The Lost Key Saga

On Saturday, 2nd February, (1st Spawn's birthday) at 10:23am I lost my keys. My mind went a long time ago, so my house and car keys were the next obvious thing, apart from my children. But they refuse to be lost as the oldest shouts "MOMMY! MOMMY! MOM! MOM! MOTHER!" every 3.16 seconds, and 2nd spawn clings to me like a dead crab.

On 1st spawn's birthday I promised that we would bake a cake (oh dear deity, what I have I gotten myself into?), so Granny very kindly offered to take 2nd spawn (6 months old, going on 6years old) to the market so that I could have "quality born day time with my 1st". The Viking was inept in bed with some super virus, and I knew he was alive due to the last dying breaths of grunting emanating from our bedroom every few minutes.

Granny arrives amidst screaming chaos (it was mostly me screaming), with 2 very excitedly sick children running and crawling around the house with snot running into their toes, eating the couch, my shoe and trying to brush my hair (what hair? I have either pulled it out, or it has wilfully been brushed out by my hairdresser in the making. She also wants to be a Marine Biologist so she can save the Mermaids.). 2nd spawn's bag is packed with nappies, bottles, clothes, wet wipes, the kitchen sink, toys, formula, my mind and her snot sucker. Granny is ready to go for her adventure to the market. 2nd spawn's car chair is in Goldilocks (the golden tank that spurts oil, petrol and curses at innocent bystanders in Sedgefield), so I grab my keys (THE KEYS), I have the car seat and the baby (aka the worm) in one arm, open the gate, the car door and wrangle 1st spawn off the road with the other hand. Amidst this array of orderliness, I place my keys (THE KEYS) on the top of Granny's car. *AHEM* I actually never learn... This post dates a cellphone on top of her car which flew off on the highway, got driven over by a car, and still works to this day! Then, because I am incapable of learning anything, I again, leave my wallet, cellphone and keys (THE KEYS) on top of Granny's car, whilst strapping one of the spawns into the car. We happily drive off and during a high speed turn (because my mother thinks speed bumps mean exactly that - SPEED - and corners are supposed to be taken like an F1 race), my keys start sliding off the car's roof, SCCRRRRRRRRRRCCCHHHHHHH... "Stop the car!" I scream, which sends panic through my children and almost gives Granny a second stroke. I climb out the car, with head bowed in shame, and retrieve my items from the top of mom's vehicle. To her credit she did not say a word, but snorted a little snigger, and gave me a sideways "you idiot" glare.

Yes. I am incapable of learning. Anything. Have you seen me in the kitchen? The Viking refuses to let me cook because he says I embarrass the knives. I am actually totally fine with that though, the kitchen is a horrifying place for me, full of scary things like bread boards, plastic spatulas and graters (the stuff of nightmares).

So Granny happily takes 2nd spawn to the market, u-turns on the way to get something at home, and then parks at Wild Oats (the bumpiest of roads on a good day), she drives around Sedgefield, brings 2nd spawn home (still alive and eating toes, I don't know who's toes though, anyone missing some toes?), she drives off home, comes back later for tea, and the promised cake which 1st spawn baked all on her own (after 2 eggs on the floor, cake mix on the roof, batter in her hair and the kitchen looking like Chicago in a snow storm). The cake was actually delicious, despite the occasional crunch of an ant sacrifice. We are all happily tucked away inside whilst the heaviest rains of the year beset their disapproval on mankind outside. The grandparents leave, and all in the house calms down to a dull roar of squeaky balloons and unicorn glitter. I feel a shop jaunt coming on (Party in my car without the kids! Woohoo!), so I look for my keys (THE KEYS). They are not in any of the usual spots, so I check 2nd spawn's mouth, 1st spawn's black hole also known as her bedroom, the fridge (because thats where one looks for things lost) and under the couches. No keys. Now, I REALLY want a glass of wine and the bottle store closes in 7 minutes. The frantic searching ensues. No keys. I even checked the toilet bowl. No keys.

In the car (with the spare key) I call granny (please don't report me to the speed cops), interrogating her on the location of my keys. She checks in the car, all over, nothing. No keys. Some serious swearing ensues. I retrace her F1 drive through Sedgefield, even stopping at the occasional puddle to go fishing, still no keys. I come home feeling empty and very un-secure, my car and house keys are on that damn bunch! Damn thine *bleep bleeping bleep*! I even in desperation posted on "Sedge Locals" asking if anyone has seen the frigging keys, never mind my mind!

That night I push the couch in front of our front door, its a barn door, so what use is that really? For the hope that if some unsavoury character found them and decides to rob us of our meagre belongings, he might stub his toe on the way in.

3 days pass and no keys. I dream of being robbed and every time the dog twitches I shoot out of bed convinced our house is being invaded by aliens or robbers or ants (well the ants are actually slowly carrying our kitchen away). I am so stressed, panicked and terrified about the loss of my keys.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, aka Granny's car, she is speeding all over the Garden Route, she takes a quick jaunt to Barrington to her new farm, along the bumpiest of roads in existence - the reason jeeps were made. She meanders along at granny speed through and around Sedgefield, and on day 3 of missing keys, she takes a windy jaunt to Knysna, to buy a new fridge (it only took 60 years), and to pick up 4 tweenagers (aged between 3&5years old).

My phone tweeps and I get a photo. My keys have rusted to the roof of Granny's car. These keys have travelled over 120km's, through wind, rain, thunder storms, over gravel roads, Granny's high speed driving, u-turns, left turns, right turns, over speedy bumps and all around the market. These keys have sat on the roof of Granny's car. These damn keys.

Larke

Being pregnant a second time is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. My body just decided that this was not a state of being that it enjoyed, and it complained, constantly for 9 months. C.O.M.P.L.A.I.N.E.D.

The ViKing and I decided to have one of our own, the first spawn came from another, and we wanted to expand our family. We spoke about it intensely and decided to wait until we were married and settled before we attempted the great undertaking of another leech. (The Universe just heard "let's have a baby" the rest didn't quite requite). 2 weeks after going off the pill to swop onto another contraceptive, and VOILA! Merry Christmas we're pregnant. The pregnancy test adorned our christmas tree, best decoration ever. We were quite dazed, surprised and a little terrified.

We asked spawn no.1 if she wanted a brother or a sister. We were so curious to know and this was a serious moment for us as a family. Us parents felt so nervous for her to be excited about her new sibling, unlike my lower back, which was not. Excited. At. All.

"Hey PT," (stands for Princess Tantrum) "do you want a brother or a sister?"

"Um..." she says. The concentration on her 3year old face is epic. A Mona Lisa portrait of deliberation. A brother or a sister?

"Um..." she has all 3 of us, (The Viking, also known as SHANNON!!!!! Dad, Daddy, and hello father. Kayla, aka GodMother, barefoot waif, the fairy, hippy child and "hey you! get out the sun, you're turning into a dark coloured person" and me, aka Woman, Mom, Mommeeeeeee, mother, mom Talia, Goldilocks and I'm hungry) in absolute suspense. A brother, or a sister?

"Um..." the weight of this question is so heavy, its thick like the 100% humidity that our lungs are currently wading through, and the swarm of vampiric teenage boy mosquitos (that are so big they rape chickens and carry babies away for a midday snack), whom are determined to get more blood from us than SANBS. We are riveted to her as she mulls the question over. A brother? Or a sister?

"Um..." the tension is palpable, we are so strung out waiting for the answer, its like an episode of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit, and the murderer is on trial, the jury is in! The whole courtroom holds its breath! We the jury find the defendant... A boy??!! Or a girl??!!

"I want a milkshake"

eh?

For 6 months if I wasn't at work I was in bed. For the last 3 months, I was just in bed. It starts to make a person slightly dilly and I realized that I would forever cherish a day pain free. I would count the days in between of no pain, like they were an oasis in a never ending desert. These were very few and very far between. VERY. It took a massive toll on our relationship, and it really tested my mettle as a mom to a superbly energetic little 3 year old on red bull, with a puppy and a ball - this is her mood when she is sleeping - just take a moment of silence to think of us when she is actually awake. Our Princess is a wonderfully beautiful little girl and we are blessed to be her parentals (Ok most of the time). Being pregnant was just crap, with a capital A. It sent my body to places unimaginable to any person who hasn't had a hard one (please excuse the pun here). Of everything I could have handled the pain, but the insomnia literally sent me to the edge of insanity, and in the darkest hours of the night when the ViKing was snoring and PT was uitgepas drooling on her pillow, I would think... think... think... how soon can I get this baby out of me, so that she will survive? 28 weeks... I just need to get to 28 weeks... I was sitting at 13 weeks. 15 weeks more isn't so bad, I can handle this. I'm a terrible person. How can I even contemplate bringing a child into the world early, for my own selfishness, because of pain and a week without sleep? I'm a horrible person. Oh lord, my back, lets attempt turning over for the 19384th time, ok 376 point turn coming up. And the thoughts never stopped. I hated myself, I despised my body and I resented my baby. Pre-natal depression is an ugly snake that rears its head out of the grass, and stalks you in the night. Being pregnant isn't just for 9 months, woman are pregnant for years, thousands and thousands of long sweaty, heavy, swollen, moody days. I resented this baby and I hated myself.

There were my age days - today is a great day! I feel like I am in my 60's (I am actually 31years old), then there were the 74year old days, the 96 year olds and worst of all was my 113year old days where I needed crutches and a walker to get to the bathroom. The bathroom was a mythical place on the other end of the universe, and a trip there required snacks, water and regular calls to my ViKing to check in and make sure that I hadn't been kidnapped or died from dehydration. My mind was so inebriated with hormones that often it would forget the reason for being vertical and we (the watermelon and I) would venture to the kitchen or back to bed, only to realise my mistake and start the long journey back to the bathroom oasis again (and repeat, many, many times).

3 weeks before D-day, we decide it was a good time to move house. Yes, yes, we know. Stressful? No, we will be fine. I can't walk, never mind pack a box. So my mom and two amazing selfless friends packed our house for us, and we moved from a wet, mouldy forest little wooden island house, to a beautiful sunny, concrete home. We were thrilled. Bed rest didn't feel like prison anymore, and I lifted my head (and four chins) off my chest, and managed to limp-waddle through the last three weeks of incubating. We had the awful 70's inspired carpets cleaned before moving in, so that our new haven would be clean and new for the second spawn (Murphy's uncle had a good chuckle at us here).

D-day (or more aptly named Push Day) arrives. We are so ready for this. I have been pregnant for so long the dinosaurs went extinct waiting and Mugabe actually resigned. We had a beautiful, calm water birth at our warm new home planned, with music, champagne and soft lighting… It was going to be perfect (cue Murphy and his law here please). With our Princess Tantrum no. 1, the labour was 19 hours of pure hell at home, in water. So we were expecting a few hours shorter, but still a good go of it, with a doula holding my hand, coaching me to breathe and our midwife doing regular checks to ensure all is running smoothly (The Universe said, “ahem, hold my beer”).

I managed to get to 38 weeks and 6 days. This in itself was a miracle, and I deserve the Nobel Patience Prize. Down goes the castor oil and orange juice mix (don’t ever, just don’t) and the waiting begins. First round doesn’t work, so a second dose is prescribed (my insides have never been so clear, ever). I start feeling a few little pangs, you know like a monthly dose of hormones that the Red Russians prescribe every 28days to an innocent, undeserving woman. They were so slight that at some points I was convinced it was my imagination, being so desperate and all to get this darn life sentence over with now. As a precaution Gift Granny and Grand Pops came to pick up no. 1, we have pizza for dinner and climb into bed to sleep. As I lay my weary, whale sized, swimming-pool-full body down to rest, close my bloated eyes and start the laborious process of attempting sleep, my uterus goes “Yes Captain, she is in position, she has lain down, sir, and they don’t have a linen saver on their brand new bed… Yes sir we are in position, Captain SIR!!” and then, my uterus punched me! It literally punched me! And the gates of pain flooded forth. I went from sleep to 10,000 decibels of pain in 0,001seconds. The only position comfortable for me was on all fours with my head thoroughly jammed into the wall, and I kept jamming. After 10 minutes the contractions were so fast I couldn’t count them, The ViKing was rubbing my back, muttering a whole load of inaudible twittering stuff (he could have been admitting to murder for all I heard at that moment), "Call the midwife" I muttered through growls. He called the Midwife. I took 3 panado's (hysterical laughter please from the audience) thinking there would be time for it to work, and may alleviate a semblance of the utter hell I was currently living through. He was up trying to inflate the pool, lay down the plastic and get water into the pool, while I am making a rather large dent in our wall with my head, growling and pushing. (He said I didn't scream, I growled, like some inhuman thing had taken over my voice box. A sound never to have been uttered from a creatures throat before. I growled.)

I managed to waddle, slither, and stomp into the lounge, using the wall as my pillar of life. "I can't do this, it's only been a few minutes, I can't take this anymore, please kill me. Or take me to the hospital, I want to go to the hospital. NOOOOOOWWWWWW. NNNNNGROOOOOOOOOWL" The hospital is 24minutes away. (hahahaha!!!) Leaving scratch marks on his computers desk, in between some seriously unladylike cussing I managed to request something to tie up my hair. He brings me ribbons. A very scary laugh escaped my throat and he scuttled back to the room, with “I NEED PINS!!!” ringing in his ears. Now anyone that knows my ViKing knows he lives up to his name, and “scuttle” is not a word one would associate with him…He brought me bows. “PINS!!!! SHANNON!!! I NEED TO TIE UP MY >insert choice of swear word here< HAIR!”, he brings back my hair box, and very warily hands it to me whilst standing at the far end of the room. I manage to pick up one bobby pin, a very neon pink one. And with this the serious pushing started. Here I am, holding the Bobby Pin, squeezing all life out of it, glaring at it like this was all it’s fault. There were probably laser beams coming out of my eyes piercing it’s innocent metal soul, but the bobby pin is strong. The Force is strong with this one. And I am really growling, an acting coach would have been so proud of my voice projection at this moment, "It must come from the diaphragm, darling". Shannon at this point is on his hands and knees in front of me, I throw the offending bobby pin, and grab the next offending object within reach - The ViKing’s shoulders. With a very beastly growl I conversationally mention, that this baby is coming NOW, and he needs to get my pants offfffffff….. “NNNNNNNGGGGGRRRRRRRROOOWWWWWWL”

“Oh my god” he says “I can’t do this!”

“You have to do this” says my voice of calm, not really, but give me some credit here, ok? It goes in like a banana and comes out like a pineapple on steroids.

“Where are these bloody people!!!” He replies, as we were still alone, just two people in love (well that was him, I was ready to rip his head off and eat it at this point) all alone, in a house, with an empty birth pool and a very clean patch of carpet. Slightly petrified of what was currently enveloping in our brand new lounge.

I am still wearing my pants, they were maroon. And her head is being crowned, like the little princess she is. Our Doula decides this is a perfect moment to call and say she is still on her way. The traffic cops at 00:24 decided to actually do their jobs and had a road block. Our midwife it still missing in action, like a soldier that defected at the front. Shannon's ring tone is the Imperial March from Star Wars, dum dum dum, dum da dum, dum da dum! He manages to get my pants to my knees, I am still standing on the carpet, which is not so clean anymore. DUM DUM DUM, DUM DA DUM!!! The Imperial March is ceremoniously playing away. He urgently coaxes me a few centimetres to the right so that I am on the plastic drop sheet, her head has made it's grand entrance, I'm pushing like an impatient woman into the middle of a queue at home affairs and Voillop! Our Shield Maiden is born, to the Imperial orchestra of Star Wars. My hero, my ViKing, the love of my life (don’t tell him I said that, we are not the normal romantic type) delivered our baby girl, all 4,1kgs, 55cm’s of her, after 1hour and 10 minutes of labour. He was the first person to touch her crown, and he caught our fat enormous purple slithery worm. He held her for the first time in her life, he loved her first, he kissed her first. He was the first. We were so alone. She wasn't breathing.

Our doula arrived. "You're a minute too late" he said to her as she walked in the door. He later told me that he was so angry, so furious at them for taking their sweet time to get to us. But he decided that he didn't want his daughter's first moments to be surrounded in anger. She was loved too much to have derision in her tiny ears. He already loved her more than any human could ever describe. He was her first everything.

She was a fat little chunky girl (and forgive me for saying this) but really an ugly baby! We were smitten though. I was mostly relieved to not be pregnant anymore, but hey, let’s not get too technical here. Our little girl had arrived, and she had chosen her moment, she wanted her father's hands to cradle her. She was beautiful, she was perfect, she slept so much and drank me dry. She was an angel, she had a little voice that would sing for us. On her first night she sang in her sleep, it was just once and she has never done it again. If one ever imagined what it would be like to hear angels sing, we heard it from our daughter, the most harmonic sound... However I felt something inside of me that I couldn't quite explain, it was a weariness, a watchfulness, a feeling inside. She didn't feel quite right. We took her to the chiropractor at 3 days old. She went to the doctor for a check up at a week. How can you explain to a medical practitioner that there is something wrong with your brand new baby, even though she is happy, content, feeding well and sleeping through the night? People thought I was being a paranoid mom, she's fine! Just look at her, the epitome of a healthy chunky baby with 3 chins and thunder thighs. We started supplementing her with formula because I thought she wasn't getting enough nutrition. My doctor was not impressed with me, because I had milk, she gave me "The Lecture" and said we had to choose, boobs or bottle. The feeling never left us. We watched her, we loved her and we held her constantly. It felt as if she wasn't long for our world and so we cherished each precious moment, there was an impermanence to her that we couldn't explain... The ViKing and I lived our new lives and we cherished a few perfect weeks with our two beautiful children. Alexandria (Princess Tantrum) was smitten with her little sister. Larke never cried, she never moaned, she didn't want to be out of my arms, she didn’t put on weight, she never pooped, she never stopped feeding and then she didn’t stop vomiting. On the pitch black night that our lives changed irrevocably, we were sleeping, all 3 of us in the bed, PT (Princess Tantrum) decided on day 1 of Larke's life that our bedroom was too noisy for her sensitive ears, and retired back to her sanctuary. Our newborn baby girl started vomiting, she projectile vomited so hard it hit the wall and splashed her back in her face. She vomited on me, all over our bed that we ran out of sheets, she vomited on The ViKing from across our King Size bed. She was feeding like a starved prisoner at my breast, and seconds after, it just all came back up, everywhere, over everyone. This was not reflux... We called for backup to watch Spawn no.1, so we could get to the hospital. My Mother in Law and back up (Wonder-Super-Hero-Mom-Lady who raised 5 children and 3 sisters on her own) told us as we were rushing out the door at 3:27am to the hospital that we should ask the doctors to check for Pyloric Stenosis. What on earth is that? It sounded like something that could re-ignite a dead person back to life. Pyloric Stenosis - It was the first time I had heard these 2 words. And they would become an evil mantra in my head over the next 2 weeks. At 23 days old, our beautiful little angel girl was admitted to hospital for observation, I was terrified and couldn't stop crying. The spewing of her insides calmed down and we were discharged the next day, they said it was reflux. I knew it wasn't. Have you ever seen a new born projectile vomit?

Two days later at 4:38am after a night of changing blankies and continuous feeding in between wiping up vomit we went to a different hospital, our doctor had called ahead so that the paediatrician on call knew we were coming. She was marked VERY URGENT. I hated myself for waiting even a minute longer, but I hoped and prayed the vomiting would pass, I didn't think I had the strength to handle a sick child, my body wasn't even nearly recovered from it's 9 month (and 10,657.339,64 day ordeal). The vomiting didn't abate, we packed our bags and sped to hospital. For the second time in 4 days my baby's veins were raped for her pure innocent blood. And she was put on the first drip. For the second time in 4 days we heard our little songbird scream a scream that no parent should ever hear from their child. The Viking and I broke inside. I sang her songs and told her we loved her and her daddy held her hand so she couldn't scratch her face even more, she was completely hysterical. They couldn't find her veins, they had collapsed from the first round of tests done previously. She looked at us desperately, asking why we were hurting her? Our peaceful little miracle who never cried, screamed so hard that a lady left her dying husbands bed and came to us, hugged us and said "I am praying for your baby.". Thank you lady, whoever you are, you gave us a little bit of strength to get through this. I broke and I couldn't stop the tears even though I was trying so hard to be strong for our tiny little girl, she was so thin. My Hero, Shannon, was stoic and strong for both of us. He was not ok inside, but he showed strength for our tiny baby, at 28 days old. He held her, he held me. It was day one.

We were admitted to neonatal. I will never love the colour yellow ever again. This ward is going to make me crazy, I said to Shannon, I didn’t know how I would last another minute there, listening to tiny children screaming for their moms as they got a lumber puncture. A child died and we listened to his mother wailing for her lost baby. My little bird was in a plastic cot, and NPM, nothing past mouth. My breasts ached with milk. And she was hysterical for me and I couldn’t feed her. I was leaking. And she was screaming. Our soft quiet tiny child, was purple in the face wailing for the food that was so near, that she couldn't have. How do you explain to a new born babe that they can’t have food, or their comfort, that the needles and blood tests are going to make her better. Shannon was my rock. He held me as the water poured from my eyes. My soul broke. His heart was shattered. We tried to hold each other up, to take the next step, to do the next test. We just kept wiping up her vomit and singing to our little girl. It just kept coming, she was empty in her tiny little tummy, but she kept retching. And retching. My god, she was so thin. She was wasting away before our eyes, each minute she just got thinner. She had lost 900grams.

The hospital doesn't supply beds for the moms, so my tired and aching body held my child in my arms the first night and for a week after that, sitting on a chair I took my night vigil over her life. There was bruises on the backs of my arms where they had been jammed into the arm rests so as not to drop her when the oblivion of sleep crashed down over me. I would sleep for a few minutes until my head hit my chest. My eyes would fly open and my heart skipped, how could anyone be so selfish as to sleep. I was alone, my ViKing was not allowed to stay. The nights were the worst. Ghosts of children past came to haunt us, they sang their sad songs of a short life gone before they had really lived, and screamed over my shoulder, they tried to touch us with their ghostly malformed hands and they just needed some love. I had none to give. I was cradled over my tiny newborn holding her safe, monitoring her breath, protecting her from these spirits that were jealous and in need. Larke screamed so hard her voice broke, she was starving, she couldn't understand why she was being tortured like this. We were trying to save her life. She just kept spewing her insides. I kept wiping it up. Changing clothes, I ran out of things for us to wear. We sat in puke drenched clothes. The semi darkness and beep...beep...beep... BEEP!BEEP! beep...beep...beep... the only lullaby that sang to us. I begged her with my heart tears pouring down my face for her to please sleep. Go to sleep my darling, this world is too cruel for your innocent little body. Just go to sleep, find a better place where there is no hunger. Please sleep my little bird. Please. please, please. Just sleep. Find a better place in your dreams. Sleep. I rocked her. And I cried so hard with her broken little voice singing in pain. I was not human anymore. There was nothing left inside of me. The ghosts haunted us and I held her begging, begging for them to leave us in peace. There is no peace there.

The morning broke scattered through the frosted windows, The ViKing came to save me from the demons of the night. He was like all the sunshine and warmth, the love left at home and the only thing that could hold me up. He hugged me and told me it would be ok. He gave me life to live through the next hour. The next minute. The next moment. The next breath. The doctor came, she said Larke will 90% need surgery. Surgery! My tiny little child needs to be put under anesthesia and butchered to save her life. How could we deal with this? My ViKing held me, I collapsed in his embrace. He was the mountain holding my emotion, he held me together. I felt like a porcelain teacup that had been flung across the room and patched back together with sugar water. The surgeons have been summoned to come with their lifesaving sickles to examine my tiny angel. And to tell us how they are going to cut through my daughters virgin skin to save her life. Surgery. Pyloric Stenosis. Pyloric Stenosis. Pyloric Stenosis. Hate. I knew pure hate. Hate. HATE!!

After 3 days in this yellow hell, they confirmed her diagnosis, which we knew it was. She had a 0,06% chance of inheriting this disorder. She had it. She was too weak to operate on. They couldn’t save her life until she had stabilised. They kept ravaging her tiny veins for her life's liquid. She screamed. I cried and sang her songs. The long wait began, she was never left alone, not even for a second, my family would tag team with me so I could brush my teeth and pee, every second day I would venture out of the hospital to a sanctuary nearby where I could have a glorious shower. A hug, and a coffee. Every third day we managed to get Alexandria to George and I would leave my little girls bedside to spend an hour with my 3 year old, we would have picnics and look at the sky in the hospital playground. She tried so hard to understand what was happening, and she was such a brave girl. These stolen hours felt like a dream, a solace from the nightmare. I was desperate to go back to the nightmare, I couldn't be away from my little bird. She needs me, even though I can't offer her anything. I just wanted to be back in those yellow four walls. I was like a prisoner. For 2 days Larke was not allowed to eat, she had a drip in her head. The only consolation I could offer was a dummy covered in sugary glycerin. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and cheek bones showing through her face, why? Mommy, why? I could only hold her and beg her to find a better place. I would sit in this hell and protect her tiny body from the horrors around us. I counted the hours, the minutes, the seconds.

The night before her surgery at 23:32 a blood test came back inconclusive, she had to be tortured again. They would not operate until her results were stable enough. She had just fallen asleep after hours of torturous screaming and me begging her to sleep. We had to poke her blue arms and feet so many times just to get a tiny semblance of her red life liquid. She screamed. My soul perished inside. There were no more tears left for me to cry. I just died inside, standing there holding her as she screamed, I felt nothing. My emotions had vacated this shell, and I just stood holding her, feeling deader than a rock. Nothing. I finally knew what it must have felt like to stand at the front of the war, a soldier with nothing left in him, no more emotions, just dead, ready to die. I was so broken, so dead. There was nothing left inside of me to give her. I hated myself. Shannon tried to get into the hospital, to the ward, he knew I couldn't cope anymore on my own. I needed him so badly, I was far gone from insanity, I was had fallen off the edge of life into a very dark abyss. I needed him so badly to save me, they denied him access. I just kept falling. I sat at the door of the ward with my hand on the cold locked door and let my heart soar to him. My soul walked away from my body and found solace in his arms. My body was left on the ice cold floor of the hospital, sitting at the prison gate, cold, lifeless and desperate for his loving embrace.

The next morning, still not knowing what would happen, if she was stable enough to operate on, she was prepped for surgery. Shannon had slept in the car in the parking lot so he could be near to us. We were led to the theatre ward. I could barely walk. Her dad held her as I climbed into scrubs. He was sent away, I was led like a meek new virgin to the harem, to wait outside the sliding white doors. The whole hospital knew who she was, they all came to pray for her, and touch her blanket like she was a saint that would offer a miracle. We just needed a miracle for our tiny baby. She was so thin. Her arms were just bones, her face was blue from the circles under her eyes. We were led into theatre (not the stage, with lights, an audience and fancy costumes, but a clinical white room with a panel of surgeons and nurses, big lights and sharp objects). I talked to her constantly. The biggest load of codswollop spewed forth from my mouth, and regularly there was a snigger from a white mask, as I described to my 32 day old baby how we would boob all over Sedgefield when this was over, how we would take her on holiday, and what her sister was doing at school. I promised her we would play her our song, “Faithfully” by Journey, and how, above all else, she would grow up to be a chunky shield maiden, our songbird. She would be ok. She screamed, and I just talked while holding her pinned to the table. They inserted the feeding tube she screamed through a broken throat. Finally, mercifully, they put her to sleep, thankfully. I was ushered out of theatre and broke down into tears. The head of surgery at George Provincial Hospital operated on our baby. At 4 weeks and 3 days she was teaching a whole panel of surgeons about a condition that none of them had ever seen. Shannon held me and we waited. I would never ever wish for any parent to sit through those 2 hours…

She is out of theatre. I get the message while pouring milk down the toilet in the ICU bathroom. I ran, boobs out and flapping to the waiting room. We were led like little lambs, terrified, having survived the slaughterhouse to see our tiny little Larke, hooked up to tubes and a drip, sleeping in an incubator. We held her bony hand, and cooed our love for her. She slept, and woke up occasionally to cry through a raw throat, and then blissful sleep crashed down upon her again. For the first time in days, we left her alone to the charge of a bull nurse with a soft heart, whose only charge was her care, her safety, and her wellbeing. I left her side and went to sleep in my chair for a glorious hour.

We are broken parents. I never thought I would ever have to deal with an ill child. Never again will I take a day of health for granted for any of us. For my 2 children, my ViKing and I. I thought being pregnant a second time was the hardest thing I have ever done. It wasn’t.

Goldilocks

My car, Goldilocks, is an ancient old being that is a leaky cauldron of fuel and exhaust fumes. She's old, tired and in need of a retirement home. Yet every day I churn her awake and demand service from her. She's a faithful old bag and I love her.

The licensing department doesn't. After working job no. 3, I have enough R's to pay for a roadworthy test and get her re-licensed (that thing one has to do every year! Who knew?). License department sends me to the pits of hell. The dreaded mammogram of any car older than 5 years (please note my goldilocks, the car, is more like grey locks at age 25), the gynecologist of engines - the roadworthy testing centre. The very sweet man at roadworthy put lots of x's, a bunch of notes (he could give any doctor a run for his money in the writing department) and the dreaded red mark of shame "RE-TEST!" On the paper. He won't even take her for a road test - my reliable old lady, the one that gets me around, carts my daughter and the dogs, and the kitchen sink. I have to get a special permit for him to drive her, that's how expired my car's license is. >insert a bunch of expletives with lots of !!!!'s and ????'s and the name of a few holy deity's<. I limp out of the gates of hell, with my life in tact, and a few tears leaking out of my eyes. I'm such a leaky cauldron these days. Back to school, because Wednesday is school day, and I took off an hour to get the leaky cauldron tested. If only A++'s were tradeable I would be rich!

Thursday, at job no. 1, I manage to secure an early payout of my December leave pay. That little nest egg that I was saving to fix my fridge(you can get away without a fridge in winter, but not in 32+ degree weather), buy a new Hoover (mine stopped sucking in July), and build a moat, castle walls and a fortress to contain my garden eating, hole digging, chew everything in sight (glass bottles included), sit and watch my mom hold her head in frustration when she comes home at 1 in the morning from job 3 because he's eaten the deck, railing and the dustbin, cradling her doc martens (from Camden Town) in her lap, demonic Labrador named SugarMan. And with the leftovers of my money buy my sunshine golden haired child a Christmas present. (Ja right!!!! Hahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaa!)

So with money in the bank I start sourcing for the holy grail of mechanics. I phone every oil beater in the garden route. Even the dodgy 3rd from the backyard's backyard guys. The best and cheapest quote comes from ta da!!! Supa Quick. They're super quick. Who knew an exhaust had 3 BOXES! And bushes! Like a bush is a green fluffy thing with branches and shit that grows on the side of the road and stops you flashing cars on the highway. But NOOOOOO a bush is a thing on the wheel, someplace there in the car (er..... I am actually highly intelligent), and the shocks (not the electrical kind) and you have to replace your wheels! Like, they don't just keep on wheeling and the back window must wind down! Why? I don't want my toddler jumping out the widow! She's the kind of person that if you can't open a jar or a packet or an anything, just hand it to her, she'll get that f*cker open, but no. For my car to be on the road, the window must open. And the engine needs to be steam cleaned. Like really!!!!!

Now. The cash is sorted, the mechanic is sorted, how in all holy named things am I going to get my car TO the mechanic (a whole town away) AND wait for them to fix it and bring it BACK? I have job 2&3 on Friday. And I am back to back the whole of next week with job 1,2 &3.... Time is running out! I only have 13 days left to take my car back to the gynae to get inspected again, hoping she will pass! "Not to worry" the advertising verimark man's voice says. "With this stain remover your problems are over!" "We'll collect your car, service it and bring it back, at.... Wait for it! No charge!" Madeleine from Supa Quick says. She is an indescribable angel. Sigh. Wow. It takes a lot to render me speechless. The birth of my daughter being one of them, and finding out I was the "other woman" in 'the virus's' life, being another. So words failed me.

At 16:13, 1 hour and 17 minutes BEFORE they were due to collect the leaky cauldron, Charlie's Angels (aka the Supa quick ladies) are at my house waiting. My old bag limps up the driveway, and I hand her over (house keys and all, yes I forgot to take them off). I hand her the gynae's prescription and she takes one look at it, winks at me with stars in her eyes, and says "not to worry, we'll fix this!". I'm rushing around in the background taking out baby chairs, dog bones, the bodies of my enemies, squish packets (only a parent will know), blankets, jerseys, balls, bubbles, my files, a handbag, old wet wipes, hey! That's where the hamster was (it's a joke, princess Jane is still in her cage happily biting kids since May 2016) and trying to make some tidy semblance of my golden goose before she goes for surgery.

And now I wait for my golden steed to be returned. They're going to SMS me the final quote, which I will approve in between "hi there! How do you want your coffee? Hot as hell, white as a virgin's inner thighs or black like the oil in my car?"

Ode To Boredom

A deep sigh
Stale air moves
Like a pompous lady to a tea party
Slowly, ever so drearily
Arrogent confidence swaggers through
At a pace too dull to think of
The dust particles meandering about
The sun moving at a pace close to rewind
The day wears on

Body moulded to a straight backed headmistress chair
Slouched like a hunchback at a stamp collection viewing
The neck stuck out at tortoise angle
Unwilling to move even an inch
Dull, duller, dullest
Lids droop to stoned level over marble eyes
And mouth hangs open
Tongue glazed with dry spittle
Too Ritalin to close

The flies have stopped annoying
The deadness is infectious
The abbottoir still dripping with carbolic soap and steroid blood
In breeding lifeless forms of meat on the slab
Hooks of carcasses drying out in the butcher’s fridge
Just hanging around
Waiting to be cleaved into shape

Thoughts dawdle, dwindle
And navigate
To places we really hate
The mind is listless and does not tire
It feeds on past duldrums and plays them at sedate pace
Like a 1920’s movie star pouts her lips and sensualise her lids
Luxuriously

Moss moves in on the brain
Till thought slogs through
Then forgets why it came
Like a man sent to buy milk
And returns with cereal

Boredom creeps in like squatters into a vacant building
It’s here to stay
Fight like the devil for a soul and you might find a way
For
Time has gone to join it’s maker
And has no intention of return
Help-less
Reck-less
Idle
Boredom

The School - Part II

The School - Part 2

Your soul mate is supposed to be The One, they are the ultimate relationship, the partnership of all loves, the biggest blessing, the ultimate union. And also the hardest, most challenging, soul tormenting and testing relationship of one’ s life. I have come to the conclusion that this school is my soul mate, or an invocation of such. It has been the biggest blessing that I could ever have asked for, and also the hardest challenge. But I didn’t ask for it. It is such a big thing that I could not even conceive such a thought. It is too big for me to have thought of or wished for. Yet, here it is, a whole pre-school, just for you. The Universe is weird like that. Gift wrapped and delivered to your door! Postnet style.

The day I had an anxiety attack was a shock awakening for me. I had just faced The Parents of my new school (sounds pretty weird to say “my school”!), to introduce myself to them, alongside the Angel Owner of the old school, Die Plaaskooltjie, Karen. We had a wonderful meeting, Karen introduced me to the parents, gave a short introduction and explained that the school was moving into new hands. I made a speech (very official and all grown up of me), and then spoke to each and every one of the people in attendance, smiled, laughed and was welcomed into this wonderful community. Not once did I feel self-conscious, or misplaced, everything flowed smoothly.  Karen and I had been planning this meeting for weeks beforehand. Many phone calls, whatsapps, emails and late night discussions over coffee, dinner or the occasional wine, random street talks, shop waves, and trolley jams preluded this meeting. The school and the Meeting had taken residence in my mind and camped out there, with its tent, camp fire, cooler box and fold up chairs (please note: the thought of camping horrifies me, and I would rather write a 10 000 page essay on, well anything, than be tortured to camping). I would wake up in the middle of the night, planning my strategy, talking to myself, what I was going to wear, what to say, how the pamphlets would look and role playing how the meeting would go. My midnight ramblings started the night I got the 19:02pm phone call on 31st May 2016, you know, The Phone Call… 

Let me explain further back than the parent’s meeting, in order to fully understand the midnight madness. 

“Die Plaasskootljie is going to close, or I would like to give it to you.” These are the words that have changed my life. Karen and her husband, Johann, wanted to renovate the old school into their new home. They were moving into new ventures of their life, and so the one condition of me taking it over, was that the school had to be moved to a new location. “Yes sure!” I say, penniless, single mom working as a secretary part-time and studying (round of applause please, from the peanut gallery). How in the world it would be pulled off, that was a problem for another day! To quote Richard Branson “If someone offers you an amazing opportunity but you are not sure you can do it, say yes - and learn how to do it later!” I was super nervous, excited and curious to view the new premises of the school. I had said yes, agreed to take it over, on the condition of viewing the house. It took a bit of manoeuvring, a few patient weeks and a lot of nervous giggles between us, to gain access to the new property. Finally, we were able to just go and have an outside peek at the premises, but not be able to view inside. Of course, yes! Let’s go! My whole life, Alexandria’s life, our home, everything is riding upon this house. There is no other option for the school to move to(no pressure there). 

When the forest opened its canopy to reveal the dilapidated, peeling, unkempt, half falling down log cabin nestled in the trees, with forest surrounding it on all sides, so overgrown that the vines were growing on the roof, the branches were knocking greetings on the windows and the sun lazily crept through the winter mist, I stopped dead. I was speechless. I couldn’t believe it! Not possible. It was perfect. I had dreamed of this house, not in waking, but in the REM hours of deepest sleep, when your subconscious is free to play. I had dreamed of my log cabin in the forest. This log cabin, in the Milkwood Forest. This Fairy Home of dreamland. Ok, granted I dreamt of a stone cottage in a pine forest, but let’s not get technical here, ok? They both have fireplaces, and they’re both in the forest. 

Looking upon the house, with stars in my eyes, the echo of childish laughter rippling through the trees, and the dreams of a jungle gym in the green clearing. This was the new home of my little school, the home that will hold my daughter as she grows, the place to heal my heart, where I will plant a tree, and educate little minds. This was perfect. I felt like I had found my home. For the first time in many, many, many years, I had found a place, I had found a nest, I had found our home. Since Alexandria was born, we had moved many times, shuttled in and out of refuges, we had left her birth-home - our little flat in the sky and become refugees, we fled to a stranger’s home (she knew my mom, ok!), then a house by the lake, then a lounge, another lounge floor, a caravan on my dad’s farm, a family friend’s spare room, a hotel room for a few months with no kitchen, a flat, a flat with a view, another flat, back to the flat with a view, then another flat with not such a nice view. I was tired of shuttling, but I knew that eventually the shuttle would lead to a shell, a home. I trusted that everything would work out, eventually. I trusted. And trust lead me to my log cabin in the forest. 

I had decided, it was already mine, the school was moving here and I hadn’t even met the landlord. 

Alexandria and I moved in on the 2nd July. One week after seeing it for the first time (I had to gently aggrevate my landlord of the current flat we had just moved into, and break contract, it really was not intentional, but a necessary move). The school was due to open on the 1st September. There’s plenty of time! We can settle in, fluff out our tail feathers and start getting things ready in August (cue the peanut gallery please)… When my dad and giftmom saw the property, they smiled politely and said oh! With a slightly shocked look on their faces. My mom had a more verbal reaction of disapproval for my choice. It went like this: “too fast, you’ll never make this work! You’ve got no money. You should have planned better. You haven’t thought this through. This property will never be a school, have you SEEN how much work it needs!!! Talia, sweety pops, sit down, we need to talk. This is crazy. You can’t do this. Are you crazy!!!??? Just put this thought in your mind, now visualise another property, a nice cosy little place, in town… with a wall (please note the property has no fence, and recedes straight into forest) and a nice piece of grass where the kids can play” And it carried on. My parents were incredibly worried about me, and were probably swinging between feeling my forehead for a fever, sitting me down for a family intervention and kidnapping me, tying me into a straight jacket and trying to talk some sense into my brick of a head. The self-doubt crept in and started a little camp fire. I am passionate, I love with all my heart, I feel with my whole being and I am stubborn. A bull is like a butterfly compared to Miss-Great-Wall-Of-China over here, yet, the doubt was like a constant drip of water on a prisoner’s forehead. I began to doubt myself. I looked at the monster that I had chosen to tame, and what I saw, it scared me. My flutter-by-night dreams had evaporated like morning mist, and I was left with the reality of putting actions where my dreams were. I really started doubting my ability, and I wobbled. Big time. 

The plate that was my life, was brittle, with too many cracks appearing. I was like a thin layer of peanut butter spread over too many pieces of bread, with no butter. A single mom, with a very energetic toddler, my studies, a full-time, mid-season job (part-time out of season), maintenance court, lawyers, and not to mention the school! Renovations, planning, structures, project managing, fundraising and making sure this school would not crash, and then I started losing kids, 4 kids were pulled from the school before it even moved over. Breaking point - I saw you, and you scared me. I was depressed, stressed (more than I have ever been in my life), sleepless, grumpy, over-tired and overworked. My little sunshine child kept me going, and the constant reminder, “this is all for you, my heart”. When my family, at different times, suggested that I give the school up, maybe its not right for you now. Maybe your lesson in all of this is to find your boundary, stand up for yourself and say no. Missy, we think you should give up the school. Let it close at the end of the year, and find a new school for Alexandria. When you have finished your studies, and you have some capital (as if that’s ever going to happen, LOTTO you let me down, buddy), then maybe think of starting something small. Give it time, you can’t carry on like this, you are too stressed. You are not coping. (I could feel the straightjacket giggling around the corner). 

The drip of self doubt, dripped. I couldn’t believe that I could fail so terribly, how could such a great gift, such a blessing, how could it fail? Why would something like this be given to me, just to have it fail. How could the world be so cruel? 

I cried. 

And cried. 

I was a failure. 

I had failed my daughter.

I had failed the children. 

I cried. I felt so hopeless, so completely and utterly pathetic, the most epic failure of a person. I couldn’t take it anymore. I just sobbed and sobbed. Repeating over and over, I can’t take it anymore. I can’t. I felt like there was no more of me to give, not even a broken piece. There was too much broken and no glue. Failure. I can’t take it anymore.

In my 11years in the film industry, I had dealt with stress. Multi-million rand projects, red-carpet actors and crew, tens of thousands of rands in cash flowed through my hands everyday. I would confidently walk in Mid-city Joburg, go into the Nigerian’s cash and carry, or a china mart, or the sangoma market (where no white person has ventured before) drop R50 000 cash and shop. Then head off to the next one, and the next one. I had no fear, the stress was like honey to my soul. I thrived. I’ve worked on Avengers: Age of Ultron, and danced through the set like it was my bedroom, on Homeland, pregnant and hormonal, laughing, care-free, in love with life, no fear, no worries, just life, super hard work and spending money (it was my job, as a buyer). Stress? Bring it baby! It was like the nearest casino to a gambling billionaire, the adrenalin all worth it, and so rewarding. But, put the welfare, wellbeing, education and trust of 15 children into my hands and I become a blithering, nervous wreck of an idiot. 

How could such a gift, be given to me, only to have it fail? I had failed.

Feeling very numb, like a zombie, (not the World War Z super zombies that run at the speed of knot, but the 1940’s ones that go, “errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…..” with their arms out in front of them) I made the phone call to Karen. “I can’t do this, the property will never be a school. I want to give it up. I don’t want the school anymore. I can’t do it, I’m so sorry” 

Well. 

Did I get the hiding of my life from across that telephone line. She basically told me to pull my knee-highs up, put my big girl panties on and get my shit together! She was in exactly the same position that I was 5 years ago, AND she had been pregnant when she was trying to open and renovate the school. They had chosen an old, falling to pieces, farm school building, for the school (this little school has gone through some major changes). “We didn’t even have a roof!” She tells me off, in her stern mommy-voice (I am yet to master that voice). “And we did it! I made it work! So no! You will not give up, missy! Pull yourself together and get that property right!”

In that moment I hated her. She had no idea what I was going through. I put down the phone, and cried, I sobbed like my 2 year old when you take her bubbles away. I was so completely broken and she didn’t even understand. Broken, sore, completely alone and hopeless, I called my mom. She was far away and all I wanted was for her to hug me, and take away my hurt, my failure, to wrap my scratches with a plaster, and kiss it better, to pat my back and say See? All better. Go play!

How could I do this? There was open sewerage right where my path was supposed to be, at the entrance to my so-called school. It had been open for weeks, oozing into the ground. Entering the property was a 2x4 adventure, up a dodgy path, through a bush, round the side, under the hill, over the moon and back down the other side of the mountain (doing this with a dog, groceries and a toddler who refused to acknowledge the existence of her feet). The fence was not up, the forest was right there! Not enough space for the kids, the inside was too small, they needed outside learning areas. There was no grass, holes in all the wrong places. So much to do and just one little mommy-girl person, trying to do this on my own. Breaking point, I saw you, and you scared me. 

After a brainstorming session where The Parents (oh gosh, did this day cause me endless nights of sleeplessness) came to view the property (yes the day my sewerage decided to crash). Ideas flew around, there were some supportive smiles, and a few crazy sideways glances, but we brainstormed away. Ina, the school’s wonder-teacher, quietly, just said, but lets build a deck. *DING DONG!!* The light bulb has arrived. We shall build. With what money? (Please cue the peanut gallery and the hysterical laughter)

The day things started changing, was when Karen telephonically smacked sense into me, or just convinced me that I was crazy enough to actually make this happen. HAHAHAHA (hysterical laughter, with the whites of my eyes showing, and some crazy spittle flying from the mouth). My Mom also had some Mommy wisdom to share, as we had our 1002nd skype call, with me either crying, laughing or looking around crazily at my next person to eat (I’m really kidding here… I don’t eat people at work, only at home), she said I was not alone, look around you, look at what you have achieved so far (all I saw was failure), you have a community behind you, use them! One day, my amazing Fairy Godmother and employer, looked at me, (not too long after I had a melt down in the office, where I covered my head with a cape and cried like a baby for an hour), she came into the office, looked me in the eyes, and offered the school a small loan, you know, just to help with some building things. Relief doesn’t come with a sound track, I wish it did, because my sound track would have been Queen - “We are the champions”, you know, with Queen standing there in the corner, in all his glory, golden catsuit, jamming out, as I sit there with my mouth open catching flies. Relief doesn’t have a soundtrack, but it does have a calming effect on the heart, and that day I popped one less Rescue Tablet. 

Now please note: The times as events happened, are not in sequence, there is too much to say, so it’s a bit more concise… But, as things stand, with the school planning to build, we are sitting at T-minus 3 weeks to open doors. Please note there is still no fence. And I have no money, only a small loan, the 4 digit type of loan. 

Classroom painted with a bubblegum pink door (Thanks to my fairy friend Jo for her labour, and to Quinton for the left over paints.)

Deck built (check, thanks Lesley-Ann and Johann Lombaard) 

Picket fencing installed to keep the monsters out of my kitchen. (Thanks Giftmom, Pat, for the awesome idea, and Dad for putting it in)

Roof plan done (Thanks Dad)

Roof build (Roofing sheets bought, then I ran out of money). ARE YOU SERIOUS!!!! I still need roofing timber and all the screws and bolts and nuts and that building stuff, stuff. In my hands sits a quote for R5435, 29, for roofing timber. Now thats a whole lot of stash that I do not have under my bed. My head hits the office desk in supplication and acknowledgement of my failure, again. I can’t believe I have actually come so far, and run out of money. Can I sell my car?….

RING!!!! Its Chris Smuts, a dad from the school.

“Hi Talia”

“Hi Chris”

“I want to give you R5000 for the school”

“Excuse me?” (sound familiar? See part 1)

“Yes, would that help?”

“Excuse me?” (Remember the brick wall)

“I want to give you R5000 for the school, because I said I would help, but I can’t give of my time.” (at this point I’m sure he is busy googling alternative schools for his daughter)

“Uh… “(I really am naturally intelligent, but the concrete wall of my brain often fails me in times of generosity moments)

My roofing beams were delivered 4 days later. And my Daddy (the one and only) built the school a roof. 

We should break down the wall between the 2 classrooms, suggests Karen, make a big space, better to have one big classroom than 2 small rooms. Johann, will pay for it! And the wall was knocked down.

The fence was still not erected, but the materials had been delivered. It was part of my original agreement with the landlord, as was the fence erection, but the second part fell through. T-minus 2 weeks and still no fence. Sure! Says Karen, I’ll sponsor the fence. We had to postpone the opening by a week, the fence was not finished and we still had an open sewer where the “walkway” was. It took three times as many days to get the fence up and T-minus 3 days, the fence (and sewerage) was still not complete. Everyone was working super hard to get it done. And the weather laughed and laughed and laughed, and rained. Go away rain!!! 

“You need grass” my mom says to me. Ok, mom! Whatever you say! (Come on Lotto, I really need you now) Eden Lawns draws up the quote, *gulp*. Then, “ag, just give it to them, its for a school.” My grass was donated by Eden Lawns.

You need to paint the lockers, you need screws, we need nails, we need fencing staples, we need wire, the hoover broke, the labourers and my house fairy need to get paid (not in fairy dust), the thorn tree needs to go, the grass needs to be cut, the roof is leaking (no mark on my dads craftsmanship, I ran out of pap for the pap ’n lap - roof sealer), and… and … and… 

Mommy to the rescue! I’ll lend you some money, my girl. Thanks mom, another 4 digit-er. I made it, just, to the last R30. 

I need a million bucks (cue LOTTO, or a check in my post box)…

…

…

…

Ok, my powers of manifestation aren’t that refined yet, but I’m getting there. 

And slowly, the doors to Forest Friends Pre-school opened quietly on Monday the 12th September 2016 (nothing is ever quiet at a pre-school, and we had nothing short of organised pandemonium). It was like a bomb of giggles and nappies, 7:29am… Tick Tock! and… CHAOS! (You know… the kiddy chaos that follows little people under 6years of age)

I just love it! 

I am so incredibly grateful for my life. I often get so overwhelmed by the goodness around me, that the tears begin to roll (its pretty lame, yes that word shows my age, but hey!). The kind hearted people that continuously give of the their time, energy and resources, are so important to me and the school, because without everyone’s help, none of this would have been possible. Close friends,  my teachers, parents of the school, members of the community, strangers, businesses, family… The list of people to thank grows every day, and I have had to write it all down to remember. Not that everyone isn’t hugely important, and I would purposefully forget, but because the list is so long, that it overwhelms me to think about everyone (and of course mom brain - I have been known to forget my car keys in the ignition of the car whilst I went off shopping, luckily my window was open…). My gratitude overflows to the amazing teachers that give of their time to care for our kids, they are truly amazing women, and I am ever thankful to them. They clean the poopy potties, and teach them how to poop there in the first place. They have the patience of saints, and I have watched as a screaming hysterical child is dropped off, and all he wants is mom, Ina has calmly held him and talked him down, whilst he tried to break her nose. She talked calmly, softly and held him, she gives so seflessly and love each child like they are her own. Linah is the “child whisperer”, she has the knack for getting these little ones into a line, ready, cleaned, fed, changed and marching off for the serious business of playing on the jungle gym. I can’t recount the thousands of ways these women care for our kids, there are so many huge things, and all the little moments in between. A kind word, a little whisper, a secret smile. They are the true epitome of a teacher. 

With the bottom of my heart, I love the school and all the little ones under our care. They are all so special to me, and each one makes me as proud as a mom. When people ask “So you’re a mom, how many kids do you have?” I reply, “11”. It takes a moment for them. I am just starting out on this journey as a carer of little minds and it is the most rewarding experience of my life. When a little toddler, cutely puts his tiny feet into my boots, and proudly walks around the jungle gym, when a little one learns to say “please” and “thank you”, as our class princess struts around wearing his fairy wings, as they can write their names next to a picture, and count to 20 in english and afrikaans (I take no credit here, this is the work of the 2 Superwomen as mentioned above), and a little hand slips into mine, trustingly looking up at me, with all the innocence that only a child can bear, my heart breaks with love, pride and all the mushy mommy/teacher feelings that goes with. These are all my kids. And I love them.

A special thank you to:

Karen and Johan Lombaard

Lesley-Ann Hoets

Chris & Yvette Smuts

Jenny Des-fountain

X’sto and Petricia Pieterse

Quinton 

Ina Terblanche

Linah Appels

Eden Lawns

Remax

Montecellos

Lemon and Lime toy shop

Accents gift shop

Aroma 

Sedgefield hardware

The Lions Club

A Little Farm School

Im not really sure where it all started. Maybe it started when I was born, or it went further back than that. Maybe it started the day my daughter was born. Maybe it started the day I made the biggest decision of my life, to be a single mom,  and kept making that decision. Maybe it was the day that someone asked me “If you could do anything what would you do?” I replied “I would be a teacher”. This simple sentence, these 5 words, this soul-honest statement has set into motion a series of events that is so much bigger than me. A ball rolling that no person could conceive of - maybe there is a God? And He/She planned this, but I find that hard to drink down, because where does my free will come in? Maybe The Universe has a plan and it will push you in that direction until you bump your head so many times on the wrong path, that bruised, broken and very damaged, through many lessons, tears, blood, laughter, hate, sorrow, forgiveness, humility, friendship and love, you come out onto the right path. But you had to go down the bumpy road (a few too many times if you ask me), to have all the knowledge that is needed to partake on the right journey. 

There is so many things that lead to this point, that Im not sure where to start. So maybe here is a good place…That sunny day at the Talent Market, at Asante, sitting on the grass, with all my friends around, trading, laughing, sharing. My daughter is somewhere eating something and climbing onto someone. We are all a family and we all look out for our own. I have truly been welcomed into this amazing community, and without these beautiful people around me, I would have been a very lost soul. I was a very damaged woman, and these friends took my daughter and I in, gave us love, laughter, food and friendship. I thank you. So on this lovely summer’s day, amongst the music and laughter, I sit and chat with a beautiful, buxom woman, Helen. We have just met and I am selling some of the unnameable’s things that have been in my garage for too long. I was desperately unhappy in my current job, and knew that I was made for greater things than organising events. It was not my forte and took me away, days, nights and long hours, from my girl, my sunshine child, the reason for my breath. The world was pushing me to find something new, but I was so lost and could not see. She asked me the most profound question of my life, and one that has changed everything. “`if you could do anything (job-wise) what would you do?”, I sat and thought, and the most honest answer I could think of, even though it was bat shit crazy, and would NEVER happen, I replied “ I would be a teacher”. *PING* went the lightbulb in my head. I then talked myself down and said it would never happen, I don’t have a degree, I’m too old to start a new career (at 28 I might add) and so on went the head, when my heart was crying for the simple statement to come true. She said to me, you don’t need a degree, I’m a teacher, and I started teaching without a formal education. Well, that was it. I was sold. I was going to be a teacher. How? No idea. 

So I did what I do best, really well, like a pro! I wrote a letter. And I sent it everywhere. Every single school in the Western Cape and all the Montessori and Waldorf Schools in the country. I was determined to be a teacher. 

The LETTER:

Good day,
I would like to apply at your school for a position as a teacher or assistant teacher. 

My passion in life lies with children, it always has. In my schooling, my teachers made all the difference to my educational motivation, as well as overall in every aspect of growing up. I loved school and excelled in English - having won an English Literature Scholarship to my high school, Penryn College. Another talent I had was Drama. At age 13, I won a silver medal runner-up in the South African Drama Championships - even after forgetting to introduce myself to the judges! My Drama teacher was a larger than life lady, and she will forever be an icon in my life. She contracted cancer shortly before my finals and her lack in my tutorship has left a deep hole, even now, 15 years later. Teacher's are the pinnacle to children's futures. I understand this so deeply and am so passionately eager to start in the education industry. 

When I finished school at age 17, being very impatient to step into the adult world, I studied my O and A levels, and completed both in one year. There were two choices in front of me, the film industry or studying to teach. I chose the film industry, and spent 11 very happy, hard working years doing what I loved. In all the excitement of the entertainment industry, I had a nagging lack in life. When your career revolves around making things "look good" it left me empty. I wanted to make a difference to people's lives. Yet, this was my chosen career and I gave everything to it. English took a back seat for me, even though I continued to write poetry and essays on the side. I started a long distance English Degree in 2008, and completed 4 subjects. Passing with flying colours and a few distinctions. However I chose to leave my studies to concentrate all my efforts to the film industry. 

With the birth of my daughter in 2015, everything changed for me. I left my career and moved away from Cape Town to the Garden Route. I chose to raise my daughter in a safe, beautiful environment, with a mom that is present in her life. I started working as an Events Co-ordinator, again making sure that people's entertainment was my priority. I have given this field a good run, yet still it leaves a void, I want to make a difference. I want to work with children, they are the difference. 

It has taken me a year of searching and asking myself, researching and talking to people, and I realise the question I keep asking myself "what do I want to do with my life?" Is pointing me in the direction of education. It has always been the answer. Even as a young child, when asked what I wanted to do, I wanted to be a marine biologist(I get sea sick), a film producer (because everyone wanted to be a Director and I was different) and an english teacher. I want to give back to the community, in the way that my teachers transformed my life and have grown in me an insatiable passionate love for English Literature and learning. 

I am in the process of applying to start a long distance teaching degree, at the University of Pretoria. This is the first step in the career that I am born for. I am passionate, caring (often too much, but then, can we ever care too much for the eager hearts of children), loyal, creative and honest. 

Thank you for taking the time to read my letter, I look forward to setting up a meeting soon. 

Best,
Talia Day

And I waited, a few replies trickled in, the usual thanks but no thanks. I was determined and kept the positivity going, every no is one step closer to my yes. I received a lot of no’s. A lot.

Dear Talia,

Thank you for your inspiring letter, we do not have a position available, but our Principal would like to meet you.

Yours Sincerely,

The Secretary (Of the most prestigious private school in the area)

Well! I was so excited I could barely sleep for the whole week. The day rolled up and I was so nervous. I dressed in my most formal outfit, a black dress, black tights, black school shoes (ironic much) and my hair was neatly back with a touch of make up. Nervous as anything I walked in the front doors. The Principal firmly shook my hand, said I’m not offering you a position young lady, but I had to meet the person that had the courage to write such an inspiring letter. You did write this letter? Um, Yes Your Highness I did! (Not quite my reply, but almost) He went on to say that he would have hired me right then and there if I had some educational backing, but because the school is run by a board, they would not accept me. He strongly advised that my next step was to study (and my balloon went pfffffffffffffft! POP!). He sat back in his chair, shook his head and said, wow, with a CV like yours, and that letter that you wrote, I just had to meet you. Thank you, I replied, and was shortly thereafter dismissed. 

Words cannot be put down to describe the level of my disappointment, I hit such a low, that I was ready to give up. All the no’s were really starting to build a foundation upon my depression. Brick by brick, upon my coffin, layered with the self doubt again, that I had so briefly overcome. With a heavy heart, and a dim shimmer of determination I started researching a degree in education. UNISA are really overworked and now, 5 months later, they still have not replied to my application. I went in to the branch only to be told that I can’t apply for a degree because I have an incomplete degree and I have to do a 1 year course to prove myself. Ok… (Really! The bureaucracy! It boggles the brain - to coin a saying from my mom) Application sent! A Short Learning Diploma in Early Childhood Development. Well, Im still waiting for a reply on that one too. 

Rodriguez.

I had resigned from my position as events co-ordinator with the company, and was working out my resignation period, when I got a phone call from a lovely American lady. We chatted for a while and the gist of the conversation was that Rodriguez (THE Sugar Man) was in Wilderness and he wanted to do a Free Youth Concert and Open Mic session with the kids. Can I organise it? We want to do it on Valentines Day Sunday, it was Wednesday. I had 4 days. . . . . Ok then! Facebook post. Done. My phone did not stop ringing until eventually I turned it onto silent and had a standard message. People came from all over the country, Johannesburg, Parys, The Karoo, Mpumalanga, people cancelled their 50th anniversary trips to Mauritius to attend the concert. It was amazing. Rodriguez and his family are the most wonderful, kind, gentle, soft and caring people. We raised funds, free sound and technicians and got sponsorships for food. We organised underprivileged kids to share the stage with the big man and a whole group of local talent. What an amazing day it was! I felt so honoured to shake the hand of this iconic man, and to know his beautiful family. To the Rodriguez camp, I thank you. 

I get a phone call on the Monday, Taal-Ya! (in her gorgeous American accent) she says they’re outside and Rodriguez needs to speak to me. So me, naturally, (why do we always do this?) I think, I’ve done something wrong! I’ve made a boo-boo and said something inappropriate and the Rodriguez camp is here to sue me and scream at me, drag me off kicking and screaming to the depths of their dungeon to rot there like the lowly events co-ordinator that I am. I run, to reception. She takes my hand and says, “I don’t think we should do this here, can you please come outside”. (Oh my holy boo-boo, they’ve got tuxedo clad bouncers outside that are going to whisk me away in a nameless van and no-one will ever hear or see of the-one-that-failed-Rodriguez.) We walk outside, she takes my hand and puts a slightly larger than enormous wad of R100 notes into my hand. 

*BLANK*BLANK*BLANK* 

(my brain’s synapses failed to function at this point)

“You did such an amazing job at organising the show, and Rodriguez wants to thank you, and everyone that was a part of it. This all the money he can draw from his account in the US, and we have spread it amongst everyone that was involved.” she says to me. (Sorry, I’m still blanking away.) “Its R5000, Im sorry its not more”… The tears, just fell. I had no words. I just stood there shaking. Crying (like an idiot). My shoulders shaking I just stood there and cried (like such an idiot). She kindly hugged me and I just cried (ok, really, you’re getting snot on her shoulder, you idiot!). At that point, I had had R9,85 to my name, and pay day was 11 days away. I went to their car, greeted the man himself (THE Wonder Man), we shared a laugh, a hug and a rock ’n roll handshake. From the bottom of my heart, from the depths of my soul, I thanked him. It was a profound moment in my life, a moment of complete humility and such an overwhelming sense of gratefulness, not just for the money, but for the experience of meeting The Man himself and for being a small part of his big world. I was completely humbled. 

The Next Yes

Dear Talia,

Thank you for your wonderful letter, our Principal would like to meet you.

Yours sincerely,

Dawn

Knysna Montessori School

“I’m sorry to say that the position has already been filled” she says to me as I walk in to the office. (So then WHY AM I HERE!!!!!!!???????) “but, a CV like this, with such an inspiring letter does not pass over my desk very often, and I had to meet you”. (Again!!! Ok, thanks Universe, but my nerves really can’t take this anymore, interviews are scary, ok!) We proceeded to have a lovely chat and she asked me if I would be interested in signing up as a stand-in teacher for when she needs someone? Of course yes! I will! But (and maybe I should have done more research) I really don’t know much about Montessori… only that it is an alternative education system, and I want my daughter to attend a Montessori school (This makes me sound very clever, neh!) The product of this meeting ended with me meeting Taddy (as she is fondly known by all) the founder of the school and the Teacher Trainer. This all happened in the span of about an hour. I was so excited to meet her, the lady who had an oil painting portrait at the entrance to the school (very posh). R36 500,00. Shit.

R36 500,00 to do a teacher’s training. Double shit. Balloon = Boom! (pffffffffffffffft!)

Ok, who do I know thats REALLY rich? No. Can I get a loan? No. Student loan? No, can’t afford to pay it back. At this point, I have a part time job with the most incredible woman, Flea (I still don’t know how she got the nickname). It gets me by, just. Just. Ok, can I put on a short skirt and stick out a leg? No. Can I sell my body on the internet? No. Can I sell my car? No. Am I in anyone’s will that I can maybe, you know, off. No. Gosh. I’m so out of ideas and even more desperate to get together the cash to study to be a teacher! (Now, please note, all of this goes through my mind whilst I’m sitting in front of Taddy, and smiling.) I’m sorry, I can’t afford it. I would give anything (here I really am contemplating giving everything, like my body and soul) to do this training. She smiles kindly at me and says, I offer the training myself, but its only a South African qualification, and thats R15 000.00 - (well thats R20 500 less than what I was just contemplating murder on). Done! I have R4500 deposit right now (thank you Rodriguez) and, can I pay off the rest? (Thats become my standard question, can I pay you off? Quite funny actually. I paid off my daughter’s birthday present, R50 a month for 4 months.)

I was her only student and would be receiving one-on-one training. I was nervous, excited and curious! I honestly had no idea what I had signed on for, and oh my goodness, was I in for a shock. 

A good shock. With our first session, I knew without a hesitation in my mind, that this was what I was supposed to be doing. The Montessori Method was what my brain was designed for. It made such complete sense to me, everything just went *click*click*click* into place. I realised that my whole life, my way of thinking, my experiences, my daughter, everything had lead me to this point. This learning. I am going to be a teacher. I am going to be a Montessori Teacher. This has become a mantra for me, I am going to be a Montessori Teacher. I had found my calling. My soul’s purpose upon this earth. And my studies began.

A Brief Acquaintance

With my new awesome, amazing, wonderful part time job in the fairy forest, I was travelling very far to work everyday. Now, there is only one person, me, that travels to this exact location. A lady that lives on the same farm as my father, heard from my Gift Mom that I travelled to said location, and she worked at the neighbouring farm, could I give her a lift one day? Sure! I’m always up for a hitch hiker and some petrol money. We started chatting, and I dropped her off at the office, in the forest. We arranged a meeting place and I went off to work. Pick up time comes and no hitchiker. Off I got to the office and poke around “hallo-ing” away, fending off the terrifyingly deadly friendly Labradors. A lady comes out, friendly as anything and introduces herself (name = gone, my brain is a sieve for names). She directs me to where my fellow traveller is waiting, and I carry on my merry way.  

A few days later, at Pick n Pay, a women walks up to me, all smiles and greets me as if we are the oldest of friends. I’m thinking, uh, should I run, or is she a customer of the studio? Anyway I pretend to know her too, and we chat like old friends. Eventually, I just can’t take it anymore, Im sorry, but who are you? (Ego, into pocket, embarrassed much?) She laughed, said she’s forgotten my name too, we met at the farm the other day. Oh ja! Thats it. *click*

A few days later, I bump into Belinda again, I’m in the car, she’s running (no one is chasing her, she is doing it for fun), and we start chatting and she says she is home schooling her kids and I mention that I’m studying Montessori. Conversation ends and we go our separate ways. A very brief acquaintance.

31 May 2016 - 19:02 

My phone rings. Thats enough to send any mother off a cliff. Suicide hour, as we fondly nickname it, is between 18:00 and 19:00. The baby had just gone down and she was still singing herself to sleep, which can take between 30 seconds and 2.7 hours, when the dastardly phone rang. Trying to sprint quietly is quite comical and I am so glad that no one was there to see it. It was my daughter’s pre-school Principal. Oh gosh, I thought, she's phoning me to shout at me because the school fees are late (Why do we always jump to negative conclusions). “Hello?” This phone call has changed my life. 

“Hi Talia, its Karen. I heard that you are studying to be a Montessori Teacher, when do you qualify?”

“Hi!” (huh?! This isn’t the blasting I was expecting) “Yes, I am studying, I’m due to qualify in December”

“Talia, I want to give you the pre-school”

*BLANK* - “Excuse me?”

“Haha! I want to know if you would like to take over the pre-school as the principal, owner and teacher?”

“I’m sorry, you want me to do what?” (I can be quite stupid at times)

“The school was given to me 5 years ago, I have loved it, and now it is time for it to be given onto someone else. Someone that is going to take it and run with it, make it into an amazing little school, and I know in my heart that you are the one. I want to know if you will take it, everything, the children, the equipment, the playground, everything…”

“I’m sorry, you want to GIVE me the school?” (At this point Im sure she was rethinking this, because I was definitely sounding thicker than a concrete wall.)

“Yes! Your name has come my way from Bellinda and another mom, and I want to ask you if you will consider taking over the school?” (WHO THE HELL IS BELINDA?? My brain is now going into overdrive to think who it could be…Lekker idiot)

“Uh… Like, the whole school? The kids and the building and the everything?” (My englishness is very deliciousness here)

“Well, no,” (I KNEW there was a catch!) “We will move the school to a new location, closer to town, which will bring more kids, and its a live in position, so you will have to move. But otherwise everything else is included, the kids, the equipment, the playground, the furniture, the fridge, the stove, the tables and chairs, everything, except the goats and donkey. Its yours, if you will consider taking it.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure that I’m understanding you properly.” (A la concrete wall stupid) “You want to GIVE me the pre-school? For nothing?”

“Yes.” (I can hear her mind going, maybe I should reconsider, this one is a bit on the thick side)

“Why me?”

“Because I know you are the right person, it feels right.” (she has met me for all of 3 minutes and I was asking for a discount on school fees. Blind)

I went into shock, sat down, poured a glass of wine, and did what anyone does in a situation. I called my mom.

Mom, don't get a shock, are you sitting down?

To be continued…