I have a family member that has, for as long as I can remember, made regular periods in my life a living hell. She has what appears to be some sort of borderline personality disorder, early stage alcoholism and what an old friend described as 'malignant narcissism'. Regardless of the label, this person has vilified me, believed in me, manipulated me, loved me, loathed me, revered me and deeply resented me for what feels like forever. After 15 years of good therapy, I should be able to set boundaries, but in this toxic game, she declares me The Villain and herself The Victim, and so, in an effort to appease and to hold onto some sense of okay-ness, I succumb, I please, I let her in, I bite my usually quick tongue.
I've tried the alternative, but the price is just too high; the punishment too brutal. She is, as all narcissists are, entirely oblivious to her own misdeeds. More painfully perhaps is the fact that I have realised that I am nothing to her unless I am useful. If I am not feeding her self esteem, buying her things or making her seem 'good by association', then I am worthless. Then I feel worthless.
And the worst part is that no matter how capable I am of intellectualising it all, it still makes me feel like shit. I wrote this poem years ago and thought I'd share it for those of you that been made to feel self-sick by somebody that is supposed to love you. Disclaimer: This is no Dr Seuss.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
the smallest blackest dot in the universe
full of tainted blood and half rotting insides
they all know
and all the flowers and pretties and smiley happy faces cannot closet
that i’m half unloved
half resented
half.wished.gone
bitch
whips me across my commoner good-for-nothing face; stings my puffy, freckled cheeks
and still, nobody, least of all me, will let me free to say goodbye. to shout e.n.o.u.g.h.
and so, all that’s left is guilt-stained sick
and me. and my nothingness.
----------------------------------
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
No YOU calm the fuck down (and other reasons not to go to Zara)
Admittedly, a reasonably intelligent person probably shouldn't have attempted to go to Zara on its opening weekend in the already-horrendous Sandton City (aka sensory bombardment place of hell and general shitness), but sometimes, the brand-pull is just too strong.
16h00. Saturday. One husband. Two tired toddlers. One credit card, waiting for some friction. Liam and I walk through the kids' section and he chooses a very cool fedora (stylish boy), a hoodie and a T-shirt for his brother. I find a lime green kaftan dress, 2 tops, a bag, some gifts and a few bottles of the kid's fragrances as gift add-ons.
Good to go.
So I stand in the queue in the kids' section, biceps aching from the weight of my pending purchases, just barely managing to breathe because somehow, the fuckwits-that-be have not managed to get the aircon to work in the store on this 35 degree weekend. Nevertheless, I am excited about the store, impressed with the merchandising and glad that finally, we are joining the global fashion community.
Two large Nigerian men and one woman mask the cashier with enough clothing to kit out the whole of Lagos, and she painstakingly scans each item.
"That will be R7654,99 Sir."
Credit card #1. Declined.
Credit card #2. Declined.
Now if it were me, I would walk away sheepishly, ask said cashier to put my stuff aside and sort out my finances without inconveniencing the 12 or so sweating shoppers in the queue behind me. Luckily, this chap doesn't have the same 'over identification with The Other issues' my therapist believes I am plagued by, so he decides to have a heated debate with the cashier. After about 10 minutes, it was resolved and he left, with his wife, his friend and his insufficient funds.
After what had now been 30 minutes in the queue, I was starting to drop things, the perspiration on my forearms creating a slip-slide for my purchases. Not ideal.
Next up: a possy of very well dressed men, clad in citrus-coloured over-priced golf shirts, big Rolex watches, sailor-style shorts and Prada and Gucci sunglasses on their regal heads. They were flanked by 6 (yes...6) Gucci shopping bags FULL of Gucci merchandise. Now I don't know when last you went into Gucci, but a key ring requires a second bond, so these blokes must have dropped some serious moola.
I digress.
"That will be R9235,00."
Credit card #1. Declined.
Credit card #2. Declined.
De ja fucking vu. I'm starting to seethe and the heavily pregnant Muslim woman in front of me looks like she's going to pass out under her burqa.
"Sam. Have you got cash?"
You cannot be fucking serious.
But he's serious, and Sam starts counting a wad of R200 notes.
Sam fails to deliver the required R9235.
"Sam. Pass my iPad."
Sam. Pass MY iPad because I'm about to smash your fuckwit, self-absorbed, callous, broke-ass friend over his thick head.
And then, I shit you not, while we, who have waited, sweating, in a queue for 40 minutes now, wait just a little longer, the Duke of Gucci logs onto FNB and starts moving money around.
At this point, the pregnant lady and I lose our shit. We shout, we swear (in the kids' section - my bad...okay she didn't swear, but she liked it when I did), we dump our merchandise and storm out.
And then the best part. A Poppie with too much eyeliner and the title of 'HR Manager' asks us what was wrong.
"I understand the mayhem," I say. "I understand that you're having some teething problems and the aircon is off so people are cranky. But your till staff are untrained and 40 minutes in a queue is just not okay."
What ensued still feels like a dream to me.
This little rat-faced girl put her hand on my shoulder, PATTED me and sternly instructed me: "Listen to me, luvvie and you just calm down, okay?"
The pregnant woman actually started laughing, gobsmacked by this little shit's insolence.
Needless to say, luvvie went straight to the Brand Manager and explained to him that if this woman continues to deal with understandably irate customers as if they are 5 years old and in need of a spanking, it will result in a brand catastrophe for Zara. I told him that in my entire shopping life, I had never been so patronized and treated with such dismissive disrespect. I suggested that he fire her on the spot and that I would be happy to give Zara another try, but that if I so much as saw her pinched little face, I would be out, and I would tweet, blog and Hello Peter the living crap out of them.
For what it's worth.
And apparently it's worth nothing, because Zara's turnover numbers were around R16 million in that first week.
16h00. Saturday. One husband. Two tired toddlers. One credit card, waiting for some friction. Liam and I walk through the kids' section and he chooses a very cool fedora (stylish boy), a hoodie and a T-shirt for his brother. I find a lime green kaftan dress, 2 tops, a bag, some gifts and a few bottles of the kid's fragrances as gift add-ons.
Good to go.
So I stand in the queue in the kids' section, biceps aching from the weight of my pending purchases, just barely managing to breathe because somehow, the fuckwits-that-be have not managed to get the aircon to work in the store on this 35 degree weekend. Nevertheless, I am excited about the store, impressed with the merchandising and glad that finally, we are joining the global fashion community.
Two large Nigerian men and one woman mask the cashier with enough clothing to kit out the whole of Lagos, and she painstakingly scans each item.
"That will be R7654,99 Sir."
Credit card #1. Declined.
Credit card #2. Declined.
Now if it were me, I would walk away sheepishly, ask said cashier to put my stuff aside and sort out my finances without inconveniencing the 12 or so sweating shoppers in the queue behind me. Luckily, this chap doesn't have the same 'over identification with The Other issues' my therapist believes I am plagued by, so he decides to have a heated debate with the cashier. After about 10 minutes, it was resolved and he left, with his wife, his friend and his insufficient funds.
After what had now been 30 minutes in the queue, I was starting to drop things, the perspiration on my forearms creating a slip-slide for my purchases. Not ideal.
Next up: a possy of very well dressed men, clad in citrus-coloured over-priced golf shirts, big Rolex watches, sailor-style shorts and Prada and Gucci sunglasses on their regal heads. They were flanked by 6 (yes...6) Gucci shopping bags FULL of Gucci merchandise. Now I don't know when last you went into Gucci, but a key ring requires a second bond, so these blokes must have dropped some serious moola.
I digress.
"That will be R9235,00."
Credit card #1. Declined.
Credit card #2. Declined.
De ja fucking vu. I'm starting to seethe and the heavily pregnant Muslim woman in front of me looks like she's going to pass out under her burqa.
"Sam. Have you got cash?"
You cannot be fucking serious.
But he's serious, and Sam starts counting a wad of R200 notes.
Sam fails to deliver the required R9235.
"Sam. Pass my iPad."
Sam. Pass MY iPad because I'm about to smash your fuckwit, self-absorbed, callous, broke-ass friend over his thick head.
And then, I shit you not, while we, who have waited, sweating, in a queue for 40 minutes now, wait just a little longer, the Duke of Gucci logs onto FNB and starts moving money around.
At this point, the pregnant lady and I lose our shit. We shout, we swear (in the kids' section - my bad...okay she didn't swear, but she liked it when I did), we dump our merchandise and storm out.
And then the best part. A Poppie with too much eyeliner and the title of 'HR Manager' asks us what was wrong.
"I understand the mayhem," I say. "I understand that you're having some teething problems and the aircon is off so people are cranky. But your till staff are untrained and 40 minutes in a queue is just not okay."
What ensued still feels like a dream to me.
This little rat-faced girl put her hand on my shoulder, PATTED me and sternly instructed me: "Listen to me, luvvie and you just calm down, okay?"
The pregnant woman actually started laughing, gobsmacked by this little shit's insolence.
Needless to say, luvvie went straight to the Brand Manager and explained to him that if this woman continues to deal with understandably irate customers as if they are 5 years old and in need of a spanking, it will result in a brand catastrophe for Zara. I told him that in my entire shopping life, I had never been so patronized and treated with such dismissive disrespect. I suggested that he fire her on the spot and that I would be happy to give Zara another try, but that if I so much as saw her pinched little face, I would be out, and I would tweet, blog and Hello Peter the living crap out of them.
For what it's worth.
And apparently it's worth nothing, because Zara's turnover numbers were around R16 million in that first week.
Monday, October 31, 2011
The Pumpkin & The Ghoul
Liam is five and a half. Today, as on every Monday, Liam and his long-time sidekick and friend, Cameron had a post-school playdate. Let me just give you some context. On Thursday, The Walnut Office, our business, is running an event for 1000 people. The event is the culmination of 3 campaigns we have run and we have been working on it all since about March this year. To call this week stressful would be like calling Kim Kardashian's marriage to Kris Humphries short-lived.
I was sitting in our boardroom sipping my 4th cup of Nespresso and viewing the function's multimedia DVD with the designer when I heard hysterical sobbing. I bolted upstairs and found Liam clutching his head.
"I crashed it!! I crashed my head!!"
Liam and Cameron, in their wisdom, had woken up Ben (my 2.5 year old who really needs to sleep at lunch time), sent him down the passage where they believed he would be less of a hindrance, and converted his room into a fucking snow storm. This is actually very easy to do. You simply take everything off the compactum, empty a full bottle of calming lavender talcum powder onto said compactum, use the laundry basket to hoist yourself onto the powdered surface and then launch forward into the air, hoping to land on a soft surface. Sometimes, as in Liam's case, it doesn't end well.
So now I have a designer downstairs waiting for me, a room that looks like Lyndsay Lohan had a binge in it, an exhausted toddler rubbing his eyes and crying and a preschooler with a minor head injury.
After the kind of screaming session that would make a banshee run for its life, one would think that Liam and Cameron would take out a sticker book and do something constructive and unobtrusive. As if.
Fifteen minutes later, the two of them are ripping the safety foam off the trampoline Jump King for no apparent reason.
"That's it! You are not touching this trampoline for the rest of the week Liam, and if you go near it, I am giving it to a school where children will appreciate and respect it!!!"
Liam is now sobbing. Cameron, who has known me since he could barely walk, thinks that this is a good time to share his opinion about my parenting style.
"You're not a nice mom Jo, cos you just keep shouting at us."
You have to admire his chutzpah.
At this point, I'm convinced that they wouldn't dare step a foot out of line, but as I turn my back, I notice that the little punks are shaking my lovely lemon trees, so that the almost-ripe lemons fall to the floor. I would like to shake them like lemon trees, but I restrain myself.
An hour later, after a stern talking to and some tough punishment, Liam passes out on his bed, exhausted from his own misdeeds.
This evening, I took my boys to Parkview to trick or treat. Liam was a ghoul (nuff ssaid) and Ben was a pumpkin. (I was an angry-bitch mother - subtle) We had a picnic and made our own jack-o-lantern and went down the slide and asked the neighbours for 'trick or treat, smelly feet' and it was lovely.
At home, Liam told me that I was both his 'high' and his 'low' for the day. I told him he behaved like a real ghoul. We laughed and sang a song about a washer woman.
Boys. :)
I was sitting in our boardroom sipping my 4th cup of Nespresso and viewing the function's multimedia DVD with the designer when I heard hysterical sobbing. I bolted upstairs and found Liam clutching his head.
"I crashed it!! I crashed my head!!"
Liam and Cameron, in their wisdom, had woken up Ben (my 2.5 year old who really needs to sleep at lunch time), sent him down the passage where they believed he would be less of a hindrance, and converted his room into a fucking snow storm. This is actually very easy to do. You simply take everything off the compactum, empty a full bottle of calming lavender talcum powder onto said compactum, use the laundry basket to hoist yourself onto the powdered surface and then launch forward into the air, hoping to land on a soft surface. Sometimes, as in Liam's case, it doesn't end well.
So now I have a designer downstairs waiting for me, a room that looks like Lyndsay Lohan had a binge in it, an exhausted toddler rubbing his eyes and crying and a preschooler with a minor head injury.
After the kind of screaming session that would make a banshee run for its life, one would think that Liam and Cameron would take out a sticker book and do something constructive and unobtrusive. As if.
Fifteen minutes later, the two of them are ripping the safety foam off the trampoline Jump King for no apparent reason.
"That's it! You are not touching this trampoline for the rest of the week Liam, and if you go near it, I am giving it to a school where children will appreciate and respect it!!!"
Liam is now sobbing. Cameron, who has known me since he could barely walk, thinks that this is a good time to share his opinion about my parenting style.
"You're not a nice mom Jo, cos you just keep shouting at us."
You have to admire his chutzpah.
At this point, I'm convinced that they wouldn't dare step a foot out of line, but as I turn my back, I notice that the little punks are shaking my lovely lemon trees, so that the almost-ripe lemons fall to the floor. I would like to shake them like lemon trees, but I restrain myself.
An hour later, after a stern talking to and some tough punishment, Liam passes out on his bed, exhausted from his own misdeeds.
This evening, I took my boys to Parkview to trick or treat. Liam was a ghoul (nuff ssaid) and Ben was a pumpkin. (I was an angry-bitch mother - subtle) We had a picnic and made our own jack-o-lantern and went down the slide and asked the neighbours for 'trick or treat, smelly feet' and it was lovely.
At home, Liam told me that I was both his 'high' and his 'low' for the day. I told him he behaved like a real ghoul. We laughed and sang a song about a washer woman.
Boys. :)
Monday, August 22, 2011
A is for Apathy
Apathy is not a particularly familiar feeling for Type A's. I'm not sure where mine came from, but it has this heaviness to it that makes me feel that it will stay a while. I stopped therapy a little while ago after 15 years, so perhaps that's got something to do with it. I've also just had some pretty mean surgery, so my system is sluggish and inward-focused. Or maybe its origin is less profound. Maybe I'm tired and sick of this self-inflicted treadmill I run on every day, convincing myself that I am full, when in fact I am full of shit, too chicken to do anything differently.
I got my first job when I was 11. I entertained children's parties and charged R70 per party. I entertained 4 parties a month. R280 was good money in 1987. In high school, I waitressed (worst fucking job on the planet), gave pedicures (still, waitressing is worse) and taught Maths and English. I was good at teaching, and aside from the occasional Little Shit, I loved it. It paid really well and mostly, during my teens and early twenties, I earned more than my largely unemployed father. I worked through varsity, held down two jobs during business school and never even considered a Gap Year. I have taken 5 months off work in my whole life: 1 to set up a business and learn French; 2 months for each baby. That's it.
When you have a job, you can ask for a month of leave. When you're a consultant, you can ramp up or down at your will. But when you run a business and you have salaries to pay and staff to keep motivated and busy and clients that know the buck stops with you, the best you can get is a week to recover from surgery and still, I had one client call me just before I was wheeled into surgery asking if we could just 'run through a few things.' Um. How about you run through the fucking traffic? (what I should have said, but unfortunately the pre-med numbed my nerves)
I just crave a little stillness; the kind of stillness that Type A working mothers never let themselves have. We clutter and cram our lives until we can barely breathe, and somehow, that manic feeling becomes more and more addictive and we become more and more disconnected from our spirits, our purpose, the people that matter and our happiness.
And then, like all good self-flagellating freaks, we hate ourselves for it.
Right now, I am loathing myself for not spending enough time with my second son, for not having dinner parties, not exercising enough, not reading enough, not writing enough, not taking supplements regularly, being judgmental of my mom, not visiting my husband's gran when I should and not doing enough charity work (3 things this month alone, but still feel like it's never enough). I also think my garden looks like shit and it's my fault and that I really, seriously should have learned another language by now. I hate that I am not focused at work. That I haven't put a photo in an album since 2009. That my car is always always a mess. And that I have no other interests but my kids and my work, which means I am two-dimensional and expected.
And I hate my hatefulness because it makes me seem ungrateful and I have so much to be grateful for.
Tomorrow morning, I am going to wake up and just be grateful. And present.
And I'll take it from there.
I got my first job when I was 11. I entertained children's parties and charged R70 per party. I entertained 4 parties a month. R280 was good money in 1987. In high school, I waitressed (worst fucking job on the planet), gave pedicures (still, waitressing is worse) and taught Maths and English. I was good at teaching, and aside from the occasional Little Shit, I loved it. It paid really well and mostly, during my teens and early twenties, I earned more than my largely unemployed father. I worked through varsity, held down two jobs during business school and never even considered a Gap Year. I have taken 5 months off work in my whole life: 1 to set up a business and learn French; 2 months for each baby. That's it.
When you have a job, you can ask for a month of leave. When you're a consultant, you can ramp up or down at your will. But when you run a business and you have salaries to pay and staff to keep motivated and busy and clients that know the buck stops with you, the best you can get is a week to recover from surgery and still, I had one client call me just before I was wheeled into surgery asking if we could just 'run through a few things.' Um. How about you run through the fucking traffic? (what I should have said, but unfortunately the pre-med numbed my nerves)
I just crave a little stillness; the kind of stillness that Type A working mothers never let themselves have. We clutter and cram our lives until we can barely breathe, and somehow, that manic feeling becomes more and more addictive and we become more and more disconnected from our spirits, our purpose, the people that matter and our happiness.
And then, like all good self-flagellating freaks, we hate ourselves for it.
Right now, I am loathing myself for not spending enough time with my second son, for not having dinner parties, not exercising enough, not reading enough, not writing enough, not taking supplements regularly, being judgmental of my mom, not visiting my husband's gran when I should and not doing enough charity work (3 things this month alone, but still feel like it's never enough). I also think my garden looks like shit and it's my fault and that I really, seriously should have learned another language by now. I hate that I am not focused at work. That I haven't put a photo in an album since 2009. That my car is always always a mess. And that I have no other interests but my kids and my work, which means I am two-dimensional and expected.
And I hate my hatefulness because it makes me seem ungrateful and I have so much to be grateful for.
Tomorrow morning, I am going to wake up and just be grateful. And present.
And I'll take it from there.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
So I bumped the Prince of Monaco...
Yup. You heard me. This weekend, we took the kids to Umhlanga and stayed at the Oyster Box, where Al and his Poppie were enjoying a few days of KZN hospitality. My husband tricked me into thinking we were staying at some small hotel in an office park, so you can imagine how excited I was when we pulled up to the OB. What a place. Colonial Africa meets Miami--retro-chic: over-the-top, fantastical and decadent. (in retrospect, we should have packed tasers for the children, who didn't behave in a particularly fantastical way).
So I walk into the lobby with 2 ratty children hanging onto me, and while David checks in, I meander down a passage, planning to show the kids the red and white striped storybook lighthouse just outside the hotel. Because I am a celeb whore, I knew full well that HRH and Runaway Bride were staying there, but I never could have imagined my good timing.
Within 4 minutes of arriving at the OB, I bumped Al. He walked past me, smiled and nodded and then joined a crew of low-key 'handlers'. He was dressed in a good suit, walked briskly and purposefully and if you were born under a rock, you would have mistaken him for somebody's balding uncle.
The hotel staff had obviously signed confidentiality agreements. I tried to get some juice out of the spa therapist during a very pleasant back massage, but she wasn't having any of it.
"Yes, Her Majesty did come to the spa. His Majesty didn't. She came with her family."
"And.....??? Did she tip well? Does she look miserable? Does she have cellulite?"
Nothing.
The good news is that I played it really cool. My friend Davina and I once bumped into Samuel L Jackson at a golf course and we giggled like a pair of 9 year old girls in front of him. It was really embarrassing. This time, I gave Al a nonchalant half smile and went about tending to my children. Cool.
And then I sprinted to my husband, almost forgetting about my offspring, signalling furiously behind Al's back and giggling like a 9 year old girl.
So I walk into the lobby with 2 ratty children hanging onto me, and while David checks in, I meander down a passage, planning to show the kids the red and white striped storybook lighthouse just outside the hotel. Because I am a celeb whore, I knew full well that HRH and Runaway Bride were staying there, but I never could have imagined my good timing.
Within 4 minutes of arriving at the OB, I bumped Al. He walked past me, smiled and nodded and then joined a crew of low-key 'handlers'. He was dressed in a good suit, walked briskly and purposefully and if you were born under a rock, you would have mistaken him for somebody's balding uncle.
The hotel staff had obviously signed confidentiality agreements. I tried to get some juice out of the spa therapist during a very pleasant back massage, but she wasn't having any of it.
"Yes, Her Majesty did come to the spa. His Majesty didn't. She came with her family."
"And.....??? Did she tip well? Does she look miserable? Does she have cellulite?"
Nothing.
The good news is that I played it really cool. My friend Davina and I once bumped into Samuel L Jackson at a golf course and we giggled like a pair of 9 year old girls in front of him. It was really embarrassing. This time, I gave Al a nonchalant half smile and went about tending to my children. Cool.
And then I sprinted to my husband, almost forgetting about my offspring, signalling furiously behind Al's back and giggling like a 9 year old girl.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Kung Fu Panda on the loose
This past Saturday, my brother took Liam (almost 5) and his friend Kassa to see Kung Fu Panda 2. It was a big hit. My brother gave the boys a Kung Fu lesson on the trampoline after the movie (looked more like Tai Chi to me, but I was grateful for the outsourced entertainment) and Liam spent the rest of the weekend practising his moves and deciding which character in the movie his brother Ben could be.
All was well and good. Or so I thought.
On Monday at 13h00, when I fetched Liam and his friend Cameron from their nursery school in Parkhurst, I was met with The Look from one of his teachers.
"Liam hit three girls today."
Fuck.
I am generally quite calm about good ol' naughtiness, but I nearly had a coronary. I threw him into the car and in much the same style as my mother, I seethed:
"You are going to get the hiding of your life when we get home."
Very retro, yes?
I know. You can't teach children not to smack by smacking. But that's the theory. My mom whacked the living daylights out of me regularly with a wooden spoon, and aside from the very occasional FGH for my children (see earlier post), I haven't hit a person in at least 22 years.
When we arrived home, I settled Cameron in the kitchen with a bowl of Woolies pasta and marched a very apologetic Liam to my bedroom.
"Explain to me what happened Liam."
"Um...Cameron was talking to.."
"I AM NOT INTERESTED IN WHAT CAMERON DID! WHAT DID YOU DO?"
"I smacked Leila and Lexi and Tova. I was just doing Kung Fu Panda on them." (holding back tears)
"How would it be if Daddy did Kung Fu Panda on me?" (holding back laughter)
"Not good." (tears streaming)
"Right - pants down..." (and so ensued the very politically incorrect smack)
But that's not all. I then made the poor blighter phone every mother and apologise to both mother and daughter. And he did it, through hysterical sobs.
" Hello Chantal...(sob sob)...It's me. Liam Smollan. I smacked Lexi and I'm so sorry...(sob sob)..."
Did I over-react? Probably.
Do I have regrets? Nope.
I think sometimes some drama is appropriate. To make an impact on kids these days is next to impossible. I feel like I have to ask Liam the same thing an average of 3 times before he even pays attention to me.
Leila, Lexi and Tova were fine. Apparently Kung Fu Panda does not throw a particularly powerful punch. Their moms were also great - totally understanding and respectful of how I needed to handle it.
It's tough being tough and consistent and righteous. I'm so aware both of my efforts not to repeat parenting faux pas I was on the receiving end of, but also to not over-correct and under-discipline.
Anyway - none of us has a freaking clue right? And so we keep trying to get it right, hoping and praying that our children will grow to be respectful, passionate about something, empathic, that they will stay off crystal meth and that somewhere, amidst all of that growing up, we hope and pray that they'll find the space to love us as much as we love them.
I think it might be a big ask.
All was well and good. Or so I thought.
On Monday at 13h00, when I fetched Liam and his friend Cameron from their nursery school in Parkhurst, I was met with The Look from one of his teachers.
"Liam hit three girls today."
Fuck.
I am generally quite calm about good ol' naughtiness, but I nearly had a coronary. I threw him into the car and in much the same style as my mother, I seethed:
"You are going to get the hiding of your life when we get home."
Very retro, yes?
I know. You can't teach children not to smack by smacking. But that's the theory. My mom whacked the living daylights out of me regularly with a wooden spoon, and aside from the very occasional FGH for my children (see earlier post), I haven't hit a person in at least 22 years.
When we arrived home, I settled Cameron in the kitchen with a bowl of Woolies pasta and marched a very apologetic Liam to my bedroom.
"Explain to me what happened Liam."
"Um...Cameron was talking to.."
"I AM NOT INTERESTED IN WHAT CAMERON DID! WHAT DID YOU DO?"
"I smacked Leila and Lexi and Tova. I was just doing Kung Fu Panda on them." (holding back tears)
"How would it be if Daddy did Kung Fu Panda on me?" (holding back laughter)
"Not good." (tears streaming)
"Right - pants down..." (and so ensued the very politically incorrect smack)
But that's not all. I then made the poor blighter phone every mother and apologise to both mother and daughter. And he did it, through hysterical sobs.
" Hello Chantal...(sob sob)...It's me. Liam Smollan. I smacked Lexi and I'm so sorry...(sob sob)..."
Did I over-react? Probably.
Do I have regrets? Nope.
I think sometimes some drama is appropriate. To make an impact on kids these days is next to impossible. I feel like I have to ask Liam the same thing an average of 3 times before he even pays attention to me.
Leila, Lexi and Tova were fine. Apparently Kung Fu Panda does not throw a particularly powerful punch. Their moms were also great - totally understanding and respectful of how I needed to handle it.
It's tough being tough and consistent and righteous. I'm so aware both of my efforts not to repeat parenting faux pas I was on the receiving end of, but also to not over-correct and under-discipline.
Anyway - none of us has a freaking clue right? And so we keep trying to get it right, hoping and praying that our children will grow to be respectful, passionate about something, empathic, that they will stay off crystal meth and that somewhere, amidst all of that growing up, we hope and pray that they'll find the space to love us as much as we love them.
I think it might be a big ask.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Mimes, marble and mad shopping: My Florence
"He's an adonis," she said.
"He's a statue," I retorted.
"You should see his body."
"It's made of marble you nut."
"(Sigh) I know..."
Alas. Davina was right. When Michelangelo (at the tender age of 29) carved 'The David' out of a single piece of marble in the early 1500's, he sculpted us all a perfectly legitimate, timeless fantasy guy.
Here are his vital statistics:
- around 5 metres tall (seriously - he is freaking enormous)
- 6% body fat (my eyeball estimate)
- 1.2 million visitors a year
He is colossal, majestic and stark nekkid. He also happened to ice a giant with a sling. Hellava guy that David.
The David now resides in a museum in Florence. Florence (or Firenze, as the Italians call it) is the capital of the Tuscany region in Italy and is considered, amongst other things, the birthplace of the Renaissance. It's also the birthplace of Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Botticelli, Dante, Machiavelli and Galileo. More importantly perhaps, Guccio Gucci, Roberto Cavalli, Emilio Pucci and Salvatore Ferragamo were also Florentine originals.
My husband and I spent a few days there last week , driving through Tuscany, eating cheese and drinking Chianti, exploring cobbled streets and gorging on some of the best gelati we've ever eaten. We stayed at Hotel Lungarno, which I can highly recommend. They have about 3 hotels and 1 apartment building in the city and they're all fantastic.
www.lungarnohotels.com
Not big fans of organised tours, we found a wonderful Italian woman who had studied art history to take us around what is truly a medieval marvel:
The piazzas are still peppered with the arts and trades of times gone by. There are vintage carousels, mimes with white faces and young artists painting fresco-style masterpices on the cobbled streets. If that's not your cup of tea, the shopping is awesome. The usual suspects are there: Zara, H&M, Disney Store for kids. I fell madly lustfully in love with Zadig and Voltaire. My credit card did not. Nuff said.
www.zadig-et-voltaire.com
We will definitely go back to Italy. The language is easy. The people are warm. The gelati is ridiculous. It's also seemingly really bambini-friendly, and despite the welcome break from the mountain of duties of a working mom, I missed my kids terribly. (except in Zadig and Voltaire, where I was in some sort of trance)
Ciao.
X
"He's a statue," I retorted.
"You should see his body."
"It's made of marble you nut."
"(Sigh) I know..."
Alas. Davina was right. When Michelangelo (at the tender age of 29) carved 'The David' out of a single piece of marble in the early 1500's, he sculpted us all a perfectly legitimate, timeless fantasy guy.
Here are his vital statistics:
- around 5 metres tall (seriously - he is freaking enormous)
- 6% body fat (my eyeball estimate)
- 1.2 million visitors a year
He is colossal, majestic and stark nekkid. He also happened to ice a giant with a sling. Hellava guy that David.
The David now resides in a museum in Florence. Florence (or Firenze, as the Italians call it) is the capital of the Tuscany region in Italy and is considered, amongst other things, the birthplace of the Renaissance. It's also the birthplace of Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Botticelli, Dante, Machiavelli and Galileo. More importantly perhaps, Guccio Gucci, Roberto Cavalli, Emilio Pucci and Salvatore Ferragamo were also Florentine originals.
My husband and I spent a few days there last week , driving through Tuscany, eating cheese and drinking Chianti, exploring cobbled streets and gorging on some of the best gelati we've ever eaten. We stayed at Hotel Lungarno, which I can highly recommend. They have about 3 hotels and 1 apartment building in the city and they're all fantastic.
www.lungarnohotels.com
Not big fans of organised tours, we found a wonderful Italian woman who had studied art history to take us around what is truly a medieval marvel:
The piazzas are still peppered with the arts and trades of times gone by. There are vintage carousels, mimes with white faces and young artists painting fresco-style masterpices on the cobbled streets. If that's not your cup of tea, the shopping is awesome. The usual suspects are there: Zara, H&M, Disney Store for kids. I fell madly lustfully in love with Zadig and Voltaire. My credit card did not. Nuff said.
www.zadig-et-voltaire.com
We will definitely go back to Italy. The language is easy. The people are warm. The gelati is ridiculous. It's also seemingly really bambini-friendly, and despite the welcome break from the mountain of duties of a working mom, I missed my kids terribly. (except in Zadig and Voltaire, where I was in some sort of trance)
Ciao.
X
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Best Beauty Buys for Winter
I love Autumn. The musty smell of tired leaves, the cardigans and over-sized scarves, the airborne intimacy of it all, the promise of thermals and hot water bottles only weeks away.
I am less enamoured with Winter though. In Joburg, where our Winters are brutally dry, it's not without reason. I hate the tight, flaking, itching skin, the nosebleeds from parched nasal passages, the exaggerated crow's feet around my dehydrated eyes, the brittle hair, the eczema and the inevitable Winter Blues.
This year, I am prepared. I am giving the cold The Finger with my Winter Survival Kit and whisking us all through Winter, happy and hydrated:
1. Omega 3. Not 6 and 9. You get loads of that in your diet. The 3's are mainly from oily fish (salmon, pilchards, mackerel), although vegetarians can get them from Flaxseed Oil. Not only are Omega 3's great for oiling up your cells from the inside out, they also do wonders for your brain and your mood. The Revite brand (from Dischem) won't repeat on you. Not cool to burp mackerel at 10am.
2. Ever suffered from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder)? Not getting enough sunshine physiologically makes some people depressed. I am no sun-bunny, but I get Winter Blues every year. Because we're all paranoid about sun damage and skin cancer, we now don't get enough sun and hence, our vitamin D levels are often inadequate. Solal Technologies has an easy-to-swallow Vitamin D3 supplement, which not only protects you against some cancers, but also improves your immunity and MAKES YOU HAPPY. Try it. You will literally feel your mood elevate after a few weeks. Even my husband was impressed by how much better it made him feel.
3. Bless my mate Lauren. Not only is she one of the Fabulous Women of the World, but she also introduced me to Bioderma Photoderm 50+ - a French product you can pick up at Dischem that is great for sensitive skin and totally blocks out the sun's evil rays. I wear it every single day as my moisturiser and because I use the 'Natural Tint' version, I will often use this alone if I don't feel like make up. It gives you light coverage and a dewy look and will stop you looking like that raisin-faced granny in 'There's Something About Mary.' And yes. You need sunblock in Winter. Every day dammit.
4. Kerastase's new Elixir Ultime - an amazing blend of oils for your hair. You can use it as a treatment before washing or just put a few drops in your hair after washing or drying to protect, nourish and tame frizz. And it smells addictive. Not cheap, but you literally use a few drops per application. Worth. It. http://www.kerastase.co.uk/products/elixir-ultime/elixir-ultime.aspx
5. If you want a great body scrub that will rid of Winter flakes, boost sluggish circulation and leave you smelling like a piece of pink Turkish Delight, look no further than Moroccan Rose Otto Sugar Body Polish by REN. If you care, REN makes natural products with no crap in them. You can get this product at big Woolworths. There is a delicious body oil in the same range.
6. Finally, this Winter, I will commit to using Sterimar daily. This sea water nasal spray hydrates your nasal passages, cleans your nose and helps decongest. It's full of the minerals from the sea and is totally natural. You also rid your nose of allergens when you use Sterimar, so bye bye allergic rhinitis - a much healthier alternative to swallowing anti-histamines and using cortisone sprays.
Take that Winter. XXX
I am less enamoured with Winter though. In Joburg, where our Winters are brutally dry, it's not without reason. I hate the tight, flaking, itching skin, the nosebleeds from parched nasal passages, the exaggerated crow's feet around my dehydrated eyes, the brittle hair, the eczema and the inevitable Winter Blues.
This year, I am prepared. I am giving the cold The Finger with my Winter Survival Kit and whisking us all through Winter, happy and hydrated:
1. Omega 3. Not 6 and 9. You get loads of that in your diet. The 3's are mainly from oily fish (salmon, pilchards, mackerel), although vegetarians can get them from Flaxseed Oil. Not only are Omega 3's great for oiling up your cells from the inside out, they also do wonders for your brain and your mood. The Revite brand (from Dischem) won't repeat on you. Not cool to burp mackerel at 10am.
2. Ever suffered from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder)? Not getting enough sunshine physiologically makes some people depressed. I am no sun-bunny, but I get Winter Blues every year. Because we're all paranoid about sun damage and skin cancer, we now don't get enough sun and hence, our vitamin D levels are often inadequate. Solal Technologies has an easy-to-swallow Vitamin D3 supplement, which not only protects you against some cancers, but also improves your immunity and MAKES YOU HAPPY. Try it. You will literally feel your mood elevate after a few weeks. Even my husband was impressed by how much better it made him feel.
3. Bless my mate Lauren. Not only is she one of the Fabulous Women of the World, but she also introduced me to Bioderma Photoderm 50+ - a French product you can pick up at Dischem that is great for sensitive skin and totally blocks out the sun's evil rays. I wear it every single day as my moisturiser and because I use the 'Natural Tint' version, I will often use this alone if I don't feel like make up. It gives you light coverage and a dewy look and will stop you looking like that raisin-faced granny in 'There's Something About Mary.' And yes. You need sunblock in Winter. Every day dammit.
4. Kerastase's new Elixir Ultime - an amazing blend of oils for your hair. You can use it as a treatment before washing or just put a few drops in your hair after washing or drying to protect, nourish and tame frizz. And it smells addictive. Not cheap, but you literally use a few drops per application. Worth. It. http://www.kerastase.co.uk/products/elixir-ultime/elixir-ultime.aspx
5. If you want a great body scrub that will rid of Winter flakes, boost sluggish circulation and leave you smelling like a piece of pink Turkish Delight, look no further than Moroccan Rose Otto Sugar Body Polish by REN. If you care, REN makes natural products with no crap in them. You can get this product at big Woolworths. There is a delicious body oil in the same range.
6. Finally, this Winter, I will commit to using Sterimar daily. This sea water nasal spray hydrates your nasal passages, cleans your nose and helps decongest. It's full of the minerals from the sea and is totally natural. You also rid your nose of allergens when you use Sterimar, so bye bye allergic rhinitis - a much healthier alternative to swallowing anti-histamines and using cortisone sprays.
Take that Winter. XXX
Sunday, March 27, 2011
The Remnants of Post Natal Depression
22 January 2009. Benjamin Riley Smollan born by Jewish natural delivery (C-section without make up) at the Park Lane Clinic. Because he had aspirated amniotic fluid, he was put into ICU for the first 3 nights, with an orogastric tube through which I fed him colostrum (squeezed out and lovingly syringed), a drip in his foot and a C-pap (which is oxygen with pressure ie. one step away from a ventilator). It was a bumpy start, but it was pot-picnic with Mary Poppins compared to what was to come.
Suffice it to say that 2009 was a very difficult year. Ben had severe reflux, compounded by delayed gastric emptying. The reflux was so severe that he vomited several times after every single feed (not fun when you're breastfeeding), 'failed to thrive' and developed ulcerations and erosion of his esophagus from the acid. It was bad. He was on every medication (Western and alternative) available. I changed everything. Tried everything. Went to every doctor, quack, guru I could find. I spent hours in hospitals holding him down while they did bizarre tests (barium swallows, gastroscopies, colonscopies, radioactive isotopic milkograms), drew blood numerous times from his litle neck, ran allergy tests and collected samples of every bodily fluid. He woke up several times a night until he was 2 (he is still a bad sleeper) and had chronic ear infections (another reflux-baby complication). The worst part was that he cried ALL the time. He was in pain on his back so no baby gyms. He hated his car seat and often choked on his vomit when he was in it(I pulled over off the highway at least once a week)and he refused to be in the pram.
It was hell. He was always hungry and exhausted and in pain. And so was I.
When the lactation nurse told me I had post natal depression, I thought she was on crack. I was coping perfectly. Between doctors' appointments, chronic sleep deprivation, a 2 year old toddler and a growing business, I hadn't noticed that I was a hollow shell, riddled with anxiety and helplessness.
Long story short, I went on Zoloft after much resistance and continued to see my therapist once a week. I thought I would share my experience, because psychiatric drugs are commonplace now, for PND and otherwise:
After a few weeks of being on the drug, I felt calmer, more stable and more able to cope. I was hungrier, less manic and my obsessive thought patterns seemed to have lost steam, which was an enormous relief. That said, there were side effects and they were unpleasant (and I have major issues with messing with my brain chemistry), so my plan was always to get off after 6 months. And so I did. Instead of slowly weaning off though, I weaned extremely quickly. Needless to say, this is not a domain in which you should try to over-achieve.
Picture it: my herb garden; 17h30 on a freezing Friday afternoon, clad in shorts and armed with a massive garden fork.
Romy (best mate and therapist): You've been churning that fucking herb garden and singing for over an hour.
Jo: I know!! I have so much energy! I am so happy to be off those shitty little pills!
Romy: Aren't you cold?
Jo: Not at all! I'm brilliant! (my fingers were purple)
Romy: I can't watch you anymore. You're exhausting me.
Jo: Nonsense! I am vibrant, alive, energised and ...
Romy: Manic?
Jo: (pause) Oh Jesus. I'm manic.
Romy: You need to go back on the meds.
Jo: I can't. (crying)
Romy: You have to. People go manic and then crash if they don't wean off. I'm serious. You are dangerously manic right now. Listen to me. I know you.
And she did. I went back on Zoloft and tried to wean off several times after that, but the crash was too hard.
About a month ago, I came off Zoloft and the impact has been good and bad. I am chewing my nails compulsively and it's beyond gross. I'm 34. Grow up. I cry almost every day, but it feels so good. My dreams are vivid and demanding and familiar. Life feels harder because my obsessive thoughts are back like bitches and they are debilitating.
But I feel alive. And I would choose that over anything else. I needed the help at the time and there is absolutely a time and place for Crazy-Happy Pills. But GP's are prescribing them like Nurofen and I'm not sure that sits well with me.
My biggest thing was that I wasn't me. I was a version of me, even when I weaned down to half a tab a day. I AM anxious. I AM emotional. I AM highly strung. It's no picnic, but it's me. And so I pick aliveness and familiarity. For the time being.
As for Benjamin Riley, he is perfect. But he has totally fucked up his chances for a younger sibling. :)
Suffice it to say that 2009 was a very difficult year. Ben had severe reflux, compounded by delayed gastric emptying. The reflux was so severe that he vomited several times after every single feed (not fun when you're breastfeeding), 'failed to thrive' and developed ulcerations and erosion of his esophagus from the acid. It was bad. He was on every medication (Western and alternative) available. I changed everything. Tried everything. Went to every doctor, quack, guru I could find. I spent hours in hospitals holding him down while they did bizarre tests (barium swallows, gastroscopies, colonscopies, radioactive isotopic milkograms), drew blood numerous times from his litle neck, ran allergy tests and collected samples of every bodily fluid. He woke up several times a night until he was 2 (he is still a bad sleeper) and had chronic ear infections (another reflux-baby complication). The worst part was that he cried ALL the time. He was in pain on his back so no baby gyms. He hated his car seat and often choked on his vomit when he was in it(I pulled over off the highway at least once a week)and he refused to be in the pram.
It was hell. He was always hungry and exhausted and in pain. And so was I.
When the lactation nurse told me I had post natal depression, I thought she was on crack. I was coping perfectly. Between doctors' appointments, chronic sleep deprivation, a 2 year old toddler and a growing business, I hadn't noticed that I was a hollow shell, riddled with anxiety and helplessness.
Long story short, I went on Zoloft after much resistance and continued to see my therapist once a week. I thought I would share my experience, because psychiatric drugs are commonplace now, for PND and otherwise:
After a few weeks of being on the drug, I felt calmer, more stable and more able to cope. I was hungrier, less manic and my obsessive thought patterns seemed to have lost steam, which was an enormous relief. That said, there were side effects and they were unpleasant (and I have major issues with messing with my brain chemistry), so my plan was always to get off after 6 months. And so I did. Instead of slowly weaning off though, I weaned extremely quickly. Needless to say, this is not a domain in which you should try to over-achieve.
Picture it: my herb garden; 17h30 on a freezing Friday afternoon, clad in shorts and armed with a massive garden fork.
Romy (best mate and therapist): You've been churning that fucking herb garden and singing for over an hour.
Jo: I know!! I have so much energy! I am so happy to be off those shitty little pills!
Romy: Aren't you cold?
Jo: Not at all! I'm brilliant! (my fingers were purple)
Romy: I can't watch you anymore. You're exhausting me.
Jo: Nonsense! I am vibrant, alive, energised and ...
Romy: Manic?
Jo: (pause) Oh Jesus. I'm manic.
Romy: You need to go back on the meds.
Jo: I can't. (crying)
Romy: You have to. People go manic and then crash if they don't wean off. I'm serious. You are dangerously manic right now. Listen to me. I know you.
And she did. I went back on Zoloft and tried to wean off several times after that, but the crash was too hard.
About a month ago, I came off Zoloft and the impact has been good and bad. I am chewing my nails compulsively and it's beyond gross. I'm 34. Grow up. I cry almost every day, but it feels so good. My dreams are vivid and demanding and familiar. Life feels harder because my obsessive thoughts are back like bitches and they are debilitating.
But I feel alive. And I would choose that over anything else. I needed the help at the time and there is absolutely a time and place for Crazy-Happy Pills. But GP's are prescribing them like Nurofen and I'm not sure that sits well with me.
My biggest thing was that I wasn't me. I was a version of me, even when I weaned down to half a tab a day. I AM anxious. I AM emotional. I AM highly strung. It's no picnic, but it's me. And so I pick aliveness and familiarity. For the time being.
As for Benjamin Riley, he is perfect. But he has totally fucked up his chances for a younger sibling. :)
Thursday, March 24, 2011
What the American Journal of Psychiatry says about being a good parent (and it ain't what you think)
By now, you may have realised that I have a somewhat unhealthy attachment to both my hamster Aubrey and my therapist. Said therapist sent me an amazing article last year about what makes a good parent. The American Journal of Psychiatry published the results of research conducted on children's happiness quotient, their EQ, their success through life, their ability to be in healthy relationships, their self esteem etc etc and conveniently, published a list of the Top 10 things good parents do.
I won't go into the full detail of the study, because I'm not sure I could do it justice, but here's the essence:
1. Number 1 is unconditional love. Kids need to feel loved and secure, and unless you've been living under a rock or your surname is Palin, that one's a no-brainer.
2. Number 2 blew my mind and my cortisol levels: "parents' ability to manage their own stress". Yup. If you're a regular, frantic, volatile, exhausted wreck, it has a MASSIVE impact on your children and who they will become later in life.
3. Number 3 is the way parents are seen to relate to one another and to others. Kids learn how to relate to the world by observing; by what they witness and not by what they're told. You've seen the kids with moms that speak badly to hired help. They tend to be rude to service providers too. Equally, dads that get their own way by being aggressive often have bullying sons. Importantly too, for parents in relationships, know that your kids' self esteem is tightly correlated with the integrity and stability of your relationship with your significant other.
Discipline and other behavioural management things were near the bottom of the list. (WTF?)
I think I'm pretty decent on 1 and 3. I am besotted with my children and I've learnt (from a lack thereof) how to give unconditional love. I think I relate well to people in general and that my kids see that I care, I am respectful and I engage.
But there is no drumroll here. Just when you're thinking you've got the behaviour management thing sorted, these Smart Ass yanks come and tell you it doesn't matter that much.
And it's true. I've done the experiment. Since reading this article and realising that I am a miserable failure at #2, I've made a concerted effort to manage my stress, at least when it comes to how I engage with my boys. It makes an enormous difference - to their mood, their behaviour and subsequently, my enjoyment of parenting them.
So for those that like cheat-sheets, here it is:
1. Love your children for who they are, and not for what they do or what you want them to be. (if your folks stuffed this one up, you probably need to be in therapy to avoid unconsciously repeating the pattern)
2. Calm the fuck down. Get down to their level. Engage. Have fun. Connect. It doesn't have to be all the time, but it absolutely has to be some of the time. They can't contain your stress and they shouldn't have to shoulder it. (note to self Joanne)
3. Be good to people. Kids learn from watching you, so watch yourself.
Waddya think?
I won't go into the full detail of the study, because I'm not sure I could do it justice, but here's the essence:
1. Number 1 is unconditional love. Kids need to feel loved and secure, and unless you've been living under a rock or your surname is Palin, that one's a no-brainer.
2. Number 2 blew my mind and my cortisol levels: "parents' ability to manage their own stress". Yup. If you're a regular, frantic, volatile, exhausted wreck, it has a MASSIVE impact on your children and who they will become later in life.
3. Number 3 is the way parents are seen to relate to one another and to others. Kids learn how to relate to the world by observing; by what they witness and not by what they're told. You've seen the kids with moms that speak badly to hired help. They tend to be rude to service providers too. Equally, dads that get their own way by being aggressive often have bullying sons. Importantly too, for parents in relationships, know that your kids' self esteem is tightly correlated with the integrity and stability of your relationship with your significant other.
Discipline and other behavioural management things were near the bottom of the list. (WTF?)
I think I'm pretty decent on 1 and 3. I am besotted with my children and I've learnt (from a lack thereof) how to give unconditional love. I think I relate well to people in general and that my kids see that I care, I am respectful and I engage.
But there is no drumroll here. Just when you're thinking you've got the behaviour management thing sorted, these Smart Ass yanks come and tell you it doesn't matter that much.
And it's true. I've done the experiment. Since reading this article and realising that I am a miserable failure at #2, I've made a concerted effort to manage my stress, at least when it comes to how I engage with my boys. It makes an enormous difference - to their mood, their behaviour and subsequently, my enjoyment of parenting them.
So for those that like cheat-sheets, here it is:
1. Love your children for who they are, and not for what they do or what you want them to be. (if your folks stuffed this one up, you probably need to be in therapy to avoid unconsciously repeating the pattern)
2. Calm the fuck down. Get down to their level. Engage. Have fun. Connect. It doesn't have to be all the time, but it absolutely has to be some of the time. They can't contain your stress and they shouldn't have to shoulder it. (note to self Joanne)
3. Be good to people. Kids learn from watching you, so watch yourself.
Waddya think?
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
In a world where the only socially acceptable 'smack' is heroin
I have a family member in rehab right now. Addiction is nothing new in my family. It's something we have all struggled with in some shape or form. Mine took the form of an eating disorder when I was 20. Now, I work too hard. It's healthier, but only just.
When you have an addict in the family, you read everything you can get your hands on. You talk to as many 'experts' (ie. ex-junkies) as you can find (and it's not hard to find them). You reflect in therapy on your own addictions. The hole that they pretend to fill. The obsessions that they perpetuate. You hold on and enable. You let go and feel afraid.
It's hard.
I've spent a lot of time in the last 5 weeks visiting rehab, sometimes 5 or 6 hours at a time. There is a suburban middle-aged Indian woman there for heroin. A lovely Irish chap with two young kids, debt-ridden and borderline divorced from a horrible coke addiction. There's a 36 year old British stoner who has smoked away his Oedipal Complex for 20 years. There's a 22 year old vegetarian Crystal Meth addict. Her mom's a psychiatrist. She has sores all over her body, swollen gums and the signs of self-mutilation on her arms. This is her fourth stint in rehab. After speaking to her, I get the sense it won't be her last.
It all seems so senseless.
And it's rife. There are big shots and little people in rehab. Addiction knows no colour or class or age. It throttles everyone it touches...and then some. Our children will grow up in a world where weed is completely acceptable, when in actual fact, it is terrifying in its insidiousness, robbing the ambitious of their drive and the thinkers of their true smarts, rendering their lives static and their emotional intelligence subdued at best. A sort of quick-sand for life.
And then, at parties, our kids will be confronted with cat and meth and smack and pills from someobody's mom's medicine cabinet. It's real and it's more pervasive than most people would like to admit. And it scares the shit out of me.
For what it's worth, I read a book called 'Raising Drug Free Kids' and these were the big insights from it:
1. Children have to learn to self-stimulate. If they constantly rely on external sources of stimulation, like TV, computer games and Nintendo Wii, they will never develop the capacity to create an acceptable level of stimulation from within. They'll seek it outside, in substances.
2. More often than not, people use drugs and alcohol to numb bad feelings. We shouldn't tell our children not to cry or not to vent their anger. They have to feel that ALL emotions are okay and that their parents are big enough to contain them. That doesn't mean all behaviour is acceptable.
3. Children that play sport seriously are less likely to use drugs in high school. If they learn to respect their bodies, they're far less likely to put harmful substances into them.
4. Families need to stay close. This can work in a divorced home or in a single parent family. A child just needs a safe space to call home.
5. Kids with good self-worth are less likely to abuse drugs and alcohol. Self esteem is not built through praise. It's built through giving children responsibility, the opportunity to develop real competence and unconditional love when they stuff it up.
Good luck to all of us. It's not easy to parent in this world.
When you have an addict in the family, you read everything you can get your hands on. You talk to as many 'experts' (ie. ex-junkies) as you can find (and it's not hard to find them). You reflect in therapy on your own addictions. The hole that they pretend to fill. The obsessions that they perpetuate. You hold on and enable. You let go and feel afraid.
It's hard.
I've spent a lot of time in the last 5 weeks visiting rehab, sometimes 5 or 6 hours at a time. There is a suburban middle-aged Indian woman there for heroin. A lovely Irish chap with two young kids, debt-ridden and borderline divorced from a horrible coke addiction. There's a 36 year old British stoner who has smoked away his Oedipal Complex for 20 years. There's a 22 year old vegetarian Crystal Meth addict. Her mom's a psychiatrist. She has sores all over her body, swollen gums and the signs of self-mutilation on her arms. This is her fourth stint in rehab. After speaking to her, I get the sense it won't be her last.
It all seems so senseless.
And it's rife. There are big shots and little people in rehab. Addiction knows no colour or class or age. It throttles everyone it touches...and then some. Our children will grow up in a world where weed is completely acceptable, when in actual fact, it is terrifying in its insidiousness, robbing the ambitious of their drive and the thinkers of their true smarts, rendering their lives static and their emotional intelligence subdued at best. A sort of quick-sand for life.
And then, at parties, our kids will be confronted with cat and meth and smack and pills from someobody's mom's medicine cabinet. It's real and it's more pervasive than most people would like to admit. And it scares the shit out of me.
For what it's worth, I read a book called 'Raising Drug Free Kids' and these were the big insights from it:
1. Children have to learn to self-stimulate. If they constantly rely on external sources of stimulation, like TV, computer games and Nintendo Wii, they will never develop the capacity to create an acceptable level of stimulation from within. They'll seek it outside, in substances.
2. More often than not, people use drugs and alcohol to numb bad feelings. We shouldn't tell our children not to cry or not to vent their anger. They have to feel that ALL emotions are okay and that their parents are big enough to contain them. That doesn't mean all behaviour is acceptable.
3. Children that play sport seriously are less likely to use drugs in high school. If they learn to respect their bodies, they're far less likely to put harmful substances into them.
4. Families need to stay close. This can work in a divorced home or in a single parent family. A child just needs a safe space to call home.
5. Kids with good self-worth are less likely to abuse drugs and alcohol. Self esteem is not built through praise. It's built through giving children responsibility, the opportunity to develop real competence and unconditional love when they stuff it up.
Good luck to all of us. It's not easy to parent in this world.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Type A Organising Tip 2: Sunday night prep for the super-busy
It's 22h45 Sunday night and I am trying to finish 3 documents, all of which require my undivided attention. But Toris Amos is singing Cornflake Girl and truth is, I'd rather be blogging.
A few months ago, I wrote a post on gift shopping for Type A's and how to save muchos time and grande money by planning ahead. This is the second 'planning ahead' post, and much like the first one, you will either think I'm genius or something of a chronic fuck up. Either way, I'm sharing:
I have 2 little boys, my own branding consultancy and a relentless desire to be thin like Jennifer Aniston. This makes that the fact that Earth has 24 hour days hugely inconvenient for me. With 26 kids' lifts a week (gratefully shared with other moms) and more work than we can cope with, there is no way I can make sure that my children eat nutritious meals, their school lunches are packed and that I can (at least until Tuesday) remain on my Jennifer-diet. Not without some good planning that is.
So Sunday night has become something of a food prep night, and it is making all the difference to (the first half of) my week. An hour on Sunday night while the kids eat dinner and potter around the kitchen saves me time, stress and carbo-calories. (at least until Tuesday)
Tonight, in 50 minutes:
1. I made 2 school lunches for Liam for Monday and Tuesday. This sounds like a no-brainer, but just do it. It's such a hassle making school lunch every night.
2. I threw a bag of Woolies lettuce, a chopped cucumber, some canned corn, a few peppers, low fat Feta and a handful of baby tomatoes into a Tupperware. Add chicken or tuna or cottage cheese and Voila! Monday lunch. If I don't do this, I miss lunch because of school lifts, so I get back to the office and scoff everything in sight, famished and hyperglycaemic.
3. Next, I chopped up red, yellow and orange peppers (great protection against free radicals and a rocking source of vitamin C), a pack of mixed mushrooms (hellooo Potassium) and some firm organic tomatoes (can you say Lycopene?). A little olive oil and some Herbamare, ten minutes in a pan and I have a delicious, nutritious vegetable dish for my kids' lunch (that they love to eat) and a perfect partner to my dead-boring morning egg whites.
4. Speaking of which, I also separated a dozen eggs and put the whites into a pourable Tupperware in the fridge. That sorts my husband and I out for breakfast for the next 2 days. Egg whites and veggie mix in a pan for a few minutes and we start the day with stable blood sugar. You can freeze the yolks - they keep for about 4 months, but best to add salt or sugar (depending on what you intend using them for), or they become gelatinous.
5. Next, I used the pan that I made the veggies in and seared Woolies mini chicken breast fillets. Once they were lightly browned, I simmered them in a mushroom sauce until cooked throough. I'll give these to the kids for lunch and add them to my salads too. Two birds (pun intended). One stone. Love.
6. Lastly, while the chicken is simmering, I got two sachets of Woolies Napoletana sauce out of the freezer, added 2 packs of broccoli that were nearing sell-by date, threw in some fresh basil from my garden and added some garlic. Simmer for 15 minutes and then blend if you want to (kids more likely to scoff the broccoli this way). Then decant into 3 containers: label 2 and freeze for The Future; pop one in the fridge and use for kids' pasta. Super healthy. Super easy.
That's it. I still haven't figured out how to translate this splendid planning and discipline beyond Tuesday. By Wednesday, I am typically eating Milo cereal and drinking Pinot Noir. But seriously, fuckit. I'm a trooper Monday and Tuesday.
A few months ago, I wrote a post on gift shopping for Type A's and how to save muchos time and grande money by planning ahead. This is the second 'planning ahead' post, and much like the first one, you will either think I'm genius or something of a chronic fuck up. Either way, I'm sharing:
I have 2 little boys, my own branding consultancy and a relentless desire to be thin like Jennifer Aniston. This makes that the fact that Earth has 24 hour days hugely inconvenient for me. With 26 kids' lifts a week (gratefully shared with other moms) and more work than we can cope with, there is no way I can make sure that my children eat nutritious meals, their school lunches are packed and that I can (at least until Tuesday) remain on my Jennifer-diet. Not without some good planning that is.
So Sunday night has become something of a food prep night, and it is making all the difference to (the first half of) my week. An hour on Sunday night while the kids eat dinner and potter around the kitchen saves me time, stress and carbo-calories. (at least until Tuesday)
Tonight, in 50 minutes:
1. I made 2 school lunches for Liam for Monday and Tuesday. This sounds like a no-brainer, but just do it. It's such a hassle making school lunch every night.
2. I threw a bag of Woolies lettuce, a chopped cucumber, some canned corn, a few peppers, low fat Feta and a handful of baby tomatoes into a Tupperware. Add chicken or tuna or cottage cheese and Voila! Monday lunch. If I don't do this, I miss lunch because of school lifts, so I get back to the office and scoff everything in sight, famished and hyperglycaemic.
3. Next, I chopped up red, yellow and orange peppers (great protection against free radicals and a rocking source of vitamin C), a pack of mixed mushrooms (hellooo Potassium) and some firm organic tomatoes (can you say Lycopene?). A little olive oil and some Herbamare, ten minutes in a pan and I have a delicious, nutritious vegetable dish for my kids' lunch (that they love to eat) and a perfect partner to my dead-boring morning egg whites.
4. Speaking of which, I also separated a dozen eggs and put the whites into a pourable Tupperware in the fridge. That sorts my husband and I out for breakfast for the next 2 days. Egg whites and veggie mix in a pan for a few minutes and we start the day with stable blood sugar. You can freeze the yolks - they keep for about 4 months, but best to add salt or sugar (depending on what you intend using them for), or they become gelatinous.
5. Next, I used the pan that I made the veggies in and seared Woolies mini chicken breast fillets. Once they were lightly browned, I simmered them in a mushroom sauce until cooked throough. I'll give these to the kids for lunch and add them to my salads too. Two birds (pun intended). One stone. Love.
6. Lastly, while the chicken is simmering, I got two sachets of Woolies Napoletana sauce out of the freezer, added 2 packs of broccoli that were nearing sell-by date, threw in some fresh basil from my garden and added some garlic. Simmer for 15 minutes and then blend if you want to (kids more likely to scoff the broccoli this way). Then decant into 3 containers: label 2 and freeze for The Future; pop one in the fridge and use for kids' pasta. Super healthy. Super easy.
That's it. I still haven't figured out how to translate this splendid planning and discipline beyond Tuesday. By Wednesday, I am typically eating Milo cereal and drinking Pinot Noir. But seriously, fuckit. I'm a trooper Monday and Tuesday.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Picking schools for your kids: an educated guess?
I thought I had it all figured. When Liam, our first, was 4 months old, I put his name down at 2 schools: one small and supposedly wonderful private boys' school in an adjacent suburb and one large private boys' school that was of no interest to me, but that was there as a back-up plan. Both schools are established and traditional. Both prize manners, leadership and worldliness. Both are excellent schools.
Last week, I attended (for the second year in a row) the Open Day of School #1. It was fantastic. Their marimba band had me in tears, the children were bright-eyed, polite and sassy and the teachers and facilities are really second to none. A small, special (but certainly elite) school, it offers truly individual attention and an almost family-feel. That said, it is one of the most expensive in Joburg and is situated in one of Joburg's most elite suburbs.
This morning, we went, reluctantly, to an interview at School #2. It's much bigger, and where School #1 is just primary, School #2 goes from Grade 000 - O Levels. There was no marimba band; no real tour of the grounds and no moving speech from the headmaster. Surprisingly though, we both felt so much more at home. Where School #1 comprises 90% the ultra-elite of Joburg, School #2 is far more mixed. It had much more of the feel that good government schools had in South Africa in the 80's, but thankfully, markedly more racially and culturally diverse. The names on the desks were a real South African melange: Caleb-Nino-Thabang-Ridwaan-Chad-Itumeleng-Joshua-Dimitri-Oliver. The parents seemed normal and down-to-earth and while I do get the sense that what it offers from an academic and cultural perspective is not as gob-smacking as School #1, I have to ask myself the question: what is education? What do I want my son exposed to in his formative years?
I'm not sure it's really about picking the school as much as it's about picking the peer group. I know every private school will have an elite element, but if 90% of the school is ultra-elite, Liam won't have many options. He is growing up 100% more privileged than I did and I am terrified that he will have a sense of entitlement in the world, which I am allergic to. By choosing ultra-elite, am I not setting him up for this in some respects? I know that a child's values begin at home, but as they get older, their peers have more and more of an influence, and I am so conscious of making sure that he hangs with a mix of people that are at least a little reflective of the real world.
What I did realise this morning is that no matter how good my life gets, I will always be middle class at heart. XXX
Last week, I attended (for the second year in a row) the Open Day of School #1. It was fantastic. Their marimba band had me in tears, the children were bright-eyed, polite and sassy and the teachers and facilities are really second to none. A small, special (but certainly elite) school, it offers truly individual attention and an almost family-feel. That said, it is one of the most expensive in Joburg and is situated in one of Joburg's most elite suburbs.
This morning, we went, reluctantly, to an interview at School #2. It's much bigger, and where School #1 is just primary, School #2 goes from Grade 000 - O Levels. There was no marimba band; no real tour of the grounds and no moving speech from the headmaster. Surprisingly though, we both felt so much more at home. Where School #1 comprises 90% the ultra-elite of Joburg, School #2 is far more mixed. It had much more of the feel that good government schools had in South Africa in the 80's, but thankfully, markedly more racially and culturally diverse. The names on the desks were a real South African melange: Caleb-Nino-Thabang-Ridwaan-Chad-Itumeleng-Joshua-Dimitri-Oliver. The parents seemed normal and down-to-earth and while I do get the sense that what it offers from an academic and cultural perspective is not as gob-smacking as School #1, I have to ask myself the question: what is education? What do I want my son exposed to in his formative years?
I'm not sure it's really about picking the school as much as it's about picking the peer group. I know every private school will have an elite element, but if 90% of the school is ultra-elite, Liam won't have many options. He is growing up 100% more privileged than I did and I am terrified that he will have a sense of entitlement in the world, which I am allergic to. By choosing ultra-elite, am I not setting him up for this in some respects? I know that a child's values begin at home, but as they get older, their peers have more and more of an influence, and I am so conscious of making sure that he hangs with a mix of people that are at least a little reflective of the real world.
What I did realise this morning is that no matter how good my life gets, I will always be middle class at heart. XXX
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Dammit. DAMMIT!
After a near-perfect holiday, full of sleep, alcohol and relevations, I am back. With a mouth ulcer. A stye. A raw throat. And an appalling attitude. It's so bad that I have seriously considered putting the children onto eBay. (they won't let you post humans - bastards) Unsurprisingly, after telling Liam that he needed to help me unpack the car, I was informed that he would like to change moms. I had to chew my tongue off to keep from taking him up on that. Charming.
So my plan for the year was to turn my 'nice business' into an uber-profitable powerhouse, to travel overseas 4x this year (at least once with a girlfriend, somewhere exotic - Istanbul me thinks), find a source of considerable passive income, get into the best bloody shape of my life, start cooking sublime, nutritious meals for my family, squeeze in at least 80% of the 26 (!!!) kids' lifts I now have to do weekly, redo my bedroom, Ben's room and David's study, have more dinner parties (request of husband), find a challenging and creative hobby, start dancing lessons again, go back to learning French, read more, sleep more, drink less, swear less (you can see that the logic is fucked already) and spend plenty of calm, connected quality time with my kids.
I have managed to get into a 5am gym routine, which has been excellent. And aside from the children's sour sweets and the family-size box of chocolate chip biscuits I comfort-ate for dinner tonight, I have been following a reasonably solid diet, courtesy of Tim Ferris's 'Four Hour Body' book. David and I have also quit drinking (!!!) for the month of January, which has actually been a blessing, because I can't imagine being this chronically pissed off whilst hungover.
Perhaps I over-shot a bit.
Let me create the context. We came home from idyllic Knysna to:
- No water (cut off for 2 days on our return)
- No phone lines (cut off twice by Telkom, erroneously...I hate them)
- Broken TV
- Broken security cameras
- A MAJOR wasp infestation
- No Malawian houseman
- A massive leak in the staff room
- An even more massive leak in our sprinkler system
- No ADSL connection for my business (we've now been down for 9 days - I hate Telkom)
The likes of such domestic admin is time consuming and when it involves dealing with monopolies like Telkom (did I mention that I hate them?), it renders you completely helpless. Compound this with a 4 year old that is outrageously demanding at the moment and a 2 year old that cries and tantrums almost constantly and you have moi: angry, ulcered, feverish, pissed off moi.
Right. Well that was more of a vent than a blog. If you didn't like it, go ahead and tell me to my face. I dare ya.
So my plan for the year was to turn my 'nice business' into an uber-profitable powerhouse, to travel overseas 4x this year (at least once with a girlfriend, somewhere exotic - Istanbul me thinks), find a source of considerable passive income, get into the best bloody shape of my life, start cooking sublime, nutritious meals for my family, squeeze in at least 80% of the 26 (!!!) kids' lifts I now have to do weekly, redo my bedroom, Ben's room and David's study, have more dinner parties (request of husband), find a challenging and creative hobby, start dancing lessons again, go back to learning French, read more, sleep more, drink less, swear less (you can see that the logic is fucked already) and spend plenty of calm, connected quality time with my kids.
I have managed to get into a 5am gym routine, which has been excellent. And aside from the children's sour sweets and the family-size box of chocolate chip biscuits I comfort-ate for dinner tonight, I have been following a reasonably solid diet, courtesy of Tim Ferris's 'Four Hour Body' book. David and I have also quit drinking (!!!) for the month of January, which has actually been a blessing, because I can't imagine being this chronically pissed off whilst hungover.
Perhaps I over-shot a bit.
Let me create the context. We came home from idyllic Knysna to:
- No water (cut off for 2 days on our return)
- No phone lines (cut off twice by Telkom, erroneously...I hate them)
- Broken TV
- Broken security cameras
- A MAJOR wasp infestation
- No Malawian houseman
- A massive leak in the staff room
- An even more massive leak in our sprinkler system
- No ADSL connection for my business (we've now been down for 9 days - I hate Telkom)
The likes of such domestic admin is time consuming and when it involves dealing with monopolies like Telkom (did I mention that I hate them?), it renders you completely helpless. Compound this with a 4 year old that is outrageously demanding at the moment and a 2 year old that cries and tantrums almost constantly and you have moi: angry, ulcered, feverish, pissed off moi.
Right. Well that was more of a vent than a blog. If you didn't like it, go ahead and tell me to my face. I dare ya.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)