Almost 40 and Ancient

I am almost forty. It's like I woke up one day and went "What the fuck?! Where did time go?" To most of the young gay people forty is ancient: ancient like you were part of the creation and saw the dinosaur extinction. I think being about to turn forty is more traumatic than actually turning forty. They say your forties is the best years of your life; you know who you are, you're settled in your career and you have disposable income that you actually can enjoy spending. I hope all this is true because if it's not I will hunt that person down, who said this, and threaten to kill them to their face. I won't actually kill that person because I am too pretty for jail and have terrible food allergies. Ok, I just made up the food allergies but still, prison food I assume is really bad.

A lot of things change as you approach forty. You realise that you're no longer in your sexual prime, you're sprouting grey hair (even your pubes which is stark reminder that your penis is old too) and you tend to become set in your ways. It's like you have reached a point in your life where you no longer are willing to tolerate shit from other people, you re-evaluate your friendships and attempt to have an uncomplicated life free of bullshit. In essence you are cleaning house in preparation for the next phase making sure you no longer have excessive baggage.  Because frankly who needs it.

The most obvious reminder that I am almost forty is when I drop off or pick up my son from kindergarten. Most parents there have just started their families and are young. Every time I am there I am reminded that I am one of the older parents. You know the ones that had little oopsies. However, I don't particularly care. We are all going through the same shit with our kids and we can stand in solidarity with just a sympathetic look or a nod of the head. The scary thing is that when my son finishes school I will be fifty six. That sounds ancient to me now but I guess only until I turn fifty. Oh dear god, the thought of that makes my head and Botox hurt.

Being almost forty and having a two year old also comes with both positives and negatives. The positive side of it is that I have more patience and have learned to pick my battles. The negative side is that I have never been a person who yells or even raise my voice, but now I am. I have patience but it is constantly tested. After the forth "No, don't, stop it" I tend to go into angry dad mode and my commands turn into "NOOO! STOP IT!!! I AM GOING TO COUNT TO THREE!", but three always come and everything calms down. Then five minutes later we are at the exact same situation. I am now a screamer.

I have also caught myself saying things like "Just wait until your dad comes home" and then immediately thought 'God I sound like my mother!".  

I am now at the age where I don't take myself that seriously anymore. A good example is when my two year old throws the mother of all tantrums. Depending on my day I will throw a tantrum as well mimicking his. Usually he reacts with total confusions like he's thinking "What the fuck is wrong with you?" normally this reaction causes his tantrum to seize out of pure shock. After all I'm the parent. The good thing is that we both got rid of our frustration in a "healthy" manner and I still maintain a small degree of parental control. I have not tried this in a shop yet. But when it happens I am sure it will have the same effect.  I just hope when it happens the people who witness it have children because they will be the only ones that would understand.

Almost turning forty also meant that I lost a couple of pets that I had since my twenties. In the last year I lost my two cats due to old age. It was sad as I had them for fifteen years. This also reminded me that life is short.

Turning forty has also seen my body go to hell. I got fat. Loosing weight is fucking hard. Diets can only do so much but you need to exercise too. I am not a fan of exercise at all. However, I did start. You see I don't want to fall one day and break a hip. I also don't want the get obese and have to be removed from my house with a crane. So I do my thirty minutes on my stairmaster every day. I despise that machine more than I hate homophobes and I have a mostly hate relationship with it. But the machine that was designed by the devil himself is yielding some results and I continue to torture myself daily.  Its like I am atoning for all my sins of my twenties and thirties.

I am thirty nine and one year away from the big 4 0. In a strange way I am looking forward to it. I have come to accept that I am ageing and that Botox and facial creams can only do so much to reverse the ageing process. I have no wrinkles or frown lines on my face but I am going grey and packed on a few pounds. As I am preparing for forty I hope I will be older and hopefully wiser. I am determined to enter that phase of my life with enthusiasm and glee. Well, I will try to anyway.

Till next time.

Camping When Nature Hates You.

Camping is a queer concept to me.  I mean really, who in their right mind would willingly submit themselves to the elements if they are not homeless, raised by wolves or competing for a million dollars?  If humans were intended to live in the bush or mountains we would not have evolved to be able to build houses, nice hotels or invented electricity and room service.  Don’t get me wrong.  I do love to do quad biking, horse riding and I do appreciate nature’s absolute splendor.  But this doesn’t mean I want to spend a night in nature, sleep in a sleeping bag in a tent with God knows what crawling over me.  I have been camping twice in my life and this was enough times for me to realize two things:  One, I don’t like “roughing it” and two, I do NOT do camping.

About ten years ago hubby and I decided to go hiking with my sister, brother-in-law and some friends.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.  We would spend two days hiking up a mountain, walking about 10 kilometers a day (that is like 6.2).  The selling point for me was that we would not need tents as we would be sleeping in what they called “chalets” and they said there was electricity at both “camping sites”.  The only down side, I thought, was that we would need to carry everything we needed in backpacks with us.  Optimism never served well, and in this case optimism would once again dismally fail me.

Arriving on the Friday, the first “camping site” was basically a room with a questionable roof, holes in the walls that you could literally see through and stretchers to sleep on.  No electricity.  No indoor toilet.  That was the very first time I in my life that I saw an outhouse or as they called it - a “long drop”.  I was mortified!  It was nothing more than a hole in the ground with a toilet seat on top of it, smelled like shit and there were steam billowing out of it the following morning.  All I could do, when I eventually had to take a shit, was to go in there, hold my breath and pray that the whole thing didn’t cave in on me.  In retrospect, I think that’s where my fear of public toilets comes from.

The following day we started with the hike.  Ten kilometers is fucking far, especially if you are carrying 5kg on your back.  Needless to say I cursed a lot that first day.  My sister, the drama queen that she is, also had a complete dramatic melt down three quarters through when she had a cramp in her leg.  She was a whimpering mess and wanted to be medically evacuated off the mountain.  Needless to say that didn’t happen.  The rest of the hike she was whimpering out loud and I was crying and cursing on the inside.  Eventually, what felt like an eternity, we made it to the second camp and things only got worse from there.

Again the “camp site” was no Hilton Hotel and by all means worse than the first one, again with the outhouse, cracked walls and stretchers.  With blusters the size of plums on my feet and smelling like a funky monkey, I realized hiking was probably the worst idea I ever had.  All I wanted was to take a long hot relaxing shower.  Then came another shock.

The “camp site” had a shower but it was outside in the bush and if I wanted a hot shower I had to heat the water in a thing they called a donkey on the fire. Like primitive prehistoric men.  I remember screaming “No hot water, no indoor toilet, no indoor shower, no electricity.  Why the fuck did I do this to myself?”   I wanted to get clean so I heated the water, carried the donkey to the outside shower and hubby and I got in and opened the release valve.  First came the searing hot water then in came a snake.  I literally peed myself and that was the shortest and most traumatizing shower I ever had.  They said it was a harmless snake, but at almost a meter long it didn’t look harmless at all.  Besides nobody in our hiking party was a reptile expert.  We could have all died.

On day two we hiked back to the first “camp site”, completely paranoid about snakes,  but this time I was motivated by one thing and one thing only - I wanted to get the hell out of there!  It took us about six hours to reach the “camp site” and we left immediately.  I have never gone hiking again since but I did end up going camping a couple of years later.

My parents’-in-law are avid campers.  They own a caravan and all the camping equipment one would need to survive in the event that the apocalypse should destroy all man-made structures.  They go camping often and they invite us along just as often.  I have always found creative ways to avoid camping and declining their invitations.  That was until the one day about 5 years ago when I couldn’t get out of it.

My in-laws got me to agree to go camping and until this day I can’t remember how they did it.  They promised me that we will have our own fully equipped bathroom and that we would not have to share it with other people.  They also said there would be electricity.  The only down side was that hubby and I would have to sleep in a tent.  How bad could it be, I thought?  What is the worst that can happen, I thought?

On arriving at the camping spot I was delighted to find that my in-laws didn’t lie.  We did indeed have our own bathroom, kitchen and there was electricity.  I needed electricity for my portable air-conditioned, inflating our double bed, electric mosquito repellent, ice machine and emergency light. Once again I have to stress that I don't do the roughing it thing. We helped the in-laws unpack and then set about pitching our tent.  Pitching a tent in your pants is one thing but pitching an actual tent is a whole different story.

Tents are complicated assholes and the instruction manuals that come with them, I firmly believe, are written by people who are high on drugs or drunk.  They make no sense.  After a struggle, some sweat and an averted mental breakdown the tent was semi decently erected.  Our bed was inflated, the air-conditioner was running and mosquitoes were fleeing.  The whole camping spot was set up and I must admit I was rather proud of myself.  Everything was done and as I was standing there admiring our handy work, I thought to myself “So now what.  We are here; we are set up, so what exactly does one do when you are camping?”  As it turns out – not much! You drink.

The only things we had to do were to go down a waterslide and drink.  I broke my rib on the waterslide that day and later that evening I got drunk on vodka jelly shots.  I would have broken my nose too had it not been for the emergency light outside our tent.  You see, vodka jelly shot, darkness and tent ropes don’t mix.  Much later that evening, I sobered up a little and we went to bed and that’s when it happened.  Back then my father-in-law use to snore, the sound of which could scare away wildlife in a five kilometer radius.  His snoring sounded a lot like a mixture between a diesel engine coming apart and a pig choking on its own esophagus.  It kept me awake for a long time.

After eventually falling asleep I was roused from my not so peaceful slumber by something tickling my face.  I brushed it away and dosed off again.  Then it happened again.  “Stop it” I mumbled to which hubby mumbled back “Stop what?”

Just then the tickling went down my chin, down my neck and into my t-shirt.  I woke up, reached for my flash light lifted up the collar of my t-shirt and let out a petrified scream as only a twelve year old school girl can do.  I too am like Oscar Pistorius and scream like a woman when I am petrified.  There was a big hairy spider on my chest!  As I stared down at it in utter terror, its beady eight eyes stared back at me while its front feet were touching my nipple.  I felt sexually violated and petrified that it would bite off my nipple after it had finished molesting it.  Pandemonium broke out.  I survived.  The spider did not.  I lost three years of my life that morning and inhaled a whole can of Raid in the scuffle.  I still get nightmares.  We never went camping again after this.

Until such time as North Korea starts nuking the shit out of the world or when the Zombie Apocalypse happens and we are all forced to flee the city and find refuge in the mountains, I do not see any good reason why I should ever voluntarily go camping or hiking again.  No amount of bug repellent, vodka or inflatable and portable luxuries will see me leave the comfort of my home, or that of a hotel, to go and spent a night under the stars with the wild life, spiders, snakes and other hideous and possibly dangerous insect and animals.  Sure Broke Back Mountain made it look sexy, but in reality I would have had no problem quitting Ennis Del Mar as no high altitude fuck can be worth being dragged up a mountain to sleep in a tent and being crawled over and molested by spiders and snakes.  I find no shame in admitting that camping is not for me.  I am a civilized human being. I am not meant to play survivor and submit myself to the elements ever again.

Till next time.

Gay Adoption Legal Across the USA

Finally gay adoption has now been legalized across the USA. In South Africa we have been blessed to have had it legalized now for a while. Seeing as my husband and I also adopted our son, I think it could be interesting for all of you to read about our journey. It may give some of you, who plan to adopt, an idea on how exactly gay adoption works, the process, the time frames and both the joys and heartaches.

To read about our adoption journey CLICK HERE.

When a Pussy Attacks

If you landed on my blog through a Google search expecting vaginas you should be ashamed of yourself. This blog post is not about the pussies you wanted to see. Also, there is just one photo of a pussy in this blog post and it is the one you see below. But I digress...

My husband and I share our house with three pussies. They are furry, sometimes cuddly but beneath their angelic and sweat demeanor there lurks a malevolent darkside. A darkside so iniquitous and vicious it’s best strangers approach our kitties with the utmost caution or face the dreadful consequence – being mauled! You see our furry critters are emotional unstable and dangerous little souls and every now and again their tempers and tantrums take me by surprise and I am left wondering, why do I share my house killers.

Our most notorious cat of the three is aptly named Killer Pussy. She is a savagely cruel killer. Remorseless, villainous and diabolical she saunters through our estate seeking out her victims. She has no particular preference, if it has a heartbeat she will kill it. She will also eat anything she can lay her little paws. Sometimes it is disgusting as we often find dismembered body parts strewn throughout our house. She leaves this as warnings to us not to fuck with her. It's a not so subtle threat really.

Her absolute favorite snack, apart from freshly killed meat, is a vitamin and catnip enrich cat treat which she gets every afternoon. I think she likes it because the catnip gets her high. She does have a bit of a drug problem but refuse to go to AA. So when the treats got finished, a couple of weeks ago, and the shops ran out of stock our little pussy was not amused! This sparked a tantrum as only a cat can do. All you cat owners out there can probably relate.

Killer Pussy was clearly going through catnip withdrawals and clearly needed to go to rehab but we could not afford it. Also, there are no catnip rehab facilities anywhere in the world which is a travesty.  Getting back to the point, Killer Pussy ignored us, she would sit in the corner of the bedroom sulking, scratch us when we picked her up and when her passive aggression failed to yield the desired result she went to Plan B – breaking stuff. Two broken plates, a torn curtain and a punctured pool lillo later, the shops eventually acquired her favorite treat just in the nick of time, as I suspect Plan C would have involved murder by suffocation followed by her eating our faces.

Killer Pussy's favorite activities, apart from sleeping, are plotting and scheming about how to break into our pantry (the food room as she calls it), furthering her nuclear ambitions, continuing her ill-suited affair with Kim Yong Un and setting her plan for world domination into motion. (If you failed to follow the last few sentences I don't blame you. For it to make sense you really should like her fan page. She is kinda famous on Facebook and Twitter. Just saying.)

Fur Monster was one of our oldest cats and she didn't like strangers and despised children (little humans). The fact that she was barren for so long and struggled to have kittens of her own may have something to do with her hatred of offspring. Whenever we receive visitors we always had to warn the guests of her violent disposition. Many children have been emotionally and physically scarred by her and many adults have too, with my late mom included.

A few years ago Fur Monster’s sister had kittens and my mom and her housekeeper wanted to see the litter/kindle. They went into my garden cottage while I was out. They didn’t make it past the kitchen. Fur Monster and her sister Sly Monster cornered them and held them hostage, literally, in my kitchen for well over an hour. Eventually I received a hysterical call from my mom saying “Your cats have attacked me! I’m in your kitchen! Can’t. Get. Out!!! Oh dear God have mercy!!! H E L P MEEE!!!” and in the background I could hear the housekeeper praying "Jesus, Mary and Joseph" and the cats hissing and growling. Careful hostage negations followed and both my mom and the housekeeper were released bruised, bleeding, traumatized and forever fearful. Fur Monster passed away two years ago and her ashes are kept in my study along with that of her sister - Sly Monster. I am now a collector of cat ashes as a true cat "lady" should be.

Cute Monster is the middle child and the fruit of Fur Monster’s loins. She’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic and the only thing she does well is eat, fart and sleep. She has never mastered the art of tree climbing and is still trying to learn how to play but without any notable success or improvement. The one skill she recently acquired is the much envied skill of paw-to-paw combat.

Seeing as she doesn’t know how to play nicely she settled for second best – fighting. She picks fights with her mother, her aunt and her adopted sister and she usually loses. Did I mention she isn't that bright? Every other day all hell would breaks loose in our house and it’s a cacophony of hissing, growling, screaming with fur and pot plants flying everywhere. Breaking up a pussy orgy of violence is near impossible and after two prior attempts and some loss of blood later, hubby and I decided to leave them to sort out their own shit. If it involves violence so be it! Most things can be resolved with some gratuitous violence anyway. Just look at America liberating countries through war. So why should our cats be any different.

Apart from eating and shitting in the garden the only thing our pussies enjoy doing together, as a family, is kill things. This is where our youngest comes in Lover Pussy.  And as his name suggests he is a gentle soul and is more a lover than a fighter.  However, he loves hunting and he's fiercely good at it.  He also usually leads the family hunt.  Like a ruthless pride of lions (which I swear they think they are) they stalk their prey on the African plains that is our garden. Many a bird, lizard, moth, butterfly and lady bird family have been broken up at the claws of our feline predators. So when a flock of weaver birds decided our leopard tree was the perfect spot for them to raise their families their fate was sealed unbeknownst to them and the bodies started to piled up!

Last Saturday we experienced the worst massacre since bloodshed Wednesday of 8 May 2007. It started at roughly noon. I heard a commotion in our back garden and didn’t pay it much attention until the commotion made its way to under the dining room table. Killer Pussy caught a juvenile weaver bird and was busy interrogating and torturing the poor thing North Korea Style, while the other two Monsters were watching. I tried to save the bird but Killer Pussy would have none of that and ran outside. We intercepted at the pool and I tried to pry the screaming bird from her fangs but she refused to loosen her grip and punctured two of my fingers.  I considered getting a tetanus shot but then realized the hospital would asked too many uncomfortable questions so I took my chances.

As I realized that the soon to be dead bird was doomed anyway and feeling like a horrible human being I let the murder continue. In the lounge I was close to tears as I heard the bird's screams become fainter as the minutes passed. The bird’s parents, family and neighbors all tried to save its life, but one-by-one they too were killed. At sunset the screaming stopped and our backyard was a scene of utter horror and devastation. There are now only four weaver birds and eight eerily empty nests left. Every day and every night our monsters patrol the leopard tree and soon the surviving weaver birds will be no more. They will be murdered in cold blood and we would have to watch and listen. Clarice have the lambs stop screaming? 

Sharing our home with temper tantrum prone killers, admittedly is not always fun. Especially when you need to clean up their crime scenes. But even though I sometimes pitch up for work with arms, legs and hands looking like I shoved them into the blender, I love my little monsters dearly and can’t imagine my life without them. Our backyard may be littered with the skeletal remains of countless avian victims, the bird population on the plains of Africa may be living in fear but my pussies are a delight to have and one day, maybe just one day, the birds will stop screaming.

You can like Killer Pussy's Facebook Fan Page by clicking HERE.

Till next time.

Things I’ve learned in my Thirties

I am now closer to my forties than what I am to my twenties.  It is kind of depressing because I still don’t always feel or act like an adult or act my age for that matter.  In just a few years I will be forty and be expected to have gotten my shit together.  To a certain degree I am ready for it but mostly it terrifies me.  Fortysomething has always seemed so old to me especially when I was in my twenties.  But now that I am almost there myself it doesn’t seem that old anymore.  Funny how life works, isn’t it?

In the last few years of my thirties I have come to realize what an idiot I was in my twenties.  The things a twenty year old worries about are so frivolous, yet at the time these things seem so important.  There are a couple of things that I know now which I wish I had known in my twenties.  For instance, don’t worry about what people think of you.  It is exhausting and a total waste of time.  Conforming to what is expected of you slowly massacres your soul.  It’s like trying to fit into a pair of jeans that is two sizes too small for you.  Not only is it uncomfortable for you but everyone else will notice that you got fat.

In my thirties I have also come to accept that deep down I am a very neurotic person.  Instead of seeing this as a negative thing and hiding it from the world, I decided to embrace it.  After all that is a part of who I am.  I have realized and accepted that I have flaws and that it is ok.  Nobody is perfect and perfection is fundamentally boring and most certainly unattainable.  Whenever I doubt this I just remind myself that even the people who I may have thought were perfect have also had, at one time or another, raging diarrhea.  This has always made me feel better.

I wish I enjoyed being young more, having had a great metabolism and being able to eat whatever I wanted.  After I turned thirty everything went to hell:  Things started to sag, got flabby and I realized that the saying “a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips” is totally fucking true.  My thirties was also the first time in my life that I actually tried diets.  They all failed because I am a non-conformist and measuring food just seems like too much work.  Naturally, I developed body image issues as well and a strong aversion towards scales.  I also came to realize that mirrors in changing rooms are designed to shame you from all angles in the most unflattering of lighting. It's like they want you to feel bad about your body. Sadistic bastards!

I had body image issues until I finally realized and made peace with that we cannot all look like Greek Gods and that is ok as well - the world can do with more chubby people.  We stand a much better chance to survive a famine than skinny people.  That being said, it is important to accept yourself just the way you are (I once read that in a self-help book.  It sounds like bullshit but it is totally true).

In my thirties I learned not to prophesize about the future.  Shit happens and not always the way you planned it.  In my twenties I never wanted children.  Children scared me and I thought they were annoying.  I thought all babies were ugly and I considered people who brought their little brats to restaurants as just plain inconsiderate.  Well, today I am a parent and one of “those people”.  I now also bring my child to restaurants and on planes.  It’s not like I am being discourteous, it’s because I don’t have a bloody choice.  It’s not like I can leave my two year old at home alone.  Duh!  Or that there are nannies sitting next to their phones just waiting for my call and are willing to work for free.  Don’t be an asshole.  Some of us love our children, love their company and love taking them to places.  Get over it.

The one thing I did right in my twenties, that I have never regretted, was meeting my husband.  We were so young when we first started dating and this year will be our eighteen year anniversary.  However, one thing my twenty year old self did not know, at the time, was that making a relationship work takes a lot of work.  I will not lie and say that it has been sunshine and roses all these eighteen years, because it was not.  That shit only happens in fairy tales and movies.  When you meet “the one” you must be willing to suck it up through the tough times in order to reap the rewards during the good times.

In my thirties I have come to realize that marital spats become less of a “who will win the fight” and more of a negotiation.  You learn to pick your battles.  Neither one of us are screamers and we tend to resolve our differences in a more mature manner – through passive aggression, as it should be.  We would do this until the other one eventually catches the hint and asks “what is bothering you?” and then we will have a discussion.  However, sometimes the issues are more complex than just the habitual non-compliance with filling empty ice trays or the inability to close drawers.  For instance, when it comes to religion we differ fundamentally and eventually agreed to disagree.  Also, my views on religion are the correct ones and hubby's views are wrong.  Just saying.

Lastly, in my thirties I have come to realize what is truly important in life.  I am sure this will mature even more as I grow older.  I no longer have time to indulge in bullshit if it interferes with my happiness and/or that of my husband and my son.  I have learned that being happy is a choice.  If you allow negative people into your life and invite them to stay or dwell in the past you erode away your own joy.  Sometimes you just need to move on and not look back.  Sometimes all you need to do is focus on your priorities and your future.  In my twenties I was incapable of doing this and I wish I had this realization sooner.  I am now closer to forty than what I am to twenty.  And thank god I am.

Until next time.

Camping When Nature Hates You.

Camping is a queer concept to me.  I mean really, who in their right mind would willingly submit themselves to the elements if they are not homeless, raised by wolves or competing for a million dollars?  If humans were intended to live in the bush or mountains we would not have evolved to be able to build houses, nice hotels or invented electricity and room service.  Don’t get me wrong.  I do love to do quad biking, horse riding and I do appreciate nature’s absolute splendor.  But this doesn’t mean I want to spend a night in nature, sleep in a sleeping bag in a tent with God knows what crawling over me.  I have been camping twice in my life and this was enough times for me to realize two things:  One, I don’t like “roughing it” and two, I do NOT do camping.

About ten years ago hubby and I decided to go hiking with my sister, brother-in-law and some friends.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.  We would spend two days hiking up a mountain, walking about 10 kilometers a day (that is like 6.2).  The selling point for me was that we would not need tents as we would be sleeping in what they called “chalets” and they said there was electricity at both “camping sites”.  The only down side, I thought, was that we would need to carry everything we needed in backpacks with us.  Optimism never served well, and in this case optimism would once again dismally fail me.

Arriving on the Friday, the first “camping site” was basically a room with a questionable roof, holes in the walls that you could literally see through and stretchers to sleep on.  No electricity.  No indoor toilet.  That was the very first time I in my life that I saw an outhouse or as they called it - a “long drop”.  I was mortified!  It was nothing more than a hole in the ground with a toilet seat on top of it, smelled like shit and there were steam billowing out of it the following morning.  All I could do, when I eventually had to take a shit, was to go in there, hold my breath and pray that the whole thing didn’t cave in on me.  In retrospect, I think that’s where my fear of public toilets comes from.

The following day we started with the hike.  Ten kilometers is fucking far, especially if you are carrying 5kg on your back.  Needless to say I cursed a lot that first day.  My sister, the drama queen that she is, also had a complete dramatic melt down three quarters through when she had a cramp in her leg.  She was a whimpering mess and wanted to be medically evacuated off the mountain.  Needless to say that didn’t happen.  The rest of the hike she was whimpering out loud and I was crying and cursing on the inside.  Eventually, what felt like an eternity, we made it to the second camp and things only got worse from there.

Again the “camp site” was no Hilton Hotel and by all means worse than the first one, again with the outhouse, cracked walls and stretchers.  With blusters the size of plums on my feet and smelling like a funky monkey, I realized hiking was probably the worst idea I ever had.  All I wanted was to take a long hot relaxing shower.  Then came another shock.

The “camp site” had a shower but it was outside in the bush and if I wanted a hot shower I had to heat the water in a thing they called a donkey on the fire. Like primitive prehistoric men.  I remember screaming “No hot water, no indoor toilet, no indoor shower, no electricity.  Why the fuck did I do this to myself?”   I wanted to get clean so I heated the water, carried the donkey to the outside shower and hubby and I got in and opened the release valve.  First came the searing hot water then in came a snake.  I literally peed myself and that was the shortest and most traumatizing shower I ever had.  They said it was a harmless snake, but at almost a meter long it didn’t look harmless at all.  Besides nobody in our hiking party was a reptile expert.  We could have all died.

On day two we hiked back to the first “camp site”, completely paranoid about snakes,  but this time I was motivated by one thing and one thing only - I wanted to get the hell out of there!  It took us about six hours to reach the “camp site” and we left immediately.  I have never gone hiking again since but I did end up going camping a couple of years later.

My parents’-in-law are avid campers.  They own a caravan and all the camping equipment one would need to survive in the event that the apocalypse should destroy all man-made structures.  They go camping often and they invite us along just as often.  I have always found creative ways to avoid camping and declining their invitations.  That was until the one day about 5 years ago when I couldn’t get out of it.

My in-laws got me to agree to go camping and until this day I can’t remember how they did it.  They promised me that we will have our own fully equipped bathroom and that we would not have to share it with other people.  They also said there would be electricity.  The only down side was that hubby and I would have to sleep in a tent.  How bad could it be, I thought?  What is the worst that can happen, I thought?

On arriving at the camping spot I was delighted to find that my in-laws didn’t lie.  We did indeed have our own bathroom, kitchen and there was electricity.  I needed electricity for my portable air-conditioned, inflating our double bed, electric mosquito repellent, ice machine and emergency light. Once again I have to stress that I don't do the roughing it thing. We helped the in-laws unpack and then set about pitching our tent.  Pitching a tent in your pants is one thing but pitching an actual tent is a whole different story.

Tents are complicated assholes and the instruction manuals that come with them, I firmly believe, are written by people who are high on drugs or drunk.  They make no sense.  After a struggle, some sweat and an averted mental breakdown the tent was semi decently erected.  Our bed was inflated, the air-conditioner was running and mosquitoes were fleeing.  The whole camping spot was set up and I must admit I was rather proud of myself.  Everything was done and as I was standing there admiring our handy work, I thought to myself “So now what.  We are here; we are set up, so what exactly does one do when you are camping?”  As it turns out – not much! You drink.

The only things we had to do were to go down a waterslide and drink.  I broke my rib on the waterslide that day and later that evening I got drunk on vodka jelly shots.  I would have broken my nose too had it not been for the emergency light outside our tent.  You see, vodka jelly shot, darkness and tent ropes don’t mix.  Much later that evening, I sobered up a little and we went to bed and that’s when it happened.  Back then my father-in-law use to snore, the sound of which could scare away wildlife in a five kilometer radius.  His snoring sounded a lot like a mixture between a diesel engine coming apart and a pig choking on its own esophagus.  It kept me awake for a long time.

After eventually falling asleep I was roused from my not so peaceful slumber by something tickling my face.  I brushed it away and dosed off again.  Then it happened again.  “Stop it” I mumbled to which hubby mumbled back “Stop what?”

Just then the tickling went down my chin, down my neck and into my t-shirt.  I woke up, reached for my flash light lifted up the collar of my t-shirt and let out a petrified scream as only a twelve year old school girl can do.  I too am like Oscar Pistorius and scream like a woman when I am petrified.  There was a big hairy spider on my chest!  As I stared down at it in utter terror, its beady eight eyes stared back at me while its front feet were touching my nipple.  I felt sexually violated and petrified that it would bite off my nipple after it had finished molesting it.  Pandemonium broke out.  I survived.  The spider did not.  I lost three years of my life that morning and inhaled a whole can of Raid in the scuffle.  I still get nightmares.  We never went camping again after this.

Until such time as North Korea starts nuking the shit out of the world or when the Zombie Apocalypse happens and we are all forced to flee the city and find refuge in the mountains, I do not see any good reason why I should ever voluntarily go camping or hiking again.  No amount of bug repellent, vodka or inflatable and portable luxuries will see me leave the comfort of my home, or that of a hotel, to go and spent a night under the stars with the wild life, spiders, snakes and other hideous and possibly dangerous insect and animals.  Sure Broke Back Mountain made it look sexy, but in reality I would have had no problem quitting Ennis Del Mar as no high altitude fuck can be worth being dragged up a mountain to sleep in a tent and being crawled over and molested by spiders and snakes.  I find no shame in admitting that camping is not for me.  I am a civilized human being. I am not meant to play survivor and submit myself to the elements ever again.

Till next time.

Adoption: Our Journey.

November is Adoption Awareness Month. This has a very special meaning for us. If it wasn't for adoption we would have never been blessed with our beautiful son. Adoption is not an easy road to travel. It has many emotional ups and downs but in the end of the day it is all worth it.

Our adoption journey is similar to many other LGBT families. Sure there might be a few small difference, here and there, but essentially we all have traveled down the same road. If you are thinking of adoption and want to see what it all entails (from when you decided to adopt until you are a parent) you can get a glimpse by reading about our adoption journey. 

Click here to Read about Our adoption journey.

The Illusion of Willpower

So I should have stopped smoking a year ago. But I haven't because I have the willpower of puppy having a treat waved in front of it.  This is not to say I don't have any willpower whatsoever because I do, just not with things I have to give up though. This is also why I suck a diets.

Making me give up carbs (anything potato or resembling a sandwich) is like asking me to stop breathing. Sure I can survive for a while but then I start to negotiate with my body and/or myself. For example, the Irish went through a potato famine and potatoes were the only thing that helped pull them through. Do I really want to punish potatoes now after all the good they have done in the world? Or, if a potato chip is broken it looses all its calories; AND, my favorite excuse - carbs don't exist on weekends.

Willpower is something you need when you have kids. You must be able to stay focus while there are chaos around you and stick to your guns when things get though.  Also, you need to stay strong and follow through on the kinda threats your mother use to make which you inadvertently now inherited from her.  Sometimes the following through on your threats is the tough part.  This is also not the part when you say ahhh because then you're just as bad as he is.

My son is a little charmer and manipulative little shit. He knows exactly how to twist my arm in getting what he wants and getting away with murder. When he knows he is about to get a hiding he will look at me with those puppy eyes (I'm using this reference again because I really want a puppy) and just as you are about to spank him he would say "I love you" in that adorable voice he has. Now I ask you, how do you give your child a spanking when he does that?

My son is also a great analytical thinker and plans his mischief a head of time. He has a red "time out" chair because sometimes a spanking is not appropriate (if you're a parent you will know exactly what I mean). He's really good with timeouts because he has had a lot of practice. When he is now planning on being naughty he goes and fetches his red chair before he does what he is not suppose to. Yes, I know most of you are going "ahhh" but it really is, again, not an ahhh moment when he breaks something or spill juice all over a table and your iPhone. He then gets a time out for two minutes during which he is suppose to think about his sins.  However, I know that is exactly what he is not doing as he is probably planning his next mischievous adventure.

The other area of my life where I lack willpower is with animals. I have had a whole zoo of pets until half of them died of old age. We now only have three cats left and I am suffering from empty-nest syndrome. However, my husband has said if I bring one more stray home or makeup a story that a perfectly healthy animal was abandoned, when it clearly isn't true, that he will divorce me. He won't really. I think. Sure he will be fucking pissed off at me first but he always gets over it and falls in love with my strays. However, this time I am applying my willpower. How long it will last I don't know.

In the past I have gotten away with lies. I would tell my husband a cat or a rabbit was homeless or about to get killed. He would then ask me where the animal in question was and I would say the pet shop. At this point my husband would point out, in grievous error, that they then are not homeless. However that argument is technically flawed because if an animal is in a pet shop they are "technically" homeless and in danger. How come people don't understand this logic is because they in all probability hate animals and can't stand puppies and kittens. AND they should be ashamed of themselves!

These days I apply willpower selectively as all of you should. It's quite liberating not always being sure how your day or week will pan out with my philosophy but hey, living dangerously has never killed anyone. Ok, realistically it has but I am not talking about those people because they did stupid things. Y'all should not do stupid things that will get yourself killed and if you do, I take no responsibility whatsoever for your actions. Just saying.

Till next time.

Almost 40 and Ancient

I am almost forty. It's like I woke up one day and went "What the fuck?! Where did time go?" To most of the young gay people forty is ancient: ancient like you were part of the creation and saw the dinosaur extinction. I think being about to turn forty is more traumatic than actually turning forty. They say your forties is the best years of your life; you know who you are, you're settled in your career and you have disposable income that you actually can enjoy spending. I hope all this is true because if it's not I will hunt that person down, who said this, and threaten to kill them to their face. I won't actually kill that person because I am too pretty for jail and have terrible food allergies. Ok, I just made up the food allergies but still, prison food I assume is really bad.

A lot of things change as you approach forty. You realise that you're no longer in your sexual prime, you're sprouting grey hair (even your pubes which is stark reminder that your penis is old too) and you tend to become set in your ways. It's like you have reached a point in your life where you no longer are willing to tolerate shit from other people, you re-evaluate your friendships and attempt to have an uncomplicated life free of bullshit. In essence you are cleaning house in preparation for the next phase making sure you no longer have excessive baggage.  Because frankly who needs it.

The most obvious reminder that I am almost forty is when I drop off or pick up my son from kindergarten. Most parents there have just started their families and are young. Every time I am there I am reminded that I am one of the older parents. You know the ones that had little oopsies. However, I don't particularly care. We are all going through the same shit with our kids and we can stand in solidarity with just a sympathetic look or a nod of the head. The scary thing is that when my son finishes school I will be fifty six. That sounds ancient to me now but I guess only until I turn fifty. Oh dear god, the thought of that makes my head and Botox hurt.

Being almost forty and having a two year old also comes with both positives and negatives. The positive side of it is that I have more patience and have learned to pick my battles. The negative side is that I have never been a person who yells or even raise my voice, but now I am. I have patience but it is constantly tested. After the forth "No, don't, stop it" I tend to go into angry dad mode and my commands turn into "NOOO! STOP IT!!! I AM GOING TO COUNT TO THREE!", but three always come and everything calms down. Then five minutes later we are at the exact same situation. I am now a screamer.

I have also caught myself saying things like "Just wait until your dad comes home" and then immediately thought 'God I sound like my mother!".  

I am now at the age where I don't take myself that seriously anymore. A good example is when my two year old throws the mother of all tantrums. Depending on my day I will throw a tantrum as well mimicking his. Usually he reacts with total confusions like he's thinking "What the fuck is wrong with you?" normally this reaction causes his tantrum to seize out of pure shock. After all I'm the parent. The good thing is that we both got rid of our frustration in a "healthy" manner and I still maintain a small degree of parental control. I have not tried this in a shop yet. But when it happens I am sure it will have the same effect.  I just hope when it happens the people who witness it have children because they will be the only ones that would understand.

Almost turning forty also meant that I lost a couple of pets that I had since my twenties. In the last year I lost my two cats due to old age. It was sad as I had them for fifteen years. This also reminded me that life is short.

Turning forty has also seen my body go to hell. I got fat. Loosing weight is fucking hard. Diets can only do so much but you need to exercise to. I am not a fan of exercise at all. However, I did start. You see I don't want to fall one day and break a hip. I also don't want the get obese and have to be removed from my house with a crane. So I do my thirty minutes on my stairmaster every day. I despise that machine more than I hate homophobes and I have a mostly hate relationship with it. But the machine that was designed by the devil himself is yielding some results and I continue to torture myself daily.  Its like I am atoning for all my sins of my twenties and thirties.

I am thirty eight and two years away from the big 4 0. In a strange way I am looking forward to it. I have come to accept that I am ageing and that Botox and facial creams can only do so much to reverse the ageing process. I have no wrinkles or frown lines on my face but I am going grey and packed on a few pounds. As I am preparing for forty I hope I will be older and hopefully wiser. I am determined to enter that phase of my life with enthusiasm and glee. Well, I will try to anyway.

Till next time.

I am a winner, mostly.

So I won an award last week for the Best LGBT Blog in the SA Blog Awards.  It’s kind of like winning a People’s Choice Award but you don’t get a statuette, a ceremony or given an opportunity to thank whoever helped you (or who did not) become successful on the internet.  Also, it’s for writing a blog.  And yes, there are still people doing that.  You are reading one right now.  Winning something like this is flattering but to be honest, it’s not like my blog is my life, my reason for being.  It’s something I do and enjoy and something I am glad you enjoy reading.

This is not my first stint with the SA Blog Awards.  In the past I was runner up in the Best Political Blog and Most Controversial Blog categories; Both categories being somewhat strange to have been in:  My blog is not about politics nor is it controversial but I will take what I can get.  I am not picky although I would have preferred winning money.  My lifestyle does not just happen or come cheap and someone needs to pay the bills.

Speaking of my lifestyle, having kids is expensive.  Since we got our son finances have been tight.  With school and all the other expenses kids come with (and there are many) I do not understand how people with more than one child cope.  If having kids was an actual job I would not have taken it.  Firstly, it doesn’t pay. at. all.  Secondly, you get no time off and the hours are brutal.  Your boss is also demanding and prone to throw tantrums (and sometimes you) when you do not do things right.  I once saw a YouTube video about the hardest job on earth and I can now totally relate.

Our son has entered the terrible two’s a year early.  He has learned that he can throw tantrums if he doesn’t get what he wants.  The first time he threw a tantrum I just stood there thinking “What the fuck?  Is he dying?” and the second time I was like “Is he having a seizure?  Do I need to put a wooden spoon between his jaws?”  And the third time I just decided to ignore it and put the music louder in the car.  And no, this doesn’t make me a bad parent – I googled it!

There are a plethora of reasons why our son would lose his shit.  Mostly, it is when you take something out of his hands that he is not supposed to play with.  This includes remote controls, iPhones, iPads, a cat that is being unintentionally choked and anything made of glass.  He is also prone to throwing thing in the toilet, mostly electronics and expensive and hard to replace items.  The newest thing these days is that our floor is made of lava and his car seat is a monster that is trying to eat him.  Well not actually, but I am trying to think like a one year old.  Also, a one year old make no sense, is irrational and highly volatile when feeling constricted by the term “no”.

There are some days when I pick our son up from school and it’s when I try to strap him in his car seat that thing just go south.  When he is not in the mood to be strapped in he will fight me and he is fucking strong in both mind and body.  Getting him into the seat and strapping him in is like wrestling with an angry blubbering octopus.  When this happens I try to keep my shit together because I don’t want all the soccer moms to judge me.  I would just stick my head out of the car, smile and say “I am just waiting for him to finish his tantrum then I will have mine”.  Sometimes I swear they think I am serious, but when our son is not the only one that doesn’t want to be eaten by the car seat monster I feel relieved:  the soccer moms must then decide who to judge and my chances are 50/50, which are some good odds.

Our son also now has a pet name “monkey”.  This is because he has the ability to cling to us like a little monkey and sometimes trying to put him down is a nightmare.  He will throw a tantrum like he is dying and cling to us like his life depends on it.  Just the other day I was busy in the kitchen and I had to put him down.  It was a fight, he cried and I decided that he would be an only child.  When plan A didn’t work and realizing that I was not going to pick him up he resorted to Plan B – clinging to my leg.  Do you know how difficult it is to cook with a 12kg child clinging to your leg refusing to let go?  It is near impossible.  Also, that is why I burned dinner.

Getting back to the Award I won, being a blogger can sometimes be thankless.  But when I get some positive feedback about my blog on my fan page it makes it all worthwhile.  I would like to thank everyone who voted for my blog in the SA Blog Awards, without you all of this would not have been possible.  Lastly, if you are reading my parenting blog posts and it is scaring you from having children, don’t be.  It is the most rewarding thing you will ever do and the rewards are endless.  Except 2am in the morning when you are awoken by crying, then not so much.  Or if you have to change a nappy right after breakfast that makes you gag; then it kind of sucks.

Till next time.

My son’s teachers are going to hate me.

Last year hubby and I started looking for kindergartens to enroll our son in for this year.  Being gay parents with an interracial child we were cognizant of the fact that we would have to choose very carefully.  We are not your typical …uhm… cookie cutter family.  We did not want our son to experience intolerance or discrimination of any kind and we wanted him to be in an environment that is open minded, conducive to empowering him and to be fully integrated.  Also, the school would have to tolerate me.  I have been told that I am an overbearing parent with the potential of driving our son’s teachers completely nuts.  I am embarrassed to say that this is totally true and accurate.

In this day and age there is still discrimination prevalent and schools are not compelled to accept a child for enrollment.  They can decline an application for any reason without providing you with an explanation.  If you know me you will realize that this makes me very uncomfortable and somewhat rebellious.  I mean how any school could decline our application would be a mystery.  Sure we are a gay couple with an interracial child, but this only makes us a fabulous rainbow family.  And I know all parents think their children are the prettiest and smartest but in our case this is undeniably true.  Any school would be doing themselves an injustice by letting an opportunity pass by to be graced with our son’s presence.  See this is where the overbearing side manifests.

After a few phone calls a school was recommended to us by my sister-in-law as her son was already attending it.  Granny and my sister-in-law were already familiar with the school and we thought it would be nice if our son and his cousin attending school at the same place.  The selling point of the school to me was the fact that they had a petting zoo.  It’s kind of a dream of mine to have a petting zoo of my own, one day, which includes a rescued gay donkey called Theodor the 3rd.  I have also daydreamed about quitting my job and joining Kazakhstan’s male synchronized swimming team but some dreams will just stay that - dreams.

We phoned the school and made an appointment with the principal for “the interview”.  The afternoon of the interview we arrived at the school on time, which is rare these days.  Our son has the ability to screw up our knack for being punctual.  We met the principal and we started chatting.  I could tell that she was immensely impressed by our super smart and well behaved son.  Well, that was until he started misbehaving and chewing on things on her desk which I chose to ignore because if we didn’t make an issue of it then hopefully she wouldn’t either.  See this is where my years of studying psychology finally came in handy in a non-professional setting.  Either that or I was just lying to myself again.  Something I do frequently as to not hurt my own feelings.  I never said I was totally sane, now did I?

The first thing she asked us was if our son was adopted and I was all like “No, he is our biological son!  Can’t you tell that I am still struggling to lose the baby weight?”  But I didn’t because I realized pissing off the principal might not be the best way of getting our application accepted.  Then she brought up the subject of us being gay and again I was all like “No, technically we are straight.  I was born female and had a sex change” but then I told myself to shut the fuck up before what hubby has dubbed my “foot-in-mouth disease” screws this up for us.

We went through all the different challenges that lay ahead of us as a gay couple raising an interracial child.  We discussed how the school will handle it when our son starts to ask questions that could make people uncomfortable, which he probably will if he takes after me.  I fully expect our son to grow up to speak his mind, be confident in himself and to call a spade a spade.  If he has a slight case of foot-in-mouth disease I will be proud.  I would have raised him well.  The interview went glowingly, mostly because I hardly spoke.  I just let all my paternal energy shine through and prayed that our son doesn’t break anything expensive in her office.  After the interview she took us on a tour of the school.

We were shown where our son’s class would be, met his teacher and was showed their play area.  The teacher looked a bit timid and I remember wondering if she would survive the first day with our son in her class.  As we were shown the play area my parental alarm system went haywire as I spotted sharp edges, steps and moveable pot plants.  I wanted to wrap the whole area in padding because god forbids our son gets hurt.  Then I remembered to just breathe and centered myself.  I also reminded myself that I cannot wrap our son in bubble wrap and that getting hurt is part of life.  As long as no blood is drawn or bones are broken because that is when I will lose my shit completely.

I was impressed with the school’s security and the fact that they have CCTV cameras everywhere.  Soon we will be able to log into our son’s class’ cameras and will be able to watch what he is doing.  The poor teacher’s life will never be the same again after that.  She can be expecting quite a few texts and calls from me.

Our son started school a couple of weeks ago and he seems to love it.  He is enjoying his friends and all the stimulation he is getting.  In the afternoon I can see that he had a good day because he is exhausted.  His teacher says that he is a very busy child (which in our house is also code for naughty) but that generally he is a joy to have in her class.  She is an excellent liar.  On his first day she texted us that our son was doing well and that he made friends.  I was happy to hear that and pleased that he was finally in a good school.  What the future holds no one knows.  Only time will tell but I really think his teachers will start hating me once my true colors come out.

Till next time.

I don’t want to research vaginas.

They say it takes a village to raise a child.  And whoever said that was not kidding.  Parenting is hard.  You find yourself questioning yourself constantly.  Am I doing the right thing? Am I handling this situation correctly?  Am I going to do psychological damage to my kid requiring me to pay a shit load of money for therapy for him when he is sixteen?  Mostly, I ask myself these questions when I am at my wits end.

You know those times when the world almost ended because your little bundle of joy lost his dummy and wants back it now.  When you try to dress your little poop factory when, according to him, clothes are evil and from the devil and all he wants to be is naked.  When he wants to play with a remote and you say no and he cries as if you just killed a puppy.  Being a parent has taught me a lot of things.  Most importantly, it taught me that nothing can prepare you for parenthood and you just have to fake it until you make it.

At this stage I think the first word my son is going to say is the word “no”.  I try not to excessively use the word no but when he is about to do something that will either hurt or kill him I don’t really have a choice.  My son also has a six sense about where all the dangerous objects are in this house.

All cupboards and draws with childproof lock on them fascinate him.  It’s like he is hell bent on proofing that not all childproof locks are actually “childproof”.  He is also fascinated with our cats’ food, the rocks on our indoor water feature, well actually anything that is not nailed down and within reach of him.  He has also now learned that he can throw things which is a good developmental skill for him but not so good for everybody else.

My son will frequently stand in his cot and throw everything out of it, including his pillow, blanket and mattress protector.  Then when there is nothing left to throw he will try to climb out of it.  And one of these days he will get it right and it is a rather far way down to the ground for a 10 month old.  I suspect he throws all his stuffed toys, pillow and other items out of the cot in order to provide him with a soft landing.  I also suspect that he has been designing his cot escape plan for a while now.

Being a parent has also taught me to lie and to be sneaky.  Whenever my son spots something that he wants to play with that he really shouldn’t I will hide it the moment he looks away.  If he then starts moaning because it is gone I tell him that it was never there.  I am also known to sneak past him and my husband when I need to do stuff because the moment my son sees me he would want me to take him and then nothing gets done. You can only do some many things with one hand.

Going to the bathroom has also become a challenge.  I now never stand and pee anymore.  I now have to sit down.  You see my son follows me around the house like a little shadow and when I go to the bathroom he is there.  When I stand and pee he will stand next to the toilet and try and catch my urine with his hand.  Nothing grosses kids out at this age and it is quite disgusting.  So sitting down circumvents this and makes life more hygienic for everybody.  Because playing with pee is not ok.

Cooking dinner and eating has also changed radically since our son came.  When I cook dinner now my son clings to my leg.  He does this all the time.  When I pick him up and put him on the counter the first thing he will gun for is the knives.  I have tried putting him in his feeding chair but he has tried to climb out of it on several occasions.  I did try strapping him in the chair once.  It was a big mistake.  He acted like he was strapped to the electric chair and about to be executed.  So now I try to cook dinner when he goes to bed.  We have also adjusted our eating habits around his sleeping schedule.  We did this because we like our meals hot and not cold which is the case if you get your timing wrong.

Then there is the thing I now call the ankle buster otherwise known as a walking ring.  Do you know how badly your ankles can get bruised when you are hit with one of those things at full speed?  It hurts like a motherfucker and if having purple and blue ankles were a sign of domestic violence many people would have raised eyebrows.  My son has also learned that he can block my way with his ankle buster.  If he doesn’t want me to leave a room he would go stand in the doorway and refuse to move thinking it is a game.  However, when I move him out of the way he would cry because I clearly don’t understand the rules of the game.  I mean really, I don’t even know the game never mind the rules.

There is nothing in our house that has not been licked or sucked on and that includes our cats.  Just the other day I caught my son sucking on one of our cat’s ears.  The poor cat had this defeated look on his face and seemed to be thoroughly traumatized as if this was not the first time this has happened.  Honestly, I could not blame him; I would be too if I was ear molested against my will.  I don’t know why babies and toddlers do this and it is gross.  Imagine an adult going to a store and once you get to the checkout counter you start licking and sucking on the counter while your goods are being rung up; or if you meet someone and then take their phone and then put it in your mouth.  Well this is what our son does all the time and with everything.  He has no preference and anything will get licked or sucked on, even your cat’s ears.

I think the hardest challenge that lies ahead for us as gay parents is when our son realizes that we are not a conventional family.  The day he starts asking questions as to which one of us was pregnant and why he has two daddies.  Why his skin color and hair is different from ours and the day I will have to explain to him how a vagina works.  Not that I really know myself but I suspect Google will be helpful at that time.  These questions will probably make us long for the days when our son was sucking on and licking household objects, throwing things out of his cot, trying to catch our pee and clinging to our legs.  I do try and enjoy every moment of my son being at this age, albeit that it is sometimes hard.  My son gives the best hug, has a contagious laugh and heart melting smile.  This is what makes it all worth it even if I one day will have to research vaginas.

Till next time.

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Shit they don’t tell you before you become a parent

There is some stuff I wish people would have told me before we became parents.  Not that “it will change your life” nonsense because, you would have to be mentally challenged if you don’t realize that.  Also, then it might not be the best idea for you to have children and perhaps you should first start with a small pet or a house plant.  The things I wish I were told before becoming a father is not unlike that T&C’s and/or fine prints you find in contracts.  Or the leaflets you find accompanying your medication.  We all know that we really should read them but, very few of us do.  So in case any of my readers are planning on or are becoming parents here are a few things you need to know and/or consider.

Children are a lot of work and you will never have any free time again.  Like. In. Forever.  Children require your full attention and when you don’t give it to them you can expect the apocalypse to happen.  Our son’s favorite thing to do right before he throws a tantrum is to pull his dummy out of his mouth hurling it at me or anywhere that will have the most dramatic effect, followed by a quivering lip promptly followed by inhaling a deep breath right before crying and/or screaming.  This normally happens if I take too long to tend to his needs or don’t pick him up even though my hands are full.  But giving them your full attention is not just about attending to their wants and needs, it is also crucial in keeping these little beasties alive.

Whenever your house gets really quiet you should know baby/toddler is up to something.  I have found that if I turn my back on our son, even for one second, or leave the room to go fetch something that it is enough time for him to not only be a danger to himself but also to everyone else.  He has almost electrocuted himself, have a dining room chair fall on him, the cat’s have been molested by him and he is known to love playing with his own vomit or pulling things off coffee tables, chairs and couches.  Also, playpens (or like I call them “baby jails”) only work up to a point; the point being when your child learns that the playpen is not nailed to the floor and that it can be picked up and manually moved.  Never underestimate the resourcefulness of a baby/toddler.  They are master escape artists and strategic thinkers.  They are smarter than you think and they know our weaknesses.

Children will also ruin your sex life.  When you have a child, gone are those days of spontaneity and now you will have to plan shit.  Normally the best time to have sex would be when baby is sleeping or napping.  So you have to work around their routine.  However, babies have a sixth sense for things like this and don’t be surprised when baby cries in the nursery while you are midsession in the bedroom.  Then you have to drop everything, compose yourself only to find out the big issue interrupting your coitus is his dummy being five inches away from your son and he is too lazy to reach for it himself.  Then the mood is spoiled and sexy time is over.  Also, when you come home from work and after having fed, bathed and put baby to bed you don’t feel sexy.  Mostly you are just too tired.  But sex is not the only thing your precious bundle of joy will ruin, there is more.

Your house will never be clean ever again.  Trying to clean up after your child is a futile exercise.  And if you suffer from OCD, like I do, it is the cruelest and also the best exposure therapy there is.  Our house used to be super clean but now it no longer is.  Just this past weekend we had our son’s baptism at home.  The house was semi clean; you know the kind of clean so that people don’t judge you but the kind of dirty that make you feel ashamed of yourself.  But after the baptism our house was the kind of dirty that freaked my OCD the fuck out.  However, I did nothing about it.  I knew our housekeeper was coming on Monday and I stopped caring if she judged me or what she thought of us four months ago already.  Children can be freeing like that.

Your child will also ,at some point, embarrass you in public.  Just a few weeks ago I was filling a script at our pharmacy.  Just as I reached the counter to pay and opened my wallet our son decided to vomit all over it and the counter.  Having been used to vomit by then I thought nothing of it,  so I grabbed a couple of tissues and wiped off my wallet and very moist credit card.  With the card having had small pieces of chicken and carrot on it with saliva.  I handed the card to the cashier and cleaned the counter.  I did not look up or made eye contact at all, rather opting to pretend that this was perfectly normal.  Obviously, the cashier took my card and swiped it with great trepidation and disgust.  But hey, what else was I suppose to do?  Was I expected to do an “I am sorry dance” and say three Hail Mary’s?

Babies and toddlers are nudists at heart and they have no shame.  Our son hates clothes and is at his happiest when he is naked.  This is why he loves bath time and being lathered up with lotion after but, as soon as he realizes that all that was actually building up to getting dressed then the production of “Clothes are from the Devil” starts.  He will cry and try and make it impossible to dress him.  Putting clothes on our son is like trying to dress an angry octopus with one hand while being blind folded.  I am also sure it burns a couple of thousand kilojoules which I don’t mind, I do want to lose some more weight.  And this leads me to my next point – distracting your child with illusions and trickery.

I have found the best way to get my son dressed or to change his nappy without fighting with an octopus is by distracting him with a toy.  It occupies him and lets me do what needs to get done.  Also, sometimes he would want to put things in his mouth off the floor that is just nasty and that is where magic comes in.  The item will then mysteriously disappear and as if by magic be replaced with something more appropriate.  All our remote controls also, according to him, magically disappear when he wants to play with them.  But in reality they are merely hidden behind the scatter cushions on our couch.  Fortunately, the bargaining and negotiating skills that we will soon need are still some time away.

Being a parent is hard work and people don’t tell you the exact details of this until after you have a child.  Perhaps this is why we as a species are not extinct yet.  As a parent you need some exceptional skills to be successful, you have to be a magician, a liar, hostage negotiator, psychic and have nerves of steel.  You must also have eyes in the back of your head and supersonic hearing.  That being said, I have learned so much about myself since becoming a father.  I have also learned that the one thing that is true about parenthood is that it is the most rewarding experience I have ever had in my life.  I will not exchange this experience for anything.

Till next time.