The tale of an enema and a yellow bucket

*Disclaimer:       If you were planning on reading this while eating something at your desk, DON’T.  This post contains scenes of a graphic nature and may contain fowl language.

Last night I was at my wits end, my 10 and half month old boy is keeping in his poop, I know the doctors say that this is not possible for kids so young, but I can promise you it is the case-you couldn’t pry those cheeks apart with a crow bar, anyway so there we are, in the bath, when I have a little light bulb moment.  Why don’t I use the snot-suction thing that I got in the grooming set that must-have-been-designed-for-an-elephant-as-it-is-so-huge-it-won’t-go-up-my-child’s-nose (turns out it is not a suction thing at all but really meant for what I actually used it for last night).

So there we were, I ran a lovely bath for him, he was happily crawling around chasing his rubber ducky, or something similar, and the wicked witch of the South (that’s me in case you were wondering) take this elephant enema tool and start squirting luke-warm water where no child in their right mind wants water squirted.  He clenched his but cheeks so tight that I got some residual spray, lovely -Note to self: wear diving mask or possibly those helmets the riot police have.

The thing about an enema is it is really effective and it works super fast, a fact that I was not aware off.  I was happily operating under the illusion that I can give him the (lets just call it a treatment, as I get little flashbacks of what transpired in our bathroom if I use the words enema *shiver*) treatment, and give him a quick bath and then let him do his deed in the clean nappy that I had on hand.  Oh the best laid plans.  It must have been a full on 10 seconds after the final swish of water passed and all hell broke loose.

I am sorry if this sounds crass but there were turds flying everywhere, and the boy was screaming like they were made out of hot coals.

Sidebar: the man is in JHB so bear in mind that I was one pair of hands short

So there we were, floaters everywhere, looked like a pearl harbour after the Japanese came to visit, and the boy was cranking out the desibels.  The only solution that I could think of was to pick him up out of the bath and hold him tight (while he was finishing his business on my lap-lovely-I did warn you) and try and catch the floaters with his yellow beach pale.  Those things are so damn slippery that all I manage to do with the tools at hand was smash them into the side of the bath.  Unfortunately this was a job that had to be done manually. Finally with the coast clear-so to speak-I drained the water, and gave the bath a thorough scrub-bear in mind that I still had the screaming/crapping child on my lap.

Half an hour after my light bulb moment he was happily in a spring-fresh bath and I had to change my clothes.

The worst part of this whole palava?

There was no wine to drown my sorrows with/ease the emotional scarring that ensued after the manual labour.

The up side?

He only woke up once during the night, a damn site better than the 5 times the night before, and I  can in all honesty say that that boy has a clean colon this morning. I have the mental scarring to prove it!

Will I ever give him an enema in the bath?

Hell NO! I am thinking of getting a kill room like Dexter’s? Anyone know any good contractors?

You have been weighed, measured and found wanting.

Today this phrase explains completely how I feel…

I decided a while ago that I wanted to become an egg donor.  I know quite a number of people that are not able to conceive on their own and the generosity of others made it possible for them to be parents. +

What a wonderful feeling, knowing that you were able to help someone like that, and in such a special way.

So I took the plunge and I registered with an agency.

Excitedly I survived the initial screening process and a lengthy email correspondence ensued.  I waded through the mile-long form and made the necessary telephone calls to all of the necessary family members to ask uncomfortable questions about their eating habits, sugar problems, bowel movements, weight and every other possible bodily function that you can imagine.  Okay, I concede that I may be exaggerating a bit here -call it poetic license if you like, but I dotted all the ‘i’s’ and crossed all the ‘t’s’ with stars in my eyes and dreams of getting pictures of all the beautiful babies that I helped to be born (sounds a bit narcissistic?).  Finally, after going onto an oral contraceptive (tablet form-no less) in anticipation, jumping through all of the hoops, on Tuesday morning I see I have an email from them and I get all flustered-could I really have been chosen so soon…wel the short answer…NO.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought that I would get a ‘Dear John’ letter for wanting to become a donor…But anywhere, there it is.   I have been weighed, measured and found wanting.  I will be slinking off to go and find a quiet spot to lick my wounds now, just me, myself and my unwanted eggs.

Trying to take over the world can seriously hurt your bottom line

This morning on the way to work, the husband asked me whether I know what car manufacturer used to make aeroplanes, I ventured a guess that it was Rolls Royce but this was not the one he had in mind…anyway, so he proceeded to enlighten me that he was actually talking about BMW and that was actually where they got their emblem from.  He mentioned further that they started out with planes in the late 1930’s and made most of the German Reich’s bomber planes…but after the world they were sanctioned and had to revert to making automobiles only.
I guess trying to take over the world can have a very detrimental effect to your bottom line, and today we can thank sanctions for the low-flying automobile!
Which reminds me of a friend of my brother that was driving one of these specimens along the Karoo highway at breakneck speed, and when stopped by a traffic cop he was told that he better have a pilot license cause he was definitely not driving but rather doing some very low flying…the poor traffic cop was absolutely stunned when he handed over his pilot’s license…that will teach him to be cocky!
That is your piece of useless, but interesting information for the day. No need to thank me…I will be here all week.

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave….

I loved watching Gilmore girls… even though I found it quite frustrating cause they talked so loud and I was never able to watch more than one episode because their shrill voices hurt my ears after too long of straining to make out what they are saying because they are talking so damned fast…(sound familiar?)

This morning as I am ambling back from Woolworths where I engaged into some light retail therapy (light for me but not for my credit card) that was as a result of my boss/we me finding some unidentified substance on his shirt right before he is supposed to go to court (thank goodness they have to wear toga’s).  As I walk I notice little things that reminded me of other things and I marvelled at the things we see that alters our train of though.  When I was in the store I heard a Christmas song that reminded me of my dad.  We had this Christmas Carol 4 Cd box-set that was supposed to get you into the mood for Christmas and all fired-up- to-make-eggnog-and-smooch-under-the-mistletoe-kind of thing, but instead it leaves you wanting to stuff-our-face-with-mince-pies-and-drown-your-sorrows-with-the-eggnog-brandy, because it is so damn depressing. And as I heard the song this morning I could not help falling into fits of laughter (right in the boys underwear department-I got quite a few “have you gone completely of the deep end?” kind of looks) because I remembered that my dad mentioned something about wanting to chew through his own wrist and that would be less painful way out than having to listen to another one of those Christmas songs…

This is where the Gillmore girls come in.  There was this episode where Lorelai had to think about her relationship with Luke and she kept on avoiding it, when pressed about it she admitted that she did not want to be in her own head as it is a scary place to be…as there is a lot of crazy in there and inexplicably all her thoughts come back to monkeys.  Some days I feel like this…

I don’t want to be left alone in my head…it is a scary place to be, and there sure is a lot of crazy up there too. Although I am glad to say there is definitely no monkeys in here, no Sirree! No Monkeys…except for now of course.

Todays assignment.

Write down your thoughts in the order you have them, and tonight have a good ol’ glass of wine and laugh at yourself and all the crazy you carry around in your head!

Kersfees

…Ek het in my kinderjare

Vas geglo aan kersfeesvader

In werklikheid ry hy mos met ‘n slee

Maar hier stap hy deur die mielies

Met ‘n streepsak en ‘n kierie

En my boetie vra boer hy by Clocolan?…

As ek dink aan Kersfees hoor ek daardie liedjie in my kop, en dink ek terug aan my Oom en Tannie op hulle plaas in Ashton.  Alhoewel ons nie baie daar was met Kersfees nie, bly die Kersfees by hulle die helderste in my geheue.

Daar was nog nooit ‘n Kersfees daar sonder Kersvader nie.  Ons was laas jaar weer daar, en alhoewel ek 27 jaar oud is, het Kersvader nog steeds my geskenk vir my gegee.  In sy verbleikte rooi oorpak en ‘n Kersvader masker, wat noudat ek daaraan dink eintlik vir kinders sal slapelose nagte gee, en sy handskoene wat al ingedra is deur ure se sweet in die son op die plaas.  Die Kersvader was nog nooit regtig geloofwaardig nie, maar as jy my kleinneef vra dan sal hy hoog en laag sweer dit is niemand anders as  Kersvader nie, alhoewel sy pa altyd misterieus na ete verdwyn om te gaan “water oopdraai” (iets wat nogal baie gereeld moet gedoen word op ‘n plaas).

Die rede dat ek nou vandag met die slee in die huis val, is gisteraand toe die ligte nou af is en ons begin regmaak om te slaap, toe wil die man weet of ons vir Tristan gaan laat glo in Kersvader (hoekom is die altyd net voordat mens wil gaan slaap wat dit dan nou tyd word om sulke goed te bespreek.  Dit is onregverdig, want die speelveld is nie gelyk nie.  My brein het al afgesit na die eerste glas wyn wat ek afgesluk het, daar kan nie van my verwag word om nou te redeneer nie?). Eerstens wou ek op my bitch besem spring, want duidelik het hy glad nie geluister toe ek vertel het dat ek opsoek is vir Tristan vir ‘n Kerskous nie…nou hoekom sal ek vir die kind ‘n Kerskous wil kry as ek hom nie gaan leer van Kersvader nie?  Ek haal toe ‘n paar keer diep asem en sê net rusting: “you better believe it! natuurlik gaan ek hom leer van Kersvader”.  Die man se argument is dat dit misleidend is. Myne dit is deel van linker en regter brein ontwikkeling deur vir hom te leer om sy verbeelding te gebruik, as ons hom dadelik leer wie nou regtig Kersvader is, hoe gaan die kind se verbeelding daarby baat? Hy het uitgewys dat hy nie glo in Kersvader nie, waarop ek attent gemaak dat hy nie ‘n verbeelding het nie en hy het die stryd gewonne gegee…so wie weet waar ek ‘n Kersvader pakkie kan kry?

Kyk hoe ry die baba trein

Vandag, 10 maande terug, het my lewe onherroeplik verander.  Ek het ‘n seun ryker geword en alles wat ek gedink het ek weet is by die venster uit.

Niks kan mens voorberei vir daardie bondeltjie nie, ‘n vriendin van my, H, het opgemerk terwyl ons besig was met ons weeklikse “boepie” foto sessie dat swangerskap mens nie naastenby voorberei vir daardie kleinding nie-hoe waar.

Ek het hierdie prentjie in my kop gehad van hoe dit alles sou verloop, ek het immers 9 maande gehad om alles in my kop te beplan…ek het ‘n “mental tick list” gehad en alles. So van die koei op die fiets gepraat-wie ook al gesê het mens is vir 9 maande swanger lieg, dit was tien maande, ek was daar, en die laaste drie was besonders pret (hoor jy die sarkasme?), terug tot by die punt, ek, van alle mense, behoort te weet dat planne daar is sodat Murphy weet wat om nie te doen nie.

Ek het beplan om natuurlik geboorte te gee, tot die dokter daardie seepbel lekker laat bars het, en alles waarvoor ek myself so mooi voorberei het, was daarmee heen.

Ek was die oggend nog by die UIF kantore om my papiere in te handig, en het na H se kantoor toe gewaggel vir ‘n lekker koppie tee, voordat ek die dokter moes gaan sien vir ‘n laaste ondersoek voordat ek die volgende dag moes ingaan vir ‘n keiser snee.  H se baas, wat op daardie stadium self onlangs pa geword het, het ons vermaak met sy staaltjies van middernagtelike baddens (omdat hy net daarvoor lus gekry het-as ek nou terug dink aan Tristan se eerste ses weke wonder ek by myself hoekom hy nie van die geleentheid gebruik gemaak het om te slaap nie) en die ruil van projektiel poef doeke (is dit nie verbasend hoe daardie onderwerp altyd in ‘n gesprek insluip nie).  Die man het ‘n manier met woorde en ons het behoorlik nie kon asemhaal soos wat ons gelag het.

Daar is ek toe weg dokter toe om die laaste paar goed te reël voor die groot dag (ons het nogal beplan dat Tristan die 13de Januarie moet gebore word, want dan deel hy sy verjaasrdag met Orlando Bloom -en kom nou, laat ons eerlik wees, watter ma sal nie wil hê haar kind moet ‘n verjaardag deel met daardie gesig nie?).  Halfpad deur die ondersoek begin die dokter my bietjie snaaks aankyk:

Dokter: “Het jy nie seer nie?”

Ek: “Hoekom sou ek seer hê?”

Dokter: “Uhm jy is al 3 sentimeter ontsluit?”

Ek: “ek is wat?”

Dokter: “Jy is in kraam my skat”

Ek: “Jy is nie ernstig nie?”

Dokter: “ Ek is bevrees ek is, jy gaan nêrens heen nie…ek hoop jy het jou tassie gepak?”

Die man wil my alewig in die hospitaal opneem (op daardie stadium het hy my al twee keer opgeneem vir ‘n blaas infeksie) so ek het my les geleer en my tassie liefs in die kattebak gelos, die man sal nie weet wat om in te pak nie, en ek verseg om weer te betaal vir ‘n stel oorfone.

Ek sal nooit vergeet wat die man se reaksie was toe ek hom gebel het nie…

Ek: “uhm, jy moet maar hospitaal toe kom”

Die man: “Hoekom?”

Ek: “ Ek is apparently in kraam”

Die man: “wat bedoel jy?”

Ek: “wat bedoel jy met wat bedoel jy…ek is in kraam, ek weet nie hoe anders om dit vir jou te verduidelik nie”

Die man, die alewige stem van rede, wou toe nou weet of die baba nou gaan kom…uhm, maak dit saak, ek word nou opgeneem en hy het ‘n hand (of so iets) in die ding gehad so jy beter nou hospitaal toe kom.

So op 12 Januarie om 17:15 is Tristan Swanepoel gebore.

Gisteraand toe ek vir hom ‘n liedjie sing van ‘n trein, maak hy ‘n geluid wat veronderstel is om “puff-puff-puff” te wees…en hy het gister twee tree gegee…Ouma se arms was naby om hom te vang (hy en gravitasie sit maar nog bietjie vas), maar dit was twee tree.  En alhoewel ek partymaal wil harloop vir die vlaktes,  dink ek meestal:

Tjoeke-tjoeke puff, toeke-tjoeke puff-puff-puff, lekker ry ons op die baba trein! Wat ‘n rit was dit nie al die afgelope tien maande nie!

Ek en my groot bek…

…gaan nog eendag baie hard geslaan word. Gister middag toe na my malle gejaag om die bank oop te kry terug stap deur die  Kompanjie Tuine, toe ek om die draai kom by die “kruie tuin” toe sal daar waaragtig ‘n man staan wat besig is om in die tuin die pee, nog voordat ek kon keer is ek besig om hom te skel, my ma sê most altyd dat ek kommen raak as ek kwaad word, sjoe en daar haal ek toe my beste agterstraat maniere uit en skel die man dat die see hom nie sal kan skoon was nie.  Ongelukkig het die siel nie eers die goei sin gehad om my te ignoreer nie-o Nee, hy probeer toe met my stry. Ten spyte van die feit dat ek hom gevang het juis op die oomblik toe hy besig is om…hmmm hoe sal ek die sagkuns stel…weg te pak nie .

Ek dink die term is dom-bravade, sal ook net ek wees wat die Nigerian wat drie keer my grootte is uittrap en verneder in publiek (die tuine krioel van die toeriste)…moet sê ek het die hele pad terug kantoor toe oor my skouer bly loer om seker te maak hy agtervolg my nie…so ek darem so bietjie sin, net ‘n bietjie.