Oops I wet my pants!

Image from Izismile.com

The other day a friend and I were discussing our weight woes and I told her how I wanted to try control underwear to cinch and suck in those parts that refuse to go no matter how much weight I lose and frankly I’m just not ready for the schlep that is gym.

My friend told me about a pair she bought at Edgars that start at the knee and ends just above your breast. Excited at the prospect of wearing my skinny jeans and fitted t shirts I went and  bought a pair the next day.

As you can imagine wearing control underwear that look more like a cat suit will be a bit of an inconvenience if one has to go to the bathroom, but wait the manufacturers thought of this so there is a small opening  the size of a R5 coin between the legs so you don’t have to worry about the ritual of undressing when going to the loo.

I have to say the underwear worked great, Friday i went to pick up Khwezi looking like a Yummy Mommy.Skinnies tucked into my boots, vest and cardigan there was no muffin top. I had a bit of shortness in breath but hey “beauty is pain” I mean I have had hairstyles that made me cry myself to sleep so what’s a bit of impaired breathing?

 A day in the tights felt really good. That is until I had to go to the loo. I was at my mother-in-law’s, and honestly I would’ve held it but it seemed quite easy, expand the opening, wee and walla. It was not easy at all, I had to shift my underwear and the opening of the control underwear to the side with one hand, take the other opening with the other hand, now said opening was seeming more like a R1 coin than R5 (big difference when you have to wee through it) if I try to explain anymore of what happened in that loo this blog will seem more erotica than mommy so let me just stop trying. I will say however I never thought at 30 years old, a non drinker that I would pee my pants, yes the control underwear sucks in everything even your wee!  After an uncomfortable and itchy moment on my mom-in-laws sofa sitting in a position that defied gravity I have decided  I have to ditch the Control underwear, well at least until find a sexy pair of adult nappies!

Fashion - Cropped pants

After losing much of my Khaya weight and not being restricted  leggings any longer, I have fallen back in love with fashion.

One of my fashion favourites is the Cropped pant I love it so much I bought three pairs, the best being a pair of Abercombie & Fitch pants that I bought for a R100 at Meltz!

They are great because you can dress them down with a fitted t-shirt, pumps and  a cardigan, or go glam with a platform pumps, and tuxedo jacket. As a mom and woman over 30 this is one trend I can wear and not look like a fashion victim!

image from talbots.com


image from vogue.co.jp

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!  

The Rules Of Braaing

The other day my husband’s friend called him saying he is having a braai. Husband and I were at home, the kids were with their grandparents so we jumped at the opportunity to act  as if we have a life.As soon as we arrived it became apparent that I was the only significant other there.

The fact that I was the only woman did not bother me much, in fact it made things much easier.  You see there’s a certain unwritten rule when black people braai; the men braai outdoors while the women sit inside the house. I hate this rule and hardly abide by it, which leads to my poor husband being the butt of one too many cuckold jokes.

Why are men so adamant that the woman stay indoors? Does that not defeat the whole point of being at a braai? I mean, if I wanted to spend my afternoon in a room full of women I would’ve joined a society (social club). Zenzile always tells me that guys talk about two things; sports and cars. Well if that’s the case what is about last nights game that you don’t want me to find out? Or do you think the new BMW 3series is just too much for me to handle? Are you avoiding having to explain what’s off-side or V8?

What about the couples who actually like spending time together? Who don’t go to braai’s to escape their partner but for quality time in a different setting?  Why must I be subjected to being stuck indoors making salads, listening to people whine about their men and then be forced to dish up for the said men or take them their food as if I’m some sort of mail order bride.

I know I’m not the only woman who feels this way, there has to be a revolution, women need to say no to being stuck indoors. Or maybe the reason to all this is the shortage of outdoor seating…In that case, keep a camp chair in the boot ladies!

I'm back

It's  been a while since I've posted on my blog and today while on study leave and doing everything but study I found the blogger app. Hopefully this means I will post more. I definitely know I will be posted while on study leave.

So many things have changed,  I've moved to a new city; Johannesburg and I am loving every minute of it. So stay tuned.

Naledi

My Handicap

Along with being a fabulous wife and mom I also wear the hat of daughter in-law.  As much as I would like to think I am a great daughter –inlaw the honest fact is I am far from it. I believe each culture has its own pre-requisites for being regarded a great daughter in-law in some cultures it is education others wealth etc. In my culture I have experienced it is your ability to clean.

You can be as educated, or rich as you like if you don't wash dishes or can’t keep dust free furniture and polished tiles you are not worth your weight in “cows”. Many of you might find this blog strange in that you were raised to wake up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning to shift furniture, koropa on your hands and knees, and hand wash your clothing. I unfortunately am a Harlem girl, dishes to me was collecting and throwing away the Chinese takeaway containers. Laundry involved a bag of quarters and a laundromat.

I remember when I moved back to South Africa and to my grandmothers house in Thokoza  everyday I would be the first one out on the streets. I would visit my friend Lerato's house and watch her; scarf on her head, pantyhose stuffed with sponges on her knees slaving away. At sixteen many tried but could not get me to conform to the cleaning rituals of my peers. I settled to staying at home and not visiting family because I could not be bothered with polishing brazo when I could be sleeping in and watching music videos.

This lifestyle suited me well till I met and fell in love with a Zulu man. I remember when I told my dad we are moving in together he looked at me and said “Nale, are you sure?  Do you know it means you will have to do laundry?”My poor dad thought that idea alone would be enough to deter me from my decision, but I went in head first, ready to tackle this new life.  Needless to say I failed. After countless fights about dishes, laundry, housework etc my poor husband reconciled with the fact that a maid like food is a necessity in our lives.

For many years my domestic handicap was a secret between my husband and I. Now, we are married and I am a makoti, rather than go in guns blazing ready to impress with my ability to wash blankets or polish tiles till you see your reflection, the best I could do is “eish I hate washing dishes”.

So as much as I love my mother in-law and as much as we have a great relationship I know  she is thinking  “out of all the girls he could bring home...” but it’s not all bad I did learn how to cook and bake in fact I excelled.  So rather than kill them with kindness, I kill them with cake! After a great meal and dessert the dust on the table top is a little less evident.