It's not you; it's me. Really

This is really 'Complicated....part deux'

As an adult, I know I should be able to pick up the phone and call you. As friends, we should be able to move beyond this. And I can. We can.

But.

It won't be sincere. I'll call and we can talk and I will either not bring it up or skim it so lightly that it won't even seem like it was part of the conversation. We will do our surface surfing until we ride out the wave through to calmer waters. But in my mind, I will still wonder what happened. I will still wonder why we didn't talk this week. I will wonder what changed and when it did so. I will wonder what it is that you do at home and whether you're alone or with someone else.

And all of these things I will wonder and never say partly because I don't know how but mostly because I don't really want to know. If the answer is what I imagine it might be, then...well...I don't know. I don't know what I'll think next or say. I haven't allowed myself to explore the possibility, and I don't want to. And honestly, all of these thoughts seem a bit misleading. It's not that I don't want to know because I'm so in lve with you and am afraid to end up broken-hearted. That's not it at all. I dont want us to be an us. We both know that's not a good idea. That's not the issue. It's hard to explain. That's what makes it complicated. As my friend, I exposed you to my mental and emotional exhibitionism. My filters were gone and you saw all of me. So when it becomes complicated, I'm exceptionally vulnerable and that, along with my personal issues, is not a good combination. I know it's a problem I need to work out within myself. Still, I can't do complicated. Not with you.

So when I say I don't do complicated, I'm not being snotty or elitist. It's the exact opposite. It's vulnerability that I'm not quite sure how to handle. It's these lingering self-worth issues that I am only now starting to defeat. When we're just friends, these issues dont exist. When it's complicated, these issues take center stage.

So when I say I don't do complicated, I don't. And although it may have started with something you said or did, it's really because of what I allow myself to think later. I've been acting as my own therapist for a while now.

And my therapist says it's not you, it's me. Really.

It's Complicated.

I want to start out with this one true statement.

I DON'T DO COMPLICATED

My life is pretty simple. I'm one of those people who actually means what they say. I don't always say what I should, but if I've said it, more likely than not, I actually meant it. So when I get to that point in life where I can't find the right words to say what I mean, or if I can't figure out what I want to say or what I think I should say or whether I should say anything at all...that's complicated. That's a problem.

By nature, I'm a certified busy-body. I love summer, which, by its nature, is full of busy-ness. Summer is when I get my ADD in full swing and get in tune with my inner gypsy. I'm all over the place. It works for me. I love summer. Winter, on the other hand, is not my cup of tea. It's okay for a few weeks because I get to settle down for a bit and recover from myself before it starts again. After a few weeks, I'm rejuvenated and over it. Time to move on.

The seasons in my life are summer, almost summer, drifting summer and winter. Between the USA and South Africa, I get summer for almost 10 months. Right now summer is in full swing in SA and its cold in the USA. This week I went home. For a week. In winter. Maybe it was the sudden change from summer to winter. Maybe it was going home and working instead of being on vacation. I don't know, but something weird happened. I got slammed with complication. And I don't do complicated.

I don't know what happened or when it happened or why it happened. I'm guessing it was something I said or did. It usually is. I do know that conversation was barren. I can't remember what happened. Did we eat or have drinks? Were we alone or with others? Did you leave and come back? Where were you? Where are you? I've called and left messages and sent emails and texts. Did you not get them? Did I dial the wrong number? Are you not speaking to me? Or is this relationship-that-wasn't commandeering the conversation that I'm straining to hear?

You see? This is complicated. When we were just friends, there was no complication. When we were just friends, you didn't just stop speaking to me, regardless of what I'd said or done. When we were just friends, I could ask you all of these questions that I would have never had to ask when we were just friends.

So does this now mean we aren't friends? That was the goal right? To always be friends. Did we miss that mark? Or am I the one making this complicated?

I don't do complicated. If we're friends, I should be able to just pick up the phone and call you so we can talk about it and put it behind us right? Just address it and move on. That's what I would do if we were any other friends. So why don't I? Well, because it's complicated.

And I don't do complicated.

Children here....free to a good home

I need a new laptop. These idiots that I took my laptop to, while under warranty, broke it and now won't fix it because, at this point, it is now OUT of warranty. So I spent half the night watching this online auction to get a new 13"Macbook Air. I finally went to bed around 3:30am. The auction was still getting extended. I didn't win, and I was exhausted.

I'm saying all of that to tell you that I overslept. I rarely oversleep. Ever. I'm usually up by 5am during the week and 6am on the weekends. I think I actually woke up around 6:30 to kick the kids out of my room...and promptly rolled over to go back to sleep. I finally woke up at 9:10 with a phone call from Thing 2's ballet teacher asking if she was on the way. She was supposed to be there by 9 for their performance today.

Quick jolt out of the bed, brushed my teeth, and promptly ran around frantically trying to get her ready. Of course, that wasn't easy. She could only find one ballet shoe. She just had them at practice yesterday. Then she ripped her tights putting them on. ughh!!! So the dad dropped her off at the studio. Then I got myself together and drove to the ballet store to buy new tights and new shoes. We finally made it to the recital / open house. I'm a wreck. I finally found her. She had found her shoe and tights at the studio and didn't need the ones I just bought her. All that running around for nothing.

The recital was good. I actually saw her for more than 5 seconds this time. She had fun, so it was fine.

Afterwards, I was still exhausted and decided to take a nap. Usually, it isn't a good idea to nap while your kids are awake. But they're getting older, and we're working on gaining trust. So, I napped. I woke up to find Thing 2 and the Terrorist actually playing together nicely for a change. What a relief. Or so I thought. As I got closer, I realized that Thing 2 had written on the back of the Terrorist's tshirt with black marker. The Terrorist wrote on Thing 2's face with the same marker. I sent them to their room. Then I went into the kitchen to get a nice cool glass of water to wake myself up. At this point, I'd only been awake for 2 or 3 minutes. Apparently, at some point during my nap, somoene else got thirsty as well. There was a trail of midsize droplets of milk all over the kitchen floor. The microwave door was open. Inside was a cup of milk that had boiled over and smelled to high heaven. I think they *might* have tried to clean something up...somewhere...because there was a dishcloth also reeking of milk on the counter...dripping droplets of milk onto the trash can which passed them down to a small pool of milk on the floor.

Thing 1 was obviously playing computer games this whole time and missed the chaos.

I let them out of their room to clean up the kitchen. I gave up on the water and decided to take down the Christmas tree. Don't you dare say anything about the tree still being up! lolol I was planning on taking pictures of the kids near the tree and pretending like I did it before Christmas. Well, that never happened. Anyway, I took down the Charlie Brown tree and realized I had probably been too hard on the kids. So we put on pjs and settled in for family story time. We were all ready to read the next chapter in our Flat Stanley adventure.

wrong.

Between Thursday night and this afternoon, someone had written all over the book in green and black marker. Washable markers don't wash out of paper, by the way...in case you ever wondered. I asked Thing 2 if she did it. She doesn't typically write in books because, naturally, why write on paper when you can write on your sister's face or clothes, or the walls, or the bathroom mirror, or all of the above simultaneously? She said it was the Terrorist. Now, keep in mind, both of these girls are liars, especially when they're about to get in trouble for something they've done. I said "did you see her do it?" she said no. I asked "are you SURE she did it?" She said.."Yes. I saw her" Then I had to send her back to her room for lying. I don't know what she was lying about, but both statements couldn't be true, so whatever. Banished for lying.

I asked the Terrorist if she did it. Naturally, she didn't admit to it. Apparently "nobody"did it, yet the marker was clearly visible. Astonishing. Then finally she admitted it wasn't "nobody". Instead, it was her brother and sister. *sigh* She got sent to the room, also.

At this point, I postponed movie night. Horton was going to have to hear the Whos another time. It was just too much. Then Thing 1, who is almost 7 years old, started crying because he wanted to see Horton. He then got sent to HIS room.

Finally, hours later, the lying has stopped, the crying has stopped, the writing on everything-other-than-designated-paper has stopped. But they're asleep and will be awake in 7 hours.

If you want them, come get them. They're free to a good home. Actually, I might even cover the costs of shipping them to you. Let me know.

Full contact ballet

When I found out I was pregnant with my eldest daughter, I remember thinking...um....what do I do with a girl? I'm so not girly. Then I thought, maybe she'll be like me. Not girly but not quite "pat" like either. I'm her mother. Of course she'd be like me. How could she not?

Wrong. Very easily.

She's girly. She loves dresses. She prefers strappy sandals over sneakers. She's not the most coordinated, but she looks cute. That works for her.

It doesn't work for me. I accept her girly side. When she gets older, I'm going to have to send her to my sister and my sister in law when my girly levels get depleted. Although not overly girly, both sisters do girly better than I do. I don't think I've even painted my fingernails since the century changed. Honestly. So I am okay with her girly vibe. I'm not okay with the "I'm cute but not coordinated" thing. I was an athlete. I thought she might be one, also. My worst nightmare was that she would want to be a bubbly cheerleader. Now that I see the depths of her uncoordination, I would be elated for her to be a cheerleader.

In the meantime, we've agreed upon ballet. It's girly and she wears a tutu, but it's also hard work. It requires a lot of strength and coordination. It's a great compromise. I suggested soccer, but she turned me down. So, ballet it is.

Tomorrow is the open house for the new ballet studio. She is performing during the Open House. So today, at the age of 5, we left her with the ballet instructor for almost 3 hours, to prepare for this grand opening.

And when I got there, this is what I found:

I am admittedly a semi-perfectionist at times. I was just as upset that now during her performance and pictures she'll look like she's been training with Iron Mike as I am about the bruise itself.

Apparently, this is the second time..in a row... that she's come home with a bruise from ballet. I mean really. I remember bleeding blistering toes, but my princess of uncoordination has taken ballet to a whole new level.

I guess at this rate, I'll be happy if she can walk in a straight line in a parade as a pom-pom girl.

Am I becoming a South African?????

I have to say that I am an American through and through. I am an East Coast girl, born and bred. I am city. I don't do country and bugs and swimming in bodies of water where animals live. I'm a mom, a mother of three. I have a job outside of the home. I cook and clean (although arguably not amazingly well) and take care of my kids. I run myself ragged driving from here to there doing all these activities so they don't feel slighted, wearing myself out in the process. I'm an everyday American mother of three. That's me.

I'm an American girl. Nothing extraordinary about my life.....until I moved to South Africa. Seriously, we might as well be rock stars here. Who would have thought Black people in Africa would be so intriguing. Anyway, that's another subject for another day. Today's topic is 'domestic help'. As an American girl, I am not used to having help in my household. Well, of course, my husband helping doesn't count. I'm talking about help that you actually pay with cold-hard cash.

So exactly one year ago, we hired our nanny. It was a bit awkward for me. We had a 4 bedroom house we were renting, and she stayed in one of the bedrooms. She works 5 days a week and goes home on the weekends. At the time, the Terrorist was only 18 mos. So the two of them were together all day until I got home from work. Then the nanny would be free until the next morning. She packed lunches for the big kids for school and made their dinner at night and gave them a bath before bed. She washed clothes for the kids. I asked her to take care of kid stuff. I would wash my own clothes and clean my own room. She still did a lot of it anyway.

We pay her relatively well. For South Africans. We treat her like one of the family. She is family.

South Africans don't really have a great history with their domestic workers. Apartheid was not a great period of time for domestic workers. Where we were living in the Golf Estates, apartheid never really left. We heard (from actual domestic workers that work there) terrible horror stories about how the nannies would live there with families but were not allowed to eat or drink anything in the fridge. They were allowed to rest when the kids napped, but they had to stay in the room with the napping kid....while resting on the floor. Might I add that almost everyone here has tile flooring throughout the house. Not conducive for napping on the floor. Most houses have a sink in the kitchen that is a basin big enough to wash your hands and rinse fruit. Behind the kitchen in a room tucked away from the rest of the house, there is a scullery. The scullery is where the maid goes to wash dishes so that the family doesn't have to see her. It's ridiculous.

I spent a lot of time teaching my nanny how NOT to be invisible in my house, a task she was very good at when she came to us. Since last January, we moved to a different house. This house only has 3 bedrooms, but it does have a servants quarters outside. Naturally, I didn't want her to sleep outside. We have another room that is a playroom, that I offered to her as her bedroom. It is literally AT LEAST 3 times bigger than the servants quarters. She opted for the servants quarters. I felt rather awkward, but that's what she wanted.

That was 6 months ago.

Today, I still love my nanny. She is still part of the family. However, the Terrorist is now in school from 8 - 12. She's home by 12:30 to eat lunch and napping by 1pm. Things 1 & 2 leave for school at 7am. So really, the nanny only has kids from 6am - 7:30am and then from 3pm - 6:30pm. Now I'm wondering what the heck I'm paying her for. I mean, really, our spiel with her when we hired her was very non-South African: Don't worry about cleaning so much. Do what you can. Just make sure the kids are well taken care of and are happy and enjoy life.

Now that the kids are there for half the time they were when we hired her, I don't see why my house isn't clean. I don't expect her to work from 6am - 6:30 pm. When the kids aren't there, she can watch tv or nap or do whatever...as long as she works 8 hours. And when she's working those hours that the kids aren't there, I can't think of anything that she could be doing work-wise than cleaning.

If she's cleaning, the kids (who don't have the best hygiene in the world) should have a clean toilet daily. There shouldn't be dead flies for days on my window sill. I shouldn't have to sweep the floor after the kids eat. I shouldn't have to take Thing 2's clothes out of the Terrorists closet because they're in the wrong place. Today, I shouldn't be looking for shoes the kids had on yesterday. I shouldn't find toothbrushes on the floor. The bathtub should be clean. I shouldn't smell yucky pee-filled pull-ups that are overflowing from the bathroom trash. I shouldn't have 3 garbage bags of recycling piled up in my dining room. My girls shouldn't go to school with their hair looking like they live in Annie's old orphanage. She still takes care of the kids, but they're barely home now. And they're in the bed by 7pm.

Honestly, South Africans have come to my house...which has never been totally clean since we've lived here...and ask "what does your lady DO?!?!"

Nannies in the USA don't clean. They aren't expected to. Here in South Africa, they are. So now I find myself being South African and asking...Lady, what the heck are you doing all day?!?!