Not even one word about the kids. Almost.

This one's about me.

The me that's lost in there among the children and home and work. Oh I know it's a terrible cliche to feel like you have forgotten yourself among the long, repetitive hours of looking after others, especially when those others are small and given to elasticating their demands of you according to how much give they sense is left in the elastic.

You may say I'm a cliche. But I'm not the only one. (I hope some daaaaaaay you'll join us...)

Sean's lost too. He came home from work the other day too tired to talk to any of us. He off-loaded about his day for a few minutes, cooked, then put his headphones on and disappeared into the world of aggressive lyrics and hard beats that used to make up 96% of his free time, in another life, and now makes up less than 10% of his free time, which in turn makes up less than 1% of his total time.

I don't enjoy it when Sean disappears behind the earphones, unreachable, sad, frustrated, angry, worried, bitter, grumpy, in search of his truths, but I do like that he does it and I love why he does it. It reminds me that Sean is inside there - the guy I married, the complicated, moody guy whose thoughts and conclusions spur me, in turn, to think differently. The guy who's never going to fit into anodyne suburbia, skipping with energy cup overflowing from one healthy, sporty, private-schooley, well-adjusted kiddie activity to the next. Because, really, that's not who I married. That guy would irritate the hell out of me.

I realised I need to spend some time away from my children. I am getting disproportionate about my attachment to them. I have anxiety. I worry all the time - I worry, leaving the house, about burglars and break-ins and fires and drowning and specifically, I worry about leaving Richie at home with Auntie Queeny and the White Trash Neighbours From Hell's Evil Incarnate Dogs Whom They Do Not Restrain When They Slide Open Their Festering Bloody Gate. These dogs race across the street to our gate every time they manage to escape from their dysfunctional family (i.e. often) (and who can blame them?) and bark and bite at our dogs throught he gate slats. I have recurring intrusive thoughts about that it would only take one awful moment of mistiming, of our gate being opened at just the wrong time, for those dogs to get in and attack my baby...

My Baby. Richie is definitely a toddler but I cannot see him as anything other than my baby. He doesn't walk and I wonder if that doesn't make me treat him as smaller than he actually is.

But it's got to a point where I am up at 5.30, from a night where Richie has half-slept restlessly 5cm away from me all night long, and I then do four hours of child care until 9.30 and then STILL feel guilty if I then remove myself to... there's the rub. Not to work. Work is fine. But - gym.

My anxiety is out of control and I have been getting sad and sluggish and I KNOW I need regular exercise. Exercise is an anxiety-buster. I need it for me. And I feel anxious and guilty about taking that time, because it seems so indulgent, mid-morning gymming among all the other husband's-money-spending kugels.

How did I become this person? How did I change from the person who, four years ago, spent from 6 to 11PM EVERY SINGLE NIGHT on pursuits that were strictly and exclusively and selfishly recreational, and never questioned for one minute that I deserved every minute of that time - remember that person? - how did I turn from that person into the person you see before you here, who doesn't feel she is allowed a fraction of that time for herself? And it's not even time for vegging in front of the TV that I'm asking for, it's EXERCISE, fortheloveofeverythingholy!

That's what kids do to you.

The transformation is complete, Dr Frankenstein. You can take her off the slab now.

I have figured though that I am prepared to do the 2- or 3-hourly wakeups and the still-breastfeeding-and-cosleeping-with-a-16-month-old. I can do exhausted, listless parenting 24/7 or I can do it better for having also taken some time out to look after myself.

I've signed up at my old gym, I've done two sessions on the exercise bike at home to measure how thorough my humiliation would be once I got back to gym (not too bad. Can't jog, though, which is a pity. I love jogging. But let's just say jogging and jugging don't mix if your jugs are still breastfeeding...ouch. Yes.). And today I left the house at 8.45 (I especially asked Queeny to work different hours to accommodate this!), dropped Felix off, went to gym, showered in peace and at leisure, sat down in their free wi-fi coffee shop, worked like a demon, collected Felix and only - gasp! - got home at 1pm.

It was great.

A love letter to Felix

Felix is not a saint. But sometimes I wonder...

Felix can be a loud, boisterous, inconsiderate, dictatorial, self-centred three-year-old like any other.

But then sometimes, he's so quiet and pensive. Sometimes, he's so shy. Sometimes, he's so overflowing with hugs and love and cuddles and gentleness and kindness. And sometimes, he's - wait for it - self-effacing. I don't know, not knowing any other three-year-olds, if this is normal?

On a routine shopping trip we passed the toy shop. We spent a bit of time in front of the store window, ogling, and sliding on the slide parked outside the shop. Felix saw a big yellow helicopter that he was obviously fascinated by. But we had come to the toy shop just for nappy bin bags. "Can we take this one home?", Felix had asked, earlier, referring to another small toy, and I'd said, "No, my boy, we have lots of cars at home. Today is just for buying nappy bags."

We left the shop, Felix taking a last look at the helicopter in the display window. He said, "Mm. Yes. We're going home. I don't want that helicopter."

What? I stopped, crouched down, said, "Felix, I think you really like that helicopter a lot." Well, that was all he needed. His whole face lit up. "Yes," he immediately agreed. "I do."

"You would actually like to have it," I continued, with a faint sense of painting myself into a corner because I had already said we were not buying any toys today. But I really felt that I wanted to tell Felix that I had seen how much he loved the toy, and that I could tell he wanted it. I know he was probably telling himself more than me that he didn't want that helicopter. But the self-denial... it was too much!  I couldn't cope!

"Yes!" said Felix, and you could see that he thought we were now going to buy the heli.
I had to tread carefully here.

"That helicopter," I said, "costs a lot of money. We don't have enough money with us to buy it. We can go home and think of ways to make the money to buy that helicopter." (I was thinking, chores...)

The making money lesson went right over his head, obviously. I had aimed too high. But Felix possibly formed some vague notion of having to wait a bit and achieve something in order to obtain this helicopter. Something involving negotiations with Daddy, which I think turned the helicopter into something even more desirable in his little head.

Sean thinks I am evil and crafty but I call it utilitarian. An idea occurred to me. I want Felix to stop using nappies. Felix wants the helicopter. Why not put two and two together and get... underpants?

I put the idea to Felix. If he wore underpants (all weekend), we could go on Sunday to the shop and buy the helicopter. It was a lot of money, we said, but we didn't have to buy nappies so we now had that money left for the helicopter.

Felix wore underpants all weekend. Sunday morning we went on a special trip to buy the helicopter.

To say that Felix is enamoured with the helicopter is an understatement. He spent an actual full 5 minutes showing Queeny what it does and how it works on Monday.

He agreed - very reluctantly - to go to school wearing underpants because he'd scored a Big Boy helicopter.

We've had a few desperate tears over the underpants issue, but I am putting my foot down. The underpants go on, even though he does not like them. That was the deal we made and I am sticking to it. (In three short days, just like when we did sleep training with him, I imagine Felix will act like he never knew anything but underpants.)

At school, everyone made a huge fuss of Felix and he came home Monday afternoon on the crest of a wave of praise and positive affirmation. He was so happy! It was just beautiful to see.

Because it was his first day of going to school with underpants on, I walked hi to his classroom so I could ask the teacher and the assistants to keep a special eye on him and take him to the loo often to try to avoid an accident because

OH MY WORD

interruption to explain about the accidents. Felix made a wee at home on the floor while he was wearing underpants. He freaked out completely. I am talking ugly crying. It was like hot shame and humiliation and no matter how much Sean and I  tried to act  like it was No Big Deal it clearly was in his mind. We couldn't talk him down. And sure enough, after that Felix explained to me he didn't like underpants because they 'make my wee come'. Afternoons at home are spent with no clothes on at all for that reason. He'll lose the nappy happily, but he'll fight me about the undies...

... anyhow, so there I was in the classroom with Felix who had sobbed all the way to school, tearing my already shredded heart into smaller and smaller pieces. Luckily I am reminded every time I am there that his school is a Very Nice Place because the minute he's inside, with his friends and his familiar spaces and faces, he's happy. So I chatted a bit, then said, "Okay, Felix, see you later. I'm going now."

Almost too fast, before his voice caught, Felix said, "Bye Mommy!" a little too brightly, a little too loudly. Then the corners of his mouth turned down as he tried to suppress the tears that were threatening.

I turned and left, because doing anything else would have been the wrong thing to do.

Everything inside me, every instinct to protect, all the love I carry in my heart for that brave little soul, protested. But I went.

It sounds so trivial, especially if you're not a parent. Before I was one, I would have read this story and shrugged. So the kid says goodbye to his mom, gets a little water in his eye. It's hardly poverty and orphanages, is it?

Instead, I cry, and love him even a little more.

My Felix. I love you so very, very much.

Shame, don't shout at the cripple

Do you remember how permanently watched you felt as an adolescent?

I remember feeling as if an uncomfortable bright light was trained on me in any social situation. I lived in a state of perpetual discomfort, acutely aware of being judged, found not good enough. Despite initial evidence to the contrary, I turned out to be a pretty adolescent. This was a terribly double-edged sword: it garnered me loads of attention, but often of the kind I didn't want, or didn't know how to deal with.

I was several hundreds of leagues out of my depth when I started dating in high school, but no matter, it only influenced the next 15 or so years of my life. I can't help thinking, if my sexual awakening had come from within rather than without, several patterns would have been... well, I suppose replaced with other patterns, possibly equally ill-adjusted. Who knows. (It wasn't all bad, I did have one or two relationships about which I have happy memories, just in case you're reading this, Jascha!)

But enough of the rampant self-disclosure. This is, after all, a blog about my children.

One of the things I think about, when I think about Richie's later years, is how extra-watched he may feel. Richie is going to look different. He is going to walk funny (if at all). Maybe he will use a walker or crutches. People in shopping malls will look at him, stare at him, as people can't help doing when they see something out of the ordinary. (As I do. I'm not judging.)

On that note, Barb of Mom Off Track (she's the woman who also started the forum spinabifidaconnection.com,which I visit regularly) posted this a few weeks ago. It's about what happens when she disciplines her son, who uses a wheelchar, in public. Go on, read it. I'll wait.

http://momofftrack.com/2011/12/special-needs-kids-are-kids/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+MomOffTrack+%28Mom+Off+Track%29

She describes so well how 'poor little mites in wheelchairs' can expect especial attention from adults. First turns, longer turns, more treats, fewer demands for politeness, in general a lessened desire or ability to restrict choices and enforce the rules that apply to the other kids.

Knowing our Richie (he's been liberally endowed with charm, independence of spirit and of course dashing good looks) he will milk any such trend for all it's worth and simply enjoy the benefits without too much wroeging or introspection.

But in a sense that is Richie's indaba. Spina bifida simply is part of what makes him him - like his good looks, stubbornness, exploring nature, etc - and it is obvious that all of those will help shape his adult or adolescent personality.

My job is that I need to sort out how I react to people who attempt to patronise my child. I am very likely to project my intense dislike of feeling patronised onto him. It's not for nothing that my favourite movie line ever is Brad Pitt in True Romance mumbling, "Patronise me, motherfucker. I'll kill you, man." It's hilarious when you see the dopehead character he plays. Anyhow.

Sean I suspect might be likely to be softer on Richie when he feels the pang of sorrow that Richie can't do something, is being excluded, can't participate, is feeling embarrassed  or helpless or angry. And me? I might well be harder. Something along the lines of 'don't fucking patronise him just because he looks different. He'll play that game of catch along with the rest of you, just watch him.' It's something I'd like to explore, this year, by thinking and talking about it seriously.

And it's not even just in adolescence that this will be an issue. It's already started.

Here's a small exapmle.

We catheterise Richie four-hourly. If we go out, that means I pack a mobile catheter pack and set off. The other day, we went to the zoo with friends (with children Felix's age).

Now understand that beginning to catheterise Richie was a huge deal for us. It was an albatross round our necks. But merely a few days in the albatross turned into a harmless budgie. A budgie on an exacting four-hour schedule, but only a budgie nevertheless. Or maybe a parrot, yes, that sounds more manly. We're a family of four pirates, with four pirate parrots cheep-cheeping away at the chips on our shoulders.

So at the zoo, it was time to catheterise. I was on my own with the two kids, and the toilet facilites at the zoo aren't all that. So I laid out the picnic blanket and set up shop right there in the open. I figure, this is as routine as a nappy change so I may as well treat it as a harmless nappy change.

It's still a bit starchy, this new garment of reckless down-to-earthness that I am trying on. So I felt aware that, to my friends, this was their first experience of seeing Richie's cath procedure, and that I was augmenting the discomfort because we were out in the open. But I wanted to make it okay, to brazen it out. I know the first time I watched the catheter going in I flinched, and now I can do it with my eyes closed. I know if we are going to be doing this for years, I want the people closest to me to be simply comfortable with the procedure. (I want all of Richie's grandparents to be able to do it, but I am still waiting on that one...)

Of course, children don't feel our social inhibitions so Felix's friend G asked me what the hell I was doing there under Richie's nappy. Once again, I had had the first run with Felix so I rattled off my prepared speech: "Richie's wee doesn't come out by itself like yours does, so we have to help it come out with a pipe."

Oh, she said. And that was that. (Children are lovely for that - the simple curiosity, the immediate acceptance.)

I think the adults might have felt uncomfortable though. But I hope my reasoning makes sense, and that they understand it.

Because nobody will do the "Ag shame, don't expect him to say please/thank you/wait his turn, he's only a cripple" to my son, on my watch. And similarly, nobody needs feel too sorry for him or - worse - uncomfortable around him because he uses a catheter.

I'm hoping for a time where Richie using a catheter is like any other individual's quirks or special needs and everybody is really calm about it. And I hope this is the way to get there.

And now I will sign out before I really do start sounding like a utopian Barney song.

This one's for you, Richie

I'm not trying to brag.

Richie's verbal acuity has nothing to do with me and I am not responsible for it. I enjoy it. But I don't feel like I created it or that Richie deserves admiration for it or anything like that. Richie's verbal skills simply are what they are. Which is to say, to me, somewhat astonishing.

I've been wondering how to write this for weeks now. I'd like to set down for Future Richie one day a record of what he was doing at 15 months of age, and how that impressed us.

All I know is, this child talks! I know Felix spoke early too, but Richie seems even more verbal. I don't know what the norms are for 15-month-olds, how large their vocabularies are supposed to be. But I doubt it's the - how many? 80? - words Richie says.

I have heard that, when one developmental milestone is delayed for some reason, kids can develop faster in another - so maybe not walking is contributing to Richie's large vocab. (I also read in a book about Spina Bifida that SB kids are verbal - thought that factoid was not referenced so I don't know if this assertation is the result of scientific study or the kind of thing people say to parents to make them feel better.)

So, here's a boring summary of Richie's words, strictly for fans, grandparents, and Future Richie to enjoy (hell, it's New Year's Day. Nobody else is reading blogs anyway):

Richie says Mama, Daddy, Felix, brother, Nanna, Grandpa JOHN!, Grandpa, Ouma, Granny, Queeny and Vinny and Gnasher (the dog).

He says BOOB!, and nose, and mouth, teeth, (belly) button, feet, toes, head, and hair and eyes and ears.

He says nice, and YUM! - today in response to repeated requests for BOOB!, I asked, needlessly, "Would you like some boob?" "Some," affirmed Richie. "Yum!"

He says BU-bbles and Car and Bike and Bus and Tortoise and Helicopter and Plane, and push! and dog and cat and mouse and fish and rabbit and frog and penguin and waddle-waddle and horse and pig, and assorted other animal sounds.

He says paint and pen and box and string and tower and Saur (dinosaur) and Mismas for the Father Christmas ornament on our Christmas tree. He says Star - all. the. time. He loves stars. And the Moon. Melt-yourself-cutely, he draws out a long "WOW!!!!!" in a deep, husky voice when he's truly impressed.

He says bath and boat and water. "Food" and specifically sausage and porridge. Hot! and hot-hot-hot. I asked him if he wanted sausage - a current favourite - and he stopped playing with his toy and scooted into the kitchen, demanding"sau-sage, sau-sage".

He can understandably ask for "photos!" or "wheels on bus" on my phone or iPad. He says "Pad" (for iPad). He says Barney! (sigh.)

He says "wee-wee" when I produce his catheter, and "all done" when we're finished. He says Bye.

He speaks two-word sentences. Mostly the first word is "want", but still. "Want BOOB!". "Want PHOTOS!". Also, and often: "Where Daddy?" (He is so in love with his Dad at the moment!)
He says song and book. He says Up and Down and On and Gone. He says Baba (and LOVES seeing other children). Pat-pat.

He calls the dogs "naughty" and says "outside!".
And of course he says no. And no-no-no. And variations on the theme. (Geez he's determined. Richie gets a glint in his eye and a set to his jaw and you just know he means business.)

It's not Harvard-degree-at-age-11 stuff, this, but it is a significant strength of his. And I'm happy for him. That's all.

He laughs uproariously. And this December, he really has started playing with Felix more and more and more.

Today, for the first time, I saw the two brothers conspire in naughtiness. They were sitting in Grandpa John's chair, he was pretending not to have seen them and went to sit down, only to get pummelled on his back by two enthusiastic sets of arms. He'd spring up, astonished, and turn around to find two little boys in an hysterical collapse of laughter. Repeat times a million. It was cute to the max.

And Felix? Felix listened to Richie cry all the way home on a short car trip yesterday, trying to reassure him the whole way. "We're almost home, Richie!" At home, Richie's tantrum instantly stopped and they started playing in the lounge. Pipes up Felix: "I love you SO much, Richie."

His heart really is made from pure gold.

2012 is going to be a busy, eventful year (they all are). But to be with these two boys? It's joy and bliss. Thank you, my boys. I love you SO much, too.

2011, you rascal

It's been a long year.

'Holidays' this year have consisted of taking time off to go to Cape Town, in April, for Richie's massive back operation to remove the lipoma that was/is (but hopefully was) tethering his spinal cord and stretching it.

We went back in September for a follow-up visit.

That's three weeks of 'leave' used up right there. And neither trip was relaxing. And when you're both self-employed, three weeks of leave is three weeks unpaid, so you do the maths, and you don't go away again in December. (Not that it's worth going anywhere with 2 under 3, by the way. You just work harder, in a strange place, with fewer familiar toys and distractions.)

I'm happy we stayed in Jozi over the festive season. After an unsteady start, I got into the new rhythm of childcare, cleaning, cooking, and more childcare. We've grabbed Joburg's child-friendly attractions by the horns too, I must say. Beautiful Creatures, the Sci-Bono Museum, the Zoo, playdates aplenty, new local nurseries with ducks, playgrounds, friends, we even sampled Des and Dawn's kiddies' show at their theatre in Houghton...

Actually, it's been kinda fun.

Of course, I haven't taken on more than one or two small writing projects since sometime in early November, so I've had a long break from one of my jobs. I'm now finally looking forward to getting back into it.

2011 was my Annus Horribilis (sorry, Lizzie). The stress has been overwhelming, Richie still sleeps like a changeling very naughty boy, I get headaches that are spectacularly painful and are probably psychosomatic. 2011, on the whole, I'm happy to see you go.

But even kak years have their highlights. These are they:

1. Richie's left foot. If you read here regularly, you will always hear me referring to Richie's left foot as motionless and feelingless. It's the foot that drops down and that he has no muscle tone in at all. Part of what made 2011 so hard was that, once we'd survived the immense trauma of Richie's surgery, we both watched like football linesmen for any improvements in his condition. There were none. We had to get used to that. Second-guess ourselves: should he have had surgery at all? Did the surgery at least arrest further deterioration? The doctors had to sever nerves to remove the lipoma. Did that do more damage than good?

But recently, for some months now actually, I have held Richie's little foot in my hand while catheterising him, or while sitting quietly, and become aware of a twitching in the toes. And a certain downward pressure in response to me pushing his foot up into flexion. And then I could see it with my eyes - the toes twitching. The tiniest movement of a tiny toe has been the biggest positive event of my year.

2. Our cat, Flea, has stopeed needing her cat litter tray and goes outside for her bodily functions as she used to when she was a feral creature. Mostly, this is because one of our German Shepherds turned on her sister and started attacking her (apparently you mustn't buy two Alsatians from the same litter, who knew? Dodge breeders we got, maybe?). And then, thankfully, my saintly in-laws fell in love with the Underdog and have adopted her. Flea The Cat seems to feel more able to hold her own against two dogs, and so she's venturing outside again. Thus: this year, we are down to two dogs and one cat, which is a reasonable number for a household of our size. And no cat litter tray to clean! Listen, when you've got two kids in nappies with no idea when either will stop needing them, you'll take your continence from your animals if you must.

3. My husband. We've had no time together,he's worked insane hours, I bath-and-bed the kids on my own most nights, and we've faced our toughest year. We're a little bit fatter, greyer, balder, smoke more, exercise less, but we're unassailably a team and we have a kind of sixth sense-type connection, and similar attitudes about the Serious Things, for which I am so grateful. I would not have made it without him.

Richie is showing some very encouraging signs of doing the kinds of things the physios want him to be doing. He walks on his knees pushing a box or something on wheels in front of him. He reaches up higher and higher while on his knees.His balance is improving. So who knows? It could even be the year he walks. I'm not betting on it. But the hope is there.

Bring on 2012. May it be a good one for all of us.

And for my latest trick: Vomit on demand

Richie, Richie, Richie. You are going to give your parents seven kinds of hell, aren't you? You, with your shrug-it-off, screw-you houding and your generally gung-ho attitude to life. I shudder to think of the teenage You.

For instance: you are getting increasingly interested in exploring your surroundings, and copying your brother. But your legs get in the way. No problem, you'll just go on as if you have fully functional lower limbs, mount that chair to reach that enticing object and - crash! That's how you got that gash on your chin, you little imp.


There was blood. Quite a lot of it. You shrieked in surprise, went pale, vomited a bit, and settled almost immediately. I contemplated taking you to Casualty. Usually I am the it'll-be-all-right-with-a-bit-of-spit-and-a-hug parent; Sean, maybe typical of doctors who are also parents, I'm not sure, tends to worry more.

And then you ripped off the steri-strip I had used to connect the two parts of your split skin together again, and carried on as per normal.

And speaking of vomit...(no, we were, really), Richie has this brand new trick of making himself vomit. He does it in the car, if he's decided for any reason (and the reasons are not predictable) that he doesn't like being in the car. He cries, cries, cries a bit more, sees that it's not helping and he must take it up a notch. To the kotch notch.

Sleep training has thus been fun. A few nights in a row we've had the fun of putting a mostly asleep baby in his cot, he shrieks as head connects with pillow, I pat, he vomits.

Understand this is not a distress vomit. This is not Felix, who also vomits easily, but who did it as a toddler when he'd cried himself mucousy and hyperventilated and by that stage HAD to vom. Our Richie, he hoiks that solid matter out of the depths of his stomach out of spite and calculation. I promise you. If you were here, you'd see it.

Sleep training and sleep vaccilates in this house depending on levels of health (his), energy (mine), and how well he's sleeping in general. Things have suddenly turned downward again as Richie's been waking often and unhappily - I suspect more teeth but am taking him off to the doc tomorrow to check his ears just in case. (Urine is clear.)

I have loads more to write and no time in which to write it. 

But in summary: Richie, you are a character. I am reading a book about children with spina bifida which my mom bought me, and about which I WILL talk in the new year. But it is eloquently reminding me that we will grieve for your illness all our - and your - lives, in between the good. But the sheer amount of att-i-tude you bring into the world will stand you in good stead to deal with adversity. That's for darn sure.

 I love you, you little hardarse.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Felix aged 3 years and one month old is unrecognisable from Felix of six months ago.

My once chubby, baby-faced boy is lean and tall.

He used to cower in my skirts when strangers tried to talk to him. But today, in a toy shop, he happily told the shop assistant about his cousins who live in My Stralia, and that he was three years old, and that Richie bit him and that's why he's got a plaster.

 Telling Felix that we had a children's party to go to used to be traumatic. He used to hate the prospect of going, and often, he used to hate it when he was there. But this weekend, we had not one but three parties to go to, and Felix loved every one.

Felix used to be unable to be out of eyeshot of his parents - ever. This weekend, he happily abandoned us to go and play on the playground equipment at one of the parties, spending hours riding an imaginary motorbike on his own.

Felix used to be scared of going to school. Now, he hurries me along in the mornings and happily skips off to class with Trust, the appropriately named gem of a gent who picks the kiddies out of their carseats in the mornings.

Felix has fallen in love with his second teacher, Teacher Alex.  This I know because:

I picked Felix up from school on the last day of term. He had a gold star on his forehead. I asked him about it.

(Felix has a ritual about telling me all about what happened at school. We strap him into his carseat, and I have to start the car, and reverse out of the parking  bay and be travelling forward before he will start telling me.  If I ask him about school too early, he will tell me, "First go backwards. Put your seatbelt on! Now I can tell you all about what happened at school today." Little character.)

There was a looong silence after the gold star question. Suddenly Felix said, "Do I have red UNderpants?"

I quelled the leap of amazement in my voice and said, "Yes."

"Can I wear them?"

This is the same kid who can cry tears like his dog's just died if you try to broach the subject of underwear ordinarily.

Turns out Teacher Alex said Felix would get a gold star if he wore underpants to school and went to the toilet.

And I guess she was just too irresistible to deny!

I rather suspect I'm going to have a potty trained little boy to send to school next year.

Egging him on

Felix is not potty trained. He is three years old.

My parents' generation claim their kids (= us) were potty trained by 18 months.

Granted, we were walking around in soggy cloth nappies with the nappy liner hanging out, smearing shit on our legs, and getting pricked with the pin you used to have to use to connect the whole catastrophe together.

Our parents had to rinse the shit out of the nappies by holding them gingerly at the corners, dipping the solids into the toilet bowl and flushing. Then they had to submerge the nappy in the Steri-Nappi bin that stood in the corner of the bathroom reeking vaguely of poo.

Let's say the incentives for all involved were higher.

Sean's parents' generation are doing what the Silent generation does best - keeping Silent - but while they don't seem to have strong views on the matter, my mom remembers my paternal grandmother pressurissing her to start potty-training me by 9 months or a year. (Can that even be possible?)

Doctors think we know now that conscious continence develops sometime around the age of three - where your brain can override your lower nervous system's instructions to contract the bladder and release the urine.

So, fine. Wait until the kid is 2.5. But the problem then is, your subject is a lot less co-operative if he doesn't dig the whole using-the-toilet idea. And these Pampers are so comfortable and absorbent, he hardly knows they're there.

The only one who knows they're there is the parents' wallets!

Felix has seven brightly coloured underpants lying fallow in his cupboard. He watches everyone in the family wee and poo with emotions ranging from determined cheer to medium-to-large exasperation. He screams blue murder if you put a pair of underpants on, or leave his nappy off, or suggest he sits on the toilet for five minutes.

So we've left it.

At Felix's marvellous pre-school, the two class assistants have been saying that he goes to the toilet with some of the other kids without too much arguing. I admit that I thought they were fibbing.

But on Saturday, Felix was playing near the pool, and wanted his pants off. I helped him, and in the process removed the nappy too. (I've been trying to have him run around bare-cheeked outside more and more, so he can "water the flowers" when the opportunity arises.) He complained a bit; I stalled a bit. Suddenly, my sneaky little boy calls, "Mommy, there's a poo coming!"

I saw my chance. Scooped him up. Deposited him on the toilet. Howls of disapproval! I played for time a little bit more - "Okay,  Felix, I'll help you off, I just have to take Richie's wet T-shirt off..." - all the while talking him down, going on about how big boys go to the toilet. I eventually get to the part about where "do you know what? Every time you go to the toilet, you will get a PRESENT!"

One set of little ears pricked up.

After a decent interval, Felix said, "I made a poo!"

I acted like the skies had opened and I had personally witnessed a miracle. "WOW! I am so PROUD of you! Well done, you really are such a BIG BOY now! ....!!! ....!!! .....!!!!!!"

It came to wiping and flushing. There was not a trace of solid matter anywhere to be found. Still, I had gone this far and there was no retreating now. We continued the charade, me and my co-consipratorial little boy.

Felix's PREsent was a Kinder Surprise chocolate egg.

So far, Felix will willingly go and sit on the toilet every time he feels like a bit of choccie. He still has to deposit any form of payment into the toilet bowl. But still, it's progress, right?

Kinder Surprise Eggs are on special at Checkers for R5.99. Sean has stocked up. It's that, or R2 a nappy for the foreseeable future.

But I sense change is in the air. We will just keep, er, egging him on.

It's not all supermoms and giggles round here, I promise...

So after my last post I got a lot of responses that suggested I was capable of providing an uninterrupted idyll of childhood bliss for my children, and that that was rather irritating.

Not true.

Firstly, facts were staged and exaggerated, and time condensed, for literary effect. Yes, I left out the TV watching and general 'entertain-each-other'ing because that doesn't justify my fatigue as much, and then I get less sympathy. Which is obviously not the desired result.

And secondly, this morning we had three straight hours of bloody Christmas bloody Barney on repeat ("Happy Kwanzaa!" Felix has taken to wish me, thank you Barney, you're terribly PC and well brought up. By the way, nobody in South Africa has ever heard of Kwanzaa.)

Because Richie has been up since 5, and only went to sleep after a long battle close to 9pm, and in between was up at 3, and that's just not really enough for a 15-month-old, he was grumpy, and he's developed that 15-month-old frustrated SHOUT! and SHRIEK! and it drives me freaking insane, and then Felix doesn't get any attention because his brother is tired and ratty and SHOUTING and I have a sinus headache for the 3rd week in a row that is going to make my head explode if my children don't do it first.

Some days there's no sandbox/ramp game/water play/general hilarity to be found here. Today was that day.

Deprived children.

A note on catheterisation

Richie is passing humungous volumes of urine (like 90ml at a time), so I've increased the frequency of catheterisation. He's also likely to squirm and squirm and SQUIRM after his first or second nighttime wakeup, and because I can't live with the guilt of imagining that he can't settle because his bladder is uncomfortably full, I've started cathing at 3AM (of whenever he wakes up). This mornig there was definitely less squirming afterwards.

Strange thing has started happening - his nappy is increasingly completely dry. I wonder if this is because his bladder is being "trained" to empty itself every 4 hours? But why isn't it passing some urine overnight?

Ah, this is still a minefield, this cathing-and-urine stuff. Sean got an invitation to an International Children's Continence Society's conference in February in Cape Town. I think we must go.

Details, for anyone interested:

The International Children’s Continence Society in collaboration with the Continence Association of South Africa and the University of Cape Town is hosting an educational course titled:    

"Bladder and bowel dysfunction: practical guidelines and latest advances"
Venue: Newlands Sun, Cape Town
Date: 12 - 14 February 2012
Details:http://www.iccs-capetown2012.co.za

     Leading the course will be Professor Stuart Bauer who is President of the ICCS and a Paediatric Urologist attached to Harvard and the Boston Children's Hospital. Paul Austin is Professor of Paediatric Urology attached to St. Louis Children's Hospital, Missouri.

Why are you so tired? It's only 9am!

I decided to "gift" myself a little holiday before - the horror! - the schools shut, Queeny went on leave and there'd really be no time for my much anticipated nervous breakdown-cum-pedicure.

It's not going so well. First, there's the ever-present guilt thing. Any time - and I mean, ANY time - not spent with the kids leads me to do complicated, exhausting mental loops of justification and self-
placation. So far, so much of the usual...

Secondly, bills wait for no woman, and no bills billed = no paycheque to fund those pedicures, so I've been doing the admin I've always done and just taken a break from the (more fun) writing jobs.
But my computer hasn't co-operated! It's been on a positive go-slow. I've spent years of my life on hold to iBurst while they do not explain to me why my down- and upload speeds have gone down to freezing point, and Telkom, who do not wish to explain how but do feel that their service will be faster (and more expensive).

It was always only going to be a theoretical holiday, of course. That's what happens when kids enter the equation.

5.04AM: Richie stirs (for the last time that morning: he's up for the day.) Points at Lights!, my Nose!, Birds! outside the window, my belly Button!, and finally Door! where he would like to go see Daddy!. (His love affair with his father continues...) I count the hours: yup, once again I'll be starting the day on my average of 6 interrupted hours' sleep. I groan, placate and distract, finally give up and do Quality Time until at least...

6AM, because I am a saint of a spouse. I catheterise Richie. I change his nappy and dress him. I finally deposit him in Sean's arms, make sure Sean's eyelids are at least occasionally open. I make a huge fuss of and cuddle Felix, employing the Holy Morning Ritual from which must not be deviated. I go to the kitchen to make Felix's milk bottle, our coffee, my husband's breakfast, set out kids' breakfasts, prepare Felix's school bag, clean up the dog piss. I mutter at the dogs and let them out (WHY in the name of ZEUS cannot you control your bladder, you mangy straatbrak? Between you, Richie, un-potty-trainable Felix and the dribbles on the toilet seat, must every male in this house be incontinent? Mutter mutter mutter.)

7AM: The Great Battle of changing Felix's nappy and selecting his outfit commences, and may or may not be concluded by 8AM. See also: brushing teeth. I get dressed, possibly showering beforehand. We wave a fond farewell to Husband and Father. Now, announces Felix, "It's RAMP game!!!" Ramp Game involves stripping the couches of their seats and hopping and crawling around and over the chaos. It's fun. Kids prefer to leave before cleanup though.

7.14AM: Now it's Pool Time! 57 balls must be chucked in the pool and various sinkable toy non-submersibles discussed and refrained from dunking (with great self-control on the part of the three-year-old). It is important that neither child should drown during this time. All that water reminds Richie of his latest must-have game, which is sitting in the kitchen sink opening the taps and scooping water, while saying "water!"and "on!" in an astonished voice. One three-year-old's tantrum later, we repair to the kitchen with bribes of a music CD of nursery rhymes for Felix. While Richie is watched closely (See: injury, above), I coax yoghurt and raisins into Felix between lusty renditions of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star (Richie, endearingly, bops his body along and folds and unfolds his little fist for the Twinkle part). Felix's discarded toast goes into the dogs, the floor, and some into a lappie, but I can't guarantee he arrives at school minus tomato sauce stains on his face.  Richie has by now been repeating a two-syllable sound for 5 minutes, better try to focus... ah! he's saying "wau-widge" (porridge). Clearly the child is a baby genius. And starving. And a GENIUS! Revel in that knowledge for a second as whining escalates, hop to it, deposit porridge in Richie's mouth, attempting to read Richard Scurry book with other hand/side of face.

7.39AM: Fed kids experience mood and energy surge. Goody! We're off to the sandpit. Richie's wet already so I am actually MAKING time here by skipping one outfit change.
Diggers and tractors, spades and buckets are fought over. Tears are shed. Shrieks are shrieked. Perhaps, even, offers are made, truces settled, negotiations negotiated. Kisses exchanged. AWWW! Aaaaaand... we've spotted the teepee! We're hiding under the teepee.  Mom! MOOOOOOMMM-MY! You have to find us! (Many times.)

8.15AM: But we have found a hadida. Imitated him/her. Seen the bike. Raced the bike. Relocated to the front part of the garden. Crawled into the dog house. Fed the dogs. Not eaten dog food. Spotted some cars. Audis! ('With four WINGS [=rings], Mommy!) Been reminded of mom's car. Climbed into mom's car. Mom rescued keys out of car in nick of time. Kids turn on indicators, door lights, hazard lights, turn steering wheel, lock steering wheel, get stuck in footwell. Laugh. Cry. Play shopping and delivery game. Get out of car.

Lather, rinse, repeat, repeat, repeat until finally, finally - can it be? OH YES! It is the sound of Queeny coming in the gate.

9AM! I love you! Reheat my coffee for the 3rd time. Drink it. Aaah.

And this, kids, is why you should never ask a parent why they are looking so exhausted, and it's "only" 9AM.