Too many questions

My life is messy. There are just two many things going on. My disastrous choice of a birthday present for The Man, NT starting “school”  and trying to decide whether I want to move to Joburg/Jozi/Johannesburg/The City of Gold.

It’s not really my decision alone I know but I guess I have to decide for myself first – do I want to move and work in Joburg? Is it really as great as people say it is? Will it make any difference to my high levels of job angst and just plain old hate at the moment?

Like I said too many questions.

Two days ago I was sure Cape Town is it. I had convinced myself that I could reinvent myself and find something I’m passionate about in Cape Town.

Even the Silicon Cape initiative gave me hope. I could become Surely my skills – gathered over more than 15 years – would bear me out.

And there’s my family. I love having my parents close and The Man’s mom too. The babysitting helps. :) And The Man’s passion is here. His dream job.

I love our house. Even all its mess.

Table Mountain. Let’s not forget the mountain…

There’s a good dollop of fear too. I’m scared that I won’t find a new job here if I leave my current one. I’m afraid that Joburg will swallow me whole and be nothing like I want it to be… Do I really want my baby to grow up there?

Will The Man resent me for pulling him away from his dream?

Like I said, too many questions.

The Dream and other thoughts

I woke up and all I wanted to do was tell my husband about the dream.

About the strange land with its strange people, where the people are given a building and other resources and told to do with it what they will… And what do they do? They open a workshop where everyone is welcome to develop whatever idea they’ve had in their lifetime.

I walk in and I’m not sure what they make here. There’s an grey old man, dressed in a slacks and a faded blue shirt, sitting at a machine I don’t recognise. I greet him and move on.

Everyone has their own corner – women and men working on their projects. Again I’m not sure why they all look so happy but it’s infectious.

I feel better than I have for a while – these people are living their dreams. All because they were given the space to do so by the government (hard to believe…)!

I stand and marvel at how happy and content everyone seems. Can’t help myself.

The building’s not that new or even cutting edge, in fact the whole neighbourhood (suddenly I have an idea of the whole place) feels like the Cape Flats – with red-bricked apartments that go up for several stories, little windows and hot, black tar streets. The houses are small from the outside, not like those places where the houses look small and suddenly when you’re inside they expand. I just know these houses are like my grandmother’s in Silvertown.

Small rooms, front gardens and weirdly large backyards where my uncle grew his dagga plants and the loquats were always sweet and juicy. How did loquats from Japan end up in Cape Town?.

But I digress.

I walk out feeling like this place actually works, you know, works like other places don’t.

Like watching the news every day reveals that most nations don’t. The people just seem to going about their business, you know. No hassle.

So I walk out and the sun is shining (of course) and I look up at the tall, red-bricked flats, across to the quiet street and wonder where are the cars…
And I suddenly want to drive. Now everyone who knows me knows that’s an issue. I want to drive a car.

I start walking and find myself looking left and see a group of men, young and old, singing outside the building. I walk by and try not to stare – because, well, where on earth does this happen? Not on Earth maybe.

I walk down the road thinking… nothing really. And see one of the guys bounce away from the group and run my way. And now everyone thinks: “Oh, it’s a love story” because isn’t that what most women dream about – a hero to sweep them off their feet?
Anyway, he bounces over and just starts walking beside me. Smile in place. Not a word. He has light hair, curly and way too long. The definition of which is longer than mine.
He says nothing. I smile. I’ve played this game before – it’s not like it’s the first time I’ve been hit on by a pretty boy in a strange place.

And then I find myself talking. Telling him that I want to drive: “Do you have a car?” No answer. But he keep walking, so I do the same. I get the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that he’s not hitting on me. What?

Then he says, “I have a car. It’s not far from here. I’ll take you.” That sounds more like it, I think, smiling.

I start noticing the cars passing us by – vintage mostly, like one would see in those travel pieces about Cuba. This makes sense. I’ve always wanted to go to Cuba. And don’t you imagine that the state would be helpful and the people content in Cuba. I do.

“This is my car,” he says smiling beautifically. I mean how else would he smile in that neat white shirt?

Oh, did I say this wasn’t a love story?

The doors on the turquoise car are slightly ajar. I’m suspicious.

Don’t worry, this isn’t a thriller either.

I open the door closest to me – it happens to be the right door; the passenger side. But all the doors are coated with this black material on the inside. Looks like oil and it’s just dripping from the doors.

Now I have no idea what the yucky black stuff is but, luckily, there are other plans for me because I’m suddenly back at the building I started sans what I have now decided is boy-man with beautific smile, lovely hair and white shirt. I’m not sure if he was any good at the singing.

It’s months later. You know like those movies where time passes with the use of a montage or somesuch device. No such luck here. Just a jump to the future.

I’ve been here for months. Made friends, some enemies I think. They want me out. I can’t get my papers renewed. It sucks. We’re all sad. The people and I in the building where we spend our time being happily industrious.

The building’s changed though. It has a garden and a courtyard. The sun is a little brighter than when I arrived. Could it be me? So vain.

I have to leave this afternoon. They’re sending me home. Surprisingly, I’m not standing and fighting. This must a different me.

I get my bags as he waits. He doesn’t look happy. This is not a love story.

As I say goodbye, some tearful, to people in the workshop, I see cars parked in the courtyard. Those vintage ones I love so much.

There are no women, I suddenly realise. I have just now realised. The cars are filled with men and boys. He says that I have been very popular for the past few months. I misunderstand his teasing and deny everything. Somewhere in there I know I have a family at home.

The cars are filled with boys and men. I am embarrassed. What have I done that deserves this group in the courtyard, waiting to say fare well.

He smiles. I walk out to the street alone. More cars, more people saying goodbye. Everyone from the tall, red-bricked apartments? It seems like it. They’ll miss me.

They wave and smile as they walk towards… the airport, bus? I’m walking down the street with a smile on my face, the weather’s cool and I still don’t know how I’m getting home but it’s fine.

Then the movie thing happens. I cringe because here he is, running towards me, shouting lord knows what. Embarrassed again.

This is not your typical love story. I insist.

He grabs my hand and I have to start running too.

Now I think it’s the airport we’re heading towards but we have to stop somewhere first. It’s hard to describe.

I slide over a rock smoothed by water that runs over it. There’s a painting of a woman on the rock – I wish I was a painter so I could share her face. She’s brown and happy. Not like me?

This is not about love of self or anything as trite. I don’t think so.

There are more rocks and it feels cool and peaceful. Joyful at the same time.

I wake up feeling happy and want to tell my husband about this incredible dream. He brushes me off and I’m upset. It felt like it was life-changing and he’s only half listening.

I wake up – it’s past 6am on Friday morning. Our son is sound asleep, unusual for him.

I want to tell my husband about this awesome dream. But I don’t and move to the bathroom with the images playing over and over in my head.

* I usually spend hours analysing my own dreams. I have nothing. Anyone?

Mommy madness

So I’ve been a mommy for four months now and the last time I was able to blog was on June 13. Not too bad. Want to know what I’ve learnt?

You can’t plan anything. Here’s what went awry:

  • I am bottle-feeding. Now if you know about the breastfeeding brigade, you will understand why this is such a big deal. If one more person asks me “Are you *only* bottle-feeding?” I will scream! No, I won’t – too polite for that shit. It was hard to feed Lentil (or like I like to think of him now, Beautiful Boy or just BeBo) because he was *tiny*, I was nervous about the amount of milk he was getting, he was in hospital for almost a month because he refused to drink all his milk, I was depressed (yes, clinically) and then went on some lovely drugs and am much better now thanks. Fuck, can you see how guilty I feel?
  • I am using disposable nappies. I bought the damn eco-friendly ones, tried one of them on when he eventually came home but thought better of it. I gave them to a friend whose baby is allergic to the disposables. Yes, there’s a landfill with my name on it.
  • I don’t use bum cream. At all. I have millions of samples and presents from well-meaning people. I’ll use some if his bum is red.
  • He doesn’t smell like baby. He reacted to the sweet-smelling array of lotions and potions that I also have a million of…
  • He sleeps in our bed sometimes. My parents disapprove and so do the nurses and his paediatrician. Even The Man is a bit worried about that. Whatever.
  • I haven’t moved him in to his “own” room yet either. I was saying that he’d be in it by three months. Yeah, right.
  • I let him sleep on his tummy. He’s over that now though – he flips himself over onto his back himself. Probably knows what’s good for him. :)
  • In my wisdom as a mom-to-be, I declared that dummies/pacifiers are bad and I had no intention of giving him one. He has three.

And the reason I am able to sit here and formulate all these thoughts: We took him to creche today. It’s quiet – I’ve been at the PC for more than an hour without getting up. I miss him. It’s raining. And I have an appointment with the dentist. How’s that for a blue Monday?

Baby makes three

I was sitting here with tears in my eyes – been doing that a whole lot lately. After reading The Man’s Facebook status and realising that we’ve both been under such strain. And all I really want us to do is celebrate: the birth of our son (yes!) and the fact that we’ve on the brink of owning our first home.
Instead I’m stressing about Lentil because he’s still in hospital, having difficulty feeding after a bout of jaundice. It’s only been three days (I realised this today – the hospital discharged me but not him) and I feel like it’s been ages. Too long.
I’ve been trying to maintain (you know that’s what I do) but slipping most of the time. I’m so tried tired of explaining to friends and family that he’s NOT home yet and no, I don’t know when he will be.
The nurse said he reckons he should be out by Monday/Tuesday – I’m tyring trying to think as positively as she does (and she has years of experience right?) and must admit that I had an spring in my step when I left hospital tonight.
It’s made worse by the fact that it’s Father’s Day on Sunday and he won’t be home – it would have been such a great present for The Man. For both of us.

Just one more week

So, it’s a week and counting. A week before we have a baby – that thing that makes three, as they say. I’ve changed my theme in celebration. And nervousness, general paranoia and in the hope that if I change some things, others will follow.
Watching Rocky V with The Man *eish* just what I need right now. We’ve been moving the furniture around in preparation for the little one.
Oh my, either Sylvester Stallone is an amazing actor or he really is as dumb as Rocky!

Seven months and counting

Let’s not mention how long it’s been.

Long enough that my bump reaches the front door before I do. Lentil is no longer an appropriate name, unless they come in the 1,3kg variety!
I see the WordPress dashboard has been updated – wonder when that happened? Looks good.

I’m about to go on maternity leave… the sooner the better as far as I’m concerned. I spent the past few months finding it hard to let go of work; now I’m spending my days counting down to when I can officially say that the day that I can finally log off and not think about work anymore.

I’m too busy worrying about Lentil and the diabetes and the high blood pressure. Worrying is what I do nowadays. I also My decision around the birth changes from day to day – one day I want the natural birth option (with drugs of course) and on others I want the clinical (elective) C-section.

Can’t seem to make up my mind.

Hot and bothered

I’m away from home for a week. For work, not on holiday, like the rest of SA at the moment. It sucks.
My back is sore. Lentil’s making my hips ache. Oh, did I warn you about the griping session I’m about to launch? Sorry, too late.
The work I’m supposed to be doing isn’t going so well.  Quite badly actually. The people I’m supposed to be working with have taken to ignoring me, probably in the hope that I’ll just go away.
*sigh*
Much rather be in my hotel room watching mindless Sunday TV, thanks. Or at home with The Man for that matter.
In fact, I’d do that now if it didn’t seem like I was being the pregnant woman who’s not pulling her weight. *deep sigh*

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