Twelve Steps...

Don't get me wrong I love Emma. I love Emma more than the sky is blue and the sun is round. I love her more than the twigs used to build a bird's nest or the snow used for an igloo. I love Emma more than Joan Rivers has had plastic surgery or Jo Brand's been called a lesbian. I love Emma with every bit of cellulite on my thighs. My love for Emma runs deeper than my stretch marks and more than my bum sags. But bed-times at the Connor house are enough to push Mary Poppins over the edge.

Night times are rarely painless. Occasionally Emma is put in her bed and she falls asleep. Bed times are a nightmare and more often than not it takes up to forty minutes to get Emma off to la-la land...and for me to reach cloud-cuckoo-land.

We watch Uki, Charlie and Lola and for some reason Tommy Zoom. Then it's time to say good-night. Emma gives dad a love and tells him she loves him. She then tells him to sleep tight and not the let the bed bugs bite. She also tells him to send love to the angels. Almost ready for bed. Dummy - check. Milk - check. There are approximately twelve stairs leading up to her bedroom. Twelve long and exhausting steps. As she climbs each stair, she says goodnight to something that catches her eye. So the farewells to the things and objects change, but that's about it:

Stair one - goodnight Bassie (the dog)
Stair two - goodnight Jiggy Biggs (another dog)
Stair three - goodnight Binah (yet another dog)
Stair  four - goodnight Chloe (thankfully the last dog)
Stair five. goodnight books
Stair six - goodnight dora (the doll)
Stair seven - goodnight boots (the monkey)
Stair eight - goodnight TV
Stair nine - goodnight books
Stair ten - goodnight kitty (hello kitty)
Stair eleven - goodnight daddy (again)
Stair twelve - goodnight everyone

Then into bed we go. And it gets worse.Reading for Emma is, well, not easy. She's a back-seat reader. She tells you how to hold the book. when to turn the pages, how to turn the pages. She speeds ahead and then stops. Then she reverses and goes right back to the beginning. Then you have to read it in different voices and if you use the wrong voice in the wrong place you have to start again...

Then it's bed time. And this is where things go from wrong to very wrong.

Me: Goodnight Emma, sleep tight

Emma: Goodnight mamma, love you

Me: Love you too

Emma: Kisses?

Me: kiss kiss kiss. Sleep tight

Emma: Put my blankie on my head

Me: Okay. There you go. Now good night

(Me, exit down stairs. Sit)

Emma: Mamma, I've finished milk

Me: Okay put your bottle next to you

Emma: I've messed

Me: Put your bottle down and sleep Emma

Emma: Mamma I need a new nappy

Me: No you don't. That's a new one

Emma: No! It's stinky

Me: Emma. Sleep

Emma: Mamma. More milk

Me: (up the stairs with more milk)

Emma: Hello mommy!

Me: Goodnight Emma!

(Me back down the stairs)

Emma: Mamma where's my dummy?

Me - silence

Emma: Mamma where's manster (talking hamster toy)

Me - silence

Emma: Mamma. Mamma. Mamma. Mamma. Mamma. Mamma

(Me back up the stairs)

Emma: Hello!

Me: Emma please sleep

Emma: Kisses mamma. Hugs please

Me: Okay. Now goodnight

Now I know some of you are saying I should use the tough-love-ignore-them method but I can't. As a mom to an adopted little girl I am governed by guilt, a guilt as bad as, if not worse, than a Jewish mom. I am so nervous that anything I do or don't do will result in a delinquent teen that hates her parents for everything (almost like me) and so I give in. I climb those twelve stairs at least ten times before Emma is asleep. By the time she's sleeping I am ready to pass out. Of course the other solution is to move her bed downstairs. And pray that I'm not alone in this xxx

Something lost but so much gained...

http://www.paulotosold.blogspot.com/

If you've ever miscarried, lost a baby or a child, a pet or someone near and dear to you you will know what I mean about the huge gaping hole left behind. Time eases the pain but there's days or triggers that take you back to the time, the event, the memory, the hurt.

I miscarried at 11 weeks. I remember the day, the time and the conversation between myself and the specialist as if it were yesterday. Mark was in the States at the time and even with two other people in the room I have never felt so alone. A few weeks earlier Mark and I had gone together and we had listened to the heart beat of our answered prayer. This check up was on my own and I was so excited. I think I might have even neatened up a bit down there (if you know what I mean). I lay back on the bed, the doctor walked in, nurse following close behind and he inserted his tool...I mean the sonar thingy.

There was no heart beat. Me being me actually said "Pump up the volume doc...let's hear that beat!" He tried to smile but I could see something was very wrong. "The sound is up Melinda. There's no heartbeat. I am so sorry." He told me to take my time getting dressed and to pop into his office afterwards so we could confirm the hospital booking.

Just like that my answered prayer had vanished. I remember sitting in the chair in that tiny room, the image of nothing still on the screen. I remember hearing the nursing staff laughing and giggling outside. Not at me, not at my circumstances but it felt like it. I wanted to scream at them to shut up. To show a little bit of empathy.

When we got the results back it was confirmed that it was a partial molar pregnancy. In true Melinda style I had managed to have a partial molar pregnancy. For those of you who don't know a PMP is when the fertilized egg has the normal set of chromosomes from the mother and two sets from the father. So there are 69 chromosomes instead of the normal 46. Of course I joked about this and said that Mark's little swimmers were obviously so eager to get the job done they did it twice.

PMP's are also not common. About 1 in 1 500 pregnancies in the States is a molar pregnancy. I couldn't find any figures for SA but if you look in the book WHAT TO EXPECT WHEN EXPECTING Partial Molar Pregnancy appears in a small section of the book of things that will probably never happen...

The loss of that baby was probably one of the hardest things I've ever been through. Well meaning people would say things "like don't worry you'll fall pregnant again" or "at least it was only 11 weeks" and my best one ever was "the miscarriage is almost like fertilizer. You'll find yourself falling pregnant again in no time." Stupidity comes in all shapes and sizes and hairstyles.

In honour of our baby I made a little spot in the garden, planted all of my favourite flowers and bought a statue of a little angel. That was my quiet spot and whenever I needed some time away I would go and sit there. I would chat to my baby that would never be and pray that he or she was safe.

A wise young friend of mine after hearing about the miscarriage said I now have my very own angel looking out for me, right by God's side and that got me through a lot of dark and sad days.

Just the other day Emma and I were taking a walk through the garden. We were on the hunt for fairies and other wonderful things and she spotted a pair of wings lying to one side. She picked it up and asked me what they were. I then realized that after many months the angel had slowly started to break up...and all that was left were the wings. In hindsight I'm grateful the head wasn't there...that would have been a gruesome find for Emma :) That's how long I had been in that section of the garden. That's how long ago I had needed peace and quiet.

I now know I never lost that baby. That baby is still with us and he or she sent Emma. Everyday I am grateful for the opportunity of having experienced a pregnancy - the morning sickness, the bloatedness and the nausea. But I am even more grateful for the joy that Emma brings.

I didn't lose a baby. I gained an angel in heaven, one on earth and a multitude of friends I would never have made were it not for both of them xxx

So as a rather over-enthusiastic mom and lover of birthday parties I'm already thinking about Emma's 3rd bash...I have 'stolen' some ideas from

http://ingridliddle.blogspot.com/2010/05/charlie-and-lola-party.html

http://warmhotchocolate.com/2010/05/16/jenna-turns-two/

Of course I've also seen the cutest little miss party ideas at http://insidemysocalledlife.blogspot.com/2011/04/little-miss-birthday-party.html

So now what to do...

A brother called Sister

Mark and I have agreed that when Emma is three or thereabouts we will adopt a sibling. We asked Emma the other night whether she would like a new brother or sister. She quickly answered that she would like a brother. I then asked her what would we call him. This took a moment of pondering, finger to lip in deep thought and then she piped up with "Sister!". So Emma has decided she wants a brother. Mark is thrilled with this. Me not so much. I mean have you seen the boring range of boys clothing? There's shorts, more shirts and long pants. There's t-shirts, long sleeve shirts and collared shirts. With no disrespect to moms with boys but I really would prefer a little girl.

Have you seen the clothes for little girls? Especially new borns? OMG!!! I could easily spend a month's salary on what's out there. Of course, Mark being a man, has informed me that we cannot and will not base the sex of our next baby on what's available fashion-wise.

And of course as Emma gets older the question becomes where oh where does one find clothes for little girls. If my dress sense is anything to go by Emma will never be in frocks and frumpy outfits. I'm a little vintage-grunge with some bohemian to boot. I have my own dress sense which some people like and some don't. Emma is like a little mini-me and I hope she keeps her slightly eccentric dress sense as she gets older.

http://www.cutelittleclothes.com/

Between you and me I'm a bit of a snob. I don't want Emma in mass produced clothes, so leggings, jarmies and essentials are bought at Woolies, Mr Price and at a push Ackermans. Most of her clothes are from Naartjie and Earthchild. Partly because I like some of the things available and also because I can't afford (and even if I could I wouldn't) the high-end labels. So where does a fashionable mommy shop? I've suggested to the gorgeous sales ladies at Urban Wear that they should create a kiddies range. And I've even thought of designing my own...but today I was looking at some websites and spotted such pretty things - however the search for Emma's brother called Sister clothes continue...

Macaroon's anyone?

My new favourite online store thanks to Tanya...

http://blog.macaroon.co/macaroon/content/en/blog/macaroon-blog?oid=1746&sn=Detail&pid=1106&An-Enchanted-Party-in-a-Secret-Garden%E2%80%A6

www.macaroon.co.za

For the most gorgeous invitations, stickers and gift ideas...I especially love the tooth fairy kit

Hide and seek with a black baby

Playing hide and seek with Emma is quite a challenge. She hasn't yet got her head around the concept of what hiding is, so if she can't see you (i.e. if her eyes are covered) then she reckons she's pretty well concealed.

The other night we were with some friends at our favourite Italian restaurant, Luca's ( http://www.eatout.co.za/Restaurants/3619/Johannesburg/Italian/Lucas-Pizzeria-Pastificio ) Emma and I were playing outside while everyone else was enjoying their meal and copious amounts of wine and bubbles. Mark eventually came outside with a cold drink for me (ever so considerate) and Emma asked if he would play hide and seek with her. Mark started counting to ten. Emma went off in search of a hiding place and when Mark turned to start his seeking, there she was right in front him, by a tree. She thought this was the best hiding place ever and there was no way in the world that dad would find her because she had her back to him...

All toddlers love hiding under the blankets and playing a version of peek-a-boo. Again Emma's convinced that if she can't see you as she takes refuge under her blankie then there's no way on earth you could possibly know where she is.

Playing hide and seek in the dark with a black toddler is almost impossible. You can't see her until she smiles or looks right at you - the whites of her eyes are like neon lights. Normally after bath time, Emma in the nude and me not in the mood, runs from the bathroom into our bedroom shouting 'catch me, catch me'. Invariably the bedroom light is off and there is no way to find that gorgeous brown body in the dark. Just the other night I walked smack bang into her and only when she roared with laughter and showed her teeth did I realize it was her...

I love therefore I am

Descartes once said “I think therefore I am”. I have my own little Latin saying ‘praecidi ergo sum’ which means something along the lines of I cut therefore I am…

My rather bad habit of cutting started a little later than most. Usually you find angsty teenagers experiencing these issues, but as with most things, I was a follower, not a trend-setter. So too did my eating disorder. My crisis was a belated one and hit at the rather embarrassing age of 33. Things were so out of control in my life but the one thing I could (and can still) control is the amount of food I don't allow into my body. By the time I was admitted into the clinic I was close to death's door, weighing in at about 35 kg's.

My cutting and eating disorder are a result of not being able to communicate my feelings effectively. I suppose I hoped that if someone saw me wasting away they’d figure something was up. It was a passive plea for help and it didn’t work. It was misinterpreted by most and misunderstood by many. Cutting is even more of a mystery and if you've never done it before it's difficult to understand. It is however easy to judge. And judge people do.

I cut therefore I am. I bleed therefore I breathe. I hurt therefore I must matter. Anyone who has ever cut to feel a little more than the overwhelming darkness around them knows what I mean. Cutting is not a means to get attention nor is it a weak attempt at suicide. Cutting serves a purpose all on its own.

In my deepest darkest moments when there has been nothing other than a numbness I have cut to feel something. There's something reassuring as the blood starts to trickle. There's a feeling of relief as you realize you are alive. For a short while you no longer feel dead. Tearing the skin open allows the built up emotions to flow a little, oozing out of your body one droplet at a time. I haven't cut for a long time. The last episode saw me at the ER at 9:30pm getting stitches in my arm. But the urge to do it hasn't left me. Every day is a struggle not to take a blade or a broken piece of glass to my skin and just slash. I cut for the years of abuse, the guilt and shame that goes with it. The feeling that I should have done something to stop it. I cut for a childhood lost and I cut wondering about the person I could have been if this hadn't happened. I cut for a relationship failed. I cut for a baby I would never have. I cut and I cut until it started to make a little sense.

Like a yo-yo I've been up and down with my weight. During my high school years I looked like Robert Smith (from The Cure) with coke-bloat. I realized this was an attempt to make myself as unattractive as possible to the opposite sex. The less male attention the less chance of anything going wrong. This didn't work. Freddie was right about fat bottomed girls. They make the world go round. So then I opted for the androgynous look. Waif thin and riddled with osteoporosis I made sure the only interest I got was from lunch-ladies and coroners.

My battle with food is an everyday struggle. I think with all that I've been through I don't feel as though I'm worth the nurturing and the care that a meal symbolizes. And I'm petrified I pass this message onto Emma. Believe me, she loves her food. Especially cheese. But as much I as 'say' one thing feeding her I'm sending a very strong message to her by not eating.

Today I'm in a dark place and it's at times like these, when I'm at lowest that the ghosts of days gone by reappear. It's easier to go back to what you know than to deal with new feelings and emotions. But Emma has been such a help, without even knowing it. She doesn't even know it yet but tonight when I get home, one look from her, one little smile or one of her hugs will make me feel much better.

Emma chose me. Emma knew I needed a guardian angel to get me through this in one piece. She is a smart little girl with the soul of someone’s who’s been around the block. Just this morning when I dropped her off at school, she stroked my cheek, told me she loves me and told me to be good. She chose me as her mommy because I still have so much to learn…with Emma amo ergo sum (I love therefore I am). And that's enough for now.

HIPY PAPY BTHETHDTH THUTHDA BTHUTHDY

 

 

So Owl wrote...and this is what he wrote:

HIPY PAPY BTHETHDTH THUTHDA BTHUTHDY

Pooh looked on admiringly.

"I'm just saying 'A Happy Birthday'," said Owl carelessly.

"It's a nice long one," said Pooh, very much impressed by it.

Yesterday Emma and I arrived home after our usual morning errands. We stopped at the intercom system and there it was. A notice for people to press house number 258 for Tshego's party. What! A party happening in our street. Thank goodness Emma was asleep. She would have been as crushed as I was realizing there was a birthday party and we, I mean she, hadn't been invited. The balloons alongside the note were no longer an indication of a P.A.R.T.Y but rather an awful reminder that a celebration was going to be taking place and we wouldn't be present.

You see Emma and I love love love birthday parties. We share a love of pretty cupcakes and party packs. Emma loves jumping castles. Ones with sharp teeth, ones with bouncy balls, princess ones, obstacle course ones - Emma goes to sleep talking about jumping castles and wakes up talking about them. Emma loves the socializing that takes place at celebratory get-togethers. If there's an opportunity to make a new friend or two, Emma is there. Oh and singing 'Happy Birthday'...Emma takes over. She's even been known to blow out the candles on behalf of the birthday girl or boy.

Me, well, I don't sing and I don't often socialize at these events. The fact of the matter is I wasn't invited. I'm simply Emma's transport to and from these grand occasions. I'm also there to maybe change a nappy or clean her hands after she's devoured scrumptious cakes and treats.

I think for September alone we, I mean Emma, has a party every weekend. Some weekends have two and yes, we will go to every one of them. For two reasons. Emma enjoys them and for me attending a birthday party for one of my little girl's friends is a both a privilege and an honour. Two and a half years ago I wouldn't have had the opportunity. Oh sure, I would have been invited as the bitter and barren friend, aunt or work colleague who would sit in the corner, close to tears, thinking about my childless lot in life. Friends would think twice about inviting me to baby showers and some were even too nervous to share the pregnancies with me, in case of an emotional outburst.

Now as a bona fide mommy Emma and I get to read the invitation together. We get to choose what gift we'll be buying and what outfit Emma will wear. Finally I get to attend kiddies parties not by default but because I am a mommy.

 

 

Bohemianism is not a way of life, it's a necessity

Bohemianism is not a movement. Bohemianism was invented out of necessity. Bohemian women are not mother-earthy types. They're mother types who don't get time to primp, preen and groom. I too have become somewhat of a bohemian. Sitting at hair salons are a thing of the past. I now find myself standing outside while Mark cuts my hair with a rather blunt pair of scissors. Facials and massages are an annual treat, usually around my birthday, served with a glass of champagne and huge slice of guilt. Ever since Emma became mobile getting time away for a Brazilian is as likely as getting time off to travel to Brazil.

As a bohemian I dress according to the way I have shaved. The way I've shaved you ask? Yes, I have mastered the boot shave, the leggings shave, the sandal shave and the t-shirt shave. The boot shave is when you remove any hair above your boot line; the leggings shave is removing hair below your legging line; the sandal shave is a quick and easy one as it involves shaving foot and toes (don't ask) and the t-shirt shave is removing that bit of hair that shows when you lift your arms with a t-shirt on. Often I neglect this area and have to wear a 3/4 sleeve.

I can't say Mark appreciates the new natural me. Just the other day he nearly 'doomed' my goggo mistaking it for a ginormous tarantula. After the initial trauma of almost being sprayed with a toxic chemical we remembered a hairy situation that had happened a few years earlier.

Mark and his staff had entered the 5FM triathlon. Mark was doing the run, one of the girl's the swim and someone else the cycle. I joined as the enthusiastic cheerleader. The swimming star got kitted up in her costume which she had probably worn last at a school gala. Fish moths had left a trail of holes and she wasn't as small or as skinny as she remembered, or hoped. To say it was an unflattering look would be kind. Anyway, off she went to the side of the dam or lake or damn lake and waited with the rest of the competitors. The gun went off, off she went, swimming for all she was worth. I cheered her on enthusiastically and Mark stood, her towel in one hand and a high five waiting in the other.

After waht seemed like forever, she made her way out of the water. Mark handed her her towel, which was also a little smaller than she remembered. It just covered her body. We noticed all the swimmers were covered in a slimy goo, like seaweed. Some had more than others. Some had so much they resembled the scary creatures from the TV show "Under The Mountain". Mark's team member was covered in the goo too. He pulled some from her hair and off her arms. There was some on her shoulder which he removed as well. Then he noticed some on her leg, mid thigh or thereabouts. He pulled. It didn't move. He pulled harder still. Giving it one last tug, he realized too late that it was attached. What he thought was sea slime was actually a healthy tuft of (long) pubic hair. She screamed with pain. He screamed with fright. And I screamed with laughter.

Tommy The Turdle

Different children dislike different things. They're also afraid of different things. The boogie man, critters under the bed and the dark seem to be common fears. But there are other things that cause panic in those little hearts. Clowns and people in character costumes cause chaos. Saint Nick's 'ho ho ho' leaves many a child in tears and rickshaw men have them running in the opposite direction. Okay, the rickshaw phobia is actually my thing!

Just today I saw a little girl paralysed with fear as a pigeon approached her. Now I know those flea-infested winged-rats aren't the most pleasant of all God's creatures but to bring on a panic attack of this proportion was quite something to see.

A lot of children, more than one would expect, are frightened of dogs. Emma has grown up with four four-legged pets so they do not feature on her list of things to fear. In fact she is so not scared of them that she often approaches a strange pooch for a kiss and a cuddle. But not all dogs like children. And not all dogs like black children. We've told her that she needs to be careful because some dogs aren't licking because they like her. They're licking to see if she tastes good.

As a mom I've noticed children dislike textures. Emma hates slimy squishy things. She'll eat a banana as long as she can do it Cleopatra style - taking bites while someone stands holding it. Avocados are a no-no. An avo is slimy AND squishy. Paw-paw, no way! Jelly scares her. It's slimy and squishy and anything that wobbles like that can't be trusted. I wouldn't say she's scared of wet surfaces, but very much like me, she hates the feeling of wet floors and wet grass between her toes.

Some children seem afraid of their own shadows. And of others shadows too. Emma isn't. This could be because from early on I told her that her shadow is her guardian angel and as long as her shadow's there she'll always be safe. Sadly I didn't think about what would happen when her shadow disappears, like at night-time.

Oddly enough a lot of children are scared of the noises their bodies make. The first time Emma let loose with a wind she almost turned herself into a human pretzel to see where the awful sound had come from. This was nothing compared to the shock and horror she experienced when saw her own poo. It took one close encounter of the smelly kind for her to run screaming. Dad tried to make things better by giving it a name, Tommy the Turdle. We should have known from a previous experience that naming the unnameable would backfire. A friend of mine told her three year old son that her vajayjay was her 'goggo'. Bad idea! Especially when the nanny 'doomed' an insect and declared that the 'goggo' was dead. He ran at his mother's crotch screaming that no-one was allowed to kill his mommy's 'goggo'.

So back to Tommy the Turdle. Naming the pile of poo seemed to ease Emma's fears until a recent visit to a reptile park. We were having a pleasant walk through the park looking at all of the inhabitants until we came across the turtle enclosure. Dad said "Look Emmie, turtles!" Emma looked at these chewing, walking turdles and went screaming in the other direction. Later she told us she didn't like the poos with shells on.

Toilet training kids and canines...

Raising a puppy and a toddler are often one and the same thing. They need to be fed, watered, cleaned and cuddled. As the one snuggles up close into your chest for love and comfort so too does the other. Puppies and toddlers get up to the same amount of mischief when left alone and often compete for the same hiding spots when they smell a can of 'ass-whooping' opening up.

Puppies and toddlers like to chew on things. Squeaky toys, shoes, socks, table edges and nipples. You can decide which one does what - what happens in a person's home stays in a person's home as far as I'm concerned. There's no judgement here should your puppy be the nipple nibbler and your toddler the table teether. They also like to find little places to hide things - keys, cell phones, bones, socks, dummies, favourite fluffy toys, mom's underwear, etc. Again, no judgement from me on who hides what where.

Puppies love chasing their tails. Toddlers love chasing puppies tails too. On more than one occasion we've had to ask Emma to remove a tail from her mouth. And the same goes for treats. Toddlers and puppies share an affection for treats of all shapes and sizes. And because sharing is caring they're more than happy to exchange their tasty treasures with one another. Emma dunks a dog biscuit in our tea most mornings. In fact, the last time I had a cup of tea that didn't taste like Hills I thought there was something wrong with it. We don;t even give Emma her water bottle any more as she's more than happy on all fours lapping up the H20 from the dog's bowl.

Puppies, like children, need their vaccinations and both should be dewormed regularly. Both need training and guidance and a leash works well when neither want to listen or walk by your side. Naughty kids and canines are a bugbear outside the house and whether you're in a park or a playground someone somewhere is looking at your unruly lot thinking "Thank St. Assisi / Nicholas that that's not mine!"

Puppies and children share names too. Often we call for Chloe our jack russell and three little girls come running at us. Same goes for Oscar, Felix, Maxi and Zoe. Emma not too often, but variations of the name abound. Em, Emmy, Embles - somewhere out there a chihauha's jumping up and down...

Where things drastically differ is toilet training. The pathways to successfully toilet trained tots and pups is very different and never the twain shall meet, nor should. I have discovered this after much trial, error and embarrassment.

After trying to get our psychopathic terrier to wee outside for weeks we were at our wits end and we went the old skool route. We waited for Jagger to wee on the floor and then we ever so gently tipped her nose into the puddle, letting her know that that wasn't the correct place to relieve oneself. Lo and behold, Emma after a bath the other day peed on the floor. When I looked again she had tipped her nose into the puddle and was ever so lightly trying to lick the droplets from her nostril.

We have also tried putting newspaper down all over the floor, and removing a piece each day until there is only a tiny little square left on which the puppy can pee. This again has proven to be unsuccessful because Emma and puppy end up competing for the same square of paper on which to do their business.  

A more popular way to teach a puppy to use the big old toilet under the sky is by taking them outside immediately after meals or a nap. Emma has watched me doing this with our puppy. We have stood on the lawn waiting for something to happen...anything. Of course this way of training backfired on me recently when we were out in a park with some friends and Emma asked me to take her nappy off, which I did (to put a new one on let me please add). Before I could shout out "Emma do not poo in that bush" Emma had pooed in the bush, and proudly announced "Just like Jagger!"

This week Emma used the toilet for the very first time at school to make a wee-wee. Her teacher emailed Mark and I excitedly and we gushed at how smart our little girl is and how quickly she's growing. So now we're officially potty training and we're trying to get her to stop wearing nappies, though according to her it's not fair. After recently seeing me use one of my lady items Emma wanted to know why she's not allowed to wear a nappy when mommy can.

ROTFLHAO

Group therapy at the clinic was always interesting. Some days were filled with group sessions which were exhausting at worst, skull-numbingly dull at best. One particular session was with Gabi. Gabi was a thick-set middle aged fairly frumpy fraulein who spoke with a very heavy German accent. Progress in Gabi's groups was slow. Her accent was a hindrance and some of the CDU patients kept running out of the room, their triggers going off because instead of saying 'it's fine', she would say 'it's wein'.

At first I thought I was in the AA group meeting when she shouted at the top of her buxomy lungs "Wein...let's bee-gin", but soon realized we were in a session about Decision Making and the processes behind it. To make it as interactive as possible Gabi ze German was asking us to give examples of when we had had to make important decisions. She wanted us to explain how we had collected the information about ourselves, the situation and looked at the outcomes. This was very higher grade for most of us who had not progressed up Maslow's hierarchical triangle. Gabi was getting despondent and decided to use the example of moving to Cape Town. She would say things like "Saw, ze jarb ees vaiting for you een Cep Town" and "Vat do you do?" Mad Mike (mentioned in an earlier blog) got very agitated. Noticeably so. So noticeably so that Gabi stopped and asked him what was wrong. Mike immediately exclaimed that he didn't want to move to Cape Town. With the help of all of us Gabi explained that she was using the word 'you' incorrectly and actually meant 'one'. "Saw, ven vun is offered ze jab een Cep Town vat dus vun do?" That seemed to calm Mike down a little until he again exclaimed, out of the blue that YES, he would in fact love to go live in Cape Town.

Things went from weird to weirder when Gabi screamed "Stop farting! It's Richard" I looked around to see Richard, the red-faced culprit...there was Andre, Mike, Brandon, Gareth, Jarrod. No Richard. Oh-Kay I thought to myself, Gabi belongs here more than we do. Again she yelled "It's Richard!" "Stop being Richard!". Who the heck is Richard. How can Richard be farting if there's no Richard in the group, and more importantly, how does one stop being Richard?

I turned to Andre and whispered "Who's Richard and why doesn't Gabi like him farting?". Andre LOLed and as ROTFLHAO he replied, "She's saying stop fighting. Don't be rigid!"

The irony is that in a workshop about clarity and decision making I have never been so confused...

Black hair - it's a hair-raising experience

If you ever ask me what I do with Emma's hair, the answer is simple. Nothing! Emma will not let us anywhere near her hair and it shows. She has sticks and twigs in there, leaves and dry grass. When we talk about her sandy hair we don't mean the colour. There's quite literally sand in there courtesy of the sandpit at school. Soon she'll be able to smuggle a small child through customs in the mess on her head.

At a recent birthday party, a mom with an adopted little girl got chatting to me and we started discussing hair. She adopted her little blessing from the Catholic Women's Association and she was telling me about the adoption process she went through as a single mom. She mentioned that one of the questions asked was how she felt about 'ethnic' hair They asked whether she had a problem with it and how was she planning to look after it. I wasn't sure if she was adopting a child or a weave. She must have seen the confusion because she went onto explain that a few children have been returned due to 'unmanageable hair'!?!

Most months I find myself standing in front of the 'care for black hair' range just staring. Staring at the multitude of shampoos, creams and oils that whisper at the promise of beautiful shiny hair. If I ask an assistant, sans Emma, what product would work best for black hair, they look at me like I'm the mad mhlungu their ancestors warned them about. Emma in arms sees people being far more helpful. Though when they look at her hair they immediately recommend a professional salon.

I am told by friends in the know (mainly black) that Emma has gorgeous hair. It's the right texture. It's strong and it's healthy. However the same friends (and absolute strangers) regularly ask when am I going to straighten it, weave it, relax it or braid it. They want something done with it. Anything. It just mustn't be left natural. Why not I wonder?

Recently I read  that black hair fuels more than a billion-dollar industry which includes products, weaves, and wigs that allow women to change up their styles at a whim.Straightened or chemically treated hair is often seen as easier to care for and more attractive. Words used to describe natural unprocessed hair include kinky, curly or even the rather derogatory nappy hair.

I love Emma's nappy hair. She's two. She's beautiful and looks like God intended. It's not a political statement on my part. I just haven't read 'Black Hair for Dummies' yet.

I know who Emma is but who the heck's Melinda?

I'm not sure if I ever mentioned that this is my second marriage. I'm a sucker for wedding dresses and ceremonies so once wasn't quite enough for me.

My first marriage was to my 'varsity sweetheart. We dated for six years and once we had completed our degrees we got married. We experienced all the things newly-weds do, bought our first house, planted a garden, cooked dinners for each other, got into debt and got out of debt. Our second house was quite a big purchase so we put it in both our names - Duffin and Westraat.

I never changed my maiden name to my husband's surname. I used ridiculous excuses as to why I hadn't done so. From feeling as though an identity I worked so long and hard to establish was been taken away from to me being a professional and people knew me as Westraat. I worked as a marketing assistant at a record company, for heaven's sake. The lamest excuse was that I didn't want to be known as 'Melinda Muffin'. This was not the professional image I wanted to portray (as an assistant at a record company). There were a few signs along the way that this wasn't a relationship made in heaven. When my ex-husband introduced me to people as his wife, and not as Melinda, I would throw my toys. I was independent and I was successful. I was not someones wife.

Clearly I wasn't that committed and the marriage ended four years later.

Two years later Mark and I exchanged vows. I changed my surname this time round. Mark was a keeper and I was happy to be a Connor. Seven or so years later Emma arrived and I was once again fighting for my own identity.

I went from being Mark's wife to Emma's mom. Everywhere I go I am 'Mama Emma' or 'Emma's mom. It's so bad that when we recently attended the birthday party of one of Emma's school friends, an old friend also happened to be there. She excitedly asked the hostess of the princess party "How do you know Melinda?". The awkward response was "I don't!" Pointing in my direction my friend asked again, "How do you know her?" This time the response was "Oh, Emma's mom. Emma goes to school with Zizi" This has not happened once or twice. It has happened a gazillion times.

Even at our local play spot (where every one's supposed to know your name), a friend of mine arrived one morning and asked the security guard whether Emma and Melinda were there. He cheerfully replied "Emma's here but I'm not sure who Melinda is." "Emma's mom", my friend said a bit befuddled. "Ah Mama Emma, yes she is here."

I am no longer Melinda the PR Manager or Melinda from such and such a company. And quite frankly it's a title I wear with pride. In fact, if I were a president of a country I would insist people call me 'Your Excellency Mama Emma'.

An Ode to Playtime

http://shiramazor.com/

On a playground there's always lots to see, there's boys and toys and girls and trees

There's balls of all shapes and sizes and colours, chairs and tables, plants and flowers

There's friends you know and see everyday and new friends to make while you laugh and play,

Moms and dads eat food and drink tea, while children play games like "you can't catch me"

There's sandpits and swings, jumping castles and things, wherever you look there's something to do

Everyone's busy, the babies too

Children catch butterflies and some look for bugs, they stop for a snack and maybe some hugs

There's Max, Joe, Luca and Mark, Theo, KB and Abbie, they're play-time pals and all agree nothing's more fun than time in the park

here's your new baby...with some breast cancer to boot

Yesterday Emma I went to our local spot and bumped into some friends. With one been journalist and the other a psychologist, we covered a whole lot of topics. From mental health care to whiskeys, from theatre shows to politics. 

I don't remember how we got onto the subject but I mentioned a possible link between IVF and breast cancer. Of the three of us sitting there, two of us had been to fertility clinics for assistance with completing our families. Neither of us went the IVF route though but we all know of people who have. In fact one is a close friend whom I worked with years ago.

When Mark and I were trying to fall pregnant a few years back I bumped into this particular friend at the fertility clinic. She was pregnant and looked absolutely beautiful. I was going for various injections and so we got to see each fairly often.

One day she excitedly she told me she was pregnant. After four failed IVF attempts they were going to be parents. Five or so months after their bundle of joy was born she was diagnosed with breast cancer. At the age of 36 she was finally a mother...and a survivor of a double masectomy.

Mark and I opted not to go this route for our own personal reasons. Age was not on my side. Health and weight neither. And of course at R40 000 a pop we really had to weigh up all the pros and cons. With a 22% chance of the treatment been successful we decided to look into adoption. Chatting to my friend after her operation she said that the oncologists mentioned that the IVF might have triggered the cancer. Of course this was something the fertility specialists never mentioned. They were more than happy to take their money, never once explaining the actual cost involved.

In order to write a responsible story I googled "link between breast cancer and IVF" and up popped an article on dailymail.co.uk, written a day or two ago about the death of Sarah Parkinson. Sarah had had IVF and a few months later was diagnosed with breast cancer. Ruth, in the same article, was diagnosed with breast cancer after having undergone IVF. When she asked her doctors whether the IVF could have triggered the cancer the answers varied from no to maybe. But the maybe was always strictly off-the-record.

Even more alarming is an article on time.com. According to the article 3.5 million children worldwide have been conceived by IVF over the past three decades and many of them are now reaching into adulthood. Researchers have begun larger studies on various aspects of the development of IVF children, including the risks of autism, diabetes and cancer, and the results have hinted at some possible long-term health problems. In a current study, the largest of its kind, it found a statistically significant increase in cancer risk in children conceived via IVF compared with those conceived the good old fashioned way. Having said this the authors think it may be due to other factors related to the parents infertility rather than than the process of IVF itself. Nevertheless the results are alarming and it is probably a good idea to investigate the matter a little further. Ask questions of your doctor, speak to friends and family, chat to people who have undergone the treatment and read as much as you can. More research needs to be done and answers need to be found. Because until we know more, according to the Daily Mail article, this could be, quite literally, the most impossible life-and-death decision that any woman may have to face.

Perhaps it's no small coincidence that the fertility clinic in Sandton shares office space with none other than a group of oncologists.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-197969/Can-IVF-cause-breast-cancer.html#ixzz1Vg5YBbSb

Did I ever tell you about the time I slept with Lenny Kravitz...

I didn't really. But I did have a rendevouz with a radio DJ. Not quite as glamorous but hey, sometimes we settle for the closest thing to a rock star. 

We were having our year-end conference at a venue out of town and we had asked a few DJ's to play at the party. My Mr Big was one of them. My musical colleagues and I partied to "Nkalakatha" by Mandoza, Madonna's "Music" and one or two songs from Outkast. We waited until everyone was in the swing of things, and then slipped out, knowing we wouldn't be missed.

Off we went to my hotel room for some 'alone' time with Daft Punk's "One More Time" in the background. We did...and one more time after that! The room was pokey. Two single beds pushed together to make a double bed. A yucky floral duvet covered off-white sheets, but we were too caught up in the moment to notice. Soon it was time for him to get back to the decks. Off he went without a goodbye or a high-five. 

He might have looked back to blow me a kiss but I wouldn't have known..the two beds had given way, I had slipped through the crack and was lying in a heap on the floor, with only the aforementioned danky duvet covering the last bits of dignity left!

It's not epilepsy, it's amafufunyana

Been a mother of an adopted little girl I open myself to all kinds of strangeness from absolute strangers. I often get blessed for the opportunity I've given to Emma. Sometimes I am lambasted for trying to colonize her. I am criticized for not doing anything with her hair and for not piercing her ears. I am asked how old he is, when clearly she is a she. But a recent conversation about Emma's health made me realize I've been taking her to the wrong doctors. Instead of a doctor based at Life Clinic, Emma should probably be going to a sangoma from deep dark Africa.

Last week Friday Emma wasn't well and her daddy took her off to the doctor. She had some sinus and the beginnings of a cold, but nothing too serious. His concern was that Emma might be asthmatic. Later that day, as I was leaving the office my work colleagues, both black and beautiful, told me to give Emma a big kiss from them. I duly said I would and then went on to tell them that Emma might be asthmatic.

"No way!" was their response "Black children don't have asthma. They just can't breathe properly." This revelation led to a whole lot more...

 Epilepsy is DEFINITELY not a black thing. It's simply fits or 'amafufunyana'. Tasj's little brother would have 'fits' and that's all they were. When she later got to varsity and a fellow learner proceeded to flap around the floor like a fish out of water, she immediately jumped into action. When asked how she knew what to do during an epileptic fit she answered "I don't! I only know what to do when someone's fitting."

Something else that only affects white people is acne. We get medicine for it. We have creams and lotions and we spend hundreds of rands at the dermatologist taking care of it. Once again I was alarmed to hear black people don't get acne, it's a 'stage' and if a panado doesn't fix it then they'll outgrow it.

And don't even discuss depression. According to my nubian work mates there is NO SUCH THING! It's bakuloyile- simple witchcraft and someone has put a spell on you. Best get to a sangoma and all will be well. Or at least take a panado.

The Big C or the Dreaded C also isn't really a black people's illness. It's a white thing. Should you have aches or pains in strange places then chances are it's period pains (not sure what you do if you're a ndoda) and you need to take a panado.

What I did discover are definite black things is gout and arthritis. Yip, those are definitely black things!

From now on I will no longer take Emma to Dr Mohlabi at Fourways Life but rather we will visit a sangoma or inyanga and the good news is, according to a website, that there is talk of consultations and medicines being paid for by some of the medical aids sometime in the future.

[this post is not meant to offend anyone, nor is it meant to be derogatory towards anyone's cultural beliefs and traditions. It is simply my personal experience as a white mother raising a black baby]

In loving memory of Joshua

A few weeks back Emma spent six long and very stressful days in hospital. I was her ward buddy and I spent countless hours watching her being poked and prodded by nurses and doctors. She thankfully made a speedy recovery, but in that time I realized we have no say or power in who goes home with their children and who leaves empty handed and broken-hearted.

We were away with the usual suspects for a long weekend and on the Saturday night Emma had started with a bit of a fever. Friends loaned us a nebulizer and we also gave her some baby panado. All seemed okay, barring a projectile vomit or two during the night and the following day she was back to her impish little self. We were planning to stay until the Monday, but as with all best-laid plans, some people were leaving on Sunday and some weren't sure what they were doing. In a clear moment (now that I look back) I suggested to Mark that we leave the Sunday morning and get Emma home - we would take her to the doctor on Monday...and so the journey home began.

It was a three hour drive but it felt like forever. Emma was niggly and didn't want to sit in her chair so I jumped into the back seat with her and put her on my lap. She slept most of the way but her temperature was rising and she was in a restless sleep with occasional moans in between.

And then the seizures started and I had no idea what to do. We were an hour out of Johannesburg and I was completely helpless. The fits became more frequent and the way her little body shook left me feeling scared and useless. Poor Mark. He had me screaming from the back seat  "DRIVE! JUST DRIVE! I WILL PAY EVERY FINE YOU GET!" I think he was more relieved when we got to the hospital than I was - there's only one thing worse than a back seat driver; a hysterical back seat driver!

We got her to the hospital and ignoring all protocol of filling in forms and waiting in queues. I made my way to the ER, like a mother possessed. The poor receptionist was still asking me for my medical aid card or something as I rushed through the doors and my eloquent response might have rhymed with 'luck' and 'off'.

Emma's temperature was high, so high that they undressed her and started medication immediately. After x-rays, more medicine and check-ups and a very tearful phone call to my mom, Emma was admitted into the Pediatric Ward where we stayed...and stayed...and stayed. We got to know all the staff in the ward as well as around the hospital. Emma was a local in the coffee shop and a firm favourite with the pharmacy assistants. She handled everything like a little trooper, thanking the doctors when they inserted suppositories (bum rockets as they affectionately became known), smiling and loving the nurse that had just administered a drip or an injection.
Emma has a sparkle in her eyes that magically draws you in. Her smile and personality reel you in a little more and before you know it you're hooked. There is no getting around the fact that Emma is a very special soul. One of the little patients was celebrating his birthday in the ward and off Emma went to sing Happy Birthday to him.

So there we were, already Wednesday and Emma's temperature hadn't stabilized. No one had any answers to what was wrong, so the doctors were going through a process of elimination. When Mark popped in for a quick visit he mentioned that one of his friend's little boy, Josh, had been admitted. He was in a coma and doctors were busy treating him. No one knew what had happened but the assumption was that he had fallen off his scooter and bumped his head. They were treating him for concussion. On Thursday morning, nine year old Josh regained consciousness and he was brought downstairs into the ward next to Emma. On Friday afternoon we were sitting on the bed, building puzzles and playing with Manster (Emma's talking hamster) when Josh and his mom and dad passed by to say goodbye. Josh was been discharged. Life was returning to normal for the family...or so we thought.

Mark and Christian, Josh's dad, went off to the local pub for a celebratory drink - Josh was home and Emma was on the mend - all was good in the world. The next thing Josh's mom called frantic. Josh had stopped breathing and had slipped back into a coma. They were already back at the hospital and Christian left in a whirl-wind to see what was happening. That was Friday evening. Saturday morning the doctor came past to discharge Emma. I knew he was with Josh in the ICU the night before so I asked how he was doing. "Not well. Not well at all. It doesn't look good." was the very serious and sombre response. "But from falling off a scooter?" I asked. The fall was what landed Josh in hospital. It was what alerted the doctors to the fact that something was very wrong. It could have been a tumour or a clot. Josh didn't fall off the scooter and hurt himself. Josh was hurting before he fell off.

Saturday morning we got the dreaded sms to say Josh had passed away. Only a few days ago Josh was a healthy active little boy of nine. Suddenly Josh was no more. From planning an overseas trip the family was now planning a funeral. We sat in quiet disbelief for a long time lucky to have Emma home with us, but grieving for a family who would never see their son again. "Who makes that decision?" Mark asked "Who decides that one family leaves with their child in their arms and another family leaves empty handed and broken hearted?"

From that moment on I made a promise to myself (and a silent one to Emma) that I will cherish every moment with her, no matter the time of day (or night). The words 'not now' will never be used when Emma wants to play or read or just sit on the couch. Every opportunity I get I will tell her how much I love her. Mark always tells her "he loves her more" when she says "Love you dad" and our latest expression of love is "I love you the most, more than toast!"

We will jump in those puddles, we will play in the mud. We will make funny faces and sing funny songs. We will hug and kiss her until Emma says "no more". Every moment with Emma is a treasure for us  and too often life is as short as the words "If only..."

Everyone has a bum

Everyone has a bum, we know this is true; can you spot your bum in the list of a few?

Some are round and some are square,
some look like an apple, some look like a pear

Some have tails and some not,
some have a stripe and some have a spot

Some are quite large and some very small,
some are almost as flat as a wall

Some sit high and some sit low,
some move fast and others move slow

Some are slimy and very green,
others are shiny and stay very clean

Some are black and some are blue,
some have fur or a feather or two

Have you spotted yours in the list of a few? We all have a bum; we know this is true

what's your special that makes you you?

This is my first attempt at a kiddies book. I've been threatening to do it for years but never seem to find the inspiration or motivation. This was jotted down over a cup of tea and a rusk, so I really would appreciate any feedback, and should you have some 'test' subjects, feel free to ask them too


What's your special that makes you You?

What would a cow do if it couldn't moo? Would people stop and ask "What are you?"

What would a frog be if it couldn't hop? Is it still a frog or just a green flop?

What is a bird without a feather? Is it still a bird if it can't flock together?

If a bunny doesn't like to munch on a big juicy carrot can it still be called a rabbit?

If a cat isn't able to take a cat-nap does it get mean and grumpy and snap?

How would a fish breathe if it didn't blow bubbles? Would that bubbleless fish be in trouble?

Every lion in the jungle has its roar. Some are loud, some not so much and some just snore!

http://0xo.deviantart.com/art/Girls-Are-Tougher-Than-Tigers-116082929

A rat is furry and has a long tail. If it wasn't this way we would call it a snail!

A chicken lays eggs and a has a sharp beak but what would we do if a chicken had teeth?

A tiger has stripes, a leopard has spots, a fly likes to fly - it just can't stop!

We all have something special about us, that's true. What's your special that makes you You?

http://www.etsy.com/listing/60575256/art-print-bunny-bird-creature-pink

Tell-tale signs you're a mom...

You're no longer a member of the mile-high club. Instead you belong to monkeynastics and moms and tots

The address book on your phone no longer has the phone numbers for the hottest hang-out spots, fine dining places or booty calls. It's now filled with contact details for monkeynastics, moms and tots, Occupational Therapists, Pediatricians and Poison Hot Lines

 Your designer handbag that once carried Dior's latest colour lipsticks, Gucci sunglasses and expensive perfumes now holds dummies, wet wipes, baby panado and suppositories

The PVR is no longer used to record The Big C, Californication and your favourite reality shows. It's now at its maximum capacity with Dora The Explorer, Humf, Charlie and Lola, Go Diego Go and The Green Balloon Club

The aforementioned designer sunglasses which once took pride of place on your face now damages your eyesight because they're covered in peanut butter, jam and bovril

You wake up every morning with an aching body because you've spent the night hanging onto the bed by a bum cheek and a pubic hair

Your mole-skin diary, once used to look official in meetings now has drawings of 'jumping castles', 'flowers' and God only knows what else

Holiday spots, once chosen because of their remoteness and romantic sunsets are replaced by child-friendly, easy to access places that have 24 hour child-minding services

The fridge, once a place that proudly showed snapshots of the above mentioned exotic destinations is now home to 'art', 'brilliant' report cards and to-do lists

Sex, once a fun recreational thing to do, now sits at No.12 on the to-do list on the fridge, in between having a pap smear, washing hair and shaving legs

You and your partner try not to fight. Not because you don't want your children to see conflict but because you there isn't any time for make-up sex...that's further down the to-do list

A dutch oven is not foreplay

My parents never sat me down and gave me the 'birds and the bees' chat. I remember when I got my period my mom handed me a pack of sanitary towels and said "Stay away from boys!" When I asked about tampons she replied "You'll lose your virginity if you use those things..." My dad, a rather stoic old-skooler, offered the following advice "Wear a night-gown at all times, otherwise you'll fall pregnant."

And that was it. Petrified of boys, night-gown on 24/7, I tried to make sense of boys and girls and relationships. Occasionally I was warned about the dangers of horses (would lose my virginity if I rode one), climbing walls and fences (would lose my virginity if I climbed one, fell on one, sat on one) and gymnastics (yip, another sure way to lose my virginity especially the horse one). You'll notice at no time I was told that I could actually have my cherry plucked by a boy! So my list of things to fear and avoid grew and my only protection against the virginity-robbing world was a night-gown.

Dating (in a night-gown) was eventful to say the least. I dated the bad boys to piss dad off. I dated the good boys which made mom happy, but still seemed to piss dad off. It took me years of many dates, some good, some bad and some ugly, to figure out what would make me happy.

So as a favour to Emma (when she's forty or thereabouts) and anyone else who might need advice, below is a self-help guide, which will help you recognize the 'keepers' and root out the losers. Let's just say it's the dummy's guide to help tell the difference between Mr Right and Mr Right Now...

He's a keeper if he opens doors for you. Slam the door in his face if he doesn't

Does he look at other girls while you're with him? If you answer yes, dump the douche immediately. If he's doing that in front of you, can you imagine what he'll get up to when you're not around?

Does he pee into the toilet bowl or do you find yourself marinating in his urine when you sit down to pee? Check, check and check again - make a drinking game out of it if necessary

Always ask about his mom. If he waxes lyrical about her, the way she cooks, the way she dresses and the way she smells you're dealing with a mamma's boy. If on the other hand they're not close, you then have a person with abandonment issues, which becomes commitment issues for you later on

Be aware if he has more shoes, more cushions on his bed, more facial creams than you. Referring to himself as your GBF  is also a tell tale sign - he doesn't mean Gorgeous Boy Friend

Has he given his penis a name? Cute when he was four, not so cute any more. Remember two's company, three's a crowd

Dump him immediately if he ever says "you put the lotion on". This is not a good sign of things to come

Starting every sentence with "My ex did that..." or "My ex says..." is a reason to give him the old heave ho. Chances are he's gonna leave you for the old (heave) ho

No matter how lovingly he does it, a dutch oven is not foreplay. Get out of there before the smell settles

He's a keeper when he makes you feel like a queen in a room full of people. Not so much if he's the only queen in a room full of people

Never settle, ever! But remember, we come with our flaws and imperfections so instead of looking for the elusive Mr Perfect, rather keep an eye (and heart) open for Mr Perfect For You

Confirmation from the other side...

As much as the nay-sayers poo-poo it, I've visited a psychic or two in my time. It's not a regular thing and I haven't done it in a while, but there were times a big decision needed to be made and I'd look to the other side for guidance. I've had my tea leaves read, as well as coffee grains. I've made contact with my guardian angel and apparently my gran is with me all the time.

One of my favourite tarot readers is a gentleman in Norwood, called Frank. Frank is middle-aged, single and was living with his mother up until the time she passed away. He's a sweet man with chubby little sausages for fingers and a large cushion for a tummy. Frank has been the most accurate and reliable in terms of his readings, and he makes a great cup of coffee.

A few years back I was facing the dilemma of a major work decision as well as looking for clarity on whether I would fall pregnant or not, and so I went to seek Frank's guidance. We started off with the usual chit chat one has with mediums - the weather, health concerns, his dog and of course, visits from his recently departed mother. It was also a few days before a long weekend, so I asked whether he would be going away, and he answered, "Yes, just waiting for confirmation." "Oh" I responded a little too enthusiastically "You ask your guides for that kind of information too?"  "Um, no, I'm waiting for confirmation  from the people I'm going with..."

Things no-one tells you about becoming a mom

When you're pregnant people give you all sorts of advice about what you're in for. You hear about water breaking and dilating. The words 'vagina', 'pushing' and 'watermelon' are often used in one sentence. As a couple adopting we never got a chance to hear the horror stories. Though we were told in earnest to find out whether the birth mother was a tik addict or a sociopath. We were warned about wayward teenagers that steal and lie [all adopted of course] and the damage we're doing adopting across racial lines. No-one told me about all the other things, the good and the bad, the highs and the lows of what being a mom is all about, so I've taken it upon myself to compile a list...so here goes

As a mom:
I can't remember the last time I got a full night's sleep
My clothes are never ever clean anymore
I have snot on my shoulders and on my sleeves
Bath time for was once a necessity, it's now a luxury
Make-up takes a total of five minutes maximum
I trip over a toy at least once a day
I have become less OCD-ish
I sing songs out loud
I find myself taking orders from a 12 kg midget with limited vocabulary
I invariably sit on something that squeaks, squawks or talks
I know more nursery rhymes now than I did in my youth
I jump in puddles and don't worry about the mess
I find myself lying on the grass with aforementioned bossy midget looking at the clouds
I walk barefoot in the mud just so it can squidge between my toes
I find myself making up words like 'squidge'
I have more toys in my bath than i had in my toy box
I cherish the things I took for granted, like lie-ins, reading a book or finishing an entire meal
I know all the songs to all Emma's favourite TV shows
I find myself price-checking nappies, milk and wet wipes
I laugh out loud at all the Emmaisms
I can sit with Emma in my arms for hours, smelling her hair, tickling her toes or just listening to her breathe
I have never been so aware and afraid of the hidden dangers in everyday items
I hope that I'm doing a good job raising Emma
The smell of poo no longer makes me gag
I find myself buying clothes in every shade of pink imaginable
I watch my p's and q's
I don't sweat the small stuff anymore
I find myself looking for fairies in the garden in places where fairies would hide
I use winnie the pooh and hello kitty plasters
I have discovered that my kisses have magical powers - they make a sore knee better, they can take a headache away and they can heal a sore little heart
I find myself looking at other children and thinking to myself "Emma's much funnier, smarter, more developed, cuter than that"
I hope and pray that my good is good enough to inspire, enrich and empower Emma to be the very best she can be

Misery loves company and Insomnia makes for a great companion

I suffer from depression. Always have. As far back as I can remember. I'm not sure if I was born with a chemical imbalance or if traumatic events from my past loosened a few screws in my head. Every day I deal with ghosts from my past. Some days are easier and I find I am able to master a brave a brave exterior. Other days, like today, I am a slave to my dark thoughts and simple tasks take their toll.

It's easy to tell when I'm not quite my pretend self. I am agitated and irritable. I feel 'prickly' and uncomfortable in my own skin. I want to run and hide but haven't yet figured out how to hide from myself. I want to keep busy to take my mind off of things, but don't have the energy to do anything.  I'm exhausted and need to sleep. But I can't fall asleep. Misery loves company and Insomnia makes for a great companion.

Sadness sometimes arrives like an old friend. It joins me in my lounge and it's just the two of us. We catch up on old times and then it leaves. Other times it hits like a tsunami. Without warning, affecting everyone in its way, family, friends, work colleagues, no-one is safe from it. Fighting against the current I am left drained, emotionally and physically, and it takes a lot longer to find my way out of the blackness.

Days like these take me back to the clinic. I am reminded about my weaknesses and how, at my age, I still haven't been able to work out my place in the world. I get angry at the circumstances that lead me to such a vulnerable place and I find myself asking out loud "Why me?"

But every one's got their something and I always remember Andre. Andre had been in the clinic for months. He hadn't figured out a coping mechanism that could get him through everyday life and he had tried to commit suicide four or five times, unsuccessfully. We used to sit and laugh about his attempts (as only mental patients can do). Like once, he tried hanging himself from the rafters in his garage. Unfortunately termites were in residence and the rafter broke, bringing Andre down to earth with a bang...and a broken coccyx.He also tried gassing himself on two occasions, in the garage and in the kitchen. Neither worked. The last attempt was with an overdose of tablets, which made his stomach work and he woke up in a pool of poo. So Andre figured that it wasn't his time to go and he placed himself in the care of professionals.

The reason I often think about Andre is because as bad as I had it (or think I had it) he had it a lot worse. He was also my catalyst to share more of myself in group sessions. I figured if he had the guts to do it then so could I.

This is Andre's story. Andre was sexually abused by his mother. "Don't be silly" I hear you say, "Mothers don't do that to their children." Well Andre's mother did and recent research shows that with more and more survivors coming forward, the phenomenon is not as rare as once thought. In his teens, Andre and his brother witnessed his father shoot (and kill) his mother and then turn the gun on himself. One can only begin to imagine the scars this leaves on an impressionable soul. But there was still more to come. Andre and his brother went to go live with their uncle. Unfortunately he took it upon himself to molest Andre too. Andre deals with a lot on a daily basis. He has no idea of boundaries or of what is right and wrong, good or bad. The reason I always think of Andre on days like these is to remind me that things could have been worse. How worse I'm not sure. But in the greater scheme of things, unlike Andre, I am lucky.

Andre's time at the clinic was coming to an end. He begged and pleaded with them to let him stay, but his medical aid was running out and they needed space for new patients. Ones that could be helped. One of the therapists kindly arranged for Andre to go directly from the clinic to Tara, a place of safety for people on the edge. I visited him a few times and he seemed in good spirits. It seemed as though he was getting better. Little did I know. Andre was contemplating a life filled with sadness and guilt or facing the unknown. He realized that in his case dying was the easy part, the living, not so much.

After 6 weeks at Tara, Andre discharged himself. He went home to his apartment, got everything in order and dressed up super smart. He then took a large amount of sleeping tablets, placed a bag over his head and fell into a deep restful sleep. I remember Andre and his pain. I remember his laughter and his wry sense of humor...and I think to myself "Why not me?"

Things I've learnt along the way (in no particular order)

* Never make out with your best friend's guy
* Never whisper into a live studio mic
* 'Celebs' go to the toilet and pick their nose just like the rest of us
* He's never going to leave his wife for you
* Never run after a man. If he's running he doesn't want you
* Honesty is not always the best policy
* Sperm does not taste like a vanilla milkshake, and yes, it stings when it hits you in the eye
* When a man says "it's not you, it's me", it is actually him
* One size does not fit all
* Skinny jeans are exactly that...
* Sperm does not taste like vanilla ice-cream
* It's not the clothes that make you look fat
* A man will argue with a GPS when it comes to directions
* Men are not created equal. Some are made in God's image. Others are made in China
* Sexy's not coming back
* Anal sex does not a virgin make
* Bad things happen to good people
* Men come and go. STD's stick around
* Contrary to what adverts show, menstrual blood is not blue
* Sperm does not taste like any kind of dairy product

work in progress - poem for Emma

Once upon a time, not so long ago, an angel fell from heaven

with nowhere to call home. The angel was the cutest you ever did see,
her skin so smooth, her nose a button and her eyes a sparkling brown.
Her hair, curly black and atop there was a crown


But because she gave from heaven she was all alone,
and soon she was on the search for a family to call her own.
The first door she knocked at, the house was quite and dark and all she could hear from inside was a little doggy bark.


A little further down the road was home to Mr Shrew.
"Please can you help? I'm on my own, and I'm feeling scared, I don't know what to do!"
"Go away" yelled Mr Shrew, I have a family of my own, there's no place here for you."

And so the little angel continued on her way. The night was getting darker
and a family seemed far away. She felt so very lonely and wanted to be
loved, so she carried on her search with help from above.

Some time later, on a sunny day, the little angel heard a voice and and the little voice did say:
Send us an angel with a little button nose,
smooth skin and eyes a dark dark brown
Her hair black and curly, finished off with a crown
She'll be perfect with ten fingers and ten toes

The little angel knew her search was almost at its end
A mommy and a daddy would be hers soon and so she sent a message
and this is what she said:
I think it's me you're looking for, I'm everything you want
I'm everything and more...when you hear me knocking, please open the door

And so little Emma found her mom and dad, waiting at the door
They hugged and kissed and kissed and hugged, and hugged a little more
Their prayers had been answered and everyone was glad
At last, after a search, Emma had found her mom and dad

What's worse than a deflated ego...a deflated boob!

A few weeks ago Emma and I went to Serendipity in Rosebank. It's our favourite hang-out on a Saturday. I get time to read and unwind and Emma gets to play with Thabani (child-minder) and all the other kiddies.

There was a party on the go on this particular day and of course there were balloons. Emma loves 'loons. Off she went and helped herself to one. A pink one. Every night we bring out the balloon and Emma and I play 'catch it'. Naturally, as the days have gone by the balloon has become more and more deflated. It's wrinkly and out of shape. It's lost its fullness.

Last night Emma asks for her 'loon and I go and retrieve it from its safe place. She looks at it for a while, rather sadly. "Emmy, wants wrong?" Mark asks. Her rather-too-quick response, "Look daddy, it's mamma's boob!"

Dora the Explorer...

Emma's 2nd birthday was shared with close friends and family. Thanks to Maritz for capturing the moments so beautifully