Say Cheese

On 20 February 2006 the world changed forever. 

Maybe you didn’t notice, but the world as I knew it shifted slightly to the right.

Alexandra Isabella was born at 06:50 and promptly altered the state of the universe to suit herself.

Today is her sixth birthday and like most mothers, I suffer from party panic. 

You may scoff, but I have been to parties where the mother has broken down into hot tears of hysteria because the kids didn’t want to pin the tail on the donkey.

I have spent sleepless nights baking elaborate birthday cakes in the shape of the Sword of Omens and a robot. I have iced 100 small pink cupcakes and stuffed party packs full of toys and candy from China Mall.

Each year there is a not-so-subtle parental competition – one which usually ends with you substantially poorer. You can easily end up spending as much on a birthday party than you did on your own wedding – only Daddy doesn’t pick up this bill.

I have been to a party where one of South Africa’s premier soccer teams played ball with a bunch of 7 year olds. Former State President Nelson Mandela made an appearance at one.

I don’t bother even trying. I sent the boys to bootcamp to wallow in the mud and be yelled at by ex-Navy Seals. They go hone happy, exhausted and covered in mud. Most the time they are happy with a water pistol and a jumping castle.

Girls are harder.

This year as I was lamenting the impending day with gloom, the power of social networking led me to a review by Shelli Nurcombe-Thorne who knows more about Johannesburg than anyone I have ever met.

Largely because she writes a Joburg blog about it. She had just reviewed a kids’ photo studio and promptly sent me the details of Nina Say Cheese.    

Lexi and her best friend were duly collected on Saturday afternoon and chauffeur driven (by me) to the studio of Nina Say Cheese in Fourways.

Vanessa Lewis is a professional food photographer, but was inspired to start a children’s studio after the birth of her daughter, Nina. 

She offers four magical sets, an aeroplane hanger, a circus, a forest and a tea party. 

She also provides delicious cookies and macaroons from a real pastry-chef.

The girls put on identical pink ruffled skirts, pretty tops and sparkly shoes. Suddenly these two scruffy little tomboys blossomed into the most beautiful and ladylike little girls. They posed, they played and they laughed and laughed and laughed.

I haven’t got the pictures yet, but I know they will be beautiful.

So all-in-all it was a good way to celebrate without having to entertain 25 small girls and their 50 associated parents.

Social networking again helped me out on the birthday present front. Having expressed interest in a Barbie Bride at a friend’s house, her mom called to tell me about the best place to buy Barbie clothing.

Hint: It is not Toys R Us.

The Rosebank Market on a Sunday is home to a remarkable stall. A elderly man painstakingly designs and makes exquisite furniture for baby dolls and Barbie Dolls. His wife equally painstakingly designs and sews tiny clothes, sleeping bags, duvets and other necessities for small girls and their dolls.

For R300 I bought a wardrobe and 6 perfectly made little outfits, including a wedding dress. Unlike the cheap and nasty Toys R Us clothes, they don’t fall apart as soon as Barbie is dressed up and they cost a damn sight less.

I highly recommend him to every mother of a small child who balks at the idea of buying yet another Barbie. Lexi unwrapped her gifts this morning in total rapture.

 

I also got out of baking a million cupcakes by strolling into Mother Hubbard’s in the mall and purchasing for R70 a Happy Birthday cake for her school birthday ring. 

Far less stressful.

This afternoon I will pick up little karate kid and take her out for ice-cream with sprinkles on.

Heaven.

And when we get home Lexi can model the pretty clothes purchased on her shopping experience with my  mom – from Zara no less!

The Mermaid and the Serial Killer

I have a slightly scruffy angel in my home. Her sweet looks belie a spine of pure steel and a will of iron. At age 5 she is a master of negotiation and emotional blackmail. If they pitted her against Donald Trump I’d put my money on her.

Sadly, this instinct does not translate well into interpersonal relationships. As a parent I have to negotiate this minefield each day and try and establish ground rules on how people are treated.

Small boy aged 6: “Mum, if someone asks me for a sweet and I say no and they say that then they won’t be my friend, is that okay?”
Me: “If someone is only your friend because of what you can give them, then they are not your friend.”

It sounds so obvious, but even as adults we fall so easily into this trap. It cannot be more prevalent than in the current crony culture of our society. It isn’t what you know, it’s who you know. Friends are the people who’d still be there if you lost every penny, weighed the same as a baby hippo and drove a Kia Picanto. There are not a lot of them out there.

This circles back to my daughter because I realised how often I use blackmail to get her to do things like eat her dinner, have a bath or go to bed. I know the adult world revolves around basic logical programming – if this, than that – but the way it translates into life is less clear cut. Small girl aged 5 does not differentiate between, “Eat your peas or you don’t get dessert” and “Give me a sweet or I won’t be your friend.”

As an adult I have a lot more power. I have things. She doesn’t. The only things she has to negotiate with are who comes to her birthday party and who she plays with. As this is distressing and heartbreaking for her best friend in the entire world, she blackmails her into doing stuff she doesn’t want to do by threatening to withhold her friendship.

It is horrible and it is my fault. The ice cold realization of this made me feel sick to my stomach. My daughter is the instigator of peer pressure because I bully her into doing things she doesn’t want to do, but has to, by offering incentives or threatening to withhold rewards. Of course she is copying my behaviour into her life. I have to come up with a new way of parenting. It brings into stark relief how the actions of a parent can shape the child for life. It can happen so quickly, so insidiously that one day you wake up to discover your sweet child is Daisy de Melker because you tore the tail of Mermaid Barbie.

Small girl aged 5 and I had a long chat about friends last night. We spoke about how you love your friends because of who they are. I thought we were making headway and happily gave her a hug.

Me: "So, are you two friends?"
Small girl aged 5: "No."
Me, utterly shocked: "You're not friends?"
Small girl aged 5: "Mom! We are not friends. We are way more than just friends!"

I puzzled over this for a while and then thought about my own life. My best friends are women I sometimes don’t see for years. I am still friends with women I met when I was 5 years old. The girls I was at school with fall into the same category. We may have fought, we may have competed, we may have loathed each other, but aside from the notable exception of the little blond girl in Grade 1 who even the memory of causes waves of pure unadulterated hatred to bubble through me, I know that because of the years we shared, the years that shaped who we became, we will always have each other’s backs.

Perhaps that is what it means to be more than friends? A friend is someone you play with. Friends can come and go. More-than-friends are forever.

Image from: http://www.desktopexchange.com/gallery/Anime-Wallpapers/angel_sanctuary_pictures

The Mermaid and the Rocket

Father forgive me, it has been two days since my last confession. I am a terrible person. I have psychologically scared my daughter for life. I have committed the most dreadful and heinous crime any parent can inflict on a small girl. I inadvertently ripped the tail of Mermaid Barbie. She is now dead in the water. A paraplegic mermaid. I shall have to do penance at Toy R Us.

Tomorrow marks the end of her father’s pre-birthday birthday week. At his age birthdays can’t be contained in a day or a single week, but stretch for a fortnight, maybe longer. He is turning forty tomorrow, which came as a bit of shock because until a few months ago he still firmly believed he was 37.

Wife: “Darling, it is your 40th this year, would you like to do something special for it?”
Husband: “It is not my 40th. I think I would remember that. How can you say that? I’m only turning 38.”
Wife, gently, “Um, no darling, it is definitely 40.”
Husband: “It can’t be. I was born 1971.”
Wife: “Yes. And if you take 2011 and minus 1971 what would you get?”
Husband, shocked: “Good God! How did that happen?”

I have to concur, I feel that way every time my birthday rolls around.

In honour of this birthday and my recession induced bank account I had to come up with a creative present this year. Usually I’d treat myself to a spa day and some online shopping at Victoria Secret, but this year desperate times called for desperate measures. I had to downscale. La Sensa it had to be.

Actually I asked around and a colleague suggested Artjamming. Artjamming is was. Artjamming is awesome. Artjamming (www.artjamming.co.za) is a walk-in art studio based in the Blu Bird Centre in Illovo. Apparently there is one in Lonehill too, but I can’t vouch for that one. My plans were thrown a bit when the husband decided he needed the car on Friday, but I managed some creative scheming and eventually set off with three children in tow.

Secrets to small children are an anathema. As a result I only caved to one child and pinkie swore her to secrecy. You can’t break a pinkie swear. It is a sacred oath. Unfortunately she found a loophole.

Small girl aged 5: “Daddy it is your birthday on Sunday.”
Daddy, unimpressed at the reminder: “Yes.”
Small girl aged 5: “Mummy is taking us somewhere for your birthday now, but you can’t come.”

This conversation served to pique his interest, so when I asked for the car I was met by: “Why?”
Me: “Because I need the car.”
Him: “To go where?”
Me: “Nowhere.”
Him: “Then you don’t need the car?”

ARGH! This irritating conversation continued with his two male offspring once I had them in the car on the way. Testosterone is a bitch.

So, back to Artjamming. Whoever owns it obviously understands the importance of location, location, location. It is beautifully positioned next door to a Col C’acchios. This means you can happily enjoy a pizza while your children paint the town red. However, we were there on a mission. One that did not involve pizza, but a family artistic collaboration in honour of the 40th birthday. We each grabbed a canvas and started painting.

Getting three small children to all paint the same thing is an organisational nightmare. However, we ended up with four parts of a whole, which when placed together create one fantastic space rocket worthy of Captain Kirk. Damn, I should have had a caricature done of him as Captain Kirk. Next year. I managed to persuade Small boys aged 6 and 9 to paint large blocks of colour, but Small girl aged 5 had other ideas and her quarter is wildly striped rainbow. Still, I hope he likes it. I think it’s kind of cool.

It wasn’t the cheapest excursion in the world, but well worth a visit. It isn’t only for small people either, aside from the parents getting cheerfully covered in paint, there were a few serious adults painting great landscapes in swirling oranges. It certainly inspired me. I am no Picasso, as everyone who knows me will attest, actually Picasso’s cubist phase maybe, so no Michelangelo then. Still, I can’t wait to go back and paint some more. It’s very cathartic, although not perhaps with three small children in tow.

I wonder if they’d do an evening party for grown-ups with loads of red wine?
Hey, it’s worth asking.

PS: Just called away from this very important task to mediate blood curdling horror. Small boy aged 9 slipped and inadvertently knocked out Small boy aged 5's front tooth. The tooth was on its way out anyway, but not in a manner this ghastly. Blood is pouring from his mouth and he refuses to let me pluck the offending object from his jaw. I tried bribery. I tried coercion. I'm now going with, Daddy will deal with it when he gets home.