tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415508386792621762024-03-13T10:54:40.736-07:00Why do I always crave cakeLisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-13290048750150062542016-12-06T11:02:00.001-08:002016-12-06T11:02:56.786-08:00On grief<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ten weeks ago, my father had a fall. It was the day before my youngest child's birthday, and we'd gathered at my parents' house as we do almost twice a week, every week.<br />
<br />
I didn't know that that day might be the last normal conversation I have with him. This wasn't the first time he fell. He often has little slips which we dismiss because he's clumsy or doesn't look where he's going. This, combined with his refusal to see a doctor, made me feel irritated and annoyed, especially since my focus was on the baby of the family hitting such a major landmark.<br />
<br />
That was a Thursday. By Monday, the pain was too much to bear.. My mother finally convinced him to go to an ER. She called me to moan about how long they'd been waiting. I offered to come up and she said not to worry, they'd be home soon. Then I thought of how bored she must be, so I drove up to the hospital anyway.<br />
<br />
That was the beginning of our descent. When the doctor told us he'd cracked his vertebrae, I was still more irritated and angry with him for not taking the fall more seriously and seeing a doctor sooner. At the same time, I was relieved that he'd finally agreed to get some treatment - he'd have an op, and two weeks later he'd be home.<br />
<br />
Except that he's not. And now he's no longer even himself. As my sister says, we handed a full person over to the hospital, and in his place we have half a person. A quarter. And we're supposed to be happy and excited when they point out his progress and pretend that it's completely amazing that he was able to take a step yesterday - when 10 weeks ago, he wasn't just taking steps, he was sitting with and laughing and giving his opinion about the upcoming US election and delighting in his grandchildren.<br />
<br />
Not that it's the hospital's fault. It's no one's fault. Just that he didn't just have a cracked spine. He also had two brain bleeds, and perhaps it those that make him think that I am my mother or that I'm keeping him waiting for the boat he needs to catch or the military aircraft he has to jump out of. I hope it's not. I hope it's just ICU syndrome, because if I never have another talk about politics, the Holocaust, opera or the latest funny thing my daughter said with a man who can cite the name of every American president, who an encyclopedic knowledge of classical music and who can argue Israel's side like nobody's business, I feel like my own heart will stop. I feel like I will want it to.<br />
<br />
My father has always said that he would never want to be tied to tubes and machines. So when I see him strapped to a bed because he constantly tries to pull the feeding tube out of his stomach, I feel sick. When I see the tube running from the tracheostomy he had when he fell into a coma, I feel sick. I know these things were necessary and we're lucky to have him and if it weren't for them, we wouldn't. But he'd hate it. He does hate it.<br />
<br />
He's missed his birthday. My sister's fortieth. His summer garden - one of the things that make him happiest. Today as I drove my eldest daughter to her first school concert, she asked why her grandpa wasn't coming. I cried the whole way through. He's missed seeing anything except the glass walls of an isolation room in ICU while the summer beats on. These things have been dulled for us. We see people laughing and we resent them. As the three of us walk out of the hospital, we glare at the people who have received good news. Why should they have happiness? Why should they be allowed to walk in the world?<br />
<br />
Every time we think he has turned a corner, he regresses. On Friday he was supposed to be admitted into a rehab, one step closer to coming home. Instead he contracted a superbug and now has no idea what's going on. My mom can't figure out Gd's plan for him. What ball and chain keeps snapping him back to that hospital bed?<br />
<br />
I carry grief with me every minute. I feel like the Princess and the Pea - I do interviews, I write, I go for dinners, I chat to the moms at school, and all the time there's that little kernel of sadness trapped in the wall of my heart, like a stone in a shoe. Sometimes I choose not to go to the hospital for a day and I put him out of my mind, and I wonder if I am a Jeffrey Dahmler-grade psycho for not caring about him. I hear the latest bout of bad news and I switch off. I berate him in my head and tell him that if he's going to go, he shouldn't drag it out. I hate myself for thinking that and wonder what's wrong with me for having such thoughts. I think of seeing him and hearing him say nothing except "Gene, get thees tubes out of me, I need to go home" and how I will respond "Dad, I'm Lisa and you know you can't pull those tubes out or go home and I feel weary. </div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-54770900838979937142016-08-05T03:55:00.004-07:002016-08-05T03:59:11.934-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-426675278163717892016-08-05T03:55:00.003-07:002016-08-08T02:45:51.706-07:00For my darlings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This morning I was reading this <a href="http://aladylikeme.tumblr.com/post/125745527545/i-wrote-a-letter-to-my-daughters" target="_blank">beautiful post</a> by Zodwa Kumalo-Valentine, and it got me thinking about what I would want to say to my own two sweethearts. With both of their birthdays drawing near, I feel even more nostalgic than ever - there is so much I wish I could impart to them. It's not just about telling them things, like be sure to give the foods you've sworn off a second chance - I spent 30 years thinking I hated olives, and I truly regret the waste. More than anything, I wish I could let them feel, for one instant, the ginormous love that consumes me every time I look at them (well, except when Jessie is crying because I have taken the dog food out her mouth or Leya is blaming me for the fact that she fell down the stairs at school). I'm convinced that if they just knew how adored they are, they would never feel an instant's self-doubt or loneliness, and that would protect them from most of life's troubles: the worry about friends who are giving you a rough time, the boy who isn't interested, the boss who thinks their ancient labrador could do a better job. But, since I can't, I'm going to tell them these things instead:<br />
<br />
1. You have been given the most fantastical, curious, thrilling present ever. It's called the world. It is full of creatures that look as if they have escaped from some madman's imagination; people who will leave indelible marks upon your heart, sights that will make you doubt your eyes. Put the remote down and explore it - you will never regret expending a bit of energy to have an adventure. And believe me, every moment has the potential to present an adventure, because every person you encounter has a story to tell.<br />
<br />
2. Try to make an occasion out of every moment. If you want a cup of coffee, ditch the instant and brew a pot. Splurge on the thousand count cotton sheets. Only eat Lindt. Yes, it will make your life very expensive, but it will mean that, no matter how crappy your day, you always have something to look forward to - even if it;s just the feeling of luxurious linen when you get into bed. More than that, it's also about cherishing yourself. Sadly, when you're an adult, the gifts become restricted to birthdays and Christmas (no Kinder eggs just because, Leya - sorry) so you need to do the spoiling yourself.<br />
<br />
3. Life is what it is. But you can make it different through your attitude. Not sure what I mean? Let me explain. When I first moved in with your dad, I was taken aback at how unromantic our life together was. One day I looked at him brushing his teeth next to me and I though, "This is it. This is what life is - just brushing your teeth, with someone standing next to you." It wasn't the all-night chats and sympathetic cups of coffee I'd expected. And it can't be - there's always too much going on. So yes, our relationship is about brushing teeth - but we laugh while we're doing it.<br />
<br />
4. If you're not sure that you like the jacket/dress/shoes, walk away. If you can't stop thinking about it, go back and get it.<br />
<br />
5. You should always say yes to cake. If you're trying to choose between deliciousness and cellulite, remember that life is short and you will get cellulite anyway.<br />
<br />
6. There will always be some part of your body that you don't like. Trust me - what you look like today is as good as you are ever going to look. I had a six-pack in my twenties, but I hated my thighs so I would try cover up on the beach. Then I had you two and suddenly my stomach looked like a bag full of fighting chihauhaus. I don't even know what has happened there (please don't feel too bad about ruining my body. I mean, feel a little bit bad, but no doubt things wouldn't have turned out quite so badly if I'd kept exercising. Plus, I've forgiven you). My point is that one day you will look at a picture of yourself and think "flip, I was beautiful" (trust me, you will - I look at you both daily and think that). So you may as well stop wasting time and start thinking it right now. Don't be arrogant though - nothing worse than someone who is so self-conscious about her looks that she carries her head as if there is an Old Masters oil painting on top of her neck.<br />
<br />
7. You will always be better at some things than some people, and worse at some things than others. My guess is that you won't be able to count past 20, and that you will wait 15 minutes for a car to pass you at a Stop street rather than take the chance that you will bump into it. Also, don't expect to excel at sports. But you will both have a great sense of humour and an enormous vocabulary and giant hearts - which you can thank your dad for. Don't waste time on the things you can't do because you'll probably never become an expert at them. Rather find your passion and pour everything into it.<br />
<br />
8. No matter how difficult life seems, it all gets better after you turn 30. Really, it does. Some of the things that worried me most when I was growing up was that I wasn't good enough, hadn't achieved enough - the list goes on. Then I turned 30 and suddenly I just knew that it would all be ok. And if it isn't, therapy is never a waste of money.<br />
<br />
9. I hate to say this, but it's pretty crap sometimes to be a woman. I'm just warning you that you may be in for a tough time. Who knows what the world will be like when you grow up, but I still grapple with the fact that men make more money for doing the same job, and that women still have to do housework after a hard day at the office. Not to mention the ridiculous efforts to boost us, like 'Women's Month'. Or the questions like 'What do women really want?' I hope that you will be pissed off enough about it to buck the system and speak your mind.<br />
<br />
10. There's great comfort to be taken from the knowledge that, when you're faced with a fork in the road, whichever choice you make is the right one (unless one of those choices was to be a drug mule in Thailand, of course). You'll never know how good or bad the alternative you didn't opt for would have turned out to be - all you know is your current reality, which you can choose to make as pleasant or as difficult as you wish. Of course, if you're really unhappy, it's not always easy to change your circumstances - but sometimes, it's empowering to remember that you do have choice.<br />
<br />
11. You really are the most loved, precious girls in the world. I am so glad that you picked me to be your guardian and guide through this life. I have treasured every nanosecond with you - you make me laugh endlessly. The chance to see the world through your eyes has been a blessing. Leya, may your spark endure and Jessie, may your sweet heart prevail.<br />
<br />
I love you both, more than anything in the whole wide world.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-6652406238913112152016-05-14T11:07:00.000-07:002016-05-14T11:07:29.488-07:00What kind of mom are you?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Not too sure? Then read my handy guide to find out.<br />
<br />
1. The sanctimom. These are the people who are going bring down Monsanto, so they deserve a giant 'thank you'. But as the Universe (which, being vegan, they refer to gratefully with the regularity of a metronome) is all about balance, they are inadvertently wreaking havoc in the process. For example, they are also destroying the wheat- and sugar farming industries with their sugar and gluten-free baking practices. Also, they are destroying the self-esteem of those of us who thought that it was enough just to avoid viennas, and balk at the idea of grinding organic flaxseed for our tiny darlings' breakfast (I assure you, there really are people who do this.) For example, last week I ran into a mom arranging the cupcakes she had made for her son's birthday ring. "Wow, did you get those from the home industry?" I asked, admiring the intricate web of blue chocolate that had been spun around the Spiderman motif. "No," she tinkled happily, "made them myself!" (I could actually see the exclamation mark shimming in the air between us.) I thought back to my own offering for Leya's last birthday ring: cupcakes purchase from Checkers (not even Woolies) with a distinct bum-shaped impression, because she insisted on sitting on them and I couldn't be arsed (haha) to go out and buy more. "It really was no trouble," The Good Mom trilled. "Well...maybe it was just the gluten-free batch that added on some extra time." Dashed, I made a conscious effort to remind myself of my good points. However, since I had not even brushed my teeth yet that morning, I was hard-pressed to think of myself as a success as either a parent or a person.<br />
<br />
2. Moms gone wild. The other night, I went for a girls' dinner. One glass of wine turned into two and - wait, you thought there was more? No, that's it. No tequila, no vodka, not even a third glass of wine. Still, what I had was enough to have me telling the Uber driver all about what was lurking underneath my bra. I might even have shed a small, dronk verdriet tear as I confessed to him that things weren't quite what they used to be. Fortunately, I stopped just before I showed him the evidence. I know I'm not alone in this. Just yesterday I asked one of the moms at my nursery school how her girls' weekend was. "Crazy!" she said. "There were girls dancing, girls skinny-dipping - it was all happening." Another incident brought home the commonness of this phenomenon. I was having breakfast with my friend, June, and asked her about her weekend at AfrikaBurn. "It was weird," she answered. "There were a lot of people there who looked like they just didn't belong, all doing coke and talking about how many drugs they had taken - kind of like people in high school bragging about how much they've drank." Don't judge, I pleaded with her. Those people are probably parents with small babies who managed to find a babysitter and, like a convent girl released for the weekend, or a Jewish person facing a seafood buffet, they just can't help themselves.<br />
<br />
3. The judgey mom. Hands up - who hasn't judged other moms before? Uh uh uh you over there - don't deny it. I know occupied a front row seat in this category from the minute my first baby was handed to me. Brandishing my homemade lentil puree, I tutted to myself about the mothers who Actually Bought Their Children Purity. I frowned upon the users of walking rings, compromising their children's hip flexors and ability to form healthy adult relationships or do maths. I shook my head when friends reprimanded their children in harsh voices. Don't they know they are crippling the tiny angels' self-esteem for life, I wondered? Then I had my second child. Just the other day I found myself in the shoes of those I had judged, when I made my seven-month-old baby cry and every mother in Dis-Chem turned to me, anger and hate in their eyes, ready to pelt me with their prescriptions. Also, by now I have read enough 'helpful' mommy blogs to roll my eyes when I am reminded to be mindful, and to lose the tech. Please. If you have never counted the minutes to bedtime while sneaking a peak at your cell, you're probably flying your unicorn while you read this. </div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-68962667767690838292016-05-09T02:19:00.003-07:002016-05-09T02:24:28.961-07:00Monitor, monitor, in the hall...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Who is the most given to fussing of us all? Because, let's be honest ladies - when it comes to kids, we all get a little OTT sometimes. The question is, who's worse - the new mom, the seasoned mom, or the no mom? Let's take a look (but just a warning first: some of this sounds a little nasty. Please don't take too much offense - the reason I feel I can write this post is because I was the worst of the worst at every stage, forbidding my father to use his iPad if he was in the same room as my baby in case he gave her brain cancer):<br />
<br />
1. Women without kids: If you're looking for advice about raising a happy, balanced child, you shouldn't look to your mother for advice. Nor should you turn to an expert. Rather, find the nearest woman who has recently celebrated her 25th birthday, and ask her. I find that such women are full of opinions and counsel, based on how they imagine motherhood will be. And what magazines tell them it will be like - to which I say: "mwhahahahahah". Listen up, women without kids: the only time you will cradle your stomach is when you are grasping at the saggy skin on your post-pregnancy body, wondering whether you will be able to stuff it into the waistband of your jeans. And the loving look you give your baby? It often comes only after the child has been asleep for an hour, after which sufficient time has elapsed for you to forget that you spent the entire saying nothing besides "Please don't do that. Please don't do that. Please don't do that." - the only variation being an occasional change in emphasis, as in "Please don't do THAT" or, when you have reached the point of desperation, "PLEASE don't do that." The ignorance of these women would be endearing, were it not for their habit of saying things like "I know exactly what you mean when you say you're exhausted because you were up every third hour last night, because I just got a puppy."<br />
<br />
2. Aunts without kids: Aunts are as bad as women without kids, in that they haven't yet realised that a baby isn't a sweet, pinkly gurgling bundle of hugs, but a vomit-scented tsunami of uncoordinated limbs that somehow needs to be inserted into a minute babygro. However, they have had a bit of exposure to babies through their sisters, and as they say, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Watching their nieces being fed and bathed has led them to believe that they have a handle on the creatures, which also makes them prone to dispensing advice. In fact, no one has stronger ideas on child raising than the freshly minted aunt: I remember saying sternly to my sister, "I really don't think it's appropriate that you let Jaime jump on her bed, especially since her duvet is white." Oh how my sister must have wanted to laugh - when she knew that later, she would be wrestling Jaime to the floor and prising her jaws open, pinning her shoulders down with her knees, just to brush her teeth, whilst simultaneously explaining that no, she cannot have snail bait for pudding. Considering this would come hot on the heels of a shopping expedition, where she would spend the bulk of her time saying "No, I am not going to buy you tampons. No, I am not going to buy you a rake. No, you don't need cat litter. No, you may not drink beer," a little bed-jumping is a trivial matter.<br />
<br />
3. The new mom: These moms really *do* know it all, because they have been spending what little time they have between feeds swotting up on Baby Sense, The No Cry Sleep Solution and The Contented Baby Book. If you wanted to know anything at all about anything at all, you could ask them - usually, though, you don't have to, because they're happy to drop their learnings into any conversation. As in: You: "I;m so excited that the new season of Game of Thrones has finally started." New Mom: "That must be fascinating. I find that if I breastfeed in the rugby ball position, there is no need to wait three full hours, also because I am feeding on demand now. But I've also stacked up on those sacks you can put the bits of fruit in so that they can get the taste of the food without choking. Do you really think it's not too early to introduce baby-fed weaning? I mean, the gross motor at this stage is coming on well. And the wonder weeks are about nightmares so I completely know how Khalisi feels (laughs)..." Also, new moms have a worrying tendency to get very confused about things. There's a mom in my baby class who frequently says things like "It's so hot we've taken to wearing nothing but our nappies." Needless to say, the image of her thirty-year-old body ensconced in nothing but a nappy is off-putting, to say the least.<br />
<br />
4. Second time moms: Poor first time moms. They cannot voice a simple concern without having it laughed away by these know-it-alls, having forgotten that they were once as absorbed in the merits of Pampers Premium over Huggies Gold. These women have become fully immersed in mom-dom referring constantly to the class Whatsapp groups they're members of, and saying things like "I'm just hopping off to my pilates class".<br />
<br /></div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-5876081195745713442016-04-26T01:08:00.000-07:002016-04-26T01:08:59.404-07:00Lasts, longings and love letters to my babies<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The saddest thing happened last night. You see, Leya used to do this thing; I would say to her, "What sound do crickets make", and with an earnest expression on her face, pursing her cherub lips, she would rub her chubby fingertips together. Last night I asked the same question - "what sound do crickets make?" - and she answered "chirrrp chirrp chirrrp".<br />
<br />
It may sound like a small thing, but it was just one more road sign along the path of her vanishing babyhood.<br />
<br />
This is something I have always hated. Both my children were born on a Wednesday, so while other people start celebrating the mid-week hump and looking forward to their weekend plans, I spend a quiet hour counting down how many weeks left until their next birthdays and the inevitable moment they start calling me 'mom' instead of 'mommy'; the split second when I cross over from being the central point in their world to a peripheral feature they have to remember to phone and who irritates them with reminders about cardigans and questions about supper. This mourning for their passing time literally happens every single week; it means that my love for them is like a pressure band around my heart and that every milestone has at its centre a tiny gremlin of sadness.<br />
<br />
What makes me most sad is that, one day, I will pick them up for the last time and put them down again - and that will be it. And I probably won't even realise that this was the last time. It's kind of like when you keep hearing your favourite song on the radio - you sing along and sing along, not even noticing that the intervals between the times its played are getting longer, and then all of a sudden it's no longer on air, and you don't even realise until a few years later, someone plays it on a golden oldies segment, releasing a burst of nostalgia. Or, I look at Jessie - who at seven months is now closer to being a toddler than a newborn - and I wonder how that happened. And I think that, pretty soon, her tiny starfish hand will stop closing reflexively around mine. And then one day she'll think she's too old to hold my hand at all.<br />
<br />
I guess it's an irony - in between the times that you're wishing bedtime would just hurry up and come, you're wishing equally hard that those perfect seconds - their giant toothless baby grins, the little hand sliding into yours, your pride when they attempt a big word and it gets hopelessly tangled on their tongues - would hang, suspended, forever.</div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-67483162058607188932016-04-18T13:02:00.004-07:002016-04-18T22:14:37.209-07:00Brave new world<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I truly appreciate that the world my girls are growing up in vastly superior to my own. Who wouldn't want to be able to grow a new nose? Who wouldn't choose a waterless red planet in December over cocktails in Camp's Bay? Having private thoughts? Pah - totally overrated (says the blogger - yes, I see the irony).<br />
<br />
But, technophonic anachronism that I am, there are some things that I feel they missed out on.<br />
<br />
1. The original cast of The Magic Faraway Tree. In case you didn't know, Joe, Bessie and Fanny have been replaced by Jo, Beth and Frannie. I'm proud to say, though, that Leya is not fooled. The other day, when I was reading her this classic, she burst out laughing. "Frannie!" she exclaimed. "That sounds like fanny!" (Of course, this might just be related to her natural propensity to relate absolutely everything in the world to genitals or fecal matter.)<br />
<br />
2. Advertising that sticks in your head. Remember Timmy, with his fever? His mommy called the doctor, because he was a children. Or the little guy who called everything he loved Wedwo? Or the mom who let her kids use new towels around the pool - just kidding, she didn't; she just washed them with Surf. Or the guy who was so out of tune with groceries he thought powdered milk would be kept inside the fridge. Ahh - those guys were doing it right. Thirty years on and I can remember the jingles like it was yesterday. All together now: "Mr. Min is my name, a sparkling shine is my game..."<br />
<br />
3. Being able to eat without taking a photo of your food first. Again, I am aware of the irony - I photograph everything in case I want to blog about it on MyTwoCents (see how I subtly wove in that bit of self-promotion there). But seriously - can you imagine going out for dinner, and not having that solemn moment of silence where everyone gets out their phones (what am I saying - the phones are already on the table) and art directs their pasta.<br />
<br />
4. Dating blind. No, not blind dating. I mean dating someone where you know absolutely nothing about them. Not what cossie they were wearing in Durban in September 20004, not what they think about the latest BuzzFeed quiz, not what their ex looked like...Dating where the stalking has to be done in the pure, old-fashioned sense of actually walking past their res window to see if their light is on, or phoning their landline 10 times to see if they pick up (and if they are, by extension, at home and therefore perfectly able to phone you should they so wish). Which leads me to...<br />
<br />
5. Always holding out hope. Ah, the good old days when you had to go out clubbing with a pen in your handbag in case a guy asked for your number, and hope like hell someone was able to produce a serviette for you to write it on...and then, hope even harder that he didn't lose it. Of course, chances are that if he did, you'd never know, because if he dialed your landline at the one time you left the house, that was it. Something that could have blossomed into a love to rival that of Will and Kate would perish, stillborn. The advantage? You could always convince yourself that he had met with ill luck, and was currently lying in traction, wishing like anything he could phone you.<br />
<br />
6. The Britpop invasion. Damon Albarn or Liam Gallagher. Noel Gallagher or Jarvis Cocker. Not since the Beatles and the Stones was there such hot musical debate. And while no one in the world would decry today's musical geniuses (who doesn't feel a tear of pure unadulterated emotion when they hear 'Drop That Kitty Down Low'), I still think that nothing will dim the anthemic light of Wonderwall (I was an Oasis girl, myself).<br />
<br />
7. Ross kissing Rachel for the first time. Admit that, on those occasions when The Rembrandts are hauled out of Jacaranda's Golden Oldies box (what is it doing in there? Surely we're not old enough for our music to be considered for Throwback Thursdays.), you find yourself clapping in between the verses...and wishing there was a fountain you and your friends could dance in while swishing around your heavily layered, mascara'ed hair.<br />
<br />
8, Looking up something in a library. There's something about the smell of books, isn't there? When I was at university, I used to feel awed every time I walked into the library, thinking about the sheer volume of knowledge it contained, and imagining the feet of students as much as a century older than me who would have walked the same path. It was inspiring. I also loved the way you would get sidetracked when looking up something, especially in the dictionary. Inevitably you'd find a word so much better than the original one. That's how I came across the word 'vibrissa', which is the technical name for nostril hair - see, imagine how intelligent I look when I toss that out at dinner parties. But, hey, the Internet is so much faster.</div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-90927450666501910422016-04-05T02:02:00.001-07:002016-04-08T01:30:51.765-07:00...And this is why men shouldn't be medics<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have a thing about male medical practitioners, whether they're the family doctor or podiatrists. My dad thinks it's hilarious that even my vet is female, but my predilections have been influenced by such awkward incidents as the time my last male gynae asked me if I was going away in December. It was March. While I appreciated the attempt at small talk designed to put me at ease, the fact remained that, when you're the kind of person who exits rooms backwards so that your husband of four years cannot see your bum, you're never going to feel okay about being peeked at by a stranger.<br />
<br />
There have been other uncomfortable instance along the way, like the time I went to interview a gastroenterologist about future medical developments. I was pregnant at the time, which turned out to work against me when he led our conversation onto the topic new treatments for hemorrhoids. "Looking at you now, being pregnant, I'd say you're probably suffering," he said cheerfully. I wasn't - but knowing that was the first thought that came into his head when he looked at me did nothing to assure me that my feelings of unattractiveness were all in my head. <br />
<br />
I was again reminded of the importance of having a female-only medical team when I went to see the chiro this morning. My neck has been in spasm for ages, because I am so afraid of saying 'no' to either of my kids' requests to be carried that I frequently find myself lugging around 27kg of child (I know, I know - my sister is always looking at me pointedly and saying 'Who is flying this plane' when I give in to my kids, but I believe that to be a rhetorical question).<br />
<br />
After months of either turning my entire body when I want to check my blind spot while overtaking in my car, or simply neglecting to do so and hoping for the best, I decided it was time to take things in hand. Hence today's visit - the only problem being that since my chiro is a guy, visiting him requires as much prep as going to a red carpet event or appearing on Clifton in a bikini. This created a Catch 22: on the one hand, my desire to sleep in waged war against the need to pluck my eyebrows and iron my hair but, mornings being what they are, I decided to act like normal people and just go to the appointment without embarking on a spa-style professional beauty journey first.<br />
<br />
(Alright, confession time: I may have a tiny, slight, minute crush on my chiro. I understand that, as a married woman, this is highly inappropriate - also, he is the same age as Harry Styles. But then again, that may be part of his attractiveness. Either way, although eyebrow grooming was out of the question, I had carefully planned my outfit to hide the fact that there has been no Pilates in six months, as he suggested, and so was rather taken aback when he presented a nylon gingham garment with no back and asked me to put it on.)<br />
<br />
So there I was, lying on my back as his face hovered above mine, wishing I could just relax into the moment when, instead, my mind was flooded with questions. Is there any way my oats could have given me garlic breath? Do I have any bears in the cave (a dirty nose, for the uninitiated)? Can he smell my shampoo and does this make him feel comforted, knowing that I tried to be clean for him? Or is he repulsed by my eyebrow stubble?<br />
<br />
I think my paranoia in this regard stems from my own reluctance to touch people - that episode from Friends where Ross was reduced to massaging people with a wooden spoon springs to mind. In fact, for a while I contemplated becoming a yoga teacher, but then I considered having to handle other people's cellulite while I adjusted their poses, having to pretend I didn't mind that their sweat - which is, after all, just diluted urine - was getting all over me, and I knew this simply wasn't for me.<br />
<br />
This is what I am thinking while my chiro is adjusting my neck. I am worried that he is finding the grapey texture of the mole on my neck (it had started out as little more than a freckle, but you know what happens to moles during pregnancy - it now looks like I have a little twin peering out from behind my ear) disturbing, and that he is yearning to wipe his hands on his pants after touching me (which is what I would do), and wondering if he is simply waiting for an opportune moment to do so, and trying to talk without exhaling in case I do indeed have garlic breath, which makes me sound weird...and then he starts to shake my head about. I imagined how I must look, with my head bobbing wildly about like one of those spring-loaded dogs on a dashboard, subjected to a drive through a mountain pass, my teeth chattering ever so slightly and the unbleached hairs of my moustache glinting as they briefly came into the sunny patch by his window, and then disappearing again, kind of like a strobe light.<br />
<br />
I really hope my neck is better after that session - if it isn't, I will have to book an hour with my therapist before I see the chiro again, just to boost my self-esteem. She's female, of course.</div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-14540212159215756332016-04-01T01:30:00.001-07:002016-04-01T01:30:50.178-07:00The shame, the shame<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You always hear moms discussing the things they miss most since they had their kids. Usually, it's the Saturday sleep-in, or the ability to go to a restaurant where there is a distinct lack of chicken nuggets on the menu. For me, it's my food dignity.<br />
<br />
What is food dignity, you ask? It's being able to eat openly, rather than lying to your three-year-old, telling her you can hear your phone ringing, so that you can sneak into the kitchen to spoon some cookie butter into your mouth while she's patiently waiting in her bedroom, Doc McStuffins stethoscope at the ready, to give you a check up.<br />
<br />
I know I am not the only person who feels bad about The Secret Eat. But note that guilt doesn't translate into a willingness to come clean. My sister has a charming story about how she forbade her husband from eating the last Tempo bar in the house, telling him it belonged to their son, just so that she could hide in her specially designated Secret Eating corner (in the scullery, hidden by the pantry door), scoffing it down in giant mouthfuls.<br />
<br />
The Secret Eat is accompanied by the kind of loserish shame usually experienced only after you have truly let loose on a night of tequila and gay abandon. Let me assure you, there is nothing to make you feel proud about peering around guiltily to make sure that you haven't been followed,stealthily and silently reaching up into your contraband cupboard, shoving the food into your mouth with ferocity and velocity of a Banteur told they have a free pass to eat carbs, and then trying to saunter casually back, making sure there are no giveaway smears of food on your cheek. The worst sound in the world, as any secret eating mother will tell you, is not actually the 3am wake up cry. no, no. It's those little footsteps making their way into the kitchen, Followed by the sweet little voice asking, what are you eating.<br />
<br />
Surely it wouldn't hurt to share, you might think. And that's where you would be wrong. Sharing, contrary to popular belief, is not caring. It sucks - and if more people were honest, they would admit it. Of course it doesn't hurt if someone just wants to use your pen, or if you're letting your sister wear your best dress to her friend's wedding. But come on - think about it. Sharing food means Less For You. Less. For. You. Fewer mouthfuls. In no one's world is that a good thing. Also, while we're being honest, those little toddler mouths are almost always studded with crumbs from the last morsel they cadged.<br />
<br />
So this is what I mean by loss of food dignity. No one likes to become that whiny kid from school who, when asked for a NikNak at break, would say "But it's my only lunch". And yet, sad as I am to say it, that is precisely what I do when Leya asks me for a bite of whatever it is I'm eating. I tell myself that it is in the interests of her development, and that she has to learn about boundaries. How else can I save her from becoming a much hated dictator? After all, what is the difference between snatching the hero chip someone has specially been saving, or invading another country? Neither belongs to you, so it's all a matter of scale.<br />
<br />
This brings me to the fact that constantly trying to provide a healthy role model for your child - allowing them to take countless bites of the carrot cake you have been looking forward to as a reward for making all your deadlines, cleaning up after you, being nice to telemarketers - is exhausting. Sometimes all I want to do is let me true self shine, swear at bad drivers, let the dirty dishes pile up and go to bed without brushing my teeth, But every action has a repercussion, so I will take the safer route, and continue to bury my stash out of reach and snatching moments to eat them when I can no longer contain myself. I might not feel good about it - but just think how much worse it would feel to see that beloved face fall when she hears the words No, you can't have any of my brownie. </div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-4335992694349413602016-03-14T02:06:00.001-07:002016-03-14T02:08:06.028-07:0021st Century Life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There's so much that's great about living in the twenty-first century. I do understand this - it's just that, anachronism that I am, every time I watch Downton Abbey I have a yearnful longing to wear red lipstick and dress for dinner. Also, I have to admit that there are certain things about today's lifestyle that I just don't understand. Here they are:<br />
<br />
1. Dating. NNow, as a married woman, this obviously doesn't affect me at all. And thank heavens for that - I simply would not cope. Just the other day, my husband told me about a girl who signed up for Tindr and, upon swiping whichever direction one swipes, received a 'hello' text from the guy in question. So far, so good, she thought, and putting her trepidation aside, sent a response. Just minutes later, she had another message in her inbox - this time, featuring a picture of the guy's nethers. Why, you might ask yourself, as I did. There is just so much wrong with this situation:<br />
a. If I were a man and I wanted to impress a woman, I would start with a charming conversation, subtly weaving in comments about books I had read, amazing destinations I had visited, directors whose films I enjoyed and the exotic cuisines I was capable of whipping up. In case this was too much effort - or, in truth, the only novel and interesting thing about me was my golfing handicap, I would move on to<br />
b. If I really, really, really had to take a short cut and send a visual enticement, it might be a pic of my gorgeous, long-lashed eyes. If the gods had shortchanged me in this department, I would send a picture of my strong, capable looking hands, or veiny forearms, In fact, i would probably send a picture of my knee or elbow - absolutely anything - before aiming the phone camera lower. Can we just reflect about this for a moment. Ladies, when was the last time you thought wistfully of the beauty of the penis? Exactly. Some things are kept under wraps for a reason.<br />
c. How, exactly, does one take a dick pic? Do you have to keep adjusting the selfie setting on your pose and twisting into awkward poses until you get the right shot? Do you take a number of pics before you decide on which one captures your appendage in just the right light? Is lighting a consideration? Do you give thought to the background setting? In which case, is a bathroom too clinical, but a bedroom too suggestive for the first time dick pic? But where, then? Surely a kitchen is just a little much? If you take this kind of thing very seriously, is it worth calling on someone to lend you a hand?<br />
d. What if you're breaching the laws of etiquette and checking your messages during a meeting? How do you answer "Um, nothing" when someone notices your lack of attention and asks what's up?<br />
This brings to mind a conversation I had with one of my editors when I was invited to do a radio interview on the evolution of dating. Since I haven't been dated anyone since the time it was considered outre for a girl to send the first text, I called her to brainstorm. It was she, in fact, who first alerted me to the trend: "If a date goes well," she said, "you can expect to receive a dick pic within a couple of days." No! And: why? Surely, if a date goes well, you can expect an invitation for a second date? A bunch of flowers, even. But a picture of someone's genitals. Again: why?<br />
<br />
2. Cutsefying language. Why does everything today have to be A Thing? Either The. Best. Thing. Ever. or something that will give you the feels (or, if it is particularly significant, all the feels - leaving none for anyone else. Which leaves them facing The Struggle Which Is Real). I think this reached its apogee when, in the wake of the shit show which was last year's dismissal of the financial minister - think tumbling Rand, the true worth of life savings eroded in minutes, an economy hovering at junk status, investors running, screaming towards more attractive destinations like, say, Burkina Faso - the newspapers started talking about the finmin scandal. Please. It was one thing when Bennnifer (Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez) made headlines back in the early 00's (or, if you want to turn my stomach, the noughties - another cutsification); that was actually clever. When Brangelina started popping up, originality had already been lost. But finmin? Is a 'clever' portmanteau really necessary at every turn? We're not chatting about someone's pet rabbit, but the person who has the potential to save us from economic ruin. Surely a little gravitas is in order. I mean, seriously?<br />
<br />
3. Series. I love series. Love, love, love. I get caught in that trap where you're already tired but you think you'll just watch one episode, and then you think, just one more - it's only an hour - and the next thing, you're waking up at 5 wondering what in the world made you think you could last on just two hours of sleep. Exactly like when you are given a box of Ferrero Rochers that you sincerely think will last the week, but in fact don't make it past the first sitting. At the moment, I am watching Dexter. Now, I'm not sure which series we're on, and it's entirely possible that the plot was weak all along - serial killer with a heart of gold works to make society safe by dismembering all those who threaten it - but I am spotting some critical flaws in the dialogue. For instance, Dexter has fallen in love with a fellow serial killer and, while it's great that they share the same interests, there are some early relationship issues to navigate. Not the usual kind, like "what if she's vegan and we can't go to steakhouses on dates" or "should I stick to the three-day rule" (or apparently, "does my penis look its best in this dick pic) but the type that arise when your sister is a police lieutenant. In fact, one memorable voiceover has Dexter pondering thus: "Maybe I shouldn't date Hannah...and not just because she's a killer". Not forgetting, of course, the cop who starts dating a Russian stripper (who, incidentally, also has a heart of gold and gives him useful lessons in morality). We all know life gets complicated at times but could this be. The. Most. Tangled. Romantic Web. Ever? I mean, seriously?</div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-52462500611046716382016-01-28T05:17:00.001-08:002016-01-28T05:17:32.466-08:00The thinks you can think<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
...Or rather, the thinks I think (although I am pretty sure that almost every other parent has had these thoughts run through their heads at some stage).<br />
<br />
<b>1. Thank heavens for Afrikaans.</b> <b></b>I guess other countries have their own second languages but, really, what would we do without Die Taal? How would we complain about the kids while they're standing right in front of us, relate goss that's really not for little ones' ears, or talk about people they know? The only drawback is that one can get so into the habit you start using Afrikaans to talk about other adults around you, forgetting that they understand it, too.<br />
<br />
<b>2. I hope no one is looking at me. </b>Back when James and I were firm-bodied and childless, we holidayed at a resort where we spent an afternoon laughing at a woman whose favourite pastime appeared to be throwing a stick at her son and watching him fetch it. "Why doesn't she just get a dog!" we chortled. Ah, there is no laughter so loud as that of the child-free. Fast forward ten years and there I was last Friday, in a restaurant nogal, throwing sticks while my daughter and nephew crawled on all fours, barking and panting as they raced to fetch them, then carrying them back to me in their mouths. Nonchalantly I rubbed their stomachs and scratched behind their ears, pretending all the while that there was no difference between them and the children seated quietly on their chairs, sipping milkshakes. And on that note...<br />
<br />
<b>3. I don't really like my dogs any more. </b>B<b></b>efore you get all judgey and SPCA-ish, let me inform you that my dogs have never been well-liked. Just ask our neighbours, who mounted a 'Leave the suburb' campaign against us, prompted by their incessant barking (it ended in a particularly nasty email exchange during the festive season, with the final word going to James: "Just remember, Steven, people might complain about our dogs but everyone in the whole road actually hates you. Have a nice Christmas".) It seems that Sherpa, in particular, is engaged in a contest against himself to see how much he can irritate me: loudly scampering with his clattery claws on the wooden floors as he follows me to Leya's room when I am bringing her in from a nap drive, having just driven through three suburbs listening to 'Sophia's sleep song' on repeat. Puffing out liver-coloured clouds of foul air, and following me from room to room when I try to escape them, robbing each new spot of its oxygen. Licking Jessica's face shortly after he has routed her pooh nappies from the bin and feasted on them. Proving the futility of a home exercise programme by mounting me from behind when I try to do the plank (thanks, but no). Shedding so much fur that white hair is found everywhere, even in the folds of Jessie's several chins, where they remain stuck thanks to her prodigious drooling.<br />
<br />
<b>4. Will I ever be clean again. </b>(Skip this part if you are easily grossed out). I<b></b> can handle the vomit crust that permanently bedecks my left shoulder; have become accustomed to it, even. But Jessica really took things a bridge too far the other day when, while she was sitting on my lap, I heard a sound like a truck backfiring. We were in a book shop at the time - a quiet haven for literary types seeking classical music and the gentle rustle of pages to block out the world's bustle. Instead, they received a front row ticket to the aftermath of the poohcano: it took 15 minutes and a packet of wipes to clean up Jessie's liqui-pooh, all the while trying to shield the books from the spatters sparking off her windmilling feet. An ordeal, yes, but nothing in comparison to the walk to the car wearing a dress with a 15cm brown wet patch. And, just in case I thought no one would notice, Leya set me straight: "Mom, everyone can see you and they're all laughing," she assured me. For a three-year-old, she has a highly developed sense of schadenfreude. <br />
<br />
<b>5. What is that thing in the mirror. </b>A<b></b>t my university residence, there was a mirror placed in the hallway where I would always give myself one last look before heading out for a night out at the Union. I was always amazed by the body swap that took place without my knowledge during the night, so that the girl who left with all her makeup in the right place came back with mascara on her upper lip and chewing gum in her hair (apparently, I find it impossible to be well-groomed and tipsy at the same time). <br />
<br />
A similar metamorphosis has taken place during my adulthood: I started off with everything where it should be, but just the other day, my boobs brushed my belly button while I was brushing my teeth. That shouldn't happen to anyone. And speaking of belly buttons: mine looks like the epicentre of a volcanic explosion - thanks, stretch marks. And the actual stomach itself blobs about like those moving bits inside a lava lamp. Then there are the eyes, as haunted and staring as those of a war victim, thanks to the fact that all four of us (yes, even Jessie, who refuses to sleep unless she is on my chest) now camp out in one bed, and the exhaustion that ensues. Admittedly, I don't have it as badly as James, who regularly sleeps with his head on his bedside table because of Leya's star-fishing.</div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-17207135232839778792016-01-26T05:01:00.005-08:002016-01-26T05:01:47.318-08:00The Haves and the Have Nots <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I could also have called this post 'thoughts parents have when talking to their non-parent friends'. And just a heads up: they're the kind of thoughts that may be expressed as delight at the vicarious titillation we get to enjoy through your exploits, yet deep inside they're really a boiling pot of envy. After all, when you're a parent, especially one to a new baby as I am, even a night that involves nothing more addictive than popcorn seems hopelessly glamorous. <br />
<br />
This point was driven home to me when I was recently visited by a dear friend from the UK, whom I shall call Helga because it is close to her real name while being unattractive and inelegant. Because she is the exact opposite of these two qualities, it gives me great pleasure to think of her thus. <br />
<br />
Now, I am already jealous of Helga because she lives in London and I have a weird thing about the UK. I know it's one of the most advanced societies in the world but I still picture residents in home-cabled cardies serving each other tea biscuits over melamine tables as they did in the war, an image I find quaintly endearing. Also, Helga's career is such that, while I have, in the name of work, been forced to phone gynaecologists and say "Hi there! I am writing an article on whether you should steam your vagina!" (and have to keep a stiff upper lip in the face of the inevitable giggling that ensues), Helga travels the world, interviewing presidents and staying in ice hotels.<br />
<br />
My latest bout of jealousy was sparked by the fact that Helga is newly on the single scene and enjoying a good bout of debaucherous fun. I could not help but draw analogies between our lives:<br />
<br />
1. Helga spent the night with an Austrian aristocrat, hopping from one techno club to the other, until the sun comes up. Now, I must state unequivocally that I would hate to listen to a minute of techno, let alone a whole night of it. But it's the idea of being awake at 4am for purposes other than breastfeeding that is undeniably alluring. Just think: she was out! Actually out the house! Wearing something that doesn't unzip or unbutton at the top. And if she did have to get her boobs out quickly, it sure as hell wasn't for someone who would later vomit on her. <br />
<br />
Now, often people require some sort of stimulant to keep going for a night on the town. Again, I can't really identify. That said, there is a lot of snorting going on in my house - not of cocaine, but of the nose Frida. For those not in the know, the nose Frida is a tube you use to suck out your infant's snot. Yes, I actually said that. It's a hideous notion but since poor old Jessica has a loud honking snore you'd expect more from a hirsute truckdriver than a sweet four-month-old, de-snotting her is a necessary process. It's also (gloves off) one I have come to enjoy in the same shameful way one likes squeezing pimples - a challenge of the grotesque over the functional.<br />
<br />
3. Helga smells of perfume. I, on the other hand, smell of spit. That's because Jessie is the moistest baby I know, coating my arms in little gloves of spit when I carry her, as I often do, on her tummy like a leopard. My skin is getting sensitive from her digestive enzymes breaking it down. I used to get furious with the dogs when I saw the little puddles dotting our floors, then I realised it was all due to Drooly Julie, as we call her. <br />
<br />
Yup - it's glamour, glamour, glamour all the way in my house. </div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-70371663045383739412016-01-14T10:14:00.003-08:002016-01-14T10:14:47.411-08:00Rude realisations<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The other day I was looking through my wardrobe, and noticed it contains a lot of white. I'm not sure what I was thinking when I purchased these items, as wearing white implies a) that you are about to star in an ad for tampons; or b) that you are about to have a during which you are certain not to encounter chocolate ice cream, grass stains or tomato sauce - neither of which apply to me. Clearly, the unsuitability of white as a sartorial choice is something is a lesson that I have yet to fully internalise. However, there are other small things that I have heeded, and these I will share with you:<br />
<br />
<b>1. When you have a toddler, you will end up eating a lot of chips.</b> Anyone agree that a fat <i>slap</i> chip, drenched in so much vinegar that it stings your eyes, and salted to tongue-curling perfection is a thing of beauty? The same cannot, however, be said of the oven chips dusted with that weird seasoning served at kiddies' restaurants throughout the country. For a food that I actively dislike, I ingest a lot of this stuff - because Leya always orders it and it sits there, undelicious yet strangely irresistible. I end up cramming these things into my mouth with the same unconscious, repetitive movement as a player at the slot machines. Leya's chip obsession has also resulted in Realisation Number Two:<br />
<br />
<b>2. When you have a toddler, it's highly likely that your signature scent is tomato sauce.</b> You now how magazines are always urging you to identify whether your fragrance preferences are chipre, woody, green or floral? Never once do they mention the distinctive tang of tomato sauce - for good reason. Everyone has their own views on the stuff, but mine are not favourable - and yet, if smells were soundtracks, this would be the tune my life is set to. Some people's homes are redolent with Jo Malone diffusers in tasteful combinations like bitter chocolate, lime and ginger, but mine smells like a takeaway packet that's been left to marinate in a hot car, thanks to my daughter's habit of wiping sauce-daubed hands and face on every surface.<br />
<br />
<b>3. There's really no pleasing them. </b>'<b></b>Eggshells' is not the word. The other day, I watched while my sister spent several seconds artfully arranging a pizza on a plate. Bemused by the care she was taking to make the food look as if it hadn't been touch (much like you might spend hours in front of the mirror to create an 'I woke up looking like this' makeup look), I asked what she was doing. Trying to stave off her son's anger at the fact that his sister had taken a slice of pizza, was the answer - scuffed around as it was, he might not notice the missing slice, and his anger may be averted. Her luck had run out, though: when he sat down, it was the number of slices that infuriated him, but the fact that they were wet. Quickly, my sister soothingly pointed out that they weren't, in fact, wet, whereupon he bellowed in rage: THIS PIZZA IS NOT WET.<br />
<br />
There's no winning. In which case, one may as well resign oneself to one's fate and get on with it - or wear the white dress and accept that you'll look like a Jackson Pollock later. </div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-52949973971907468382015-10-22T11:22:00.001-07:002015-10-22T11:22:33.848-07:00Second time around<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A couple of weeks ago I overheard a conversation between some first time new moms. "She's already on cow's milk," said one, in the same tone used to discuss which girls were having sex back in high school. The reaction to this news was pretty much the same, too: her friends' eyes widened, and there were murmurs of disbelief and censure. Clearly, some renegade mom out there had stepped out of line and introduced dairy - brace yourselves - before six months. Shock, horror.<br />
<br />
Actually, I shouldn't judge. Back when Leya was a newborn, I was possibly the most tediously highly strung person on the planet. I once forbid my father from switching on his iPad while in the same room as Leya, for fear the microwaves would enter her tender fontanel and cause untold damage, and when he reasonably pointed out that we were sitting in a large room and he was nowhere near her, I let loose with a diatribe about how he obviously didn't care for his granddaughter.<br />
<br />
A severe reaction, but at nothing compared to how I responded to strangers whom I couldn't lecture. The first time I took Leya to a shopping centre, I hugged the perimeter of the stores like a hyped up FBI agent about to break down a door so that I could avoid the selfish, air-polluting cell phone users. Should one dare to take a call whilst standing near me - or, heaven forbid, in a lift or other area where space constraints prevented me from conspicuously stepping away to put distance between us - I would glare at them with hatred and anger in my eyes until they got the message, loud and clear, that their behaviour was antisocial in the extreme and the only fate fit for them was to be exiled to a gulag.<br />
<br />
At the time, my husband had been comparing notes on babies one and two with some friends who had just had their second. They jokingly called it the pot plant, because it seemed to survive on little more than oxygen and an occasional feeding. I was appalled - since I was spending up to three hours a day simply staring at my baby (not counting the time dedicated to actually caring for her with feeds, baths, nappy changes etc), such words seemed blasphemy. Surely, people who treated their babies in such a cavalier manner - and then joked about it - were only marginally better than actual abusers.<br />
<br />
And then I had Jessica. Poor little Jess, whom I usually call Michael Caine because I cannot for the life of me remember her name, and because her resemblance to the British actor is startling (actually, at first I thought she looked more like Stephen Fry than either me or James...either way, the kid has star quality).<br />
<br />
Jessica cries and there is no running to consult Baby Sense or shedding a tear myself because the thought of her experiencing discomfort for even a second is too much for me to bear. There is no Googling every possible reason she may be niggly (a good thing actually - poor Leya was dragged to the paediatric neurology centre because she had a pronounced startle response and my Googling left me convinced that she had a rare epileptic disorder).<br />
<br />
Actually, it's hugely liberating not to be so immersed in making sure she's receiving exactly the right amount of stimulation. When I read 'What to expect - The toddler years' recommendation for dealing with bad behaviour, my inadequacies as parent became all too apparent. "Should your child make a habit of pouring liquids out, point out -kindly yet firmly - that there is a difference between spilling something (which is acceptable) and pouring, which is naughty)," the book advises. In the fantasy world of What to Expect, the fictional toddler listens to his mommy's reasonable explanation and says "Hmm, you have a point. I didn't think about the negative impact that my behaviour has on those around me. I'll stop immediately. I'm so sorry for any frustration and trouble I've caused." In my reality, Leya greets my attempts at discipline by chanting "pooh pooh fanny wee bum" and mooning me. <br />
<br />
Similarly ridiculous advice was given in a manual on baby massage which I recently dug up (while Leya was taken to massage class, poor Jess sometimes gets a random pat on the leg. Still, I have good intentions...) "If your baby starts crying during massage, welcome her, saying 'tell me all about it," the book sagely advises. Please. At the sound of a baby crying, the only thing I am going to welcome is a stiff shot of vodka.<br />
<br />
I really feel bad that circumstances don't allow me to spend all morning sniffing Jess's hair and going on nature walks in the garden with her. But, on the upside, she's spared a lot of the pressure Leya was subjected to (on one website's advice, I sat her down at three weeks with a shopping pamphlet. The website had promised she would enjoy looking at the pictures of margarine and toilet paper, so when she didn't respond, I was concerned she may be less intelligent than we had hoped).<br />
<br />
And, at the end of the day, she's still going to hate us and find us embarrassing when she turns 13, no matter what we do or don't do. </div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-38130351022715809292015-10-14T02:48:00.000-07:002015-10-14T02:48:32.159-07:00The big questions<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Lately I find myself thinking a lot about kids' TV. Not worthy thoughts, like am I turning my child into a zombie with the amount of TV I let her watch (I know the answer to this one. It's made clear by the dangle of dribble hanging from her agape mouth while she watches, and the fact that the only way I can get her attention during TV time is by randomly inserting the word 'chocolate' into any sentence directed at her). My musings don't even extend to worrying about whether her future feminist soul has been placed in jeopardy by the presence of only one girl dog in Paw Patrol, and Skye's stereotypically 'girly' (read: narcissistic, vain and shallow) behaviour. <br />
<br />
No. Instead, I mull over the following:<br />
<br />
1. Where are Max and Ruby's parents? This question obsesses me, to the point that it has become one of the Big Questions, like why are we here? What's going to happen to my children if the world's food supplies run out because of global warning? How can Monsanto be allowed to operate? And why do we even pretend that macon tastes anything like bacon?<br />
<br />
In fact, the whole Max/Ruby scenario is troubling. The other day, Leya wisely observed that someone needs to tell Ruby that she's not the queen. So even my three-year-old finds her bossy and officious, although she might not pick up on the passive aggressive vibes that are contained in the tight little smiles Ruby flashes every time she flashes poor old Max an instruction. The sad thing is, I find that by the end of the day, I am like Ruby on steroids, growling out things like "of course we wear panties when we go out" through a rictus grimace that's supposed to show my child that yes, even though I'm a bugged that I've had to explain this rule 30 time, I'm still game for repeating myself another 60.<br />
<br />
2. Why does Ryder have only four fingers (three fingers and a thumb). Ok, let's actually start at the beginning. Why is Ryder called Ryder? Would that name not be more appropriate if, I don't know, Paw Patrol was actually about a dog groomer who came the houses of lonely ladies and, um trimmed their pets? Second, why has a 14-year-old boy been left in charge of all those dogs? Is his some kind of Bruce Wayne story, with canines replacing bats? Surely that's the only way he would be able afford to keep all of those good pups in Iams? Why does he never change his clothes? And, again, where are his parents?<br />
<br />
3. How did Dora go from being a spunky little mite, able to take on dragons simply by giving a dance and a clap, into a clearly highly-strung teenager with a penchant for pearls? One look tells you she will probably volunteer to be class mom and say things like "I found the best quinoa recipe for the kids' school lunch at Montessori - as vegans, it's so important for us to get enough protein". And how does she manage to look so tense and upset even as she sings about having fun? Also, why is she so hung up on helping? I like to think that I'm not a bad person, but the only time I ever offer to help is when I can see that the table has already been set or if the hostess is one of those people whose hair falls out if you cut the tomatoes in slices instead of dices, as she prefers to do them. <br />
<br />
4. Why do British moms find Mr Bloom sexy? <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2631404/The-hunky-CBeebies-gardener-VERY-earthy-suggestions-army-yummy-mummy-admirers.html" target="_blank">They really do.</a> Are there not enough truly handsome men in England?<br />
<br />
5. Did <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/local/southeastwales/hi/tv_and_radio/newsid_7869000/7869968.stm" target="_blank">Jason Mason</a> grow up to become <a href="http://morably.com/harry-styles-smile-46-photos/" target="_blank">Harry Styles</a>?<br />
<br />
6. WTF is actually happening in The Night Garden.<a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/tomchivers/in-the-night-garden-is-a-surreal-orgy-of-sex-and-dea#.eqMXakb34" target="_blank"> I am not the only person who finds this programme unspeakably perturbing.</a> I'm pretty sure that if someone were to translate "icka bicka backa swogga", it would turn out to be some kind of code urging our children into hideous subversive behaviour.<br />
<br />
7. Why, oh why, do I always have some kind of theme song stuck in my head? These ponderances, for instance, have been set to th4e soundtrack of 'Ola ola ola, ola ola ola we're so very glad to see you'. Grr.</div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-71945536398227339172014-10-27T00:46:00.002-07:002014-10-27T00:47:07.090-07:00The mental and physical health benefits of having a toddler<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A lot of people seem to complain about how difficult parenting becomes when their children turn two and start throwing tantrums/crying for no reason/insisting on wearing their tutus and nothing else to the shops/shouting out "Jojo made a big pooh" randomly in public. To these glass-half-empties, I say - tosh! Raising a toddler is an amazing opportunity for self-development, saving you thousands on therapist's fees and gym membership whilst helping to hone your mental acuity. <br />
<br />
Let me demonstrate:<br />
<br />
1) The only way you could be more trim is if you had Tim Noakes living in your kitchen. It's my theory that Usain Bolt trained for his 100m sprint by taking a toddler to a shopping centre. Anyone who has tried to keep up with one of these little fellas as they go blitzing through stores will attest to the intense workout it is; plus, there are the heart-pumping benefits of your windmilling arms as you try to put back the items they have randomly tossed from the shelves. So that's your cardio sorted. As for toning your core, arms and thighs: I could be wrong, but a two-year old screeching "pick me up" fifty times a day will do far more for you than any bootcamp instructor.<br />
<br />
2) They give you a reality check. I confess; going to work makes me feel really glamorous. It's probably the lack of child-minders and people under four foot that does it, but whenever I'm putting on my makeup and wearing clothes that are free of food crust and smudges left by pummelling dirty little feet, I feel quite pretty. Thankfully, I have Leya to put me in my place. "Hello, Big Bum," she will boom cheerfully. Or, "Mommy, your boobs are parachutes" (I know my body isn't what it used to be, but I hadn't realised things had gotten so bad that even a toddler could recognise my submission to gravity).<br />
<br />
3) They build your resilience. When you are waiting in the doctor's rooms and your child shouts out "I hate Dr Jackie because she's dirty", you realise that the only thing to do is smile.<br />
<br />
4) They teach you the importance of an enquiring mind, rational thinking and creativity. I have one word for you: "Why?" It seems that toddlers have one word also. And finding answers for it can be difficult. Like: Leya: What is that?<br />
Me: That's your daddy.<br />
Leya: Why?<br />
Me: Because I liked his green eyes? Because when we were lovestruck youngsters we used to stay up all night to watch the moon travel across the sky? Because no one else makes me laugh as much? Because he was the only guy to ask me out that year?<br />
<br />
4) They teach you the art of zen. Let me relate one of me and Leya's more intellectual conversations from the other day.<br />
Me (at the robot, explaining why we can't go just yet): "Green means go, yellow means slow and red means stop."<br />
Leya: "Again."<br />
Me (at the robot, explaining why we can't go just yet): "Green means go, yellow means slow and red means stop."<br />
Leya: "Again."<br />
Me (at the robot, explaining why we can't go just yet): "Green means go, yellow means slow and red means stop."<br />
Leya: "Again."<br />
Me (at the robot, explaining why we can't go just yet): "Green means go, yellow means slow and red means stop."<br />
Leya: "Again."<br />
Me (at the robot, explaining why we can't go just yet): "Green means go, yellow means slow and red means stop."<br />
Leya: "Again."<br />
This went on for a good couple of minutes, before we started discussing the finer points of dinosaurs. And then, to my horror, we drew up at another robot and it started all over again. There is no way you can survive this kind of discourse with your faculties intact unless you are able to retreat into a meditative state. Kind of like when you're doing Ashtanga yoga, and you know the moves so well you're able to drift off while your body does its own thing.<br />
<br />
5) They give you an ego boost... There's nothing quite like the happy smugness of being Favourite Parent. My heart trills when Leya tells James that he's not able to dress her/make her tea/come into her bedroom because only her mommy is allowed. In one particularly nasty case of schadenfreude, I laughed for days when he tried to snuggle with her and she told him she didn't like to because "it's stinky". In more enlightened moments I realise she's selected me to be her personal moments, but the Pollyanna side of me thinks its because she loves me more.<br />
<br />
6) ...But never let you get too big for your boots. Sadly, the shining glory of being Favourite Parent for a Moment is always diminished by the knowledge that Leya's nanny, Nomonde, is Favourite Person In the Whole Wide Universe, Including Galaxies Still To Be Discovered, For All Eternity And Even After That. I know this because of little reminders like the following:<br />
Me: "Are you my special darling?"<br />
Leya: "No. I'. Nommy's baby."<br />
This doesn't seem fair. After all, Nomonde didn't put on 30kg to bring Leya into the world, nor does she have chips in her wall from when she threw every single one of her shoes in a fit of insane pregnant rage; nor does she get woken up by 5cm fingers prising her eyelids apart. But there, again, is one of the special life lessons that toddlers have for us: life isn't always fair.<br />
<br />
7) They can make you feel really, really good about yourself. The other day, Leya asked me to fix her bottle. I jiggled around with it, handed it back, and when she found it working once more to her satisfaction she turned to me and said, "Thank you mommy! Good boy." I have never felt so proud.</div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-11743406622663195392014-10-22T02:43:00.000-07:002014-10-22T05:10:21.618-07:00Miss Ann Thrope<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Just quick list of things I am hating at the moment:<br />
<br />
1) People who call cappuccinos flat whites. For years, everyone was content to call them cappuccinos. When did this change? And why did no one tell me? My dad and I once spent a miserable afternoon at Melissa's sipping Earl Grey and wondering what kind of coffee shop didn't serve cappuccinos. And wondering why we saw the odd foam-topped coffee being swished past us. It didn't occur to us to look out for flat whites on the menu. I still feel poncy ordering one. Or as if the waiter will decline my request on the basis that I am not wearing a beard (see below).<br />
<br />
2) Beards. Let's not kid. These are not fashion 'accessories' (not sure that's the right term, as it is grown out of the body rather than slung on the arm like a handbag). The key word being 'grown'. Yes, it is pubic hair growing out of the face. Not vastly different to fungus, or, if I am saying what I really think, a vagina. Which is what I automatically think of when I see a beard. My days are becoming increasingly harrowing as it seems no one is without one nowadays. I am surrounded by vag faces.<br />
<br />
3) People who sign their emails/texts with little salutations like 'love and light', bringing to mind bearded (again: yuck, especially if it's a woman) vegans who embraced flaxseed long before Banting and think that leather handbags are a sin against humanity (I, meanwhile, think that pleather handbags are the sin against humanity). In what I consider the height of irony, Leya's playgroup teacher recently sent me a mail saying "Your child has been kicked out of playgroup until you remember to bring her registration forms, as I have been asking you to do since before she joined us. Love and Light, Sarah". I suppose I should be grateful she didn't add kisses. That would send the passive aggression into stratrospheric heights. Yes, I know I am a shocking mother. Never have a change of clothes. Never have wipes. Never have clean nappies unless they're still in my boot from the last big shop I did. Consider my knuckles duly rapped.<br />
<br />
4) Millennial speak. Ironically, I have picked up some of this from my magazine. The other day I found myself saying to the head of a strategic consulting agency, "Yes, I understand if that time is a bit awk" for you. But seriously. I hate it: obvs (What, it takes too much energy to get the 'iously' out your mouth? Ditto for defs and totes.); also, "I know, right?" (too which I acerbically reply: if you know, have the courage of your own convictions and don't look for affirmation) and any bit of digitalia that's made it's way into colloquial speech (wtf might be acceptable when you're texting, as might a hashtag, but they have no place in the real world.)<br />
<br />
5) People who call other people babe, especially if they are fellow women. Please. We are not in Las Vegas, and you are not a lounge singer wearing a toupee and Elvis pants.</div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-65086135793939044032014-10-15T04:35:00.000-07:002014-10-15T04:35:06.246-07:00The ugly truth about beautiful people<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Working at a magazine, I know that the jobs that seem the most glamorous are, in fact, far from it. <br />
<br />
Exhibit A: In my first year of work, I had to help out on a cover shoot with a well known DJ. I like to throw out the words 'cover shoot' because they make me sound important; admittedly, not in an I-fight-ebola kind of way, but you have to admit that "I am working on a shoot today" sounds way more exciting than "I have to get finished with the year-end financials" conjuring, as it does, images of slim and beautiful people dining on dainty canapés as they swan before a camera. <br />
<br />
Sadly, I learned the hard way that this was not the truth. I spent five hours climbing the stairs of the Westcliff Hotel on a 32-degree day, dressed in synthetics, followed by a further two hours crouched awkwardly on the side of an infinity pool, balancing a light-deflecting device and sweating while said DJ sat in the water flicking her hair around and making a face like a surprised, lovelorn meerkat.<br />
<br />
This experience really should have knocked the stars from my eyes. But it was only when chatting to the girls in the fashion department earlier this week that I realised how truly, truly unglamorous the world of beauty really is. <br />
<br />
Now, I will admit to being hopelessly shallow. I might publicly voice the opinion that models are vapid and uninteresting, but only because I'm really jealous of them and would swap my double-bum for their intellect any day. And I know that what they do isn't important, and I know that there are greater talents in life than being able to smile or look whimsical or even change the way people think about eyebrows. But the reality is that I'm a sucker for fashion pages. Until I learnt these ugly truths:<br />
<br />
1) Models smell. Yes. Apparently, they believe that their cheekbones double as anti-perspirant. Either that, or they think that, being so pretty, people will forgive them if a waft of fried onions enters the room at the same time as they do. Hygiene does not top their list of priorities, presumably because they're expecting the stylists to take care of all their nasties for them. Unfortunately this can result in some awkward situations - like the time a model, chosen for a shoot specifically for her long hair, had a bad case of lice. <br />
<br />
PS apparently the men are the smelliest. And, while I always friend it hard to take a man seriously if he's fish-lipped and pouting, the idea that he's making the photographer gag while sending a smouldering stare is just laughable. Apparently, most stylists keep wipes on hand because carrying a portable shower isn't an option.<br />
<br />
2) They have all kinds of horrid things happen to them because of clothes that aren't washed. Industry rumour has it that, one season, there was a dress that was in particularly high demand with stylists. Trouble was that the dress had a built in bodysuit, and because there was never time to wash it before it went on to the next assignment, all the girls that wore had to visit their gynaes shortly after. Eeew.<br />
<br />
3) Stylists have myriad unconventional uses for panty-liners. Sweaty underarms? No prob. Simply pop a pantyliner underneath that pit and it will be dry in no time. No sweat = no underarm stains on borrowed garments. Ingenious, really.<br />
<br />
Hmm. I'm no longer quite so in awe.</div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-78759683144630757052014-10-02T04:49:00.002-07:002014-10-02T04:49:29.816-07:00Pondering the pronoun<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Do any other moms get tripped up over what to call themselves when they're talking to their kids? <br />
<br />
I know that 'mommy' is the standard name - and it's simple enough when you're saying "Mommy wants you to leave the room." But what about when things get more complicated, like "Mommy wants you to leave the room because __ on the toilet and it's nicer for her when you're not sitting on her lap." How do you fill in that blank? Saying 'she's' on the toilet feels like we're taking the third person thing too far and we really are discussing someone who has the unfortunate name of Mommy, but saying 'I'm on the toilet' is on of those grammatically awkward sentences akin to saying "We has fun when we go out" or "He have a dream of becoming a pilot". Cringe.<br />
<br />
Similarly, what's the rule when the child's other parent enters the picture? Leya loves hiding games, so often James will walk into her room and say "Hmm - I wonder where Leya and Lisa could be?" Again, it sounds all wrong, and I worry that it plants a seed that will have Leya acting like an eye-rolling, precocious teenager who calls her mother by her first name before her fifth birthday - or like a lentil-and-hemp-eating hippie who eschews titles like mom and dad because they destroy the equality that is inherent in each of us as one of The Creator's beautiful beings. <br />
<br />
On the other hand, I completely know why he does this. Saying to Leya "Should we tickle Daddy" or - worse still - "let's ask daddy if he's ready for supper. Daddy, are you ready?" feels strangely porny, like I'm some kind of Lolita. <br />
<br />
Anyone feel the same way?</div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-68486622620091504722014-09-29T11:45:00.001-07:002014-09-29T11:45:25.567-07:00Why I hate Huffington Post Parents<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I can't pretend that I have ever been made of tough stuff. I used to cry at matric dances (even when I was just the 'plus one'), more bereft than the actual classmates who were about to leave the school that the their bonds of friendship were soon to be torn asunder. All it takes is the opening bars of 'Spirit of the Great Heart' to set me weeping about the glory and tragedy of living in Africa, the wonder of family, the sad death of Jock of the Bushveld (all unrelated. But still).<br />
<br />
Since becoming a parent, things have escalated and now, it really is a case of every teardrop being a waterfall. At least seven times a day, I wonder at the marvel of actually making it alive through a solid 24 hours when their are cells waiting to mutate, germs waiting to attack, reckless drivers lurking, acts of G-d waiting to take place...<br />
<br />
Knowing that I have to protect Leya from each of these eventualities is just such a vast task. It's overwhelming. The very fact of her is overwhelming...the fact that every day she continues to grow, to become, to astound me with her vitality and smartness and sheer force of life.<br />
<br />
And every day I am struck afresh by how very, very, very fortunate and blessed I am. When I was pregnant, we were told that there was a chance she might have Down's Syndrome, and I guess because of that, I just feel like I can never quite grasp the completeness - I want to say perfection, but hesitate because of the implication that I may have loved her less if she were in any way less than she is - of her. Whenever I see a child with Down's, I can't stop staring at them. I wonder what it's like to be their mother - to experience the anticipation of counting your child's fingers and toes, staring at the seashell ears - the very clichés that are used to describe the wonder of every new baby. And I think that it doesn't actually matter whether your child has a sandal gap in their toes or weak muscle tone or heart defects; the love you feel must be even more fierce, simply because the battles your child has to fight are harder.<br />
<br />
And that's why I hate the Huffington Post Parents blog. I signed up for it in that moment of connectedness that you experience as a brand new parent; that feeling of finally understanding why we're here, that feeling of sharing the greatest secret that's actually known to all humanity: how wonderful it is to love so utterly, so all consumingly. And because of that subscription, every morning I read stories about parents whose hearts are rent by the love they have for their 'imperfect' children. Today's was a plea from a mother whose son's facial bones have fused due to a rare disorder - she begged other parents to reassure their children that her son is just a little boy, just like every single one of them. <br />
<br />
For some reason the picture of this little boy flashed through my mind when I was lying with Leya before she fell asleep tonight. Above the picture, his mother had written: "See? How can that face, covered in Twinkies, be at all frightening?" And I was reminded once more of how motherhood flays your heart. <br />
<br />
I've just taught Leya how to say prayers, so every night we say "thank you G-d for everything we have" - and what I'm really saying thank you is for the massive privilege of being this precious person's guide through life. And I'm saying thank you for sparing me the heartache of having to work extra hard to protect her, because every mother's sadness really is a reminder that 'there but for the grace of G-d go I'.</div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-1598285866373471822014-09-26T02:07:00.000-07:002014-09-26T02:07:26.757-07:00Oh, the glamour<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So, I'm back at the magazine. For obvious reasons, I cannot outright name the magazine, but I will say that it features a lot about sex. In fact, the very first assignment I was given on my first day back at the office was about foreplay.<br />
<br />
Now, for the twenty-somethings who read this magazine and whose lives are peppered with casual 'hook-ups' (a word I would never use in my own life, but which comes in handy when I'm writing for the mag), sex stuff probably flows from their lips like - I don't know - flavoured condom gel or whatever the latest sexessory (see what I did there? Sex + accessory) is. <br />
<br />
But not I. Given my chronic sleeplessness and general state of doughiness, bedroom shenanigans have fallen from my list of priorities and I am therefore no expert on foreplay, unless you consider this to include asking my husband to pass me my book before I fall asleep. <br />
<br />
Hence, some research had to be done. Gingerly I typed the words 'foreplay new techniques' into my search bar, hoping that I will never have to take my laptop in to be serviced (Can there really be new techniques? Surely with this you kind of have to make the most of what you've got. Even Apple couldn't innovate foreplay?). <br />
<br />
At this stage, I was blushing so furiously it felt like my face was trying to detach itself from my head. I tried to bolster myself with memories of the last sex story I wrote. This one was on a device called the butterfly, a gigantic piece of plastic that you step into like a pair of panties and then let it do its thing. Again, while researching this I thought about why anyone would want to expend so much energy, and if it wouldn't just be easier to have a read and go to sleep, and I had a bit of a wonder about where you would store such an awkwardly shaped item so that your helper/kids didn't find it. But apparently I am alone in such musings, to judge by the number of bloggers who have dedicated their free time to trying out sex toys in the name of the public good. These blogs have names like Ilovevibrators!.com (note the exclamation mark!), and the authors issue warnings like "I had to try this one at my parents house and it made a lot of noise". Which baffled me slightly - surely you never HAVE to try a vibrator? Is there really a life and death situation where you HAVE to step into a panty-shaped harness to have a butterfly-shaped thing massage your bits? What, exactly, is the 'or else' here?<br />
<br />
But back to the present. I must, at this stage, mention that I share the office with only one other person, an intern called Peter who is so shy he never raises his voice above a whisper. He is easily embarrassed, too. So I can't begin to imagine what went through his mind when the website I downloaded in the name of research piped up, in a husky Spanish voice: "Have you been looking for your g-spot?" It was a voice at once tender and seductive, and yet almost perturbed and maternal, as if it was deeply (ahem) concerned about your ongoing quest for the missing item and eager to lend a hand (ahem ahem) to help you find it. <br />
<br />
As it turns out, Peter is not one for looking for G-spots, which made the situation somehow worse. As I coughed and spluttered in my humiliation, I could only think: ah, the glamour of working in magazines. </div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-61000076396828204482014-09-25T00:51:00.001-07:002014-09-25T00:51:55.330-07:00My life with the Gestapo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I know all about secret police and the wily, psycho means they employ to have their way with you. I know how they flit from charming smiles one minute to spit-flecked, eye-bulging rage the next; trying to cajole you into giving them what they want, and taking it by brute force if that doesn't work - all the while pushing your buttons, pushing, pushing, pushing. I know this from watching movies starring people with Russian accents, but also because I live with someone who appears to have attended their training school. And, through her methods, she's managed to reduce me to a quivering wreck of my former self, submissive and willing to give in to even the most outlandish demands.<br />
<br />
That person is, of course, Leya. Secret police trick number one: the sleeplessness. This needs no further explanation, suffice to say that two years on, I have yet to experience a full eight hours. I no longer believe that sleep training causes psychological damage that will only emerge when the child is a needy adolescent and frankly, if it does, I couldn't care. It's probably no more than they deserve after inflicting all those hours of bouncing on a gym ball in the middle of the night. <br />
<br />
Secret police trick number two: Having successfully scrambled my brain, she tries to catch me out. "Where's Samantha?" she asks accusingly. "At home," I answer. "Where's Samantha?" she asks again, a mere second later. The words "At home" have not yet left my mouth when again she roars, "Where's Samantha? Where's Samantha? Where's Samantha? Where's Samantha? Where's Samantha?" If I had another answer to give, believe me, I would. But the reality is that my sister is sitting at her house probably being submitted to a similar torture by her own kids, and it just doesn't seem worth it to make up a lie about her going trekking in the Andes with a pack of alpaca. <br />
<br />
Secret police trick number three: the mind games. "Mommy, I want tea." Of course, I've learnt by now that any thinly veiled 'request' is actually a command that must be obeyed within three seconds, else there will be severe repercussion (read: she will unleash her wailing siren, a sound that makes Banshees and harpies sound like nightingales). Naturally, I hop to it; my fervid actions accompanied by a soundtrack of "I want tea I want tea I want tea." Eventually, the tea is placed in her hands. She looks at it with scorn and disgust. "I don't want tea," she states coldly, and tosses the bottle away. <br />
<br />
One day, I swear to myself, I will rise again. I will shake off the wretched thing I have become and stand, once more, as a human of worth. I will wait until she is a teenager, and then I will embarrass her non-stop. I will post love notes on her Facebook page, or ask publicly if she remembered to use her rash cream. Hell, it won't actually be as hard as that at all. All I will have to do is walk next to her in public and she will cringe. My time is coming. </div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-86791007533404544242014-06-23T03:02:00.000-07:002014-06-23T03:02:15.732-07:00Why freelancing is exactly like being single<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When I was 14, one of my friends turned to me in French class and said, "Lisa, I'm so depressed. No guys like me because no guys ever ask me out."<br />
<br />
Note the lack of discernment there - it's not as if she was lusting after the class hottie and waiting for him to ask for her number. She just wanted someone, anyone, to take notice of her. <br />
<br />
That's exactly how I feel, as I sit behind my laptop today. I just want someone, anyone, to ask me to write for them. Of course I would be doing a dance of joy if that someone happened to be the editor of Vanity Fair or Intelligent Life, but quite honestly, I would go back to being SA's foremost taxidermy writer if it meant a cheque at the end of the month. (Yes, I used to be in hot demand amongst South Africa's taxidermists. As I always say, at one stage I had written so many stories about what makes a great mount that, if you passed me a warthog carcass, I would have been able to salt, stuff and mount it myself, with no danger of hairslip. Sadly, my months at a women's magazine means that this talent has fallen away somewhat - although I can now write endlessly about what to do when he doesn't phone.)<br />
<br />
Speaking of which...having sent out gazillions of article pitches in the past month, I have that same "why isn't he phoning" feeling that used to settle in after the first date - except now, the 'he' I'm waiting for is an editor. <br />
<br />
Something else familiar from my dating days: that feeling of fury and resentment when the phone beeps - but instead of being 'him', it is one of your friends. In this case, my little lift of excitement crashes every time I get an email - and, far from being an editor saying that I, and only I, can provide the insight, wit and originality their publication craves, it's Groupon. Offering a saving on travelling urine cups for women. (Because we all need one).<br />
<br />
Sigh. Into the writing wilderness I go...</div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-49617524507077675112014-03-19T05:31:00.000-07:002014-03-19T05:31:41.289-07:00Feeling the pressure<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I know that everyone else in the world loves a massage, but I am unconvinced. This was the thought that came floating into my mind when I was having one on Sunday, and after that, I couldn't stop thinking about it, which kind of negated the point of the exercise, especially since after that I couldn't help focusing on all the things I didn't like. At the end of the hour, I felt hysterically anxious about it all. These were the things that upset me.<br />
<br />
1) Having a stranger touch me while I'm naked. Now, I have read that in the US there are people who get paid (a handsome sum, apparently) to snuggle with you. I find this a repugnant notion - someone who may or may not have Simba chip breath coming to rub their chest hair on your back, as if you are a loving couple. I don't think massages are really all that different. The way the therapist tenderly pats you on your back while you are still wearing a towel, like you are a child getting out of a bath and they care about you deeply, when meanwhile they probably find you a bit off-putting (with the spots you missed while shaving and your cellulite valleys).<br />
<br />
2) That near lesbian experience. I am talking about the way you have to lie with your arms at your sides, palms up, which becomes awkward when the therapist moves into certain positions. The effort to avoid touching her is most unrelaxing, especially as I then start thinking - does she notice that I am trying not to touch her? Does she think that is weird? It is weird. I am weird. But no I am not weird - no one wants to have an incidental lesbian experience, especially with someone wearing polyester. <br />
<br />
3) The pressure to wear good underwear and groom. This is especially tricky for me. It shouldn't be difficult to go to the shops and pick out some knickers, I know, but I have tried three times in the past year and on each occasion have been so put off my stride by the neon hubcaps that that shops are trying to fob off as bras these days that I have walked out empty handed (has anyone else ever been tempted to try these on as a yalmulka, by the way?) <br />
<br />
4) The touching in bad places. You know how we all have things that we can't stand. one of my friends feels ill if someone chews fabric near her (admittedly, she's safe most of the time); another cannot stand the sight of cottonwool. For me, it's the thought of someone touching the piece of skin that joins the underside of your toes to your foot. I call it my no-zone, and just thinking about it now is making me curl my toes. So when my therapist literally tucked her fingers around it the other day, I nearly passed out.<br />
<br />
5) The whale music. Who on earth decided that the sound of dolphins' stomachs rumbling would be the perfect aural accompaniment to a back rub? I don't think that you should never have to listen to this sound, but when you are trying to relax those eerie moans, like the tortured souls of tree spirits that have moved on, sets teeth on edge. And makes one think of tie-dye and dreamcatchers and vegans, all of which are bad thoughts.<br />
<br />
6) The strangeness of it all. A few years ago, James and I were having a spa treatment together when the therapist told us it was time for our Jacuzzi. With a naughty smile and a wink, she left us with a bottle of JC Le Roux (everyone's favourite!) and some brown bananas, to ponder the painting of the shyly smiling Thai girl pulling down one side of her bikini that had been thoughtfully hung up on the wall opposite (just in case we had missed the sexy ambience). There was no way I was getting into this stew of bodily fluids - even if they had considerately given James a paper G-string to wear (black, as it's the colour of seduction). On another occasion, we were both horrified when our therapist gently plopped a hot stone down our bums. All I could think of was the other hot stone that she had just placed in my palm, and the other, non-hand places it had been. (More horrifying still was the fact that, when we told other couples who had also been to this particular spa, none of them had had the same experience. Is there something about me and James that hints that we have peculiar anal fetishes?) Then there are the body exfoliations and the terrible, terrible experience of being wrapped in plastic, which never ever fails to make me feel like I am one of Dexter's victims. As a result, I always lie there thinking of all the bad deeds I have ever done, which is something bound to leave you feeling sad and guilty rather than lovely and relaxed. </div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-641550838679262176.post-30848784861694570702014-01-30T02:04:00.000-08:002014-01-30T02:04:02.842-08:00Why is yoga so damn hard<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So, yesterday I went back to yoga after more than a year. Times have changed in the meantime. Or maybe it's just the studio I went to. At the first place I ever yog'd (the Haum of Yoga, which is amazing), people were very chilled (even before the meditation session). Yes, there were a few aggressive hippies, out to prove that they were more relaxed and vegan than anyone else - like the woman who responded to an ad for organic milk on the noticeboard by saying "yes, but it's probably been pasteurised". (And there I was, thinking that was a good thing). <br />
<br />
At the second studio I went to, things were a lot more serious. I was the only person not wearing a headband or those weird wraparound pants usually worn by the people who do flamethrowing or play with those funny sticks on the beach. Also, I was the only person who didn't feel comfortable when a tiny piano was brought out and we all started mooing and chanting together. <br />
<br />
Things are far more fashiony at my latest spot. No printed headbands here. And I don't think I fooled anyone into thinking that the tight racerback pyjama top I had worn to bed the night before in the interests of saving time (dressing - or indeed, doing anything - in the morning is slightly traumatic for me) was legit yoga gear. Not when they themselves were decked out in special high tech fabrics that basically move their legs for them.<br />
<br />
I am hoping that it is these fabrics also suck their bodies into perfect proportions. If not, I have to face the fact that everyone else in class has a bum like a pert Jack Russell puppy. Mine, on the other hand, is like the depressed child of a Saint Bernard and a basset hound, needing to be rolled and unrolled along with my yoga mat.<br />
<br />
Also, these superbummed individuals are far better at, well, everything than I am. As I am a naturally competitive person, this is not good, and can only lead to injury and self-loathing. For example: the teacher announced yesterday that we would be moving into the standing splits. This is not possible, I thought, until I noticed that everyone had changed positions and I now felt as if I was watching Swan Lake, getting the same view as the floor usually does. I, meanwhile, had moved my leg only as much as would be allowed as if I were wearing an Oxford Road mini skirt. "Now, we are going to transition into the dancer, moving up and back in one smooth movement," the teacher then announced. Not possible, I again thought. She may as well have told me to perform a heart transplant with one hand whilst making a double cheese soufflé with the other. And yet, all around me,taut bodies were transitioning away. <br />
<br />
I, obviously, stopped trying. With the result that while this graceful ballet went on around me, I stood shamed and walrus-like in the middle of the class. I am sure no one noticed, though. <br />
<br />
Today, I ache. I'm not stiff - oh no, I've gone beyond that to feel bruised, as if tiny workmen have been hammering at my muscles all night. I am so sore that I feel I deserve at least a six pack. But no - as when you get a hangover but did not have the joy of getting drunk, there is none to be found. <br />
<br />Sigh.</div>
Lisa Witepskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07436365034204875119noreply@blogger.com0