First Base

High school was the time of giggling girls and post-dance (I was in boarding school) note comparisons on who got to First Base: The Kiss (or was it holding hands?) As I remember it, girls would still admit to reaching Second Base: The Fondle, hearts a-flutter to a kiss and a wondering hand (bums and boobs only). Third Base: Heavy Petting (just writing that makes me feel weird) was only whispered among best friends, to the shock and disbelief of said friend with a word of caution, or a concealed low-key jealousy. Thereafter you get slapped with the Scarlet Letter: S. Slut.

Then you grown up and First and Second Base are fun but brief and Third and Fourth morph into one and next thing you've reproduced and all Bases are off.

In a big city I stayed below the radar and enjoyed my anonymity; a handful of good, like-minded friends was what I needed and had. Then to the super-small town where there are only a handful of like-minded people you gratefully seek each other out and that's that, you've got mates.

Now increase the size of the town, change countries and continents, skip through the first two months of family, fun and outings, plunge into the third set on establishing a routine, succeed and then find yourself somewhat adrift in the fourth. What's missing?

Friends. Proper ones. Not the ones you wave to across the field and call a "Hiya" to and then, "Alright?" when closer. No. Like-minded people, roughly your age that you can natter with over a cuppa. This is not a simple matter. All the old: how many times should I phone (now inbox) before I look desperate? Maybe she only said we should "do this again" because that's what people say but didn't really mean it? Maybe my sister was right when she said English people don't invite you into their homes? How long should I wait for a response before I suggest a cuppa again? Do they even say play date here? Maybe I came on too strong, too South African?

So when a fellow runner, with whom I chat easily, is my age and has kids the same age as mine responded favourably to my understated hint at possibly getting together – using all the words that would give her a get-out-of-jail-free card: maybe, possible, time permitting – all the above came to mind.

Then score, First Base – and far more enjoyable than the inexperienced super-gob graunch (awful word) of the 14 year old boy at the school fence. Plans are made, the house is found, the front door is knocked on ... the front door is knocked on, a moment of panic, she's forgotten ... a noise from inside, a voice getting closer ... exhale ... "Hi."

Legs tucked under us on the couch, coffee cups in hand we chatted easily. I should have left earlier, I had work to do, but I was having fun. Then the inevitable, "I really must go." The latter brings with it the anxiety of what's to come ... he's walked you back to your school, you held hands, then you arrive at the gate ... in this case the front door and the HUG. I love a good, strong hug but only with people I know very, very well, so when she steps forward, arms opening, there it is, Second Base, staring at me ... other couples are arriving thick and fast at the gate, there's a lot of awkward pausing, pressure from those behind ... I take a breath and literally embrace the moment, albeit a little A-frame.

Don't worry AL, I won't hold your hand but I have made a friend. A proper one.

Lumpy mums and thyrotoxic dads

So we've relocated and are doing our best to settle (the thousand-meaning word). An important step is school, very important, not the a, b, c's and one, two, threes, it's all about mom, the screwdriver and the plastic sheeting waiting on the kitchen floor.
We finally parted company after nine weeks of 24/7; SA winter holidays run directly into the start of UK summer holidays. But we were all still alive, talking to each other and even snuggling in the morning.
After leaving one at school and one at playgroup I suddenly felt like a deer in the headlights, I wanted then back ... and then I came to my senses, tootled off home for plunge coffee and more wondering what to do with myself.
School's a hit until I'm hit with a birthday party invitation. Grossly unfair – day three: don't know the boy, don't know the parents and will need SatNav to find venue. I rearrange my attitude: a party is good, it's an opportunity for our son to make friends, to socialize, so I message the mom and ask what her darling is 'into'. "Spiderman, or anyfing Marvel." I twitch, roll my shoulders and then, roll them again; but I'm being open-friendly-receptive mum.
I find the bus and the toy shop. I ask, but no Spiderman, no Batman no, wait a second, we have a puzzle. Excellent, checks both my boxes (educational and Marvel) plus it's £5 and I have a £4 voucher. Wrapping paper was £3.50.
All very exciting, our son has chosen his outfit himself and is looking suave. We arrive, as one does, to find a gargantuan Spiderman jumping castle in the community hall and spot the birthday boy, who spots us, runs up, snatches his gift and runs away. The mum comes over, "Sorry, he's really shy." But my mind had moved on, uncommon is this type of scenario.
You see, I have found the most intriguing species, it is not concerned with its shape or size, only with the size of the garment it is wearing. If it wears an 8 it must therefore be an 8. Hence, this species spends a considerable amount of time, as it pauses or stops in its perambulations in pulling UP the bottom garment and then pulling DOWN the top garment, over what is frighteningly common, a large expanse of not-insignificant lumpy posterior. The top garment is in itself note worthy. Thin shoulder straps, low necklines, stretchy fabric and the requisite size 8. By the laws of science if the pulled down to cover one area, it must reveal another.
That was the mum; and the dad seemed like a pretty bulk standard, "Yea, Yea!" kinda guy so I took my seat along the wall and smiled to my left and right. On my right was a nice mum who was timing her party shift. She does half, her husband does half. He came in reeking of the nicotine he needs to get him through, I can't say if it was the two at a time fags or a medical condition but his eyes bulged and conversation was tricky, much like conversation with my husband, you start talking and just at the point when you don't want to have to say it again, they turn and say, "I'm sorry, what?"
So I turned to my left. Safer ground, women. A kind, friendly mum introduces herself and me and I learn who their children are; the most precocious little girl belongs to the mum trying to look like Maria Carey, her bum wins out though and there's a girl who looks just like Abigail Breslin in the role of Little Miss Sunshine.
Time is ticking by and I'm starting to lean ever closer to the right to imbibe a little nicotine when the left-hand mum say, "Your son's very tall for his age. Five is it?" I say yes and she says, "Well, you're quite tall."
Bless her, not for a minute did she assume that he is adopted. She made no assumption.
Their bums may be lumpy, they may be tattooed from head to foot with blue hair (and they really are) but her first impression, whether conscious or not, was that he was my biological child. And why wouldn't she? My husband wasn't there.
So perhaps I need to stop running and spend more time on the couch watching Eastenders eating junk.

Babying your 'babies'

I have lived in England for 25 days. England is England, I've been here before, I know what it looks like and yes, settling here is not quite the same as visiting, mostly because when you're on holiday you don't need home insurance and landline, broadband, a school and furniture, and you don't need to teach your children that it is not sensible or acceptable to walk into strangers' houses, go upstairs and look around.

People have asked what I see as the biggest difference between South Africa and here and I usually say: Everything. But something has come to my alarming notice and can certainly be placed squarely in the Incomparable Box.

In Forest Hill, London we visited the Horniman Museum. The kids were interested and gave the displays all the attention a five- and two-and-a-half-year-old can muster until their stomachs roar louder than the stuffed walrus. So we queue for a toasted sarmie (I refuse to call it a sarnies) and some coffee. While waiting and then sipping my coffee I was exposed to the most bizarre and utterly hideous scene. At the opposite table a dad and two kids (minimum 6 and 4 but more likely 7 and 5) arrive with their food and drink. Dad is carrying everything; he dumps it on the table and tells the children in a I'm-trying-to-teach-a-Pekingese-English tone to wait while he goes to get the ... high chairs.

Once stuffed into said chairs he then proceeds to open the wrapping on the straws and put it in the foil juice hole, unwrap their sandwiches and cut them into small pieces; they hardly ate a morsel, probably no space due to the pressure of the cross bar on their stomachs or perhaps they felt ill at the sight of it as I did. Then, "now what are we going to have as our special treat for daddy's day out? And remember if we ask for it we must eat it." We? I lost count of the number of times he told them to behave as he went to secure 'our' brownies. How could they misbehave, they couldn't move.

Since then I have made a study of the British 'baby'. In Cheltenham last Saturday I spied a large leg protruding from a stroller, I peeked in and to my horror found a child of school-leaving age staring back. Parents are laden with baby bags and bottles for kids nearing ten and eleven. Bottles hang from the mouths not of babes but of brutes.

Today started rainy so I took my two, five and almost three, to one of those hideous hellholes termed 'multi-leveled soft play' barns filled with screaming children and bustling adults. Regarding the British obsession with Health and Safety I can safely say that the number of adults sitting in the balls basin below a slide, or crouching through tunnels and helping children up child-sized steps and then reaching down for them and hauling them up half-a-meter, was a safety hazard. An alarming, gob-smacking hazard. How will these children ever learn to be confident, and God forbid take a risk, when a parent is forever THERE, aiding, assisting and cautioning.

Comparatively my kids are feral and I'm a negligent mum; I don't react unless the crying or screaming reaches a certain decibel or continues for longer then it takes me to finish my thought (long). A mum called out that a little girl was crying looking around for the mum, no response. Some time later she saw me with my daughter and pointedly remarked, "It was your little girl crying up there." To which I replied, "She seems fine to me." And she was, she was already halfway across the room yelling for her brother.

Give me wild over pampered any day and as they say, twice on Sundays.