Travelling write along…

Such a simple choice, and yet...

Husband phoned late afternoon to inform me he was not coming home any earlier than 9pm. Something to do with a bunch of stuff that I don't understand...which led to the brilliant comment of, "So is it like when a circuit breaker trips in a house - but bigger?"

Anybody with an engineering background can now give their full sympathy to Husband.

At 7:20 I was reading stories to the midgets when there was an almighty crash in the garage. Turned out it was actually the garage door opening during wind gust due to Husband returning home. Now...something to do with hydrogen, again, and lack of, again. 

He still has to go back tomorrow. We're on holiday - can't you tell?

To celebrate Husband's early return (he left at 5:30am - slacker) I tortured Husband into watching me model various dresses and shoe combinations.

See, Husband has had me hire a babysitter for company dance on Friday. I don't want to go. He keeps insisting we should. I still do not want to.

I DO want to keep the babysitter, but go on date. You know, AT NIGHT. We did that once, back in early June. And yes, we've gone out twice for lunch since then, being the crazy kids we are. But I want to go out, AT NIGHT, again - without hanging out with those people he seems to have already moved in with during what was supposed to be our holiday. (Yes, that word, again).

We will ignore the fact that Husband's current schedule has the whole family up before sparrow fart and thus, you're a champion if you make it past 9pm.

We will also ignore the fact that he and I are awkward wall-flowers.

We shall also ignore the fact that the last semi-large group shin-dig I did with the folks at his work involved lots of chatter in Afrikaans, deliberately excluding me, and I dealt with the situation in the graceful manner by pouring myself more wine - a lot more wine. 

No - we will focus on the fact that we have a babysitter and I want to go out on a date.

So I devise master plan.

Step 1: Bought shoes. Yes, today, after swimming, with two small children, I preformed record breaking mad dashes in to various shops scanning for footwear that:

    a - Had heel

    b - I could dance in despite said heel

    c - That would match the two dresses that were appropriate for function

When I finally found the one pair of shoes that might fit the bill, I flagged down a reluctant retail assistant who moved a lot faster when I told her as soon as I found the right size I would remove the children from the store. (Son proceeded to slide down chaise lounge esq furniture to add emphasis to my point. Daughter proceeded to copy the manoeuvre while son was being scolded).

Step 2 - I showed Husband shoes - which have peep toe, which he finds weird (they cut out part of the shoe - why?)

Step 3 - I showed Husband why I needed the shoes if we were going to go to the dance by trying on dresses for dance and displaying my shoe collection (ball-skills running shoes are not okay).

Step 4 - Pull out sexy red dress which boast deep V plunge both in front and back that I bought six months ago thinking we'd go out on a date again. While prancing around in very adorable, yet inappropriate for work function dress, I mention that I could easily return new shoes and wear old "can't dance in" shoes if we went on date and not dance. And then I could wear the red dress.

With the evidence before him...he is giving the matter careful thought. He swears it has nothing to do with me returning the shoes, but he really does like red dress.

Me? I can't believe he still has to think about it. IT'S A RED DRESS!

Work - it has damaged him.

At least there are only three nationalities involved, I guess

Boy: But why might you go to [other town]?

Me: Because I have to file for my visa so I can stay here. Mummy isn't South African, so she has to get permission to stay.

B: But daddy was born in Africa.

M: Yes.

B: But not you. You are American-ish and English-ish, and came from that United States.

M: Yes.

B: But me and [sister] were born in England.

M: That's right.

B: Yeah, because you can't all be born in the same place. Have to have a new place.

M: Um...

[By the way, my days are all off, and I have missed "book day" two weeks in a row. I may give it a miss till the New Year. In the meantime, to all my American-ish friends and family: Have a Wonderful Thanksgiving.]

To summarize

Sunshine fills the town.

I'm wearing my favourite summer dress.

The family wakes with the sun. Once 7, then 6, then 5:30 ...till husband's new schedule now has us rise before 5.

We hardly see him.

Rejections came this past week, 1...2...3...

I keep typing. The words are piling up -  20,000, 30,000, 40,000....and then I take the shunned stories, rewrite, resubmit...

We've been to the beach, had picnics, with little naked behinds sprayed green with suncream. We've found tiny starfish and had serious discussions about plankton.

I have swayed in my hammock.

The guineafowl paraded their new chicks by our windows.

I hang the laundry every morning, usually before 8. This morning I was a bit late.

My daughter heard her voice first, and ran to the street to greet her.

We chatted. Her children are fine, she says. She is fine, she says. But her husband, he is not well, she says.

Five men.

They had been blocking the road so he honked his horn twice.

Honked his horn twice. 

Afterwards he laid so still she thought he was dead.

Not dead. But he may never hear out of one ear again. 

The story told, she took my daughter inside and let the tot dip rusks into her tea.

Cuteness overload

Only one swimming lesson left, and I'm going to lose it - she's so stink'in cute! Yes, son is doing well - but seeing an almost 5 year old swim is relatively normal. I'm very proud.

Back to the daughter.

She is soooooooooooooooooo cute. They have these little U cutouts and she swims from one end of the U to the other and pulls herself up. It is soooooooooooooooooo cute.

Today she would hardly swim off the steps. She just wanted to dunk herself in and twirl around. Under and float and be....cute. IT IS SO CUTE!

My mother owns an underwater camera. I don't know how we'll get through the maddening holiday crowd, but we'll have to brave them to get to a heated pool. Because it is just. too. cute.

(Yes, the diva does not take kindly to outdoor pools. She's 2. Try feeding a two year old. Exactly.)

Stephen King would not be pleased

Because my total word count for creative writing this weekend is 440. Yep. That's it.

And yes, the Husband has been working all weekend. And yes, my children do seem to be suffering from "concert hang-over."

No disrespect to Mr King, but I wonder if the reason Mrs. King has 7 novels published to his 30+ has less to do with marketing and talent, and more to do with...well...how the parenting got sliced up.

I could be wrong. Just a theory.

Unease

So I talked to the teacher. Yes, they would still love the cookies and cake - or whatever it is I bring. No, we can't do certificates - makes us look too much like Playball.

Frankly,  making 40 certificates is boring - but that is besides the point.

Her point is - if we look like we are the same then parents won't see why they should pay when they can get the equal for free.

Which would be a nightmare. I get that. If the world was in fair place, they'd all be in Playball and I would be a woman with more free-time. Although part of me is wondering why - if the school is so behind physical education - they simply don't make Playball mandatory and part of the fee structure - but what do I know about runnng a school.

Draw backs to my class are easy to number:

1 - Only one of me

2 - Any time I am sick, class is off

3 - Any time I'm on holiday, class is off

4 - I have never worked with this age group, I'm doing this by the seat of my pants. I can't promise a parent anything other than I hope the kids feel special and have fun. 

etc...etc...etc...

Consequently if not enough students sign up for Playball ball-skills would fall apart by the sheer numbers. I NEED kids to be in Playball.

But what irked me was her reason for why they handed out the certificates during the concert.

"Because you pay for that. To have your children recognised."

No, I didn't. But I couldn't explain this because both my children then hit meltdown and it was over.

But no, I thought what I was paying for was:

1. Specially trained coaches for this age group. Who know precisely what skills these children should be able to preform, and have the expertise to help your child if they are not meeting their targets.

2. The report I get every so often telling me where my child fits on the developmental scale for his age group - and ensuring he is okay (kind of like no 1). 

3. For a well-rounded good-quality equipment that isn't "make-do."

4. Which leads to a well-rounded high-quality program that is multi-sport based (ball-skills does nada with kicking...partly because I am rubbish at foot-based sports and have no clue how to teach it properly).

5. A guaranteed class, every week, by a professional who has outlined what they are doing for the day and has a program that is honed too meet all of the above.

I don't have that.

Yes, if any parent asked me what was for the best - I'd tell them Playball, no doubt.

But I DON'T send my child there so he can have a superiority complex above his peers. I DON'T shell out the cash so we can rub it in other people's faces.

I am happy not to make the certificates. Saves me time I didn't have anyway. Get them fancy stickers, and give the entire pre-primary food - because as I tell my son, "Sharing is caring, and caring is sharing," and the whole ethos about ball-skills is about having fun and making children feel special.

But NO, I did not pay money to return to the playground mentality where faux awards are presented as 'neer-ne-neer-ne-neer-na."

Standby - one, two, three...

Remember that concert? Well Husband did make it to concert on time. In fact, he's been home at a reasonable hour (for us) all week. There we were, basking in parental pride, waiting for the children to finish changing out of costumes and he leans over and whispers...

"Holiday might be off next week, too."

*insert rather annoyed look at Husband*

"The hydrogen has been delayed."

"Use helium. Both float."

*insert Husband's exasperated look with having to deal with mere mortals with BAs, instead of the la-de-da BS.*

Then over the next two days he's been drip feeding me other potential news...like potentially starting night-shifts, potentially working this weekend, and...this whole leave the wife completely for a few days and...

Being the mature person I am, this morning I pointed out that the gale-force winds had died down and they were predicting summer temperatures today. 

"Ah, what a lovely day for a holiday...think I might call X and see if they'd like to join us at the beach after school today."

Then I smiled as sweetly as I could, "Oh shame, you can't come. Oh well, we'll just have to have fun with out you."

Yeah...come to me for sympathy should your work ever dick you around. I'm very understanding, sweet and would never rub salt into the wounds.

Stunning and yet...

"Mrs Bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb....................... Are you coming to the concert?"

"Mrs Bbbbbbbbbbbbb.......... I'm going to be a cowboy are YOU going to watch me?"

"Mrs Bbbbbbbbbbbbbbb.......WHERE ARE YOU GOING??!!??"

To pick up my daughter and their grandmother and...sheeesh...I didn't even think that one knew me. "I'll be right back!!!!"

From the morning wake-up, to ball-skills to the pre-concert drop off - the air in this town was zinging with anticipation for the long awaited concert.

The words "Pre-Primary Concert" does not do justice to the songs, dances and routines with props and costumes...I'm still not entirely sure how the teachers pulled it off. 

What a night.

It hit me on the way to drop off that this was going to be about more than watching MY child. I've got rather protective of the kids in general. About half a kilometre away from the school I spotted another child walking with his mother, in the cold, taking the "no shoe" rule of the evening too seriously -  that this concert was going to be a lot more than watching MY son. I picked up the child and his mother and introduced myself by name and then added, "Oh - I'm also the Mrs B."

She wouldn't shut up. Quiet, but determined flattery - he talks about me and the class all the time. I think I went red.

That night I sat there thrilled to see my child perform - but also losing it when a shy one I know did something bold, the absent minded one remembered his steps - when all these kids that I know and see every week pulled it off.

It was amazing.

Yet ...

Playball, the organisation that runs the PE classes, was there. It was the night where the paid support staff were given their thank yous. Playball coaches had come to watch - which I thought was terribly sweet. People were thanked, including the Playball Coaches and we all applauded. They've been working at this school for YEARS and have a brilliant relationship with the school.

Then all the Playball children were called on to the stage.

And one-by-one handed out "award certificates."

My son was the first to be called forward.

A lovely moment - isn't it? To see your son getting a little award?

Until you look at the two sets of bleachers and see the rest of "your kids" being left out. I wanted to get up and give each of them a hug right then and there.

Two-thirds of the students - being left out. Sitting there, watching children getting recognised with huge applause for the sole reason that their parents can pay for this class. It isn't a hockey team. It isn't a "we'd like to recognise our champion netball players this year." Nor were the child given antidotes for "best kick." It is a PE class for a price. The awards were simply for participating - not any great athleticism. It was, and only was, these are the kids in the class - are they not great?

And I wanted to scream.

I wasn't the only one who noticed.

I am trying to find a tactful way to ask why these certificates where not handed out at the final class? Because the whole stunt robbed me of my own joy when my son said, "Mummy, mummy - look - I got a certificate!"

Husband has theory it is done in this manner to give one big guilt trip to the rest of the parents so next year they'll fork out the money they don't have.

Ball-skills' kids are going to have a group cupcake feast (heaven help me - I'm not a baker) and we were going to invite all the kids (even Playball ones) to join in. Just plain fun and "I love you and will miss you."

I wasn't going to hand anything out - but maybe...I don't know. When I spoke to the teachers yesterday they hadn't thought I needed to do much - "Playball kids only get a plain certificate" - not mentioning they would be handed out to a full house of parents, students and teachers on a stage.

Minor detail.

And I know the deal.

That ball-skills has to lay low.

We cannot have our class on the same day.

We can not be viewed as competition. 

But I couldn't shake the feeling that the whole stunt was, beg your pardon, mean.

How long is it?

Stephen King is a bit of a mind fu....

And I'm not talking about his popular novels. I do recommend reading On Writing. I am keeping it on my desk as his simple, but pointed, editing tips are what I need. I am my own worst editor, as this blog proves. 

I steamed through this book rather happily. Most of it had me going, "Yep, agree - do that, too..." (minor over editing freak out aside). Read the sections on reading and writing daily and that was good too. Well, until he suggested "starting" with 2,000 words a day.

Ach!

2,000 words - in one day? Occasionally I have a mind burst and I steam through that number - but every day? On the same piece? I do half that. Which probably drives home why he has sold over 30 books, and I sort of published one. Ye gads - 2,000 words! I tried yesterday, I really tried - didn't happen. Woe is me.

THEN he went on to talk about a good novel length - 180,000 words. Where I had to pick myself off the floor and have a good think about this one. I don't like to disagree with somebody who has made millions off his writing - esp given that my earnings are rather wee. But in today's world, generally speaking of course, agents and publishers do not take kindly to "new talent" throwing a tome at them. 70-80,000 words is about max - so I've been told.  And I have sneaking suspicion that in South Africa, where the costs of books are out to reach for the majority of the population, printing costs etc alone make publishers lean towards the leaner stories. 

But I can't stop thinking about it - 180,000 words! I love thick books - but sometimes short and sweet is good too.

So I hit Dr Google to see what it had to say and found this on Wikipedia. 

I had no idea Animal Farm was so short - 30,000 words. And I am staring at my own copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God and I confess I would have guessed at least 75,000 rather than the 61,000ish claimed. But I suppose what is notable in both those books is a lot is packed in to such little space. 

So I started glancing through my shelves, and note that they do seem to come in a varied breadth and weight. However, my South African fiction seems firmly in the slim zone (non fiction can get heavy...lift weights with Long Walk to Freedom).

Which got me wondering - do you ever avoid a book because it is too skinny or fat? I don't think I have. Well, with exception to bathtub reading - no hardbacks allowed.

Awkward wall-flowers unite!

It is getting crazy over here. More than your typical holiday hub-bub - but End of School year hub-bub.

Asked swim teachers yesterday how many lessons we have left and - 3.

?

I swear that was another week after that - but apparently there isn't because next week is actually the last week of November.

Did you know that?

Because I sure as heck didn't - despite having calendars everywhere, including my computer.

I didn't know.

Honest.

In the meantime, while I don't think our home holiday is totally squelched, it is going to be significantly shortened. We can't add the extra days to the back side of home holiday, either, since those f@ckers Husband's work is sending said Husband away on crucial training. 

Of course. 

In the meantime son's all important end of the year activities are looming - including the stupendous concert of which much anticipation is occurring.

And...I've got people rearranging their lives on me left, right and centre.

I know I should be more understanding. People have lives. They are allowed to have lives. Things happen. But I guess since I am:

A - Mother to two small children

B - Wife to Husband who is having an affair with his work

C - Deal with "Work" community (yeah, we all hang out like one big dysfunctional village) who are coming to dinner - not coming to dinner - hi...anybody home...oh...you're in your bathrobe - yes, I am!

In short, I get the "be on stand-by" and family PA syndrome quite enough with out the rest of the world treating me like theirs as well.

And yes, I do have a chip on my shoulder about it all.

And yes, I do have a working theory that this has something to do with me being a stay-at-home-mom and that my "work" is an activity I can do any old time because I stay-at-home - forgetting that the word "mom" is at the end of the sentence and the rest of you work-out-of-the-home-parents contract out the childcare for very good reasons. Children and other job do not gel together well. In fact, they are pretty much incapable. 

I'm digressing.

In the meantime, despite said nonsense, husband's co-workers (only qualified engineers can babysit our kids) came through and watched our children so we could be awkward wall-flowers (yes, there are wall-flowers and then there are awkward ones...how two such people managed to marry is only the result of sharing the same wall and a very loud American, who funnily enough, is not me).

It was sweet. I was the first up on the whole thank-you list because I "coach" the youngest children. Apparently I am the first person to coach this age group. I was rather surprised by this fact, and cannot tell you why.

My gift was actually two gifts - as a little bag was presented to the "assistant" coach. They match. Official pre-primary t-shirts, just like my son owns, so we shall all match like one big corn-ball (but happy) family on Wednesday. 

I think it is good that I went. Not so much for the recognition along with the rest of the coaches, but so the staff who were there now know why this nutty woman with a baby on her back is seen around the school from time to time.

And the teacher from the pre-primary section did make a rather big deal about the fact I do this with a kid-in-tow and had to find my own funding "from overseas" - which drew a bit of a surprise. So to all my donors - people are awed that there are a bunch of non-locals that cared enough to help. Frankly, I am too. Thank you. We're having a ball.

(Please, you got that - right?) 

As to ball-skills, I have four Wednesdays left before the year ends. Then I say good bye to more than 2/3rds of my kids. Mr. B (aka Husband) is coming to guest coach next week provided Work does not pull any more stunts. Final week will involve me making a gazillion cupcakes and probably not many balls.

And I am going to miss all those stinkers moving on to Grade 1, like crazy. My best, most eager class - those big kid coaches have no idea how lucky they are to be getting them. (All children in Grade 1 and up must sign up for some sort of team  - most of which are run by volunteers).

Which the teacher kind of said, in her own way. That the school as a whole is going to realise how much we have done not now...but next year - when suddenly all these little sporty kids come up who are not from the typical privileged background. 

Husband asked if I would want to coach the older kids as my own kid got bigger - which to be fair, most parents do. I said no.  I don't coach my own kid as it is. Frankly, I like not having to worry about other teams, other coaching, the travelling - and most of all - not dealing with parents. 

Awkward-wall flower enjoys hiding. 

And not dealing with parents.