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.

Literary adventure

Today I woke up very excited at the thought of going to the public library in the city centre. It is the biggest of the libraries in Bloemfontein so I could just imagine the choice of books I would have at my disposal.

I put on my prettiest maxi dress ( the one that says picnic under a huge tree reading a good book). With Khaya in tow we set off on our literary adventure.Such an anti-climax, I've been planning this trip all week and what do I get? A dirty, dingy, "sparsely booked" arena.

The shelves were empty, the ones that had books had books that were in such a bad condition. How can we, us, government, whoever let this be? I went with the intention of borrowing the Sophie Kinsella Shopaholic series, and was told by the librarian "that Author is not in our system".I settled for walking aisle for aisle and grabbing any book that "calls me". I had imagined sitting on the floor, legs crossed, a number of books spread before me to pick and choose from, but between the dirty floors and less than inspiring book collection that was impossible.

There are so many initiatives, food drives, blanket drives,toy drives, surely we need a book drive to support our local libraries.

There is only so much of Tan-orexic, style disabled, New Jersey natives that a person can take. If I can't read what shall I do?

Mommy Fabulous

I woke up this morning with the intention of entering a competition to be the next blogger for Bronx Ladies Shoes. The lure of a year’s supply of shoes was just too good to ignore.  Once I had downloaded the pictures formulated some ideas and now all that was left was to put pen to paper... Blank! I do not understand why I can’t write about shoes, I love shoes, I love fashion I know my Zannotis, Stuart weitzmans and every woman knows Choo.

I can not write about shoes because my mind is clouded.  I am no longer a fashionista, motherhood has consumed me so much that  when I think of shopping I think of heading to Woolies not for the Fabulist items but, for Oyster sauce  ( my Asian stir fry is not the same without it).  The fashion must haves this summer are Rompers and Bootie sandals, really I just bought these for my 11week old son, now I need them too? Will they have cute little phrases like “as cute as my mommy” or “looking for trouble”

In all honesty I probably will end up with the bootie sandals, however I guess I just can not express my love for fashion anymore, my magazine rack is filled with not just Elle, Marie Claire and Glamour, but your parenting, your baby, Essentials, Ideas and Fresh living.

I remember a time when I used to take monthly trips to Joburg to shop for shoes and clothes that I can’t find in Bloemfontein. I would ensure I go to the latest trendy clubs, roof top parties etc. My next trip is coming up in a few weeks and instead of shoes and dresses, I want to come back with novelty baking pans and a cake decorating set. Rather than a trendy club I want to spend my birthday at Gold Reef city with my oldest son.

As much as I love shoes, fashion and all things fabulous, my scope of fabulous has expanded to include, fabulous specials on nappies, fabulous cupcake recipes, and fabulous restaurants that offer jungle gyms and playstations for my babies.

The Bench.

                                     

For South Africa 11July 2010 marked the end of a Spectacular event and time in our nation’s history. For parents it meant the time had come, soon the kiddies would be going back to school.  To many the thoughts of the children going back to school is met with utter delight, no more kids running wild, no more worries over baby sitters or what stimulating activities to plan for the day. I on the other am not so happy.

Back to school for me means going back to being a default “stay at home mom” i say default cause unlike other mom’s this is due to circumstance and not choice. I don't mind having to wake up at ungodly hours and making sure my munchkin is dressed, fed and ready for school. I don't even mind the school run and being stuck in the 10 minute traffic jams (I live in Bloemfontein). No, all that I can tolerate, what I can’t tolerate, what is an intrinsic part of being a stay at home mom is... The Mommy Bench!

If you are a working mom you probably have no idea what I’m talking about, you drop your child off at school , probably don't even get out to walk him to class because you are rushing off to work. After school your child goes to day care and after work you pick him up, probably in a rush to get home cook, and get ready for another busy day.

The Mommy Bench is where you find the stay at home moms. We get there 30 minutes before school is out, so we can get the best parking (bet you had no idea parking is a major cause of contention). Most of us are pregnant or have toddlers trailing behind us.

This bench like all other places where woman convene, better yet woman who really have nothing else going on during the day, is a place of silent alliances. Mommy cliques based on what car you drive, where you live, what you husband does for a living etc...

The Mommy Bench does not only come with the perks of being up to date with the latest gossip; who’s husband is cheating, who’s son is failing, No it also comes with  responsibility. Part of being part of the “bench society “means that you, (because it is evident you have nothing better to do) will be responsible for volunteering at all major school events. Tuck shop duty, bake sale, charity drives, and field trips. It even gets to the point where you are not asked to volunteer but I told that you will be on duty.

The last factor which makes me dread the mommy bench is; the play dates. Don't get me wrong I love my son and by all means I want him to have fun with his friends but being on that bench means each and every friend will come up to me  “Khwezi’s mom, when can I come over?’’ and of course I reply just tell your mom to call me honey...  Like clock work I’ll get a call “can such and such go home with you on Friday, I’ll pick him up after work”. Friday being a sports day and the day of the spelling test means not only do I have to sit through conversations about other people marital problems, their ill behaved children, worry about  spelling test results  but now have to also  be concerned with  planning a fun filled after school play date.

                                                                      

So you see while other parents feel a sense of relief, I could do with an extra day maybe two or make that a week!

Khaya

04 June 2010 after much debate and resistance from Zenzile I reconciled with the idea that I would not give birth at a private hospital. Nine months of private Gyneacologist visits at R680-00 per visit, twice a week I felt jilted when my Doctor decided (two weeks before I was to give birth) he was escaping World Cup fever and going to the USA.


It’s not so much that he was gone but he left without even arranging or discussing with us what the options would be, I had nothing, no info regarding who would be my Doctor during the birthing process when to book a bed nothing. It doesn’t help that I am radically patriotic and here’s this man leaving on the eve of one of the most historic moments in our country, in-light of these issues I did what I do best, “ke ngadile”. Nothing explains better my decision than the S.Sotho description, I guess I’m used to Hubby asking after every fight “O ngadile?”. To put it simply I decided to hell with them I’ll take my business elsewhere, I say business cause unlike other couples Zenzile is an entereprenuer and I’m un-employed which means medical aid insurance is a luxury and debt is not a friend so we pay everything cash, even the R15K they wanted as a deposit for me to give birth at their hospital.

That Friday we set out to our local clinic to get the process started for us to give birth at a public hospital. When we got to the clinic at about 14h30 it was empty, how great we avoided the long queues of people. Unfortunately the told us they cant help us they only do ante-natal appointments Mondays to Wednesday’s beacause of the large amounts of people that visit the clinic each day ( did I mention it was empty) oh well, as twitter people say “shrug” we turned back.

On Monday June 07, I made sure to get there before the clinic opened, once I was able to see the nurse and I gave her all my paper work from my gynaecologist with all the blood tests etc that I had taken, I realised I was supposed to have had a tetnus vaccine and H1N1 flu vaccine that my Doctor negelected to administer, (twitter talk “smh”).

Once all was done I called Zenzile to pick me up, he was on line for worldcup tickets... I decided to walk home especially because I had been researching ways to naturally induce labour according to “Dr.Google” this was one of the ways. It took about 30 minutes to get home and all I remember of that day is passing out on the sofa as soon as I got there.

That night, June 08 2h30am at 38 weeks pregnant my water broke. I just remeber waking up to this liquid rushing out and I could not stop it. It was not red or brown as the magazines say but clear. So after debating on whether or not I had just wet the bed we decided to go to the hospital. So with my hair in perfect curls thanks to a feature in the womans health I had bought earlier, I put on some makeup got dressed and off we went. Five minutes into the trip and I started getting back pains (not painful enough to deter me from letting my friends on twitter know that labour had begun). When we got to the hospital after checking how far along I was I was given a bed and told to go to bed Zenzile was told to come back in the morning since I had a long way to go. By this time contractions had started and to tell you the truth I was happy to see Zenzile go as I needed to sleep. In the morning breakfast was served; Wors with tomato gravy and two slices plain brown bread (I gave it a pass). Not much later a number of student nurses came in and one came towards me and said I’ll take her ( I guess it meant I was her patient for the day), the Dr came a few minutes afterwards at about 8h30 to check how far along I was. It felt more like he was trying to pull the baby out and I screamed out in pain which led to one of the nurses commenting (in S.Sotho so Dr. couldn’t hear) that I must be the type who at the moment of orgasm screams so loud I wake the kids up. As soon as the Dr. Was done violating me and my poor child the security guard told me Zenzile was waiting for me, he couldnt come in so I had to go out to the waiting room, hardly able to walk, I went with my student nurse trailing behind me, she let him know i was 5cm dialated and would probably give birth around 16H00 so he can go home shower and come back at 11H00 when its visiting hours. Needless to say within an hour contractions where coming one on top the other, the whole martenity ward was listening to my screaming, calling for the lord to help me. At this point a nurse decided my screams that the baby is coming where not enough she had to check for herself so again I was violated this time I screamed so loud i think I had the entire hospitals attention.

In excruitiating pain, I was told to walk to the next room ( it was at this point where I felt like I had bit off my nose to spite my face, I could’ve had an epidural and none of this would be happening was I not so quick to prove a point). How can I explain the next ten minutes when Khaya was born; its like when they show the cow giving birth on tv, with the farmers pulling and you’re on the couch thinking “Oh my that calf is so big” well I was that cow. Today 3 weeks on, what feels like 50 stitches, 48 hours of sleep lost, and a set of numb nipples later as i type this with my khaya on my lap the question lingers; would i do this again? No!

The decision to have Khaya at a public hospital was easy for me because it’s where i had Khwezi, but i’ve realised birth at the age of 23 and birth at 29 are extremely different! I dont know what an epidural feels like but if you have a choice, get it. I on the other hand will never get that chance, if there’s anything this experience has taught me it’s; no more children for me.