Tag Archives: Parenting

The one line or two

I surfaced from the fog somewhat reluctantly, I will admit, since at the time, I did not normally wake up before midday on weekends unless we were attending a function that had a very specific and immovable starting time. I rubbed my eyes and managed to grunt something along the lines of “What?”

The muffled echo of the sound in my head as I spoke was because of the consumption of copious amounts of beer the night before. A recreation from a simpler time, a time before I turned forty and a pastime that has since been relegated exclusively to every second New Year’s Eve and then only on a much, much smaller scale.

“I said do you see one stripe or two?” My beautiful wife was sitting on the edge of the bed holding out a pregnancy test for my inspection. “It’s very feint, but I think we’re pregnant.” She was glowing. At least that is how I remember it. Then again it might just have been the sun shining into the room, through the curtains specifically designed not to block out any light whatsoever from the east facing windows but which were ‘absolutely the right curtains for the room’ that was framing her in silhouette.

But I digress, I had to agree, the smudge I was looking at on the stick did in fact look like a positive result. We resolved to go for a formal blood test, which google indicated was a relatively simple procedure that would take about an hour to yield a result.

I am not sure I can adequately describe the excitement I felt that day. A euphoric, child-like giddiness that had me beaming from ear to ear. Not even the dreariness and banality of the pathologist rooms could dampen the fluttering of the butterfly wings in my belly and the big drum-thumping of my heart in my chest. The nurse took a blood sample from my wife and we went for breakfast to chew up the hour or so while we waited for the results to come back.

I know what I had for breakfast that morning because I always have the same thing. An English breakfast or whatever is closest to that on the menu and a diet cold drink. Yes diet, like that actually makes a difference when you’re scoffing bacon. I think my foot tapped the entire time we were there and after the longest breakfast in recorded history, we headed back to the pathologist. I was excited and overwound to the point of snapping when we walked up to the reception desk to collect the results. The nurse handed us ‘the’ piece of paper without comment and I swear, I heard a drumroll in the background as we had a look at it.

Nothing in life is ever that straight forward though. What I expected to see was something descriptive and quite formal like ’pregnant’ or ‘positive’. I would even have settled for something biblical like ’you are with child’ or perhaps a ’thumbs up’ emoji even though it was a few years too early for that. But no, what I saw instead was a mess of numbers and dates and tables. A little confused, we leaned over the counter and asked the nurse to show us exactly where the actual result was because, you know, the bloody piece of paper was just about as clear as frozen Diet Coke.

Shakespeare said, “I am not bound to please thee with my answers.” I think this is a nice way of saying ’tough’ when giving someone an answer to a question they have asked you, that is the opposite of what they were expecting to hear. With that in mind, imagine my complete exasperation when the nurse told us that only a doctor could interpret the result for us. So sorry, but we would have to wait until Monday. Imagine that.

Ja, neither could I.

This particular pathology lab, which will have to remain nameless for obvious reasons, presents their results on a notepad-sized piece of pre-printed stationary. Half of the page is dedicated to company logo and credentials (read clutter) and the balance of the page is dedicated to reference tables against which to measure your result. Indeed, the focus given to the salient bit of information, the actual test result, is about the same amount as that given to nutritional information for a chicken nugget on a menu at McDonald’s in 1984, which is to say, not that much really.

The problem here is identifying your result amongst all the prattle around it. It is quite simply put, the most nondescript piece of information on the document and unless you knew what you were looking for, you simply would not see it. I believe this to be by design. Because why would we want the average person to interpret the results of a pregnancy test? That would be disastrous since it would exclude the doctors from a potential first consultation where they look at the very same piece of paper from the pathologist, then gaze up at you over their spectacles and say, “Yes, you’re pregnant”.

As it turns out, with a little stiffening of resolve and bristling of mane, we managed to convince the nurse to show us where the result was, which we were then able to compare against the reference table, conveniently printed in the page. Despite the fact that neither of us had a medical degree, we were in fact then able to determine that my wife was indeed pregnant by a little over two weeks.

Mr and Mrs, your main feature will be starting in about 38 weeks, please grab some popcorn and take your seats.

We walked out of the pathologists rooms into the hallway and had a nice, quiet moment alone in each other arms. We were going to have a baby. How does one explain that feeling to someone who is not already a parent and who is not actively trying to become a parent? I guess the short answer is you simply cannot.

It is a moment I will remember for as long as I live, or at the very least until old age and senility rob me of my faculties and bladder control, whichever comes first.


The settling in

Long before our arrival in Australia, we were planning for our adventure by wrapping up the sale of our home, sorting out what needed to go on the container and what needed to stay behind, settling open accounts and dealing with all the other minutiae of our lives in South Africa.

Part of that process included, hunting for houses to rent. We waded through literally hundreds of properties using a handful of property apps and did virtual tours and street views and comparisons aplenty. We ‘placed’ our furniture in rooms some eleven thousand kilometers away and looked at gardens and parks for our children (and dog) to play in.

Of course, before we arrived here, we couldn’t actually commit to any of those houses and there were a few properties we would have loved to have seen in person that sort of slipped by us online. Then suddenly, we were here and the flag fell on our temporary accommodation. The clock was ticking.

What followed was a couple of frantic weeks of serious house hunting. By serious of course I mean looking at around fifteen houses, only half of which we could reasonably expect to afford the rental for. We even opportunistically darted into a mansion of a house that was for sale for an eye watering amount in any currency. At the door I handed over my contact details to the agent and proceeded to stroll around the palatial home with all the confidence of a Prince wandering around his grounds, master of all he surveys.

Now for a small confession.

For almost all of these house inspections, we took our halflings with us. I feel I must apologize to all of the agents that showed these homes by saying that my eldest has a habit of needing to make use of the water closet whenever we are out and about. I won’t reveal which house this happened in but, in one particular home my boy announced the imminent arrival of a ‘number two’ and then he proceeded to ruin the quality of the air in the top half of that particular home for at least the balance of the day. It was a horror story.

Fortunately, there were three key factors that allowed us to ‘drop and go’ without having to own up to the agent in person. First, the home was empty. Second, the agent was giving us time on our own upstairs to browse and third, there were no other prospective tenants viewing the home alongside us. So…plop, plop, flush!

In the end, we actually did manage to find a home we liked that didn’t require one of us to donate a kidney on the black market to rent it. Truth be told, it fell into our laps and through a twist of fate in the universe, we were the only people that saw the home that day that had decided to put an application in – which was accepted.

As is often the case when making big decisions, we started to second-guess our decision the moment the deposit was paid. First, the online listing was taken down after we paid the deposit so we couldn’t go back and revisit the home one last time. Then I discovered that despite walking through the home in the middle of the afternoon, I had no memory at all of anything in the house upstairs. It literally could have been pink carpet made from feather boa’s with suits of armor on the walls. It seemed that all the homes I had visited that day had begun to merge into a single, blurry, four bedroom house with doors and windows and garages and bathrooms.

Fortunately, my wife had a very clear image in her head and she convinced me that this was actually the home for us. There was some disagreement initially about how big the living area in the new house was. One of us (won’t say who) was spatially challenged in this area. That said, in the end, there was an agreement to disagree and simply bypass the space issue entirely by buying a brand new lounge suite.

See Ikea.

I hope that when the time comes to fit our old 55 inch TV in the lounge that we are both equally as eager to replace it with something in the 65 inch ballpark. Fingers are firmly crossed on this hot potato.

So, four short weeks later and we are in the house with a few sticks of furniture around us while we wait for all our worldly goods to arrive. We have it on good authority that delivery of our things will be made in the next few days and this being a pretty organized society, I’m actually inclined to believe them. I mean, so far, the only thing Australia has gotten wrong is putting four (not two) swivel wheels on their shopping trolleys.

I can tell you now without hesitation that of all the things in the container, we as a family are all very excited to see the arrival of the LEGO and the PlayStation (our babysitter) which we have sorely missed these past two months.

The sitting on the dock of the bay

So we’re settling into our new life in our new city quite nicely. We are making adjustments as we go and this is key, since using African thinking in an Australian city will stitch you up. Let me explain.

A couple of weeks ago we attempted a visit to the city. It’s about thirty kilometers away so we, against the advice of locals, hopped into the car and simply drove to Sydney. We figured; it was a weekend, the freeway would be clear, the city would be empty, we’d find somewhere to park and we’d hop on a ferry to a touristy beach. I mean really, how hard could it be?

Well, to put it quite bluntly, it’s was pretty bloody hard. Let me say right upfront that we never made it to a beach, nor did we make it onto a ferry.

We made it into the city without any problems, but from the moment we arrived, there was a problem. The city actually has quite a significant skyline with plenty of skyscrapers. These things block GPS signals very effectively and turn the car (and smartphone) satellite navigation systems into what are essentially very confused American women directing you around a city using smoke signals on a windy day.

So, not that awesome really.

That said, we found a parking garage, just a few blocks away from the Sydney Opera House which we thought was quite convenient – but it turns out that convenience comes at a price. The rates on display for the day were as steep as one would expect pay if one was parking at Buckingham Palace for the day and were parking in the Queen’s bay to boot. So after an illegal reverse maneuver back onto the street, we managed to escape the clutches of parking debt and quickly made our way back over the Sydney Harbour Bridge to the North Shore where we assumed we would be able to find street parking.

A good hour later we figured out that most of the bays in the city are one hour parking bays (which you pay quite dearly for). Then, in order of increasingly scarce availability, there are two, four and eight hour bays available that don’t cost quite as much as the Queen’s parking bay, but do cost an arm, a leg and a tiny sliver of your soul.

We eventually found a four hour bay very near to a ferry dock and swiped our credit card through it which, for a South African, is a pretty big leap of faith. At this point we had accepted that a trip to Bondi Beach via the ferry was out of scope but decided we’d settle for a walk around the Opera House and perhaps a bite to eat at a restaurant on the other side of the bay.

The Kirribilli dock was a stones throw away from our car and we trotted confidently down onto the dock and took a seat on the bench. Opal cards in hand, we settled down for a ten minute wait for the next ferry that would scoop us up and ‘ferry’ us across the bay to the Opera house which we could see clearly across the bay.

So close.

It wasn’t to be though. We spent the next hour and a half watching ferries diesel past us in all directions. Google searches and app downloads followed to try figure out when the next ferry was going to arrive and each time the timetable teased us with another ten minutes, another seven minutes, another two minutes. The ferries all just passed us by.

Finally, the little guys made it quite clear that they were no longer prepared to wait for a ferry and demanded food, which we as parents were then obliged to provide as soon as possible, or face the wrath of two hangry children. If you’ve been here, you know. A hangry child is as close to Mr. Hyde as one is likely to get in real life.

So we walked around until we found a street cafe and plopped down to eat. Then, tails firmly between our legs, we headed home.

We learnt some valuable lessons that day. We are essentially tourists in our bee city and as such we will, in future, always have a backpack with snacks and water on hand. We will always wear comfortable shoes. We will never take the car to the city again. We will always plan our trip in advance and we will always make sure we’re sitting at the right dock to actually be picked up by a ferry. Always.

To top it off, like drowning men, we managed to pull several other tourists into the drink with us. We convinced them that a ferry was on its way momentarily and they believed us. By the time we left, a large group of tourists had clumped together on the dock in the belief that transport was moments away, all waiting for a boat that would never come. Sorry.

Apparently, Kirribilli is where the Australian Prime Minister lives and perhaps the ferries were skipping that dock because the Prime Minister has his own boat (the Australian version of Air Force One). Perhaps we were just green tourists sitting at the wrong dock. We’ll never know.

But in hindsight, the three guys fishing off the dock when we arrived should really have given us all clues we needed to know that the probability of a ferry showing up any time soon was very slim indeed.

The house

In a few more days, the place we’ve called home for just short of eight years, will be an empty shell. We’re moving home, country and continent and the bricks we’ve surrounded ourselves with will soon surround nothing but memories.

Tonight is the last night I’m going to spend in this house and I thought it fitting that I paid a brief tribute to it by wandering around it in my mind and jotting down the things that stand out.

Some of the memories I have will have a physical record that will linger on long after we’ve left. Things like the growth chart on the bedroom door recording heights and dates in permanent marker. It’s been painted over now to make it look fresh and shiny, but it’s still there, under the surface and will probably be there until the door is replaced. I like the idea that someday, paint might chip off the door and then a little bit out our history here will resurface.

Then there’s the boy-cave in the bottom of the garden, reserved for members only, where bricks have been carefully stacked into seats and a table and all the favourite sticks are propped up in the corner. It’s a little overgrown but it’s there, built by determined, muddy little hands at play.

I took a picture of the rows of stickers on the wall next to the toilet where potty training was done. These are badges of accomplishment and a reminder of all the times we cheered the little guys on for making it to the toilet on time. They will be removed by the new owners, I’m sure, but they’ve been there for a long time and now that I’ve snapped a picture of them for this post, they’re likely to live on a lot longer.

I want to add a shoutout to the chalkboard paint wall in the kitchen, where I was tasked to draw (and redraw) Yoda, Darth Vader, Chewbacca and the like in chalk despite not really having much of a knack for chalk as a medium. It’s blank now, but it used to have the school schedule scrawled on it and was where activities for the term were plotted out next to reminders to buy peanut butter. I’m going to miss that.

The kitchen island was the center of the house, complete with two stools that had boys planted in them every morning, afternoon and evening for mealtimes. This too is where the feeding chairs used to be and by extension from where food was spread evenly and generously all over the kitchen. I’m pretty sure there’s solidified (petrified) baby food and peanut-butter under the rim of the counter. It’s also where homemade pizza’s were crafted from raw ingredients and dished out in slices to hungry mobs.

There’s the spot behind the couches in the living room where literally endless hours of LEGO was imagined and planned and built and played with. Sound effects were usually added for Star Wars LEGO and for me, will always echo there.

That one garden sprinkler, just off the patio, that popped up during a play session on the grass and then created a jolly good mud bath has been digitally recorded. I’d like to think that when it jumps up out of the ground in the future (once the drought is over), it might just remember a sunny afternoon when it surprised a one year old boy in a red t-shirt and a nappy and got to witness pure joy.

The two steps into the dining room represent obstacles that my boys, and our dog, had to navigate successfully before they could move freely about the house. They were at times naughty steps where time-outs were had and the very place where shoelaces were tied every morning before school. Also responsible for bruises and tears when warnings of ‘go backwards down the stairs’ were not heeded.

The walls and ceilings in the room where light shows were held, complete with stars and planets and rockets and the odd shadow puppet made with clumsy hands by the dad. All burned into our memories.

I almost want to leave post-it notes around the house to tell the new owners that the bunk-beds go here and the changing table goes there and this step is where the shoes are clumped together until they reach a critical mass. Oh, and over here, on the carpet in the afternoons, the sun streams in and makes the little guy look like sprite while he plays with his cars.

The walls and ceilings and floors have absorbed thousands of hours of laughter, tears and tantrums, shrieks of joy, endless conversations about everything and anything that popped into little heads at bedtime and uncountable bedtime stories.

We’ll take these memories with us when we go and I hope somehow, the house remembers us.

The down undah

A few short months ago, an opportunity to relocate our family to Australia presented itself. My wife and I immediately grabbed at it with both hands and in around three and a half weeks from today, we’ll be boarding an intercontinental flight and saying goodbye to almost everything we know.

It’s quite a daunting prospect. There are a myriad of things to wrap up and to check off and to be honest, I’m not sure we fully understood just how much preparation and planning this would all take when we started. That said, it became clear early on that the entire buildup to the actual flight would be broken down into milestones. Each of these would have a series of preparation steps and an agonizing waiting period before one could move on to the next step.

That became our reality.

There were interviews and emails and very early morning calls. There were periods of gathering documents and certificates, the filling in of all manner of online (and paper) forms and many more visits to our local home affairs office than any human being should have to be subjected to in one lifetime. I spent so much time sitting in a chair in home affairs, waiting for my ticket to be called, that I began to feel like somehow I was doing something wrong and that it was not the grinding bureaucracy that was at fault but rather my selfish need to be validated by a series of documents and stamps and digital records. I’m actually quite proud of the fact that I only lost my temper once. It could easily have gone the other way where I could have made my way into a local news report as a story about a public disturbance where some reported them coins the phrase ‘queue rage’.

When the news finally came through that everything had been approved, that visas had been issued and that short of a comet striking the earth or our airline going out of business, we were definitely going to go, we were elated to the point of floating. We were actually in bed, half asleep when an email alert dinged quietly in the room indicating that an all important communication from Australia had arrived. It really was a champagne moment, without the actual champagne as there was work the next morning and it was two in the morning. All we could do at that point was congratulate each other and roll over and try go back to sleep. Quite anti-climactic really.

Through all of that though, by far the biggest hurdle we have faced this far was telling our children what we were doing. We agonized over when to do it for weeks. In the beginning, we didn’t want to tell them our plans for fear that they would amount to nothing and then all of the worry and uncertainty that would come with sharing the plans with them would have been wasted. We resolved, early on, to wait until the visas were approved and almost made it to that point.

But then, one evening, we found ourselves sitting them down on the couches in our living room, explaining to them, as tears welled up in their wide eyes, that we were going to leave our country and go on a great adventure. With children, phrasing is everything.

Immediately there were questions and tears and worry. All driven by fear of the unknown, fear of change. We did our best to answer all of the questions as honestly as we could. Thing like ‘what about our grandparents’ and ‘what about all of our friends’ were particularly difficult to answer because the relationships they have now are all going to change dramatically.

We committed to them that we would Skype and FaceTime and WhatsApp and message everyone here as often as they wanted and we said we’d travel home for visits as often as we could.

But then we switched gears and began to focus on all the positives. Our dog, for instance, was going with us. We would get to choose our new home as a family. We would get to buy a new car as a family and we would get to choose new schools as a family. All decisions that traditionally we’ve made as parents without their input. Now they were officially empowered to be a part of those things.

Then we began to google cool things to do in our new city (and country) and we realized that we could literally be tourists every weekend, for years and not see the same thing twice.

In the end though, the deal clincher was a promise to visit Disneyland next year when the Star Wars attraction opens. We showed them the artists impressions and reasoned with them that it was much easier to fly to California from Sydney than from Cape Town. That did it, they were all aboard from that very moment onwards.

In hindsight, we really should have opened with Star Wars.

The love story

If you ask a hundred people what love is, you will probably get a hundred different answers. The reason for that is; love is subjective, it is quite different for each of us and we have different shades of love for all of the people in our lives.

There is that first love that most of us are fortunate enough to know, the love we have for our parents. They are our touchstones, our guides, our protectors. In truth, they are our gods until we are old enough to perceive something bigger. The love we have for our parents shapes and defines us. It is the bedrock and from it all other love flows.

As we grow into little humans, there’s the love we have for our siblings. This love is always present but we hardly ever acknowledge it formally and when we quarrel, as sibling do, it is easy to lose sight of it, but it is always there. There are times, especially when we are younger, that we will utter nonsensical things like “I’m not going to be your brother/sister anymore.” But these times are transient (or should be) and in the end, our siblings are the people we will probably love the longest throughout our lives given that we usually outlive our parents and pass on before our children.

There is that very first love. You know the one. That shy flower, hidden behind a back and presented with a flourish in a schoolyard. That toothy, toothless smiling kind of love we have when we first start to see flashes in others of the qualities we will inevitably be drawn to when we’re older. It is honest, it is simple, it is innocent. It is also the yardstick that the romantics among us will hold all of their future relationships up to.

Adolescent love seems to consume us entirely, lasting for a few, confusing and tumultuous years. It clouds our minds and we take it so seriously as we believe it to be utterly unique, as if no one has ever known this type of love before or ever will again. It is tears. It is laughter. It is hormones. It is practice for the main event. This is also a time where most of us will experience that most cruel form of love, unrequited love, that is all at once everything and nothing. That feeling of being full and empty at the same time. It is longing, it is lonely and it burns in our chests like a lava in an abyss. This is a chapter in some of our lives that we wish was over the very moment it begins.

The love we have for our pets is a simple love. It is quiet, it is kind. It is comforting and altogether one of the most rewarding expressions of love we can have. Throw a ball and you’ll see what I mean.

The love we have for our friends is loyalty, it is familiarity, it is camaraderie. It has no constraints and no complications. It is probably the easiest kind of love which is why we can have more than one friend. If it is done right, it lasts a lifetime.

The love for a soulmate is a mix of everything we know about love to date. All of it rolled into one. When you find it, you know. It is as simple as that. You remember every shade of love you’ve experienced and you feel it for another human being. This person is the one that fills the gaps in our hearts and minds. The one person that we’ll tell all of our secrets to – and everyone else’s. The one person that you want to share everything with and until you do, it’s not entirely real. It is also the one love that changes most over time, that we have to keep up with lest we fall behind.

Then there is the love we have for our children. How does one put this love into words? It transcends everything else. It is the one love we cannot know or understand fully until we actually have children. It is that deep sense of purpose realised, this is why we are all here, a ‘now it all makes complete sense’ kind of love. It actually begins before your children are even a single cell dividing into two. In most cases you plan for children and from the moment you do, they are real to you, you love them. You begin to imagine what they will be like and watch the clock tick away from the moment you find out you are to be a parent through the long months until they arrive. You buy clothes for them, toys for them, books for and about them. You nest for them. You plan and pray and worry about them at every step of their journey in the womb. You have sleepless nights just reading a brief paragraph in a baby book about some random illness that could befall them and find yourself angry at the universe that such a thing even exists. The love you feel for your child growing in their safe womb is so clear and palpable you could sculpt it out of stone with your bare hands.

Then suddenly the day arrives. Today your child will be born and the flood of emotion you feel is second to none. Your heart beats so loudly you feel that doctors and nurses around you may be distracted by the sound.

For those of you without children, imagine now if you will, compressing into a ball, every single emotion you’ve had from the moment you were born. Place that ball of energy squarely in your chest and you’ll have some idea of the feeling of expectation, joy, relief, love and white knuckled terror you have on the day your child is born.

P.S. It never goes away.

The simple life

Do you remember worrying about anything as a child? I honestly do not remember having any real worries. I remember that there were things I was allowed to do and things that got my name penciled in on the ‘naughty list’ but I certainly did not worry about them.

My parents sheltered my sister and I from the coarse realities of life. They gave me the gift of just being a child in a world where sometimes, the only thing I had to do was remember to switch off the garden hose after I’d been playing in the muddy water all day long.

I didn’t have to comprehend things like the rather awful connection between the roast lamb I was enjoying for Sunday lunch and the beloved lamb from Mary had a little lamb or the link between delicious rashers of bacon and the marvelous (lucky) pig from Charlotte’s Web.

As I grew older that sort of thing began to change, all rather organically. Again, my parents managed to allow the real world to dawn on me at a pace that I was comfortable with, until I was mature enough to understand things like bacon with a certain amount of perspective thrown into the mix.

That said, I was still boy then, a child no longer but not quite a teenager and the central theme of a poem by Longfellow resonates for me from that time of my life.

A boy’s will is the wind’s will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.

I was growing up and found that I now had equal parts additional freedoms and realities bestowed on me. More importantly, I was old enough for adventures beyond the cul-de-sac I lived in and I could have those adventures on a bicycle. This was a tool for taking me further away from home than I’d been before on my own, but just easily able to bring me back before the street lights switched on. The freedom of the wind in my scruffy hair. The freedom of scrapes and falls and ramps and punctures and near misses. All experiences guaranteed by the reckless abandon of youth. My favorite pastime by a country mile was freewheeling down the long main road in our suburb with my hands raised up over my head and the wind almost, but not quite, lifting me up into the sky like I was an extra in a scene from E.T.

My two little princes are just beginning to get glimpses of those freedoms. They can flit between our house and their grandparent’s house at will, but no further than the street we live in. They can ride their bicycles up and down our street, but only with parents hovering nearby. They can play in tree houses and swim in pools and walk the dog in the park, but only the closest park and again, all only with a chaperone.

I long to give them more and more freedoms because each new one, unlocks a brand new dimension of life for them to explore and for us as parents to enjoy watching them unpack like a Matryoshka Doll.

However I’m also going to leverage technology to keep tabs on them. You bet. They’re going to be covered with GPS trackers before they leave the house on any adventures that resemble something from Huckleberry Finn. In point of fact, I’m going to try stitch a drone to each of them that will follow them around, recording everything and ensuring they continue to make smart choices.

Life is no longer as simple as it was and let’s face it if you, as a child, knew your parents were watching you, more than half of what you did in a day would get vetoed by your internal common sense engine. You’d stop in your tracks and turn to look up at the drone and raise your hand – acknowledging you almost made a mistake.

That’s the theory anyway.

In all probability, they’ll be crafting weapons to shoot down the drones and attaching their gps trackers to stray animals before they set off on an adventure Mark Twain would have been proud to pen.

I need a nap just thinking about it.

The three little things

As a father of two boys that are growing up at an alarming rate, I find myself torn between two states.

First and foremost, I want to marvel at the wonder of my children experiencing all the magic that life has to offer. I look forward to them reveling in their youth and reaching their respective milestones; things like little teeth falling out or riding bicycles or learning to dive into the pool or being old enough to watch Star Wars.

It really is all kinds of awesome.

That said, a part of me also wants to keep them just as they are now, beautiful, loving, happy little boys that can still plant kisses on their Dad’s forehead without getting embarrassed and that count the number of sleeps until Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Mouse (that gives them cash for well-maintained little teeth) visit our home.

Living in those two opposite states is difficult. It seems strange too, I’ll concede that. I mean, I do understand that I can only live in the present, its not like I have the option to stay here indefinitely or visit the past and live there, but the truth is simply that I want both.

I want three little things, the yesterday, the today and the tomorrow.

I want to be able to hold my little guy’s hands again while he teeters around the house, taking his first steps on brand new feet. I want to watch him don his gown and set his cap on his curly mop of hair when he graduates from preschool.

I want to feed my eldest boy his first spoonful of peanut butter again and watch him spread it around his delighted little face using all ten fingers and both palms. I want to watch him walk his little brother into Grade 1 next year with his steady hand guiding and reassuring the little guy all the way to his new classroom.

I want to walk behind my little guy again as he scoots around on his plastic three wheeler push bike and listen to pure joy escape from his mouth in the form of loud, animated squeals of delight. I want to see him ride a big bicycle, complete with gears and shocks, over a ramp at a bike park and get ‘big air’.

I want to sit at that cafe in the mall again while my eldest, no more than a year old at the time, props himself up against the table and shouts at every single person walking by. First drawing them in, then dazzling them with a magnificent two-tooth smile and an unaffected belly laugh. I want to watch him delve into his first Hardy Boys book, reading by torchlight at bedtime and then flipping quickly past the scary bits with trembling hands.

I want to hear the little guy chug his bottle of warm tea at bedtime like a piggy and then listen for the empty vessel being tossed unceremoniously across the room when he’s done. I want to see him drive his first car around a parking lot on a warm sunny afternoon in November when he gets his learner’s permit.

I cannot have all of that though. I can have the two little princes they are right now and all the moments that lie ahead. It is the very definition of bittersweet.

I’ll simply have to resolve to take more pictures and videos of them so that from time to time, when I miss the earlier versions of these amazing little humans, I can turn back the clocks and see them again.

The mental age

I’ve been thinking lately about age. It occurred to me rather suddenly that I am now officially of ‘middle age’ – probably a little past the middle if I’m honest with myself. However that’s just the physical me, my chronological age. The ‘I’ in my head is somewhere around twenty five years old and he is just as real as the somewhat scuffed body he occupies.

That line of thinking brought with it a question; have my chronological and consciousness ages always been different or did they only start to drift in my mid-twenties?

Thinking back, I can’t remember a time in my early childhood where I felt older or younger than my age, I was a kid and every now and again a Birthday would roll around and I would count myself one year older. It was really pretty simple. I had no concept of age really other than to think that everyone taller than myself, was ‘old’.

My teens were spent wishing I was older. I remember that very clearly. I just wanted to be finished with school and the awkwardness of puberty and I desperately wanted to be able to drive a car. No one on this planet could possibly have wanted it more. Driving represented freedom and control of my own destiny and being able to play my own music on the car radio.

Oh, and I wanted to grow my hair. It was the eighties after all where every rockstar at the time had long hair and I wanted that more than anything too – except of course for being able to drive. But there, I always still felt my age, albeit in excruciating detail – by that I mean I was seventeen for what felt like an entire decade. True story.

I guess the argument could be made that the ‘I’ inside was actually younger than my physical age during those teenage years. Plenty of poor choices were made, which I won’t scare my mother with by committing them to this post. My early twenties were also filled with many poor choices but here I made a few good choices too and I think my ages aligned more closely for a short while.

Then, rather curiously, my mind stopped aging in my mid twenties while my body followed the clock. It’s difficult to put a finger on what happened though.

What was the catalyst for this split? Who is this person living inside my head that does not align properly with the body he’s in? He can still do a five kilometer run at the drop of a hat and then eat a Cleveland Burger from Clans without skipping a beat. Whereas the guy in the mirror needs to take a nap after eating protein – much like a toddler.

My eldest is beginning to wish himself older, not because he’s unhappy with his lot in life in any way, but rather because Star Wars: The Last Jedi is coming to a cinema near us in a couple of months and he desperately wants to watch it on the big screen. He must have asked me if the new episode is PG rated about a thousand times since I told him it was coming out. He simply cannot contain his enthusiasm and I think secretly, after he’s said his prayers each night with me, he adds an extra shout out to the big guy about Star Wars being PG rated. He really is an open book, he draws people in with his sunny disposition and is very difficult to say no to. I imagine great things ahead for him because he has such a big, open, generous personality.

The little guy on the other hand is barely even aware of what day of the week it is. It’s not that he doesn’t know because he can’t comprehend the days of the week and the progression of time, rather it’s that he simply does not care. He’s also a huge Star Wars fan, but only to the point that he often asks if we can just go watch it today. No? Oh well. On to the next thing then. I am in a constant state of surprise, confusion and amazement with him. Sometimes I check his pockets just to make sure he’s not carrying around the one ring to rule them all. I imagine great things ahead for him because he is already in charge of his own universe, it’s just a matter of time really before he’s in charge of ours.

As my boys get older, I wonder if I will recognize the points at which their ages start to differ inwardly and outwardly. Perhaps I will. Perhaps not.

I do think though that asking them how old they are and how old they feel (on a regular basis) would be a good exercise. You never know, I might find myself living in a house with a twenty five year old pre-schooler plotting how he’s going to reach the pedals of the car when he takes it for a joyride.

The equals

In an age where children are put under the microscope and continually assessed against every yard stick imaginable, it’s a wonder that they don’t all morph into bundles of neuroses dressed in matching school uniforms lugging around overstuffed school bags on their backs.

I get it. The idea is to get them all to conform to a set of behaviors and be measured against well defined assessments and then, if any child happens to score low (or high as the case may be) in a given area, that becomes an area of interest that teachers and obviously parents then need to focus on. Early detection. Early treatment. Better outcomes. I get it.

But there’s a problem. When these weights and measures were first being applied to our children, they seemed to only highlight one or two children in a given year, now you can’t swing a book bag without hitting at least ten children in a class that are on some sort of ‘requires therapy’ spectrum. As a parent, you have to ask yourself; can this be right? Are we not now searching for problems a little too enthusiastically and with such a fine toothed comb that ultimately we find exactly what we were looking for?

While I do support the idea of screening for potential problems and then treating them early to avoid bigger problems down the line, I do think that we’re missing something pretty obvious in more instances than the system would like to admit and that is this; we are talking about children. They do not all mature at the same rate. They are not all the same age in the same grade. They do not all put their hands in the air before they speak. They do not all possess the ability to sit in a chair for an hour or more at a time without having to stand up to stretch their legs.

By way of example, some adults verbally process thoughts and ideas, yes I think there’s a term for that, it’s called ‘thinking out loud’. Why then do we expect every child to think internally? Why do we have to label any child that doesn’t conform in every area with an acronym? The favorite by a country mile at the moment being ‘ADHD‘.

Once that term gets bandied about, you find yourself having to take your child to some kind of therapy to address the ‘problem’. The therapy advocated, more often than not, is ‘occupational therapy‘, which I’m not a huge fan of (and that’s putting it as delicately as is humanly possible). The ‘problem’ is, more often than not, that your child is simply not like the other children. That’s it. That’s literally the ‘problem’ that you’re being asked to resolve.

Think about that for a moment.

I submit to you that for most parents, myself included, that particular ‘problem’ comes as no surprise at all. I have two children who are from the same genetic swimming pool. They are pretty close in age. They have been raised in the same way and have, incidentally, worn the same clothes and played with the very same toys (hand-me-downs being a superfine thing because they’re both boys) and I can tell you unequivocally, that they are as different from each other as candy floss and butternut.

Could we not perhaps be looking just that little bit too hard for problems? Should we not step back a little and say perhaps there is some other reason for a particular behavior presenting in a child. Perhaps we could consider weighting the age of a child a little more as a factor when doing assessments.

Here’s a simple example to illustrate the point. A child born in January and a child born in December of the same year are expected (in South Africa) to start school in the same year. You might be inclined to think that on the surface – that sounds quite reasonable. But let me put that another way for you, a child born in December is not actually even conceived at the time that a child born in January is, in fact, out of the womb and experiencing the world.

Let that sink in for a moment.

Can we then fairly compare the ability of both of those children to suckle on the day that the January baby is born? No, of course not. The December baby is still just a twinkle in the eyes of the parents or an ‘X’ on a calendar for date night on Valentine’s Day. Six months later can we compare the ability of the December baby to roll over onto their tummies on a play mat with that of the six month old January baby? Again, no, of course not. December babies are still in the womb, tugging on the umbilical cord for oranges and peanut butter. By the time a December baby is actually born, the January baby is crawling, in some cases even walking.

The list goes on.

I will concede that by the age of six or seven, the gap between our two hypothetical children narrows significantly, but there is still a gulf between them and I believe our school systems should make more allowances for that. At the moment they seem to lean towards ‘therapy’ to bridge the gap which then in some cases leads to medication. The whole diagnosis of these conditions is the subject of umpteen articles like this one.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I wholeheartedly support and salute teachers, they are the architects of our future. They shape the minds of the children that will one day choose nursing homes for all of us. I just wish they would step back every now and again and wait for a birthday to roll around.

For now, let’s celebrate the non-conformity of our children lest we end up in a world out of George Orwell’s nightmares.