Not So Super Woman

Never in my life have I been so happy for a month to end. Have you ever had those periods in life where it seems all that can go wrong, goes wrong, all at once? I wish I could go back and recount all the horrible things that happened, but such is life, I have forgotten most of “the worst things ever”.

What I can recount though is how my alter ego "Super Mommy” took a few knocks, which honestly gave me sleepless nights, and could’ve possibly had me admitted to a mental asylum had I not come to my senses and realised “I am HUMAN”.

Let's start with “The Blazer Incident”. A few weeks ago Khwezi’s teacher sent a letter that we had to acknowledge asking us to check our sons Blazers because someone took  David’s blazer and they have an unmarked blazer in class. In between the homework, making lunch and keeping Khaya from tearing Khwezi’s books I signed the said letter. I did not check the blazer. 10 days later schools are closing and the boys have to wear their Blazers. Guess who has David's Blazer. After school there's a letter,of course. I have to write a letter of apology and BOOM Super Mommy takes a knock.

When I had finally gotten over The Blazer incident and was back in Super Mommy mode cooking and baking up a storm for my family Easter weekend, Super Mom takes another knock. While Zenzile was out getting the ingredients to make custard, I was baking and Khaya and Khwezi were upstairs playing in their room. It was the perfect Easter day. That is until Khwezi came running down the stairs screaming: “Khaya swallowed a moth ball”.

What happened afterwards was a lot of panic, although I had no idea of the size of the mothball, and Khaya was his normal self. We took no chances and went straight to the ER. Blood tests were normal but he had to be kept under observation overnight, which meant I had to sleep in a plastic chair next to him. In true Super Mommy mode as Khaya slept, Zenzile and I were sending texts back and forth about how to salvage the under cooked Malva pudding.

As morning came on Easter Sunday, we left the hospital. I got home, took a shower and got dressed to go to a funeral. 

A friend's children Zweli (7), Zanele (9), and Thami (13) had been shot and murdered along with their mother by the mother's clinically depressed boyfriend, who was a policeman, with his service pistol.

Sometimes we think we have problems: blazers, kids swallowing things, burnt puddings, but all of those things are so trivial. We need to cherish each and every moment. The good, the bad, the ugly because life is not guaranteed.

If I should die tomorrow, my tombstone will not read: "Here lies Naledi Khumalo, a woman who burnt puddings".

I am Super Woman

Super woman, who is she? What is she? Why am I trying so hard to be her?

Why am I trying to be Martha Stewart, Victoria Beckham, Dr. Mamphela Ramphela and *insert a Playboy playmates name here* all at once?

Who am I trying to please? Am I succeeding? Martha might be proud of the fact that I’ve just spent the last four hours  chopping, peeling and freezing about 40kgs in vegetables, but I hated every minute of it , I didn’t Julienne my carrots, and the other day I baked a cake and didn't separate the eggs despite the recipe instructing me to do so.

Would Victoria wear what I have on today? Maybe, if she shopped at Mr.Price and didn’t mind Khaya’s breakfast, lunch, dinner and dirt that he picks up outside being embedded in the fabric forming a dirty chic pattern.

Dr. Ramphela would be disappointed to know that although I am a law graduate, I have no Court room or corporate aspirations. I would rather have a column in a magazine discussing Fabmommy issues.

As for the said Playboy playmate, I know she’d be disappointed to know that I need comfort and support not from my husband but from my underwear. If anyone is going to scream Daddy, Daddy in this house in the middle of night, I hope it’s these kids because really Mommy needs her beauty sleep!