Holiday excess and quick fixes

Last night, we went with friends for a birthday dinner to Zachary's at Pezula in Knysna and quaffed:

- a Kir Royale
- a glass of De Morgenzon Chenin Blanc (wooded and totally delicious; seriously, who knew Chenin could taste this good?)
- a glass of Thelema Chardonnay
- a glass of Pinot Noir (by this stage, I was paying little attention to the vineyard)

The meal was excellent. I had an organic garden salad with spring flowers and a Champagne vinaigrette, some sort of Amuse Bouche, a perfectly done fillet with garlic and smoked butter mash, a dessert (compliments of the Chef) and a local cheese platter with watermelon preserve and figs.

This would be quite fine if it was a once-off, but since we started our holiday, I find myself drinking wine at a 3 course lunch, scoffing chocolates in the afternoon and then gorging myself on a completely delicious dinner, washed down with The Grapes of Sloth. And despite the fact that I am actually quite reasonable at arithmetic, I manage to convince myself that my 'walk around the island' will sort it all out.

This really is fuckwit logic though. Here's the actual math:

3 glasses of wine + 1 Kir Royale at dinner last night = (70 x 3) + 200 = 410 calories consumed
1 hour walk around island = 150 calories burned

Note that this excludes the actual solids I consumed, which, over the course of yesterday, also included batter fried prawns, mussels, Belgian feta, spring rolls and another glass of wine. (and almond tart and lemon meringue in the afternoon, but I'm repressing that)

As you can see, mathematically, I am destined to roll back to Johannesburg on 2 January, full of resolve to undo this pigly damage and get myself into 'the best shape of my life'. Every year. Same story.

My body needs nourishment and sleep and exercise to recuperate after a killer year, and yet, when the routines and the schedules and the task lists dissolve, so does my discipline. Every holiday, David and I are excessive and unhealthy and we end our vacations full of blubber and self-loathing.

Another mathematical misfortune:

It takes 3500 extra calories to gain a pound of schmaltz. Similarly, you need a 3500 calorie deficit to lose a pound. (2.2 pounds = 1 kg) Do you know how goddamn easy it is to scoff down an extra 3500 calories? You could do it in 2 days without much effort. But to lose that pound? You need to religiously cut 500 calories a day for a full 7 days.

Oh if only my discipline was as good as my maths.

In an effort to refocus my efforts and not start 2011 as a genuine candidate for The Biggest Loser, I am going to download 'The 4 Hour Body' book. It's written by Tim Ferriss, the maniac who wrote 'The 4 hour Work Week'. Dude is 33 years old and what he has achieved is truly phenomenal. (his blog is great too.... www.fourhourworkweek.com/blog. He's a bonkers and adventurous and experimental and all about stuffing life to the brim.

Sooo...I will let you all know what the book is like (planning to read The 4 Hour Work Week too so that I can become a CYBORG next year) and welcome any comments from those of you that have:

1. Read the books
2. Read Tim's blog
3. Know where I can get my jaw wired shut for the holidays

Ho ho ho.

A Christmas tear

Today, I sat in therapy, curled into what felt like a plastic, empty ball, and cried. This year has left me somewhat defeated and deflated and today's 'break up day' has me anxious about the time and space in the holiday ahead. We're off to Stellenbosch tomorrow for a few days, and then we drive down to Knysna, where I'm hoping to read (a book and not an RFP document), drink (wine and not 9 espressos), spend time with my children (and not in a moving vehicle) and sleep (just sleep).

In the past 12 months:
- my mom got married
- a loved one started drug rehab
- I fired my maid, on whom I relied so heavily with my kids (but when somebody whacks your child on the head and tells your child to lie to you about it, it's a deal-breaker)
- I fired my PA (after months of mess)
- I built offices
- I expanded my business and hired 3 people
- I took on more work than I ever have before
- I welcomed my best best friend back to South Africa, and then bid her a very tearful farewell less than a year later
- I experienced more health issues and ingested more morphine than in the 33 years prior combined
- I didn't exercise, doctor's orders

At the same time, my husband took over his family's business, travelled more than he ever has and ran a university for 300 entrepreneurs from all over the world.

I know my life is blessed in many ways, but this year has kicked my ass. And then some.

So when in therapy today, I told my therapist that I was trying to be forgiving of myself for not being 'Mom of the Year' in the last few months, my therapist's response was jarring:

"Ben (my youngest, who is almost 2 and a challenge) won't get easier. These issues won't go away. They'll just be bigger issues in a bigger body."

And his issues, apparently, are inversely proportional to the amount of time I spend with him.

I've tried. Fuck but I've tried. There are days when I am up working until midnight, making school lunch in the wee small hours and trying desperately, in a jam-packed day, riddled with exhaustion, to fit in a puzzle, a quick walk with the pram and a story. And sometimes I don't get to do much more than bath my boys and read them a story and cuddle them.

And that's not good enough.

The tough thing now is that I am no longer a one-woman show. I have staff and salaries to pay and overheads. I have responsibilities and risks and I've given up the luxury of being able to wind up and wind down whenever I choose to.

This 'have it all' thing is bollocks. You can't, unless your standards are rock bottom or you're a bloke. If you're a woman and you're remotely Type A, you're stuffed. You're destined to be anxious, judged and guilt-ridden while you try your damndest to fill 11 roles and cum laude each and every one of them.

I'm going to use this holiday to reflect on what 'working motherhood' should look like for me. I might not ever get to that ideal, balanced place, but at least I'll have a vision to guide me.

Peace.

Is Aubrey actually Audrey?

As 2010 screeches to a halt (and not a moment too fucking soon I might add), so we begin to reflect on the year past.
Was I happy?
Did I find balance?
What did I achieve?
What did I learn?
Is Aubrey actually a girl?

I'm serious. For those of you that have read earlier posts, Aubrey, our family hamster, will be familiar to you. Nay, some of you have actually begun to feel somewhat attached to him. Or her, as it turns out.

Soooo....there I was doing what all Type A mothers do late on a Thursday afternoon: tidying up Duplo, whilst playing with the hamster, whilst drinking my 9th coffee, whilst talking to a client on the phone, whilst trying to tie Ben's shoelace. Ben, who was handling Aubrey in a way only Ben can, turned the poor little fucker over.

And I hate to say it, but either Aubrey is a very unlucky fella....or he's a girl.

The thought crossed my mind to rename her Audrey and kit out her cage with Hepburn-inspired decor: a rat version of Breakfast at Tiffany's.

But I've decided against it. Hell if Cher's daughter can rename herself Chaz (born a lovely lass named Chastity), then Aubrey can remain a boy. We have already socialised him into thinking he's one and isn't that half of it anyway?

XX

Boys will be boys (and girls will have to take valium to handle them)

Two weeks ago, my husband and I and an incredible committee of people hosted 350 entrepreneurs for a week in Cape Town. It was sensational and exhausting all at once. Lectures all day. Parties every night. I am excessive by nature, so 'pacing myself' is always something that I suck at. Suffice it say that on Night #1, I was dancing on the speakers to Goldfish, shouting "Jaeger-bomb!" In true Type A style though, I didn't miss a lecture, so I came home knackered.

This weekend past, my mom got married, so on Friday night, we hosted a pre-wedding dinner for 35 people at our home. On Saturday night, we went to a friend's 40th and on Sunday, it was all love, marriage and a lot of Champagne.

As you can imagine, I woke up this morning with a swollen brain, a toxic liver and a mountain of work to catch up on. As you can also imagine, after this crazy weekend, my fridge was bare, so when I collected Liam and his friend and sidekick Cameron from school, I thought it would be efficient to take them for a milkshake and do the Woolworths shop.

Fuck me dead. At the best of times, the two of them are a handful, but today, with no liver enzymes left and the kind of exhaustion that makes your veins tired, I was in no state to deal with what these two little buggers had in store for me.

Liam and Cameron have been BFF's since they were 2. I love Cameron (he is a hugely lovable child) and I am mad about his mom, but both he and Liam are a combination of pure, unbridled testosterone and marshmallow hearts that are easily bruised. The two of them are like a paediatric version of Roald Dahl's 'The Twits" - madly in love and then oftentimes, just mad.

So we drove to Killarney with the usual backseat banter:
"Mommy, Cameron's not sharing."
"Liam!! I'm not your friend now. Jo - I wanna go home." (starts sobbing)
11 seconds pass
"Liam - let's scream."
"Ok. I'll count to 3 and then we scream...1, 2, 3..aaaaeeeee&&&********" (this was repeated at least a dozen times until I had developed severe tinnitus - Cameron is extremely loud and Liam shrieks like a mangled bird of prey)
"Jo - smell my stinky lawyers."
"Cameron's got stinky lawyers and a fart brain poo head!"
"NO LIAM!!!! Jo - Liam said I'm a poo head!"

After we had negotiated who got to ride the trolley and who got to walk alongside, I endeavoured to complete my weekly shop with focus and precision. Twas not to be. The two of them screeched through the aisles in an episode of what can only be described as pure mania. Because this situation was not new to me, I did what all good mothers would do: I pretended they weren't mine.

Then we got to the queue. This is where it really must be said: screw you Woolworths.

"Jo - can I have chewing gum?"
"No."
"Mommy - can we get Ben 10 chocolates?"
"Forget it."
"Jo - please can we have these sweets?"
"Definitely not."

When their attempt at hyper-glycaemia failed, they tried a new tactic: bashing the gentleman's trolley behind us and then bursting into fits of laughter. The problem with the queue is that you can't pull the "They're not mine" tactic.

By the time we reached the cashier, I had succumbed to some gummy sweets and strategically placed each child on a tile on the floor (with a tile between them) and told them to eat their sweets while I paid for my shopping. Not 20 seconds later, they were stoning the mannequin behind them with their sweets, shouting all sorts of juvenile obscenities about said-mannequin's poo and farts.

You need nerves of steel and a robust sense of humour to mother boys. I'm lucky. I have both. And if I'm totally honest, I love naughty boys. They are rough and real and exuberant and I wouldn't have it any other way.

But I won't be telling The Twits that. :)

Don't ever drink vodka with real Russians

On Friday evening, we had a few Russian folk for dinner. I finished working at about 17h00 and still needed to bath and feed the children before even contemplating dinner for a party of 10. Fortunately, my uber-capable mate Romy popped by and did what all good best friends do: shredded basil, char-grilled broccoli and drank Chardonnay.

By the time our guests had arrived, I was a trifle strung out. Ben was thankfully asleep, but Liam was adamant that he wanted to "spend time with the Russians". Admittedly, I'd also had a hugely heavy week with a family crisis that had me crying like a girl, so by Friday, I really just wanted to get shit-faced.

And shit-faced I was.

After quaffing 3 glasses of a charming Champagne, 3 glasses of Meerlust Rubicon and then 2 glasses of a delightful Pinot Noir (the name of which escapes me because at this point, I was well and truly liquored), I decided that it was high time that we all sampled the vodka that our Comrades had gifted us.

I've always been quite partial to vodka and like to think I can handle it well, but jeezez-mary-and-joseph-stalin, that Russian stuff is like jet fuel. Four shots later, I was being carried around my garden over the shoulder of an ex-marine from Texas (true story), dancing barefoot with some Dutch bloke I don't know and compulsively offering koeksisters to the Russians, who by this stage, were sitting quietly in my lounge, mute and most likely appalled.

Suffice it to say that it's Sunday night now, and I still feel like I've been poisoned by a Bolshevik.

I'm not sure how Russian/South African bilateral relations are going, but I'm almost certain they were trying to kill us. Or maybe I just drank too much.

Why offering your child a marshmallow might be the most important thing you ever do.

In th 1960's, a researcher from Stanford University wanted to test the relationship between self-discipline and long term success.

So he teased a bunch of hungry 4 year olds.

He offered them a choice: one marshmallow right now or two if you can wait 15 minutes - a virtual eternity for a pre-schooler. About a third of the kids hoovered the marshmallow before taking a breath, a third waited a bit, but couldn't manage the 15 minutes and about a third waited the full time and earned their 2 marshmallows. This last group struggled. Some of them licked the table. Some sang songs. Some danced. But they waited. No matter what it took, they waited.

The study was a longitudinal one, so the same kids were reviewed at age 14 and age 24.

The results were amazing: the children that had resisted the marshmallows for the full 15 minutes were ultimately (and statistically significantly) more positive, more self-motivated, more persistent and determined when life threw them a curveball and naturally, better able to delay gratification in pursuit of long term goals. Even more significantly, they had more successful marriages, earned more money and were happier with their careers. They were even healthier than the marshmallow-scoffers.

Blows your mind right?

So naturally, after reading the study, I grill Liam in the car:
"If I said you can watch one episode of Diego now, or 2 episodes if you wait until after supper, what would you choose?"
"Two after supper."

So far so good.

"If I said you can have a delicious sucker from my handbag right now, or you can have two suckers if you wait until tomorrow after school, what would you choose?"
"Hmmm. I don't know."
"Think about it. One sucker now in the car or 2 suckers tomorrow when I fetch you."
"Two suckers tomorrow when you fetch me."

Halle-fucking-lujah!

But because I am obsessive compulsive, Type A and according to a counsellor I recently met, "completely fucking bonkers", I am now uber-focused on flexing Liam's delayed gratification muscle. The only thing I don't make him wait for is to pee...because that would not be cool.

Kids today don't wait for anything. It's a now-generation and it's unnerving. They don't have to wait until they're home to make a phone call. They don't have to go to a bookstore to buy a book. They don't have to wait 3 weeks while the Post Office snail-mails the letter from their granny. The Internet (and god bless it) has made us compulsive and impatient and unimaginative and almost totally reliant on external sources of stimulation.

I'm convinced that this instant gratification is related to ultimate substance abuse, anxiety and depression. Celebs are the extreme. The 'too-much-too-soon' crowd inevitably land up with alcohol-monitoring bracelets on their ankles and court appearances. And they're bloody miserable.

For what it's worth, I think kids should learn to wait. They should learn not to interrupt while mom's on the phone. They should have to wait their turn. They should wait for (and earn) privileges. They should have to hold onto that sucker all afternoon until 18h32 when dinner is over...and then eat it. And not because mom's a militant wench (although I think there's a place for that side of mom too), but because mom knows, either intuitively or because Stanford said so, that delayed gratification is one of the most important things kids can learn.

As for me, it's way too late. I'm going to pour a glass of wine. :)

Happy birthday to me

It's my birthday on Thursday. I'll be 34 years old, which feels appropriate. It also feels like a good time to look at other numbers in my life. Here we go...

13 - The number of years I've been in therapy. Despite the fact that my parents' take up a good 80% of my therapy air time, my mom still saw fit to cut out an article for me last week about how bad it is to become dependent on your therapist. Woteva.

4 - The number of kilograms I am heavier than when I got married. Dammit. I used to be svelte. This year, I have become slovenly. And not in a slutty Madame of the House sort of way. I need to get my arse back into high gear.

0 - The number of glasses of wine I can now safely consume without a hangover. It's dismal. I used to be such a festive girl. Now I have two glasses of Chardonnay and I'm slurring. Three and I'm out cold. A regular Lindsay Lohan.

7 - The number of mad, awesome women I count as my close friends. I think it's an excellent number. Less would be depressing. More would be a crowd.

78 - The average number of work-related emails I get every day. Fuuuuck.

11 - The average number of times I say 'fuuuuck' every day.

31 - The number of lip glosses and products in that category that I own at any one time. Which is ridiculous, because 9 times out of 10, I use Cherry Labello.

3 - The number of pints of blood I would give to have more sleep at night.

23 - The number of regular followers of my blog. :)

Happy birthday dear Jooooo, happy birthday to you. XXX

Damn you Aubrey

It's becoming a bit like Groundhog Day.
Aubrey is on the run. Yet again.

My husband and the kids were playing with him a few days back and they 'definitely put him back' and 'absolutely closed the cage'. If this is true, then Aubrey is indeed, rather legendary. He was able to use his teeny tiny little hamster paws to unhinge a shutting mechanism that my 4 year old can't manipulate. Either that, or he used the full weight of his brutish body to smash through the perspex side of the cage.

Or maybe they just left the cage open.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that we must be the crappest hamster parents. That we're neglectful and that Aubrey must be pretty desperate to make continued escape attempts.

But you'd be wrong.

Aubrey is much-loved. He gets Baby-Belle cheese treats and saucers of soya milk. He gets dried fruit and nuts and popcorn and Premium Hamster Chow. He gets love and free play and even trips to the garden.

And still, despite our very best efforts, he absconds. He seems to suffer from that not-so-uniquely human condition of believing that the grass is greener elsewhere. It might well be greener, but much like in life, it's also populated with all sorts of other hazards, in this case, hadedas and the neighbour's cat and a sprinkler system and the promise of summer thunderstorms.

Liam, who is 4, is not too bothered. He over-empathizes with needy people (a trait he inherited from his bleeding-heart mother), but he never formed much of a bond with the hamster. Ben (who is 2 in January) occasionally hoists himself onto a footstool, rattles the cage and says, 'Awww-bwwweee!!'

But that's it.

As for me, I developed a real affection for that rat variant - one that is quickly waning. I feel like he's using me for food and affection and that he takes me for granted. It's becoming a very unilateral relationship; a case of unrequited love; of biting the hand that feeds.

Maybe he's seeing someone else. The neighbour's cat (a real little slut). A rat from the Zoo across the road. Or maybe he's just an adventurer who needs the sun on his back and the wind in his fur.

Oh Aubrey. Come back little guy. There's no place like home.

Empire State of Mind. Empire State of Mastercard.

On Wednesday afternoon last week, my husband and I arrived in an unusually balmy New York, and being the cosmetic whore that I am, my first stop was....ta da....Sephora. For those of you that need hard evidence of my whoring, allow me to relay my conversation at the till that day:

Cashier: Where are you from?
Me: South Africa.
Cashier: Wow! I've AAAALWAYS wanted to go there.
Me: No kidding.
Cashier: You must be a make up artist?
Me: Huh?
Cashier: You bought so much stuff, no way it can all be for you, so you must be a make up artist. Am I right?
Me: Um. Yes. (presumptious little shit)
Cashier: Wow! You've spent so much, you qualify for TWO free gifts! Wow!
Me: (ok seriously numbskull - if you say 'Wow' once more, I will glue your mouth shut with my new Philosophy vanilla cake lip gloss)

That was Day 1. Fortunately, we only had another 2 days in the Big Apple, so the plastic damage was limited by something called daylight.

I have so much to share about those crazy 48 hours of consumerism, but my husband wants to watch Mad Men, so brevity is called for:

Banana Republic - Sorry to be crass, but fuck you Stuttafords. Seriously. It's the most awesome store, and you bring back 9 pieces of crap and charge us Prada prices for it. Go to hell. Banana Republic rocks rocks rocks, but I wouldn't touch it in SA.

Bloomingdales - Yawn. I'm sorry. I know many of you are mad for that place, but I found it an all-too-typical drag. A big-assed department store with the usual brands at unusually high prices. I want to pound the streets; not the escalators. That said, I did find two pairs of pumps: Juicy Couture and Calvin Klein - both quite reasonable. Lasted 20 minutes. Then I needed a Starbucks and some tar beneath my feet.

Century 21 - Do not go unless you have lots of energy, lots of patience, lots of upper body strength to wade through the rails and no social phobias whatsoever. It's basically a multi-story shithole with high-end brands at great prices. I loved it for kids clothes and their jeans selection is fab. You can live without it. I'm so not into shoving my way to a $100 pair of Sevens jeans. It's uncouth.

J Crew - A lovely store in its own right, but the treat is Crew Cuts, their kids' range. Be prepared to spend a bomb. Stylish offspring don't come cheap. The range is great: found boys' pants with little skulls all over them and a kiddies' cashmere cardigan. Very cool.

Abercrombie & Fitch - If you have a fantasy of being 21, hot, skinny, attending UCLA and dating the quarterback, A&F is La-la Land. Firstly, on entry, a supremely hot, abs-of-steel young man beckons you while he gyrates to cool dance music. He smells of youth and promise and twenty-something hormones and a hint of the A&F fragrance (which they pump through the vents like some sort of a nasal aphrodisiac). He asks if you want to take a photo with him. And then when you do, he looks at you like you're 21 and hot and skinny and dating the quarterback. And they ALL look like that. Every single A&F employee is The Hotness. Go there for their well-priced brilliantly fitting, cool T-shirts that make you look like you have toned arms. a slim waist and narrower hips...or just go there because it's nice to sniff the Abercombie guy in the entrance area. Up to you.

Zara - You know the deal. Wonderful place. Always a reliable source of fabulousness at prices that won't make Rand-earners projectile vomit from vertigo.

Pippen Vintage Jewelry - I only share this one because I love you. Pippen is a true find. A hole in the wall with absolutely exquisite vintage jewelry. I found $15 Italian mosaic hearts for necklaces and $5 diamante-encrusted house of cards pendants. I also found a Tiffany platinum necklace with a vintage diamond and emerald pendant, but fortunately, I was at the arse end of my retail frenzy and my reasonable-ness was returning. Check out her website and if you go to NY, go to her truly special (and super-organised!) store. You won't be sorry. http://www.pippinvintage.com/jewelry.html

Now Mad Men awaits.

Later. X

How to feel like a Good Mom if you only have 20 minutes

Since I opened my new offices a few weeks ago and my life went from manic to OMIFUCKINGGOD, a number of unusual things have happened:

1. I have been inspired (probably because of time pressure) to set some boundaries with some family members that have relentlessly sucked the lifeblood out of me for too long. No more I say. NO MORE!

2. I have had a flirtation with tequila that rendered me rather disorderly, shaking my booty to Prince, barefoot on the DJ box, yelling for another 'voddi shot'. Can you spell 'trailer trash?'

3. I have completely ignored the nutritional needs of my children, so much so that I've been giving them each 3 Barney vitamins in the mornings to compensate. Nice.

Fraught with guilt because of the aforementioned triangle of sins, I decided to take at least one item in hand and make amends. I selected my children. (partly because I love them crazily and partly because we've run out of fish fingers and I have no choice now)

I needed a solution that would meet the following criteria:

1. Can be done now. (I'm all about instant gratification) This means no complicated recipes that require white truffle oil, seaweed or the breastmilk of a gnat.
2. Excellent ROI. One cooking session = Lots of eating sessions. (ie. must be suitable for home freezing)
3. Delicious. So delicious that both of them will eat it with gusto. I'm so over nagging.
4. Homemade and healthy, with a huge serving of veggies.
5. Can be actioned in 20 minutes or less.

Enter Jessica Seinfeld's 'Deceptively Delicious' cookbook, where the crafty little minx hides pureed veggies in children's meals. This evening, inspired by Jerry's naughty missus, I cooked the most insanely delicious macaroni cheese, FULL of pureed butternut.

Bite me Woolworths.

Now before you brand me a loser for getting excited about a healthy macaroni recipe, let me take you through the maths:

- no shopping - all of the ingredients were in my fridge
- 20 minutes from start to finish, including packing, labelling and freezing
- 8 meals for my children that I don't have to feel guilty about and that I don't have to cluck around like a cracked-out rooster to try and get them to eat

Post me if you want to recipe and I shall duly email. Or buy the book. You can use it to cook nutritious, yummy meals for your kids...or you can use it to bash yourself repeatedly over the head at 17h30.

Your call.

Bon appetit!

Something's gotta give

It's been too long. Since last we spoke, Aubrey, our commitment-phobic hamster, has escaped twice. I have hired and trained two staff members, built very cool offices, scarified my lawn, replanted my herb garden, found my brother a place to live, taken on more work than I can spell, let alone handle, consumed approximately 150 cups of coffee and discovered that my cortisol levels (the stress hormone) are 6 x higher than normal. Shock me shitless.

Right now, I am sitting in front of my computer in my new office, looking onto my newly-scarified lawn and drinking cup # 151. I look older. Sleep sucks me in and aside from Ben's nightly yelps, I am certain that I die of exhaustion every night. This can't be sustainable.

That said, The Walnut Office now has an excellent team. All Type A's. All on the mad side of smart. Our offices are whimsical - functional and quirky and light. Our workload is heavy. My new Junior Strategist worked until 4am the other night. And it's a half day job.

I love it. I love working. I love managing hard-working people. I love creating. Solving. Writing. I love making a difference for clients. I love running a business.

But everything else has gone to shit. Despite the fact that my offices are at home, I have been around so little this month that Liam, my 4 year old, is attention-seeking non-stop. I'd like to believe that it has nothing to do with my workload; that it's just a phase, but I know him and we're deeply connected.

My husband has been amazingly supportive. Despite growing up in what would be considered a very patriarchal home, he is so proud of me. He's also an incredible source of input. He's run businesses and his commercial sense is excellent. We're off to New York in 2 weeks, which will be a good opportunity to re-connect (if I can get over the guilt of leaving the kids for a few days).

I know that I will find my groove again; my manic definition of 'balance'. I know that this office and these employees are the right thing to do. We do some really cool work for people and it was time to grow. For now, I'm going to try and just be in this frenetic space without too much judgment or guilt; choose my manic defense. My family will survive my distraction until it all settles.

So will I. I think.

IS Clinical - The Sordid Details

Migod I wish I was on commission for IS Clinical. Ever since that blog post about the total fabulousness of the product range, so many of you have emailed, smsed and What's app-ed me to ask what products to buy.

This is my regime, for what it's worth....

Morning:
Dermalogica Special Cleansing Gel
IS Clinical Super Serum Advance
Dermalogica AgeSmart SPF 30

Evening:
Dermalogica Special Cleansing Gel
IS Clinical Active Serum
IS Clinical Youth Complex (better for day time use, but I don't like the way foundation holds on it, so I use it at night)
Dermalogica Intensive Moisture Balance (will probably switch to their Skin Smoothing Cream for Summer if IMB is too rich or I may try an IS Clinical cream)

I also use eye cream and I tend to vary that.

Right. Soooo now that you've made your shopping list and have phoned your bank manager, perhaps you'd like to know what these products actually do?

The Active Serum exfoliates your skin using mild acids, so no need for a face scrub (how brutish!) on top of it. It acts to diminish lines, erase acne and improve pore size and hyper pigmentation. Basically, it takes off the aged, shitty, gritty layers of skin to reveal a youthful new you. It tingles a bit and you may peel a little to start. Suck it up dear. It's worth it.

Super Serum Advance rocks. It improves scars, boosts collagen production (which plumps up your saggy-assed skin), brightens your face and helps to block out those nasty UV rays that make you look like that old bat in There's Something About Mary. (although you still need sunblock) I love it. It's full of antioxidants, which means that it fights off the ageing, cancer-causing crap in our environment. Think of it as 'The A Team' for your skin, without Bradley Cooper. (who's too busy shagging that oddball Zellweger)

Aaah. Youth Complex. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways:
1. Firms.
2. Tightens.
3. Reduces wrinkles.
4. Smoothes.
5. Softens.
6. Protects.

For those of you considering peels, for fuck's sake, don't do it in Summer. Our sun is harsh and exposing the deep, sensitive layers of your skin to its rays is a sure-fire way to cause damage. I'm serious.

Stay hydrated. Stay sane. Keep reading. XXX

What is discipline?

Our 4 year old is bright, warm and wonderful, but he is also pushing boundaries, doesn't listen to a damn thing, gives death stares when he's angry and is as cheeky as a 14 year old girl.

And so...

Last Friday, about 11 o clock, my therapist's room:

Me: So I think that discipline is about teaching children the logical consequences of their actions.
Therapist (that I hugely respect and that has massive experience with parents and kids): No. Discipline is about the threat of the removal of love.
Me: WTF??? Removal of love? Jeezez. Did you and my mother go to the same school of parenting? That is so 80's. Your child does something wrong and you make them feel like shit...give them the cold shoulder...sulk. That's complete bull.
Therapist: Very strong reaction.
Me: Yes - well you're talking crap.
Therapist: Don't you think that today's kids have, in general, less respect, less motivation and less boundaries than your or my generation?
Me: I guess. But that's not purely a function of how we discipline our kids.
Therapist: Perhaps, but it's relevant. Children today have emotionally aware parents; parents who control their own reactions and emotions so that they can be 'Good Parents'.
Me: And you're suggesting that that makes them Not Good Parents?
Therapist: No. Just that it's not always appropriate for parents to contain their own emotions. If your child doesn't listen to you after the third time, it's appropriate that they experience your anger and your disappointment, and if that includes withdrawal of affection for a short period of time, that's fine. Your child needs to know that what he does not only has a consequence, but also, an emotional impact on others. Sometimes, a cold shoulder is justified.
Me: But...but it will teach him guilt?
Therapist: It will teach him empathy.

Hmmm...

Is Gen X too soft? Are we too actualised and therapized and distracted to keep our children in check? Is there a case for good ol' fashioned parenting, or at least a peppering of it?

I have an allergic reaction to anything that feels like guilt tripping, but maybe, if the intention is to be authentic and not to incite guilt, then maybe, I can get angry and sad and disappointed and withdrawn and maybe, just maybe, Liam and I will survive it.

My therapist also told me that his colleagues that deal with adolescents report that there seems to be a hugely significant wave of apathy in the 12 - 17 age group; teenagers that are unmotivated, disinterested, lazy. This might be because 82% of them are stoned, but there is something in the way that we are raising our kids that is creating this - and perhaps their behaviour is our 'logical consequence'.

I felt too guilty to lie on the couch and get C's. Is there another emotion we can incite to motivate our kids other than guilt? And if there is one, will it ever be as powerful?

Is this just a problem for Jewish mothers? Oy vey.

Miss Independent

My husband is one of the most generous people I know, which is fortunate, because if there is one character trait I cannot stand, it's miserly-ness. And it's often got little to do with how much money someone has: there are many loaded misers around, and in my humble opinion, it's hugely gross. We had the square route of fuckall growing up, but my mom was always generous. She always gave to charity, always tried to spoil us on our birthdays and always, always gave thoughtful gifts.

Even if it meant that she had to wash her own car because she couldn't afford the car wash.

Even if it meant she had to use Clairol Nice 'n Easy on her roots, because a visit to the hairdresser was prohibitively expensive.

Even if it meant that we always wore hand-me-downs.

My father on the other hand, was (and probably still is, although we haven't spoken in years) a real Scrooge. He was miserly with his money, his compassion and his spirit. He would calculate EXACTLY 10% of the bill at a restaurant (Jeezez - like R3 more is going to make a difference?), highlight the phone bill and make me pay my share (from age 15), NEVER give a penny to those less fortunate and never bought me so much as a card on my birthday.

Yuk.

With all of this battered baggage, I promised myself that I would never ever be financially strapped or controlled by my partner. Luckily, David is too generous and too evolved to ever use money as leverage in a relationship, but there are way too many supposedly contemporary men who do.

I have friends that are bright and capable women, but because they chosen to be full time moms, their husbands develop this Godly power over them that they are deeply afraid to escape from; wealthy men with hot-shot jobs that use their credit card to control their women. Sexy boys. Really sexy.

My thinking? Doesn't matter how great your husband is, women, all women, should ultimately have some sort of financial stability or income that is not attached to your resident Scrooge. It teaches some of these numbskulls respect and keeps them on their toes...because if you want to, you can leave and you'll survive it.

Despite having nothing, my father still used money to berate, control and emotionally damage us all. I feel huge compassion for him now, because if you have to use something as filthy as money to have leverage in a relationship, your emotional toolkit is empty.

You can still be a wonderful mom, whilst retaining your independence and sense of self in a relationship. I struggle with that balance all the time and being a working mom is not easy (and it comes in many shapes and forms), but ladies, if you have a control freak or a Scrooge as your roommate, put on Beyonce, burn a bra, write a business plan, start a share portfolio and take your power back.

To any blokes reading this, if you relate to Scrooge, for fuck's sake, grow up and get a therapist. Lord knows, you need one.

To all my sistas, love you. You rock. And if your bloke tells you otherwise, read my post on a FGH. He probably needs one.

Aubrey II: A Hamster on the Run

In a sort of rodent-kind of Prison Break (but without the hotness that is Wentworth Miller), Aubrey, our now notorious hamster, escaped last week. Liam was playing with him in his room. It was 18h45. I was tired and not in the mood for micro-management.

5 4 3 2 1....

"Mooooo-ooooo--oommm".
Here we go.
"Aubrey runned away."

Now don't get me wrong: I think Aubrey is really sweet and I like the fact that Liam is learning to (intermittently) care for something, but at 18h45, I couldn't be fucked to CSI my house looking for a fugitive fur-ball.

Needless to say, CSI we did. For over an hour.

Nothing. Aubrey was well and truly gone. By this stage, Liam had lost interest in Aubrey's safe return and was far more enamoured with the shadows he could make on the wall using the torch we were supposed to be using to check under couches for Aubrey. So I thought 'to hell with this', got Liam to bed and had visions of squashing Aubrey en-route to the bathroom in the wee small hours.

For 3 whole days, Aubrey was nowhere to be found. By now, I was starting to worry about what the poor bastard was going to do for food and water, so I started to populate our home with plastic bowls of water and that synthetically-coloured birdseed that hamsters eat.

And then it happened: in the middle of the night, I went to check on the kids, one of whom was talking in his sleep. There, in the passage, was the little green plastic bowl of seeds, half empty and knocked over. It seemed The Fugitive had indulged in a midnight feast.

Early the next morning, Liam woke me up.

"Mommy! Come quick! I see-ed Aubrey scoot across my room!"

Eventually, a tired, hungry and skittish Aubrey was returned to his home, where he hoovered his water and had a hamster-binge.

So what did I learn from this?

1. My husband is good at a lot of things: catching a rodent isn't one of them.
2. My friend Tammy was right: hamsters teach children about loss, just as much as they teach them about responsibility.
3. I am actually starting to love Aubrey.

The End

Cheap Thrills

Last week, I parked my car, tucked my handbag under the passenger seat, grabbed my phone and car keys and headed off down the road to collect Liam from school. It was 13h01 when I left my car and 13h08 when I returned to a shattered window, a loose wire where my GPS used to be and of course, no fucking handbag. This also meant no hot pink patent leather Louis Vuitton purse very generously gifted to me by friends from India. And no credit cards, no drivers' licence, no ATM card, no 16 lip glosses. no half pack of contraceptive pills, no 4 loose Extra chewing gums and no sentimental flakes of tobacco from my days as a Smoker.

Now I could have spent my mental energy working out when the next flight leaves for Boca Raton, but instead, it got me thinking about how to get more bang for my buck.

Just to set the record straight, there was never a silver spoon in this potty mouth. No ma'am. I had a job from age 11, we had jumble sales outside the house when things were tight and the only new clothes I ever recall getting was a luminous get-up my gran bought me from Woolies. Nuff said.

The last few days have thus been a terrific combination of a Cheap Thrills Adventure and a walk down a cash-strapped memory lane. Here's what I found:

1. Best bedtime body moisturiser: Johnson & Johnson Lavender Baby Oil. Even Victoria Beckham uses it. Cheap Dreams ladies.

2. BEST place to get amazing retro furniture, Art Deco desks, 50's bookshelves and genuine antiques at a steal - Kensington. (just don't be a dumbass like me and go via Rockey Street - that place ain't what it used to be)

3. Dischem bum wipes are literally half the price of Pampers. I've been paying for the brand name for years, and Ben's poo is equally responsive to the no-name version. Who knew?

4. Speaking of Dischem, it is actually possible to spend less than four billion rand on a shopping trip there. Two rules:
i) Take a list
ii) Don't take a child

5. What'sApp - if you have a Blackberry or an iphone, for crying in a bucket people, load this app. I am an unrehabilitated app-a-phobic, but this one is da bomb. Last month, my cell phone bill rivalled the GDP of a small African country. No more I say. NO MORE. Instead of almost a buck an SMS (of which I can send a good 40 a day), I now pay basically nothing to my husband, my best friends, my work colleagues and a whole host of other smarty-pants app-ified people. Word.

6. www.allposters.com. In general, we agree: fake-assed art is nasty, but allposters does great canvases, super-cool kids' art, contemporary prints and cool wall decals. I found these totally nasty surfing sharks for our kids' bathroom, a set of beautiful illustrated comical animals for Ben's room and a contemporary piece of aesthetically pleasing crap for my study. It's fun to search and you can even see what your picture will look like in various frames, in various rooms and against various wall colours. Allposters will courier to you framed or unframed. Love. It.

7. My mother's shop. My most recent wins: Chloe wedges. Bottega Veneta handbag. Hogan boots. Diane von Furstenburg wrap dress. Second hand. Vintage. Call it what you will. I call it 'Joanne-gets-couture-for-cheap'. AND you can feel like a good Citizen of the Planet because it's kind of like recycling. I say let the Silly Bitches of the World buy it new. I'm waiting on the other side for their hand-me-downs.

Tomorrow I get my plastic-fantastic back, but in an effort to be more conscious, less of a consumer and more contemporary, I will continue to scout out bargain buys and shall dutifully report back to you.

Later cheapskates....

A fucking good hiding: Does it still have a place?

I have just given Liam what my mother would call "a fucking good hiding". And let me tell you, he more than deserved it.

I'm not the 'fucking good hiding' type. I got a few FGH's in my youth and all they really did was make me resent my mother and write super-nasty things about her in my diary. That said, there comes a time when (and you'll pardon how vintage this sounds), if a child cannot hear, he must feel.

Last night, I got to bed around 2am. Ben woke up and screamed for almost 2 hours. This morning, I ran a 3 hour strategy session. When I got home, I sat outside with Liam, cuddled him, chatted to him and had a picnic lunch. I then took him out for a glittery cupcake and let him choose a nice smelling soap for my friend.

Later, we fetched Ben and the 3 of us went to Woolies (I'm having an op tomorrow and there's no food in the house). At Woolies, Liam nagged, cried, stamped his feet, made demands and just in general, behaved like trailer-park offspring. I, on a Monday, on 4 hours sleep, was the mother that nobody wants to be. Suffice it to say that when the polite Congolese chap in the parking lot took my R7 to unpack the groceries, I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, "Mon ami, if you take the 4 year old, there's another hundred in it for you."

When we arrived home, I unpacked the groceries and made supper for the kids. Liam ate nothing, telling me that the chicken was 'disgusting' and when I asked him to take his plate to the scullery, he informed me that I was no longer his friend and that I was rude. (This is about when the deep breathing they teach in ante-natal classes comes in handy.)

I left his plate on the table and took my rude ass to the playroom/TV room. The playroom area has a cheap n cheerful rug, lots of toy storage, an arts and crafts trolley and a small table and chairs. The TV room area has couches, books, art, a TV and a much-loved Paul Smith rug. While I'm deep-breathing, I notice that there is a substantial amount of blue playdough enmeshed in my PS rug. Needless to say, I am not happy.

So I ask, calmly, "Liam, please would you pick up the playdough bits and pieces."
No response.
"Liam. Please pick up your playdough."
Ignores me. Starts pasting South African flag tattoos ion his arm.
"Liam. This is the third times I'm asking. Pick up your playdough."

By the 6th time, Liam got a FGH.

Incredibly, whilst he did start sobbing uncontrollably (he'll make a great soccer player), he still didn't pick up the playdough.

So I shouted. And screamed. And felt like I was going to have an aneurysm.

Not a dent.

So I packed up the playdough, put it in a bag and on Wednesday, the playdough set will be delivered, in its entireity, to an orphanage. And Liam will be joining me on this excursion.

He is devastated.

I can handle a lot with my boys and I think that from lots of therapy and lots of love, I am generally a patient and understanding parent, but if I see the signs of 'brat-ness', Lord help me, there are plenty more FGH's where that came from.

So now I am holed up in my study, drinking decaf coffee (because vodka on Monday at 6pm would be bad) and trying to use this blog to blow off some major steam. Times like these, I wish I still smoked. I would pay a filthy amount of money for a Camel Light.

But I don't. So intead, for the rest of this Monday evening, I will breathe deeply, knowing that even though many of you won't admit it, I am not alone. ;)

Mommy, is God dead?

Perfect. My 4 year old is having an existential crisis.

"Why do you ask that love?"
"Because He's in the sky, where the dead people are."

Crisis averted (or at least delayed).

"Can he see us?"

Aah. An opportunity to make the-God-I'm-not-sure-I-believe-in my powerful ally in the development of my child's conscience.

"Yes. He sees everything we do. The good choices and the bad choices we make..." (not an easy speech to make, given that my notion of 'God' is way more eclectic than that professed by the Good Books)

"But how can He see everything?"
"Well Liam, (I'm smug now, because I have the perfect analogy) God's kind of like a Super Super Hero, so He has special vision that ...."
"No mom. I mean how can He see us on such a cloudy day?"

Now that's a bloody good question.

It's interesting how imaginative 4 year olds are, given that they reside almost completely in The Land of all Things Literal. Creativity, Liam has taught me, has little to do with abstraction, existentialism, anything metaphorical or, alarmingly, honesty. In Liam's World, things fall into 3 clear-cut categories:

1. True
2. A story
3. A joke

That's it. No lies. No exaggerated accounts of things. No points of view. No perspectives.

What is True (and absolutely no Joke) is the fact that Aubrey, our traumatised hamster mentioned in a previous post, will die. Probably sooner than we hope. And then, I will have to rework my answer about Death and God and the Sweet Hereafter.

Best I figure it all out first. Hold on Aubrey. For fuck's sake. Hold on.

The Plight of the Hamster

Liam turned 4 on 23 June and I thought, in my wisdom, that it was now appropriate for him to take care of a small animal. On 22 June, we headed off to Sandton City and bought Aubrey, an 11 week old hamster, together a fancy perspex hamster cage, a wheel, a small tire set for him to tunnel through, hamster food, sawdust, a chewing thing (they teethe...who knew?) and some foul cotton wool for him to 'nest' in.

Liam was beside himself with excitement and I was glowing. I was right: this WAS a great idea.

Fast forward 2 hours:

Aubrey screeches. Liam, who literally cannot stop handling the rodent, has slammed Aubrey's tiny paw in one of the doors of the cage.

Phuque.

Google suggests that I feed him soya milk so that if he's broken a bone, the extra calcium will help him repair. I do this, all the while, apologising to Aubrey for totally screwing up his formative weeks.

Fast forward 4 days:

Liam: "Mom. What is that milk you gave Aubrey when he was sick last day?"
Me: "What?? What did you do?? Where's Aubrey?"
Liam: "In a Tupperware. He's shaking a little bit."

Jesus fucking Christ!

I find Aubrey bleeding out of his mouth, lying on his back and the 'shaking a little bit' is actually a full-on convulsion. I cannot explain how disturbing it is to watch a hamster have a seizure.

Aubrey's dying. Dear God Almighty.

I grab the offending Tupperware and rush to the Vet, where the lovely Zimbabwean doctor named Donald shares his sentiments:

"Madam. A hamster and a 4 year old? Not a good combination. Maybe get a guinea pig. They're more robust."

Thank you Doctor. How about a cup of SHUT THE FUCK UP?

"And Madam..."

Yes Doctor?

"I'm not a God-fearing man...but Aubrey will be in my prayers."

Oh fuck off. That's all I need now. A vet that wants to be a comedian.

So Aubrey (and I) survived the trauma. Apparently hamsters have such a small circulatory system that a small loss of blood causes them to go into shock. It's not pretty, but it is common.

Liam now has some rules around handling Aubrey: 10 minutes a day if he behaves and only when he is supervised. So far so good. Aubrey is intact.

To Donald the Vet: Amen.

A Surefire Way to Stop Teen Pregnancy

It's really quite simple...

Give the teenager in question two small boys (18 months and 4 years would be a good mix) and make her do an enormous shop at Pick n Pay Killarney on the last Friday of the month. At 17h00. When the kids are hungry, the one is due to poo, the other needs to wee urgently half way through queuing and the 18 month old is teething and full of flu, with a 38 degree temperature and green snot. And make sure that you pick the slowest cashier ever hired and that the elderly gentleman in front of you takes a good 3 hours to take his debit card out of his wallet, all while the 18 month old, who refuses to sit in the trolley, tries to gnaw through a chicken polony roll he's found on the floor. And then make certain that the 4 year old has a complete meltdown when you tell him that he is not allowed chewing gum until he's 10.

And then, when she is covered in green snot and chicken polony, ask her if the shag was worth it.

No more teen pregnancies. Guaranteed.

Vomit & Viognier

It's 20h16. I'm on my second glass of shiraz-viognier and Benjamin has just vomited in his cot. He does this when he has a cold, when he has a virus, when he has a temperature, when he is upset, when he is teething, when it's Tuesday etc etc. It's always horrible. He's always distressed afterwards and so am I. You'd think we'd be used to it by now, given that in 18 months, he's hurled more times than I've said phuque.

He is now screaming blue murder and my husband has just asked if I have chloroform. Nice.

I have a client at 7am and am bound to have a hangover. My liver ain't what it used to be and let's be honest: shiraz-viognier is not what you should be drinking when you have a hurler next door. Likely to be a rough night. (and a rougher morning) So be it. Sometimes you need liquor.

I have a good 3 hours of work to do before I can sleep and right now, I feel like I could toss it all and become a stay-at-home mom. Sick of working almost every night so I can have good daylight hours with my boys; tired of being too tired to have a conversation with my husband at night; gatvol of feeling pressured, suffocated, perplexed.

Is there actually such a thing as a 'working mom' that manages to do both...properly? I know that I can't forego one. If I don't mother, I will ache; if I don't work, I will go bonkers. But doing both, and running a home and being a wife and having some semblance of a life...I don't think it's possible. Maybe on another planet where days are longer (and women are robots), but here on earth, I'm not sure that you can truly 'have it all'.

No. You can't choose to be heterosexual. Dammit.

I think that a lot of bigotry is inherited. If your parents spend the formative years of your life saying that they think Tasmanians are epic morons, you will probably believe that they are. Even if intellectually, you are able to eventually prove your parents wrong, you will always, deep down inside, think that Tasmanians are dim-witted.

When it comes to sexuality, I was lucky. My parents were cool. Both of our neighbours had sons that were gay and it was a total non-issue. And I'd like to think that if my first date was with a lass named Susan, they would have supported that. Eventually.

So it totally fascinates me when people that I know are educated and intelligent say things like this:

"It's so hard being gay. I don't know why he just doesn't choose to be straight. There are so many nice single girls."

WTF???

Now I am a believer of the theory that we all have Yin and Yang and that most people exist on some sort of sexual continuum, but I don't think that if Jim has been bonking Ken for a year, he can very likely just 'choose' to enjoy bonking Barbie.

That said, and I may be shot down for this, I do think that here, like in most other aspects of life, it's different for men and women. If your wife tells you that she messed around with her mate Angela at varsity after a few tequilas, she scores 10 points. If your husband says that he and his room mate used to get it on...

"Honey - you know Ivan from UCT? We used to shag after Accounts 101. Hellava nice guy. Dressed well too."

Red flag. RED FLAG.

I think that women are better at treading the grey waters when it comes to pretty much anything, sexuality included. Men - they're black and white. Women meander. Men prefer to pick a lane. I have seen male gay friends try their level best to straddle lanes and they always, always end up where the boys are.

Maybe it's just more faaaabulous there. ;)

Type A Organising Tip #1

My head might be a right mess, but my life is organised within an inch of itself. I have spreadsheets, Task Lists, project schedules and meal plans. Some of you will find these tips (of which this is the first) pure genius. The rest of you will think I am a serious fuck up. To the first group - keep reading; these tips will save you loads of time and make your life much more efficient. To the second group - piss off back to the Land of Chaos.

Tip #1

Do you find yourself running to the shops every week to get birthday gifts, mother's day presents, gift vouchers, gift wrap, cards and gift bags? It's a pain, right? Half the time, you're too late to get to the shops and then not only are you late to give the gift, you also have this nagging item on your To Do list. And if you hit the shops every week instead of monthly, you spend more money and waste a huge amount of time that you just don't have. Yes?

Soooo...what I do is I start the year with a monthly schedule of birthdays and occasions. The schedule for a year takes about an hour to do...and guaranteed, it will save you about 4 hours a month. That's 48 hours a year. Two full days of your life! It's a no brainer.

For example, in May, I have 14 occasions that require gifts. If I had to go to the shops 14 times and gift wrap on 14 separate occasions, I would throttle myself with gingham ribbon. At the end of April, I take 10 minutes to make a list of names and gift ideas and I do ONE shop for all of them. I giftwrap them all in one foul swoop in front of the TV (God forbid I should sit still for a minute) with giftwrap and ribbons I buy in bulk from Wrap It at the top of Corlett Drive, write the cards and pack them away in a cupboard specifically for gifts.

Granted, if you have kids, you will always have ad hoc kid's parties each month. Just in case, I have some beautiful kids' books from Exclusive Books that I can wrap at the last minute if I need to.

Two days of your life for one hour of input. Fucking GREAT ROI. Seriously, you will ask yourself why you hadn't done this sooner.

Kisses

Youthful glow and other non-alcoholic things you can get in a bottle

Confession time.

I'm a cosmetic whore. I make it my business to find out what foundation the celebs are calling their Favourite and if it happens to only be available in New York, so-be-it. I search high and low to find The Best Mascara and if it means I need to place orders and buy in bulk to ensure stock of the stuff, so-be-it. I am also (un)healthily obsessed with skincare. It can be 9 degrees and raining and you will find me wearing sunblock and I started using the best eye cream I could afford when I was 16. Seriously. My friends were buying weed. I was buying Clarins. Whore.

For what they are worth, this is what I've found:

1. Dermalogica is super. If you're in your 20's and you still think that wrinkles only happen to linen. On the dark side of 30 when you're arse starts to sag and the skin around your eyes starts to look like crepe paper, you want to be using IS Clinical. WICKED stuff. I still use Dermalogica's gel cleanser and the Multivit masque, which is the best I've ever found, but the IS serums kick Dermalogica's tight butt. You literally look younger and fresher in DAYS. Very hard to find and generally available only at paramedical beauticians and medical centres. It is fer-nomenal stuff.

2. There is no better foundation than Laura Mercier. No. Better. Ever since I started using her moisturising foundation, people have commented on my skin. My skin, beneath its Laura veil, is a bit freckled, a bit red in the cheeks, a bit veiny and a bit blotchy. With Laura, I can just about rival Cate Blanchett. (if it's dark and you're really pissed) You can only get it in the big first world cities, but get it you must. She also does a bare mineral foundation, which is terrific. Love love love.

3. If like me, you look like the offspring of Marilyn Manson and a stray, gothically-inspired raccoon by 4pm, Blinc mascara is a lifesaver. Metropolitan Cosmetics in Hyde Park sells it (at a healthy margin). That stuff rocks. Marilyn Manson has officially left the building.

4. MAC lipsticks. In fact, MAC for anything pigmented. And for their MAC Strobe Cream. Bless them. I used it a LOT when I was pregnant and a lot of people commented that I was 'literally glowing'. Fuck that for a joke. The hormones didn't make me glow, unless 'glow' is a synonym for 'get fat and sweat'; MAC Strobe on the other hand, gave me a visible aura. Niiiice.

5. If you've been living under a rock, you will not know about the new lash enhancing serums. I have friends who sit for hours so that some beautician can glue individual lashes to their lashline. Get Rapid Lash. So it makes your eyes red and itchy for a week. Toughen the fuck up. 6 weeks and you're looking like Bambi.

Kisses xxx

The Celebrity and The Romy

Look. Let me be the first to say that my friend Romy is smart. Not just regular smart either: Maximum Smart (as her Thai travel buddy would say).

Let me also be the first to say that she is complete snob when it comes to pop culture. She finds it disdainful that I am entertained by magazines like Heat and Hello, she doesn't know that Reese and Jake have broken up and she wouldn't know who Miley Cyrus was if she bit her on the cheek.

Not last night but the one before, Romy and her bloke spend the night at the Melrose Arch Hotel. They're between homes and get an excellent deal, and besides, it's nice there. The following morning, said Bloke heads to the office and Romy, who's first meeting is a little later that morning, takes her time to check out. On entering the lobby, she notices a young Black man at the nucleus of an entourage. She looks. Looks again. And walks to the elevator.

The man in question (and his Peeps) follow her.

Man: "Hi. Where are you from?"
Romy: "South Africa. Where are you from?
Man: "America."
Romy: "Oh. What are you up to here?"
Man: "I'm here for the World Cup."
Romy: "Nice. Are you a soccer player?"
(Peeps burst into hysterical fits of laughter)
Man: "No. My name's Akon. I'm singing in the Concert."

Nuff said.

Elusive Bloody Balance

I am a workaholic. (we love you Joanne)

Actually, I think the root of my problem is anxiety, which I've chosen to channel into all sorts of unhealthy compulsions and obsessions, but none as productive (or commercial) as workaholism. This problem has been going on for as long as I can remember.

It's made me an adult nail biter (oh the shame), has burnt out my adrenal gland on numerous occasions, has bumped up my cortisol levels to 6x what they should be, has amplified my Maternal Guilt and has made me feel as if I might be well and truly missing out on what matters. It eats into my sleep, screws up my eating habits and nullifies any attempts to exercise, which in turn, makes me less healthy, perpetually exhausted and nowhere near reaching my Big Dream of being Elle Macpherson's successor.

It's also given me self esteem, a channel for my creative energies, a nice income, a network of incredible people, a sense of purpose, financial freedom (which I fortunately don't need now, because my marriage rocks), a deep sense of achievement, potent intellectual stimulation and a good reputation.

There must be a middle ground. So why, as a supposedly intelligent woman, who has spent most of my adult life in therapy, can I not find it? And why, when I come close, does it completely unnerve me.

Am I addicted to being busy, afraid of the space between? Is it all a function of my shite self esteem that leaves me craving outside approval? Am I greedy? Do I have ADD?

I don't know.

What I do know for sure is that I absolutely love working. I've tried (not very hard) to be a lazy wench and I felt like a useless sloth that deserved to be put down.

What I also know is that I also love the idea of playing in the space between; of having the time to breathe, to walk, to read, to sleep, to choose.

I feel under-nourished right now, but the irony is that the busier I become, the more I want to accomplish. (eg. this week, in the midst of my most INSANE project to date, I am going to bulk cook various stews for my husband and kids, in an effort to ensure that they are warm and nourished this winter).

Mad as fucking frogs. I know.





I'm Libran, ergo, I need balance. The problem with this is that I have never experienced balance in my 33 years on Planet Earth, so I don't even know what I'm aspiring to.

The Suckishness of Admin

I have a hangover. My girls Romy & Davina came by last night, and we chased a Missionvale Chardonnay with a merry bottle of Rose, talked til 1am and now I feel like rot.

I have a work week from hell, a medical procedure tomorrow that will hinder pretty much everything in my life for the next few weeks, 4 dinner arrangements this week (how's a girl to remain sober and slim??) and a virtual Tsunami of FUCKING ADMIN:

1. My cell phone bill - need to change my package; paying too much, getting too little.
2. Our Wills and Living Wills - need to read, amend, sign, witness, think about mortality.
3. A quote from a panelbeater - drove into a parking barrier. Fuckwit deluxe.
4. Doctors' bills - need to claim from medical aid.
5. Half-completed meal plans for the kids for the week.
6. Staff schedules for Thandi and Daniel that I haven't even looked at yet.
7. Currency to sort out post our London trip.
8. Shares that I was supposed to sell and forgot to.
9. Six birthday gifts to buy for the next 2 weeks. And gift wrap. And write cards for.
10. A picture to put on the wall.
11. Cupboard handles in my office that need replacing and fitting.
12. Staff food to buy. A week late. Nice.
13. Photos that need to be developed. (this goes back about 4 years now...)
14. A birth certificate to sort out, after the ever-efficient Home Affairs lost it.
15. A perimeter wall that is cracking and needs to be repaired and painted.
16. A geyser that's been rattling for 2 months.
17. Sort out kids' clothes by age...again.

It just all seems so inane and yet, month after month, as items are cleared off this annoying list, new items appear to torture me.

And filing?? Seriously, I do not know a single person on this desperate planet that is up-to-date with their filing. Why did G-d make filing if nobody can be bothered to do it?

Carrie Bradshaw never seems to be doing admin. Ever. Unless you call packing your Manolos in a shoe box Admin. Neither does Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Nor the hot-young-things on Gossip Girl.

I need a PA. And another liver. And sleep.

Fuck filing. It's for the birds.

London - Trend Spotting

Hello da-ah-lings. Just returned from a wicked week in London, which has left my credit card leaner and my thighs...well...not so much.

Despite the fact that we travelled with two male toddlers (which makes us either naive, twisted or sadistic), I still found a good 7 hours to hit Oxford Street to do some Stirling damage.

If you can brave the virtual retail Batmitzvah, Top Shop is always a great place for trend-spotting. I love accessories, so I found myself 3 bargain vintage day/night bags. Vintage bags are still huge and the New Big Colour is royal blue. I found an awesome vintage royal blue baby satchel, with a rusty gold clasp and just enough space for my phone, a nappy (glam), the 245 lip glosses I usually carry, a purse and some gum. Perfecto.

With the UK dipping her tentative toe into Spring Season, the maxi dress seems to be a big favourite. Top Shop has them a-plenty, but I found a beautiful one at Ted Baker - cream with butterflies all over it. Now all I need is an epic spray tan, killer heels and a wedding to go to.
http://www.tedbaker.com/women%27s/dresses/86636-printed_maxi_dress/detail.aspx?pfm=browse#zoom You like?


For those of you that have a permanent tan, small ankles, tiny knees, no cellulite, thin thighs, heart-shaped calves, no visible veins and lots of guts, GREAT news! Shorts are in. And this season's trend makes it clear why they're called 'shorts'. Jislaaik. Denim shorts that your father wouldn't allow you out of the house in. Fuh real. Anyhoo...seems there are a lot of 17 year olds with perfect pins, because they were buying. And buying. And buying. Hateful bitches.

If you're skinny and rock-ish, stone-washed jeans (skinny style) are back with an 80's vengeance. I can't pull them off, but fedora-hats off to those of you that can. Two hats off if you can work them with ankle boots. Hilloooo Alexa Chung.

For those of us on the dark side of 30, three hot trends work:
- nautical (navy cardis, striped tees and a bloke with a yacht)
- military (khaki, structured kick-ass jackets and the bloke from the Hurt Locker)
- pumps (grungy, vintage, bejewelled or two-tone, these pretty offshoots from ballet don't show any signs of doing a final curtsey)

Right. That's that then. A tiny taste of London's trends direct from Oxford Street - officially Europe's busiest shopping street. Ka-ching!

I'm chickening out

May 2010

My best mate Romy used to be a big meat eater. Then she went to Sydney, started drinking soy lattes and became a 'pescatarian'. No meat. No chicken. No eggs ("You're eating a chicken's ovulation"). No dairy.

No fun. Thankfully, she still likes liquor and cigarettes. Even more thankfully, she's back in SA.

So last week, my husband and I ordered take out from a popular chicken place. I was hungry, so I devoured the chicken, but as I was doing so, I started to notice the damn thing's anatomy. I noticed its spine and its spinal cord; it's organs (which are largely used to detox.....eugh); I noticed the little pimply bits where the feathers had been plucked from its skin...and in an instant, I became an ex-poultarian. (ok that's not actually a word)

Then I started reading up, and it seems that chickens are the most abused animals in the world. But the foulest (bad pun) thing is that they are pumped full of antibiotics so that they can survive their shoddy conditions. And guess what? When you eat the chicken, you're chowing down all of those poultry antibiotics. How grim is that?

Wait. I'm not done. An USDA study found that 99% of chicken carcasses are infected with e-coli bacteria, which indicates fecal contamination.

So basically, we're eating chicken shit.

Finger lickin' good.

Fat. Angry. And full of reflux.

December 2008

I have such bad acid reflux that I swear I could lick the Essie off my nails. And for some reason, the makers of Gaviscon Advance thought it would be funny to make it taste like a clotty blend of Cape Velvet and Sambucca. Basically, this means that if I don’t want to hurl out the acetone in my throat, I have to contend with bile-inducing flashbacks of drunken adolescent stupors.

Rock on.

Moreover, it is so hot that the back of my neck is in a perpetual state of clamminess and my now Alpine breasts have a river running through them…and not one that has anything to do with Brad Pitt. Speaking of which, I bet Angelina has none of these problems. I saw the silly wench in that petrol green Grecian dress, belly blooming with twins, ripe and celestial. Bet the bitch never had constipation or hemorrhoids or excessive sweating or cellulite or varicose veins. And which pregnant women didn’t want to slap that trout pout off her face when she spoke about her pregnant sex life? Seriously? With twins? Team Aniston. All the way.

I am hateful. My upper back is aching and I haven’t slept through the night in 8 months. I am listless, restless and in limbo and wondering how I will fit it all in next year. The baby room seemed so containing and familiar a month ago. Now, I walk into it as if I’m walking into a show house. It feels like somebody cut and paste it into our house; like it isn’t a real part of the home. And on some level, it feels scary. Less scary, because I know what to expect. More scary, because I know what to expect.

My mom had Transcient Global Amnesia....fur real!

November 2008

It’s 16h29 on a dismal Thursday afternoon. I am 7 months pregnant with Baby Boy # 2 and have just swallowed my guilt (and eleven handfuls of trail mix) and propped a snot-nosed Liam in front of Barney.

We missed Parents’ Evening on Tuesday night, because on Tuesday afternoon, my mom developed a little something called ‘Transient Global Amnesia’. As the name suggests, it is a complete shutdown of a person’s memory centre for about six really weird hours.

It’s also a good story.

At about 15h00 on Tuesday, I was sitting at the kitchen table doing a puzzle with Liam and psyching myself up for Clamber Club (which is lovely, but I’m increasingly less in the mood). My cell phone rings and the caller ID flashes ‘Mom’.

“Hi mom.”
“It’s not mom. It’s Brenda. We just washed your mom’s hair and she doesn’t know how she got here. She’s very confused. I think you should come and fetch her.”

Transient Ischaemic Attack. Must be that. She smokes, is 59 and has occasional high blood pressure. It’s a mini-stroke. I’ve seen this before. I can handle this.

“Is her speech normal?”, I ask.
“Ya. She’s just confused. She doesn’t know where she lives.”
“And physically okay? No tingles, numbness?”
“Perfect. She just doesn’t remember anything.”

Not a stroke.

Jesus. She’s having a nervous breakdown. Fucking perfect.

I leave Liam at home, promising that we’ll do Clamber Club next week and drive to my mom’s hairdresser. I phone my husband en route.

“I think my mom’s having a meltdown.”
“What do you mean?”

I tell him.

“Shit Josie. Is there anything I can do?”
“No. I’m fine.”

And unsurprisingly, I am.

I am even cool when I arrive at the hairdresser with my seven month belly and my mom asks me when I fell pregnant.
And when she asks me to phone Doug (her late partner, who had passed away in March this year).
And when she asks me who we are visiting at the Linksfield Clinic.

One characteristic of Type A’s is that when we’re in action-mode (which is usually what happens to us in a crisis), we’re capable, efficient and focused. We take the reigns, boss people around and just generally, get a whole lot done. It’s when we have nothing to do (which is next to never) that we freak-the-fuck-out.

Fortunately, that afternoon in casualty, answering my mom’s questions kept me busy (and somewhat humoured).

“Where’s Liam?”
“At home.”
“Who’s looking after him?”
“Thandi.”
“Who’s Thandi?”
“Sweet Lord. Our maid mom.”
“Oh. I’m very confused. How many kids have you got?”“Just Liam. And another on the way.”“Are you pregnant? I didn’t know. I should know that.”
“It’s okay mom. Your memory is taking a break now, so you won’t remember things you should. It will come back. Just try and be in the moment.”
“I’m scared.”
“I’m not. I know you’ll be fine. Trust me. I’m the one with all systems intact today and I’m telling you that you will be just fine in a few hours.”
“Okay. Joanne! You’re pregnant!”
“I am.”
“Where’s Liam?”
“At home mom.”
“Who’s looking after him?”
“Thandi. She’s our maid. She’s new. You won’t remember her.”
“Okay. This is scary… Where’s Liam?”

By now, I’m having visions of Estelle Getty and John Cleese doing the mambo in a new reality series - Monty Python meets The Golden Girls: When Madness and Alzheimers Collide.

Three hours and 814 questions later, we are sent for an MRI. My mom is very claustrophobic and has always said that “my biggest fear is going in one of those tunnels and not being able to move”.

She strikes up instant rapport with the radiographer and within minutes, they’re joking and laughing like high school buddies. (My mom is very amiable) I am now starting to get a little worked up, because she is only retaining new information for about 30 seconds at a time, which means that during the 20 minute brain scan, she may well keep having to re-register where she is. Waking up under that head grid in an MRI tunnel every 30 seconds will be enough to make her (even more) barking mad. Luckily, MRI is safe for pregnant women, so they let me sit with her and rub her feet and stroke her legs. I do this dutifully and because she can’t see me, I cry. Twice. Short blubs, and then I’m done. Incredibly, my mom lasts the full 20 minutes (a 20 minutes she still doesn’t recall) and we walk toward the radiographer triumphant.

“Hello. I know you from somewhere.” (this is my mom, talking to the now-perplexed radiographer)
“No mom. You met her 20 minutes ago. She’s the radiographer.”
“No. I’m telling you, I know you. Have you ever bought clothes from me?” (My mom has a shop)
“Mom! Seriously. You’ve been doing this to hospital staff all afternoon. She just seems familiar because you’ve met her already and you can’t remember.”
“Joanne. I think I’d know if I’d met someone 20 minutes ago. Maybe you were here when Doug was in hospital?”
“Let’s go mom.”

The hospital ‘escort’ (who we’ve been chaperoned by 3 times already) appears.

“You ready to go back to casualty madam?”
“You look so familiar. I know you from somewhere.”“Yes madam. I met you today. Three times.”

Bea Arthur is now doing the fox trot with Rowan Atkinson. And it ain’t pretty.

Perfectionism. Meh.

October 2008

I’m at my most controlling when I feel most broken. When I feel dark and demented, I’m driven and disciplined, sometimes to the point of self-destruction. I had a spoilt, self-involved (hot, bright) boyfriend when I was 20. He messed me around endlessly and broke my heart. I was pathetic and needy and ultimately found myself lying in fetal position on the bathroom floor, swearing that I would never allow this to happen again. He made me feel like my father did: unworthy, unloved, un-pretty.

And so I dieted and ran and weight-trained and dieted more, until my hip bones jutted out and my periods stopped and my mom cried all the time. (My father called me Miss Cellulite, which didn’t help me out much) I remember the high it gave me; the sad sense of pseudo-superiority as I watched everybody else indulge, whilst I drank Diet Something, smoked cigarettes, chose cardio over lectures and promised myself that I would always be The Boss of me.

I know a girl like that. She reminds me of me then, but she’s 30 now and she still hasn’t let up. Her hair is always perfectly flat-ironed and her Sevens barely grip her Pilates-thighs. Her life is seemingly in perfect balance: a career that is loving and that she’s good at; creative outlets for her many talents; grilled white fish and a salad with no dressing. There is a part of me that envies her: her discipline, her skinny arse, her apparently ideal life. But I always feel like I’m looking at her through glass. Like I can’t truly engage with her, because to engage, you have to be cognizant of the dark, the vulnerable, the demented, the desperate. And she has done such an impeccable job of repressing all that.

Therapy has helped me to integrate. Not that the dark wasn’t there before. It’s there in most of us, I think. But Type A’s are masters of repression. We mentally file things as Acceptable or Unacceptable and then we work harder than anybody else trying to squash the Unacceptable; that which we don’t believe serves our purpose. I thought that side of myself was rotten and toxic and needed to be disciplined into submission.

Which is of course, bull.

There are bits and pieces of me that are totally crap. Bits that are shameful and pieces that are peculiar, and not in a cool way. And I’ve almost learnt to love those bits. When I lose track of this and get too stuck in ‘bettering myself’, I remind myself of the people that I love most in the world: they are complex and flawed and imperfect and it makes them so much more real and magnetic to me than my flat-ironed friend.

I have an old dear friend named Daniel. It would take me a library to wordsmith all of his brilliance, but what I love about him most of all are his flaws; his quirks; the fact that while he is always exquisite in everything he does, in some ways, he doesn’t seem to have his shit together. And I love that. At 32 years old, he never leaves his flat without this scruffy backpack and a very 80’s Velcro wallet. He wears pants that seem to be 3 sizes too big for his lanky frame and despite his beautiful mind, he always looks like he has no idea what he is doing or where he is going. And I love love love that about him. It’s what makes him perfect to me.

So fuck the flat iron. That’s what I say.

Life’s too short and apparently perfect people are either totally boring, heavily medicated or on the verge of mental collapse.

Trust me. I’ve been there.

I would rather slam my head repeatedly into the computer than go to Clamber Club

September 2008

Right now, I am not enjoying being a mother. I didn’t enjoy my leftover chicken whilst watching Liam purposefully pee on the kitchen table. I used to have work lunches at Bellinis – chicken salad and sometimes a sparkly pink Kir Royale. I didn’t enjoy having Barney juice spat in my face in front of the ‘perfect-parent-strangers’ at Pick n Pay. I’ve had drinks spat in my face, but somehow, my friend, who’s coke problem invoked all kinds of dubious behaviour, seems more manageable in retrospect. I wasn’t quite partial either to trying to get my 5 month pregnant stomach (and equally pregnant arse, I might add), my tenuous bladder, my handbag, my cell phone (whilst on the phone to husband, complaining about ‘his’ child) and my full trolley into gear, so that I could chase my two year old through Woolworths.

It’s been a bad few days. Or weeks. I don’t remember.

If I were less of a martyr; less hung up about getting this parenting thing ‘right’, I would placate him with sweets and Barney episodes and more time with our maid so that I could run away and avoid it all. But I am hung up. So I say no to the sweets, I say ‘only one’ to the Big Purple Dinosaur (say it with me: God Bless Barney) and despite work deadlines and a trip to London in 2 days, I say, “This afternoon, mom will take you to Smudge so you can do art while mom does some work.”

I know this is a phase. Either that, or he’s some kind of fast-developing sociopath. His teacher, who is lovely and contained, has told me that he is spending the better part of his school days in the Naughty Corner. Apparently, Liam feels that some of the children in his class ‘need a smack’. (I don’t smack Liam – done it maybe five times – zero impact) I don’t have the guts to tell her that the Naughty Corner is just reinforcing the behaviour. Liam feels special in his Corner. It’s his Hood. And he’s quite happily started labeling himself as ‘naughty’ because of it. So comfortable is he with the concept that now, when I do something that he doesn’t like, he threatens me with it. Nothing quite like a knee-high blighter telling you that if you don’t give him your cell phone, he’ll put you in the Naughty Corner. If I wasn’t pregnant and up most of the night itching and peeing and massaging the cramps out of calves, I would laugh. But I’m fat and tired and that leaves little room for humour.

I just feel like a failure today. An angry, helpless failure.

This afternoon, we’re supposed to go to Clamber Club (a baby and toddler stimulation and gross motor development class). The problem is that Liam doesn’t want to sit in the ring these days and sing songs about Jog the Frog. He wants to roll around in the centre of the ring and ‘accidentally’ kick other children. All the while, I get 360 degree filthy looks from the other mothers. They’re probably thinking, “She’s highly strung. That’s why her child is so hectic.” Screw ‘em.

Perhaps he’s punishing me because I’m pregnant, although his behaviour toward my stomach has been nothing but gentle and loving. Maybe he’s angry because we have a new maid and he’s asserting his authority. Maybe he’s a brat. Dear God. Don’t let it be that. Angry is a feeling. Brat is an early personality disorder. Probably though, it’s just a phase. Probably.

I see my more laid back friends handle this sort of behaviour with detached finesse. My dear old friend Tammy (mother of three) thinks I am insane; that Liam is slap-bang in the middle of normal and that my expectations are bizarre. I love her for saying that, but she has a higher chaos-threshold than I do. Being me, I think everything I touch (especially my baby boy) is a reflection on my character and competence. Liam’s rotten today. I must be too.

So be it. This afternoon, this hyper-peeing, porky, rotten mother would rather slam her head repeatedly into the computer screen than go to Clamber Club.

Me, my therapist & my apparent baggage

July 2008

So I went to my therapist the other day, hoping to spend my fifty five minutes blaming my mother for my fearfulness, when He elects to comment on my mothering skills. Eleven years treating me. You would think He would know better. Firstly, I am a perfectionist, thus ragingly allergic to criticism in any form. Secondly, I am 3 months pregnant. This would be fine, had I not managed to convince myself that custard is a food group (hence my rapidly deteriorating arse aesthetic) and that anyone within a five metre radius of me deserves the barrage of obscenities of which they will be the likely beneficiaries.

Never mind. Amidst all this, my therapist decides that now would be as good a time as any to talk to me about how my ‘unconscious’ is driving some of my parenting skills. For those that didn’t have the pleasure of reading Freud, essentially, my therapist is accusing me of depositing my baggage squarely on my two year old son. I am already wracked with guilt because of my short fuse with Liam and now, apparently, he is also the recipient of the sorry remnants of my own childhood.

Fuck.

My therapist is a smart man. And He knows me. He points out the truth.

“Usually, you get defensive when I mention anything related to you as Mother.” (He says ‘Mother’ in a way that sounds as if it should have a capital letter)

Ever so swiftly, He renovates the attack into a palatable compliment.

“You’re too quick. One minute, we’re getting into parenting stuff, and the next, you’ve used your wit to send us off onto a completely different tangent.”

I love Him. He thinks I’m clever and funny.

And so, the conversation is allowed its rightful space.

When a Type A brings home a baby....

I know that I’m Type A for a few reasons:
- I’ve had both academic colours and an eating disorder.
- I cannot read a menu without finding a spelling mistake on it (do you know how many places can’t spell cappuccino? WTF?)
- I have one of those ‘Brother’ labeling machines. And it calms me.
- I entered every breastfeed into an Excel spreadsheet until Liam was six months old. Yup. True story.

For those of you fortunate enough not to be one of Us, Type A’s, at their worst, resemble Ari Gold from Entourage: brash, impatient workaholics driven by deadlines and a need to achieve. At their best, they are articulate, efficient, organised and have excellent attention to detail. Type A’s are more prone to stress-related illnesses like heart disease (two times more prone, or so they say) and stroke. They’re also vulnerable to behavioural manifestations of low self esteem. Eating disorders are a firm favourite, because the precision and control they demand counters the internal chaos the Type A typically contends with. Drug and alcohol use is also common: cocaine manages the crappy self esteem, with the added benefit of super-charged energy (Score. More energy to get more done); depressants help to quell the anxiety.

It was the night we brought Liam, our first son, home from the hospital. David and I were sitting at the end of our dining room table with two bowls of my mom’s chicken soup and a baby monitor. My baby was perfect, my C-section was healing nicely and I was a train wreck. Halfway through salting the soup with my seemingly leaking eyeballs, Liam started to cry. On cue, both my milk and a 30 year store of adrenalin flooded in. My husband was being loving and empathic and supportive and I couldn’t hear a word he was saying. Up until that very moment, I had been completely on top of my life.

And then, over a bowl of chicken soup, everything changed.

The ‘everything’ that changed, in retrospect, was not as neat and tidy as I used to think: as my therapist likes to tell me, I have a lot of ‘very adaptive defenses’. By this, he means that all of my Type A compulsions are merely methods for managing and often avoiding my anxiety. And here I was, thinking of I was just ultra-organised. Go figure.

The Big Problem with motherhood is that your ‘very adaptive defences’ don’t prove very adaptive. And nobody tells you that. Not even your friends.