The first chick leaves its mother's nest.....

When I started this blog in 2010, I had my hands full with three very active (socially and physically) teenage sons.  So much has changed in the past four years.  They have grown up to be strong young men - still socially active, not so much physically.

In the back of my mind I always knew that someday they would leave home to start their own adventures, much the same as I did.  But it was easier to keep those thoughts in the back of my mind....  easier to live each day as it came and in the evening when I sit down at the dinner table, to stretch out my hand to Den on my right and Dennis on my left and see them join the circle with Dylan and Divan.  One complete family.

But the time has come for Den to leave home.  He has accepted a position as Social Administrative Manager at a game reserve in Kwa Zulu Natal.  I am extremely proud of him and know that he will do very well.  He will eventually be doing what he loves.  This is his time - the start of a brand new career which holds so much promise.

I remember when I left home.  My Alpha was packed to the brim with all my paraphernalia, a little bit sad because I was leaving my parents, but excited about my future.  I remember wondering what my parents thought and felt - I know now. I know that they felt a bit of fear for what the future holds, sadness at seeing a child leave home, hope that their child's dreams will be fulfilled and joy at knowing that they had done what was expected of them.  They had raised a child successfully!!  This is how it was meant to be.

I'll miss you, my boy.  Everyday.  But I'll see you often and we'll Whatsapp regularly.  I'll catch up with you on Instagram (just show me how to follow you), and I'll see your posts on Facebook.  I'll try to learn how to Skype too.....  You may not be in my home anymore, but you are forever in my heart.

And remember what I always tell you, I'm your safety net.

It's a language thing

My language is English.  Whilst growing up, my parents spoke Afrikaans, but my siblings and I spoke English.  I think it was because we grew up in Rhodesia and the language was 90 % English.  I love English.....  The nuances of the language amaze me.  Now married with children of my own, our home language is Afrikaans.  Now and then the boys will converse with me in English, but not often.  I find that it's only in English that I can really express myself - put it all out there....... and no-one realises this more than my family.

My husband went to the Dentist who diagnosed an abscess in one of his teeth.  She gave him a course of antibiotics (7 days worth).  I felt so sorry for him, and kept inquiring about his well being.....  9 days later, he was still complaining about this tooth.  I found this very odd and asked him if he had taken the antibiotics as prescribed......
"Well, maybe not as prescribed....."
"What do you mean "not as prescribed....."
"Well, maybe I didn't take them everyday."
"Dennis, you have to take antibiotics 3 times a day until the course is finished otherwise they don't work, you know this...."  my agitation growing "How may tablets do you have left?"
"About 3 days worth?"
Before I could help myself I called out "Seuna!!!!!"  which I usually reserve for use on my sons when they step out of line....
"You can't call me that?"  he said indignantly.
"I can if you are acting like one of my children!"
And the matter, according to me, was closed.

Dennis had to collect Divan from a friend later that afternoon and on the way home he told Divan that I was very angry with him.  Divan heard about the tablets and the story ended with the use of Seuna!.
He waited a while, then asked his Dad....
"Did she switch over into English?"
"No," Dennis replied.
"Ag no, then it's not so bad......."

Technology is not all its made out to be.

We are constantly bombarded with news about great technological breakthroughs that will make our ever increasingly hectic lives a bit easier.  I am a firm believer of doing things the old fashioned way, because technology is bound to drop you at one stage or another - and normally when you can't afford it.

We had just moved into our new townhouse and while I was busy hanging up the curtains, Dylan was completing his assignment for university.  He had a lot of work to get through and only the weekend to do it in.  I heard him pottering around in his room, talking to himself and it wasn't long before he came sauntering into my room.

"Mom, guess what?"  From the excitement in his voice, I gathered that he had made some groundbreaking discovery......"My laptop is voice activated!!!!".  Now, to me, voice activating a laptop is completely useless.  Voice activating a door so it will open when your arms are full of wet laundry or the coffee machine when you are blow drying your hair with one hand and applying eye shadow with the other, now that's revolutionary!!
"That's great, Dylan......" wondering what this will mean to mankind......
"Instead of writing or typing my assignment, I can now speak to my laptop, and it will type as I speak.... It will be much faster and before long I will be finished."
In my head I'm saying "yeah, right.....", out of my mouth the words "That's fantastic!" errupt.

And so Dylan returns to his room and I carry on hanging up curtains.... and this is what I hear next:

".... skeletal muscle is made up of fasciles....."
"..... skeletal......"
"......skeeeeleeeetaaaaaallllll....."
"skeletal"
"You stupid machine!  No don't type that.....aaaaaahhhhhhh......."
"Moooooommmmmmmm!"
"muscle......."
"Muuuusssscccclllleeeee....... No, not national!!!!"

"Dylan, maybe you should change the language from American English, to South African English?"
"Aaaaaahhhhhhh!"

And so I say again, do things the old fashioned way and you'll find the job is finalised much sooner......

How on earth did you pass matric?

We will be moving at the end of the month, and I asked Divan to clean out his room - throw out anything he will never use again. Only keep what is absolutely necessary.

When I got home from work last Friday, I was greeted by four black plastic bags full of goodness knows what.  I know my son by now - there are items in those bags that should not be tossed.  He had already asked me where his K53 book was and I had a feeling it was in one of those bags. (He's writing his learners licence on the 24th).

I asked him to go through the bags with me, just to make sure that he didn't need anything in them.  The first bag was full of old shoes and clothes.  Fair enough - we can give those to someone who needs them.

The second was full of paper - old newspapers, old matric exam papers etc.  Cool - toss them.

Then we got to the third bag - school books from last year, text and exercise books.  One by one he paged through them.....  nicely covered exercise books.  "This was my Life Orientation book" - two written pages.  "This is my maths lit book"  - Half of the pages empty.  Then he smiled and said "and this is my Afrikaans book......  empty except for the second page, it says : Assignment 2.1 No one knows whats going on here........."

And you ask me why I was so stressed last year??????

By the way.... the K53 book was in the third bag too.

I told you so.

A church is a place where people get together to worship the Lord, firstly, and to network secondly.  More so in a small community.  It's where you catch up with what's been happening in the district.  You look forward to seeing friends who live out on the farms.  And then it's a time of quiet reverence.  Listen to God's Word and relax in the knowledge that for these two hours, you can quietly sit and drink in God's love.

This is not, however, my youngest son at 3's opinion.  Church was a place that you were forced to go to on Sunday when Cartoon Network was on and the sun was shining outside and the pool looked inviting........

One Sunday morning, as I walked into Divan's room, he announced that he was not going to church that morning.  "Yes, you are, Divan." I said and proceeded to get his clothes ready so that I could dress him.  He folded his arms and defiantly said.  "No, I'm not.  I'm going to play here."
Needless to say, dressing him became a mission.  Feeding him a nightmare.  I eventually walked into church dragging the child by one arm behind me while he tried desperately to pull away.

Sitting in the pew, I had to keep my hand on his leg to keep him from getting up - but he eventually calmed down and I started to relax.  The worship service was beautiful.  The chorus's angelic. It all started when my Father-in-Law started with the opening prayer.

Grrrrrrr.  Grrrrrrrr.  Grrrrrrrr.  I looked around with one eye open and one closed.  What was that sound.  Grrrrrr Grrrrrrr.  I slowly turned to look at Divan.  He had brought along a dinky toy car and was running the car across the wooden pew.  The sound was echoing through the church.  "Stop it!!"  I said.  Grrrrrr.  Grrrr.  I took the car away and put it in my handbag.

The sermon started and I listened carefully to what had been prepared.   Grrrrrr  Grrrrr  Grrrrrr.  Divan was lying under the pew and had taken his car from my handbag and was pushing it on the wooden floor.  I grabbed his arm, pulled him out from under the pew, lifted him up onto my hip and walked out of the church.  We lived about 500 m from the church so I stormed home, berating him all the way.........  He looked at me and smiled.  "I told you I wasn't going to church today."

It's all about the hair......

When the boys were very small, I used to cut their hair every 3 - 4 weeks with the hair clipper on a number 4 setting.  It was the easiest to way to keep 3 little boys looking neat.  There was a ritual where all of them would line up in the kitchen and one by one I would put the clipper through their hair from their foreheads right through to the nape of their necks.  They had excellent memories and would very quickly respond with "I was first last time...." when called upon.  But after 30 minutes they would walk out of the kitchen cleanly shaven and I would have enough hair on the floor to make up a wig.

And so it happened that it was Divan's turn to be first.... and at barely 3 years of age, he climbed on the chair and looked at me with such trust in his eyes.  I leaned over, picked up the clipper, snapped the comb onto it and started pushing it through from his forehead........ but when I reach about 4 cm in, I realised that there was almost nothing left on his head!  I stopped the clipper and looked at the comb - No. 2!!  When I start panicking, I start giggling.  "Mommy, what's wrong?" Divan asked. "Nothing, my boy, I'm just happy....."  What could I do?  I completed the job - with the No. 2.  When finished, Divan felt over his head with his hand and slowly turned to me.  "I want to see....."

Our bathroom mirror was mounted high on the wall, so I picked him up and held him on my hip.  He looked into the mirror, felt his head again and then turned to me: "Mommy, how could you?" he said in such a sad voice.  I immediately burst into tears and put him down on the floor.  I slowly walked back into the kitchen.  Dylan looked at me and said "Dennie goes next!"  Dennie calmly sat down and said to me "Mom, cut my hair on the same No. as Divan's." then he turned to Divan and said, "You see, I'm going to look just like you.  We will be like twins!"  I cut Dennie's hair on the No. 2, crying all the time.

I never felt that Divan ever had the same confidence in me.  I would cut his hair, and halfway through he would check in the mirror.... just to make sure.

Last night I cut his hair because school started again today.  He put everything in the kitchen that I would need (no clipper) and I started combing through his hair.  

"This is most probably the last time I cut your hair my boy."  I said.  

"Why?" he answered.  

"Because you are almost finished with school and won't need another hair cut soon."

"Well, no one else is going to touch my hair, and I'm not going to grow it till it reaches the floor, so of course you are going to cut it......"

It's been 14 years - and I guess he's regained his trust in my hair cutting capabilities.

67 Minutes for Mandela Day

I asked Divan today what their class was going to be doing for their 67 minutes on Mandela Day. 
"Nothing", he responded.
I told him that maybe he could get his friends and sing Nkosi Sikelel' iafrika for 67 minutes standing in the middle of the rugby field.....
He thought about it for a few minutes and then said:
"No, I have a double period tomorrow.  I'm going to tell my teacher that for 67 minutes I am going to be good in class - but when those 67 minutes are over, they are over......"