Thank you very much

There is this terrible story doing the rounds about a little girl being approached by three different people while she was playing at the Lifestyle Garden Centre, all of them trying to get her to leave with them.

The story has gathered such momentum that Lifestyle has even issued a formal statement about the incident (can send if anyone wants it).

As it is one of my most favourite places to go with Jackson, I decided that it might be a good time to start talking to him about stranger danger.

So yesterday, while he was in the bath, I took a great deal of time and effort to explain what a stranger was and how you should never go anywhere with a stranger especially if they are offering you gifts or sweets. Jackson sat there with a solemn expression on his face, nodding in agreement with me, looking for all the world like he understood exactly what I was talking about.

And then I said to him in my most serious voice: So Jackson, if a man or a woman THAT YOU DO NOT KNOW comes up to you and asks you if you want a sweet or a present, what do you say to them?

And he replies in his most serious voice: I say to the gentleman, thank you very much, mans.

Awww…I think we may still have a bit of work to do here, but at least he has beautiful manners.

On the District Line, please note how our dinosaurs travel in style.

Rolling down the river, fast times

As of Monday night our house became a no-nappy zone. So far, no accidents and emergenices.

Also we have been bottle-free since we came back from the UK.

And it has all been Jackson’s idea by the by. Jackson who, by his own admission, is now a big boy not a baby.

Proud and sad, sad and proud.

I miss you a little bit 2006.

Of cakes and boxes

When Jackson was born, I thought to myself that it would be a good idea to make his birthday cake from scratch every year until he can bear the embarrassment no longer.

And now it has become this big thing in my head, like it is an expression of my love for him and if I don’t do it I have FAILED as a mother. Which is a bit dramatic and slightly odd, but there it is, lodged in my brain and there is no escaping it.

2007 – made with the help of the biggest hangover in the world. Ever.

So now it’s his third birthday in a couple of weeks and I have to decide on a cake. Right now the two options are a horse or a diplodocus. Jackson doesn’t care as long as it’s blue.

2008 – so proud of this, can I ever possibly top it? It was a banana cake with cream cheese frosting. So delicious it was inhaled by the guests. Will be using same recipe this year, although with slightly less nutmeg.

So, the question is, do you care about the cake? I’ll make whichever gets the most votes. Let’s do this.

Jackson’s third birthday cake should be:
(polls)

In other news, yesterday afternoon Jackson and Dave (and me too a little bit) ended up playing an incredibly raucous game of dragon/tiger/monster/troll slaying which involved running around the house shrieking, hitting each other with the Lego swords and hiding (Jackson was doing most of the hitting with swords and hiding, Dave was doing most of the shrieking).

I made him climb in there to hide. Dave says I need to call this photo Jack(son) in a box. Meh…I give that a 5/10 for funny.

And that is why…

Last night I dragged Dave to Winex (and I would just like to take a moment here to thank Simon Back from Backsberg Estate for the free ticket – a chance bit of chit chat with you on the escalators really paid off for me.)

Now Dave doesn’t drink wine. To be honest he only likes one kind of wine: a semi-sweet white wine called Bellingham Johannesburger which is like a 1970s throw-back and reminds me of shagpile rugs and swingers parties (whatever, that’s what I think of when I think of the 1970s). (I have just seen that you can buy it here for £8.50. WTF??? If it costs R30 locally, that would be because the bottle store is ripping you off.)

Anyway, Dave totally unselfconsciously proceeded to tell pretty much each and every winemaker (and they were South Africa’s very TOP winemakers), that Bellingham Johannesburger is the best wine, and the only wine he really likes, and how he can’t begin to digest red wine and, dude, where’s the semi-sweet?

And this lack of self-consciousness and the fact that he GENUINELY DOESN’T GIVE A SHIT is the reason why I just love him so much.

Well, that and this…

And also because he’s a really good kisser.

Toilet training. A total success.

My seemingly never ending quest for bathroom accessories has now led me to what I can only describe as SUPERPOSH bathroom boutiques. Gorgeous places with exquisite imported sanitaryware that costs…well…costs more than I would ever consider spending on a toilet anyway.

Jackson and I went to one such place yesterday after Cousin Lily’s 4th birthday party (btw Happy Birthday Cousin Lily). Jackson, who had been swimming in the river all afternoon, was looking pretty grubby and was dressed only in his underpants. Cute Baby Gap underpants, but underpants that were stained a lovely brown colour from the river mud nevertheless.

The lady sales assistant was charm personified (as they usually are in these kinds of places, even when you are accompanied by a filthy little urchin), and she could not have been more helpful. She and I were sitting at her desk as she worked out a quote for me when I suddenly noticed Jackson had disappeared. So I went to go and look for him and eventually I found him behind a wall, in front of the window, standing with his nasty pants round his ankles (and I think we all know where I am going with this) HAVING A WEE IN A R10,000 (that’s $1,300) DISPLAY TOILET.

Dealing with this the only way I could think of right at that moment, I quickly and quietly put the lid down, deleted all the laugh from my expression and didn’t mention it. When we left it was still undiscovered, but I expect they have found it by now and I’m pretty sure they’ll figure out who did it so my question is: am I brazen enough to call them and place the order because dammit I really liked their towel rails.

Measles

I spent a large portion of Saturday afternoon at a braai with a whole host of new (uninoculated) babies.

Much of the time we spoke (of course) about children and, as two of the babies were going for their measles shots this week, we also dedicated at least a full half hour about how we feel about immunisation (whatEVER presently childless people, you’ll talk about this stuff one day too).

Those of you who know me IRL (god I LOVE throwing in abbreviations like that), may know that I can be pretty opinionated about stuff (although I’d prefer it if you called me passionate), and so I went on and on and on and on (and on) about how I think people who don’t immunise their kids are SO SELFISH and just depend of the rest of us to get our children inoculated, and don’t they KNOW how dangerous it is for little tiny babies to get measles, and how these little tiny babies without their full-grown immunity could DIE and how Jackson has had all his shots AND a free booster that the government was giving out last week at school because, you know, I take it all VERY seriously.

So…you can imagine how I felt to arrive to pick Jackson up from school yesterday to find him covered in an evil looking rash behind his ears, in his mouth, on his face and all over the inside of his arms.

“Oh yes,” says the teacher breezily, “it’s probably measles.”

Me: But he’s had all his shots.

Breezy teacher: Yes, but they can still get it, just not as severe. But don’t worry there’s nothing you can do about it now, and once the rash comes up he’s not contagious any more, it’s before the rash comes up is when you can catch it. Maybe you should take him to the clinic anyway though.

This news sends me into a state of utter irrational confusion – do I call everyone that Jackson has been in contact with over the past 10 days in a panic (gut reaction – I SO wanted to do this) or, you know, actually find out if it is really measles?

Despite the fact I am itching for the drama, I opt for the clinic where they say “oh yes, definitely measles, but it’s probably just from the booster shot he got last week and they say that it’s not really contagious. You still have to go and report it though.”

And I’m all like: Huh? Report it? To who, the measles police?

But the thing is, the Sister didn’t even really look at him, so I suddenly do a 180, decide that I’m not convinced about the whole measles story and I ask her to take another look because the rash is itchy and he hasn’t had any other symptoms…so she does and it’s a proper look this time (Jackson takes this terribly seriously and says solemnly at least 30 times “I have spots, lady. I have spots here. I am scratchy.”).

Then she declares that it’s not measles at all, it’s an allergy, prescribes some cortisone cream and sends us home.

And that is where I am going to end this post because, honestly, that is where this rather pointless story ends.

I almsot forgot…

One of my most favourite blog buddies Angel is running this competition on her blog. It has prizes and everything.

To enter all you need to do is write a blog post about an old-wives tale that has to do with raising a child, and whether or not you think it has any relevance today.

Okay super STUMPED. To be honest, I stopped reading books after like the first week of childbirth – too confusing and too time-consuming and I’ve never really listened to any old-wives tales. So instead, here’s something I learnt from TV…

On this totally fascinating programme on BBC called The Truth About Food they ran a test on the effect sugar had on kids. What they did was hold two parties: one where they had only veggies and healthy snacks and one where they had masses of sugary sweets. The games the kids played at the healthy snack party were loud and raucous and energetic and the games that they played at the sugary sweet party were quiet and slow and sedate.

The parents didn’t know which kids had eaten what and the next day they were asked to guess which party they thought their kids had attended based on their behaviour when they got home.

100% OF THE PARENTS WHO’S CHILDREN WENT TO THE HEALTHY SNACK PARTY GUESSED THAT THEIR KIDS HAD GONE TO THE SUGAR PARTY AND CONVERSELY 100% OF THE SUGAR PARTY PARENTS GUESSED THE HEALTHY SNACK PARTY.

That made me completely re-adjust my food fascist attitude towards sweets.

And while we’re at it…another myth I don’t believe in is that you can spoil a child. Well actually I do believe it, but I believe that the ONLY way you can spoil a child is through neglect.

So there you have it. Go and check out Angel’s competition for yourself. Hell, you might as well take part. And if you do, please leave the link in my comments, cos I’m really interested in all your debunked parenting myths.

And now for the pic…exmi asked what’s on my desktop. Well, here it is…

Jackson’s sulky expression juxtaposed with the iconic beauty that is Table Mountain, never fails but to make me snigger. Jackson doesn’t really dig Cape Town that much.

Magic bubbles

Do any of you remember Magic Plastic Balloons from when you were a kid?

I do. I also remember them being AWESOME.

So I bought some tubes when I was in the UK and on Friday night Jackson, Lily and I spent a large portion of our evening blowing them.

And, guess what? They were still AWESOME.

Big tears fall down like puddles

After the initial excitement of his first two days back at school, Jackson has decided that it is just not for him.

He’s fine when we arrive, but as soon as the door to his classroom is opened he makes a dash for the front door and tries to leave and then sobs and clings to me like he is a prisoner of war being sent off to a certain death or something as I take him back to his teacher. And then as I walk off I hear this wailing: maaaaaaaaaaaama, maaaaaaaaaaaaaama, maaaaaaaaaaama, noooooooooooooooo, maaaaaaaaaaaaaaama.

It is all terribly dramatic.

Not to mention it breaks a tiny little piece of my granite heart every time it happens.

But why does it happen? Is he really desperately unhappy or does he just feel the same way about school as I did? The same way I feel about having to work? Any ideas? Solutions? Thanks.

This was one of my most fun and favourite times in England. Jackson and I went out for lunch at one of the restaurants in Chinatown where we shared a bowl of egg-fried rice and crispy duck pancakes (food of the gods, I swear). We sat there and drew loads of dinosaurs (I draw a mean Diplodocus and T-Rex) and just generally chatted about our morning shopping for toys. Then I decide to capture the moment on camera and Jackson hid under the table.

Resistance is futile

I’m going to do it. I’m going to go on and on and on about my bathrooms. I’m sorry I really am, but it was inevitable – you all realise that don’t you?

The good news is, that now I have hot water in the bathrooms. I have hot water EVERYWHERE in my bathrooms. My toilets even flush hot water. Yes you read that right: MY (LEAKING) TOILETS FLUSH WITH HOT WATER. Cos we are just fancy like that, I guess.

I don’t, however, have hot water in my kitchen. I actually don’t have any water coming out of the hot tap in the kitchen at all.

But I do, however, have hot water leaking out of the ceiling in my passageway.

So right about now I would get up, stamp my foot and in my best teenage girl impressions shout I AM SO OVER RENOVATIONS. I would, except look at this will you, look at what was waiting for me on the sleeper couch when I went to bed last night.

And so I ask you, how can this make me anything other than happy?