Extreme Tantrums

We finally quit the city and found not just a mountain but an entire range as the backdrop to our historic house; no way were were raising our children in the city. (See http://kerrincocks.blogspot.com/2015/01/opting-out-firsts-in-free-state.html) for an idea of the months of house, town and province hunting that went into this final move.
For a long time people asked us if we had settled in to small town living and our answer was always a very definite yes. It wasn't a question of settling in here but rather, we realized after a few restless months, getting Jo'burg out of your system. You're so accustomed to the Go-Go-Go that you take it with you wherever you  ... well, Go.
But we did settle in and finally breathed out the last of the city.
"Do you ever regret your decision?" People ask. "No." For so many reasons, a major one is the children.
We now have two.
The only time they are inside is if it's raining, if they're eating, sleeping, bathing or watching Pet Patrol. The house isn't small and we're blessed that they each has their own large bedroom and a trunk full of toys but they want out; the pool, the garden, their bikes, the mountains, exploring old mining adits, you name it, they're in, or at least my son is, our little girl is slightly less inclined to tread where even angels play.
My son and I have spent five hours hiking, scrambling up sheer rock faces that the Jack Russell needed help with searching for the source of a creek, we've climbed trees on Lone Tree Hill (perhaps there was only one when it was named), we've driven dinky cars over rockscapes, dragged bicycles over impossible mountain tracks and done a scary amount of rock climbing.
He's four.
I am endowed with the same adventurous spirit and the same energy levels and the same desire to see what's around the next bend, over the next rise and when you look again it would not be inconceivable for us to be in Swaziland. I even almost talk as much, but he wins hands down on that every time.
So when frustrations turn into tantrums and moods escalate out of proportion I recognize the need to release this negative energy. We are cut from the same cloth in this respect. When I'm snappy and short-tempered my husband will always suggest a run. So when he's all over the place, crying, throwing things and generally inconsolable and dare I say, hideous, we take to the mountains.
At first the suggestion is met with more crying and outbursts of reluctance, but I'm stubborn too and force on the right gear, throw some water bottles and a snack in a backpack and grab his hand (or wrist), still kicking and screaming and leave the building.
He loves to run. The first time I handled a tantrum in this way we ran up and down the streets, me next to him, silent, him wailing but running, me encouraging him to let it out: "Scream as much as you want." After a kilometer or so he simmered down but he's stubborn and wouldn't concede a victory to me so maintained a modicum of feigned anger and resentment.
We veered off the road and up a mountain track (his choice), as we began to explore even the anger abated. A sheer rock face a hundred meters or so behind the house stands sentinel to the mountains beyond (although there are obviously paths around and over it). The rock is pock marked and from the bottom looks an easy climb and he wanted to climb it.
The parent in me rose above the adventurer and I said I didn't think it was a good idea. His face clouded over and the adventurer and OMG I can't do the wailing anymore won out. So up we went. It's always halfway up or two hours into a gruelling hike that the dreadful realization of what an irresponsible mother I'm being sinks into me, it's a cold, hard dread.
We were almost at the top when the climb became impossible, he was overtly scared, I was covertly terrified. Two options ... we agreed on down. Fifteen minutes up and over an hour down and five minutes home.
His disposition? Sunny, cheerful, full of confidence, proud of his achievement and most importantly, happy.
(And he still loved him mom.)

Ching Chong Cha Cheat

Ching Chong Cha
Hick Hack Hock
Rock Paper Scissors
Which ever you choose to call it, hopefully not the latter – zero imagination – it is probably the one game you cannot cheat at. It's Ching Chong behind your back and on Cha you present your flat hand, fist or ... hang on a minute ...
In wanting to describe the placement of your fingers for scissors I realize it is the double-fingered, vulgarism of old, now discarded in favour of the single middle finger, but I digress. Peter Pointer and Toby Tall, with Tommy Thumb, Ruby Ring and Baby Small tucked in represent scissors.
So it's somewhere between 5.30 and 6.00am and neither my husband nor I can physically open our eyes let alone move a muscle so actions like nipping to the kitchen to warm a bottle, remove a dry nappy and pop her on the potty, respond cordially to the now ten-minute old plea of: "Can I have breakfast please?" Are just not possible.
Regardless of the night before, actually getting myself out of bed in the morning is a gargantuan task. My husband does it. Not because he's a morning person or because he finds it any easier, but because he knows I will outlast him.
In order to even make it (dressed with my teeth brushed) to the front door with the kids (dressed with their teeth brushed) and all the necessary apparel for their day, who swims on a Wednesday? I have to go to sleep, sleep, not bed, no later than 9.30, at a push 10pm, but then I'm risking throwing on yesterday's clothes to get out the door.
Before I had children I couldn't understand why my parents ate dinner so early. Now I know. Habit. Years of eating early so you can go to bed early so you can get up early.
Is it hideous to every now and then wish with every fibre for those precious Sunday mornings before you had kids?
Here's how bad it is:

• I caution my husband not to trawl for a movie on the tellie; it'll end too late.
• I talk myself into no longer liking a programme I've always enjoyed; it's a double bill and ends too late.
• Some one gave us the complete goodness-knows-how-many seasons of Breaking Bad over six months ago. We know we'll never just be able to watch a single episode each night, once we start it'll be full-on, "Just one more." It'll end too late. We've actually likened the commitment to having another child.
• We turn a DVD movie into a mini-series.
• Every day I promise myself I'm going to spend some time writing in the evening. I don't. I crawl guiltily across those broken promises into bed with my book making small groaning noises in appreciation of how good it feels to be lying down.

So our cheek's are plastered to our pillows, our daughter (legs too short to climb out of bed on her own and use the potty and developmental age too young to fetch and warm her own milk) has given up on calling "Maameee" and is now calling, "Daadee" and our son is now in the kitchen banging about with stools to reach the items necessary to make his own breakfast – enough to chill the core of any OCD parent – and I say: "Ching Chong Cha?"

Eyes closed on Ching Chong, we both manage to peer at the result, hands raised aloft on Cha .

Round one: I lose.

Round two: I win

Round three: In a do-or-die final I pull out my scissors and watch, aghast as his paper morphs into a rock!