April Fool's Day

Is this not the second cutest thing you've ever seen?

Hi Milla.

It's Mom.

I have a little story to tell you, and then a quick update on how unbelievably cool you are, aged almost 11 months.

First, the story.

On 1 April 2010, Mom and Dad had a party. In those days we still lived in the dank, dark cave called Riverlodge, with the jacuzzi we seldom used. So, we invited our mates, bought copious bottles of wine, flung some rubber ducks into the water, dumped a couple of blankies on the lawn and had a jol.

We drank, we jacuzzied, we ate pizza (I think) and then Auntie Katie and I missioned off to buy something from the garage on Conrad Drive. Must have been ice. Anyway, as we were driving back up the driveway towards the house, I mentioned to Katie (in my more-than-slightly intoxicated state) that I was considering not renewing my prescription for the Pill.

This was as much a shock to me as it was to Katie, because Dad and I had been married three years and were laissez-faire about our plans to have a baby. In fact, if I'm being honest, the only thing I knew for sure was how utterly terrifying I found the idea of parenthood. 

But - the decision was made, out there, by the large fern. 

That night, after multiple hours of clean-up, I (soppily) discussed it with your Dad. He was keen, and we were on. We expected it to take 6-12 months to get pregnant (but were convinced I was already pregnant by the next morning anyway) and, in a fairly hands-off sort of way bought a pack of ovulation sticks and got on with it. We didn't tell anyone, tho'.

Dad went away on business (briefly landing himself in a sticky situation; more on that when you're a lot older) and I got on with whatever people-without-kids do when they have free time and are on diet. I can't remember. Anyway, one night I dined with Auntie Sophie and, over sashimi and Coke Zero, told her I felt 'funny'. 

'Get a pregnancy test,' she suggested. 'What for?' I asked. But, on the way home, I got two.

And guess what? The very next morning I woke your Dad at 7am - even though he'd only returned from Cape Town five hours before - and told him I was about to take a preggie test. 

I took one and then, disbelievingly, another. I was pregnant. Well, pregnant enough for two over-the-counter tests to say so, but not pregnant enough for Dad or me... So we went off for a 10am doctor's appointment and a blood test. And by 1pm, Bruce had called with the news.

Remember: this was the end of July 2010. (The World Cup had just ended. Dad and I had spent a few freezing weeks in Sedgies, at The Shack.) We'd started trying on 1 April 2010. And you'll never believe what happened exactly one year later, to the very day... 

I went into labour with you. And you were born on 2 April 2011, at 8.45am. Kan jy dit glo? Exactly 12 months after dumping the Pill, I had you.

What a lucky, lucky, lucky mommy I am.

Now, the update:

It's 23 February. You're five weeks away from your 1st birthday and doing amazing things:

1. Walking! Four steps and fall-down, but so cute.
2. Saying 'there' (pronounced 'deh').
3. Knowing who Milla is - and thumping your chest when you say 'deh'.
4. Looking up at the light when we ask where it is.
5. Looking for Reacher when we ask where he is.
6. Patting your tummy if I say 'scrub, scrub' to you while we're in the bath.
7. Clapping when Hilary shows you her clip [Ed: What's a vowel between friends?].
8. Using Dad's MOOBA Animal app on his iPad.
9. Giving big open-mouthed kisses / trying to eat me.
10. Getting adorable golden ringlets all over your head. Where did you come from?

You're delicious. I adore you.

Love Mom x

I don't like kids*.

Hi Milla.

It’s Mom.

*Okay, that headline is deliberately provocative. Sorry.

Something funny has happened to me. Something utterly unexpected and quite cool. But first – a bit o’ background:

I don’t like kids. That’s no secret. I’m just not a kid person. I’ve never been the sort to peer into prams, to clutch tiny babies in my arms, to joyously attend noisy, messy, mommy-cliquey kids’ parties. I’m not wild about having children in my house. Again, they mess. And they scare my cats. (Some more than others.)

I do like kids I’m related to. And the kids of very close friends. Thank G-d. But in a very ‘cool spinster auntie’ kind of way. And the older they get – the closer to 16 if we’re being honest – the more I like them.

‘Why have a kid then?’ you may be wondering. I don’t know. I guess I always believed that some sort of switch would be flipped and I’d turn into Auntie Dina (who is mal about kids). Well, that’s exactly what happened when you were born – but with a catch. I still didn’t like other people’s kids. I adored you.

HOWEVER, ten and a bit months in, something weird is going on. Because as I get more accustomed to kid stuff – the schmutz, the racket, the smells, the cries, the cuteness – I find that I also like a lot more kids than I used to.

• I’ll pick up a friend’s baby out of absolute choice – not because I feel obliged to.
• I’ll sniff a tiny infant because he smells so completely yummy and baby-ish.
• I’ll cuddle a toddler just because she’s chubby.
• I’ll look into every pram in every shopping mall, and smile at the moms (in the past, I ignored them completely; ‘Shopping malls and other public spaces are no place for children…’)

 I’ll also welcome kids into my home, because what you’ve done to the carpets and couches can’t really be worsened by anyone else’s child…

…and because I don’t mind nappies being changed on my dining room table or my bed…

…and because the cats are used to you and other little people and most importantly…

…because kids make a house feel nice.

What’s also happening, and I acknowledge that this could be because my friends’ kids are growing up and becoming interesting little people, is that the kids I know are (mostly) divine. Sweet, kind, funny, smart. A pleasure to be with. [Jade, this piece was inspired by your Raphael and Katie, by your Liam.)

May you continue to be the delicious creature who makes people love her (even if they’re not really kid people) and who puts her arms up to be held by anyone who smiles at you [Ed: evil strangers with agendas notwithstanding].

I love you.

Mom x

Joburg and the workaholics

Hi Milla.

It's Mom.

I've been thinking a lot about stress and time management and pressure lately, as part of my SLOW LIVING philosophy for 2012 (which is mostly going well, but which I sometimes forget about).

And I've realised that a big part of being a Johannesburger is being chronically frantic. It goes like this:

'How are you?'


'Omigod - hectic!' or 'So busy I could die.' or 'Exhausted.' or 'Having a manic week.' And on and on...

Capetonians and Durbanites and people from small Karoo towns say things like:

'Good, man.' and 'Doing well, thanks.' and 'Taking it easy.' and 'Nicely busy.'

In Joburg, we seem to be bizarrely proud of existing in a state of perpetual mania. We (and I make this assertion based on myself and many of my fellows, although I acknowledge it's by no means empirical...) can't wait to let everyone know how overloaded we are. We like having no time to breathe.

But - is this any way to live, really? And - does it speak to success? I'm beginning to think not.

Your Auntie Georgi, one of the most capable people I know, once told me that good time management is not about filling every minute with work, but about having empty time to do un-worky things.

(I can't remember the exact words she used, but it was something along the lines of, 'People who are always swamped are shitty planners...' And it stuck.)

Now that we are blessed with you, and since I got mid-way through my pregnancy, if I'm being honest, I feel like I have an excuse to let go a bit. To sit with you on the couch at lunch-time. To finish work at 5pm. To go to a 3pm Pilates class on a Tuesday. And whoever doesn't like it - bollocks to them.

I work bloody hard. [She types, defensively...]

Here's an anecdote:

I told a client (a rabid workaholic and all-round 'traditionally' successful over-achiever) that my offices would be closed from 10 December to 10 January. She looked at me, utterly horrified, and said, 'Oh - a month off. Nice for some people.'

This would have devastated me before, because it implies a measure of doubt as to my professionalism and commitment. But I simply said (okay, snapped), 'Yep - that's why I have my own business.'

I'm learning that true success means down-time. Good time management means open space. A solid business translates into nice, long holidays. And mental health sometimes requires mid-day exercise.

I'm also learning that giving 110% is bullshit. Even giving 100% is bullshit. Because 80% is still an A.

May you have balance rather than mania. And may you be proud of it.

I love you.

Mom x