going pro

A few days ago, in a rare moment of peace, I was browsing over some recipes in a magazine when I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten to bake bread for the soup I was making for supper. I leapt up - the girls were due home from playschool in 15 minutes and I didn't feel like a marathon kiddie baking project - and as swiftly as possible I switched on the oven to pre-heat, threw the ingredients together and had two loaf tins in the oven in under ten minutes. I then plonked back onto the couch to finish reading my mag.
Suddenly I realised what I had just done: since when did I throw together homemade bread in ten minutes?
In that moment I realised I have finally arrived, whole heartedly, into the role of mother and homemaker. This thought both depresses and impresses me. On one hand I feel, whoa, hold on here, who is this person rapidly on the road to practical hair cuts, beige clothing and Saturday mornings in the supermarket - when the waves are cooking! And on the other hand I thought, cool, you're getting good at the domestic thing. The easier it is, the quicker it is and and the more time there is for fun.
The truth is it's taken me nearly five years to feel that I have got a handle on this maternal occupation. In the first years of having my babies I felt like I was in a dress rehearsal for the role of mom while I watched other mothers get on with what needed to be done with seemingly little effort.
But slowly along the way I must have gained the skills necessary for the undertaking of motherhood. I no longer find planning and cooking supper a daunting excercise that requires a bottle of rescue remedy to cope with. Getting the girls ready for playschool in the morning, although tedious, is a walk in the park - I have even started to lie in bed until the last possible moment. Note: don't try this with two 4-year olds until you have stuck to the morning routine for at least 12 months, so that, like little trained monkeys, they do what is required every morning on cue - no arguments!
I think the kind of mother you are depends largely on the kind of mother you had. Mine was not the "tea party" kind of mom whatsoever. She was a hippie straight out of the sixties and brought us up on a vegetarian diet, Joni Mitchell and karmic threats. She had one baking recipe, banana loaf, that saved her at every school cake sale and as soon as we were old enough she packed us off to boarding school. I say this with no resentment but more with feelings of compassion, as I can now understand her justifications in doing this. I too have been tempted to enroll mine into a distant institution.
So after four different boarding schools and a decade in the non-conformed film industry it seems I may have missed a traditional training in domestics from my mother. This has left me having to learn through common sense, my friends and feeling a need deep within to provide what is good, whole and stable for my family. So being able to bake bread - let alone in ten minutes - and enjoy it, is a huge accomplishment for me as a mother.
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saying it like I feel it

This is what I really want to say to the twins on a Sunday morning:

Today I just don’t feel like being a mother. I only feel like worrying about one person: me. Okay?

No I don’t feel like pretending to eat the cookie out of the picture once, twice, six times! And I would really rather sit in the sun with my eyes closed listening to music than negotiate who has bigger feet between you two. I do not want to build that puzzle, put the ribbon in the dollie’s hair or come wipe your bum!
I just want to lie in bed and read my book, periodically putting it down so that I can leisurely mull over a thought that just occurred to me while watching a little bird hop on my windowsill. And no, I don’t feel like telling you about the sweet little robin that is hopping on the windowsill. I saw it first and I don’t need to share EVERYTHING with you just because you are my child and four years old!

I don’t mind what you eat for breakfast this morning, just make sure it’s vaguely healthy and don’t make a mess because do not feel like getting up to clean it up. When you are finished take the plate put it in the dishwasher along with the rest of the dirty dishes, close it and switch it on. And don’t forget to come back in 45 minutes to unpack it and dry the cutlery properly so they don’t get little rust marks on them.

After you have had your breakfast I don’t care what you wear, but make sure you are warm and then go away please. Do whatever it is that four year olds need to do to keep occupied – except watch TV – and don’t expect me to be a part of it, okay? Although I do love you and think you are very clever and cute I really do find most of your conversation rather unstimulating and have officially run out of fresh understanding and convincing things to say to you. Just imagine I am watching you in wordless amazement as you swing back and forth on your stomach – you clever, clever child.

Come back when its time to go to bed and you have made and eaten your supper, cleaned up the kitchen – don’t forget to pick up the food from under your chair - bathed and dressed, brushed your teeth properly, gone to the loo and read yourself a story.

Then tomorrow make sure you’re ready for playschool at 8.15 – I’ll wait for you in the car, don’t forget to pack yourself a lunchbox.

good bye Beep Beep

Beep Beep is dead.
It all came as quite a shock. One minute he was happily having a little dust bath and the next minute he was the victim of a viscious attack by his fellow chickens.
About a week earlier I decided that Beep Beep needed to go and live with his own kind as I was having visions of scrubbing chicken poo off the carpet for years to come! He was bigger and eating well on his own, and seemed strong enough to join the world of chickens where he belonged. So like a calculating and cold hearted farmer I set about making the arrangements for my relocation programme. First, the nasty hen that kept chasing and pecking Beep Beep and who was losing feathers and getting quite old, must go. I ordered her into the pot. Hariet did it. I admit I tasted it and she was as tough as nails...
Then with a special red light Charles and I snuck into the hen house after dark and slipped Beep Beep under one of the sleepy moms. She willingly and literally took him under her wing and with a final and content 'beep beep" our little chicken had flown the nest. I patted myself on the back for a job well done.
The next morning he seemed slightly shy and timid around his bigger brothers and sisters but he got in the mix and had his share of breakfast and seemed quite chuffed with himself. When he won a literal tug ó war with another chick who had tried to take his worm, we believed he was a fighter and would survive against all odds. Over the next few days it seemed obvious though that he wasn't going to join everyone in their daily explorations for worms and instead kept to himself in the hen house. But he seemed happy and was served every morning with a plate of worms of his own. All seemed fine and well. Or so we thought.
Then one late afternoon Anna came running into the kitchen, "Mom," she said in quiet shock, then dissolving into tears she told me that Beep Beep had been "pecked and pecked and pecked!" we ran to the hen house and there he was lying on the straw where Anna had placed him, gasping for air. I picked him up and took him to the house but it was too late he died in my hands. Anna was beside herself. Charley said with stoic maturity and insight: "Dont worry Anna, its only his fluffy body that's gone, he's still with us."
Charles immediately dug a grave and prepared a little tombstone: "Here sleeps Beep" it says. We sang "Baa Baa Black sheep" and "Twinkle, twinkle little star" before covering him up and throwing flowers. Anna stood by his graveside and wept, great heaving sobs.
Later in the bath she told me the whole story. She had taken him out to scratch on the grass and the next thing he was chased by the two red hens and scratched and pecked repeatedly. Anna came to his rescue but clearly it was too late.
Poor little girl, such trauma to witness and her first big loss of a life she loved. Ofcourse I wallowed in my fair share of guilt...if only I had kept him in the house...
May you rest in peace Beep Beep - you brought happiness to our home in your short and precious life.

Beep Beep

Upon returning from our upcountry trip I was presented with an unexpected gift - a new baby! A tiny, fluffy, yellow, cheeping baby. Who, regardles of his size or species, is almost as demanding as any human baby.

He was a little slow coming into the world and by the time his egg finally hatched his mothers (all three of them) had already considered their brood a good delivery of seven babies and had moved off to begin soil scratching lessons. There had been a slight confusion over whose eggs were whose so in the end we let three hens sit on all the eggs together and when they hatched the lucky babies had more than their fair share of maternal guidence - except ofcouse for Beep Beep, who was all but forgotten and left behind.
So when it looked like no bells were going to begin ringing in any of the three mum's heads that this extra little yellow fluff ball also belonged to them, my mother-in-law, who can also fuss like a good maternal hen - took Beep Beep under her wing, until our return home.

Now my morning routine includes porridge for Beep Beep too, plus two or three fresh, live earthworms - thankfully we have a worm farm for this requirement. My crazy hour bedtime routine has now become somewhat pressurised as I race from one chore to the next so that I can get to warming Beep Beep's hotwater bottle and putting him to bed. And boy does he chase me along if I'm a little tardy at this! Making supper is a little hair raising too as I have to avoid stepping on the mini procession that follows me around the kitchen: first Beep Beep, then Mully, the border collie and Jack the cat, who sniff and follow the baby wherever he goes. But luckily, by some telepathic human-to-animal communication no one has tried to eat our new baby.

Ofcourse the bonus of Beep Beep is the constant entertainment he provides the girls. Although I do have to put a stop to the "flying"and "sitting" lessons that Anna regularly tries to dish out.

We love Beep Beep and his beeping, but I must admit that I am becoming a little concerned as his toilet time increases daily. And Lord knows where he is planning to live once he has "flown the nest" or whether he will be a he or a she!
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happy travels

Three days after my last blog post we did leave for our cross country road trip to Mozambique. And contrary to lurking fears that I may have been coercing my husband into doing something that had the potential to be a disastrous waste of time, we had an amazing time and the girls blew me away with their cool adaptation to African travel!

I was determined not to overdo the packing, so we left the farm with the bare essentials: a few surf boards, a tent, sleeping bags, a braai grid and a cooler box. For the girls entertainment I took some books, crayons and a small box of farm animals. And not once did they want for anything else.

They took to the road like seasoned travelers, never whining about the time, ever enthusiastic about the passing scenery and perfectly happy to skip regular meals. One day we pushed it for 11 hours without one disgruntled squeak – they were champs.

It took us a total of 24 hours to reach Ponta de Ouro on the Kosi Bay border of SA and Mozambique. We crossed the border after three days and thank goodness for the 4x4 option on our car as the roads are nothing but pure, thick sand.  

The road from the border 

Finally at our destination and my heart sank when I saw the exposed, unkempt campsite we had planned to stay in. Most African countries, and Mozambique is no exception, lack in the public service department. Of course I should have known better than to expect more. The campsite was not a little piece of paradise overlooking the point break. Instead it was an overgrown, littered piece of ground with moderately usable ablutions. Charles wanted to be close to the waves and I wanted my paradise expectations met. So I turned on the taps - a little emotional manipulation can get you quite far in a foreign country. He agreed to take a look at Ponta Malangane a little further down the coast which a friend had told us about. Here we found the “paradise” campsite under trees, with monkeys, butterflies, squirrels, and mosquitoes ofcourse. We were all relieved.

Holidays can be hard work and I definitely had a few monents of pulling out the emotional reserves to keep it going on the right track. You have to work hard at enjoying yourself and squashing disappointments when the going gets tough and you haven’t eaten a decent meal or showered in days. Remarkably I found my attitude improved vastly once we had lit the braai and were having our first cold Mozambican beer…
The compromise to not being surrounded by litter was the non-stop flow of fishing boats and trailers. But in all fairness the fishermen were very friendly and I think our simple campsite with two small children was quite an enigma to them, who camp with every available apparatus to ease the hardship of outdoor living. One guy even had a machine to electrocute mosquitoes and anything else that came its way!

In a very short time we were fully into the slow mode of Mozambican life. My hair was constantly salty and my feet never clean – it was perfect and I felt almost like I was in my pre-motherhood days of freedom again. The girls were happy, wild and free. They ran around almost bare, swam for hours on end in the warm, warm water and to our delight, learnt to surf. And Charles got to see his girls all day everyday and it was invaluable. 

Anna: up and riding

 Charlotte: up and riding. Dad: proud.

The waves were a little scarce for us. Although we did have one day of really good swell with beautiful, blue, warm perfect, nice sized waves, but it was fleeting. I didn’t mind much as it gave me more reading time while the girls swam. Charles got slightly restless.

The good looking Mozambicans are friendly but wary - which is no wonder after enduring nearly 20 years of war which only came to an official end in 1994. Their lives are hard and it is, like in all of Africa, a daily battle to make money and survive. The cost of living is high in Ponta, probably due to a combination of capitalising on the tourists and the difficulty to get supplies to the area. I was slightly disappointed by the lack of local eateries – homemade African food is my absolute favorite – and the exorbitant amount of bars and alcohol that is available. You could go hungry in Ponta but if it’s a shooter you’re after, never fear as there is a bar in every second shack!

One day Charlotte asked me what the word “bar” and “ice” said, because she kept seeing these words everywhere. I told her and after thinking about this for awhile she said to me: “So Mom, you get a lot of sheep and ice here, hey?” 

 Our first ever fizzy drink - with ice!

The week flew by and soon we were on the road again. We decided to head for the Transkei on the way home. This time we really did find PARADISE - vast, green plains and multiple waterfalls that tumble into the ocean. It is so beautiful and untouched that I won’t mention it by name on the World Wide Web. Sadly we could only spend one night there as the few bungaloes available were booked up. So we headed for The Kraal near Port St John’s, a simple backpackers built in African style with cow dung floors, set atop the green Transkei hills. As soon as we arrived Charles dropped his last remaining work stresses and I saw the relaxed man I had once known emerge.   

 

We surfed, snorkeled and ate seafood until we were tired of it.

 Then a storm hit and at two ‘o clock one morning we had to evacuate our flooded tent by bundling the girls up and running through torrents of rain to shelter. The next morning it was still pouring with rain and everything was soaked. It was my 35^th birthday. We took this as our cue to leave and finally get home.

Returning home was refreshing. Everything was green, the animals are fat and happy and we have a new addition, to the girl’s delight, of eight baby chicks.

Now that we are back into our busy, scheduled lives, I can still feel the strengths of the bonds that the four of us made while we were away. It was a learning and growing curve for all of us. But most importantly, I’ve realised that the twins are really “cool chicks” and the best travel buddies I’ve had.

  



holiday hopes

Before I had children I did a lot of travelling. Working in the film business was great in that way because we would often do "away" shoots, sometimes to really cool places like Moremi in Botswana or the Seychelles. And inbetween filming seasons I would head off to whichever destination tickled my fancy. I had cash and no responsibilities.
But since the girls were born I've had to satiate my wanderlust with the Travel Channel - which actually just depresses me to no end. I console myself with the fact that this is a temporary state of affairs and before we know it the girls will have upped and left for the world, leaving us with no choice but to don our backpacks and head off into the foreign yonder. Or more accurately I will don my backpack, alone, and head off, leaving Charles to his utopia of perfect waves. "We don't need to go anywhere," he says regularly, "We live in paradise. There is no other place in the world with waves like Look Out point." And this from a man who has searched the globe for the perfect wave - perhaps he knows what he is talking about. He can have Look Out point until he is old and completely bald, but I'm not done - there is way too much for me still to see, and it doesn't have to be on the coast!
Last winter I got a serious bout of ants in my pants and decided that the time had come for us to hand over the children to the grannies and take ourselves off for a "well deserved, big trip." Madagascar was our port of call. I spent hours planning and pricing. I even had two travel agents working around the clock to work out the best deal for us. This was it, we were going! Afterall we had barely had any time for fun and travel between reviving our relationship and producing our offspring and hadn't even had a proper honeymoon. The time was perfect, I believed.
But alas, after all my dreaming, planning and organising, boring old Mr Reality stepped in and pointed out that we simply could not afford to blow our entire savings on a two week surf trip to the jungle. Even if we do "deserve" it. Instead, as a consolation prize, we could go for three nights up the freezing cold West Coast, and sleep in the back of our van - no such luxury as a proper bed. After day one we were hit by the biggest storm on the Cape coast in ten years. We returned home early - me, pitifully hungover after drowning my disapointment with a bottle of red wine the night before and Charles, elated at having surfed an epic 20ft swell with his best friend. I guess I was happy for him.
But I've bounced back and am in the middle of holiday planning yet again. This time I won't lead on any unsuspecting travel agents, but will do it myself. And this time, we take the girls. To Mozambique. Which, one should note, has just been hit by a cyclone. But I'm sure all will be over by the time we get there with sunny, happy, perfect peeling waves .
I've just about got this one in the can. I have a housesitter, accommodation lined up for the three day drive, a list of must-haves to keep the girls occupied on the road, our tent packed and my husband's full consent and enthusiasm albeit a slight battle in the date commitment area.
We plan to leave in three days.
I'm playing my cards very carefully.Watch this space.

and the winner is...

The winner for the M.O.M Diary giveaway is Bronwen Troskie from Johannesburg!
Well done Bronwen!