My husband and I had always said that Jo'burg had a lifespan for us. From time to time the city would reach its zenith for us, the traffic, the noise, the fact that you could no longer pop out on a quick errand, it would take you all morning. Then there's the lifestyle; before we got married we threw a tent, two guitars and a couple of jerrycans in the back of an old 1981 Hilux, stuffed 100 US dollars in the cubbyhole and waved goodbye, heading north across the Limpopo.
We craved the bush, mountains, creeks, anything but the drunken neighbours, hooters, sirens and the exhaust fumes I ingested every time I ventured out for a run.
The city of gold was fast turning into a city of plastic, faux, faster, better, bigger, more ... everything we're not ... is there really a need for another mall?
But every time we'd had it with Jozi something came up and we'd push it all aside for the moment. Life doesn't stop happening , it doesn't stop for you to stay, "Oh, there's a gap coming up in our life where we will have the time to comb the countryside looking for a gorgeous house in a gorgeous town."
Then something bigger than life did happen. Suddenly and for the most part unprepared. We'd been trying in vain to start a family and had decided to go the adoption route – specifically the trans-race adoption route as the waiting period is shorter and it made not a jot of difference to us – once your intense screening process is complete you wait for the phone to ring, for a voice on the other side to say there's a baby ... it rang three days after our screening was complete.
We wanted quicker ...
The day we took our son home my husband started house hunting online.
Our little boy was four months old when he came home and we spent the next eight months finding heaven via Marquard.
Heard of it?
It's a very small town in the eastern Free State that is desperately trying to be something that it will just never be. The kind of town where the only cafe's cappuccinos are filter coffee with frothed milk and they're okay with that.
The issue with moving outside the three-, sometimes four-hour ring of ugly that surrounds Jo'burg is that you have to maximize towns and house viewing. All this happens online and via email, you see a few possible likes, you scour the map book and ID towns in the vicinity, then scour the online property sites for anything in those towns, then email some over-zealous agents (are there any other kind?) and set up a 4-town, 24-house weekend.
I learned two things: how to change a soiled nappy on the back seat of a moving car with a child in a supported standing position and that estate agents are, in the main, hard of hearing.
On the Marquard weekend we were breathing deeply in the shade of a large tree in the agent's garden, she was trying to flog us her house. I was probably breathing far deeper than my husband, rolling my shoulders back over and over and occasionally adding a head roll in an attempt to stop myself telling her that a) we specifically said no Randpark Ridge-style face-brick houses b) no old houses with visible steal supports running the length of the room just below the ceiling (banks don't like those) and c) no clearly industrial-type offices complete with lengthy passages and meeting rooms. This last was the straw that had me seething under the acacia. I knew while waiting for the door to be opened I didn't want to go inside. And wait we did, for the caretaker (and a hundred of his closest friends), one of which had just used the amenities after what must have been a rough night, to open up.
I was hot and irritated and then our son crawled, for the first time. He was sitting and then he was crawling.
We were delighted, totally chuffed, as parents are, as though they had anything to do with it, and the estate agent? beside herself.
The following morning, before following her to view two houses in Hobhouse, we told her he had held his bottle on his own for the first time. Bless her, she took it as a sign that we were destined for a life in Marquard.
We do not live there but our boy is a seasoned traveller.
Thursday, 8 January 2015
Tuesday, 6 January 2015
Black Like Me
No it's not time for another Caucasian vs Ethnic hair diatribe, although Black Like Me is to most of us a common hair care brand. No, this runs skin deep and is in the words of Mastercard "priceless".
My husband and I were sitting on the stoep (veranda for my US readers, to whom I am very grateful for their audience) when my daughter was a lot younger, probably nine months or so. She was sitting on the floor playing and my son, a couple of years older was sitting close by with his large box of assorted plastic building blocks.
A word on this box of blocks; he could not live without it, he builds Dr Seuss-style houses with a fervour quite rare in one so young. He can spend hours building the most elaborate pieces of architecture, or a minute, one can never be sure. One of our most feared sounds is the clamorous tipping out of the entire box onto the slate floor at 5.30 in the morning. It elicits an involuntary, lengthy groan from our bed in which we are still stubbornly ensconced, denying the inevitable.
I doubt we were sitting quietly reading that afternoon on the stoep, this is a pastime denied the new parent, we may have been watching our new baby girl and marvelling at the incredible coordination displayed by one so young – smiling contentedly, nodding to each other knowingly – but more probably we were listening to an endless, mind-numbing stream of questions and commentary in a language that takes infinite concentration to understand from our son – answers are demanded so attention must be paid – and trying to stop the Jack Russell licking her in the face.
From nowhere he stops and says, "Hey!"
We look up to find him pointing at his sister's neck in sheer amazement, "Ella's black like me!"
For a moment we're dumbstruck and both venture a tentative, "What?"
"ELLA! SHE'S BLACK LIKE ME!"
He couldn't believe it and there it was right before his innocent two-year-old eyes.
It was so random, so left field, so out of nowhere that we guffawed, then laughed and giggled; much later we were still sniggering. It was his sheer surprise.
Of course we knew that at some point our children would realize our skin colour was not the same as theirs – every older child at his nursery school had and as children do had inquired extensively about this anomaly – but when it happened we weren't prepared even though in our adoption screening we had been extensively prepped.
But this, as with most things to do with our son, was on its head; he had identified with her, rather than comparing with us.
When we'd gathered ourselves my husband asked, "What colour am I?"
He thought a minute then referred to what he was most familiar with, his blocks, rummaged carefully through the box and triumphantly produced a block, holding it on high.
"Red!"
My husband and I were sitting on the stoep (veranda for my US readers, to whom I am very grateful for their audience) when my daughter was a lot younger, probably nine months or so. She was sitting on the floor playing and my son, a couple of years older was sitting close by with his large box of assorted plastic building blocks.
A word on this box of blocks; he could not live without it, he builds Dr Seuss-style houses with a fervour quite rare in one so young. He can spend hours building the most elaborate pieces of architecture, or a minute, one can never be sure. One of our most feared sounds is the clamorous tipping out of the entire box onto the slate floor at 5.30 in the morning. It elicits an involuntary, lengthy groan from our bed in which we are still stubbornly ensconced, denying the inevitable.
I doubt we were sitting quietly reading that afternoon on the stoep, this is a pastime denied the new parent, we may have been watching our new baby girl and marvelling at the incredible coordination displayed by one so young – smiling contentedly, nodding to each other knowingly – but more probably we were listening to an endless, mind-numbing stream of questions and commentary in a language that takes infinite concentration to understand from our son – answers are demanded so attention must be paid – and trying to stop the Jack Russell licking her in the face.
From nowhere he stops and says, "Hey!"
We look up to find him pointing at his sister's neck in sheer amazement, "Ella's black like me!"
For a moment we're dumbstruck and both venture a tentative, "What?"
"ELLA! SHE'S BLACK LIKE ME!"
He couldn't believe it and there it was right before his innocent two-year-old eyes.
It was so random, so left field, so out of nowhere that we guffawed, then laughed and giggled; much later we were still sniggering. It was his sheer surprise.
Of course we knew that at some point our children would realize our skin colour was not the same as theirs – every older child at his nursery school had and as children do had inquired extensively about this anomaly – but when it happened we weren't prepared even though in our adoption screening we had been extensively prepped.
But this, as with most things to do with our son, was on its head; he had identified with her, rather than comparing with us.
When we'd gathered ourselves my husband asked, "What colour am I?"
He thought a minute then referred to what he was most familiar with, his blocks, rummaged carefully through the box and triumphantly produced a block, holding it on high.
"Red!"
Tuesday, 23 December 2014
"Don't touch the hair"
Who has the the unequivocal right to say this?
If you can wash your, or your child's hair and then pull a comb through it – you don't.
If you are a man with short hair that has been gelled into baked Alaska peaks with an up-standing, side-waving flick at the front – you don't.
Who does? Me.
When we adopted our first child, a boy, I took cognizance of two things, ethnic hair is different and I know nothing about it except 'Black is Beautiful'.
Stand in front of the shelves of ethnic hair products in the shop and ask yourself one question: What is your intention? Stimulate root growth, moisturize the scalp, moisturize the hair, relax, detangle, soften, shine, and if so, with what? Olive oil? Avocado? Coconut? Mayonnaise? (really) ... "I don't know," I said loud and petulantly (why aren't these products white folk friendly?) I just want to be able to comb it without him screaming and wailing.
The rational answer is to ask someone. For this you have to prepare yourself mentally, practice your pranayama and move into a deep state of calm and serenity ... in Pick 'n Pay.
Once said state is achieved you look around for a friendly face ... then you look around for a less rushed-looking face ... then you ask the nearest person.
The first look that crosses your adviser's face is disbelief, not that you have a black child, but that you may not know what black actually is. Thinking this can't possibly be the case the next expression that crosses said face is suspicion, as though I am asking her to let me in on her hundred-year-old matriarchal chakalaka recipe.
Johnson & Johnson's baby shampoo and detangle spray was what I needed and an Africa comb.
What my boy has is a No. 1 cut.
Ah! But what about the girl? Advise here is freely dispensed as though one does not concern oneself with the minutiae of boy's hair but the importance of girl's hair cannot be overstated and you clearly know nothing.
NEVER CUT IT! LEAVE IT TO GROW!
If you cut there will be no braids, no cornrows, no cute twists and little dreads.
For this hair must be washed and combed so my angel doesn't look like a Mau Mau who has spent two years in the Aberdares. So back to that vast intimidating shelf.
Night one: Wash, rinse and massage in conditioner, but do not rinse. Wrap hair in scarf as sponge-wet and to prevent conditioner coating bedding.
Night two: Rinse and massage in moisturizer then comb.
I have been blessed with a little girl with the thickest, curliest, most beautiful mat of hair that takes a full hour to comb through. I then wrap her head in a scarf and the next morning, GORGEOUS! A perfect sphere of soft, glistening, thick pile adorns her head.
I'm showing off, gloating, boasting, "Look what I've done!" "What I've accomplished!" Then I remember she was involved too and add, "What a clever girl, you were so good, look how beautiful you are."
No one may touch THE hair, no one.
Three days later I'm exasperated, she has been recalled to the Aberdares.
If you can wash your, or your child's hair and then pull a comb through it – you don't.
If you are a man with short hair that has been gelled into baked Alaska peaks with an up-standing, side-waving flick at the front – you don't.
Who does? Me.
When we adopted our first child, a boy, I took cognizance of two things, ethnic hair is different and I know nothing about it except 'Black is Beautiful'.
Stand in front of the shelves of ethnic hair products in the shop and ask yourself one question: What is your intention? Stimulate root growth, moisturize the scalp, moisturize the hair, relax, detangle, soften, shine, and if so, with what? Olive oil? Avocado? Coconut? Mayonnaise? (really) ... "I don't know," I said loud and petulantly (why aren't these products white folk friendly?) I just want to be able to comb it without him screaming and wailing.
The rational answer is to ask someone. For this you have to prepare yourself mentally, practice your pranayama and move into a deep state of calm and serenity ... in Pick 'n Pay.
Once said state is achieved you look around for a friendly face ... then you look around for a less rushed-looking face ... then you ask the nearest person.
The first look that crosses your adviser's face is disbelief, not that you have a black child, but that you may not know what black actually is. Thinking this can't possibly be the case the next expression that crosses said face is suspicion, as though I am asking her to let me in on her hundred-year-old matriarchal chakalaka recipe.
Johnson & Johnson's baby shampoo and detangle spray was what I needed and an Africa comb.
What my boy has is a No. 1 cut.
Ah! But what about the girl? Advise here is freely dispensed as though one does not concern oneself with the minutiae of boy's hair but the importance of girl's hair cannot be overstated and you clearly know nothing.
NEVER CUT IT! LEAVE IT TO GROW!
If you cut there will be no braids, no cornrows, no cute twists and little dreads.
For this hair must be washed and combed so my angel doesn't look like a Mau Mau who has spent two years in the Aberdares. So back to that vast intimidating shelf.
Night one: Wash, rinse and massage in conditioner, but do not rinse. Wrap hair in scarf as sponge-wet and to prevent conditioner coating bedding.
Night two: Rinse and massage in moisturizer then comb.
I have been blessed with a little girl with the thickest, curliest, most beautiful mat of hair that takes a full hour to comb through. I then wrap her head in a scarf and the next morning, GORGEOUS! A perfect sphere of soft, glistening, thick pile adorns her head.
I'm showing off, gloating, boasting, "Look what I've done!" "What I've accomplished!" Then I remember she was involved too and add, "What a clever girl, you were so good, look how beautiful you are."
No one may touch THE hair, no one.
Three days later I'm exasperated, she has been recalled to the Aberdares.
Wednesday, 17 December 2014
Mom: A quick reaction unit
In a mad attempt to finish my work before Christmas I have taken a moment to assess the detritus on my desk. Aside from the requisite PC screen, tower, scanner, printer, keyboard, UPS and speakers, I have:
... and me? Back to Fire Force: a complete vertical envelopment of the enemy, encircle it entirely and, very quickly with highly-trained, highly-motivated and highly-disciplined troops ... MOM!
- 1 x Sony Z1 movie camera to play interview footage for research.
- 2 x useless Comrades Marathon running magazines. To be returned (with thanks).
- A sheaf of emails relating to the status of the para training of the Rhodesian African Rifles.
- 3 x tea cups – sadly empty.
- 12 x tapes, not in order, with hours of interview footage for research purposes, now all in the incorrect boxes thus I now have no clue what's on which tape.
- 1 x notebook including notes on everything from the beginnings of the Police Anti-Terrorist Unit to the contact details of all the butcheries in town.
- Application forms to register an NGO.
- Said NGOs working constitution.
- 12 x books, all large format on the Rhodesian bush war, ranging from books on individual regiments to memoirs to complete histories.
- Empty toilet rolls to make 'binoculars' for the game reserve camping holiday we have planned.
- 2 x A2 sheets of paper with notes, sketches and other information pertaining to the book I am writing.
... or trying to write.
As I zoom out the playroom floor has mysteriously disappeared in a cornucopia of building blocks, Christmas food parcels, tea sets, musical instruments, crayons, puzzle piece, play dough ... and this to the ever-increasing wailing of two young children fighting over a wind-up dog, the kind you put on a pencil: the head on the front and the tail at the back, then you wind it up and it walks. They don't have a pencil, just a head and a tail.
As I get my facts straight about the first Fire Force jump from Buffalo Range by the Rhodesian SAS on 22 September 1976 (?) the wailing has turned into a full-blown fight and they are at my chair, each brandishing half a dog.
Any parenting book will tell you that by getting cross and shouting you are merely adding another tantrum to the mix, well sod that, a short, sharp few word, swift discipline, each to their own naughty corner and now ... the sweet sounds of a happy game in progress down the passage.... and me? Back to Fire Force: a complete vertical envelopment of the enemy, encircle it entirely and, very quickly with highly-trained, highly-motivated and highly-disciplined troops ... MOM!
Tuesday, 9 December 2014
The Little Red Number
You're pushing 40, you've known your husband almost half your life, you have two children, a bond and an SUV. What you no longer have is a sexy wardrobe; it's practical, sensible, user friendly and comes in a variety of shades that just about conceal most food types and bodily fluids.
Of course this isn't true for all, I gawk at 'Paris Fashion Week Mom' every morning I drop my daughter at playgroup. But I'm a hands-on, outdoorsy mom and anything tight, short, low-cut, lacy or racy no longer occupies space on a hanger.
In my twenties I could open my cupboard and do anything from a modern Scarlett O'Hara to Scarlett Johansson (without the lips). So when your tenth wedding anniversary comes up and there is literally nothing I can buy my husband that is romantic, pricey and comes in a box I'm forced to think out of that proverbial box.
Ha! I will be the gift. I will be Julia Roberts sitting at the bar counter somewhat nervous but oozing sexy in that racy, lacy, low-cut, short, heeled little number. But I'll see her and raise her one, mine will be RED. Yes, red; the colour of love, the colour of passion, the colour my husband has never seen me in, the colour I don't have.
I live in a small town – news travels fast – so I ask two girlfriends for help, both refer me to 'Little Miss Perfect'. Groan and horror. The mom that makes all other moms feel totally inadequate; the one who remembers to put a jersey in her child's bag, remembers which days are swimming days, coin laying days, cancer sprayathon days, funny hat days and every other possible day schools can come up with to make most moms spin. But not this one; she's composed, a hint of makeup, her hair is clean and blow dried, she works full time and I bet has that Stepford Wife gourmet meal ready in the evening as she tenderly kisses her successful husband hello, and no doubt is a ... in the bedroom. Her kids eat their vegetables without threats of imminent extermination and colour in the lines.
We couldn't be more different so we acknowledge each other from a distance, greet when we must but are pleasant at close quarters, as I said, it's a small town. Turns out she's the only one in this small town who actually may just have the Little Red Number I'm looking for.
Why don't I just buy one? For all the reasons above.
We have never celebrated our anniversary, we seldom even remember it. But this is a round number and I just know he's bought me something romantic and pricey that comes in a box. So I'm determined and will not be swayed. (Fortunately we don't have to meet at the Wimpy, there is a larger town a little distance away.)
He'll receive a mysterious note to meet me at (tbc) and there I'll be, waiting, gorgeous, more beautiful that the day he first saw me .. a full night's sleep and slightly later than 5am start permitting.
Of course this isn't true for all, I gawk at 'Paris Fashion Week Mom' every morning I drop my daughter at playgroup. But I'm a hands-on, outdoorsy mom and anything tight, short, low-cut, lacy or racy no longer occupies space on a hanger.
In my twenties I could open my cupboard and do anything from a modern Scarlett O'Hara to Scarlett Johansson (without the lips). So when your tenth wedding anniversary comes up and there is literally nothing I can buy my husband that is romantic, pricey and comes in a box I'm forced to think out of that proverbial box.
Ha! I will be the gift. I will be Julia Roberts sitting at the bar counter somewhat nervous but oozing sexy in that racy, lacy, low-cut, short, heeled little number. But I'll see her and raise her one, mine will be RED. Yes, red; the colour of love, the colour of passion, the colour my husband has never seen me in, the colour I don't have.
I live in a small town – news travels fast – so I ask two girlfriends for help, both refer me to 'Little Miss Perfect'. Groan and horror. The mom that makes all other moms feel totally inadequate; the one who remembers to put a jersey in her child's bag, remembers which days are swimming days, coin laying days, cancer sprayathon days, funny hat days and every other possible day schools can come up with to make most moms spin. But not this one; she's composed, a hint of makeup, her hair is clean and blow dried, she works full time and I bet has that Stepford Wife gourmet meal ready in the evening as she tenderly kisses her successful husband hello, and no doubt is a ... in the bedroom. Her kids eat their vegetables without threats of imminent extermination and colour in the lines.
We couldn't be more different so we acknowledge each other from a distance, greet when we must but are pleasant at close quarters, as I said, it's a small town. Turns out she's the only one in this small town who actually may just have the Little Red Number I'm looking for.
Why don't I just buy one? For all the reasons above.
We have never celebrated our anniversary, we seldom even remember it. But this is a round number and I just know he's bought me something romantic and pricey that comes in a box. So I'm determined and will not be swayed. (Fortunately we don't have to meet at the Wimpy, there is a larger town a little distance away.)
He'll receive a mysterious note to meet me at (tbc) and there I'll be, waiting, gorgeous, more beautiful that the day he first saw me .. a full night's sleep and slightly later than 5am start permitting.
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