits.  The parts of your soul. 

Your dreams, wishes, aspirations.  Your past.  Your secrets.  Your family.

Finding out, if the things in life that you like, happen to coincide with the things in life that they like.

Some things are a deal breaker.  A point of no-return.  A line you wouldn’t cross.  A standard you wouldn’t drop.

I have some.  In that vein, I couldn’t partner up with someone that didn’t enjoy music.  Or had no appreciation for family.  A guy that wore two-tone shirts.  Or did a comb-over.

Does this make me a snob?  Or merely selective to my own personal taste?  True to myself?

Either which way, it’s not really important.  However what is, is the fact that I’m just so incredibly grateful to have found an awesome partner.  That I don’t need to go through the whole tentative-explorative-mating-ritual stage.

Comfort is great.  Especially if one is appreciative of the fact.  And you don’t become complacent in the process.

I’d certainly hate to face the dating scene jungle once more.

In addition, one thing I know for sure.  The older I’ve become, the more difficult I’ve become too.  The last time I faced the dating scene, I was seventeen.  I hadn’t really developed a taste or a type of person that I wanted to date. 

I’d be way more fussy, if ever thrust in that position again. 

Dating is not for sissies.  Especially older sissies.

Respect to those that enter the fray.

Please click and LIKE on Facebook - Thanx!

Feeling so proudly South African I want to pop

Feeling so proudly South African I want to pop
12 June 2014

My day actually started off perfectly fine.  Better than that even.  I went for a glorious morning walk, up my much beloved mountain.  Rejoicing in the beauty all around me.  I breathed in fresh air.  Drank fresh handfuls of icy cold water from a stream running down the mountain.  I was alternatively listening to an audio book through my head phones, or the sounds of gurgling mountain water and nature.  Chatting to fellow walkers along the way.  My head never quiet for a moment.  Going through a bit of a dilemma currently, and I was thinking of a solution to my problem.  Trying to take all of the bits apart and put them back together again.  Better of course.  And I was doing a fair bit of day dreaming too.  Thinking about my kids, my family, my friends, etc.  My mind was drifting.

So all, in all – a really good day.

Which makes it a bit odd that now, just a few short hours later, I’m crying.  Rather a lot.  And it’s not even about my dilemma.  Which makes it both better and worse.

Quite by accident I found out about something, and it literally rocked my world.  Knocked it off kilter for a bit.  It’s left me humbled, emotional and extremely aware of the countless blessings in my life.  Ones I take for granted.  Things that are not really quantifiable, but that add inestimable value to my world.

I have dignity.  I have a level of self-confidence.  I value my worth.  I have faith in my abilities. 

How much of that is tied into how I perceive myself?  And how I think others perceive me?  I think a lot.

How would I feel if I could not do one of the most basic human things?  Afford to dress myself.

Homelessness and poverty, is not a uniquely South African problem.  It is prevalent throughout this world.  It is seen in cities, in towns, in rural little villages.  Many a night, when we are warm and snug in our beds with our bellies full, there are people out there, sleeping under newspapers, making fires in drums, huddling around for warmth.  No protection from the elements, barring shelter they find – maybe an overhanging bridge, a doorway, and usually very little, ill-fitting clothes.

But then, two very special people, art director and designer, Max Pazak, and copywriter, Kayli Vee Levitan, from M&C Saatchi Abel, decided to make a change.  To try something different.  Alarmed by the huge amounts of homeless people they encountered in Green Point, they really wanted to help.  But how?

Clothing is something you and I, probably take for granted.  Wake up in the morning, open a cupboard, pull out a draw or two.  Make a choice from a selection of long pants, skirts or dresses, or shorts.  Shirts, sweaters, vests, socks, shoes, slops.  We don’t even think about it.  We’ve got clothing options.

But if you don’t have a home, it stands to reason, that there’s no wardrobe.  No choice.  You wear everything you own.  Day in.  Day out.  Every.  Single.  Day.

So how does one address this need?  There are many wonderful charitable organisations out there, that aim to help.  They get donations from the public and they do what they can to feed and clothe the poor.  I know this.  I’ve donated clothing.  I’ve donated food.  And I’ve seen these shelters and places.  I’ve even helped.  Donated clothing are placed on tables.  Everything jumbled together, or hung up on make-shift racks.  It’s awesome, but I think it takes away dignity.  It’s the best that can be done, and I admire them for everything they do, but is there perhaps a different approach?

These two guys, decided to take things to another level.

They came up with the idea of the world’s first rent-free, premises-free, free “pop-up clothing store” for the poor.  It’s bloody brilliant!  They approached certain charities, that were already distributing to the needy, The Haven on Napier and The Salesian Institute, also in Cape Town.  And they put their heads together.

They designed a set of 5 different posters, all promoting “The Street Store”.  Big cardboards, with cut-out slots, that look just like clothing hangers.  Passers-by, like you and me, fill the hangers with old clothes that we no longer need.  There are slotted hangers for dresses, pants, skirts, sweaters, etc.  And flat boxes for shoes.  Even donations of accessories, like scarves, handbags and the like are welcomed.  In essence the cardboard poster stands, can be hung up anywhere, on fences, walls and so on.  Creating the impression of aisles.  Fashion displays even.

In my mind, this is a much better and more innovative idea, than a flat table, with a whole bundle of clothes, all mixed together.  It engages with the clientele it’s trying to reach.  Enticing them to partake of their very first retail experience.  For many it is possibly their first time ever, choosing clothing.  Not simply taking a hand-out or a hand-me-down.  Because though in principle, this is exactly what it is, a hand-out, hand-me-down, it’s taken the concept of charity, and given it dignity.  The simple act of choosing what you wear, and having pride in that choice is remarkable.  And life chancing.

It’s actually a pretty simple and super effective idea.  Homeless people, can visit The Street Store, and choose some clothes.  The Street Stores are set up in areas with a high prevalence of homeless people.  Fairly visible, so that donations can be made, but also in areas that would indeed service the homeless.  In places where they already congregate.

Street Store volunteers act as shop assistants, are on standby, and assist the homeless, offering fashion advice to their customers as they try and choose donated items.  Customers peruse at their will, flipping through their choices, and making their selections.  They are assisted in trying on shoes, choosing a warm sweater, perhaps a scarf to help ward off the cold too.

In January 2014, the very first Street Store, was set up in Cape Town.  With no idea as to whether it would work.  No idea if the public would donate.  No idea if the homeless would visit and choose outfits.  It was a gamble. 

And so, on that very first day, at the very first Street Store, pure magic happened.  Apparently it was a beautiful thing.  Over 1 000 homeless people visited the store and were clothed.  Their items neatly wrapped up.  Giving them not just the gift of their first clothes shopping experience, but self-assured style.  Confidence.  Feeling worthy.  And having pride in their appearance.  Making them feel so good about themselves.  What an incredible gift.  A privilege.  And I can well imagine that the people working that day, felt even more blessed by the experience, than those that received clothes.

Because homelessness and poverty is such a universal problem, The Street Store, decided to make their concept open-source.  Anybody across the world can follow this initiative.  Absolutely incredible!  Depicting the very generosity, they are promoting, by sharing their idea.  So that more people can benefit.  Not just those first thousand, on the first day.

And this has made me so extremely humble and proud.  Proud of my country.  Proud of her awesome, kind hearted, loving people.  With their giving natures.

Hopefully one day, I’ll grow up to be one of those people too.

Thank you people of Cape Town, for helping the people of Cape Town.  You guys are absolutely awesome!

(Photography by Neal Tosefsky)

 

Every time I look at these photos, I get a lump in my throat.  A lump of gratitude, of hope and of love.  Viva South Africa, Viva! 

Please click and LIKE on Facebook - Thanx!

Without a doubt the single most awesome idea I have ever seen in my entire life. Absolutely love the handy hanger slot to feed donated clothes through. Amazing!

 

The Street Store Advertising - simple, easy and super effective

 

The shop assistants wear white t-shirts and advise and help shoppers

 

Shoes all neatly stacked out

Completely and utterly in awe of this - feeling so proudly South African

 

Assistants offering assistance

 

Some of the Street Store crew

 

The quiet before the storm - clothing still to be unpacked

And there we go - shoes, shirts, sweaters, skirts, dresses and warm tops

 

More and more people drifting over

All neatly displayed

 

One VERY happy shopper

A shop assistant helping a homeless woman try on some much needed shoes

 

They even had some children's clothing

One of the happy helpers

 

Showing off his new threads - swanky!

 

Bless! This is so sweet. A young boy being offered some dignity and help. Just makes me cry.

 

Heart breaking yet awesome at the same time

 

I bet these were very popular

Sold!!!

Browsing in the shop - trying to make a choice

 

It gives me immense comfort to know that this man is wearing something warm - he deserves it

A support group for anti-social people

A support group for anti-social people
1 June 2014

A support group for anti-social people.  Wonder if they’ll ever meet and have an actual meeting?

It’s a bit like the sign that read, “Clairvoyant’s meeting cancelled until next week, due to unforeseen circumstances”.

The whole thing is a misnomer.

I’m a very social person.  I socialise easily with people.  Can make conversation with anybody.  Put anyone at ease, and converse easily with younger or older people, from various different walks of life.  About any innocuous topic.  It comes naturally to me, and is not something I have to think about.  I know that this is not a unique skill.  That this doesn’t make me special in any way.  That it isn’t really a talent of sorts.  It’s just something I can do.  In inborn ability, like being able to spell, sing, hit a ball, etc.

But I think that the world must be a very, very lonely place for people who lack social skills.  Who find it difficult to connect with others.  And for who this does not come naturally.

For some, life is awkward.  And social interaction is painful.  They’re inept at it.  Don’t get many of the social queues that you and I grasp and understand, without even having to think about it.  It’s as natural as breathing in and out.  In and out. 

But for them it’s painful. 

I know a few people that are like this.  And my heart aches for them.  They don’t understand the finer nuances of the social dance that people do.  The two-way communication thing. 

The attempts they make at interaction are awkward.  Uncomfortable.  And mostly disingenuous.  Lacking in warmth. 

It’s like an inner stutter.  Not uttered verbally, but felt internally.  And one they are unable to hide.  Or mask.  Their discomfort shows.  Plainly so. 

For those, unaware of their inability, I reckon it must be easier.  They’re most likely blissfully unaware.  Stumble through life, not picking up on the odd looks of others.  The raised eyebrows, looks of confusion, the odd shake of the head.

But for those, able to identify that for them it’s difficult, it must be horrible.  Yet somehow they can’t seem to bridge that gap.  Make the right moves.  Say the right things.

One of the things we take for granted in this world, is communication.  It is something we are taught on our mother’s laps.  And by observing the world around us.  The problem being that for some people, though they were given the same equal opportunity, have the necessary language skills and are intellectually equipped, they simply can’t do it.

I look at those close to me who battle.  Their life is fairly solitary.  They’re lost on a ship, sailing who knows where.  All on their own.  No close connection to anyone.  No great bonds of friendship.  No strong family links forged either. 

I really feel their pain.  And say humble thanks that this is one area of life, I don’t have problems with.  And nor do my kids.  Because as a parent, it must be heart-breaking to witness.

Watching a kid that you love, being isolated and alone, must be bloody awful!

Please click and LIKE on Facebook - Thanx!

Cell phone swearing

 

Cell phone swearing
30 May2014

I’m clearly a prude.  And a big one at that.

Now I’m the first to admit that I swear.  I own it.  I’m big enough to take it on. 

When my kids were really little, I kept it together and didn’t swear in front of them.  I didn’t have to.  I wanted to set a good example, and I found that I could express myself perfectly fine without profanity.  Unless they were out of earshot.  In which case, I could let rip.  Yes, yes – Bad Helene.   

Now I understand that you get various degrees of swearing.  What’s terrible for you, might be practically nothing for me.  And vice versa.  Dropping the “F” bomb is hardly seen as foul language by some and unforgivable by others. 

I have someone very near and dear to me, who in the absolute height of anger, frustration or pain, might softly exclaim, “Dash-it!”.  And then I know he feels badly about it for ages.  And has remorse for his self-perceived lack of control. 

Tweens and teens do not even vaguely have the same set of morals and attitude towards swearing, that us seasoned adults have.  For them it’s new.  It’s risky.  Dangerous.  A measure of exactly how badass they are.  Rebellious.  And let’s not forget uber cool.

And I’ve overheard them on occasion.  They can let rip too.  Most especially the boys.  I’ve even on occasion, had risen eyebrows, when I’ve fetched my kids from Primary School and I’ve heard some of the little kids, hanging in the trees on the school fields swearing away.  Do they really understand what they’re saying?  Or are they merely mimicking Dad or Mom?  A TV programme or a “cool” PlayStation game?

I’ve also heard the littlest of kids sledging and swearing on the sports fields.  Horrendous I tell you.  My youngest, Cole, once nearly dropped a ball in shock during a rugby game when he was in Grade 1, when a little boy from a different school both played and talked dirty, during a game.

However verbal swearing from kids is absolutely nothing, as opposed to the swearing they do on all forms of social media.  They’re not really discerning.  They do it on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, etc.  But by far, they do the most amount of swearing via texting on their phones.  Albeit BBM, sms, WhatsApp and the likes.

It’s as if they don’t have a filter at all.  No concept of the meaning of the words they’re uttering with their typing.  The connotations of those words.  What they’re really implying. 

They use and abuse them, the way you and I would use a tissue.  Or throw away a piece of paper.

For them, the penny has not yet dropped, that once it’s out there, it’s out there forever.  They might swear and say something terrible about a friend on a group chat, and delete it straight after, so that they don’t get caught out, or if they’re feeling remorse.  But those words are still out there, on the phones of the seventeen other friends, that were a part of that same chat.  It never goes away.  There’s evidence.  And a virtual trail, linking them back to the deed.

At sixteen, I don’t check Luke’s phone anymore.  Mostly because he busts me each time, and I made him a promise that if he’s worthy of my trust, I won’t breach his privacy.  And with having a sixteen year old son, some things are best left unknown.  I also realise that luckily for me, due to the fact that there were no cell phones around at the time that I was sixteen, I was indeed fortunate.  I’m sure I would’ve been the worst!

But my little twelve year old?  Well, I’m the mom.  I pay the bill.  And I’m allowed to check her phone.  Having a cell phone at her young age is a privilege that I’ve bestowed upon her.  It’s not a right that she has.  I feel that I have a moral responsibility to guide her.  And to look out for her safety.  And I’ve been shocked.  It’s not just the boys swearing.  It’s the girls too.  Language worthy of the foulest gangsta movie ever.  Uttered via texting by sweet little eleven and twelve year olds girlies.  Where are they heading?

There is a certain level of disassociation with the words they’re typing.  Because they’re not uttering them verbally out loud.  To someone’s face.  Where they can gage facial expression and body language.  Intonation doesn’t enter into it either.  It’s just cold, harsh words. 

My Berry has been warned.  Don’t type something you’ll be ashamed of later.  And that you won’t say to somebody if they were standing in front of you.

Raising kids in this day and age with all of the technology at our disposal is tricky.  Very tricky indeed. 

Paper trail?  Not so much.  Cell phone trail?  Very much so.

Please click and LIKE on Facebook - Thanx!

Apparently one day my kids will leave home

Apparently one day my kids will leave home
21 May 2014

I remember when Luke was little and he used to snuggle with me all of the time.  He’d wrap his little arms tight around my neck and squeeze the very breath out of me.  Telling me how much he loves me, and how he would live with me forever and never leave home.  He didn’t want a wife, nor kids – cause he already had his mom.  And she could make all of his best food already and knew exactly which were his favourite snacks.  She even played superheroes with him, could name all of the dinosaurs, and was really good at playing cricket in the garden.

And even though I was the adult and he was the child, and I should’ve known better, I admit that the idea held a huge amount of appeal.  I bought his story.

And to be fair, I was given fair warning that the winds of change were blowing.  As he got older and older, his story started changing.

And thus, I had to adjust my plans too.  Eventually I told him, that we would build a little flat onto our house, where he could stay.  He could visit every day and we could still be great friends.  Spending lots of time together.  And yes, I’d still make him his favourite – pancakes, Mommy Spaghetti, and peel his oranges. 

When I realised that this held little appeal, I changed my story too.  We’d buy the house next door, and put a little gate between our houses.  Or even better – a ladder over the fence so that we could simply hop over, whenever we felt like it.

But quite predictably those days are now long gone.  At sixteen he is practically chomping at the bit.  Rearing to leave home.

I never had the same instincts.  I was quite happy to carry on living at home, whilst I was studying.  In fact, I even lived at home when I was working.  A bit embarrassing and naff to admit now.  I vaguely remember contributing to household things.  Buying a microwave, etc.  But possibly I just bummed off my folks.  Mortified now at the thought.  I didn’t want to move in with Grant, and we were busy planning our wedding.  So change was afoot already.  Seemed a bit silly at the time to rush off into a temporary living arrangement of flat or shared digs, when I would be moving in with Grant after we were married in any rate.

And so perhaps I kind of expected Luke to maybe even study from home.  Stellenbosch University is in the town right next to ours.  And this is Luke’s first choice of tertiary institution.  As a student I commuted.  It made sense economically as accommodation in Stellenbosch is extremely pricy and very rare.  Varsity Res’ are super expensive too.  And so I guess I kind of thought that Luke would most likely commute too.  At least for his first year, while he settled in.  Even though I know it would make sense for him to fully emerge himself in varsity life and Stellenbosch once the time came.  Living close to campus would be awesome.  Still there was lots of time to think about these things – we had time on our side.

But is there really?  At sixteen, Luke is now nearly halfway through his Grade 10 year at school.  Grade 11 is his last full academic year, as Grade 12 is consumed with block days, mock exams and finals quite early on too.  I have been warned by many that matric really flies.  There’s valedictories, 40 days, Matric Farewell, as well as a hundred and one other little events, all commemorating their last year at school.

And this whole time-is-running-out-concept was really brought home the other day.  A friend and I, along with our sixteen year old teenagers were driving together.  We were chatting about how fast the kids were busy growing up (I could practically feel the rolling eye balls boring into my back from the back seat), how they’d soon be off studying, and reminiscing about how they were both four years old, just the other day.  And I said to my friend (very mockingly and tongue in cheek), “Luke can’t wait to leave home in two and a half years’ time”.

To which Luke piped up from the back, “A year and eight months”.

I practically swerved right off the road.  Are.  You.  Kidding.  Me???  He’s been counting?  And as for counting – how bad is his maths?  The kid still had two and a half years at school.  Pffft!

I gave a nervous little giggle and said, “What do you mean a year and eight months?  You only finish Matric in two and a half years’ time”.

To which he replied, “I turn eighteen in a year and eight months”.

Right, so that would be in the February of his Matric year.  Which scared the bejeebers out of me.  There is no way I would let a new eighteen year old loose on the world.  Moreover a freshly turned eighteen year old, most likely in possession of a driver’s licence (but not a car), without a Matric qualification.  As if he would study on his own!  Ha!  Double Ha!!!

But I could not just let it lie there.  Upon enquiry he informed me, that he would be old enough to move out of home when he was eighteen.  That him and a few friends could set up a place together and share. 

Perish the thought!  The kid that forgets to lock the gate after himself when he’s the last one in, wants to live on his own.  The one that doesn’t put the lid on the tomato sauce bottle.

I was informed that I would not be given the address (Please note that I am a perfectly normal and nice parent.  Actually I’m a nice person.  I am not a convicted felon, nor have I spent any time being incarcerated.  I don’t smoke, drink myself into a stupor, or galavant around with men half my age.  I have spent the past sixteen years of my life, dedicating my all to this child and trying my best to lead an exemplary life).

So, I’m thinking it’s probably time to let go of the whole flatlet idea.  And the neighbouring houses too.

Letting my kids grow up is hard.  Eventually letting them go, with a smile on my face, might kill me.

Please click and LIKE on Facebook - Thanx!

Made my "x" and damn proud of it!

 

Made my "x" and damn proud of it!
7 May 2014

Voting is an honour and a privilege.  And most definitely a right.

A right hard fought for.  One that I’m very aware of.  And that I don’t take for granted. 

Each and every time I’ve gone to vote, the significance of the whole voting process has struck me afresh. 

The fact that not everyone in the world is afforded this same opportunity.  The fact that many have suffered because of the fight to vote.  And that even more have suffered because many have not been allowed to vote in the past.

I am white.  And I am a woman.  And thus I am allowed to vote.  The white thing has always counted in my favour with voting.  But as for the woman thing?  Not always so much.  Many, many years ago, women had to demand for equal rights to cast their ballots.  To make their tick.  South African women were first allowed to vote in 1930.  Just a short while ago.  And still to this day, crazy as it may seem, some women in different parts of the world are not allowed to vote.

I am an eternal optimist.  And I firmly believe, that even though my little “x” is just one little “x”, it still holds value.  It plays a role.  It has significance.

It allows me the freedom, to express my view.  To make my demand.  To ensure that the collective voice of the people is heard. 

But it does not just allow me that.  It also gives me the right to express my dissatisfaction or satisfaction with the current status quo.  The way we are governed in our country at present.  By looking at the examples of the past.  The long ago past, before ’94.  And the more recent past, post free and fair elections for all.

Some things I battle with.  And I find it hard to come to terms with.  Why are prisoners allowed to vote?  A part of me feels, that depending on the nature of their crime, and the length of their sentence, they should be allowed to vote.  Especially if they are expected to join society again, and they have family on the outside.  But another part of me feels that it is difficult to make that distinction.  What types of crime pre-excludes them from voting?  And surely if the South African legal system has judged them to be guilty and unfit to be a part of regular society, they surely forfeit their constitutional rights?  Or is that in direct contradiction with the constitutional rights?  Does it make any sense?  The distinction at present is that prisoners are allowed to vote, unless they are mentally unstable.  So exactly how fool proof is the system?

Another thing that really baffles me is the whole “spoil-your-vote-campaign”.  Yes, I’m serious.  Leading up to the elections, there has been a huge “spoil-your-vote-campaign”.  I might be wrong, and completely off the mark, but it strikes me as being ever so slightly daft.  I mean why bother then in the first place?  Apparently the reasoning is that by spoiling your vote, you are demonstrating your dissatisfaction with the current governance of the country.  As well as with the opposition parties.  It means that politically speaking, in your opinion, nobody quite comes up to scratch.  You could feel that all political parties are self-serving.  Disingenuous.  False.  Egotistical.  Corrupt.  Given to nepotism.  Etc.  Etc.  Etc.  And so the list goes on.  A part of me gets it.  But I must be honest – it’s a really, really, really small part.  It diminishes the hard won efforts of those who came before us.  Who fought so hard for this privilege.  The opportunity it gives to us, the man and woman on the street, to finally have our say.  To feel as if we’re playing a role.  In addition, spoiling your ballot, effectively means that your casting your lot with the majority party.  As it gives them the benefit of your spoils.  Statistically speaking, spoilt ballots, aid the strongest party, and effectively takes away votes from the minority.  The opposition.  The little parties, that could together, take away a bit of the power of the majority party.  Sometimes, even if you know that your party will never be able to win, it is still wise to vote for them.  The more votes, the stronger and louder their voice.  The more accountability they can demand from those in power. 

Another sad fact is also the apathy of so many.  The alarming stats when it comes to registered voters who fail to pitch up and do their thing.  I understand that it is difficult for many people to vote.  People in transit, living in different countries, the elderly, the sick, people touring, away on work, or just plain caught up in everyday life.  It is understandable.  And I have empathy.  But for those of us who registered, we have a civil duty to do our thing.  Not just for us, but for our kids, our families, and those we care about.  This is our country.  Let’s play an active role, and have our say.  In my opinion voting shows optimism and belief in change.  Not cynicism and disenchantment.  And being resigned to not being heard.   

If believing and partaking in elections makes me delusional and naïve, then I own it.  And happily too.  I am exceedingly proud of each and every Election Voting stamp in my ID Book.  I even have some stamps in my old ID Book, from before I got married and changed my surname.  I can equate it to passport stamps.  Commemorating great journeys.  Because quite simply they do.

The 2014 elections, marks 20 years of democratic elections for all in sunny SA.  And how things have changed since the ground breaking elections in 1994.  Crazy to think that the “Born-Free’s” are now 20 years old already.  They grew up in a country, where all had equal rights.  We shared the same beaches.  The same suburbs and neighbourhoods.  The same restaurants.  The same class rooms.

That is what elections did for us.

Made my “x” and damn proud of it!

Please click and LIKE on Facebook - Thanx!