So Close

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.

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

The Gorgeous and Divine Rose

 
I need to a proper Rose update, and I will. Soon. But in the meantime, have a look at my Flickr album for the most gorgeous shots of Rose, taken by my neighbour, the VERY talented Renee.

Finding it increasingly difficult to pretend he doesn't care

Wrapped

It is Sister Mel’s birthday soon which means it is again time to reflect how two people related by blood can be SO totally different when it comes to certain things. Like birthdays. And gifts. And more specifically, gift wrapping.

Sister Mel loves birthdays (especially her own), loves gifts and has this crazy thing where she likes, no EXPECTS her gifts to be gift wrapped. I don’t understand it. What is the point of spending an extra 10 or 20 bucks on fancy paper that someone is going to rip to shreds within 0.05 seconds of getting the gifts? Wouldn’t you rather have that extra money spent on the actual gift (i.e. the gift certificate I so lovingly picked out for you)?

And if you think Sister Mel is bad, you should meet little sister Nina. Not only does she expect the gift to be wrapped, but she also expects a card. Now THERE is a total waste of money if I’ve ever seen one. Why would anyone want to spend money on a piece of fancy cardboard with someone else’s words on it?

I asked both sisters why they insisted on having their gifts wrapped accompanied by a card. “It shows you care” they first said. But I do care! I don’t need fancy paper and cardboard to show I care, I replied. “Well, it shows you care enough to make an effort” was the next answer. Fine, but you both know I am wrapping the gift because you say it is important, not because I care any more or any less. Grumble grumble sticky tape scissors and paper grumble.

Wrapping a gift for children I understand. Adds to the element of surprise and excitement. “What could it be” they marvel while they wastefully rip the paper off. Fine, you want surprise; I’ll wrap it in the store bag it came in. Look! Surprise!

A mutual friend of Friend Mel and mine recently had a baby shower and I offered to buy the gift. I sent a text message to Friend Mel saying that I had got the goods and she replied “I hope you’ve wrapped the gift”, to which I replied “obviously not”. The curt response via text was “WRAP THE FUCKING GIFT YOU ASSHOLE. OR ELSE”. So I went out and bought the damn paper and wrapped the damn gift. (I am almost more scared of Friend Mel than Sister Mel. Both Mels are extremely bossy). I have to say, I didn't care any more about our friend after the gift was wrapped than before.  I did care that Friend Mel had SHOUTED at me.  Scary assed bossy boots.

As our friend was opening the various beautifully wrapped gifts, the woman next to me sighed and said “look how beautifully that gift is wrapped (clearly NOT talking about my gift). Doesn’t presentation make all the difference?” I nodded vaguely and gulped down my champagne.

I am clearly in the minority here. To me, presentation makes absolutely no difference at all. The gift could come in a brown paper bag or a sterling silver gift box – it isn’t important. But it clearly is to others. Most people. Enlighten me. Does it really matter whether your gift comes wrapped or unwrapped? Does presentation really make that much difference after all?

Does my butt look big in this?

My mother, known for impeccable sense of timing and unflinching honesty, wants to know what the correct response is to that age old question: does my butt look big in this? (and the many variations thereof)

What would you say if your best friend asked you the question and the truth was that, yes, it really did make her butt look big? Should you tell? Would you want to know the truth? Should people volunteer the information? If you wore an outfit that was particularly unflattering, would you want your friend to point it out to you? Your husband? Is there a nice way of saying “girlfriend, that outfit looks HID-DEE-OUS on you!

I’m trying to tell my mom that sometimes less is more when it comes to offering her honest opinion. To Sister Mel after she bought a new jacket “Oh, I love your jacket. So pleased you bought a new one, that old one was revolting”. This after she had been wearing the old jacket for 700 years. Or to me after I bemoaned the fact that my skin was looking a little spotty “Yes, I noticed that your skin wasn’t looking at its best”. Or to her latest victim and the reason the question was asked, sister Nina “you look stunning today, those pants really suit you. BTW, I don’t think you should wear that spotty skirt you love so much, it is very unflattering”. 

The good thing is that you can always rely on my mom for an honest opinion. The bad thing is that she usually offers it when you are premenstrual, over tired or in the aftermath of a huge fight with your husband.

If you want to know if your butt looks big in that, ask my mom. Just don’t expect any sugar coating on the response.

Love you mom!

Shelly’s a bit of a screamer

Ok, so you were right. Say it! I know you want to. I’ll wait you here while you get all “I told you so” on me.

………..

Ok, so you warned me, and you were right. Getting two puppies while you have two young kids is HECTIC!!!! Exhausting! But for reasons I didn’t expect.

Firstly Bruno, the ungrateful bastard, is completely unimpressed by his two new companions who we got to keep HIM company. We thought he was lonely. Turns out he is not a quality time person either.

(Bruno hiding away from the puppies outside the front door)

Those two young whippersnappers are cheeky, noisy, have NO respect for his things and follow him around all day trying to play with him. HAVE THEY NO RESPECT!!

To make matters worse, Shelly has found her voice. And she’s a bit of a screamer. Yap yap yap yap yap. The favourite yapping time is that crucial hour between sunrise (05:00am) and when it would be reasonable to assume that I would get up to make their breakfast (06:00am). To pass the time and take their minds off the hunger that is about to kill them if I don’t feed them the very second they open their cute little eyes, they play the game called “let’s irritate Bruno”. The game involves sitting outside Bruno’s favourite kennel and yapping at him non stop until he can’t stand it anymore, and he gets up to leave. Both puppies then dash inside the favourite kennel (there are two big kennels, one of which has always, and always be HIS kennel. GETTIT??) and yap at him from the inside while he growls at them to get back in again. Which is like SO totally fun because now he is actually responding to them instead of his usual flat out ignore and so the morning melody becomes yap yap yap yap yap growl growl growl growl yap yap yap yap ……………

So, Bruno is not loving those puppies at the moment.  The kids however ADORE the puppies. Which is the second problem. I can not leave them alone with the puppies at all. They are way too rough with them. Not in a nasty way, but they hug way too hard, want to lie with (on) the puppies, pick them up etc. I thought I would have to worry about the puppies hurting the kids, but it is the other way around.

I know both situations will get better. Sulky Bruno will get to love those puppies and the kids will learn not to hug so hard etc (plus the puppies will get less fragile), but at the moment things are a little crazy this side.

(Our first family walk)

But even with the yap yap yap yap growl growl growl and the constant SOFTLY! GENTLY! tune that plays non-stop around here, I am still thrilled that we have Shelly and Peter around. I love and adore them already. We French kiss often.

And I am still glad that I got two. If I am going to take the pain of the puppy years, I might as well do it all at once ;-)

(The first casualty)

Filling her love tank

You were right, this is about Rose. And just so you know, I am not speaking behind her back. I’ve had this discussion with her at our last coffee date. 

Sigh. Where to start.

For those who have read “The Five Love Languages” by Gary Chapman, the easiest way to explain it is to say that Rose’s ‘love tank’ is empty, and I am not sure I can, and should be filling it.

Rose is a pretty intense person. Not in a bad way, it is just who she is. She reminds me a lot of Marko actually, and my sister and best friend. I guess I am attracted to people who have strong, ‘strict’ views on life. Rose has very high standards, for friendship, or fairness, for life. She lives life with intensity, with passion and with 100% commitment, and she expects the same in return.  Which means that she is often disappointed by people. And lonely.

She has been through a really tough time recently, and just about everyone in her life has fallen short of her expectations. Not only have her friends disappointed her, but so has some of her extended family, most of who live really far away. Even her religion has let her down. Which makes her feel quite alone.

Rose’s love language is ‘quality time’. She loves to spend time with people, bonding, talking, sharing, laughing. She lives with me, she has no transport and so she gets very little opportunity to talk, share and bond with anyone other than me during the week.

Out of all the love languages, ‘quality time’ scores second lowest on my list (‘gifts’ comes last). Not only do I really, really not have the time to spend quality time with anyone other than my children, the ‘quality time’ thing just doesn’t do it for me.

But of course, I do understand that it is important to other people. My husband, for example, has ‘quality time’ as his love language.  He wants nothing more than to spend time with me. I want nothing more than to spend time on my own!!

I am a people pleaser of note. I want people to be happy, and if they aren’t, it makes me feel terrible. And yet…..

My day is so full. When I get home from work, all I want to do is spend time with the children. Then, once I have put them to bed, I have a few hours in which to do the million other things I have to do. Work on work stuff, work on my new project, write for my blog, write for my weekly column. Try and squeeze some time for my poor husband who gets hardly anything of me. Any spare time I might have left over, I want to be alone. I need to be alone. Quiet. I need to have the time and space to unwind, to settle my crazy insides, to slowly and quietly recharge my bits so that I can start all again the next day.

But I know Rose’s love tank is empty. I know she is lonely. I know she needs to spend time with someone. To talk. About important stuff; about everything and nothing at all. Talk. And it makes me feel so guilty because no one else is filling her love tank, and so perhaps it should be me. And then I get resentful because I can’t be there for her emotionally as well. I take care of her in every other way. I pay her three times what other people get. I take and fetch her from the shops, I drive her around. I sort out her financial mess. I buy her gifts. I do things for her. I tell her how much I appreciate her. I do all the other love languages, but I just can’t do the quality time thing. I can’t. And to be honest, I don’t want to..

Because quality time is her love language, all these other things have not been meaningless, but they have not filled her love tank. She feels let down by me. And so she too has been resentful. Things have not been great.

Eventually it came to a head and we spoke about it. I agreed that we would go on a once a week coffee date and that would be her time to talk. She would have my undivided attention for that time.

It was our first ‘quality time’ date on Wednesday and we spoke about the love language thing. (She has read the book too, which helps us chat about what is going one). We spoke about why we were both feeling so resentful towards each other. It really helped.

There is a part of me that says that I can’t, and shouldn’t be responsible for filling her love tank. That as her employer, I am not responsible for happiness (in that way). But then there is the other part of me that says for whatever reason, whether she is right or wrong, she has no one else. And so it has to be me.

I don’t know. I really don’t. As you can see, I am trying. I have agreed to the once a week coffee date, even though I am so, so SO busy. And even though I can’t even manage a once a week date with my husband!!! (Something that I am going to do something about, promise). But because I care about her, I want her to be happy. I just wish it didn’t depend on me.

What do you think? I haven't had time to check this through for holes, opportunities for misunderstanding, possible offense taking or other land mines so please be gentle.   

(Edited to add: re the driving licence thing, that is not going to happen for a long while. She needs lots and lots more practice. So that is a long term solution, not a short term one)

Frighteningly scary watchdogs

Ok, so how hot was I in my youth!

Hahaha!  Check the fag in the hand.  And could that waistband BE any higher??  Damn, I was hot in my youth.  Hilarious.

Me, sister Mel and a friend of hers. No idea when this was taken, but it was a loooong time ago

Then, sweet family shot from 1991.  Before middle-aged spread and crows feet.

Sister Mel, brother Paul in front, Dad, me, Mom and sister Nina.