I’m not a slacker. I’m a sociological post-materialist.

Not all who wander are lost – JRR Tolkien

I’ve been back at work since the beginning of the year and have enjoyed my job and the people I’ve worked with. But I have to come clean and say that I really don’t like working. And I don’t mean in the ‘work can be such hard, well, work’ kind of way; but in the sense that I find it completely pointless and unfulfilling.

Yes, I realise that survival is a pretty good point and that I need to make money to put food on the table, and blah blah yawn. This is why I still get out of bed in the morning. But meeting these basic needs isn’t really making me happy, leaving me satisfied (just ask Maslow), or providing enough motivation for me to keep doing it in the long term.

I suppose that I could try to pretend that I care about getting rich and accumulating wealth. But I’m just not finding the quest for riches a driver anymore. Sure, I like beautiful things, but I increasingly find myself wanting to create rather than consume beauty. In fact, I’m really into the idea of re- and up-cycling stuff rather than buying more new things. Not to sound like a tree-hugger, but there are only so many resources available and we should probably try to conserve some of them. Not to mention the fact that the quest to acquire just feels to me like it’s in poor taste right now. It’s a pretty different mind-set I find myself in…

For a while I thought that I was fooling myself into believing that I felt this way, and that deep down I was still the rabid consumer that I’ve always been. So I tested my theory and tried to go shopping. About 5 times. I tried my favourite stores. I tried new stores. I tried highly recommended stores and unheard of stores. I tried cheap stores and expensive stores. And each time, I would leave the shops either empty handed, or with one or two purchases that I made because I had a real need.

Not only do I not want to buy new stuff, I desperately want to get rid of the stuff I already have. As we prepare to move (more on that in a separate post), J and I are sorting through our mountains of stuff and identifying the stuff that we want to give to charity or sell. Most of the time I want to pack the essentials (like my books, laptop, a few craft supplies, and enough clothes to not become a nudist) and then call a charity store to come and collect the rest. And when I am in any retail environment I keep finding myself thinking: “Well, I could buy this – but what’s the point? It’s just one more thing that I’ll have to store, clean, and move.”

To me, it makes perfect sense that a severe reduction in my acquisitive drive means a drastic reduction in my desire to work because this has always been all that work is about for me. I have worked to make money so that I could buy shit. I’ve never been a particularly career-driven person. I’ve tried to be. I’ve pretended to be. But the truth is that I really couldn’t give a continental about climbing the corporate ladder, or gaining recognition, or any of the things that seem to be important to my career-focused brethren.

I just want to be free. I want my time to be my own. I want to travel and see places and people I’ve never seen before. I want to watch TV shows and movies. I want to spend time with my husband, son and friends. I want to try new things, like yoga. I want to be able to sit on the couch and do nothing but knit a particularly challenging pattern. I want to experiment with making my own patterns and sewing clothes and home décor. I want to take my son to the beach. I want to lay in bed all morning reading. I want to write. For some reason I want to edit other people’s writing*. (Strangely enough, I probably want to do this more than I want to write).

I know from experience that my skill level at few, if any, of these things is likely to be good enough to display to the public, let alone generate an income. So I know that they would be seen by many as failures. I really don’t care. I want to enjoy the process, not the outcome. I want to simply revel in the creation of something, with no thought given to profitability or income generation for myself or anyone else. I want to do for the sake of doing, make for the sake of making.

The fact that I feel this way doesn’t surprise me. To me, it’s totally normal. But society doesn’t seem to agree. It would seem that if you aren’t driven by money or a desire to achieve society’s narrow preconceptions of success, there is no space for you. Basically, there seem to be three options for women who want to be considered successful:

1. Be the brass-balled career woman clawing her way up the corporate ladder. Extra points if you start your own business and make it successful. Become an expert within your industry. Get head-hunted a few times. Have clients that adore you. Join self-congratulating industry groups and societies. Make lots of money. Buy shit with it. Look amazing all of the time.
2. Be a domestic goddess Stepford wife who cooks and cleans, has amazing sex; is interesting, witty and well read. Host wonderful dinner parties. Be a mother, preferably an earth mother who is a member of the La Leche League and a strict proponent of attachment parenting. Be involved in every school activity and charity drive. Bake cakes and cookies, and cook wholesome and nutritious meals. Shows how practical and thrifty you are and prove that you’re a better wife and home maker than everyone else. Look amazing all of the time.
3. Both of the above.

I call bullshit. Surely there must be more? Something more meaningful? But in the absence of these stereotypical measures of success, I’m left wondering what I believe success to be and how I measure it for myself. Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer. What I Do know is that I no longer think that success is a big house*, luxury car and designer clothing. I also don’t think that it’s anything as trite or hackneyed as being the perfect wife and mother, and raising the perfect child. While having a home, a car and a happy child and marriage are important to me, these are not the yardsticks by which I measure my success.

(*While I don’t need a big house, I would like to have a sewing and craft room. Purely for practical reasons, you understand.)

Maybe I’m just in the wrong job. Actually, I’m pretty sure I am. The very thought of becoming some money-grubbing company’s PR lackey and contributing to the great need to increase sales within the infinite marketplace drains me of the will to live faster than an open airlock creates a vacuum. But I have no idea what to do with that, because I’m not really qualified to do anything else. I’m lucky enough to have some talent, experience, knowledge and skills under my belt that allow me to make a salary and help put food on the table. Which I need to do right now, because being a single income family just isn’t feasible at the moment. But again, where does this whole situation leave me? I suspect that the answer is “between a rock and a hard place”.

I know that I could find my passion and pursue it on a part time basis. I could study part time and gain a qualification so that I can eventually change careers. I could choose a hobby and wait to see where it goes and how it develops. But really, being a working mother, wife, homemaker, daughter-in-law, and occasional friend is quite a lot to have on my plate as it is.

I just don’t feel as though I can take the limited time that I have available for maintaining meaningful relationships, dedicate it to a hobby; and expect my loved ones to be ok with that. With working and running my home, I have so little free time that I barely see my friends and family. So it just isn’t realistic to put more on my plate. Maybe some women can manage to work, run a home and have a hobby that pursue with single-minded dedication, but apparently I’m not one of them. Besides, I need time to figure out what it is that I actually want to do. I don’t want to be tied to any one thing. I want the tasting menu, please. I want to experiment, see what I’m good at and what I enjoy. I want to wander life’s paths. This doesn’t mean I’m not going anywhere. It just means I don’t know where ‘there’ is right now.

So how do I turn my (largely) as-yet-unidentified passions into a job that can actually get me excited to wake up in the morning, without spreading myself too thin? Should I even try? If you know the answer, please share it. I’m dying to know.

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.

Five Minute Friday: I feel most loved when…

One of my favourite bloggers, The Gypsy Mama runs a challenge every Friday called ‘Five Minute Friday’. Gypsy Mama gives a prompt and you, the writer, “simply stop, drop and write for five minutes flat!” You then link back to her site and check out the efforts of the other brave writers.

I’ve wanted to participate for a few weeks but have never quite worked up the nerve or found the time (pathetic, I know, since it is just 5 minutes). This week the prompt really resonated with me as I am really trying to take time to be grateful for all that I have in my life. One of the things I am most grateful for is how much love I have in my life. So here is my Five Minute Friday contribution (a little late).

I feel most loved when:

My husband gives me that look. The one that I know means that he thinks I’m smart and gorgeous and funny. The look that tells me how proud he is of me and all my achievements and triumphs – the big and the small. I feel most loved when he has complete faith in me, even when I don’t. The look that says “I want you. All of you. For who and what you are and not for what you give me. Just for yourself.”

I feel most loved when I collect my son from school or a play-date or a visit to Gran and his face lights up because Mom has arrived. When he leaps up and rushes over to hug me, I feel great big lashings of unconditional love. When he hides behind the tiniest toy just so that I will ‘find’ him, I feel love. When he cuddles up to me at night and gives me a triumphant but sleepy grin because he knows that he should be in his own bed and not mine, I feel loved.

I feel most loved when I Skype my family half way across the world and I can see and hear the joy that I have given them, just by taking the time to connect with them. When I share the boring, everyday details of my life, like what I made for dinner, and they are interested – truly interested – simply because it makes them feel closer to me, I feel loved.

I feel most loved when I meet my best friend for a drink or we call each other and even though it feels like we haven’t seen each other for ages, there is no awkwardness. There is no need to spend ages giving each other background stories or explaining how and why we reacted to a situation. Because we know each other so well that regardless of where we are in our lives, we understand each other.

I feel most loved when I am with the people I love – the family that I was born into and the family that I have chosen.

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.

My Brilliant Dream Goes Bung

I’ve been thinking about dreams a lot lately. Not the ‘go to sleep and fly’ type, but the ‘one day I want to’ kind of dream.

When I was young, I was obsessed with the written word. I read a lot and I wrote a lot. Pretty much all I spoke about was books – they were my passion. I loved everything about books – their musty-old and peppery-new smell, the smoothness of the paper, the patterns that the words make on the page. Being a pretty lonely and nerdy kid, I loved their ability to transport and transform. I know that its a teen lit cliché, but books were my best and most constant friends.

I dreamed that one day books would be my life. My profession. My career. I had plans. Like Martin Luther King, I had a dream. I was going to write and write and write until I finally produced a great novel.

I dreamed about being the kind of writer that reached people. That touched them. That let them know that they are not alone and that what they are feeling is ok. Unique to them, but all part of the complex human experience. I wanted to make people laugh. I wanted to make them cry. I wanted my writing to be an expression of who and what I am, but also of who and what we all are. I really thought that I would get there one day. Because back then I was Confident with a capitol C. At least, I was confident about my writing ability.

But somewhere along the line that dream began to fade and doubt made its stealthy way into my mind and heart. I’ve been trying to figure out when and why this happened.

At first I thought that I began to let go of the dream at varsity; where I discovered sex, alcohol and a heady independence that meant I could stay in bed all day if I wanted to. But when I think back on that time in my life, I realise that I was just as passionate and naïve about a career in literature as ever. Sure, I was completely distracted and did nothing to take me closer to actually accomplishing the dream, but it was still alive and visible through the alcoholic and post-coital haze.

I think that the reality has more to do with the fact that it was at varsity that I began to truly doubt myself. Suddenly everyone seemed smarter and more talented than me. This is probably why I dropped out of the university that I had spent my teens dreaming about. Well, that and the fact that I never went to lectures. But even after I’d left the dear little university town that introduced me to a host of new experiences, the dream lingered.

Then life took over. I started making more and more compromises and sacrifices. More bad decisions. I kept changing my goals to suite what was expected of me. What was normal. What was reasonable. Until one day I woke up to realise that I was a stay-at-home mother who had lost her dream.

Sure, I do write today and it does pay me. But I’m not writing what I expected to be. And that great novel is nowhere to be seen. Instead, the writing I get paid to do is about products that I often find it difficult to get excited about. Sometimes I am lucky enough to write about something that does resonate with me, but for the most part I write its just work. Instead of writing about the things that should and do matter to humanity, I write about things that don’t. I write for businesses and help them make more money. My writing has come to be about greed instead of giving; spinning and massaging the truth, instead of honesty. And when you surround yourself with those words all the time, they become your reality. Because words have power. I understood this as a kid, why do I understand it less now? I think my teenage self would be a little disappointed. She would wonder what had happened to get me to this point. I don’t think I’d be able to give her a satisfactory answer.

Its difficult for me to say that I regret any of my decisions though, because I love my life, I do enjoy my job and I adore my family. But I do still find myself wondering what happened to that dream of contributing something meaningful. If I’m honest with myself I can admit that its still buried somewhere deep down inside. Unfortunately, somewhere along the line I decided that it wasn’t possible for me. The dream became unattainable in my mind and I gave up.

I let go of my dream for things that seemed more realistic and reasonable. It was worn away by monotony, routine and the need to put a roof over my head. I wonder if that is just the reality of life and growing up, or the saddest thing in the world? I think its both.

So what do I do now? Is it too late? Sadly, I’ve lost confidence in my ability to contribute to the literary world. The dream is kind of blurry and because I no longer have a clear picture in my head I no longer know if I can do it. I don’t even know if I should – if I have something important to say. I’m not sure that I can reach out to people in the way that I would like to, or that I even have a story to tell.

I suppose that’s the great thing about being young – you think that everyone wants to listen to what you have to say because you are so convinced that it Is important. As an adult, you realise your own insignificance. You understand that your story has been told before, and you realise that the world isn’t really all that interested in listening to it.

Title adapted from “My Brilliant Career goes Bung” by Miles Franklin.

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.

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.

Man vs Woman vs Cricket

There is cricket on at the moment. I don’t know if it’s a single test match or a series. To be honest, I don’t really know what the difference is. What I do know is that nothing highlights the difference between my husband and I more than cricket being screened on the telly.

First off, how is it that an intelligent man can fail to understand that the players and commentators can’t hear him? The only person who can hear him yelling “Morkel you beauty!” is me, usually as I try to steal a few minutes of quiet time. Also, how can he not know – after almost 15 years of being together – that no matter how hard he tries to sell the excitement of Hashim Amla hitting a 6, I will Never Be Interested. I’d understand if he actually wanted to take me to the stadium, where I could enjoy the atmosphere (and a beer in one of those giant plastic cups), but on TV it’s just a bunch of tiny guys in green standing around (in dodgy sunglasses).

Secondly, why does he need so many snacks?! And why can’t he go to the kitchen to get them himself? Do his legs fall off when the broadcast begins? He Says that he doesn’t want to take the chance of missing someone taking a wicket (I think that’s the term), but that certainly doesn’t stop him from falling asleep all the time.

And what is up with the falling asleep? Is this something hard-coded into male DNA? I suspect so, as my son – who never sleeps – is out in minutes if you put him in front of the cricket. This has to be a fundamental difference between men and women. When a woman is as interested in something as my husband claims to be in the cricket, we actually Watch it. You never catch me falling asleep in the middle of House. Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally in favour of and grateful for the sport’s soporific effects. It has provided much-needed ‘me time’ on many occasions. I also plan to record a match and use it as the world’s most effective sleep training tool. I just don’t understand why I’m not allowed to change the channel or watch a movie, just so that he can fall asleep on the couch. If he’s tired, surely a bed would be more comfortable? Although I do understand that watching cricket on TV is so boring that it takes the strength of Hulk to Not fall asleep. All I’m saying is, do it on somebody else’s furniture and let me watch re-runs of Supernatural.

Lastly – and I don’t know if all men do this or if it is just my husband – how can he go on and on about the ‘special effects’ but still not think its worth it to go and see the new Harry Potter at the cinema. Now Those are special effects. Not the batsman’s wagon wheel. Or those multi-coloured line thingies that show where the bowler has thrown the ball. I will admit that its pretty cool when they slow things down into bullet time. They just don’t do it nearly often enough to keep me interested. Even if they did, I’d just be watching a cricketer hit a ball really slowly. And let’s face it – cricket is boring enough without having to watch it in slow motion.

Suffice it to say, I cannot Wait for cricket season to be over. Although I’m sure that that just means the start of the rugby and/or soccer season. Sigh.

Edited to add: I’ve just been told about the Cricket World Cup. I might have to convert the dining room into a second lounge, with an extra TV.

The desire for change: I want a foreign adventure!

I am a very lucky person, for many reasons. The reason most pertinent to this post, however, is that I am lucky enough to be surrounded by good, interesting people. I have managed to accumulate a group of friends and acquaintances who definitely tend towards the informed, smart, opinionated and forthright. Also, most of the people in my social circle are liberal and open-minded. They are positive, upbeat people who love the beautiful country we live in. This works for me. Almost all of the time.

The one area where my opinions seems to diverge from my circle of friends also happens to be one that sparks a fierce emotional response. I would love to move to another country. Not necessarily forever. Unfortunately, many of the people in my life react to this with judgement. I have been told that if I leave, I am contributing to South Africa’s problems by exacerbating the ‘brain-drain’. I should be here – making a difference in some way. I have been told that I will hate it. I have been ridiculed for wanting to move when I haven’t travelled much. On too many occasions to count I have been spoken to like an idiotic child and had it explained to me that every country has its problems. The old idiom of the grass not being greener on the other side is rolled out so often that I’ve reached the point where just a passing remark about grass makes me feel ill. All of this from people who, by and large, have lived overseas for varying periods of time. (Which, of course, is what makes them experts on what My experience would be.)

I’d like to think that I am a person of at least average intellectual ability. I am not and would never pretend to be even close to the smartest person I know. But I do think that I am capable of understanding the challenges that either temporary or permanent emigration would entail. So why do people assume that I would make a decision like this without giving it extensive thought and consideration? What really gets on my nerves though, is the assumption that I am trying to run away from, rather than towards something?

Yes, South Africa has political, social and economic problems. But I’d like to think that I’m intelligent enough to understand that all countries experience these problems to a greater or lesser degree. I don’t expect to move to the land of milk and honey. Besides, I’m lactose intolerant so that probably wouldn’t work for me anyway. South Africa is an amazing country full of warm people and has incredible potential. But I still want to leave. Why?

I won’t pretend that some of the challenges of living in SA don’t contribute to my desire to leave. Yes, I would like my son to have a decent education and have it cost less than R55 000 per annum (for Grade 0!). Yes, it bothers me that I have to live in a mini Fort Knox just to feel safe at night. Which I will admit I don’t – even with my dog, locks, electric fence and alarm system. I wish that I felt comfortable with the thought of my son riding his bike to school or a friend’s house as soon as he is old enough. I would like to have access to good, affordable health care. I would like to know that, barring disaster, my electricity and water will be on pretty much all the time. These are things that I don’t feel I have in South Africa.

I will also admit that some of my need to move has a lot to do with living in Johannesburg and might be alleviated by moving to another South African city. The City of Gold has changed who I am as a person. I am more jaded and cynical because I’ve been affected by crime once too often. I am more insular because, lets face it, most of us tend to stick to a fairly narrow circle. If you live in Northern Johannesburg, you probably don’t go to the East or South too often. I’m sure that this happens in every major city in the world, but I’d like to find out for myself.

I realise that it will not be easy. I have watched every single member of my immediate family (as well as countless friends) move to other countries. They have all had many, many moments where all that they have wanted was to come home. It has been extremely difficult for them to adjust and adapt. To cultures, to climates, to changes in financial circumstances. While watching and sharing is not the same as living an experience, I think that I am as wary as one can be of a change of this magnitude. Yet I still would like to know for myself. I also want to know whether I can do it.

And that desire to Know is really my primary driver for wanting to live in another country. I’m tired of hearing other people’s stories about their foreign adventures, both good and bad. I want to have an adventure all of my own. I want to be pushed out of my comfort zone. I want to be forced to make friends with people who don’t share my paradigm in any way. I want to walk into a grocery store and not know which isle my favourite tea is in. I want to discover a new favourite tea. I want to know that it’s sink or swim time. I want my son to know that there is a great big world out there and that it is open and available to him at any time. I want him to know that you can make changes in your life, no matter how big and difficult they may seem. I also want him to know that his home can be in the place and with the people of his choosing. Most importantly, I want him to know that once you’ve made a change, you can reverse it. So if I leave, I may well be back.

In my opinion, these are not bad reasons for wanting to move. I certainly don’t think that they are deserving of scorn and judgement. But perhaps I am being my usual naïve self. Perhaps I really haven’t travelled enough. Or maybe I’m just over sensitive.

I’d love to hear your experiences. Have you wanted to leave/left and faced judgement because of it? Was it worth it? Did you have a great adventure. Tell me all about it.

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.