tamtrumsblog

Sorry for the long silence, I have been very busy running after the smallest little crazy person on earth. And trying to consume my body weight in wine to make it all better. Jesus, have a toddler, I am more tired now than I have ever been. I feel old and frail most of the time and I want to just lie in a cocoon drinking buckets of wine, shoving fists full of bacon in my mouth while watching a minimum of 1 hour of uninterrupted tv. I mean, since Isla was born we have managed to watch half of Mad Max, that it, and it was about 5 months ago. Now it’s all about Twirlywoos and Teletubbies. I wake up singing these dumb cbeebies songs. I have caught myself watching Dinopaws when I have a minute to myself. What’s happening to meeeeeee?

I have become a clumsy human cartoon, I have literally rolled down the path outside on a piece of giant chalk, like I am a rollerskating bloody Fred Flintstone. I had just had my Mothers Day pedi and all I could see for days were these heartbreaking little pink toenail marks outside the front door where my treat had been so violently removed from my freshly done toes. (While majestically rolling down the path my toes rolled under my foot- I am that talented at falling).

Just yesterday I went to drop the spawn at a play date. It was early and I decided to be brave and let the girls hang loose, I literally never do that, you are just asking for shit if you leave the house with no bra on. But, it was around the corner so I decided to just risk it. And what happens? This biscuit here managed to get my handbag tangled up in my indicator and steering wheel, I have no clue how I managed to do it. It pulled me and my bag right against the steering wheel, my boobs rammed against the hooter, my car swung to the right and I nearly ramped the pavement and landed in a restaurant. There was someone standing about 3cm away from my bonnet. God I am cringing at how it must have looked, this greasy hot mess twisted up in her handbag stuck against a bleating hooter. She must have thought I have been at the sauce at 8am (I was not).

So that’s what I have been up to, just general flusteredness and making a complete knob out of myself. But my child is amazing so it’s all worth it, really…

As if having droopy tits down to my belly button and having no money wasn’t bad enough, my child has now decided to throw tantrums. Mother of god I need a break *shakes fist at universe.

It has been building up all week, she has been mastering a variety of new skills. She can turn her bones to liquid and and she will slither out of your arms like a slug.

Her aim is perfect, she nailed an old lady in the face with her dummy when we were in a lift.

She has an iron grip, so if she wants it, she keeps it.

My favorite is something we all know, she loves to look at herself when she cries, it’s great, I spent the ages 12 through to 16 doing it, so I get it.

Trying to dress her is insane, she arches her body and twists and screams, it’s like we are tasering her.

And if we displease her, she runs. Which is super duper with my elephantiasis cankle.

Tonight was kind of amazing to watch, we went for a lovely walk in the park and when we got home I made the worst mistake ever…. I dared to mention PIZZA. 

Isla is mildly obsessed with pizza, to the point where she will sit in a trolley and hug a box of frozen pizza, stroking it and mumbling pi-taaa pi-taaa over and over again.

So the mere mention of the word resulted in an absolute meltdown. She clung onto the box, I had to pull out two little squares, and threw them into the oven. Then I wrestled the box away from her and she did that little march on the spot tantrum. And then she stood at the oven holding onto the handle with a full on snot running down the lip wail cry for the full 8 minutes it took the pizza to cook.

I thought I was only supposed to get a shit child when they turn two? I’m going to take her back to my gynae and put on my best southern suburbs mom voice and ask for a refund, mine is clearly faulty.

  

Things I want to do right now:Wear stripper heels.

Run like the wind.

Ride a horse.

Hike.

Go shopping.

Clean my house.

Jazzy dance moves.

Things I never ever want to do ordinarily:

All of the above.

I fell, I fell hard and must have looked like a donkey tumbling down a step with no grace whatsoever. 

Here is the story… Last Thursday at 4:30 I was making supper when I suddenly became overwhelmed with the desire to go buy fabric so I could make Isla pretty dresses. So I turned the stove off, and thought I would just pop in to the shop around the corner, it would only take 5 minutes.

I chose amazing fabric, I was so proud, mom of the year prize coming my way. I trotted out the shop and next thing I knew I was hearing a loud pop/crack noise and I was face planting into a car. I honestly had no idea what the fuck had just happened. I was flat on my face. I sat up, surveyed the damage, grabbed my phone and called Rupert, I thought I was calmly saying “hi love, sorry to bother you, I had a fall, could you please come fetch me from Stitch and Stuff and take me to the hospital?” I think what he actually heard was, “WHAT THE FUCK? Hospital, Robyn’s road. My fucking leg is broken. Fucking donkey. Motherfucking shit. The sewing shop!”

Fast forward through getting fetched, X-rays etc. it turns out I snapped the ligament in my ankle and pulled a chunk of bone off with it. But luckily I could get strapped up, drugged up and sent home. I am supposed to spend the next 4 weeks off my feet and I am on day 5 and feeling very murdery. My sweet husband has really done absolutely everything he can to make it easy for me. But I feel like I have been grounded and I am sulking like a little bitch today. You would think that I would be ecstatic having nothing to do, but I am bored out of my mind and day drinking at 10am is apparently “not normal” and “should not be mixed with painkillers”. 

My mom just sent me my sister’s moon boot, apparently idiot ankles run in the family. Isla’s nanny took one look at it and said “no, it’s ugly, you don’t wear it.” 
  

I have always been a bit weird about a few little things. More like a bit of a fussy arsehole, really.

I can’t eat or drink from anything that has even a speck of old food, lipstick, dirt, etc on it. In restaurants I send glasses back, furiously polish knives and forks and would rather drink through a straw than let my delicate lips touch the rim of a glass with someone’s old lip goo on it. If I come to your house (and all my friends know this already so it’s no surprise here) I will inspect my glass like I am on an episode of CSI. Nobody take offense, please, I do it at my house too.

I also can’t eat food with funny little bits on, such as brown bits on potatoes, and chips. Any vegetable that is about to be eaten will be scrutinized and any non approved bits will be dissected and sent to the nope pile on my plate. That goes for veins, valves, gristle, fat and any other mystery lurking in or on my food.

I still heave at the memory of my dear friend Leigh offering me the last sip of her milkshake at the JHB airport. We were sitting there with the hangover shakes and she slid her milkshake over to me and I gratefully accepted. The evil hag then squealed in delight and happily told me that there was a hair in it.

I have a list of food I can’t eat, but peanut butter is the top offender, I actually can’t even touch the outside of a jar. Bananas are a close second, disgusting.

The point of all this, is now that I have a walking and (sort of) talking little mini me, I have become part of her daily entertainment. She loves to feed everyone, and seeing as I am around her most of the time, I am her favorite victim. I get soggy chewed on flings swirled over my tightly clamped lips like a little yellow lipstick. She will sit and chew on a piece of chicken for 10 minutes, spit it out and then sweetly say “ta” and try to jam it into my mouth. I was not paying attention the other day and got spitty bread in my mouth. I am just waiting for the day when she offers me poo or something dead.

She also likes us to smell stuff, her best offering is her Na na na na (if you have not read my post about her bunny, go find it, I have no idea how to add a link). God, no matter how many times we wash it, it is still the most disgusting thing. It gets dropped on shopping centre floors, visits all the parks in Cape Town and is slept on, sneezed on, farted on and gets dragged under her pram wheels at least once a day. And her favorite game is to stuff it in our faces until we have a deep and satisfying sniff of it. And if we don’t look like we enjoy it, we will have to smell it again and again until we agree with her that Bunny is flavour town.

So if you see me slowly rocking myself in a corner wearing a plastic bubble suit one day, know that it has gone too far and I was offered a spider.

I have not posted in a while because life has been a little crazy. Nothing major, just stupid stuff really.

 
I have gotten so fat lately, I was actually convinced I was going to have a toilet baby in two months because I can’t possibly be such a moose. But no, I’m just fat. Rupert and I don’t know if we would have laughed or actually died of shock if I was pregnant.

 
Neighbour wars. We have possibly the worst neighbour on earth. I don’t think I have ever loathed another human being with as much burning firey passion as I do him. Those of you who think you have shitty neighbours, I promise you mine are worse. His partner is awful but he has just recently moved out (little victories).

When we bought our house 3 years ago, the previous tenant went on and on about how wonderful the neighbours are, he said they were so friendly and fun and used to love calling him over the wall for a good natter. I should have been suspicious, he went on about it a bit much. Like when your friend is looking a bit crap and you keep telling her over and over again how nice she looks to almost erase the fact she looks like a hot mess.

 
So we moved in and we were beside ourselves with excitement to have these fab new neighbours, they are super duper gay and “Andrew” is a hairdresser. I had fantasies about mojito parties and daily hair treats.

 

On our first night we popped in, to say hi to Andrew and his partner “Mark”. We all squeeeeed in delight and then Andrew asked “oh. My. Gahd…. Are you pregnant???”
Kriek kriek…

“Nope, just a wine baby”

Silence.

 

Now, I could have allowed that to make things awkward, but I ignored it. So we were invited in for some bubbles (yeah, my people!). We were standing in their absolutely filthy kitchen and I was plastering a smile on my face while accepting a lipstick marked wine glass, when two of their SEVEN dogs ran in.
Two huskies! Yay! I love huskies. But they started peeing on my legs. I shit you not, I was standing in the middle of their kitchen and their dogs wee’d on my legs. I was standing there clutching my dirty glass in a giant puddle of wee and they did nothing about it. NOTHING! Never even acknowledged it.

And it has been pretty much downhill from there.
Andrew fancies Rupert, I literally could not care less, I am not a jealous person but I think he is crossing a line when he asks Rupert to come over and links his fingers into his belt buckle and tells him how he is the best at fellatio in the whole of the western cape. Andrew hates me with a burning passion, and he loves Rupert. And Rupert is too kind to tell him to fuck off.

They have started doing building work at 9 at night. And I dared to complain about it. Andrew lost his mind and got super sassy with Rupert, he even said we have loud parties. Um, no cupcake, we have been in bed at 8 for the last two years, no parties here.

 

I want to leave Isla’s shitty nappies in their letterbox.

 

So, ya, it’s been super fun here but we had a little break and spent a few days in Hermanus. And as soon as I can see straight again I might write a little something about never ever having a hangover while you have a toddler to take care of.