So Close

Foot wrinkles

 I was chatting to Sister Mel on the weekend and we were talking about getting older. Aging, to be more precise. Sister Mel was saying that she wondered at what age / stage do you get to the point where you view the signs of your physical aging as matter of fact rather than with a tinge (or sometimes ‘wave’) of regret.

I said to Sister Mel that I think I am getting there. I am not quite there yet (where the fark did that middle aged spread come from??  Get thee away from me, you evil incarnate!), but I am getting there.  I look at my ageing hands and feet with almost wondrous disbelief. I can’t believe these are my feet. 

You know how when you are younger and you bend your ankle, the skin on your foot squishes up and then when you straighten your foot again, the skin all snaps back into shape without a line or a wrinkle? Well the skin on my foot is starting to look permanently squished. I have foot wrinkles. 

Ageing is a bitch. I don’t like getting older, I don’t like getting squishier, but I am starting to accept that it is inevitable and I might as well get used to it. It doesn’t mean I am going to start wearing oversized floral polyester blouses, but it does mean that I am going to think ‘so bloody what if my waistline is a bit thicker, I am almost bloody 40 you know’. 

I don’t want to be a frumpy middle-aged hausfrau, but even as much as I admire the woman, I can’t see myself working as hard as someone like Madonna does as I get older. I’d rather be a little squishy and have that glass of wine (or two), than be super toned and fabulously fit but living on bean sprouts and watercress.

So the answer to Mel’s question seems to be 39,5 years old. Or there about.

When you see the physical signs of ageing on your body, how do you feel? Would you rather be more hausfrau than Madonna, or are you going to fight the foot wrinkles for as long as you can? And don’t give me the politically correct answer; tell me what you really think. 

(As I had my foot in my sister's face, pointing out my foot wrinkles, my father came past and said that he has no idea what we are talking about as he has perfectly lovely youthful feet.  Thank god the man's eyesight isn't what it used to be because if I have wrinkles, the man has crevices the size of the Grand Canyon. I'm just saying.)
 

Twitter for dummies

Let it be said I’m a bit of an Internet slut. I’ll try anything once. But most of the stuff on the Net is either too complicated, completely pointless, a waste of time or it has a small willy. And my time is too precious to waste on any of the above. There are however, some things that captivate me and keep me interested long enough to keep coming back for more. Blogging is clearly one of them. Thousands of blogs are started every day but many die out after a while. I’ve been blogging almost daily for the last four years. Clearly blogs and blogging works for me.

Facebook is another thing I’ve taken a shine too. I am not as addicted as I was in the beginning, but I still love Facebook for its amazing ability to connect me to people I haven’t seen in years and years. It is social networking at its best. (PS If you want to add me as a Facebook friend, you are welcome to do so, but please let me know who you are.)

I love Flickr, and I love LinkedIn. MySpace I’ve never really got but perhaps that is because I am Very Old.

My latest ‘thing’ is Twitter. Twitter has been around for ages but I’ve only recently ‘got’ Twitter. What is Twitter, you ask? Twitter is micro-blogging, which is a bit like a combination between Facebook and blogging, combined into an RSS / feeder type thingy. Basically, you sign up for Twitter (VERY easy), and then you post updates (like mini blog entries) whenever the mood grabs you.  People follow your Twitter stream and you can follow the Twitter stream of people you like. Or don’t like. There is apparently certain etiquette about following someone who is following you, but because people sign up with all sorts of pseudonyms, I have no idea who they are. You can set your updates to private if you are paranoid about that type of thing, but if you are, then you probably shouldn’t sign up for Twitter. 

So basically, Twitter allows you can keep up with the lives of all the people who interest you in one single page.

Now, it sounds very boring, which is what I thought in the beginning. Why on earth would I want to follow the updates of someone’s boring life? And yes, why on earth would you, but Twitter is a lot like blogging: there are some bloody awful, boring blogs out there just as there are some pretty boring Twits / Twitters (still trying to work out the lingo) around. I’d advise against following the boring Twits. But some people are really funny in their updates and it is a great way to keep up with where people are at in a single page. 

The thing I love about Twitter is that it gives me a single snapshot in to this diverse world of people who interest me, fellow mommy bloggers, geeks, famous people, not so famous people, all updated in one single page. Love it.

Sign up for Twitter here. You can follow my stream here. For more on info on Twitter, refer to this excellent article.

Happy Twittering!

Home sweet home

Ah, home sweet home.  It is fabulous to be home.  I've done a few loads of washing, I've been to Woollies to stock the fridge and I am about to plough through my inbox with my super dooper always-on FAST DSL connection.  Life is good.

I've put a few pics up at my Flickr account - see here if you don't mind seeing other people's holiday snaps.  You can thank me for not uploading the 745 photos Marko took of the ducks. 

Speaking of Marko, he is such an odd chap.  I suppose being a 'people' person, I don't quite get it, but inside that tough, strict, almost-bordering-on-unfriendly exterior, beats a really soft, kind heart.  Marko is SUCH an animal lover.  He loves all animals.  He took a million photos of the ducks, he befriended a wild cat who he named Storm and lovingly fed every morning and night (his mean, cruel wife said NO WAY ARE WE BRINGING THAT CAT HOME).  When I caught him feeding my expensive Woollies biltong to a stray dog I nearly had a heart attack.  One night I saw him slip outside with some bread in his hand.  "Where are you going", I asked.  "Um, to feed that big fish I saw earlier" he sheepishly replied.  Apparently he had also befriended a huge fish in the stream.  The fish was so 'tame' (according to Marko), that it let him stroke it.  Although that was the end of the friendship because when Marko went back with the bread, the fish was no where to be found.  I hope it didn't end up wrapped in newspaper, served with some nice hot chips/fries on the side.

Here is a picture of Marko's ducks and Storm.  Unfortunately we never did get a picture of the fish.

The reluctant traveller

I am a Sagittarian, and besides being the Best Looking, Wittiest and Most Charming star sign in the Zodiac, we are also supposed to be very fond of travelling. Well, my rising sign must be in Remainia because I hate travelling. I hate travelling for work, I hate travelling for conferences, and I’ve recently discovered that I hate travelling for holiday too. It has taken me almost 40 years to admit this, but I hate being away from home.  

When I was growing up, we (my parents and I) used to pretend that I wasn’t allowed to sleep out at my friends’ houses. The truth was, I hated being away from home.

When I left university, I did what most well-to-do South Africans did at the time; I took a gap year to travel overseas. I lasted less than 2 weeks and I was home again. I just couldn’t stand being away from home.

The bravest thing I ever did was leave my home town for four years from when I was 23 till I was 27 to work in another city. I cried all the way there and I couldn’t wait to come home again. Even though I had moved out of my parent’s home when I was 19 years old, I always made sure I was never more than 20 minutes drive away from ‘home’.  

I’ve had a great time on holiday, spending time with Marko and the kids but I’ve missed my home terribly. I miss my home, my things and my normal routine. I miss having my Paed just down the road (had to find an emergency doctor in this tiny town because Adam is sick, severe infection in his mouth), I miss my always-on broadband connection, I miss my bed, I miss my stuff.

I feel terrible that I am like this; I am trying my best not to let Marko notice. He has been looking so forward to this holiday for so long. And we really have had a nice time here, but I can’t wait to go home. My home feels safe and familiar and warm and comforting, and I can’t imagine why anyone would ever want to take a vacation from that.

Confessions of a cheater

(Still having a fabulous time on holiday, missing you all madly. Here is a cross post from my Times column, true story. BTW, I have photographic evidence of the terrible results of my unfortunate dalliance, which is ALL YOUR FAULT!!  Pictures below)
__________________________________________________________________________

It was a crazy thing to do, stupid. To throw away all those years we had together to chase something new, something different. It wasn’t as if I was unhappy, far from it. It’s just that, well, things had got a little boring, a little ordinary. The same conversations, the same routine. I missed the thrill of the beginning. 

I don’t what I was thinking, how I imagined I wouldn’t be found out. A friend of a friend put us in touch, she thought we’d get on like a house on fire, she was right. Too right. 

It was awkward at first as I took my clothes off and lay down. The room was cold, too cold. I shivered a little, perhaps more from apprehension than from the chill. Everything felt different, smelt different. There was a CD playing in the background, a song I didn’t recognize. Even the music felt strange. 

I’ll just do it this once, no one would have to know, I thought. But the truth always comes out, doesn’t it. God, I feel terrible. Things will never be the same again; there will always be this feeling of mistrust, of betrayal. 

It wasn’t even that great, that’s the worst of it. It was ok, not bad, but not what I know.

All I can hope for is forgiveness. I am not sure whether I can ever forgive myself. I’ve learnt my lesson though, I will never stray again. No one else will ever tint my brows or wax my bikini again. I hope my beautician forgives me.

___________________________________________________________________________

Ok, you see this:

See how swollen my eyes are!

That is YOUR FAULT!  You mocked my bushy brows, my usual beauty therapist / beautician person was away and so I went to someone new.  And see what happened!!!  The scabs are busy flaking off now. Not sure how long the scars will remain. Ha! Hope you feel bad now.

PS The fat lady has sung.  Feels good and final. Later dudes. xxx

Roughing it on our holiday.

We have arrived at our holiday destination and are safely ensconced in our holiday ‘villa’. There are only two bedrooms, which means Adam and Kate have to share a room. I was really nervous about that because they have never shared a room before and I was worried they would be up all night playing, but they slept really nicely last night with only a few “Keep Quiet!”s and are busy having an afternoon nap as we speak. 

The only droll in die drinkwater (literally translated as ‘turd in the drinking water’) is that Marko and I have to share a bed. Which wouldn’t be too bad if it wasn’t the size of a matchbox. I find it hard enough to have a good night sleep in a queen sized bed, this single-bed-masquerading-as-a-twin-bed is EEmpossible. So I took half a sleeping tablet and when that wore off at about 3am, I took the extra blanket and slept on the couch.

But other than the ‘camping style’ sleeping arrangements, things are pretty dandy here.  We’ve been for a swim in the hot baths, we’ve played outside, we’ve even had a little shop at the Padstal (farm store). 

Right, while my family slumbers, let me do a little catching up on some work before it’s time for the next Albertyn Family Fun Holiday Activity.

Dirty Little Secrets

MotherTalk Book Review:  "Dirty Little Secrets by Otherwise Perfect Moms"  Trishia Ashworth and Amy Nobile

"While Tricia Ashworth and Amy Nobile were researching their earlier book, I Was a Really Good Mom Before I Had Kids, the dirty little secrets started pouring out: the woman who admitted to sneaking cigarettes with her husband in the minivan while the kids watched movies inside the house to the mother who had her children wear their school clothes to bed each night. Hence the creation of this small, sinful read–Dirty Little Secrets from Otherwise Perfect Moms–that will make you feel good about your parenting skills when you’re having one of those days."

Do you know about the site called Post Secret?  One of the most amazing reads.  I read that site with my hands covering my eyes, peeping through my fingers.  Some of the 'secrets' are really funny, others are quite scandalous, and some are really, really sad.

"Dirty Little Secrets" is like Post Secret, for moms.  The books is a collection of 'secrets' written by moms.  Some of the secrets were really funny, some of them reminded me of myself ("My kids yell because I yell at them"), but the book left me with an underlying sense of sadness.  Because despite its claim to make you feel less alone if you sometimes feel like the 'less than perfect mom', the fact that some of these were considered 'dirty secrets' made me sad.  To me, it just highlights how pervasive the myth of 'perfect parenting' is.

The book is meant to be an entertaining read, a lighthearted look at our various mothering imperfections, but perhaps I am just not in the right head space to appreciate it for what it is meant to be.  I just wish that these didn't have to be 'dirty little secrets' at all, I wish they could just be called 'life'.

So, what's my secret?  Well, considering my penchant for circumspection, there aren't many of my 'secrets' that you don't already know.  Yes, my kids still drink their formula(!) in bottles(!) and still suck on their dummies(!)  But that doesn't worry me at all.  Oh! I do have a secret I haven't told you.  I cut the crusts off my kids sandwiches. Always.  But even that is not so bad.  I cut the crusts off my own bread and look how well I turned out!  I guess my dirty little secret is that I am a yeller, and I am not very proud about that at all. But I never did claim to be anywhere close to being the Perfect Mom.  My dirty little secrets aren't really secrets at all, they are just part of who I am.

But, on a lighter note, it is on the whole, a very lighthearted, entertaining read.  Mother Talk Inc are running a contest inviting readers to enter their 'dirty little secret' and win an Amazon gift voucher.  Read more about it here.

More info on the book here.  Buy the book here.

Why you should never drive drunk on the Internet

(Thank you, dear Internets, for your kind words about my puppy. As I said, it helps a great deal to know she didn’t suffer.)

It’s odd. One would think that after so many years of consistent dedication to the cause, I would have built up some sort of tolerance to wine, but I remain distinctly lightweight. By the time I have reached my glass and a half nightly allocation, I am deliciously merry. Sounds fabulous, cheap date and all that, but it can be particularly dangerous if one is scooting around the internet, emboldened and unchecked.

This morning my phone rang at 4:30am. It was Rose, just double checking which airline I had booked her on. Why was she at the airport at 4:30am? Because I had booked her flight online whilst deep into my glass and a half and somehow (I am still convinced it was a system error) I picked the 05:45am flight instead of the midday flight.

When I realized the error with horror, I called the call centre (a sobering experience) and tried to get it changed. They wanted to charge me a cancellation fee. I protested that I had JUST made the booking and because of THEIR faulty online system, the flight had been booked for the wrong time but they wouldn’t budge. Assholes. So as a matter of principle, I refused to pay the fee and left the flight as is. Rose was only too happy as it meant extra holiday time for her. And of course I was duly punished by getting a wake up call at 4:30am to confirm the airline. (Tip for Rose: Check the flight details I printed out for you!!)

The second error occurred a while ago, but I don’t like to talk about it much. Especially not in front of my husband who is convinced that my money management skills are equivalent to a toddler’s sense of impulse control. It too happened after a glass and a half of delicious Chardonnay and could quite possibly be attributed to a design flaw in the user interface of the online banking system.

It happened when I was paying my bills online. My Woollies account to be precise. Instead of opting to pay R1000 on my account, someone an extra zero crept in and before I knew it (after hitting ‘next’, ‘confirm’, ‘next’, ‘yeth, I’m sure’), I had paid R10,000 into my Woollies account. Clearly a bug in the system. Stupid developers.

Again, it had an instant sobering effect. And again, I got absolutely no joy from the misleadingly named “customer service” centre. Apparently Woollies are far more enthusiastic about accepting one’s payment than they are about refunding excess funds. I eventually decided to give up trying as I was very likely to plough my way through that extra amount in a very short space of time. That’s the part I don’t like to tell my husband.

There was a third incident, but for the life of me, I can’t remember.

What has thrown me off the reminiscing is that I have just got my beta back. 1213. It was 532 last Monday, 630 on Wed, 618 on Friday and 1213 today. Spot the error. I am so cross. Stupid stupid bloody miscarriage. Should have known better than to expect my body to take care of it naturally.

The doctor said it could be a blighted ovum, which is French for Fucking Irritating. I am to go for a scan in about a week’s time to see whether things have progressed (progressed? Regressed? Digressed? Suppressed?) naturally or whether we have to move to Plan F (F for Fucking HURRY UP).

No wonder I drink.

On a brighter note, I am going on holiday tomorrow!!!!! I am SO excited. Apparently the weather is going to be crappy but I don’t even care! I AM GOING ON HOLIDAY!!  Woooo hoooo!

Broken Hearts

What a day yesterday. This is a sad story, so be warned.

Rose called me at 4:30 to say, “I think you should come home immediately, there is something wrong with one of the dogs”. My heart drops, I ask “which one”. Peter, she replies. I can hear in her voice that it is serious. Oh please God, I think, please let it not be that one of the kids has hurt the dog. “What’s wrong”, I ask. “I think the dog is dead,” she replies solemnly. But how, how could it be? Rose says that Kate came inside to tell her that Peter was dead. Rose replied that Peter couldn’t be dead, she must just be sleeping and goes outside to look. Peter looks dead. I tell Rose to keep the kids away from the dog and that I will be there right away.

I throw my computer in the bag, grab my stuff and race home. I was working at my mom’s house, five minutes away. The whole way there I am hoping that the dog is just sick, how could the dog be dead! Hundreds of possible reasons fly through my head. Maybe the kids hugged her too hard and broke her neck. Maybe she ate something poisonous. Maybe a snake bit her. Maybe a scorpion bit her. Maybe Bruno played too rough with her. How could she be dead! My little baby. My little baby Peter.

I arrive at home with my heart in my mouth. The walk from the garage to the back of the house feels like a million miles long. There she is, lying on her side. She looks so peaceful, as if she is sleeping. I touch her gently. She is cold and her body stiff. Her little face looks swollen. She isn’t sleeping, she is dead.

I reel back. How could this happen. How could this lively beautiful sweet puppy be dead. They were fine when I left in the morning, hopping and skipping around like two little mad things. I had been home in the middle of the day and only seen Shelley, but I thought Peter was lying in the kennel with Bruno. Peter liked to take little siestas. 

I call Marko, I am so nervous. He is going to be so upset. I hate having to break the news to him on the phone, but I can’t face telling him in person. I know he is going to freak out.

He freaks out. Shouts. That is what he does when he is upset. I shout back at him telling him not to shout at me, I am upset enough already. I’m crying. The kids keep asking me “why are you so sad, mommy”. They both climb on me, hugging me, taking my face between their hands and kissing me on the mouth. I don’t think I’ve ever cried in front of them, but I can’t stop crying. It’s all too much. I haven’t yet shed one tear for my pregnancy loss, but this floors me. My little baby Peter, oh please please please don’t let her have suffered. I don’t think I could handle it.

Marko says that his father is on the way to our house, he will take Peter to the vet for an autopsy. Marko wants to know how the dog died.

My father in law calls with report backs all the time. He is an absolute hero in the crisis. First thought is tick bite fever. But the initial bloods rule that out. A full examination is done and we have our answer. Thank goodness, thank you with all my heart, the dog didn’t suffer. She had heart failure due to a genetic disorder. She must have died instantly and peacefully. I can’t tell you how much that helps me. The thought of her suffering was killing me. She was such a sweet, loving dog.

The vet says it is fairly common. Their hearts become enlarged and simply give in. My heart feels like it has taken a severe beating this week. I’m exhausted. I feel so terribly sorry for my baby dog. I’m glad she had a good life, albeit a far too short life. And I am so glad she went peacefully. 

Inherited Heart Disease
The breed's primary heart problem is Subarterial Aortic Stenosis (SAS) but goldens also face Mitral Valve Dysplasia and other valve problems.

SAS is a restriction of the aorta, usually by a ring of fibrous tissue, just after it leaves the heart. This restriction results in a distinct murmur (due to backflow and turbulence), heart enlargement, and restricted blood flow. As with CHD, affected dogs can be asymptomatic or severely crippled by this disease. SAS can also lead to sudden death, even in very young dogs. It is thought to be a genetic disease with a polygenic dominant mode of inheritance. Since many goldens have innocent (non-SAS) murmurs as puppies, breeding adults must be cleared by a board-certified veterinary cardiologist

Marko comes home and we end up having a huge fight. Screaming at each other. I am still so upset about the dog and he starts shouting at me about how we need to make sure we watch the children all the time and god forbid this happens to the children and what happens if I phone him at work and say something has happened to the children. I beg him not to talk about that now; I don’t think I can deal with it. He shouts, I shout back. 

An hour later, Marko and I declare an unspoken truce. It’s been a very upsetting week for both of us. We should try and be kinder to each other at times like these. 

I walk into the kitchen, there is a bunch of red roses for me. It’s our eight year anniversary. Happy anniversary. It certainly hasn’t been mundane.

RIP little Peter Albertyn 18/12/2007 – 22/04/2008

Calling all bookish bloggers

My NBF Louise is doing a DIY book tour for her latest book and I told her I would get all my friends in the computer to support her because you guys are divine like that and any friend of mine is a friend of yours etc. So, please spread the word!

Are you single, feeling that biological clock ticking and getting a little nervous?

Or perhaps you are married with child, but you know of plenty of women who fit the description above?

Or do you just want to know what the HELL is going on in the minds of the growing number of single women who are becoming moms by using sperm donors?

Louise Sloan, author of the controversial new book Knock Yourself Up--which has been featured in Newsweek, London Times, salon.com and elsewhere--is looking for bloggers interested in reviewing her book (rather than just reporting on the controversy).

Knock Yourself Up is a combo of memoir and reporting, featuring the voices of nearly 50 sperm-donor single moms from across the U.S. and Canada. More info at www.knockyourselfup.com.

Upcoming news hooks include the April 25 U.S. release of the single-mother-by-choice-themed Hollywood comedy Baby Mama (www.babymamamovie.net), and U.S. Mother's Day, May 11th.

If you'd like a review copy, please contact Louise at knockyourselfup@gmail.com. Include your name, blog URL & average traffic, and mailing address.

(Story of how Louise and I became BFF - She sent me her book, which I loved. I then sent her my book, which she loved.  We started emailing back and forth and then I discovered Louise liked wine which made me like her even more. We then we started making videos of our kids for each other. And then we rode off into the sunset together. The End.)