People Ask Me Why - A single mom's journey to the Garden Route

18 October 2015

People ask me why I came to the Garden Route. This is the place where barefoot hippies have wild children, they hungrily sell their crafts for tourist’s spare change, and drive the rust bucket in which you can see the road through the floor, to buy the week’s groceries. This is the place where the Trustafarians drink coffee in the morning on their balconies overlooking the splendour of their oceanic view, and meander off to the “local” to idle the day away in their right of trust funds. This is the place where the overly rich stop off to holiday in their luxurious summer palaces and bring the city to the village. This is the place where the almost dead retire from life, where they while away their pensions in a rocking chair of wisdom and knowledge. This is the place where the divide between the rich and poor is a canyon, there is no middle class. This is the place where the ocean meets the lagoon, with the mountain smiling at their union. 

People ask me why I would leave an illustrious career in the film industry, rubbing shoulders with gold star directors and infamous actors, where the living was good and the wine was vineyard inspired. How I could leave a career I have built my life around, since 17, where I have worked my way up from a coffee serving lackey to working on the Avengers: Age of Ultron (I licked Iron Man’s suit). 

As I sit on the bottom step of my farm cottage, on a Saturday afternoon, watching the trees turn purple, listening to the fish eagle calling his mate home, and watching my daughter growl, giggle and gurgle as she chases, well awkwardly “crawls”, 3 legged, whilst the other hand is shovelling a careful selection of ants into her mouth. Sitting here nursing my lonely, broken heart and empty purse, wondering why? Why did I come here. This is the reason. The simple act of watching her and pondering life’s small pleasures. 

21 October 2015

Today is a beautiful day, its the same feeling everyday, wake up next to my angel child and wonder what the day will bring, my house is calm and peaceful. The morning pee releases the only tension in my body, and I sigh, with a sleepy groan. Check the electricity meter. Ok, Geyser on. Kettle on. Radio on. 

The wriggle bum is still dead. With her arms flung carelessly over her head, and her puckered mouth wide open, generally with a line of spit trailing onto a maroon wet patch on the sheet. My sheet is red, until she sleeps on it, which results in pooh brown, milky formula, wee-wee patch, sweaty head and spit stained maroon derivative. My city-pigeon cream duvet, which, a few past lives ago was forest dove white, is haphazardly entangled amidst pre toddler, nappy-changing-distraction teddy, swaddle blanket and midnight bottles. The benevolent, pied piper dummy is  supposed to be somewhere in there. However,  after a moan and squeal mid-sleep it falls out her mouth. The goblins (aka little fuckers) are on standby to whisk it away to the furthest middle point under the bed base, where it is impossible to access at 3am, amidst a stupor of befuddled sleep and screeching pre toddler, sorry, demon re-incarnate. 

Will I run out of diesel today? The 7am messages start - 

FNB :-) Your account is in arrears, make a deposit today to avoid debits being dishonoured. 

Vodacom, your debit order has been returned unpaid, please SMS ARR to… I try, but you have to pay for THAT sms, so it doesn’t go through, because there’s no airtime, so the message sits in my inbox, with a huge red !!, like a pimple on your forehead. You can forget its there, till you look in the mirror. 

Dear client, this is a final notice to settle the outstanding balance of…

FNB (no smiley face)- Regrettably we have not recieved your credit card payment.

Then the phone starts ringing - “eh, hello. Can I please speak to Mr. T. Pieters.” 

“This is Miss PietersE speaking”

“Eh, yes, Mrs Piters, please not that this call is recorded. I am calling you from Mr Price” 

If I’ve stayed on the line long enough to get to that point, it usually culminates in me telling them that I don’t appreciate being called out of office hours, and that they should gently fuck off, kindly, please.

And the day starts like that. 

The Day I Left My Home

"Vat heirdie fokken kind voor ek haar gooi"

Monday morning. Alexandria is 11 weeks today. I woke up with the unconscious knowledge that today would be the day I would leave my life behind. I would walk out of my front door for the last time. Kiss my kitties goodbye and I love you, for the last time. I would sleep in my bed for the last time. I would call my flat "home" for the last time. For the last time, I would have a home, for a very long time.

Her ginormous nappy bag is packed for her day at creche.
5 Nappies - check
1 wet bag - check
4 Bottles and formula - check
2 Pied piper dummies - check
3 Bibs - check
2 sets of clothes - check
2 blankets - check
1 Packet wet wipes - check

Thats the normal bag-pack for a day out. The lounge couch could be somewhere in there too, and the bath. She is still dead in bed. I'm dead in my head. Shower. Get dressed. Pin up my hair. No make up. Lug the dead-weight out of her warm spot, feed the screech till it tones down to a comforted suckling. Dress my heart. Kiss her soft spot on her head. Load me up, the pack horse. Grab my heart child. Walk out the door, without a second glance, or even the conscious thought that this was the last time.

I left with nothing. Not a thought. Not even a spare nappy. I just went to work.

That night I found myself on the edge of a lake, pouring my broken heart to my mother. She gave comfort and advice. She bought wine and dinner. I brought abusive nightmares, indecision, fear and an emotional monster. Later that evening, on a couch turned white with dog hair, and the kind, smiling eyes, of a beautiful angel lady, Sherene, my eyes cried till the lake overflowed, and the house was dry of any wipeable surface for snot. She was our refuge for the night. She never asked a question, or turned a cold grimace. She welcomed 3 generations of women, 2 of them broken, and only one too small and new. I was a broken mother, seeking solace for my daughter. And then there was my mother, my mother, my mother... who is wordless to describe. My mother, for all of the emotions that word holds - mother - she was holding the tissues, and the wine. She had bought some nappies and a toothbrush.

Sherene is a kind elder lady, with a hot young fling on the side. She loves her dogs and her cats and Mr Charles Harrington, the Cat. She opened up her home, her heart and her spare room for a mother in need, and an infant in deed. The bed had a large doily throw, and crocheted pillows. Old lady pink, a shag carpet, and an antique-rose inspired lampshade adorned the room. It was a cocoon of talc smell and comfort in the bosom of an elder. I slept, wept and slept. And when the tissues were finished, I wiped my nose on my sleeve.

Day 1.