The sweet smell of memories

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed a new fragrance in our offices.  A friendly fragrance, if you know what I mean? Pleasant.  But I could never figure out where it came from.  I asked a few of my colleagues if they had changed their perfume, smelled a few wrists, but it wasn't the fragrance I had picked up in the passages.

Our office cleaning lady walked into my office about a week later - and I picked up the fragrance again.  It was her! The perfume reminded me of something or someone.  You know the feeling when it's there.... you almost have it, but then it disappears like mist leaving an empty feeling behind.

The fragrance is Rare Pearls from Avon and I immediately ordered it from them.  It arrived yesterday and I was really excited about it.  But I still couldn't place the memory.  It was a good memory, I could feel that much, but what it was I didn't know.

Eager to show it off to Dennis, I opened it in the kitchen and let him smell. "Mmmmm, nice." (I'm on this new 'wish I was more feminine' trip....).  Divan then took the bottle from me, smelled it, looked at me again, smelled it again, and then said: "Dis Ouma Helen."

And then I knew, I smelled her.  And it WAS a good memory.  I miss you Mom.

Welcome to MY world

Seeing as both Divan and Dylan are finished with exams, Dennis (my husband) decided that to keep them busy he would organise a part time job for them.  This was easily arranged as the company he works for is in the process of moving from one premises to another.
Both boys are going through a body building phase and had asked whether they could join a gym in December so that they could lift weights and be 'ripped' by January.   They were not impressed when we told them that they would be lifting 'weights' during December packing up a factory!  What's the problem? - they are getting paid to get 'ripped' and I'm not getting 'ripped' off paying for the gym!
They were due to start bright and early on Tuesday morning.  Decked out in their tracksuit pants and t-shirts, I dropped them off at 06h15 - all bright eyed and bushy tailed.
It was another story when I picked them up at 18h15..... both were wearing overalls with their tracksuit pants under their arms - dead tired!  Divan immediately lay down on the back seat and Dylan got in beside me.  "So", I said, "How was your day?" trying to hide my smile.
"Look at my arms!" exclaimed Dylan "I look like an emo who failed" (scratches from the boxes running across his wrists).  "We packed 96 boxes!!!" from the back seat.
Later during the evening, I asked Dylan whether he had heard from his girlfriend during the day.  " I had no contact with the outside world...." he tells me. :)
Divan, resting his head on the armrest of the sofa, looks at me and says: "Do you know what it's like to know you have to go back to work tomorrow?"
And I smile and say: "Welcome to my world."

It's here somewhere.....

Dylan is half way through his matric exams and has decided to clean his room, throw out all the junk and rearrange his desk so that he actually has a space to sit and study at.  I don't know what inspired him to do this NOW, maybe the fact that he only has 5 more exams to go - maybe the fact that even the tedious task of cleaning one's room is better than swotting Chemistry.....
I walked in from work and found Dylan grinning in the passage.  "Have you seen my room?" he eagerly asks me (bear in mind I have just parked the car in the garage, stumbled through the garage door into the passage bearing two SPAR bags full of groceries and balancing my handbag between them and my thigh with the car keys between my teeth).
"Ugghhghh" I mumble through the leather key holder.
Once I had placed the bags down, sliding my bag down my leg onto the floor and spitting the key onto the counter, I walked back down the passage to his room.
Sure enough - all clean and tidy, and rearranged.  The books and papers on his desk are arranged in tidy piles. 
"This is great, Dylan" I say "Now you actually know where everything is."
"I knew that before" he says surveying his kingdom with pride.
"You did?" I question
"Yes," he says" It was somewhere on my desk."

Are you old enough to know what you want?

I was joking with a friend that I would love to write a book entitled: What they never told you about raising children.  Don't get me wrong.  I adore my kids.  Each one unique, each one a challenge on his own.  But one of the things no-one told me, is how to sit back and let your child make decisions which could have an impact on his life, without parent interferance.

I'm not talking about alchohol or smoking here - I will definitely get involved, doesn't matter what anyone says!  I'm talking about decisions where he could benefit if he only persisted.

Divan has been blessed with so much sporting potential - every sport he has ever tried his hand at, he has excelled at.  But he does not really seem to realise how good he really is. Do I keep telling him this - or do I back off?  Maybe I'm too involved in his life......  What is too involved?

Perhaps what I'm trying to say is that I suppose there is no black and white where it comes to raising children.  There is a lot of grey - and I think I'd better start liking grey, after all, it is my natural hair colour now......  

I wish I could be like you....

It's 5 September and the day that was so far away at the beginning of the year, has crept up and surprised me in the wink of an eye - the first day of Dylan's record exams.
I'm a nervous wreck - wondering what I can do to help.  Does he need extra exam pads for swotting, does he have pens, pencils - anything else?  Is he eating breakfast, does he have lunch?  My mind is occupied by university entrance exams, second choice universities, what ifs?  whys?
And Dylan is drifting along at his usual pace, cool as a cucumber, no worries. 
Now, does that mean I need to worry more, because he's not worried?  Or should I just calm down too.  (I'd really like to use what he's using!  Maybe he's smoking his corn flakes????)
This morning we had car trouble - the boot won't open.  So in order to put the school bags etc. in the car, we need to push the back seats forward and load them in through the back passenger doors.  When we got to the school, we unloaded Divan's hockey bag, Divan's school bag, Divan's Cricket bag, Divans' friend's bag...... but no Dylan's school bag!!!  I could already see myself racing home in peak hour traffic, pick up the bag, race back to school to make it in time to hand him his bag.  I was sitting breathless with all the rushing around in my head, and Dylan - with his earphones in his ears and his music playing away on his cell - looks at me and says "I won't need my bag" and strolls off to the school gate...... (I really need what he's taking.........!!!!)
Dylan takes each day as it comes, only worries about the important things and doesn't let the little things bother him.  He weighs each problem up and decides whether it's worth it to get angry, worried or upset.  I taught him well - I just wish I could remember the lessons!

Moonbase

Want to know how to improve your relationship with your children?  Join them on Moonbase!!

For those of you who don't know this, Moonbase is a game on the MXIT social network.  You start a Moonbase with Oxygen mines, Water generators, Iron mines and Helium mines.  Upgrading your mines is your first priority in order for them to generate enough resources to upgrade your buildings like your communication centre, work yard, war room, radar, silo (to hold your resources), bunker (to hide your resources) and research lab.   The purpose of the game is to build your population and survive the attacks from raiders, and build and expansion module so that you can create more bases.  It's of paramount importance to be part of a strong alliance! (Something like Star Wars......)

This is a great opportunity to be someone else - you select a name for yourself and for your moonbase and start playing.

The great thing is, I have two sons quite active on this game!  I have been trying to upgrade my base, build my 'pop' but keep getting attacked by this one individual.  I was getting very despondent and was seriously thinking of giving up - and who comes to my rescue????

"Hey Mom, don't worry, I'll send you reinforcements to help defend you."
"Mom, what resources do you need to upgrade so that you can build more moon buggies?"
"Don't worry Mom, the alliance will stand together and take him out!"

In this day and age, my sons don't get the chance to fight for my honour as their mother.  On moonbase they get that opportunity and it makes me feel good that they would sacrifice their resources, moonbuggies and base for me.

You might think it trivial, but my heart is warmed by my sons' love in this 'other dimension'.

Time to fly

And so my second fledgling will be leaving the nest next year.  I can't actually believe that he is 18 and in matric.  It feels like yesterday when he peeped over his blanket at me minutes after his birth, and yet sometimes it feels like eons ago.  There is so much that I would like to say to him, and I know he'll listen but he won't hear.  I think that he feels that we are trying to hold him back, to keep him in the fold.  To be honest, if I could keep all three my children safe with me, I would certainly do that but I understand the realities of life and that each has a path to follow.  I can only make them aware of the hurdles and dangers along that path, and of the treasures so easily missed when you only look ahead and don't see the scenery.  I wonder if he understands that decisions made by us in the past were taken with the information we had at the time - decisions made with only his best interests at heart.  As are the ones we are facing now. 

Son, we don't have degrees in parenthood.  We don't have the ability to see into the future - it's a mist that clears only as you walk through it.

Just know that we love you very much.

Crossing over..

At lunch yesterday afternoon, my colleagues and I were discussing the trials and tribulations of being parents. One of the ladies just sat and listened, and when we walked out of the canteen, she said: "I'm still perfect in my little boys eyes...." (Her son is 3). I smiled and thought that at least in one of my son's minds, I too was still perfect.


It's such a cosy feeling. I felt secure in this knowledge. You don't really know when you cross over from being perfect to being a parent, do you? I just woke up one day to realise that two of my sons knew that although I can give them advice, it's not to say it's the right advice. I can try to help them out with their homework and projects, but it's not to say that what I do is always correct. I think it's easier not knowing when you cross over. It's softer on the soul.

I say that because I can compare now. Last night at precisely 18h54 I crossed over in my last son's mind. And it hurts.

Aan niks gewoond.....

We spent a very busy weekend driving to the opposite side of Johannesburg to watch our youngest play in a hockey tournament against 16 other schools in their pool.  They did exceptionally well - the final result being 3rd out of 16 where last year they ended 16th......  Divan had his fair share of goals, and his fair share of injuries too.  I watched my son somersault across the astro, intentionally get hit on the shoulder with a hockey stick and play dead in the D......
Since he did so well, and because of the fact that he has never had his own hockey stick, (only hand me downs and second hand buys) his father decided to buy him a state of the art hockey stick. 
We walked into the hockey equipment shop at the astro field and started talking to the salesman.  I stood in the middle of the little group, surrounded by two interested buyers, and one keen seller.  Eventually, after hearing the pros and cons of every make of hockey stick in existence, my man says to the salesman:
"I hope you play hockey" and I can read between the lines "and you aren't selling me a load of hog wash....."
"I do" replies the confident salesman.
"Oh," my man says, looking sceptical, "for who?"
"For South Africa"
My son's face turns into a mask of admiration, my husbands face a mixture of emotions and mine blood red!
While purchasing the stick, I ask my son whether he would like Rassie Pieterse, the goal keeper for the SA team, to sign it for him and am met with a myriad of facial expressions - none of them favourable!
"But then my stick won't look new anymore."
And that's when I decided that I was going to leave the store and hopefully never meet the South African goalie again.

A Mom is always needed.....

When my sons were younger, I was comfortable in the security of knowing that they needed me - whether it was for food, shelter, or a plaster on a cut finger.  I was needed.  It kind of made me someone.  There is nothing like being needed.  Then as they grew older, their needs changed and I always wondered when they would stop needing me.  (I must confess that sometimes I wished it would be soon!).  But you know what?  Their needs change as they grow up into adulthood - now they need me for encouragement, advice and as a confidante.  It's as though the cycles of parenthood evolve - I've been through nurturing, mothering and now I'm mentoring.  And that can be very scary.  Am I equiped to be a mentor to these individuals whose minds are sponges and take in everything they see?  (I know I'm better than Metalica!) All I know is that I need God to guide me, so that I can guide my sons.  The road gets pretty rocky, and many a time I am lost for words and my heart aches for them, be it sporting disappointments or failed loves.  But thanks to my GPS (God's Precious Spirit), I can keep my feet on the right track..... and can help out where I'm needed.

Haircut Dilema

My boys have lovely hair which is their pride and joy.  I have always cut my sons' hair for school - in fact, they won't allow anyone else to cut it for them.  The only problem is that they push the boundaries at school and only let me cut their hair after a warning.  So I started threatening them with the Cubans. 

The Cubans own a barber shop in a quaint shopping complex not far from the school that the boys attend.  I took Dennis, my eldest, there a day before he was due to fly to Prague with the school choir.  They are a very friendly lot - always smiling and they greet you so pleasantly that you have no problem putting the R50.00 into their hands at the end of the cut.  The only problem is - they don't seem to understand English!  Dennis had lovely hair, just a little long, when I took him to the Cubans.  They sat him down - smiling all the time - and asked me how I would like his hair cut.  I said short around the back of the head and above the ears - about an 8, and longer on top.  "Yes, yes, I can do that" was the reply, so I sat down and started reading a magazine.  When I looked up, I looked directly into Dennis's frantic face.  I started giggling from pure shock.  They had cut it short around the back and above the ears - about a 2! and the top was about a 6!  They then proceeded with an Indian head massage and I could see that Den was about to collapse in a heap - but I couldn't interrupt them, this was the whole deal!  Dennis took very long to forgive me for that experience, but you see, it had its good points - Dylan and Divan were with us and they were terrified of them!

So it came about that I said that should I ever get a call from the school to say that they were being sent home because their hair was too long, I would take them to the Cubans. 

Sure enough, the call came at about 08h30 on a Tuesday morning.  At the school, I found Divan in the reception area, big smile on his face, school bag on his shoulder.  I pushed past him to the receptionist:  "I've come to sign out my son." On the way to the car, Divan, still smiling, says: "The headmaster says I don't need to come back to school." That did it!  "There is no way you are going to stay at home because of your hair." I ranted "You WILL return to school as soon your hair is cut." But Divan didn't think that I would carry out my threat of the Cubans...... until we turned into the shopping centre parking area. "No!" he said. "Yes!" I countered.  We stood outside the barber shop until 09h00 when the three friendly Cubans rounded the corner, all smiles, and opened their shop.

"What can we do for you madam?" the thinner of the three asked.  I plonked Divan down in the chair and, regaining my composure, looked the Cuban squarely in the eyes, smiled and said: "Cut it short around the back and ears - about an 8.  And a little longer on top."  "Yes, yes, we can do that." he replied.  "I know you can."  I replied, still smiling sweetly.