Before I Moved Across the World

 

Sunburst memories of home

Before I moved, I didn’t know that seemingly innocuous, beautiful, happy pictures could make me cry. Friends at the beach. The food market on a Friday night. Watsonias blooming next to a mountain road. Our mountain. My mountain.

Before I moved, I didn’t know that you could miss a place so much that you physically ached.  That a house that didn’t belong to you could be where your heart remained. That missing the sights, smells, and sounds of home can make your eyes, nose, ears and skin itch and burn with yearning. For the smell of fynbos, the salt sea on the air, voices of Africa raised in song, laughter loud and clear, the cry of hadedas, waves crashing in the distance, sunrise over the ocean. Longing has taken on new meaning. Has become physical like hunger. Like a punch to the stomach. Like cold wind in a foreign land.

Before I moved, I didn’t know that you could miss people so much that you couldn’t speak to them. That your interactions could need to be limited to the occasional social media post or comment. Not because you don’t miss them, but because you do. And speaking to them opens  a gaping hole in your heart. A rift, a crevasse, a donga that reminds you of everything and everyone you’ve left behind.

Before I moved, I didn’t know that a single message from the people you love, that have become the fabric of your day to day, can bring you to ugly crying in the bathroom because they’re so very far away. Those same people who once made you laugh so much that you cried tears of joy. 

Before I moved, I didn’t know that you could love people so much, that you had to avoid them.

Before I moved, I thought homesickness was a feeling. I didn’t know that it could be a state of being. A physical disease so real that it can leave you holed up in your bed. Too weak and fragile to face the day. To walk out the door and have it be Not Home.

Before I moved, I thought I’d learnt to manage my anxiety. The oh-my-God what ifs. The need to have the kids in sight, holding my hand, at all times. The questioning over-thinking second-guessing. The panicky, hard-beating heart, not enough breath, everything is blurry, craziness of it all. The sleepless nights worrying about all the things. Have I broken them? Our lives? Myself?

Before I moved, I thought I could avoid the overcompensation in social situations that makes me present as slightly unhinged, when I’m trying so hard for normal. The dry-mouthed sick feeling of meeting new people and interacting socially. Of wanting to present my best self while feeling the lunatic bubbling under the surface. I thought I could deal with the emotional exhaustion of putting myself out there. Making friends. Struggling to find my tribe.

Before I moved, I thought I understood depression. That I knew the darkness that can descend and make every activity an insurmountable mountain. That chains you to your bed. That can rob you of faith and belief and trust in yourself. In others.

Before I moved, I didn’t know that depression and anxiety can combine with missing and longing and homesickness to form a dangerous cocktail that’s an earthquake for the soul. A Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster for the heart. Leaving you very, very shaken, and –  thankfully – sometimes stirred.

The green grass of the Netherlands

Image credit: Cheryl Ewing

When I first started telling people that we had decided to move to Europe, responses were mostly positive. But there were of course those few who responded with the perennial “The grass isn’t always greener on the other side, you know.” Grrr. For the most part, I managed to bite back the sarcastic comment dying to get out, because I knew that they meant well and wanted to make sure that we had really thought about what a global move would entail, what we would  be sacrificing, and were prepared for how difficult it would be.

Of course we thought it through carefully before making a decision that would fundamentally affect our family’s future in myriad ways. Just as – of course  – we considered how such a huge move and change would affect our kids. As for being prepared for the challenges and difficulties? Well, it turns out that moving around the world is a bit like having a baby. You may think you’re ready, but you’re not.  And no amount of preparation makes it any easier. There is nothing that can prepare you for the heartbreak of leaving behind everything and everyone you love, or help you adjust to living in a country where everything is different, from the language spoken around you to the spices in the grocery store. You kind of just have to live through it and trust that you’ll come out of it better. 

I find it interesting that people from other countries can be expats – for a few years or forever – and have it understood that they are looking for a new experience, while South Africans tend to assume that you’re leaving because of how ‘bad’ things are back home. If there is one thing that living abroad, even for just 6 months, has taught me, it is that while South Africa has its issues, so does Everywhere else. Even the Dutch don’t believe that the Netherlands is perfect.  I’ve met Americans who think that America is fucked, Brits who think that Britain is fucked, and Australians who are tired of living in a country where almost everything can kill you. And yet they get to be global citizens without people back home assuming that they’ve run away from something (although some of them have in fact run away from Trump, Brexit, and funnel web spiders.)

Really, telling me that the grass isn’t greener on the other side says more about the person saying it than me or my family’s decision. It is based on the assumption that I moved because I felt a need to leave. But I was never moving Away from South Africa, but Towards the Netherlands. Right from the start, I have focused on the pull factors of living in Western Europe (and fulfilling a lifelong dream), rather than any push factors that may exist in South Africa. I moved for the adventure, for the ability to travel Europe, to experience a new language and culture, and to expand my horizons and world view.  To learn new things, try new foods, and meet new people. And because at heart I’m a free spirit and a bit of a nomad.

I sure as hell didn’t moving for the grass.  (See what I did there?) Although I have heard (pure hearsay) *cough* it can be pretty good here in the Netherlands. *giggle snort*

A parting gift because, even though I’m enjoying the adventure, I still miss the sights and sounds of home:

She’s back! (And speaking about herself in the third person…)

Hello? (hello) (hello)

Is there anybody in there?

Jut nod if you can hear me.

Is there anyone at home?

So, its been a while. A long while. Like, five and a half years long. And boy, has lots happened! We’ve moved house, had a baby, changed schools, made some great friends, found (and lost) pets, and, oh yeah, moved countries. But more on that later.

For now, this is just a quick check-in to make sure I still remember how this all works (not to mention the password)…

 

Hire Me, I’m a Stay-at-Home Mom!

It isn’t easy getting back into the workplace after being a stay-at-home mom, but the skills you learn can stand you in good stead to take on the toughest of tasks.

Almost exactly 10 years ago, I decided to be a stay-at-home mom, despite being offered my dream job. One decade and two children later, my circumstances have — perhaps predictably — changed.

The cost of living, along with my boredom level, has increased, while my expendable income and ability to joyfully read kids storybooks have markedly decreased. Which roughly translates to me having less money, more mouths to feed, and zero fracks left to give about Hairy Mclairy or Peppa Pig.

So like millions of other South Africans (9.3 million unemployed but wanting to work in Q1 of 2017, to be exact), I have spent the last several months looking for a job. And it has sucked. I’d go so far as to say that it has been the worst knock to my self-esteem, and most uncomfortable thing that I’ve done, in ages. This from someone whose clothes are soaked in toddler pee on a semi-regular basis.

Don’t be fooled, people. No matter what The Good Wife would have you believe, you do not just slip back into the workforce after a decade of staying home. You don’t even force your way back into the work force like Trump at a NATO  meeting. More like trying to battle your way out of the professional naughty corner, where you are being punished for having made The Wrong Choice.

The worst part is that getting employers to believe that I’m up to the challenge is only half the battle. The hardest part has been convincing myself that I can do it. Because instead of spending the last 10 years climbing the corporate ladder, I’ve been dealing with pregnancy porridge brain, sleep deprivation, and the mental slow-down that accompanies spending the bulk of my time with under ten year olds. Thankfully, I know I’m not alone in feeling this way. Whenever I speak to women who have been stay-at-home moms for a considerable time, there is the sense that going back to work requires bravery. Either in being able to pivot, and use the opportunity to explore the passions and hobbies that were pushed aside in favour of building a career, or by really taking the time to recognise and celebrate your skills.

And boy, has being a stay-at-home mum given me skills! It has honed my problem solving abilities, made me more organised and better at multitasking, turned me into a time management wizard, and left me more adept at dealing with unimaginable situations. Really, I am purpose built for the workplace of 2017.

So in the interests of educating employers about the value that moms can offer, I’ve made a list of all the skills I’ve developed or honed in my ten years as a stay-home mum.

1. Negotiation skills: I’ve spent the last decade convincing deeply unreasonable people (who literally cannot use their words) that eating vegetables really is a better idea than pouring them over your head. Plus, I’m pretty sure that my firstborn is going to be a corporate lawyer one day, because everything is a negotiation with this kid. “You want me to eat my vegetables? Well, how about you offer me an extra scoop of ice-cream and add chocolate sprinkles, and I eat half this carrot?”
2. Resourcefulness: Just ask my kids about the time I used nothing but half a packet of wet wipes and a sippy cup to handle an in-car ice-cream and bathroom related emergency, and still managed to make it to ballet class on time. Mic drop!
3. Team player: If you’re looking for someone willing to make sacrifices for the sake of the team, you’ve come to the right girl. I’m not kidding – I took my entire family on honeymoon with me because they were visiting from New Zealand. And that was before I had kids. Plus, I don’t even remember the last time I went to the toilet alone. I’m not saying we have to take it that far, but you should know that I can go the distance when it comes to teamwork.
4. Staying on budget: I’ve fed, transported and clothed a single income family of four through a global financial crisis and a recession. I think that speaks for itself.
5. Sense of humour: Employers may not have this on the top of their list, but being able to maintain a dark and wicked sense of humour is what really gets teams through that last minute proposal for the client from hell. That, and wine. Both of which are special skills of mine.

Shortly before this was published on 7 September 2017, I accepted a job offer, signalling the end of my occupation as a stay-at-home mom. I therefore am soon to be a member of the formal workforce once again. I look forward to time alone in the car (you say traffic jam, I say downtime), and the opportunity to pee without someone asking her how many lions there are in Africa (roughly 200 000, in case you were wondering).

** This article was originally published in on the BrightRock Change Exchange website

The Toughest Choice I Ever Made as a Mom

Motherhood isn’t an easy proposition. Nor is pursuing the career of your dreams. What choice do you make, when the options are going out to work or staying at home to be a full-time mom?

In the months leading up to the birth of my first child, I made the toughest decision of my life — whether to be a working or stay-at-home mom. I was 28 years old and had been offered my dream job, the one that would put me on the path to fulfilling all of my career goals of money, prestige and fulfilment. I was also about to give birth to the miracle child that I never thought I would be able to have.

Choosing between these futures, the one with a career, independence and intellectual stimulation or being a full-time mother, tortured me. I was wracked with indecision and uncertainty until, finally, I made the choice that would forever affect my mothering and how people see me.

Nine years and two kids later, and I still need to explain and justify the validity and wisdom of that choice to other people.

When you choose to stay home with your kids long-term, few will believe it can possibly be the informed and considered choice of a smart, self-aware, enlightened woman. Blame it on Trump, the Mommy Wars, or the dawning of the age of Aquarius.

How can a woman with the option of Having It All, choose to be ‘just’ a mom? Perhaps her career wasn’t going anywhere anyway. Maybe she’s just spoilt and likes being ‘looked after’ and ‘kept’. All things that people have said to me. In fact, I face similar judgements daily, along with the almost constant comments about my personal life.

“Don’t they go to school now? Surely you have time to do something.”

I prefer to say in bed drinking tea. Or lying face down on the floor.

“You can’t do nothing forever.”

Wanna bet?

“But surely you want to help your husband financially and stop being a burden?”

Nope. I love not having any money of my own. I especially love that my feet resemble rhino horns because I don’t spend cash on pedicures, now that all of my financial decisions are coloured by the fact that I’m reliant on someone else for money.

“I really admire you, but I could never do it. My mind is too active.”

 I’m so lucky that my mind runs like molasses through an hourglass.

“But don’t you get bored doing nothing?” 

Well, I do lie on the couch while my kids turn themselves into model citizens, drive themselves around, cook and feed the family, take care of all family admin on my behalf, and my home magically manages itself. It’s all deeply entertaining.

Unfortunately, I’m too polite to have given those responses.

Worst of all, no one stops to think about what you’ve sacrificed to be doing what you’re doing, such as knowing that you and your kids are entirely financially dependent on another person, and the bizarre power dynamic that introduces into your relationship. Or knowing that you’ve effectively nailed the  lid on that bright career you foresaw, because no-one wants to hire a mid-level 40-year-old who managed to miss the birth of social media while she was birthing babies.

I was raised by a strong and driven working mother who set the perfect example of having it all. But even as a child I saw how hard it was and what it cost her — the sacrifices she had to make to be there for her family as well as fully commit to her career, the exhaustion and the sublimation of her needs, and the fact that she couldn’t give as much she would have liked to either facet of her life.

So if I had to do it all again, I would make the same choice. I have always known that I want to be the type of mother that attends and helps out at school events, is an active member of the PTA and provides only homemade goodies for the cake sale. I have also always known what type of professional I want to be, and that doesn’t include sacrificing my ability to perform because of family commitments.

I found that I could not merge the two into one, sane woman. It is really hard to be both of those people, and not all of us want to take the more difficult path. That isn’t shameful. It’s driving to the office vs cycling — there are those who can do it, and those who can’t figure out how to get to the office without smelling like a dead rat. The main thing is that we all deserve to make the choice without censure or prejudice. Being a stay-at-home parent is hard enough as it is. There are no performance reviews to let you know you’re on the right track, no pay, and no thanks.

The thankless part applies to all parenting. But if staying at home is your choice, be prepared for the fact that apart from no thanks, you’re unlikely to get any recognition either. To be honest, it can get a little hectic; the years of not being seen.

But then — if you’re lucky, and having a good day — you remember that these tiny little people recognise and see you. Not with their eyes, but with their hearts. Their hearts know, and always will. And then you cry a little, but it’s okay because it’s a happy type of crying and unrelated to the fact that your last bottle of wine is finished and you haven’t had time to go to the shops to get more.

*Kim Norwood-Young is a stay-at-home mother of two, with friends who really are very nice and supportive. She doesn’t have time to blog anymore, but her children are very polite.

** This article was originally published in February, 2017 on the BrightRock Change Exchange website

Raising a daughter in the midst of South Africa’s rape crisis

I am pregnant. Which is, for the most part, wonderful and joyous news. Unfortunately, this has been an incredibly difficult pregnancy for me emotionally. Not just because this is an unplanned and largely unwanted pregnancy (although that is true). Not because I have been an emotional and hormonal basket case (also true). Not even because I am scared shitless that postnatal depression will rear its ugly head once more.

No, my greatest emotional trauma related to this pregnancy is that I am fairly sure that the baby I am carrying is a girl. This would be wonderful news for many parents, but not for me. Because I know what it is to be a girl and a woman in South Africa.

South Africa’s rape statistics are absolutely appalling. Interpol has named South Africa as the rape capital of the world. It has been reported that there are up to 3 600 rapes in South Africa every day. In a recent Medical Research Council study, more than 25% of the male respondents admitted to raping someone. In another, older study; the Medical Research Council stated that one third of girls in South Africa experienced sexual violence before the age of 18. Think about that – at least one third of us will experience a sexual assault before we are even adults.

Until recently I belonged to (an admittedly small) club of 5 women from all walks of life – different ages, races, religions, socio-economic backgrounds and sexual orientations. We grew up in different parts of the country, in disparate communities. And yet 100% of the women in that club had experienced some form of sexual violence. This was not a group that had come together because of our shared experience of sexual violence, and yet every one of us knew what it was to be sexually assaulted at some point in our lives.  This is a common theme in my interactions with South African women.

We South African women may not speak about it much, except in the safe confines of closed groups and behind closed doors, but so so many of us are survivors. Not just of  sexual, emotional, and physical abuse, but of the daily struggle with fear. The trauma of being scared of what is waiting for us just around the corner. We travel through our lives with an awareness of what may happen to us. What probably will happen to us. What, in all likelihood, has already happened to us. And we overcome. We are brave.

I have overcome. I have been brave.

Until the doctor said, “It’s too early to tell for sure, but it looks like a girl” and my heart shriveled up in fear. Fear for what this girl-child will have to face. Because even if she is lucky enough to be one of those untouched by this widespread evil, I know that I will have to prepare her anyway.

As a mother, I know that I will have to teach her to walk with caution. Teach my precious innocent little girl to look over her shoulder. Teach her to deal with the inappropriate comments from men old enough to be her father and the man-handling that often accompanies it. Prepare her for the possibility that the boy/man she chooses to date may not be as nice a guy as he seems. That he may try to rape her on one of the dates that she innocently and eagerly prepares for.

I will have to give her the tools that became second nature to me: never take a drink unless it is sealed. Never leave your drink untended. Never let your date take you to a private location until you are certain of him. Even when you’re certain of him, remember your pepper spray. Do not trust too soon.

Essentially, I will need to teach her to walk in fear. To be paranoid. But it will also be my duty to make sure she doesn’t end up jaded and incapable of trust. Somehow, I will need to teach her to be cautious and know that there is danger, but convince her to be open to love. My job will be to maintain her innocence while destroying it. And I am terrified. Because I don’t know how to approach this parenting. I don’t know how to walk that razor thin line. I don’t know how to give her the knowledge of the awful thing that hides in so many of our closets, while I hope and pray to all that is holy that it won’t happen to her. While I battle my desire to not expose her to its ugliness.

I realise that my own experience of sexual assault may be the cause of my fear, but when I look at the statistics (and idiots like this), it is hard to believe that I am overreacting.

How do I do it? How do I parent a girl-child in a healthy and constructive way, that doesn’t teach her to fear her sexuality, while keeping her safe? How do I protect my little girl?

Five Minute Friday, plus OMG, She’s Alive!

So it’s been a while… *crickets*

Life has been crazy, beautiful, amazing, scary and busy since the move to Cape Town. I promise to write a little more about that later.

For now, I am once again linking up with Gypsy Mama, Lisa-Jo Baker (who often makes me cry and always makes me think), for her Five Minute Friday prompt. The idea is that you write for five minutes without editing or worrying about what others will think. You just write what’s on your heart. This week’s prompt was Song. Here goes:

I sing the body electric. My body. This electric body.

Electric with dizziness and nausea. Electric with heat and cravings and the need to pee again and again and again. Electric with emotion.

Electric with new life.

A new song in my heart. This new almost person. This new adventure for a small family of ‘us’. Us becoming bigger. Us becoming more. As my body becomes bigger and more.

Like the beat of African drums the beat beat beat of a new heart. It is early days, the song is quiet still. But soon it will grow louder. The song swells as my body does, but the ‘us’ melody remains. The band is growing. As is the joy and the praise and the wonder.

Sometimes I wish it wasn’t so hard to be a mother

Sometimes my child is so badly behaved and demanding and selfish and I-don’t-care-that-you-have-needs that I want to run from the house screaming at the top of my voice. I want to run as far as I can, to place that is quiet like a Bjork song and empty like fog. Someplace just my own, where I rule the pink fluffy clouds and sunny skies and soft green grass. A place that stays tidy and neat as a pin; where the food cooks itself, the laundry is always washed (and ironed), the dishes are always done, and the bathrooms never need to be cleaned. A place where no-one needs juice or a muffin or to ask me a really important question Right Now.

A place where I get to hold and nurture the selfish child within.

Sometimes my child’s episodes of bad behaviour last for weeks – months, even – and I can’t help the feelings of surging anger and resentment. Feelings that fill me with guilt, but that I am powerless to stop. And eventually, even the guilt starts to foster resentment because no corner of my emotional landscape, or mind or space or life is mine alone.

It is all consumed by this little person who runs roughshod over my emotions and needs because he hasn’t yet learnt that the world doesn’t exist to do his bidding. And then I realise that that’s My fault. Because I am his teacher, his life coach, his purveyor of knowledge. And yet again I feel guilty and angry because despite my very best efforts I have failed. Failed to teach him to care for the feelings of others, failed to help him develop the independence to entertain himself, failed to raise a child that I can actually live with.

And live with him I must. Just like I must teach him. Teach him and guide him and tutor him and lead him and then teach him some more. Because if he doesn’t understand that it is unacceptable to throw a monumental tantrum because I won’t let him play a Wii game all afternoon, or drink a juice that consists of nothing but colorants and artificial flavours; it is my job to fix it.

And this is not a job I can quit. This is not a job I can give up on because it is too hard. This is not a job that I have any choice but to continue. Because the wake up, fetch, carry, work, entertain, wipe snotty nose, cook, clean, always-someone-else’s-agenda merry go round isn’t something I can walk away from. Even if I am bone weary about three leagues beyond the point of exhaustion. Even if today I feel that I just can’t win, that this is the one thing that I simply cannot do, that this is all too much and I Just Can’t Breathe. I must carry on and push through and nurture and remember that he’s just a child and doesn’t understand and smile while I’m at it.

I guess that’s what it means to be responsible. What it means to be a mother.

Sometimes I wish it wasn’t so hard.

“Light tomorrow with today!” Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Another Five Minute Friday.

Prompt: Light

When we first decided to move to Cape Town, people warned me about the weather. About how cold and wet and dank and miserable winter in the Mother City can be. So of course we decided to move just in time for winter. Well, it’s not quite winter yet. More like autumn. But the wet weather has certainly started.

In fact, there have been quite a few days of wet, wintry, windy (ye Gods, the wind!) weather. Dark mornings saturated with cold and drizzle.

And yet all I feel is light. It’s like bright, beautiful, yellow, early-morning sun shining into my consciousness.

Light. Weightless. Like a huge burden has been lifted from my shoulders.

Light, lit from within, a fire and passion for life – for love – rekindled.

Because for the first time in many years, I feel safe. And welcome. And like I am a part of something greater than myself – a community.

No matter that it hasn’t been easy to make a move of this magnitude. No matter that I miss my friends and family every day. No matter that I’m realising how much I loved the house I left behind, and how hard it is to rent.

Because even though this is hard – so hard – and should threaten to drop me into the subterranean darkness of all-too-familiar depression, I still feel so much lighter than I did in Joburg. In every possible way.  And I can feel a change in our family. Somehow, we have more time. For each other, for ourselves, for those around us.

I would hate to be one of the naysayers to leave a city and then spout negativity about it, especially since I think that Joburg still has something going for it.

So all I will say is this: I think they call it the Mother City for a reason, because I already feel nurtured here. It’s like the soft beach soil that clings to my son’s feet holds some nutrient that I didn’t know that we needed or were missing until we got here.  So as I find the strength to slough off the skin of jadedness, insularity and distrust that I managed to acquire in almost 15 years in the City of Gold, I welcome the new (old) me.

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”

― Martin Luther King Jr., A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches

Bravery in the absence of fear isn’t really bravery at all

“Bran thought about it. “Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”
“That is the only time a man can be brave,” his father told him.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

A Five Minute Friday prompt from The Gypsy Mama that I finally feel brave enough to post. I did write this on a Friday, though. In 5 minutes.

For those that don’t know what the Five Minute Friday prompt is, here’s what Gypsy Mama Lisa-Jo says about it: “Around here we write for five minutes flat on Fridays. We finger paint with words. We try to remember what it was like to just write without worrying if it’s just right or not. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.”

 The prompt: BRAVE

Right now, I need to be braver than I’ve needed to be for a long time.

I’m just made a cross country move with my family, to a city in which I have never lived and only know a very few people. I’m scared. And because I was the one who pushed for this move, I feel as though I have to be brave for my husband and son. That’s really hard when you want to burst into tears at inopportune moments, at the thought of leaving your friends and family behind.

You see, I’ve never been very good at making friends. I’m shy and find it so super hard to put myself out there. And I’m chronically insecure, so even if I do manage to put myself out there and meet new people, I assume that they’re just being nice or polite and that they don’t Really want to be my friend.

And once I have made friends, it would seem that I’m not particularly good at keeping them. I’m selfish and self-absorbed and prone to depression which makes me withdraw from the world because I don’t want anyone to see me weak. And because I’m so disorganised I’m often unintentionally thoughtless and forget people’s birthdays and anniversaries and kids birthdays and first days of school and all the other stuff you’re supposed to remember. And when I don’t know what the right thing to say is, I don’t say anything at all. Because I don’t want to upset my friends even more or make them think of stuff that makes them unhappy, and this makes it seem like I don’t care when someone is going through a hard time and needs my support. I’m also not very perceptive, so if my friend’s need a shoulder to cry on they need to be pretty explicit and tell me so. Apparently, I’m a pretty shit friend, as has recently been pointed out to me in all its grisly and painful detail.

And this makes me even more afraid, because if this is how the people who have known me for a decade feel, how the hell am I going to make and keep New friends in a new city?!