Monthly Archives: June 2013

Some of my best friends were black

I’m going to divert from my normal programming and talk about something that’s been bothering me all week.

All I want to say is: Now is not the time to utter things like

“I didn’t know”

“We were sheltered from most of it”

“My parents didn’t like it”

“Some of my best friends were black”

and my favourite . . .

“We never voted for the Nats”

It is not about you, this is about someone waaaaay bigger than you.

STFU.

Go away.

Find some volunteer work to make you sleep at night.

You don’t have to say anything.

Just show respect.

Do something to make our country a better place.

Sela.

Guts or nuts?

I have a very active imagination. Great for being creative and writing. Not so great if you’re a parent.

Thomas “dies” at least half a dozen times in my head every day. I imagine something happening at school. I imagine the swimschool bus being obliterated by an 18 wheeler. I imagine him being abducted. I imagine him getting lost at the mall. All sorts.

So because of my imagination, we have this exercise we do regularly where we sketch a scenario where someone tries to take him and how he can get out of it. We’ve taught him to drop down on his bottom (or bum-bums) as he calls it, and to shout and scream loudly that the person trying to take him is not his mother/father. It’s not easy to pick up a child that’s on the ground kicking and screaming.

When we asked him recently what he’s supposed to do if someone tries to take him, instead of the usual drop down, kick and scream, he said.

Mama, I will ask the guy guts or nuts?! (Meaning do you want to be kicked in the guts or nuts?) hahahaha.

I think any would-be abductor would drop down RTFL and totally forget about whatever they were going to do. Well I’d like to imagine that’s what they’d do.

 

Yay, it’s holiday!

It’s holiday time! Reminds me of being on holiday with Thomas earlier this year.

On day 1 of the hols, he came running down the stairs, as nekkid as he was on 17 January 2008.

Thomas: Mama, look! I took off all my clothes.

Me: Why Thomas? Because I don’t have to go to school, remember? 

Hahahaha. I remember being happy about school holidays, but never this happy!

 

My favourite food is . . .

Food!

This is according to Big Tom.

He was at a neighbour’s house the other day and she asked him what his favourite food was. Macaroni cheese.

Then she asked him what my favourite food was. Food.

Hahaha, does my child know me or what?

On a more serious note, I don’t really like fish (one whiff of the fishy smell and I dry heave. So poor Thomas and Elton only ever gets fish if:
1) It’s Easter and I make pickled fish.
2) We have Fish & chips for sups
3) I give him fish fingers.

I do give him a supplement with Eye Q which is apparently one of the best ways to get the goodness of fish in him, but I do feel very guilty most times. I wonder what other moms do when it comes to foods they don’t eat?

Hopefully he ends up with someone who loves fish and he can eat as much fish as he wants to later in life.

Walk of shame

Since moving to the deeeep South, I travel by train. Much more convenient. No potential heart attacks due to road rage, and most importantly, a fraction of the cost of petrol.

And on the train you get to see all sorts. I’m not going to go into much detail, as that is another post. The type I want to talk about today is the ones who do the walk of shame the morning after the night before or the Monday after the weekend.

This morning I had a beauty. Guy. In his early twenties In his clubbing clothes. Reeks of old perfume, stale booze and stale clothes. Much more than the usual 5 o’clock shadow. Lekker dishevelled but, here’s the thing . . .

The look on his face was priceless. He looked like he had the weekend of his life. Like it was a shag fest of note. And that made me smile, even though I wanted to gag every time the wind blew his heady cocktail of weekend smells my way.

You get lots of these on the train. I haven’t seen any women in ballgowns or cocktail frocks, but there have been cases where the dress was definitely more last night than this morning. 🙂

It made me think back and try to remember if I had any walks of shame. Yup, there were lots! But not like you’re thinking. My walks of shame mostly involved being too blotto to make it home safely and crashing at a friend’s place, regaining consciousness round about 5-ish in the morning and rushing home to get done for work. Nothing exciting.

PS: Seeing as how this blog is about my son, I will keep it clean-ish. If you want to know about any real walks of shame, you’re going to have to wait for gin o’clock when one’s full of gin and more free with one’s speech!

 

 

 

Whatever happened to Boutros Boutros-Ghali?

Found this gem from somewhere in 2010. I wrote it shortly after my hospital stay. Hahahaha.

You know how many of us struggle with the consequences of always having to be polite and please people and have people in our lives who just live to make kack comments? Well, I have a very good excuse to be rude now (if you have a bum heart, people will let you get away with things,I think) and I have the perfect retort.

On one of my many travels through Panorama Medi-Clinic,  I was in Ward B who has the early onset dementia and other such delights included into the mix. They try to keep all the different types of animals together but we were mixed up every now and then. On one such mix-up I shared a ward with an Alzheimer’s lady who had truly travelled the world (dunno if it’s imagined, but she had me hooked with her stories). But the weird thing was that she would stop anywhere in her story and suddenly ask: Whatever happened to Boutros Boutros-Ghali and that would be the end of the conversation. You would get nothing more out of her no matter what you said about BBG.

I’ve decided that I will do that from now. I’ve had some beauties since my diagnosis. From people wanting to know if I’m comfortable leaving my son in DH’s care when I die (because men don’t know how to take care of kids you see) to all sorts of other really kack comments. And what have I been doing? Not doing the usual fish out of water mouth flapping and not knowing what to say and crying about it afterwards…

I look them straight in the eye and say: Whatever happened to Boutros Boutros-Ghali? with the most earnest expression on my face and just walk away.

You know you’ve lived if . . .

028

At the age of 37, you get a happy birthday SMS from your cardiologist, audiologist and optometrist! That’s what happened this year. The birthday loot is from friends and family.

As my neighbour pointed out, the only one missing was my gynae 🙂

As someone living with heart failure, I am very aware of life being too short, so every birthday I’ve celebrated since my diagnosis three years ago has been extra special.

I cannot believe I’m 37. Eek, meep and yiikes. Whenever I have to think about my age, I have to count back to my wedding. I know I was 30 back then and that is where time sort of stood still for me. I suppose in my head I will always be 30 as it was one of the best years of my life. Followed closely by 32, when I had Big Tom.

I recently asked a group of friends at a dinner party we had how old they were in their heads. Most of them were 10 to 20 years younger in their heads. My dad once said he didn’t feel a day older than 8!

How old do you feel in your head?