Super soggy days

Thank goodness Harlan loves his wellies (he even wore them right through summer in South Africa), because we landed in the UK and just as I remembered, this place is seriously soggy. And cold. And soggy.

Despite my excitement to finally be getting out of 'limbo' and to be reunited with my husband after 6 weeks apart, I was overwhelmingly distressed at the thought of our upcoming flight to the UK - all 11 hours of it - with two small boys who have their own Life Equation now (check last week's post for the long explanation)...

Good grief was I worried!

But thankfully the flight was overnight and so it actually was simply smashing (see, I'm practicing my Proper English) - other than the fact that Harlan kept asking when we were going to get in the plane and he still refuses to believe that we flew anywhere at all, never mind to the other side of the world...

"But sweetie look," I gesture around the plane, "this is the plane. We are sitting in it."

"But where is it?" Sulky face. "Where?"

"Here... right here. Like all around us," Ummmm, and now?

So, despite the fact that Harlan doesn't believe we went on a plane and flew anywhere we are all doing splendidly (see, Proper English again) in one of the most beautiful parts of the English countryside where there must be about a gajillion trees (all very very pretty) and even then there still aren't enough of them to drink up all the water in the ground, so wellies are a must!

I think we are kinda like Vaalies at the beach in Cape Town, running into the freezing water simply because it's a beach, but all the locals know its crazy freezing? Well, we are kind like that - bundling the boys in warm jackets, gloves and hats and kinda pushing them out of the toasty house and into the freezing cold to 'explore' and 'get out' and other ridikilus things!

Here is a little taster in pictures :)

Touching South Africa

So it turns out I found my way to say goodbye to South Africa, and it was sweet and it was poignant and it touched me, marked me... and that makes me happy.

There is this little place called Clarens, nestled in the foothills of the Maluti Mountains that mark a line between South Africa and the mountain kingdom of Lesotho. Its become awfully popular as a tourist destination over the last decade, and no wonder, it's pretty much breathtaking scenery and small-town feel is a haven for artists, writers, young lovers, and happy families.

But I look at Clarens through the eyes of an 11-year-old girl, or at least that's the age I remember it with most clarity. My family used to spend most holidays in Clarens at the house that my father's business partner owned in the small village. I walked the dusty streets, attempted to climb the mountains, and made good and fast friends of the local children when Clarens still had only a single restaurant, a post office and a general store. We enjoyed Clarens in the summers when it was lush and green and warm, and we enjoyed Clarens in the winters when it was one of the very few places in South Africa to be blanketed in snow. But it was the autumns that were most beautiful, with the golds, reds, yellows and browns turning the landscape into an oil painting.

I remember how much I loved Clarens, it's beauty, it's scenery, it's energy that was almost magical. Even when we used to arrive after dark, my parents knew to wake me up if I was sleeping so that I could see the glowing sandstone outcrops as they towered high above - then I knew we had arrived. In my young mind anything was possible in Clarens, no dream was too big and no day was long enough... I fell in love with the earth, the land, and to this day I feel a spiritual connection to the place, which is why a short trip to Clarens with my parents and the children felt like a homecoming... and a home-leaving.

And it was magical. And it was cathartic. And it was a rare moment in the past six months where I was actually able to sit and really drink it all in... no - I am corrected. It was more like sucking the marrow from a bone... every. last. drop. I was able to sit on the patio in the evenings and know 'this is the last time' (in a very long time) - the last time I will enjoy such majestic South African sunsets, still warming my skin as the last of the light fades. I was able to sit by the poolside and watch my boys splash around in the kiddie pool and know, 'this is the last time' (for a very long time) that they will be able to enjoy water like this, with the sun turning their skin brown, splashing and shouting Look Mom! Look at me!

Aaaahhhh - Clarens was good to me and my family, as she always has been.

Roadtrippin'

Nothing beats some time off, a change of scenery, and a good old fashioned road trip. Boy I love it!

The drive from Pretoria to Durban, leaving before the birds start to chirp, watching the sun rise as you leave Johannesburg behind you... it is something that nourishes my soul like a bowl of steaming vegetable soup warms my body on a winter's night.

Gliding along the vein-like roads that cover the land between my home and the South Coast, I feel as though I am crossing God's land - because in my mind God has never lived in a church, or in a book, or even in my heart - for me he lives in the land itself. In the fields, atop the glistening bodies of water that nurture the animals, radiating from the softest hills to the most jagged of outcrops. When I go on a road trip I encounter God.

Then of course, at the end of the road trip is the seaside holiday. And what I love most about the sea is the simplicity of it's never-ending entertainment. My children can spend hour upon hour at the beach and never tire - it is like nature's way of saying 'come, let's play!' And boy did my boys play!

Oh how I loved our roadtrip!

A hat and redemption

As if to remind me that I am in fact doing a better job of parenting than leaving my children to be raised by wolves, the night after writing this post I sat back and enjoyed the most beautiful performance of my life.

After dinner and bath Malakai disappeared into the room and returned to where we were all sitting in the lounge, with a cap in his hand. He instructed us all to be quiet and then donned the hat and started to act as if he was riding a horse - hilarious and very cute! He then went on to pretend he was a frog, a cow, a dog and more.

Now, anyone who knows Malakai will also know that he loves to perform - he is really and truly designed for a life on stage without a single shy bone in his little body! And this after my admission on previous occasions that one of the very few things I thought I knew about Down syndrome was that people with the condition couldn't act or pretend. Seriously? What a ridiculous thought, I know - but nevertheless it was one of my previously ignorant beliefs.

And it struck me how much I've learned about Down syndrome since Malakai's arrival - sometimes I learned new things just by chance, through reading articles that I came across, books, blogs and the like. And other times - let me honest here - I 've researched obsessively into the wee hours of the morning, consuming huge amounts of information, study results or whatever I could get my hands on. This tendency to obsessively research was usually the result of not finding someone who could help me with a particular problem I was having with Malakai, and at other times a result of being told that I was overreacting about something, so I suppose on the one had I researched to find answers and on the other I researched to find redemption.

I wouldn't necessarily return to the doctor or specialist and tell them that I was in fact not breaking my child or overreacting, but I would at least be able to sleep that night knowing that I was doing my best, that Malakai's development and future was safe in my hands and that no harm could come to him because of ignorance... not on my watch.

Because you see, Malakai is precious, he is beautiful and he is wonderful. He deserves the best and he deserves to be given the best shot at life considering he's already got some real challenges to deal with.

But I digress from the performance...

So after we enjoyed watching Malakai's performance (and here's what I love so much about him) he wasn't content to just call it night - oh no. He called everyone up for their turn with the hat and he would sit in their seat and direct - sheep; dog; cow; horse... We each had a turn to wear the hat and perform to the applause of the room.

Now I don't know where he learned this version of charades from - or if he came up with it all on his own - but it was a poignant reminder of how clueless I once was, tempered with the redemption of just how much more I know (and get to enjoy) now.



 

The sanctity of naptime

 

With two small boys born a very short 18 months apart I am often asked by strangers in shops, at sporting events, or in restaurants if they are twins – to which I respond with a little snort and a single raised eyebrow, “No they aren’t… but they may as well be!” I can’t see why people think they’re twins because they’re quite obviously different sizes, perhaps it’s their matching fair hair and startling blue eyes that does it.

 

The point of the matter is that although they are 18 months apart, they may as well be twins because whatever the one does the other one wants to do, it really is a case of Monkey See Monkey Do in our house. And while this is terribly cute and terribly sweet, it is also terribly challenging and terribly tiring most of the time!

 

Our days are never quiet and they typically start at 5:30am when Malakai’s body clock goes off, and there is no snooze button on that, let me tell you! We never sit still. We are always on the move and when we’re not in the safety of our own home (which has been Stow-Boy-Proofed), I have to be on high alert and watch the two boys constantly. Of course this is getting easier as Harlan gets older, but Malakai is still in the developmental phase that is strongly characterised by unmitigated, fearless, crazy-as-hell exploration!

 

And now they are both realising just how much fun life can be when they team up and attempt a Great Escape. I often have to wonder what a fly on the wall would think when I drop the boys off at crèche in the morning – I won’t lie, some mornings I’ve aged by 5 years in about 15 excruciating minutes… From Harlan hanging off my pants (I know to always wear a belt now) to Malakai’s ritual lick up the side of my face, I am less bothered these days and have thankfully slowed my aging process a bit.

 

But I am still often caught in a split second decision to run after Malakai who’s aimed himself like a speeding bullet at traffic, or a body of water, or whatever other death-defying situation is facing him and Harlan… Mostly I pray like hell that Harlan will stand completely still and heed my calls to ‘Stay there Harlan! Don’t move! Mommy is coming! Stay ok!’ as I do a very unflattering sprint – my cheeks flapping up and down, my not-so-firm-mommy-boobs pushing my hold-it-together-mommy-bra to its limits – to catch Malakai who at this point is laughing his head off at the sight of his mother…

 

So, back to the point of this post…

 

Nap time. That beautiful time of day where all is silent and my children are guaranteed to be safe and sound for at least 2 hours. It is sacred in our house, and as such we treat it with great respect…

 

Thou shalt not venture out between the hours of 12:00 and 14:00

Thou shalt not book any activities or agree to any socialising in the middle of a day

Thou shalt not open the door to any visitors between the very same hours

Thou shalt not mess with our nap time, ever, unless you want to a can of whip opened on your ass

 

And friends always say, “Oh I wish my little one still napped in the day!” to which I respond with another snort and single raised eyebrow, “Do you think my children want to sleep? Re-eeeaaaaa-lllyyy?” Of course they don’t! My children don’t calmly walk up to me and request a little shut-eye… never gonna happen!

 

Instead we beg, threaten and bribe our children to close their sweet little eyes and let mommy and daddy sit for a little bit. Yip – nap time is our saving grace, our little window of sanity, our ‘happy-hour’ and I don’t even want to think of the day that we actually do have to give it up… Hopefully its far, far, far in the future!

Stop laughing, you're hurting my ears... said no kid, ever.

I take this motherhood thing somewhat seriously – too seriously perhaps. I consider it make or break if dinner isn’t served at precisely 5:45pm and doesn’t include at least one protein, one starch and one veg… anything less is complete failure because honestly, how difficult is it to get dinner done? It’s not rocket science… unless of course I have two kids screaming at my feet that they want to play, play, play.

There are many evenings where my kids just want me to read them a story, or help them build a Lego-garage for their cars, or play just another 10 minutes in the garden and I decline with the usual, “Mommy has to make dinner, here’s your digital babysitter iPad…”

Things gotta get done, and dinner doesn’t make itself… Just like doctor’s appointments don’t make themselves, chronic medicines don’t magically appear, therapy appointments don’t keep themselves and those painfully boring daily fine-motor exercises disguised as ‘fun’ do not invent themselves… So yes, things gotta get done and mama’s on it!

But I realised the other day that all this stuff; the nitty-gritty of keeping kids clean, fed, housed and early-interventioned (that's not a real word, of course) makes me frown. Possibly more than I should frown… because like I said; I take it all so very seriously… I blame it on a ‘worry gene’ that expresses itself in my ability to have an anxiety attack over pretty much anything. But enough about me.

Let’s talk about the kids… and what they actually want from me.

I am delusional if I think that they care whether dinner is half-an-hour late, or if they even noticed that I hid veggies in their pasta sauce. They probably couldn’t care less if I put clean pants on them, or yesterday’s pair (ok, I lie… Harlan would care. very. much. But he’s strange like that). And have they noticed lately that their toys are sorted by theme, size, colour and function? Huh? Nope. They simply don't care about that stuff.

What they do want from me is lots of time… lots and lots… in fact, they spell ‘time’ this way – L.O.V.E.

And they don’t settle for just any kind of time, oh no. They’d much rather prefer the kind of time that includes lots of mess, stickiness, chaos, jumping, hiding, running, laughing, hooting and tooting… The kind of time that will etch itself in their little cells… because let’s get real, they’re never going to actually remember each moment of these early years. They may actually not remember any specific moments at all… but they will remember how they felt because it’s etched into their little bodies at a cellular level – and their very essence will be screaming ‘I am loved’, and perhaps more important than that – ‘my mom doesn’t just love me, but she loves being my mom.”

Because there’s a difference between loving your children, and loving the process of being their mother.

I find it easy to love my children, as I imagine most mothers do – how could I not love my children after carrying them for nine months in my own body. It is biologically and hormonally impossible to not simply love the daylights out of every little inch of them! I am totally crazy about my kids – stark raving bat-shit crazy.

It’s the process of being a mom that’s a little more challenging – the balancing of delivering everything they need to be safe, secure, and healthy while also remembering to just have some fun, laugh, make funny faces, dance under the stars, and make shadow puppets in bed at night – you know, the cellular stuff, the actions that show my children I love being their mom, the stuff that will leave an indelible mark on them as they grow from little-ones into big-ones. The stuff that says ‘I am loved'.

I’ve realised that above all else, I need to show my children that I love being their mom.

Making party memories

It is coming up for Malakai's birthday and I am totally unprepared - in fact, I am always totally unprepared for most major events, I should know that by now. I am simply not one of those moms - y'know the kind that whip amazing parties together without as much as chipping their manicured nails?

I find the whole affair of themed birthday parties totally overwhelming, both in the time they take to arrange as well as the dent they make in the cheque account. It's not that I haven't tried, which I have really! Both the boys' first birthday parties were lavish and expensive affairs - all the decor, the food, the colour-coordination... And I attempted the whole thing again for Malakai's second birthday, and that was where it ended, rather abruptly.

Six months later - for Harlan's second birthday - we found ourselves on a family holiday at a working dairy farm in the beautiful Underberg. My husband and I figured that if we were going to spend that kind of money, rather spend it on a family holiday, a time of togetherness. And boy did we make memories! The children ran out the cottage every morning to see the cows munch their way from the field above the cottage, to the field below. We braaied every night, took road trips, climbed mountains and walked alongside streams. The boys drew in the sand with sticks and the very friendly farmer let them ride the tractor up and down the tree-hugged lane. There was no television, and we didn't care because the view was amazing.

Wow, I felt like I'd made the right decision to rather spend 'party money' on a memory-soaked experience for the boys and us... So for Malakai's third birthday we planned another trip - this time to Shelly Beach; a place straight from my very own childhood memories. Malakai loves the beach, like most kids, and so it was booked. Little did we know that the week we were at the beach was the same week it snowed in Gauteng (and much of the rest of SA)! We didn't get the snow in Shelly Beach, but we did get constant horizontal downpour for three days. I will never forget how I had to convince two very impatient toddler boys that we really actually were at the sea, and no they couldn't actually see it, but I promise it's really actually there, if the weather would just play along! This was followed by three very magical days of beach walking, sandy feet, buckets and spades, colourful umbrellas and cooler boxes filled with sarmies, cool drinks, crisps and ice creams.

 

 

 

It was another memorable tick on my 'what I have done right by the kids' list. And so we went... until now.

Now I'm faced with two boys (no longer babies, or toddlers) who desperately love birthday parties. They talk about the parties we are invited to for weeks after. Weeks I tell you! How can I not give them their own birthday parties? Of course we had balloons, cakes, candles and pressies on all our holidays, but it's just not the same without friends, noise and mess is it?

So here I am, having to plan a party again - themes, games, invites - and even though I'd much rather prefer to make memories as a family, I know that this too will be full of good memories for my children - its worth it, if only for the smiles on their faces.

The days are long...

 

There's this almost imperceptible thing that happens to babies... they grow into toddlers and then into children... Yes! I swear!

No matter how hard I try, I cannot actually see the boys growing before my eyes as the days pass by in a whir of testing boundaries, fine-tuning personalities, and just carrying on with the busy job of stepping further and further into Life. But, when I look again they have grown and I am left with a confused expression asking, "When did this happen?" I feel rather sheepish, like I missed out on... oh I dunno... a few months or something!

I talk about having two toddlers, and I realised the other day that - no - they are now little boys. Full of bear growls and pretend games, climbing the furniture and doing mind-blowing stunts on the jungle-gyms down at the Irene Dairy. There's plenty of 'Look mommy. I show you!" and "No! I do it!", and I realise they are taking their independence whether I like it not - can anyone say 'white knuckle fist' as I hold pathetically onto notions of them being little toddlers that I can physically guide to safety?

Oh no. Where I was once all embracing arms and gentle whispers of 'let me help you', building forts or steering them to safety down the slide, my arms are no longer welcome... Now it is more of 'watch out!' and 'how many times must I tell you?' in high pitched desperate tones of utter horror and often times disbelief in what they'll get up to next.

Nighttime storybooks are now not as exciting as finding the next 'big thing' to jump off, and instead of calm and peace I hear squeals of utter delight as the boys collude on the next game - hiding under the dining room table, rearranging furniture in order to reach things they're not supposed to reach, chasing each other up and down the passage, and pretending to be bears, or tigers, or whatever other animal makes impressive growling noises.

The passage of time - 5 years since I became a mother - stops for no one; you're either on it or you'll miss it. And there is nothing quite like a little human being to show you just how fast time flies by. It reminds of one of my favourite sayings by another author and blogger, Gretchen Rubin of The Happiness Project:

THE DAYS ARE LONG, BUT THE YEARS ARE SHORT

There is only so much longer that we'll be greeted with whoops of joy when we tell the boys we're going to search for the Gruffalo until this will become too uncool or boring for them... I don't expect they'll tip-toe into our bedroom at night and sneaking into our bed when they're teenagers. And I doubt I will be faced with imploring pleas to 'come and look mommy' when they grow into young men. 

So, the next time I have to microwave my cup of coffee because I'm too busy with my boys to drink it while it's still hot, I will not frown. I will gladly move over and make space in my bed at night so that my boys can cuddle in close and steal my blankets. And I will dish out my sincerest interest and attention for the myriad of inventions, discoveries and works of art that my boys produce, so proudly, on their own. Parenting is in the details; every last miraculous one of them.

BY Loren Stow

Searching for the Gruffalo

This past weekend Darryl and I had the night off on Saturday. Luckily my husband works in an industry where the brand managers have way too much money to spend on marketing, and the result is often being invited to events. We seldom actually go, but this Saturday we did. We enjoyed watching the SA vs Samoa rugby at Loftus, followed by dinner and the night at Montecasino - really spoiled, that's for sure!

But as is normally the case, we can't wait to get home the following morning and jumped in our car after the incredible buffet breakfast, bound for home and our boys. As much as we appreciate some time out from night routines and sleeping with two kids wedged between us, we also really enjoy walking through the front door as our two boys run to say hello, happy to see their mom and dad.

 

This weekend our boys wanted to go searching for the Gruffalo... something we have done with them since reading the book by the same name. It isn't as complicated as it sounds, and all we basically do is go to the botanical gardens for the morning and walk up and down the koppie, looking for the Gruffalo (because he lives there m'kay?), but mostly listening out for sounds in the forest that tell us he's close.

 

We started the tradition one holiday season when money was a little tight and we simply couldn't afford to drop another R500 on entertainment. My husband was the genius behind the idea of going to the Botanical Gardens (can you say... R50 for the whole family?), and telling the children we were searching for their favourite book character seemed innocent enough. I even enjoyed making our sarmies (I did say money was tight) and packing some crisps and coolies from the pantry.

 

What started out as a cheaper option to get our children out of the house ended up being the most fun we'd had the whole holiday. Our children could run free; no more checking where they were and having to rescue them as they dangled off some or other climbing apparatus, not to mention no more coming face-to-face with the 15-year-old playing in the toddler's area of the swanky restaurant play area. We enjoyed the walk as well, and being outdoors was refreshing! Stopping mid-way to unpack our coolerbag of home made goodies was actually the cherry on top of the whole experience. It felt good and it was good. It was good for our kids, good for us and good for our pocket - no mean feat in our world today.

\Have we ever actually found the Gruffalo? Well, no. But that doesn't seem to faze the kids one bit. They just love to be set free, to run, to climb, to explore. And we love to watch them free, running, climbing and exploring - not to mention how well they sleep after... aaahhh, weekend day naps...

Searching for the Gruffalo has become our special family tradition - one that I am proud of because it fills so many of my desires as a mother. It doesn't cost a fortune, it's healthy, the boys enjoy it, and we love doing it together, as a family.

What is your family's Gruffalo?

BY Loren Stow