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.

Yesterday, today and tomorrow: Holding on to the moments

Yesterday:

I remember how chubby my son’s fingers once were. I remember counting those tiny fingers over and over again as I sat in awe of the perfect little person that I had helped create and bring into this world. I remember how toothless his grin was, and how I worried that he was so late in teething. I remember how short and chubby his legs and arms were as he first crawled and then toddled around the garden. I remember the adorable sound of his gurgles and giggles; his squeals of delight when his Dad blew raspberries on his tummy. And I remember the way he used to be content to sit snuggled in my arms, just looking at me while I stared adoringly at him.

Today:

He is a little boy. His hands and feet are bigger and show the signs of riding bikes, playing in the dirt and kung fu fighting with the dog. His arms and legs have lengthened and are now sturdy and strong – able to support him as he leaps across the couch and stretches to reach the sweets on the top shelf. They show the signs of run-ins with paved drives and tarred roads. No longer do I hear gurgles and sighs, but a constant stream of chatter and questions. And he is certainly far too busy exploring (and climbing) his world to want to sit cuddled up with Mom.

Mom and Dad are there for hugs when he is hurt or sad or scared, but most of the time he does pretty well on his own. He wants to run and climb and jump and Mom just slows him down.

Tomorrow:

He will be a bigger boy. Then he will be a teenager. Until, one day, he will be grown and I will be an old woman – proud of the man that my son has become. He will have his own child with chubby fingers and toothless grins to enjoy and wonder over.

And I will still remember the baby that he once was.

Help! I’m a working mother!

I’ve started writing this post about ten times and have never finished it. (Hopefully tonight’s the night.) Partly because I can never really decide what I think or feel abut the topic and partly because I Just Never Have the Time. You see, 3 months ago I rejoined the workforce. I Am Exhausted! I’ve been through many difficult times in my life, but there have been very few occasions on which I have felt so physically and emotionally drained.

I thought I was prepared for how difficult it would be to go back to work, but as usual I was living in La La Land.

I expected it to be hard for the entire family. I expected E to need an adjustment period to get used to Mommy not being at home all day, dedicated to meeting his every need. I explained to him that I was going back to work and discussed how he felt about it. I spent extra quality time with him and told him that, even though I was going back to work, I would still make sure that I spent time with him. I spoke to his teacher so that she knew to expect a few rough weeks because that’s how long I thought it would take for him to settle. Two months at most. I thought I had all the bases covered. Wrong!

It turns out that what I should have expected was for my usually sweet and gentle child to be replaced by a fire-breathing, tantrum-throwing, non-sleeping, never-eating doppelgänger. (Ok, so the sleep thing isn’t really new. It just got much worse.) Seriously, there have been days where I haven’t recognised my child At All. And that just feels awful, because I miss my baby boy.

I miss him more than words can express. I miss being there for every high-and low in his day, the big and the small events that are important to him. I feel disconnected from his life and this is soul destroying. I miss knowing, without a shadow of doubt, how he is doing and what he is feeling. I know that he is in good hands, as I’ve hired someone to be with him during the day and because we are lucky enough that – because he works from home – J can spend a fair amount of time with him.

But this is just another thing for me to feel guilty about. J has had to seriously adjust his work patterns and habits to accommodate the fact that I can no longer be the one to drive E to and from school, take him to play dates or to his weekly visit with his gran. This has been hard for J, and he has soldiered through with a calm that I didn’t always manage as a stay at home mom. I am so proud of both of them. Of J. But that doesn’t make it any easier to walk out the door every morning and leave my child behind.

 When I am with him, I try to make the most of it, but I am so tired and going through my own stuff. Trying to settle into a new job after 3 years off the market is hard hard hard. I doubt myself and my abilities professionally and now I doubt my parenting abilities because my child seems to be deeply traumatised. Sometimes I think it would have been better if I had gone back to work when he was just a baby and this would all be normal for him.

I predicted that I would need time to adjust to working and to feeling a fair amount of guilt about leaving my precious child in the care of another. But nothing, Nothing could have prepared me for the waves of maternal guilt that have sometimes brought me to my knees. My child has been beyond difficult and I have just been too exhausted to cope with it. I had completely forgotten how draining it can be to work.

I went into this thinking of all the wonderful things that I had missed about work for so long – the adult interaction, the intellectual stimulation, the validation, the self-esteem that comes from doing a job and doing it well. Of course, what I forgot to factor in was the fact that I had never been a working mother. A working girlfriend, a working wife, but not a working Mom. And let me tell you, its a whole different ball game.

There have been times when my child has begged and pleaded with me to stay home with him. And nothing on Earth can compare to how incredibly crap that makes me feel. There have been times when I have walked in the door after a long, hard day of work and all I wanted to do is crawl into a hot bath followed by bed. Unfortunately, that simply isn’t an option because there’s a little man that has been waiting all day to tell me what he did at school, at great length. And even though I really do want to hear about it, sometimes I just can’t summon up the energy to get excited about his news. Oh the guilt!

I wish I had been more realistic with myself. I wish that I had foreseen how difficult it would be for Me to adjust and get used to being back in the working world. But I didn’t and man alive has it been hard.

There have also been things that just came at me out of left field. Like the fact that when you’re a working mum you have pretty much zero time for yourself. Because there is always someone making demands on your time. At work, its your boss and clients; at home its your child, husband and friends. So you never, ever get time to be alone and do the things that are important to you (like update your blog).

And the dear old hubby presents a whole host of issues that I never would have expected. From the minute I said that I wanted to go back to work, J has been amazingly supportive. And he has followed through on that support in the most incredible way. He has taken over the bulk of the child care,and I know that it is really hard for him because E wants to be with him all the time since I’m not home; which is making His work so much harder. He makes sure he’s cared for and manages the nanny. All while doing a full day’s work and starting a business. This cannot be easy and I am enormously grateful for all of his efforts.

Unfortunately, me going back to work has taken a serious toll on our marriage. Because as supportive as J is, he also has needs. Needs that it had been really easy and simple for me to meet for the last three years, because I was a stay-at-home mum. Taking care of my family was my main and only priority. These days, I can’t just drop what I’m doing and meet him for lunch. I have to work. Most days I can’t even take the time to have a real conversation with him, because I am attending to a child that has missed me and that I have missed just as much. And by the time I’m done with being mommy for the evening I am just too exhausted to do anything but fall into bed. And even if I do manage to stay awake, I’m stressed out and grumpy and all I want to do is watch an episode of Glee before passing out.

Plus, in many ways I am having to play referee to two stubborn males who want All of my attention. There are days when I walk in the front door and both of them start speaking at me at the same time. And both of them deserve to be heard. I Want to hear both of them. But I really can’t split myself in two, as much as I would like to. I never expected this to be so hard on my relationship. Which is crazy, when I think about it, because I should have expected J to need as much time as E and I to adjust. Hindsight is 20/20 and all that.

When I was a stay-at-home mom, I was the first to lament how difficult it is and how hard it is to handle the judgement from many working moms who think that stay-at-home mothers have it easy. I’d get really angry when I heard that opinion voiced and I still do to a large extent because it Isn’t easy. But I’m really starting to think that being a working mom is just that little bit harder. Because you have to deal with all the same stuff as a stay-at-home mother, with the added stress of work. And yes, the pay is better, but you really do work for that money. At home and at the office.

I wish I knew whether I’ve made the right decision in going back to work but I really don’t. Sometimes things go really well and I feel so fulfilled – I am doing what I love and regaining much of the confidence and self-respect that I had lost during my journey through post-natal depression and as an at-home mom. At other times, I feel like the worst mother and wife in the world – I have abandoned my husband and child and am the most selfish person around.

I wish I knew how to find a balance so that I felt content with my choices but I’m really starting to think that it may not be possible. And that scares the crap out of me. 

Writer’s block: Getting over the hump

Writers block is kicking my ass right now. Its not that I don’t have anything to write about, because I have a number of ideas kicking around in my head. I just can’t get down to actually writing them. I have sat down in front of my computer countless times to write something for this blog and each time have ended up browsing knitting patterns – my own personal opiate.

With most of these ideas, I simply cannot commit them to the page because they’re too close to my heart and writing about them would be to expose such a personal piece of myself that it fills me with dread. Intellectually, I know that I should work through this fear because these are usually my best pieces. They come from a place of honesty and self-reflection that somehow makes them work really well. I am usually most excited about writing these. Yet at the moment I cannot bring myself to do it.

I am going through a fairly intense time at the moment, with lots of things happening in my life and lots of change on the cards – both good and bad. Since I usually write about what is happening in my life, I feel like I would bore and/or depress everyone to tears were I to regale you with tales of the rough time I have been going through for the last few weeks. I’m totally in favour of spreading the love when I’m happy, but really dread turning this blog into one of those awful self-indulgent whine-fests. I’m going to try to just suck it up though, because I know that nothing but writing will get me over my writer’s block.

So why am I so stressed?

First, my family lives in Christchurch and hearing about the earthquake but being too far away to actually ensure their safety and well-being has left me completely freaked out. I know that, even if I was with them, I would be unable to do anything that could realistically keep them safe. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier. I feel like I need to be there to provide them with support. Unfortunately, this just isn’t an option at the moment. I know that they have been left shaken by the experience. (No pun intended – oh ok, I thought that was funny and have used it a few time this week. I have to latch onto the little things…) I also know that it would make them feel a whole lot better to see me. I so want to give that to them. And myself. It is immensely difficult and stressful to know that your loved ones can’t even trust the ground beneath their feet and not be able to be there for them.

Second, I am in the final stages of securing a full-time job and expect to be joining the ranks of the permanently employed very shortly. I am fabulously thrilled and excited about this, which is what seems to be the problem. Every day I feel a little guiltier about the fact that I am so ready, willing and eager to abandon my son to the care of someone else. Someone who will be a stranger, since I am yet to find a suitable nanny. That’s another thing – I have a ton of admin to do in the short space of time before I start working and this is really stressing me out. Trying to figure out what the best child-care option for our family is and then getting it arranged is a task that sits heavy on my shoulders and heart.

Third, the burglary has really left me feeling fragile. It has left me feeling so vulnerable and exposed that I feel like I have to do everything in my power to safeguard myself and my family. This makes it a terrible time to be thinking about leaving my son with a nanny every day and extends to a fear of exposing myself through my writing. This is not a good head-space for a writer to be in.

So bear with me, dear readers, as I figure out my crazy life and get myself into a more positive zone. I promise that soon, my blog shall be heavy with the weight of new musings.

Is crime damaging my child? Cos its sure damaging me!

At about 5h00 this morning our house alarm went off. J got up to switch it off and make sure that everything was OK. As it turns out, everything was not OK.

Some nasty little frakker had broken into our home and stolen both our mobile phones and J’s MacBook. As soon as he realised that the stuff was gone, J charged out of the house and ran down the street to look for the scum and/or the private security company. In his underpants. Which would be funny if it wasn’t so downright scary.

I keep thinking about what would have happened if he Had found the guy. Would I be dealing with even more trauma right now? He didn’t find the culprit, but he did find one of the local security companies’ patrol cars. He notified them of the burglary and asked them to search the area for the guy, which they did. No luck though.

This is not the first time that this has happened, so we were prepared and familiar with the process that then started. About 15 minutes after the alarm, our security company arrived (with big guns) and searched the property to make sure that the criminal was no longer on the premises. They examined the criminal’s access point, took a statement and called the cops.

Standard procedure for our security company is to call after they receive an alarm signal to find out what the problem is. Because our phones were stolen, they were unable to reach us. So they called J’s mom and told her that our alarm had gone off and they couldn’t contact us or gain access to the property. I cannot imagine how scary it must have been to receive that phone call. Obviously, she freaked out and rushed straight over.

A while (about 3 hours) later the police arrived. With even bigger guns. They then searched the property, examined the site of the break in and took statements.

Thankfully, E slept through all of this and didn’t have to witness the parade of security personnel with large firearms. This time. He has been witness to this before though. More than once.

I hate guns. I hate the look of them. I hate what they do and I hate the fear that they inspire. I really hate that they seem to be a necessary evil. More than anything, I hate that when the men with big guns arrive, I feel safer. Most of all I hate the fact that guns, and the big guys in bullet-proof jackets that carry them, are a fundamental part of my son’s reality at only 3 years old.

I was one of Those parents. You know the ones that won’t even allow toy guns into their homes? But how do I maintain this ban on weaponry in the home, when E has seen men with the real deal tramping through my house in the early hours of the morning on more than one occasion? I don’t think I can, because weaponry in some form is becoming a part of our every-day lives. Like a friend said this morning, I can keep him away from the movies and video games. I can keep him away from the violent TV shows. But, short of drugging him when we have a ‘security incident’, I can’t keep him away from the harsh realities of life in South Africa. I am so angry about this.

It would appear that I’m angry about a lot of things.

While I’m extremely grateful that he is safe, I am angry with hubby for running out of the house and risking actually finding the guy. I am angry at our government and police for not making sure that I am safe in my own home. I am angry with myself for not being able to protect my son and for feeling so helpless. I am angry that that he has to grow up in a world where the bad guys can actually come into your home, take your stuff and get away with it. This sort of anger can’t be healthy to carry around.

More than that, I’m afraid. So very very afraid. Once the police left, J had to go out to get the phones sorted. I was too afraid to be left at home alone. I recognise that this is a slightly paranoid reaction, but the fact is that my sanctuary has been violated for the umpteenth time and I simply do not feel safe in it.

Each time we have a break in (and this is about the 5th time in the 2 and half years that we’ve been in this house) I feel less and less safe. I feel more stressed and paranoid. And I have no idea what to do to feel safe again.

My electric fence is not enough. My alarm system and private security company are not enough. My dog (who kept E company and slept through the experience) is not enough. The padlocks and burglar bars are not enough. What is? What do I have to do to sleep soundly at night?

Every time this happens, for at least a few weeks after the event, J and I have trouble sleeping and startle at every little sound. We just got E out of our bed and I have been so pleased about that. But I know from experience that for the next few weeks – perhaps months – I will want him in my room because I will be completely paranoid about someone breaking in, but coming through His room. I am constantly running through various possible scenarios and what I would do in each eventuality to ensure that my family and I stay safe. I am becoming increasingly distrustful and jaded. I am afraid to let my son out of my sight for even a moment. I obsessively check that doors are locked and the alarm is armed. Not that this seems to make any difference whatsoever.

I know that it was just stuff that was taken (well, that and all the IP and data stored on the devices) and, as is the norm in South Africa, we have had the usual stream of messages saying “At least no-one was harmed”, “At least you didn’t get held up/stabbed/shot/beaten” etc. I appreciate the sentiment and that people want to make us feel better. But I can’t help wondering and worrying about how many ‘free’ passes we get before someone Is hurt.

Besides, the fact is that I WAS harmed. The stress and emotional distress of having this happen on a regular basis is starting to take its toll on me. How is it that, as South Africans, we have become so good at down-playing the trauma of having someone invade and brutalize our personal space.

I’m really beginning to believe that this ongoing exposure to crime and the threat/fear of it becoming violent is causing me to experience some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

Wikipedia sites the diagnostic symptoms for PTSD as:
“re-experiencing the original trauma(s) through flashbacks or nightmares, avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma, and increased arousal – such as difficulty falling or staying asleep, anger, and hypervigilance. Formal diagnostic criteria require that the symptoms last more than one month and cause significant impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.” (http://tiny.cc/jycvp)

Pretty much all of those apply to how I live my life. I don’t think that I am naturally a paranoid person, but I do feel as though I am being forced to be. I have been told (by people older and wiser than me) that I get to choose my reaction to this situation and I believe that to be true, to a certain extent. But I also know that because it has happened so often, I feel incredibly dis-empowered so it is difficult to feel in control enough to choose a positive approach to the stress.

And if this is how I, as an adult react to crime, what sort of impact is it having on my 3 year old son? I don’t know the answer to this question, but the possible answers terrify me.

I Want to Break Free: The Secret Musings of a Bad Mother

Lately, I have been feeling like a really bad mother and wife. I’d like to pretend that this is because there is so much pressure on me to be a superwoman and perfect wife/mother/friend, but the truth is that I’m feeling more than a little depressed, lazy and disconnected. I spend a fair amount of time thinking about escape – both passive and active. This is not a good combination for effective parenting.

Since I’ve been sick for the last couple of days, I’ve been spending a lot of time lying on the couch feeling like a cruddy mom, so I’ve also had a lot of time to think about what actually makes a bad mother, well, Bad. I’m not much closer to a definition because there seem to be so many and yet so few definitive character traits.

What I can definitely point to are the things that have me feeling like I deserve the title of world’s worst mother and wife.

1.The little guy recently slept over at his aunt’s house so that J and I could have an entire night to ourselves. We got dressed up. We went to a friend’s 40th birthday party. I drank too much. It was awesome. It reminded me of my salad years. This was not what had me feeling guilty though. What made me feel like a terrible mum is the fact that, the next morning, I felt no desire to rush off and collect my son. In fact, all I could think was, “Just a few more days. Just a few more”.

I really miss being young and free with limited responsibilities. I miss spontaneity. I miss romance. I miss sleeping late, reading my book in bed and having midday sex. I miss my friends. I miss my husband. I miss me. I’m not sure if I’m the only one who feels this way, but whether I am or not, I feel really guilty for it.

Strike one for the bad mother.

2.I haven’t cleaned the house, done the laundry or cooked a meal in a week. Anyone who knows me also knows how much I hate housework but I can usually bring myself to load the dishwasher, tidy up a little, make sure everyone has clean underwear and serve at least one moderately nutritious meal a day.

Not so lately. I cannot bear the thought of spending another moment in that kitchen, whether it is to load the dishwasher, cook a meal or wash a pot. I just can’t face it. Because I know that no matter what I do, I’m just going to need to do it again in less than 24 hours. I also know that even if I trudge through the house collecting all of the dirty clothes that have been left on the floor and draped over various pieces of furniture, I will just have to do it again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that.

As a result of my housework hiatus, poor J has had to work, clean the house, do the laundry and organise meals. Sometimes I cannot fathom why this man stays with me or what I did to deserve such a keeper.

Strike 2 for the bad mother and wife.

3.I am beside myself with boredom. So much so that I can think of nothing worse than spending another month as a SAH mother. When I think of it I want to weep and sob. I am frustrated and grumpy and this makes me feel so guilty because, despite how amazing they are, I snap and shout at J and E all the time.

I know that I should feel grateful that I get to spend time with my child. I know that I should be making the most of these moments. But knowing and living are two very different things for me at the moment.

Right now, the reality is that I really don’t want to do another puzzle, read another book or admire another unrecognisable drawing. The thought fills me with an inexplicable sort of rage. This makes me feel worse.

Strike three for the bad mother.

I think that means that I’m out.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband and son dearly. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t I want to run away and escape this whole parenting and marriage business by having a glorious, spontaneous – and most of all, solo – adventure.

At the same time, I want to cuddle them, go on holiday and share adventures with them. I want to never let them out of my sight for fear that I miss some precious and important moment.

I want to lie on the couch and watch season 2 of Glee back to back until my vision blurs. But I also want to be an involved mother. I want to paint and spend time crafting with my son, I want to chase him around the park and lie in bed playing tickle games with him.

I want to spend wonderfully romantic alone time with my husband, but I also want to be left alone on an island with nothing and no-one but a small chalet, a few good books and a barman to keep the Mojito’s topped up.

What kind of parent and partner feels this way? What kind of mother and wife wants to run away? Surely only the very very worst sort? Maybe not.

Maybe, every now and then, we all want to get away from it all. Want to recapture our care-free youth. Want to be responsible for no-one but ourselves. Want to not care about whether there is clean underwear because going commando is so much more fun anyway.

But if its normal to feel like this sometimes, why the hell didn’t anyone warn me?

Then again, maybe it isn’t normal at all and you’re all quietly gasping in horror as you read this. Let me know.

The business of being a stay at home mum – its not for wimps!

A little while ago, I read an article about ‘high functioning women’ and their propensity to burn out. In many ways I agreed with the article, because I know loads of women who feel that they have to do and be it all – have a successful career, be a hands-on mother, an attentive wife and a good friend with an active social life. I understand that this can be exhausting and leave one feeling spread way too thin.

What I didn’t appreciate though, was the implication that women who choose to be stay at home mothers are any less susceptible to the same feelings of burnout. Sure, we may not have to haul our weary selves to an office every day, but that’s only because our offices follow us Everywhere We Go.

I’m sure that many of the ‘Do It All’ mothers – or DIA mums – would scoff at the idea of equating being a captain of industry with being a stay at home mum (SAH mum), without realising that its no walk in the park. Even when you’re walking in the park.

In my experience, DIA mums tend to have a lot of help and support – partly because they can and do pay for it and partly because there is a general recognition that what they are doing is difficult. They even get articles written about them.

SAH mums, on the other hand, are expected to cope with limited resources and help because, after all, all they do is sit at home all day. This is unfair on so many levels. First of all, I have never met a more harried and hurried group of people than SAH moms.

Imagine, if you will, being responsible for every single aspect of your teams/employees’ lives. You need to feed, dress and bath them. You have to make sure that they know how to go to the toilet and then ensure that they actually go before disaster strikes. On top of that, you have to entertain and educate, as well as take sole responsibility for their intellectual stimulation and development. Your team will not help in making your task any easier. In fact, you will need to repeat each request for action at least 3 times.

In addition to managing all team members, you are also responsible for all office facilities. You need to manage and direct the cleaning and ground staff (should you be lucky enough to have any on the payroll). You are responsible for any and all disaster management, from equipment failures to emotional crises. You need to ensure that all buying is done, as well as manage and man the cafeteria. You are the main point of contact for client (read: family and friend) relationship management and, as such, are the PA to all team members – fielding calls, taking messages and managing their diaries.

Now imagine doing all of this while physically exhausted, because your team members don’t sleep very well and wake up at least 3 times in the middle of the night – needing you to sit with them until they fall asleep again. Or insist on climbing into your bed for a story and cuddle.

You will have a business partner who will also require attention. You may not have to ensure that he dresses himself, but you will need to make sure that all clothing and sustenance is prepared, clean and easy to find. If not, you will have to find and place it in a pre-arranged place. Then you will have to inform your partner of where that is. Repeatedly. You will need to provide emotional support to your partner. You will also have to organise relationship-building exercises with said partner on a regular basis, arranging for team members to be otherwise occupied. This will not happen as often as you or your partner would like and will sometimes leave you feeling like your connection (and reason for going into business in the first place) is a distant memory. This memory, however, will have to be enough to sustain you through the rough times such as recessions, new ventures and the arrival and induction of new team members.

If you are lucky you will have a partner who is happy to take sole responsibility for the major issues like generating revenue. If you are super lucky he will also help with minor ones such as getting team members to school on time in the morning. Despite your luck, you will feel guilty for relying on this partner for assistance because you have been trained and conditioned to believe that the minor issues do not fall into his job specification and that any requests for help indicate a failure to achieve on your part.

You will sacrifice and subvert many of your own needs in favour of the greater good of the team.

Imagine how you would feel if you did this job with no feedback or job review mechanisms in place. There will be no performance bonus, because – even though the world at large feels comfortable sitting in judgement of your performance – there is no equation to measure your results. So you never know if you are doing a good job or not. As a result, you will always have the sneaking suspicion that you are not, in fact, doing very well. You will think that team members are under-stimulated and under-educated because you can’t spend enough time reading to them/playing with them/arranging interesting and educational activities for them. You will feel that you are adversely affecting their long-term health by not feeding them the right types of food 6 times a day.

Stretch yourself and imagine that, despite doing your job to the best of your ability, you will feel guilty All The Time. You will feel guilt for not contributing to the businesses revenue. You will feel guilty for wanting to abandon your team members to the care of another so that you can go out into the workplace (and add to the businesses revenue stream). You will feel guilty because sometimes, just sometimes, you want to escape to a quiet corner and do something for and by yourself. If you do carve out time for yourself by arranging an activity for team members and your partner that doesn’t include you, the guilt will most likely quadruple.

As with anyone who isn’t receiving feedback, you will experience fear. You will fear that you are undermining the businesses goals and mission by not contributing more. You will fear failure. You will fear what will happen in the event that your partner leaves this mortal coil. You will attempt to manage this fear and guilt on your own, because the popular opinion is that SAH moms have it easy. Very few people will stand up for you and other SAH mums and try to refute this belief.

Imagine that, even though society will tell you that you do one of the most important jobs on Earth, very few will ever congratulate you on a job well done or offer to help. There will be very, very few articles about how strong/awesome/deserving of accolades you are. In fact, you will face judgement for your choices and field hurtful assumptions that you are a SAH mum because you have nothing better to do/never had much a of a career anyway/are too lazy to get a job. No-one will even consider that just as working mums sacrifice the joy of being at home with their kids, so you sacrifice the joys of working. The stimulation, the lack of boredom and repetitive routine, the interaction with other adults, the validation.

Finally, imagine how much it would piss you off to have it implied that you are not susceptible to burn out because you do not qualify for the high-functioning women’s club.

Of beach holidays and insect bites

I’m a firm believer that one should learn something from every experience. Sometimes this happens to me, sometimes it doesn’t. This holiday seemed to be particularly educational.

First, the basic info.

Holiday duration: One week.

Holiday spot: Sheffield Beach, KZN North Coast.

Holiday party: Husband, son and assorted extended family members.

Here’s what I learnt:

1. If you visit KwaZulu Natal, you will be bitten by mutant bugs hyped up on sugar cane and Durban poison. These bites will turn into gigantic red bumps and will be impossible to cover up with even the most hard-core concealer and foundation. If you are me, you will be bitten on the face. More than once.
2. Always take more than one swimming costume because trying to get your sweat-dampened flab into a wet one-piece just sucks. Its like trying to pull your knickers on while coated in glue.
3. If you have lived in Gauteng for more than 10 years, you are officially a Vaalie. Do not try to fight this. Embrace it and you may end your holiday unscathed by traditional Vaalie afflictions. See point 4.
4. The fashion/beauty magazines really are right. Everyone, regardless of skin tone, should wear sunblock. Living in Durban for the first 18 years of my life and being of a naturally tanned skin tone, I had never really had to worry about this before. Prior to this holiday, I could count the number of times that I had been sun-burnt on one hand. And those instances involved either Vaseline or cooking oil. (What can I say, I was a particularly stupid teenager.) This January, however, I managed to pick up an incredibly fetching sunglasses, t-shirt and dress burn. Oh the horror! Especially when coupled with the giant mutant bug bites.
5. No matter how hard you try, you cannot resist Aunty Merle’s chocolate chip cookies. Or the chocolatey goodness of Canadian Peppermint Bark.
6. If you are lucky enough to have a house right on the beach, beware of tiled floors. Sea spray and humidity will ensure that they are always wet. This makes them very slippery. My bruised coccyx proves it.
7. Hangovers are worse when you’re on holiday and your family expects you to be awake, fed and on the beach by 9am.
8. If you don’t move your flip flops into the shade of the beach umbrella you will give the soles of your feet 3^rd degree burns. Similarly, if you don’t wear shoes to the beach. Even if you leave by 11am.
9. Eating a sand-coated nectarine is very unpleasant. Even three-year-olds recognise this. You will therefore be stuck with your own sandy nectarine, as well as your son’s.
10. Nothing on earth beats the sound of your child’s screams of laughter as he tries to outrun waves. This is pure joy.
11. I really don’t like swimming in the sea. It’s hard work. The push and pull of the waves, trying to remain upright – it’s all a bit of a mission really. So is having to deal with the sand in Everything afterwards. Much better to lounge in the pool on a pool noodle.
12. Sometimes, as a mother, you just have to get over yourself and stop being paranoid.
13. Chasing your son along the beach might leave you looking like an idiot, but it sure is fun. And it will make you happy.
14. Watching a line of grown people standing in the sea, staring at the breakers and jumping at each wave is pretty hysterical. Especially if you’ve had a few white wine spritzers. It’s like some sort of badly choreographed line dance. Somehow, kids avoid looking ridiculous by actually playing in the waves. Adults just stand there trying to look cool and end up looking idiotic.
15. Get over your body issues, because no-one is watching. Unless you’re part of the Wave-Induced Line Dance. Then they’re pointing and laughing. But not at how your butt looks in that bikini.
16. There will always be at least one fisherman. He will catch something big and scary (like, say, a hammerhead shark or ray) and then release it into the shallows to make things more exciting for the line of wave jumpers.

Growing up at the coast, many beach life-lessons were imparted years ago. I just happened to be reminded of them while on this holiday. So here’s what I remembered while on holiday:

1. Beer tastes better when you’re at the beach.
2. Building sand castles is really fun. Those little buckets and spades are awesome.
3. Watermelons just taste better in KZN.
4. It will be cloudy and rainy half of the time, but warm. This leaves you grumpy and sweaty. You will wish that the sun would come out. Then it will and you will realise your folly as you weep for your tender sunburnt skin. This too will leave you grumpy and sweaty.
5. KZN mosquitoes are impervious to all types of insect repellent. They love that shit.
6. It will be so hot that in order to sleep you will need a fan on in your room. This will give you a sore throat every morning. Every evening you will try to do without said fan and within 20 minutes decide that the sore throat is worth it.
7. It is useless to wear any type of make-up because by early afternoon it will have slipped to the general vicinity of your jowls.
8. Your sunglasses will always slip down your nose because you’re so sweaty.
9. Showering is useless because you will be sticky within minutes. Better to let the salt of the ocean form a dehydrating crust on your skin.

As with any holiday, one of the best parts of it will be returning home. This too can be an opportunity for learning.

Things I learnt upon my return:

1. If you don’t have a house-sitter and the power trips, things may get ugly.
2. The garden looks better after being untended for a week. So maybe I should stop loving it quite so much.
3. You should always make the bed and change the linen Before you leave. Coming back to an unmade bed is no fun at all.
4. You will slip right back into your regular habits and then feel faintly depressed at how routine your life really is.
5. Nothing beats showering in your own shower and sleeping in your own bed, on your own pillow.
6. Flying makes me constipated.

And that pretty much sums up my educational experiences so far this year, so there’s nothing left to do but wish you all a wonderful 2011!

PS: I’m a glutton for feedback, so leave a comment and make me happy.

Of Post-Natal Depression and Parenting

I have a son. A son who I absolutely adore. Seriously, if you had told me three years ago that it was possible to love someone this much, this selflessly, this unconditionally; I wouldn’t have believed you. Even though I’ve always been lucky enough to have A Lot of love in my life. I really do believe that it is impossible to understand the depth of emotion involved in loving a child until you actually have one.

Unfortunately, being a parent isn’t all sunshine and daisies. Yes, there are moments of perfect joy and pride. But that’s what they are. Moments. And the rest of the time its really, really hard work.

I wish that someone could have warned me about this. And I say ‘could’ because I am the first to admit that many people did try – I just wasn’t capable of hearing them at the time.

Because I am who I am, I read every parenting book that I could get my hands on. I spent hours on the internet researching what it would be like and how to care for my new arrival. Many of the books, blogs and parenting websites that I discovered, dealt with the topic with honesty and poignancy. So I felt armed with knowledge and understanding. After all, people would have been completely open on those forums, wouldn’t they?

So I started the parenting trip with extremely high expectations of myself and the entire experience, as is my wont when embarking on most new ventures. I expected to fall in love with my baby the minute he was born. I expected some sort of mystical maternal instinct to kick in and to know what I was doing. I expected to be good at this mothering business. I expected to enjoy every single aspect of caring for a new baby. I expected it to be perfect. I would be the perfect mother, with the perfect child. I expected so much, not realising that what I Should have expected was to be exhausted, confused, completely unequipped and to have a child that clearly hadn’t read any of the parenting books because he just refused to conform.

It all started with the birth. I had planned a completely natural water birth in the nearest birthing centre – no clinical hospital environments or drugs for me! My body was designed to do this. Centuries of evolution made me the perfect birth-giving machine. Unfortunately, the little one didn’t get the memo. He never engaged in my pelvis and I had to have a caesarean. I responded badly to the anaesthetic – my blood pressure just kept dropping – and all in all it was a fairly unpleasant experience.

When they put E on my chest, all I could think was “Oh god, I’m gonna hurl on this baby if they don’t take him away right this second. I wish they would move him. He’s been around for less than five minutes and I’m already a terrible mother.” For the record they did move him. And I did throw up.

Thankfully, the recovery room was a little easier to deal with. E had to be placed in an incubator because his breathing wasn’t perfect – but that only lasted about half an hour until we were taken back to our room. Where I was left with him. With no clue what to do. My mother-in-law’s primary memory of that day is arriving to see her new grandson and being horrified because he hadn’t been dressed yet and was really cold. Another point against me in my fragile state of mind.

In the hospital, I couldn’t sleep. Like, ever. I had just been through major surgery and was on some fairly hard-core pain killers and yet sleep eluded me. I wandered the maternity ward like a ghost and refused all offers from the nurses to place my baby in the nursery so that I could get some sleep. This continued once I got home.

Breastfeeding didn’t even come close to the earth mother experience I was expecting. In the three days that I spent in the hospital my breasts were manhandled by complete strangers more often than I care to remember. It certainly didn’t come naturally. Eventually, it was established that E wasn’t getting enough milk (or colostrum in this case) and the nurses begged me to let them give him a formula ‘top-up’ feed. Big mistake. The mere suggestion had me hysterical, with my husband bewildered and desperate to calm me down. Eventually I allowed the formula and was grateful to find my baby much happier and calmer for it. But in my mind, this was just another example of how I was failing as a mother before I even got to take my baby home. My doctor was generous and kind, and warned me that I may need to seek help for post-natal depression. I ignored her and convinced myself that I was fine. I just needed to get home, where I could adjust in privacy.

Those first six months at home were hellishly difficult. My husband had to go back to work and I was left alone with this tiny person who I knew I loved, yet felt no real emotional connection to. Right from the start, E was a really calm and happy baby. He slept relatively well (oh, to return to those days), he fed well, he never had colic or any of the other things that can make a new born really difficult. Yet I constantly felt as though it was all too much for me. I still wasn’t sleeping and wandered around the apartment at all hours of the day and night trying to find things to fill my time. I couldn’t read, because I couldn’t concentrate for any length of time. I couldn’t watch TV because I was terrified of waking the baby.

I was exhausted and overcome by fear. The biggest was that something would happen to my baby, so I spent hours just watching him sleep and making sure that he was breathing. I was also terrified that I had become a boring woman who would never be able to keep her husband’s interest as he continued to go out into the world, meeting new people and doing interesting things. I mean, he had actual conversations with grown up and world events. All I could talk about was how much the baby had eaten, how much he had slept, how much he had poo’d. To top it off, I was a howling disaster by the time he got home and just needed to hand the baby over. Plus, I felt the size of a house. Everyone told me that breastfeeding would help me shed the baby weight, but the exact opposite happened. I was always hungry and because I was at home bored and depressed; food became a major source of comfort. I did a lot of baking then. How could this fat, unstable, weeping mess of a person be what he wanted to come home to? Especially when I was a stay at home mother who couldn’t wait for her husband to get home so I could just get away from my child. Only to feel guilty about it.

I was controlling and wouldn’t let anyone do anything for E. I wouldn’t even let my friends or family hold him. He was mine and, piss-poor mother or not, I wasn’t letting him go. My own mother and father were far away, having moved to New Zealand years before. I felt like I had no resources or support system. Something I later realised was completely untrue as I have an amazing set of friends and adoptive family. My mother-in-law and sister were particularly amazing. My sister fielded calls at all hours and my mom-in-law was supportive and so gracious even though I was pretty much the new mother from hell.

I don’t remember many details from that time, but one memory does stand out and illustrate my state of mind. I remember spending an inordinate amount of time sitting on my balcony with my baby in my arms as I tried to sing to him to soothe us both and instead sobbed – hoping that the neighbours wouldn’t hear me. I can’t imagine how hard it was for Jay, as he received calls almost every hour, saying that he had to come home because I just couldn’t take any more. He was amazing. How he survived being a new parent and living with a woman who had essentially gone crazy is still beyond me.

Eventually, after six months of feeling completely out of control and filled with grief and guilt, I agreed to see a psychiatrist. In my first session with her I tried to convince her that things weren’t that bad. That I was fine. I laid the bullshit on thick. Thankfully, she saw right through me. But I was still determined to deal with this naturally, without any medication. I was still breastfeeding and it was bad enough that (in my mind, at least) I was a shocking mother in every other way, I wasn’t going to introduce toxins into my baby’s body to compound his ‘raw deal’. It took about four more sessions and failed attempts at relieving the depression with diet and exercise before she managed to convince me to take the meds.

Just agreeing to take that step was a watershed moment for me. I finally started to concede that maybe I wasn’t a bad mother. Maybe I was just a mother dealing with a really shitty chemical and hormonal imbalance.

I’d like to say that things got better immediately, but they didn’t. I was still controlling. I started having anxiety attacks, particularly while driving with Jay. I jut couldn’t handle the loss of control that being a passenger in a car entailed and was convinced that we were going to crash and kill my baby.

But eventually, things did start to get better. I joined a mommy’s group with other stay at home mothers who didn’t have PND and realised that – even though I looked at them and saw perfect mothers who had it all together – they all thought that they could be doing better too. We all felt lost and alone sometimes. None of us really knew if we were doing the right thing and were just muddling along, doing our best in trying circumstances. Those women probably helped save my sanity and I am grateful to still have a core group of them in my life.

About a two years after E was born, I weaned myself off the anti-depressants. It was rough, but I survived. I still have moments where I wonder whether I am completely messing up but, for the most part, I am comfortable with the fact that I am a good enough mother. Not perfect. Probably not the best. But good enough. And if I ever doubt that, I need only look at my son who is a happy, bright, confident and adventurous little person. And so cool. I don’t know where he gets that from, with his geeky parents.

I’m starting to realise that, while I might be here to guide and help shape him, he is and always will be his own person. That takes a bit of the pressure off. And allows me to relinquish some of the control. Because really, if this family survived that first year, we’re probably going to be able to handle whatever life throws at us.