Robert’s birthday went better than anticipated considering that he had a temperature in the morning.
We first had a party at his school. He was very proud to put on his crown, which Melanie made in green, and I am sure he requested it specifically, because it is his favourite colour.
He blew three (pronounced by him almost like free) candles
I baked the cake and the cupcakes for the schools and prepared little party packets for him and his classmates.
and the best part of the party for all kids including Robert was eating the cake, and here he is doing just that.
We went home after the party and decided against sleep-over with his father today because of his cold/flu symptoms. I took him out of school early and after we bought his present, a box of lego and some Disney DVDs we went to his 2nd birthday party at Britt’s house. There I took the remainder of the party packets and the other cake, which I was too lazy to decorate this time. Britt, Maria and the girls did the rest. There was another lovely cake there, two other friends and Robbie had lots of fun. I never noticed it at the time but he was indeed the only male with a harem of little girls fussing over him.
The day was warm and the kids played in the garden, and when Britt finished teaching for the day we sat down a little with one of the moms and shared a glass of red wine. It was a pleasurable conclusion to a lovely day. I couldn’t be happier and I am sure Robert felt on top of the world as well.
Happy Birthday my son my sunshine. I love you more than anything in my life, you are the reason I take every breath. God keep you for me healthy and happy forever.
After all the milestones of first smiles, first steps and first words I can tell that here is nothing more remarkable than the milestone of turning three. It all happens so fast, one day I am dealing with a little toddler with moods and tantrums and the next day I am listening to instructions, opinions and stories from a little boy. This is not to say that I am not dealing with tantrums anymore but the little personality is getting itself established very quickly.
I had put cream on my sore nose one day, and the little boy came up to me instructing me to rub it in “wob it in mommy” he said. Another day I was hugging and tickling and rough-housing with him and in between giggles he said: “I call the pleese” (I will call the police – a line I discovered later that he picked up from 101 Dalmatians, and used almost appropriately).
He is aware of himself growing, “I am biiiig” he tells me on a daily basis, and my heart expands with my love for him, and I wish to tell him, do not be in a rush to grow up because growing up is a tough job indeed. He will have his tough days ahead. Along with turning three he becomes a pre-schooler, no longer a toddler and he will be leaving his baby class, his beloved teachers Melanie and Yvonne, and all the little friends he got used to. There is no denying that he is ready as far as educational development is concerned. He is way above the level of the 0-3 class already.
When I speak to him he answers like an adult. Did you have a good time at school I ask, and he answers : Yes I did. Always in full sentences, never a yes, no answer or a nod of the head. He can count from one to ten, and recognizes almost all number digits and many letters. He has been able to recognize his own name for almost a year now in upper case and he now knows it in normal print writing. Recently I introduced him to the computer and he can use the mouse skillfully. He can also operate the DVD player on the computer and navigate some of the simple menus. He always impresses me with his quick learning, but whether he will be emotionally ready to change into another class and later next year to another school is another matter.
I have been suffering with a bad flu all last week, and I tried diligently not to pass it on to him as an evil birthday present, but for all my attempts he woke up today with a little temperature and I was in doubt whether he will be fit enough for his party. Fortunately everything went well and he had a double birthday party, one at his playschool and another at Britt’s place. It was great fun for everyone.
Frankly I found this a very depressing read, and knowing that reality probably mirrors this fictitious tale in many of its grisly dimensions was very bitter to contemplate.
This is the second Omar Yussef mystery and it plays out in Gaza, a dump in every sense of the word according to the protagonists. The dirt, the sandstorms, the corruption, the religious zealotry, the garbage, the ruins, and so many deaths and corpses are the order of the day in that terrible place.
Omar Yussef comes to Gaza as part of a UN group. He is investigating with his UN boss the arrest of a colleague who is also a part time lecturer at Al-Azhar University. This innocuous beginning quickly spirals into something sinister as one UN man gets kidnapped and another is assasinated. Soon the corpses pile up among Palestinians rival factions from one killing to another revenge. I lost track of the motives, the agendas and the rivalries. What is left is the deep sense of futility as corrupt politicians fight it out and squabble over this pile of garbage that is Gaza. In this story Israeli violence and hostility do not exist; it is all about Palestinian internal strife. The violence between rival factions is extreme and almost mindless, and the distasteful part is that you cannot even dismiss LAW wielding fighters as far-fetched. Just because the events take place in Gaza, the craziest and the most mindless violence is possible.
A woman in the story says: “Sometimes I think that the only Palestinians who do not weep are the dead ones”.
I was saddened by a little boy, who showed Omar Yussef the doves he is raising on the roof, an innocent child who would soon be struck by tragedy and grief. Nobody remains innocent for long in this environment. Yet people laugh and joke, they exchange wisecracks in the face of death and enjoy a distinct gallows humor, which rang very true. Those Palestinians are tough, and they can put up with a lot of suffering. Omar Yussef says: “I am Palestinian” by way of explanation of his tough nature and tolerance of hardship, but even he was pleased to leave the dust of Gaza, its graves and graveyards behind.
An easy and quick read for a sensitive and insightful novel with a strong connection to knitting, yarn and fabric. I wouldn’t have picked up this book if I was not a hobby knitter myself.
The story is set in Adelaide, southern Australia, and follows the lives of two very different women. Sandra is a tightly-wound academic, who is trying to cope with the recent loss of her husband to cancer, while Martha is a free spirit who gives most of her time to her creative knitting. A chance meeting of the two women starts an unlikely friendship. As they work together on a vintage knitting exhibition, both women need to deal with their deepest secrets and conflicts. There are no dead bodies or sinister powers at work here, just the usual scars of life. Sandra and Martha slowly find their way to healing them, and to accepting their own flaws.
I found the book’s rambling about the connection between knitting and writing a bit tiresome. Sandra’s perfectionist tendency to crafting words irritated me, especially as I did not see or read any parts of her lean, and brilliant writing. In contrast Martha’s perfectionism was endearing because the garments she created in the process were aptly described. I had the distinct feeling that perhaps the writer is better at knitting than word-crafting.
August will mark the five years anniversary to my arrival in Cape Town, a time when I finally faced up to the fact that perhaps I did not want to go on with the status quo of my marriage. You may say, and correctly that it took me a long time to realize it, but well, that is the way things were.
From where I am sitting now I shake my head in wonder. How on earth was I bullied to think for nine years that I was to blame for all the ills of this relationship. How did I ever accept the verdict of my husband and his judgment on everything when I was an adult with a healthy common sense myself. It all goes down to upbringing and culture. My mother – bless her and keep her healthy- is the most wonderful woman in the world but by her example she encouraged a subservience to the male head of the family, and unfortunately for myself and my sister we did not have any other examples to a healthy balanced relationship. If you add to that the fact that my ex is 13 years my senior with that much more experience than myself, a female who had a very sheltered upbringing, you may understand where my feeling of inferiority came from. Regardless, of the reasons I was intimidated into thinking that it was always me to blame until East London.
I am often reprimanded about my fondness for East London, a sleepy town in the Southern African province of the Eastern Cape. Admitting that you lived there is apparently extremely uncool. East London to me is the place where I finally rose up emotionally to my chronological age. It was a long, long time coming.
I will always remember East London for its rolling dunes and beautiful beaches, for the twin rivers that border it and for the simple uncomplicated people who live there. One day I will go there again with someone I love whether it is a partner or a son it does not matter, but I would like to show someone what I found there… I found myself.
It was a long journey that I made alone, without the help of a mother, a sister, a trusted girlfriend or even an agony aunt, but I did have a therapist. It was back in July 2005 that I saw a therapist in East London, I tried desperately to speak to someone and even in such a sleepy hollow as this town -or perhaps exactly for that reason- therapists were booked for months in advance. This one had a slot after two weeks, maybe she was not that good. The only thing I remember about her place is the cream-colored couch and the light pastels of her consultation room. During the hour session, the woman did not speak much she just listened and commented and in that hour I articulated all the negative feelings accumulated throughout six years of marriage. The therapist made the appropriate noises and comments throughout and pointed me to the road that I have already glimpsed when I phoned for an appointment. It was not love that I was living it was an act of willful manipulation. It was time for me to break free and I did.
One month later found me on the shores of Cape Town. A few miles away from the Cape of Good Hope, and to me it was Good Hope. I had a lot of time to reflect on my past life and to think about the way forward; what I really want for my future. I could not, or was not allowed to severe my marriage completely, because at the time my husband kept trying to win me back, for the wrong reasons now I know. It was the first time though since coming to South Africa where I lived according to my own rules, without having to defer to his every strict edict. I had a great time and indulged in simple pleasures that were not allowed at home: Staying up late, sleeping in, reading in bed, chocolate, cheese and many other treats and junk foods that were extremely frowned upon in my married life. I exercised when I wanted to, and rediscovered the simple joy of doing things for pleasure, not because I needed to break a sweat or do a chore. I also enjoyed the company of Spliff the cat, who shared my bed on some cold winter nights, another no-no in my husband’s dictionary.
The people I shared a house with – two singles dealing with their own problems with relationships and life- gave me plenty of insight, advice and anecdotes, and together we formed an unlikely but rewarding friendship. I enjoyed their company, more so because they also fell on the disagreeable side of my partner’s rules, he had something against overweight women and gay men.
Along with all these personal benefits, things were slowly going my way on a professional level. I bought a computer and worked on my first large freelance translation project, while I also attended interviews for jobs in Cape Town.
Still, no matter how successful I was, or how much I rationalized my relationship and analyzed its glaring flaws, there were many hurdles to conquer mentally and emotionally. I was helped along by a song that came out that year: All These Things I have Done by the Killers.
I would wake up at night sometimes to listen to FM radio on my headphones and would start humming along to the beautiful melody and the lyrics. Unlike the hopelessness of Losing My Religion, somehow there was an underlying theme of hope in this one, and the person crying for help, finds or at least expects to find a way out.
The best part for me was the refrain of : I’ve Got Soul But I am Not a Soldier. It translated my exact feelings: I do have a heart and emotions and I am capable of love and hope, but I will not continue this endless battle of my marriage, it doesn’t have to be that way.
The video of that lovely track, and the lyrics are below.
When there’s nowhere else to run
Is there room for one more son
One more son
If you can hold on
If you can hold on, hold on
I wanna stand up, I wanna let go
You know, you know – no you don’t, you don’t
I wanna shine on in the hearts of men
I wanna mean it from the back of my broken hand
Another head aches, another heart breaks
I am so much older than I can take
And my affection, well it comes and goes
I need direction to perfection, no no no no
Help me out
Yeah, you know you got to help me out
Yeah, oh don’t you put me on the back burner
You know you got to help me out
Yeah
And when there’s nowhere else to run
Is there room for one more son
These changes ain’t changing me
The gold-hearted boy I used to be
Yeah, you know you got to help me out
Yeah, oh don’t you put me on the back burner
You know you got to help me out
Yeah, you’re gonna bring yourself down
Yeah, you’re gonna bring yourself down
Yeah, you’re gonna bring yourself down
[x10]
I got soul, but I’m not a soldier
I got soul, but I’m not a soldier
Yeah, you know you got to help me out
Yeah, oh don’t you put me on the back burner
You know you got to help me out
Yeah, you’re gonna bring yourself down
Yeah, you’re gonna bring yourself down
Yeah, oh don’t you put me on the back burner
You’re gonna bring yourself down
Yeah, you’re gonna bring yourself down
Over and in, last call for sin
While everyone’s lost, the battle is won
With all these things that I’ve done
All these things that I’ve done
If you can hold on
If you can hold on
I read in one interpretation that the lyrics are written from the viewpoint of God. Speaking how people turn to Him only when they need help, which makes sense. However, like any work of art this song evokes different feelings, images and memories in different people. The message for me was hope, eventually I shall prevail, or find help, I have what it takes.
In April 2008, I moved with my six-month old son Robert to the same house that welcomed me when I first arrived in Cape Town. I was determined this time to finish what I failed to do almost three years ago. The circumstances this time were more difficult than the first time around, but on some levels I was much happier. I never took walks alone to the beach anymore and wondered about my future, I never worried about what I would do about love. I had all the love and the future I wanted in my son. When my song played, there were two of us to dance to it.
We first had a party at his school. He was very proud to put on his crown, which Melanie made in green, and I am sure he requested it specifically, because it is his favourite colour.
He blew three (pronounced by him almost like free) candles
The Loskop Diaries 