Keeping abreast of the situation!

Kamaiura : Siesta of mother and child, originally uploaded by klausdgrio (unabled - all photo-gear stolen).

Breastfeeding. This is something I want to blog more about, if only to increase awareness about why it is the most magical, miraculous thing a mother can do for her child. Before Layla, I used to feel pretty neutral about it - but now...

In other cultures, like the Mongolians, breastfeeding is celebrated! Breastfeeding in public is not just a cultural norm, but expected.

Having lunch the other day in a garden centre's cafe with my friend, Lisa, and her year-old little girl, Freya Rose, we both hauled out our boobs so our children could have their milk. Knowing the taboos surrounding this wonderfully natural and beautiful act of mothering and nutrition, we took care to choose the most discreet seating in the cafe, and made sure not the barest glimpse of flesh was flashed! And yet, in our hearts, we feel like organising militant-style pro-breastfeeding ralleys! But we don't. Because............. I've just deleted an extremely passionate paragraph in case, oh dear, it might offend.
The day Layla was born, and in the weeks following, I had decided Layla would only be breastfed until she was six months old. That is, when the teeth arrive. But now, 8 months on, I almost wish it would never end. It gives us the most precious moments of quiet intimacy. A time that no-one else can muscle in on with a bottle of formula in hand. Through the night, she reaches for me in her sleep, and we lie in each others' arms - a twilight of love. One day, too soon, she will be off and running, busy, painting, playing, climbing trees, homework, boys... And these moments will be my perfect mother's treasure. An anchor, I hope, for us both.

Dark, grey, gloomy...

Today makes me think of studying Shakespeare at school. When the weather was believed to be a direct reflection of what was going on politically etc. Like the storm in Macbeth. I've just stepped outside in my pyjama socks to let my neighbours gentle giant of a German Sherpherd out for a quick wee in her cramped, little pebbled yard. Today hasn't been a 'good' day in the conventional sense of the word. i.e. no housework has been done because I'm just too damn tired. And it's that deep kind of tiredness you feel in your soul. The kind of exhaustion that you have to just try and ignore, because if you don't, it'll consume you. Until you feel like you're drowning.
The miraculous thing about being a mother, is that somehow, out of nowhere, you are suddenly blessed with a fresh abundance of energy. (I'm counting on this to happen for me tomorrow!) When I let go of this feeling guilty about being tired, and allow myself to chill out for the day (in pyjamas, with a sink full of dishes and a basket of laundry to be folded and packed away, and ... and... and...), then I am usually guaranteed to wake up feeling like the proverbial million bucks! So today, Layla and I have napped together, played together on the floor, shared a sarmie for lunch, cuddled and laughed and giggled at each other... I have learnt (though it's taken me 31 long years) that these darker days are there for a reason: to stop you in your tracks so you're forced to take stock of what really matters to you. Otherwise, with a constant supply of perfect energy, I would whizz through life and take everything (and everyone) for granted. I wouldn't pray. I would never be still.
Supper tonight? A quiche bought from a 'boutique-deli' : feta, spinach, sundried tomatoes and pine-nuts. I'll bang it in the oven and chop up a few tomatoes with some crisp slices of cucumber, and voila! Maybe I'll get really lucky and Craig will stop to pick up a bottle of vino on the way home from work. It's usually a bottle of Cape Red for 3.39 GBP from the Co-op in Brixworth. (I'm really struggling to concentrate... I find that when Layla is asleep, my ability to focus on writing, painting etc is quite good. But when she's awake - my brain turns into a primitive survivalist machine and all that matters is my child: is she cold? is she hungry? is she thirsty? is she happy? Eish...)
*Sorry, Mel - another short entry. Blame it on motherhood.

Mother & Child, and Father...

1. Was up with Layla all night long. (Saturday saw the beginning of a very sticky, snotty nose - and by Sunday, she was in full swing with the whole works, making for an utterly miserable little girl.)
2. She woke up at 5.30am - and guessed she'd need her usual sleep by 8.30am at the latest -- but not being able to breastfeed with such a blocked nose made her inconsably frantic, that I've only managed to get her to sleep a few minutes ago: i.e. she was awake for a total of FIVE hours... And that's a LOT for such a wee little soul.
3. Craig has gotten the cold as well - and, being of the male persuasion, has it 'a billion times worse' (to quote directly!) And to top it all off, Mama Lisa here has to help him type his school reports because otherwise he gets a sore back. Ag shampies...
So, sleep-deprived, irritable and more-than-your-average-knackered, here I am at the PC and not in bed where I should be, catching up on as many winks I could get.
4. My small 'Mother & Child' was selected for the 96th Annual Northampton Town & County Art Society Exhibition (what a mouthful!)over the large one because of the gallery's lack of space this year where they're apparently hanging works from floor to ceiling!

Teething pains...

With the weather turning a glum, cold grey, my usually bare feet about the house are decidedly icy: time to either turn on the heating or haul out last winter's slippers! Whenever I speak to my dad (he's in Cape Town), he is guaranteed to ask me about the weather. Even slap-bang in the middle of the Cape Winter, the weather is usually irritatingly better than here in Northampton. Perhaps this is why my dad always asks me? A little thorn to remind me that east, west, HOME is best!
Layla's top front two teeth are pushing their way down through her sore, tender little gums - and the Calpol I gave her earlier doesn't seem to have made so much as a dent in her loud, sporadic agony. Poor baby :( All I've managed to do today is look after her, run a load of washing (which is still in the machine) and do the dishes (but they're still not packed away.) Since the last time I wrote, I've had a dramatic shift in perspective after an older and wiser friend's kind warning to 'treasure these moments' with Layla. She made mention that she herself has to remind herself of this sentiment when contemplating, not her navel, but finding a gun to forever silence her husband's decibel-crunching snores! (I've had to promise keeping her safely anonymous in case her contemplation turns to action one sleep-deprived midnight!) But it is so, so true. These precious children of ours grow up in leaps and bounds we can never hope to keep up with! I can hardly even remember how tiny and fragile Layla was as a newborn - when teething and crawling and starting solids all seemed impossibly far away into the future. When we were in South Africa, I found the very first photograph ever taken of Layla on her late granny Sally's cell phone. Craig's hand is on the photo, giving Layla the look and size of a tiny doll - and not the chubby, robust newborn I expected! She was so thin and almost scraggly, that her skin hung off her like an old, too big jersey. And that shock of raven hair! So much like her daddy that I kept on dreaming in my post-labour snatches of sleep that they'd made a mistake: that she was a boy! For weeks after she was born, I wanted to snip off a lock of her soft black hair to keep forever, but suddenly the weeks were months, and all that hair disappeared... Thank goodness for photographs!
And here she is, all 14lb and 7.5months of her: delicious, incredible, amazing! Holding her in my arms in the middle of the night, exhaustion suspended by the miracle of her. Could I love her too much? Her soft apple cheeks, long and strangely straight eyelashes, and a mouth that can be all soft and pouty - and then stretch into the widest, biggest smile I've ever seen... It's hard to believe she is my daughter. My flesh and blood. Made only from love and desire and chromosomes...

(As an aside, a friend told me on the weekend that my blog entries are too short and leave the reader wishing I had given them more... Two reasons I probably cut myself short: I don't want to bore you, and Layla usually needs me JUST as the writing starts to get juicy... Any ideas or tips?)

Domestic Distress!!

1. Bad, bad night for Layla with her teeth. (Almost zero sleep for me.)
2. But I'm still enjoying my glossy lacquered nails - AND toenails. At least I can be glamourouslyshattered!
3. Instead of actually painting, I nearly started a new blog about my painting. Realised I was really just procrastinating in an incredibly self-deceptive way: I believed for a few minutes I was actually working! Have decided to blog about my art on this blog if I really have to!
4. And now for the absolute crux of why I am here today: I need help! But constructive help only, please. Why?

... My house is a mess. There are some areas which are pristine and fantastically organised - but they are frustratingly few and far between. When I was pregnant, I was so badly bloated and exhausted, that not having enough energy to keep it tidy didn't bother me too much. Now that Layla's older and easier, I find that I get stuck into setting the house to rights - only to have it all fall down like a sandcastle smashed by the inevitable wave. (Funny little metaphor - but that's what it really feels like to me. Like I've spent hours playing and creating and perfecting, only to watch in horror as the waves creep closer and closer... and then to watch as it crumbles down upon itself and disappears into only a memory of itself.) I think it New York Mayor Giuliani's notion of 'The Broken Window' that's at fault for 99% of the messes in my house. i.e. when there's a broken window in an otherwise nice neighbourhood, it attracts naughty, loitering boys - who then scribble a little graffiti on the wall, and maybe break the next window along. Then a gang moves in to claim it as its turf, and the drug dealer's the next step. Etcetera etcetera. The solution: prevention is better than cure: so when there's a broken window, fix it immediately so it doesn't attract more brokenness.
I've tried to explain that to my other half who really does seem to try his best but honestly doesn't have a tidy bone in his body - so while he agrees with needing to clean/tidy straightaway, he can't seem to put it into practise. Hence, my chronically messy house that, when someone unexpectedly knocks at the door for a visit, has my heart going into miniature cardiac arrest, or telling a white lie like, "I was just about to leave for the dentist" (even though I'm blatabtly un-ready in my pink polka-dot gown and steaming mug of coffee!)
So: any advice or CONSTRUCTIVE ideas? One idea I've had is to get in a cleaning service once every two weeks to vacuum, dust etc, so I don't have to spend so much time doing that sort of housework, and can then focus on keeping things tidy/organised. (If I tell Craig about this idea, he'll enthusiastically launch into telling me HE will do those things for me on weekends. But... does it EVER happen? You know the answer to that.)
Wondering if I should sign off the rest of the week to getting the house PERFECT, then begin painting again on the weekend? Even though I'm not anally-retentive about tidyness, I struggle to be creative if there are too many messes lurking around, making me feel distracted with guilt!

Vixen

Almost dry, my always efficiently short nails are painted the colour of dark, ripened cherries - the first time I've found the time and the energy to paint them. Toenails too! A minor miracle.

Upstairs, I can hear Craig brushing his teeth, and I suppose I ought to head to bed myself. But it's just been one of thosedays... when, as a mom and wife, you lose sight of your heart's little daily desires in folding clean washing, still warm and smelling of the late summer sun... in the soapy suds in the kitchen sink... It was a long day where the groceries got done ETCETERA, but my little studio space remained empty. Where can I find more time to paint? How can I magic more time into my day to write? Hmmm... even a solitary bath by candlelight (or moonlight) would be heavenly (and I'm trying not to feel guilty thinking about it...) Baths now are: Craig and I in the bath with Layla at 5pm, her plonked in her bright yellow bath seat, while plastic wind-up turtles and rubber fish find their way into all sorts of places I've not had visited in awhile. (Sigh)

Layla's probably going to wake in about 30min from now. I am awake every hour at night still with her. Teething pain, and its tummy pains (and resultant giant nappies at 4am we both have to wait for before she'll head back to sleep again for only another hour...) Some have counselled me to let my darling child 'cry it out' - but my heart is too soft: DAMN - she's awake. Better go.

Muddy Metaphors -- and Weddings on the Wild Side

How long has it been since I last found time to write? Well, so long that my unpractised, clumsy fingers dodge the letters I mean to type! Spare time evades me like the plague, but tonight I have found myself in luck: the drought is over (and I’m mixing my metaphors!)
Port Elizabeth, and the hot, dry ‘winter’ has been broken by a sudden storm; the wet, black sky torn apart by ragged lightning, rending thunder. Apparently, this is the worst winter drought experienced by the Eastern Cape in 70 years. (And we’re not missing much with regards the English summer: ‘grey’ and ‘miserable’ are two words that crop up again and again in emails from my English friends in the last weeks. And as one South African expat succinctly said: ‘Two weeks of sunshine and then it goes and #@&%s off for the rest of the year!!’) Hoping this blissfully summery weather will last another two weeks, we’ve arranged our wedding to take place along the banks of the lazy Sunday River in Addo next Saturday!





Originally, our wedding was set (and booked!) for December 2008 – at the citrus and rose farm, Avoca (where we’re still going to have our wedding.) Craig had taken me there for an exciting, sexy, fun, exotic and dangerous (‘angry bull elephant vs Citi Golf’ story – to be told at a later stage) weekend away. After a day of swimming in the dark, cold river inbetween roasting dry in the sun with only ice-cold beers to keep us company, we sat around the doringboom fire in the darkening pink of night and dreamed of how perfect it would be for a wedding. Unspoken thoughts of marriage stained our every word, as though they were blushing – we daren’t mention the word for fear of jinxing this perfect new love we’d accidentally bumped into again almost two whole decades after that first kiss.
Eleven years old, Standard Four. In the music room nogal! I remember scratching my name, coupled with Craig’s surname, on my wooden desktop. And they talk about self-fulfilling prophecies?! After a whirlwind romance of silly little love-letters and stolen kisses, high school separated us and we never saw each other again. Until that fateful ‘friend request’ on Facebook when we were both a year shy of 30.
“Are you the same Lisa Roberts I went to school with?”

And that was that. (Not really, but I could literally write a book were I to try bring you up to speed on what happened between then and now! Another time, maybe…)
So now, back to the wedding. Both of us are fairly relaxed when it comes to organising things, euphemistically speaking - and so, our wedding is a true reflection of our style of doing things: unpretentious, whimsical, laid-back, flexible, casual. We really only decided last night (!!) that we’d actually have a proper wedding in lieu of the court thing. For a whole host of reasons, we’re having an incredibly tiny little do – only 20 people or so. Finances are one of them, but that’s probably not the main reason. I think we’re really using our minimalist-style savings as an excuse to have this wedding as preciously intimate and meaningful as possible! If we didn’t have this fiscal reason to back us up, I have a funny feeling we’d have felt obligated to invite The World. Instead, only 20 guests are invited, and even then, there are one or two we are forced to invite only through sheer familial duty – but on the whole, each person means The World to us! (Craig and I are big on meaningfulness --- sentimental ol’ suckers!)
Oops! I’ve just realised what I’ve so unsubtly intimated: that you yourself do not mean The World to me and are hence not invited. Eish… How do I untangle myself from this faux pas?! I guess what I mean to say is that with Layla in our lives, we just can’t afford the time or money to have a huge bash. And that running around during the reception dinner, trying frantically to spend a few micro-milliseconds with each guest, is just not something we are capable of with a constantly hungry baby (i.e. still being breastfed meaning no-one can really look after her except me… Hence, why I suppose one gets married BEFORE one has a baby!!!) Anyway, the fact of the matter is that the only people invited are family members. Because if we didn’t invite them, then there’d be hell to pay!! (Now if you are a family member and you have been invited, then you’ll have noticed I’ve shot myself in the other foot now!! OK – so I can’t win. So let me just blame it on our blatant shortage of funds. Is that better? It’s too late now, because here I sit with both my feet in my mouth, having shot myself in both of them – not a pretty picture, huh?)