The Plane, the Game and the Grievous Injury

My husband and the father of my children is once more in deepest, darkest Africa. In fact, I am not sure if Kenya counts as deepest, darkest anything, but the sentiment is the same.

This one’s for him.

In case you were left bereft
As the train left
I have your travel card

There’s not much to report
Of any sort
About the day I had

Small girl aged 5
Had a day that was “fine”
She drew you a plane

Small boy aged 6
Got a pal in a fix
All part of the game

Small boy aged 9
Is fine
We stopped the bleeding

Karate was cancelled
Sport was too
I didn’t get caught speeding

The Bossy Boots, the Labradoodle and the Sippy Cup

I read Small girl aged 5’s school report with great amusement. “Small girl aged 5 is a very independent little girl who knows her own mind.” So, basically she’s a bossy little boots then? Thank goodness for that because with two older brothers she better be able to hold her own.

Small boy aged 9’s is too much of an introvert according to his termly overview. Is that a bad thing? I was of the opinion it just was and not subject to a good or bad judgement. I am an introvert, my father is, my mother is and we all turned out just fine. Introverts judge themselves harshly and are less concerned about what others think than by living up to their own standards, which quite often are set far too high. Yes, there will be challenges, he’ll never be the child who raises his hand and shouts, “Me! Me! Me!” That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know or that he doesn’t have something to share. This is not to say he doesn’t want attention or acknowledgment for his successes, he just doesn’t like to court it overtly.

Small boy aged 9 is still visiting the school psychologist regularly who is one of those amazing people who believes in giving feedback. Small boy aged 9 is about to embark on a Bootcamp Gassuku with his karate sensei. Part of the activities is a paintball game. This is a classic case of me, the parent, thinking I know what’s best and being proved wrong. Small boy aged 9 is in a state over shooting someone and being shot at. Considering I have never played paintball for the same reasons, I shouldn’t be surprised. Although I have told him that he need not take part, he is determined to face his fear. For this he has earned my tremendous respect.

In a similar vein Small boy aged 6 finally said that he loathes karate and want to do gymnastics or horse riding instead. It matters desperately to him that he makes me happy and it is with relief and pride that I am now watching him begin to assert his own needs. It is all very well always sharing and being concerned about other people, but it is also important to make yourself a priority.

The truth of that only occurred to me when I gave birth to second son. I struggled to cope, I had severe PND and a psychologist had to sit me down and read me the riot act. What he said is that instead of putting everyone else at the centre of my universe and revolving around them, I needed to put myself at the centre of my universe instead. It involved a careful reworking of my priorities and is a concept I still struggle with. As a parent you can’t always put yourself first, but one day the chicks will fly the nest and then what? You’ll end up adopting a labradoodle.

What the hell is a labradoodle? Apparently it is a cross between a Labrador and a Poodle. Whoa! Hold the press? No kidding. It’s way more than that though. A labradoodle is the must-have celeb-cessory. It’s better than a BFF. It’s more chic than a Chihuahua. Celeb owners include: Jennifer Aniston (as a gift from Brad), Jeremy Clarkson (Oh no, tell me it’s not true?), Richard Hammond (oh no again), Jeremy Irons and Tiger Woods. Bella, Elle Macpherson’s labradoodle is about to come Australia’s Next Top Model. She is the face of dogside.com, Elle’s doggie fashion brand.

Ask Small boy aged 6 to write a sentence with dog and he’ll produce: “A dog is man’s best friend.” Friend, not fashion accessory or baby substitute. Would you dress your best friend in a pink ballet tutu with sparkles? Not if you want stay friends. It’s a bit like bridesmaids. You can always tell the relationship between a bride and her bridesmaids by what they wear as she launches herself down the aisle.

My bridesmaids were told my colour scheme given strict instructions to dress themselves according to their personal style. They did, they are very beautiful, talented and stylish people, just in radically different ways. There was no way I could force them into matching bubble skirts and expect them to ever speak to me again. When I reciprocated for the first of the two she designed a magnificent skirt and silk top that is gorgeous and, believe it or not, actually wearable past the day. I’ve seen some terrible buttercup yellow monstrosities in wedding photographs that show the bride looking smug and her bridesmaids appalled. No love lost there.

Fashion is one of those fickle things as are the occasions that are the fashionista highlights of the social calendar. The Queen may have Ascot, but down here Southside we have the Durban July. Strangely enough, racing was the bastion of the white elite and despite the anti-colonialist rhetoric of the ruling party, they all flock down to watch the ponies and place a bet.

At this gathering of the rich and famous, our esteemed President happened to walking under a balcony, when an owner above was jostled by the crowd and lost control of his glass of whiskey. The upshot is that some of the golden liquid fell from the balcony narrowly missing the very important person below. It happens to the best of us and while we may suffer some embarrassment and have to foot the bill for some dry cleaning, that would be that. Not for this poor chap. He’s been found guilty of assault. A little bit OTT maybe?

Check it out here: http://www.2oceansvibe.com/2011/07/28/zuma-drink-spiller-guilty-of-assault/.

Next time he’d better get one of those spill-proof sippy cups for toddlers.

Noddy and the Ninja

Once upon a time I dreamt of being a concert pianist. It was short lived dream. Its short lifespan was largely due to a fierce and terrifying Yugoslavian piano teacher. I was 5 and she spoke little English. We hated each other on sight.

My little fingers wouldn’t stretch to reach the keys and my feet dangled helplessly inches above the pedals. She would yell at me in her home language and swat my icy blue fingers. I did the only thing I thought I could. I stopped going to her lessons.

The charade went on until parent-teacher day when I had hoped my parents would give the witch a miss. They didn’t. I cowered behind the legs of a piano in a rehearsal room dreading the confrontation. Instead my mother emerged in tears, my father looking grim. They didn’t care that I hated piano lessons. They cared that I didn’t tell them how much I hated them or that the teacher terrified me witless. I learnt a valuable lesson that day.

Today I learnt another one. The karate Sensei informed us that our son has not been attending his lessons. This was troubling. Karate has always been a favourite of his and his non-appearance was a matter of concern. Even more so was the fact that when I casually asked him if he went to karate today he answered in the affirmative.

We then began a general conversation about truth and lies.
Me: “Can anyone tell me what a lie is?”
Small boy aged 6: “A lie is when you don’t tell the truth.”
Me: “Great, and are lies good or bad?”
Small girl aged 5: “Bad.”
Me: “Why are they bad?”
Small boy aged 6: “Because you can be found out?”

I guess so. Pretty decent reasoning, if not quite the answer I was going for.

Me: “Why do people lie?”
Small boy aged 9: “Because they want to fit in.”

That’s a pretty insightful answer.

The conversation also garnered other reasons:
• Because they are scared
• Because they don’t want to do something
• Because they don’t want to let someone down
• Because they know they have done something bad

This is when I came in for the kill.

Me: “So, I am going to ask you a question, will you tell me the truth?”
Small boy aged 9: “Yes.”
Me: “Did you go to karate today?”
Small boy aged 9: “Yes.”
Me: “I am going to ask you again. I know the answer; I want you to tell me the truth. Did you go to karate today?”
Small boy aged 9 quietly, “No.”
Me: “Why?”
Small boy aged 9: “I got distracted.”

ARGH! Small boys can get distracted by a bee buzzing past them, but try and distract them from a game of soccer or an episode of Phineas and Ferb and they showed remarkable powers of focus and selective hearing. I once took both of them to have their ears tested, labouring under the fear that both boys were hard of hearing, 800 bucks each later I was informed that their hearing was fine and their selective hearing highly developed. Thanks for that.

At least I managed to ascertain that he still loves karate, but that he needs to carry a loud and annoying alarm clock. He also learnt that parents are strange and sneaky beings who know stuff. Both boys have to go to the Sensei on Monday and apologise. The Sensei will then pronounce his judgement, which may well be exclusion from grading this term... or perhaps 100 push-ups. I love the push-ups as a disciplinary action. I use them often. My boys will be very fit by the time they get to 18.

I am very proud of myself and the way I approached this situation. I think I deserve a Noddy badge. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t get angry. I engaged and asked them to come to their own conclusion. I think I did pretty well. Of course, the next time he skips karate will be a different story. Them I’m going Ninja on his ass and he’ll see the value in knowing how to protect yourself from one seriously pissed off female. It’s a life lesson.

The Bullies and the day Karma came knocking

I got a call. One of Those with a capital T. The ones that make a parent panic. Turns out Small boy aged 6 is being bullied by a gang of four kids in his class. My gut reaction was to go to them and put the fear of God and me into them courtesy of The Mummy Voice. On reflection I realised this was Bad Idea and turned to Plan B aka Small boy aged 9.

Plan B:
Small boy aged 9 (Blue belt JKA karate), plus two friends (one Judo aficionado and one celebrity son) will make a trip down at break time to the Pre-Prep where they shall intimidate and force submission from the perpetrators.

Small boy aged 9 “Am I allowed to punch them? Sensei said we can use karate on bullies.”
Far be it from me to go against the almighty Sensei.
Me “OK, what are you going to say?”
Small boy aged 9 “I’m going to tell them that if they mess with my brother they mess with my class and my college buddy.”
The college buddy is an enormous hulk of a boy in Grade 7 whose job it is to protect the Small boys in Grade 3 from bullies.


As an only child I hated that my friends at school could call down these superhero like beings called – my older sister/brother. They were imbued with superior strength and idols of perfection in every way. Small boy aged 6 is awed and humbled by the way in which his brothers classmates have thronged together to offer him support. As I walked away from the pre-mission briefing with the college buddy and the gang of Small boys aged 9, one broke away from the group and walked up to me.

“Small boy aged 6’s Mom,” he said.
“Yup,” said I.
“Don’t worry. We’ve got his back.”

It was like watching little Navy Seals prepare for battle. Those little snot-nosed, name calling wanna-bes in Grade 1 better watch out – retribution is coming and it ain’t pretty.

By the time I rocked into the classroom to confront the teacher I was rocking the passive aggression.

“Right,” I say looming in the doorway above the 3 foot high munchkins, “Show me the boys.”

They were pointed out to me and I fixed them with a steely glare and informed them that Small boy aged 6’s brother and his friends were not impressed and on their way to handle the situation. It was brilliant to watch the little gleams of panic in their shifty little eyes.

Female that I am, name-calling is a chick way to fight. I imagine that their limited vocabularies are not going to stand up to those of kids three years older and if Small boy aged 6 did decide to go Ninja on them, they’d cry like little girls too.