In Celebration of the Two. 19 June 2007.

by Cath Jenkin

the shitties

breast pads. clearly created and marketed by people who have never had breasts. and especially ones that leak.
expressing. aka the wakka wakka machine. clearly created by people who have never used their nipples for anything except erotic pleasure.
sickness. the unbearable loneliness and powerlessness that comes at 2am when you can do nothing more except hold your crying child and pray that sleep will come for both of you.
dependence. the realisation that this tiny little person is entirely dependent on you for everything. realising also that you, yourself are still dependent and feeling even more powerless to do anything.
tantrums. and oh boy, how you can throw them. one word comes to mind - retribution.
pain. the pain of childbirth is nothing, absolutely nothing in comparison to the pain you feel when you get a phonecall to say your child's been hurt and needs emergency medical attention.
disorder. nothing will ever stay clean again. ever. just give up hope of ever having a clean house ever again. but, reserve the right to complain and from young, you do them train.
metamorphosis. the constant change demanded of you as a result of the constant change that this little person is going through. don't blink, because you will miss something.
fatigue. you will never be as tired as this. ever. you will never sleep again like you used to. ever. you get used to it, you do, and by the time the teen years roll around, and all they ever want to do is sleep, your body's so well-honed to not sleeping that you get up and do random hobbies like decoupage and shit.
heartache. nothing will ever hurt you as much as when your child rejects you in favour of another. nothing will ever hurt you as much as when your child gets hurt, in any way whatsoever. they say when a child is born, the parents' souls then live outside their body. it's true. never mind heart on sleeve, try everything exposed and raw and tender and unprotected.
pooh. i have no need to explain any more on this than to say pooh.


the f**king amazings that i wouldn't trade for anything in the world, not even twelve hours sleep and a hot bath and being able to read an entire book in one sitting.

that very first smile. my dad died the same day and you looked at me and smiled. three weeks old and already more resilient than me.
that very first mama. a warm thursday evening. it just popped out, you wanted my attention so much.
those very first steps. that i watched you take as you walked from the wall and into your daddy's arms.
the love. the indescribable and overwhelming joy that rises up from a place within you that never existed before when your little rascal throws their arms around you and squeezes.
the kisses. open mouth with tongue all over your cheek, nose and including a free dose of snot and some dried up milk.
the dancing. the dancing around the lounge with you and you throwing your head back and laughing.
the giggling. when you laugh, your whole body shakes. its evidence of your unashamed aliveness that i hope will never be tainted by the world.
the singing. and the clapping. and the singing the songs with the actions.
the excitement. everything you see is like you've seen it for the very first time. "Look mama Look Look Look"
the fanclub. even when you're entirely ruined, deemed unsuitable for anybody's consumption in the adult world, rejected, dejected, and passed on by, you come home and all your little person wants is for you to hold them and sing badly to them.
the night time doo doo ritual. of kisses and stroking and you playing with my hair.
the dressing up. being able to dress you up in clothes with ears and knowing full well you'll hate me for it one day but not caring because you are just so cute, i could fall over.
the holding my hand. with your little hand in mine we read together and you point to the pictures and tell me their names.

i keep looking at you and asking myself - where the hell did the time go? what happened to the little bundle we brought home all swaddled who just slept all the time and ate and slept and cried? how is it that I know what to do now about hiccups? (thanks very much Google - three days old and already your livelihood's dependent on the internet!) how is it that childspeak, once deemed entirely undecipherable by me, is now my most common spoken language?

you've changed me, as you've grown. you've forced me to decide who i am, and who i want to be. you've helped me do things I never thought possible, and just tonight, walked over to me, put your arms around me and said "love you mama". you can piss me off and melt my heart in a nannosecond, and yet, i wouldn't change a thing.

730 days. approximately 4500 nappies down. approximately 3650 bottles of milk. more laundry than a hospital in war time. and more love than my beaten heart can hold.

thank you for being in my life, little girl.

As I write this, two years ago at this time, we were checking in at maternity where that numbnut behind the counter said "and what are you here for?" /well lady, i'm actually smuggling soccer balls and was bored so we thought we could come hang in the maternity ward for a while because we had nothing better to do. what the hell do you think i'm doing here!/. your grandparents were anxiously waiting to hear from us, i got a pipe inserted up my bum haha. my best friend was nervously checking her phone every thirty two seconds. your aunts and uncles were hopping around waiting for you to arrive. and i was wearing a burn shirt.

i will never forget how you looked when you arrived. so calm. you were so calm we were actually worried that something was wrong with you. all long limbs and tummy and haha tail, you were. of course, it took me three days to find out you had a little tail!

and now, there you are, asleep and dreaming of your barney cake and candles and swings and friends.

we love you little one. every day we are thankful for your exuberant smile and your joy for just living. thank you for choosing and blessing us.


Happy Birthday Cameron.

Eve’s dropping

by Kyknoord

I took a week off work to spend some quality time with Kyknoord Junior, while my ex-wife used this temporary respite to try and round up the scattered remnants of her sanity. A rather pointless exercise, in my opinion. I don’t think sanity is particularly useful when it comes to child-rearing.

Overheard at the Muizenberg municipal swimming pool - uttered by a mother who was concerned that her young son was straying too close to the deep end (obviously she wasn’t sufficiently concerned to actually get up and drag him to safety, but still…): “There are sharks there. They’re going to eat your pipi off!” Judging by the speed at which he moved into the shallows, I would guess that the seed that will ultimately grow into a tangled hedge of hang-ups has been successfully planted and watered. A mother’s love is beautiful thing, is it not? Actually, I understand the woman’s lackadaisical attitude entirely. Protecting toddlers from their own relentless self-destructive tendencies can be exhausting.

Of course, when kiddies aren’t engaged in the serious business of engineering their own demise, their favourite game in the whole world is Insert Daddy’s Last Nerve Into The Nuclear-Powered Fraying Machine. Had you been in the vicinity of Casa Kyknoord during the past week, you would have been witness to this little scene, which played out between me and Junior (with minor variations) around lunch time every day:
“Are you hungry?’
“No”
“Do you want a sandwich?”
”No!!”
“Well, okay then. I’ll eat it myself, shall I?”
“WAAAHAAA!!! I wanna sangwidge!”

I sh!t you not. Every. Single. Day. I think it’s the female ability to multitask that makes them better parents than men. The rational part of their brain is better equipped to override the instinctive strangulation commands issued to the hands by the emotional centres of the cortex.
Parenthood, it would seem, is somewhat reminiscent of looking for a gas-leak with a lit match. The consequences are often not fully understood until it is too late. This is probably a good thing, because if people had the vaguest clue about what they were letting themselves in for, the very survival of the species would be in jeopardy.

Birthday party nightmares

by Doodle

It's that time of the year again for me and the fun and games are just about to begin as the 10 girls I have been friends with for the past 6 years try to out do each other in hosting the most terrific and extraordinary kiddies party ever. All of us attended antenatal classes together and so all our little Angels were born with in a few weeks of each other. From the start of autumn to basically the end of winter every second weekend we spend our Saturdays at a birthday party, by the end of winter I am more then happy never to see a slice of Birthday cake again or sing along to Happy Birthday!!!

However there is nothing uncomplicated about these parties any longer, the once easy going uneventful little chin digs that we use to enjoy together with some tasty treats and perhaps a jumping castle or sand pit for the little party goers has now turned into Birthday party Survivor. You are very fortunate if your child's party is one of the first as the bar has not been set as yet and so the pressure is not as crushing as for the poor Mums who have to compete towards the end of the party season.

On receiving one of the first birthday invites the games are officially opened........ Hmmm let's see what we are up against. A beautifully hand written 4 page invite from the Flower Princess of the North, complete with a poem and a point for point schedule of the proceedings for the day... PS: Please come dressed appropriately for the Royal celebration. My son is beside himself with excitement and is counting the sleeps until he goes to the Flower Princesses Birthday party. Saturday morning off we go to the nearest Costume hire to go get him an appropriate little outfit for the occasion. After an hour of trying on and taking off and much persuasion the Prince finally chooses a Royal blue cloak with gold and ruby buttons, matching ¾ pants and of course a crown to complete it. Wonderful we are ready and off to the party we go. I am eager to see what awaits us and I am already starting to picture what we will find in my mind. Knowing this Mums previous birthday celebrations I know we are in for a real treat.

Entering the Kingdom of the north and the Flower Princesses castle I am completely bowled over, I immediately begin to wonder what am I possibly going to do for my 6 year olds birthday that will be able to compete with this!!! The entire house has been turned into a real life castle for the little Flower Princess, equipped with a draw bridge and a moat and of course a red carpet for the guests. Pink and Purple fabric draped from the walls with the Royal Families shield and a huge board welcoming all to the festivities. Each guest has their picture taken in the castle that you can take home with you when you leave. We are lead into a beautifully set up little tea garden with matching pink and purple plates and cups every single little detail has been taken care of right down to the tiny little butterflies dotted all over the garden. Professional musicians gently playing classical music in the background (and I really do mean 3 real life musicians with their violins and flutes) while you enjoy the ever on going feast of treats that have been laid out. The children play games of the times with kiss the frog and riding around on stick ponies trying to win the hand of the Princess. You can hear the Moms chattering as more and more indulgences are brought out. The exhausted Hostess hushes everyone, bringing all the children together and the musicians begin to play Happy Birthday. The loveliest of Castle cake's is brought out with all the embellishments....look out towers, guards, flags and even a little princess on the bridge. The Adults and children alike all completely breathless...the oohs and aaahs are soon followed by the children fighting and tugging over who will have which piece of the castle. Finally the day comes to an end and each little Prince and Princess receives a party pack to take home, enclosed is a Royal certificate, a crown, chocolate gold coins, sweets and chocolates and a key to the castle for the next celebration.......

All the way home each of the Moms begins conjuring up magnificent ideas on what junior's party is going to be like, how to plan one bigger and better so that the now sleepy little Prince does not feel like his party was not fun or lacked all the necessary trimmings!!!! What are they going to hire and just how big can we make that Formula one racing car cake. With the Flower Princesses party lurking each night in the Mums dreams (nightmares more like it), keeping them up into the early hours working on party lists and visiting websites on the most up to date birthday idea's.......dam dam dam that Flower Princess!!!!! The once easy going enjoyable parties that we all use to look forward to with no mess no fuss were now causing the party planning Mums dreadful ulcers and stressing Dads as they heard their bank account being drained...... all for juniors 6th Birthday party!!!

Partying is such sweet sorrow

by Kyknoord

Regular visitors will know that the fruit of my loins (a.k.a. Kyknoord Jr) lives in Port Elizabeth with her mother and that I, being the doting sire that I am, visit her regularly.

An enormous advantage of living in a different city to your progeny is that you aren’t expected to attend the scores of kiddie birthday parties that seem to crop up more or less continually throughout the year. My previous trips to the windy friendly city have been rather well timed, because up until now I’ve managed to avoid them all. Sadly, my run of good luck came to an abrupt end on my most recent visit.

If I had to summarise the experience in three words, they would be “Oh, the horror”. Picture an extended version of Timmy permanently about to fall down the well (with Lassie nowhere in sight) and you’ll have some idea. Of course, when the adults weren’t chasing after their screaming offspring, they were busy discussing mucous and bowel movements in full Technicolor detail. Fun is not the word+.

When the indoor activities++ were done, the outdoor festivities began. Naturally, when you have a dozen toddlers and only one item of recreational apparatus, you have a recipe for conflict:
“I wanna swing!”
“I wanna swing!”
“I wanna swing!”[Cue: wailing and gnashing of teeth. Repeat]

It was like being in a sugar-powered echo chamber. It did, however, illustrate that the laws of supply and demand are established at a very young age. This is probably why Communism never really caught on. It also explains why there are rallies and sell-offs on the stock market. Brokers are clearly all three-year olds at heart.

+ Indeed not. “Bleuaargh!” is the word.
++ i.e. cake orgy.

Child Protégé, Indeed

By Cath Jenkin

So, there you were, all newborn and fresh and cute and your dad and I were swallowed up by new baby love.

Then, after six weeks of “continual awake/asleep/feed me/change me/and that’s all I do – isn’t that easy?” phasing… the worst thing happened.

All of a sudden, you were AWAKE. AWAKE and staring at me. Goading me to “go on, now entertain me”.

So, we did. We bought the bloody expensive Baby Einstein. Convinced ourselves we were, as a result, nurturing your hidden talents and growing ourselves a true blue child protégé. We just KNEW we were the BEST parents ever.

Of course, that was the exact moment you started to totally ignore the television.

So, back to the world’s largest baby superstore we went. And invested small African countries’ GDPs in “educational toys”, utterly enamoured by the idea that WE were doing the BEST for our little pumpkin. SHE was going to grow up and CHANGE the world.

And we brought them home, showed them to you, and you gave them exactly thirteen seconds’ attention before throwing them back at me.

And turned your attention back to the television.

So, we kept on going. Trying everything. Reading. Reading to you and with you was a HUGE priority in our lives because someone (and approximately fifteen child-rearing books) said…

“You know, children who read from a young age really learn to talk faster?”

And there we were, talking to you and reading up a storm. CONVINCED that we were STILL growing a child protégé. I even went as far as saying:

“Well, my daughter is already mouthing words and making word-sounding babbles. She’s SO clever”

Why did nobody stop me and say something like “Oh, you’re going to regret this one…”

And then, you were walking and talking. You said “mama” one Thursday night and I just held you and cried and laughed and smiled.

I WAS SO PROUD.

Until, of course, the day came. Anyone who is a parent knows this. The day comes where you begin to regret being so eager for your child to speak and talk and communicate.

And yes, folks, that day was Tuesday morning.

You’d been sick, poor thing. There’d been mess and vomit and pooh.

So, I cleaned us both up, started the mammoth laundry task. Tried to pry my fatigued eyes open to remember how to turn the machine on.

Both of us so tired and grubby.

And there I was, standing beside the machine. And you called me that name I know and love so well now.

“Mama?”

So, I turned and looked at you, my poor little sick child.

“Yes, Cameron?”

And you looked back at me, with your innocent eyes, all your precious teeth grinning at me.

And then you said, “F*ck.”
.
“Children are natural mimics who act like their parents despite every effort to teach them good manners.” ~Author Unknown

Morning Madness

By Dee Steedman

"Be afraid be very afraid. You are about to enter the demons lair," should read the sign on my son’s door in the mornings. Waking my five year old son up in the mornings has become a complete nightmare. My mission: To get the little demon out of bed, attempt to get some food down his throat, clothes on, teeth brushed and lunch and school bag packed and ready for a full day at school.

My son is 100% confirmed NOT a morning person, which makes my life just that much more difficult in the mornings. Most mornings are awful for Mums even when things are flowing smoothly, but in my household mornings are a battle zone and I feel like the crazed Sergeant shouting commands at my seemingly very deaf and stubborn troop.

From the time he is gently awoken until we leave the house, with my nostrils flaring and muttering obscenities under my voice, nothing and I really mean nothing is done effortlessly or on the first time he is told. My partner tip-toes around the house trying his damdest to avoid the cross fire or being snarled at by me: "I can't take it. I can't do this every morning for the next 12 years!!"

I make coffee then go wake him up and try frog march him off to the breakfast table. I come back empty handed and continue to drink my coffee. No sign of the troop, I go back threatening all sorts of unfortunate disasters if he is not there in the next 5 min. I go back and get his breakfast ready and surprise surprise, I have to go back yet again. Finally after being told, “I am just stretching; I am just waking up; I am just blah blah blah…” I return this time with my troop in hand and his feet firmly pushed into the ground, not willing to surrender. He flops down at the breakfast table grumpy and feeling like the entire world is plotting against him and his horrid mother is leading them.

I have bought every possible type of kiddy’s cereal, breakfast bar, spread for toast and flavored yogurt in a feeble attempted to make breakfast proceed with a little more simplicity. I sit watching him and my blood begins to boil as he starts to rearrange the cereal from one side to the other, stirring clock wise then anti clock wise, and finally just staring at it hoping if he did it for long enough it would magically just disappear. A marathon 20 min later and we have managed to get four spoons down... Well done, that was one spoon more than last week!

Okay so hopefully it will improve and we are now half way done. Only thing left is to get him into his clothes and his teeth brushed. I keep popping my head around the corner to see how far he is while I carry on getting myself ready and giving the house a quick once over, still shouting the count down: “I am leaving in 10 min whether you have shoes on or not; I am leaving in 5 min whether you have your lunch packed or not...” No shoes and no lunch does not bother this little troop at all. Tick tock tick tock… the count down is coming to a swift end. Unable to contain myself any longer, I sit him on the counter hurriedly putting on his sandals and ruffle his bed head into something that looks like a Backstreet Boy style. Lunch and school bag whipped on his back and we make a hasty charge for the car only to face yet another frustrating session of William Nicol traffic to school and work.

Trying to teach my growing little troop to do things for himself, to be responsible and how to be on time is proving to more difficult than I had ever imagined. And the thought of another 12 years of battle zone mornings… SOS! Anybody have a Valium or two?

The rise and rise of the Purple Dinosaur

By Cath Jenkin

I was steadfast in my belief that MY child would not fall prey to the tentacles of him.

I happily exposed her to the "good" stuff – Noddy and Winnie the Pooh. The very expensive but actually cute Baby Einstein. Even went as far as those annoying songs-get-stuck-in-your-head-sing-along-DVDs. I got her into programmes on early morning weekend television. Kool Kats - that rocked her world.

So I successfully avoided him - he of the clapping happy purple dinosaur.

And then, she started a new school. And my sister-in-law messages me in hysterics, because when she picked her daughter up one sunny day, all the children were sat in a neat little row - immersed in a DVD. And my daughter would not be moved.

It was him - BARNEY.

I thought, it's okay. She'll get her fill of him at school; It's okay, it's educational. And then she got sick. And I got desperate. So fate dealt me a swift one.

At our local DVD hire store, they were selling off old stock. Cheap. And there was...yep, you guessed it, cut price Barney DVDs. So, I bought one. Thinking, it can't hurt and it'll distract her.

Let me give you a few of my thoughts on Barney's "What's In A Name?" episode:

1. Every child looks stoned. Stoned, stoned, stoned. I don't know what drugs they feed them but no one could ever get THAT happy over foam alphabet blocks.

2. The child learning to spell her name, Linda. She is the exact model for the Children of the Corn. Yes, that horror movie we all watched as giggling teenagers. EXACT.MODEL.

3. The way Barney pops out of nowhere frightens even me. Hell knows what it does to small children - even if they do use sparkly-bubble-effect to make it look pretty.

4. That song - “I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, with a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, won't you say you love me too?” - makes me want to grab the nearest weapon and launch it in the general direction of the television.

And yet, Barney has redeemed himself.

Despite my concerns and annoyance, I have never before seen my child so flipping mesmerised. Entirely absorbed. Learning so much. Soaking up all that purple power.

And so, I am now not only the owner of three more incredibly irritating but lifesaving Barney DVDs (thank you Uncle Garry, who ruined his street cred for going in to buy them), but I am also involved in a deep and real relationship with "Bubby", a.k.a. Barney.

What are the benefits of this 'Bubby' relationship?

My daughter has learnt to sing the alphabet, say things like "A is for Apple", kisses a lot more, sings and does the actions for the "Ducky" song (quack quack quack the duckies dooo), all of which is flipping cute and, above all things, she's happy. She loves him. Oh and I’ll admit, I love him. I even love the way he's teaching her that transgender dinosaurs can be happy little beings too.

I think Barney’s an awesome role model. Because of him, she does not fight about seatbelts. She demands them on straight away. Anything with a seatbelt or harness and it must be strapped up. What a joy.

And me?

I get five minutes to wash the dishes or actually shower. And, the biggest joy of all, I have a never ending stream of kiddie friendly songs stuck in my head to hum and annoy my work colleagues with.

Barney, I never thought I'd say this, but dude, I really do love you too.

Watch Out J-Lo, I’m coming for the Alimony

By Cath Jenkin

So, you’re nearly two now. It seems to have gone far too fast.

Not so long ago, I thought, I was worrying myself stupid about stimulating you within the womb. I had headphones on my belly as often as I could – playing classical and “cultured” music. Workmates of mine were convinced I was mentally challenged. And then I started you on some of my favourites. Being a bit of a hard rocker mommy, you were lulled by the Deftones, Alanis Morissette and a plethora of other, good, all round important life music.

So, then you arrived, to the tune of “New Born” by Muse, played by a DJ at mommy’s favourite haunt, and your godmother Anne played “Minerva” by the Deftones from the moment she knew I was in labour.

And then you grew. And grew. And we played those favourites again. Some of the classical, some nursery rhymes, some of that hard rocking stuff and much to my chagrin, some of your dad’s house music but, also some of his lounge music.

How utterly horrifying then that, at six months, you went crazy over the moon for…

BEYONCE.

The epitome of so much that I cannot stand. Jiggling booty, false hair, grammatically shitty lyrics. You loved it all. You went mad every time Destiny’s Child came on the radio, television, passing car’s sound system.

It was horrible.

And then, you were one. ONE YEAR OLD. One.

And we were paging through a magazine together and you saw a picture of Jennifer Lopez and pointed and excitedly said…

MAMA.

Now, whilst J-Lo may be a beautiful woman, she stands, again for all the things I loathe – she wears fur; she does the bum-shaking thing. She groans instead of sings and again, has grammatically shitty lyrics. And now you think I’m like her, or she’s mama.

Well, baby, if J-Lo’s your mama, I’m gonna be asking her for a cheque soon. And I'll probably use that money to buy more CDs and try, so very hard, to get that R'nB booty shaking stuff out of your head.