Category Archives: Family & Kids

A Day Off (for a married man)

A long Day Off stretched ahead of me. My schedule looked like this:

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Bliss!

“Oh, I booked you for an assessment at the gym at 6am” says my Aitch.

GYM? My shadow never darkens the door of any gym! She knows that! “Calm down, it’s with Tanya the biokineticist and it’s for Vitality points,” Aitch instructs me patiently. “And I told you about it,” she reminds me.

Hmph! That rattled me. But, Oh well, thank goodness it’s early, the rest of the day will be just me and chilling.

Aitch is taking Tom the younger to school and doing his class reading, so I suggest we meet for breakfast before her chemo, making my second appointment for the day. My day off is filling up.

At the gym Tanya worked my case with pushups and crunchies and other forms of torture – which seem like nothing compared to when she starts measuring me.

“It’s OK, just put 75kg” I said for weight.
“No I must measure” she says, hauling out the scale from under the torture bed. It was unfair, as she didn’t have one of these scales, where you can read your own weight . .

She had one of those where you can’t see them way down under the folds . . so I had to take her word for my weight and her word was “92,8kg” – said ominously. Oh.

“99cm” I say as she approaches me with a tape measure (knowing that over 100 classifies one as obese in this freaky anal gym-world environment.).

“106” she deadpans. I clearly hear the implied “Jy’s obese, ou bees.“

But she’s very sweet in the end, telling me I’m absolutely perfect and supremely healthy if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m fat and unfit. I squeak into the bottomest of the “acceptable” rating. Up from “fair” six months ago (which is the last time I did any bending or pushing). Aitch will get her bonus Vitality points. Phew!
Tanya gives me a list of stuff I must eat (crunchy and fruity) and stuff I must avoid (succulent and tasty).

I get home and Jess the older is waiting to be taken to school.

At breakfast with Aitch at Oscar’s on the Berea, I get prrring prrring (actually I got Reelin’ and Rockin’ as Jessie has changed my ringtone).
“Why aren’t you at the clinic?”
A mad scramble for St Mary’s hospital at Marianhill ensues, gotta stop at home to pull on some long pants – How was I to know? I’m on leave! (OK, if I’d read my sms earlier . . . ). As I shovel a last mouthful of Oscar’s kipper into my beak, Aitch shoves a list into my hand.

So now my day looks like this:

6.00am Torture and Humiliation

7.10am Jess to school

8.00am Breakfast with Aitch

8.30am Eye Clinic volunteer duty
(arrived 9.20am – could get fired – yeah, right!)

1.30pm Fetch Jess from school

2.30pm Fetch Tom from soccer

3.30pm Take Jessie to swimming

4.30pm Fetch Jess from swimming

5.00pm Take Tom to cub scouts

7pm Fetch Tom from cubs

Jessie asked nicely to skip swimming. I said FINE. Tommy immediately said “Great, so I’m skipping cubs.” No way. It was the AGM and all the cubs were in full uniform. My fella had all his kit on and looked really spiff. So much so that his bare feet almost didn’t seem to matter. Except to Akela.

CubScout Wandsbeck (5)
– my man –

Bliksem! Tomorrow I’m going to have a day of rest. By going to work. This ‘Being Like a Mom’ lark is exhausting.

~~oo0oo~~

Perceptions & Fears? – Knowledge Helps

While we’re packing for a camping trip to Mkhuze the vervet monkeys sneak into the kitchen and grab the fresh peanuts. The peanuts grown by Thulisiwe just north of Jozini on the Makathini Flats, which she then roasts over an open fire and salts herself. Tobias brings us some whenever he goes home.

Tom spots them on the roof, spilling the nuts as they chomp them, the spilt ones rolling down the tiles into the gutter. Hey! he shouts and remonstrates and fulminates! Tom and the monkeys don’t have a good relationship despite all my lectures (um, whaddaya mean because of?).

After a while I tell him, Relax m’boy, its OK for the monkeys to have the nuts. We left them in the open, their job is to glean and gather, so that’s that.
But he doesn’t like it, and he doesn’t like them. I think it’s because he’s a bit scared of them, so I ask him:

TomTom, how big do you think the monkeys are, fella? How much do they weigh?
About 90kg, he guesses.
Guess again. First, how much do you weigh?
45kg
And the monkeys?
15kg?

Guess lower.
5kg?
Try 4kg

Oh.

10 Elston vervet (1)

Over the Edge

I ask Tom not to wee over the edge of the patio, but rather to go into the garden, find a shrub and wee discreetly behind it. More than once I ask him. Yes Dad, he says, shaking off the last drops.
Early one morning as the sun rises I watch the feathered parade in the old dead avocado tree. I’m going to miss that tree when it finally platzes. Already I’ve sawn off the big branch overhanging the driveway as it was full of bracket fungus and ready to dent someone’s car. I have planted a Natal Mahogany underneath to succeed it one day.
The white-eared barbets fluff themselves up in the early rays and two black-collared barbets land and go through a spirited two-puddly (or “Scottburgh”) duet. A group of purple-crested touracos bound across the branches, an olive thrush peeps and lands, as does a female violet-backed starling, a brownhooded kingfisher, a forktailed drongo and a speckled mousebird, all using the tall bare branches as a waypost or a sunning spot.
I’m busting for a leak but I don’t want to miss anything. I don’t want to go inside and I don’t want to disturb the birds by going off the patio, so I discreetly have a leak over the edge of the patio outside Tom’s bedroom window. It’s early. I’m sure he’s still sleeping.
But he spots me and I know I’ve blown my credibility.
I feel I need to explain, so at breakfast I tell him about the wonderful dawn display and not wanting to disturb the birds. He nods.
Not too long after that morning there’s Tom, weeing over the edge of the patio in full view. I bite my tongue. I know what’s coming.
Dad, he says mock-solemnly, I didn’t want to disturb the birds.

20140504_092944 Elston Place Deck Tom

Madagascar

I never really learnt to be circumspect. I tend to blurt. So what would you like to do now your second chemo spell is over, Aitch? We’d gone snorkelling at Mabibi on the Zululand coast after the first. A six hour drive in a 4X4.

Where? The Great Barrier Reef? But that’s in Oz, m’dear! You do? Um, what I meant to ask was: What, reasonably-speaking, would you like to do?

So I scurried off to do my homework. Costs, flight times, travel time to the reefs, what we could afford. With trepidation I showed her two alternatives: The Great Barrier Reef in Oz vs Madagascar, where we would live aboard a yacht, plopping overboard to snorkel whenever we wanted to.

Phew! She chose Madagascar – and LOVED Madagascar. “My BEST holiday ever!” she enthused afterwards.

We shared the boat with a delightful English couple, Dickie and Claire, with their two blonde girls Sonja and Natasha. Easygoing and relaxed, it was a blissful getaway. They were chilled and accommodating, and so were we. The crew, too, were wonderful folk, friendly, capable, and good chefs! Skipper Bert, chef ___ and teenage deckhand ‘Mowgli,’ who fascinated our Jessie.

aitch-snorkel-wide-9

It was Aitch, so homework was still done, naps were still taken, routines were kept as far as possible:

Nosy Iranja in the Mocambique channel:

‘My Best Holiday Ever!!’ – Aitch

scan0063

Don’t Call Me Comrade

I tried. Well, I made a less-than-worthy attempt. My heart wasn’t in the training. I thought, if you live on the route, you gotta have a go. If you live in KwaZulu, you’ll always be asked, Have You Done It? But I could never quite see the glamour or ‘worthiness’ of shuffling furtively round the dark streets long before sunrise. Anyway I thought, Give It A Go. I even tried the flaming hot running shorts Phil Greenberg gave me in the hopes I’d speed up a bit.

Running broeks Phil Greenberg gave me in my crazy running daze

I joined a club – maybe that’s where I went wrong? I joined Westville with their red & white hoops ‘caterpillar’ outfit whereas historically I was more suited to be a black-&-white Savage with a Zulu shield, knobkierie and spear on my chest. Years before, I had been a Savage. Running Number 451, so maybe I should have stuck to that? Westville gave me number 159738b or something – I don’t think they valued me like Savages did. That probably put me off my stride a bit.

Comrades 2013

Anyway, I shuffled and I shuffled and I ran a lot of races. 10km, 15km, half marathons and two 42km marathons.

Here’s an example of a ‘short’ training run in windy, hilly Westville, starting at our home. We took turns hosting our short runs at our homes, with tea n cake served afterwards. This is the run I worked out for the training team:

Walk up River Drive

R into Elvira

R into Rockdale across highway bridge

R Severn – down

L Mersey

L Rockdale – UP for 500m !!

Back all along Rockdale

R Tweed – Done 4km at this point

L Thames – down

R Conway – down

L Constance Cawston – UP & UP

L Somerset – UP & UP (becomes Frank)

L Cochrane (becomes Cleveland – UP) – 6,5km

L Rockdale

R Rockdale (that’s right, Rockdale again !)

R Broadway – UP

L Neville – 8,6km

L Westbrook – down, then UP

L Harrison – UP

L Springvale

R Lawrence

R River – 11,5km

Then eventually the big day arrived and I hadn’t arranged anything so I took myself off to Maritzburg to my folks. Early the next morning my Mom dropped me off at the start – long before sunrise. More dark streets – but now with crowds of lunatics milling around the red brick city hall.

comrades start

Some guy crowed like a rooster and a gun went off in the dark and nothing happened. Minutes later still nothing had happened. The chatter of the would-be runners had changed to an excited murmur but nothing else had changed. Eventually we started shuffling at a slow walk, then a very slow pace, slower even than my training pace, and some long time later we crossed the START line. The START line! I was tired already! I think I was in Batch ZZZZ.

That’s when I started thinking fu-uck! and I’m afraid that thought didn’t really leave me all day. I knew my pace was slow by the people around me: None of the runners looked like young skinny blonde Wits students, nor like Russians – and if they did look African they looked larger and rounder than me. Also, the few spectators about weren’t saying ‘Well Done!’ or ‘Go! Guys!‘ NO, Instead they were saying Move Along! in a rather critical, nagging tone of voice, I thought, Why’s no-one saying, ‘You’re looking good!? Weird that.

This was confirmed when I passed under a banner that said ‘HALFWAY’ – Half way meant I only had 3km (Plus a Marathon) to go. Springbok rugby captain Wynand Claassen recklessly shot off a gun which left gunpowder residue on my scarlet Westville Running Club shorts. Well, if that wasn’t a pointed ‘Move Your Arse’ hint! Who the hell did he think he was? He had run the race but he’d never won the race, his father had.

En route I caught up with a few long-lost friends: Jacques-Herman du Plessis from Harrismith days; Rheinie Fritsch from army days. Also Aitch and 5yr-old Jessie and 1yr-old Tommy met me in Botha’s Hill for a family reunion. They were all a bit cool though, a bit offish, I thought: Because after a while of enjoying standing and chatting to them, they all said, ‘Haven’t you got something to do today?‘ and sent me on my way. Bugger off, Koos! they said.

So I shuffled and I shuffled and then my spirits rose at a sudden thought! I started to think maybe there had been a collective coming to their senses, as there were no other runners around nor any spectators. Maybe I had got the wrong day? Or maybe everyone had just gone home to a hot bath and a cold beer?

But no, the spectators returned in Westville. Trouble is, they were all packing up their deckchairs. And so the slow torture continued. Shuffle, shuffle. Suddenly a few cops jumped in front of me holding reflective tape as I shuffled under the N3 below 45th Cutting, just before the onramp (usually an offramp) onto the Berea Road section of the N3 into town.

Go Home, they said, We need this road for tomorrow’s traffic. You’ve had eleven hours, they said, and you’ve only done 82km. Where have you BEEN?

So I went home to a hot bath and a cold beer. Look, about this heading: Actually, you can call me Comrade, I’d love that, but only in a liberation sense, not in a shuffling sense. Who knew they only give you a medal for the last 7km? The first 82km are completely ignored!

Maybe next time, to speed me up I’ll shave my legs?

~~oo0oo~~

So now I’m also guilty of this:
“How do you know if someone has run a marathon?”

“They’ll tell you.”

~~oo0oo~~

The guys in my pics are Dave Williams, Kingfisher and Savages mate; and Dave Lowe, Westville runner; Both have done OVER FORTY Comrades – 41 and 42 respectively to be precise. That is Seriously Certifiable! I told Dave ‘Jesus’ (when he had a beard) ‘John Cleese’ (when he shaved) Williams just the other night at Ernie’s wake “You know you can stop now, right?” and he said No, I failed to finish last year for the first time ever, so this year I have to repeat my 42nd Comrades. Bleedin’ ‘ell!

Golden Mole

Hey Dad! What’s that in the pool!? shouts Jess this morning. It’s a mole, swimming rather desperately, gulping for air every so often, head underwater between. I rush for the poolnet and get him onto the lawn where he starts burrowing under the grass right away.
Well saved, Jessie!

golden mole

golden mole

golden mole 3

Remember: Golden moles: Tiny teeth, eat insects & worms;

Mole rats: Big external teeth, eat plants;

Don’t harm either of them. Allow them in your gardens. Please. Your lawn or garden need NOT be ‘perfect’. In fact ‘perfect’ gardens are a sure sign of cruelty. Again: Perfectly neat gardens are a sure sign of cruelty. And pollution. And poison.

Mole rat mole rat

A Tale of Two Hospitals

Or: A Tale Of Two Approaches To Healthcare

Four year old TomTom got burnt. Boiling water. It was my fault. We were in our kitchen in our new home and I switched a stoveplate on to high, put an empty pot on and later added water! Mistake!

I rushed him to Westville private hospital. Where they didn’t talk to him; they didn’t look at him. Please help, he’s been burnt with boiling water! I said. Is he on medical aid? You need to pay a deposit. The doctor was reluctant to even get started. I had to snarl and tell them he’s my son and he’s on my medical aid before they give him attention. A very poor show. Damned disgraceful, actually. If he wasn’t, what would they have done? Told him to piss off!? A hurt four year-old!!? Shame on them.

But we all know private medicine in South Africa is “World-Class”, right? American-class, maybe.

~~~oo0oo~~~

Another time our friend Minneapolis hurt her leg, she thought she actually heard it break as she turned on it playing netball. She has no medical aid, no insurance. I got a call, a plea for help. I drove to Westville Girls High School and took her to King George government hospital – now King Dinizulu. They immediately put her on a wheelchair and talked to her, sympathised and re-assured her. Then off to x-ray her, bandage her, give her medicine and THEN they asked for R20 admin fee if we could pay. A good show.

But we all know state medicine in South Africa is “Third World”, right? We all know you CAN’T go to a state hospital!

~~~oo0oo~~~

Other times, another two hospitals:

Aitch goes to Parklands private hospital. Small op, two nights. They give her a fierce infection. I see it happen. A nurse is putting up a drip. She’s battling. Another nurse comes in, wheeling a trolley. Seeing the first one battling, she drops the trolley and joins in, helps put up the drip in Aitch’s arm. Nowhere have hands been washed. Aitch ends up in hospital six nights instead of two. Dose after dose of intravenous antibiotics finally control the raging infection. The UNNECESSARY infection. So the hospital got punished for their poor cleanliness, right? No, they made thousands and thousands of Rands of extra profit thanks to it. Maybe the nurses were given a percentage of the extra profit?

But we all know private medicine in South Africa is “World-Class”, right? American-class, maybe.

~~~oo0oo~~~

I take Aitch’s dear ole Dad Neil to Mshiyeni government hospital with a broken hip. He’s 88yrs-old. They check him in at 11pm at night. They wheel him around, x-ray him; I see him to his ward and go home. The next day they operate, then intensive care him, put him in the ward and look after him. No sign of infection. I check his hip every day. It stays cool and clean. The senior orthopod gives me his personal cell number. ‘Phone anytime,’ he says.

When I do phone him with a question, he says ‘I’ll discuss with the prof and phone you back.’ He does. Once I sms him and he sms’ back: ‘I’m in a conference in JHB today, but I’ll get the other surgeon to look at Mr Humphrey and he’ll contact you.’ He does. They charge him nothing. He has paid for it the fifty years he paid taxes. THAT’s how it should work.

But we all know state medicine in South Africa is “Third World”, right? We all know you CAN’T go to a state hospital!

~~~oo0oo~~~

I think: Westville and Parklands hospitals’ people should spend a day at King George and Mshiyeni hospitals. Especially their accountants and profit-sharing directors – and some of their shareholders – should spend a day in real South African hospitals. And learn. Maybe learn to spend less on Marketing and Public Relations, plush carpets and artwork on the walls – and more on infection control and human care.

~~~oo0oo~~~

Slippery Character

Showering one-year-old Tom in my arms in the ablutions at FlatDogs camp in Zambia I must have squeezed him a bit too hard, as he shot out of my arms like a slippery bar of soap and landed flat on his back on the tiled shower floor!

Waaah! he squawked when he got his breath back after a deadly-silent second! What’s wrong? call Aitch and Jessie from the ladies section next door (separated from us by a thin reed wall).
YIKES!! I picked him up hurriedly and spent the next few hours watching him intently. He was fine, thank goodness! a sueto continua! (the holiday continues!)

zambia shower

Much safer to hang our own shower in a tree on a sandy floor! (also in Zambia).

~~~oo0oo~~~

My Education Proceeds Apace

Two versions of “pace” on this morning’s school run:
Tom – Dad, I PACED him (telling how he had run around some hapless defender on the rugby field).
Faatima – I have to learn to PASTE myself when running (telling how she runs with her 18-Comrades-medals Dad).

I learn a lot on the school run . . .

April Fool

Got caught again this year (2012). TomTom came through early Sunday morning and said “Dad, Flaky died!” Flaky: Original name for his snaky – an American corn snake.

I said “NO! What happened?”

“April fool, Dad!! – and happy birthday”.

OK, I said grabbing him and tickling the blighter.

The first time I got caught on my birthday was a lifetime ago in Harrismith.

 

Dads Know – not much

I encouraged Jess to shoot some videos with her 2011 xmas-prezzie Canon camcorder. Set it up on the tripod, showed her how and said “Go for it, girl. Get footage of Black Sambucca the lazy labrador, or birds in the birdbath. Experiment!”

Over lunch I press her: “Let’s see what you‘ve done”. Much giggling and No Dad!, but I insist on looking.

Loud sounds of International Love by girlfriend-beater Chris Brown and Pitbull, with Jess dancing joyously to the beat dressed in her hiphop best.

Dogs and birds indeed!!

Two Days in the Kamberg

One day sunny and windless outdoor fun, including wading in the Mooi River;

The next a howling gale and chilly rain coming in at an angle; Forced to snuggle in the chalets, kids in one chalet watching DVD’s and eating biltong, potato crisps and sweets; Adults in the other drinking red wine, eating red meat and dark chocolate;

Solved the world’s problems, and I would patent those thoughts if I could remember them.

kamberg collage

Face Your Fears

TomTom was after yet another new must-have: A Hero factory something-or-other. The Wizard, or Rocka or something.

No. – “Aw, Pleeez Dad”. – No – too expensive.

Withdrawing for a while, he decides pleading isn’t working, gotta try a new tactic: Strolling up to me, he grabs me around the shoulder and lays his head against mine.

“Let’s just get this thing behind us, Dad” he says, like man-to-man, “Face your fears”.

LEGO ‘hero factory’ (you didn’t know?)

Raising a Glow

Before you listen to any music, girls, outside for some exercise. Off the couch! Moan, grumble, whinge. Not a one of them wants to do anything remotely strenuous. Nothing that would make them glow. ‘Cos as we know, ‘horses sweat, gentlemen perspire and ladies just glow.’

Aw, Dad! But they start. All three are very happy to suggest tough burpees and squats to the others, but DO them? Aikona! So we have three sadistic teenage instructors and three reluctant teenage instructees (giving a total of three girls).

Once they finally get going they love it and do some enthusiastic bop n jive, raising a good sweat and much laughter.

OK, back to your music videos now!