• Jan
  • 12
  • 2011

The Simple Allure of Boobs

Posted by Katherine Stott In Parenting | 4 Comments »
Cleavage.Image via Wikipedia
My son has reached that stage where everything (and I mean everything) is about the boob factor. He is a boy – obviously – and he is healthy, so he is clearly venturing along the route that most boys tend to travel… towards loving the female form.
The last month or so I have noticed a lot of change in how he sees me, which I find hysterical. Before we were mother and child and that was the end of that. Now he sees me naked and he gets all coy and bashful and starts giggling uncontrollably while not being able to tear his eyes away from my mammaries! Today in the pool, he swam up to me and just grabbed them! I was quite shocked at first and my natural instinct was to dunk him under the water and hold him there! Which I did… all mom’s do that stuff. When I actually took a moment to think about it all the little pieces came tumbling down into place.
He is growing up.
This is why he thinks that girls having nipples that taste like ice-cream is an awesome invention. And also why I find him spying on me when I’m getting changed. It could also have something to do with the fact that when I’m in a bikini or showing a decent amount of cleavage, he walks up to me shaking his head meaningfully saying: “Mom. You are so beautiful.” [talking to the boobs and not me mind you].

Yes, he is an amazing child who is always full of compliments. And he is proving to be a wonderfully normal heterosexual male too.

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  • Nov
  • 22
  • 2010

My baby is still a baby…. to some degree (Day 7 of the 30 Day Trial)

Posted by Katherine Stott In Parenting | 2 Comments »
Both of my kids have sprouted up before my very eyes. I don’t remember when it all happened (same way that I don’t remember hitting my thirties – that crept up on me like an infection). One day I was crying as I fled the pre-school after leaving them “on their own” for the very first time… and next minute they are in Primary School, spruced up in their uniforms telling me that eight sided shapes are called octagons. I knew that by the way… I was just indulging them!
My heart beckons for those younger years to come back, and yet I know that every moment is only to be relived in our memories and through photographs. Still…. my heart yearns for “babyness”. Holding a new born baby in my arms has much the same effect on me as mashed avocado, balsamic vinegar and black pepper on toast does… it invokes sheer bliss. I can’t even begin to think about the moments when they (Amber and Cam) won’t need me anymore, and my life won’t be so focused on planning holidays that involve kids; preparing meals that are A&C friendly; making separate salads without the tomato and avo; renting DVD’s with a no more than PG10 age restriction… Hmmmmm… sounds like it will actually be quite fun when you put it on paper. Hahahahahaha……
But any mom will know what I’m talking about.
Still; there are those moments – very brief and very far between each other – when they show signs of their youth, and remind me that they are still fragile little angels that need our guidance and nurturing touch. Not even twenty minutes ago I had to pick Cameron up from the dining room chair and carry him to his bed to sleep. He had come home from school and decided to draw a picture, but had fallen asleep mid-scribble with his head resting gently on the piece of paper. Too cute. The fact that I could actually pick him up was one thing… But it just brought the memories flooding back to life. *sigh* 
Having babies is tough; Parenting is tougher… but letting go and accepting that they are growing up is the toughest; if not impossible.
  • Jul
  • 08
  • 2010

How sweet they are…

Posted by Katherine Stott In Family & Home, Parenting | Comments Off on How sweet they are…
Little kids – how adorable they can be, especially when they ask inquisitive little questions about life and the meaning of it all. Where did we come from? How did we get here?
My 7 year old son, Cameron is a gem when it comes to questions:
“Mom, how do you spell …”
“Mom, what colour is…”
“Mom, what time is it in …”
“Mom, why do we …”
“Mom, what is the…”
This goes on for about half an hour at a time until he has satisfied his curiosity for the interim. And then it starts all over again a little while later. Amber, my 9 year old is much the same except for the fact that her questions can be very difficult to answer. Thinking along the lines of, “Why isn’t there a number after infinity?” This can be tricky to make sense of for a 9 year who only wants to absorb things that are comprehensible.
My best is when she asks me the meaning of a word and I give her a synonym. And then she asks me the meaning of the synonym. Well….err….. try that one on for size!
Knowing that my guidance is what waters and feeds their intelligence can be a daunting notion to consider, and I can only do the best within my power to make it all make sense.
Now when Cameron asks me things like:
“Mom, were there dinosaurs around when you were born?”
I have to wonder… am I not educating them as well as I think I am? Or am I really THAT old! :)
  • Apr
  • 13
  • 2009

The Good Guy or the Bad Guy? Difficult to define….

Posted by Katherine Stott In Parenting | 4 Comments »

I am a divorcee, with two beautiful children under my wing. I would never give up the right to my babies under any circumstances, but have come to realise that in doing so I am repeatedly being viewed as “The Bad Guy” in this parental situation.
Before the divorce was even final, Dad whisked himself off to Cape Town because the hurt of being near me was apparently too much. I am not sure that he considered what the hurt of being without his kids would entail, but he has since started a life there for himself and made his own version of success in a small circle of existence. Perhaps every week I will get a call from him, running through the formalities of “Hello, how are you?” before asking to speak to the kids. This is their relationship with him. This coupled with a December holiday of about two weeks where they are at their leisure to run riot with their father. No specific bedtimes, no brushing or washing of hair, partial teeth brushing responsibilities on particular days, and a general lack of rules and regulations making holidays with Dad to be a rewarding, fun and exciting experience.

Needless to say, these two weeks of the year, hand in hand with the sporadic phonecalls make for Dad slotting into the number one position as: “The Good Guy.” Applause all round.

Of course, any self respecting parent knows that life cannot be measured by holidays, and if it could we would be sick to death of them and craving the substance of discipline as our time off. But tell that to a kid. Holidays always allow the rules to be slightly twisted and the distinctions to become marginally blurred. Extending bedtime in favour of late night chatter and sticker swapping is far easier to digest than lights out at 8pm. Diminishing healthy eating habits that lean more towards chocolate and jelly tots for breakfast seem far more daring and adventurous than pro-nutro and mango juice. But as parents we know that this type of upbringing will produce nothing but trouble if it is to become something that takes on a permanent appeal. As Dad, who hasn’t seen his kids for an entire year, the idea of disciplining his children is a waste of their precious time together, and the thought of attending to any formal rules is something that holds no allure. Lets just have fun, no matter what the expense.

The expense is something that he does not have to deal with. He hands them back to me after two weeks with unbrushed teeth and hair, suitcases full of manky unwashed, moulding clothes and sugar infused personalities that are bounding around like meteorites on a one way trip to destruction. As soon as the explosion hits, the fun ends. Bath time. Brush your teeth. Bedtime at 8pm.

A lengthly and tiresome adventure of clothes washing ensues as does the righting of wrongs laid down by Dad. Suddenly all the things that he allowed them to do are not acceptable anymore, and why not? Because they are dealing with “The Bad Guy” now. For every rule that was bent, another one has to be resurrected in it’s place and Mom has to do it. Nevermind that it is moulding them into creatures that will face the world with an arsenal of talent, blessings and wit to deal with all that life throws at them. They just can’t understand why Mom is so anal why she can’t just let them do what it is they want to do, when they want to do it. They cant understand why she isn’t the fun and ourageous person that Dad is, constantly playing games, telling campfire stories, spending endless hours with them soaking up the sun, tossing frisbee’s and swimming in the sea.

Give me two weeks of holidays and I’ll be that person. But in reality, I am so much more.

I am the person who works all hours of the day to pay their school fees, buy their clothes and all the things they need to get them through the week. I am the person who wakes up early to make their school lunches and make sure that their bags are packed ready for their day ahead. I am the person who wakes them up gently at an appropriate time so that they don’t have to be in a mad panic trying to get ready for school, even though they curse me, shout and cry, I do it. Because I know that it is something that creates the grounding in their life that they thrive on. I am the person that forces them to brush their teeth because of the implications of an unhealthy mouth are just plain unbearable. Even though they stamp their feet into the bathroom with black clouds circling their heads, I do it. I am the person who sits and waits outside the school before the bell rings so that when they walk out of class they can see me and they know they are not forgotten. I am the one who goes out of her head trying to come up with inventive ways to make healthy appealing so that I know they are getting all the nutrients they require for healthy growth, but still enjying it at the same time. I am the one who drops everything when they are in trouble and comes to their rescue, no matter what the consequences.
I am the one who is there when they fall: from their bikes, from the trampoline, from the tree, from love. When the lashing of vicious tongues slice them open, I am the one who is there to seal the wounds. I am the one who is there until 10pm colouring in pages and trying to make it look like a 7 year old did it, so that the 7 year old doesn’t get into trouble even though it will teach her a valuable life lesson. I am the one who sacrifices my social life so that we can have DVD night at home on a Friday night and french toast first thing on a Saturday morning. I am the one who wakes up to a whimper in the middle of the night, and holds a trembling child in the midst of heart wrenching nightmares until the fears and tears go away, and she is safe to be tucked under her bed covers again. I am the one who has had to clean up projectile vomit and snotty noses, diarrhoea and bloody stubbed toes. I am the one who has dealt with fevers, blisters, grazes, headaches, stomach aches, coughs, colds, burns, cuts, bruises and batterings and more. Each one healed and sealed with a magical mother’s kiss. And still, my gestures go unnoticed … as a mother’s love always does.

In moments of torment and fury the words that cut me deep and, quite frankly, piss me off are always thrown in my face, splattering themselves all over me as I wince and close my eyes: I hate you! I wish I could live with Dad! Spat at me with bubbling anger and immense hatred for me and what I am attempting to do to make their lives whole. They just don’t get it.

So many times I have ignored it and let the words slide off me, slowly and excruitiatingly, as if their sharp edges are grazing my naked skin as they fall to the ground. I shake them free and persist as if nothing has affected me, and no words could ever puncture the bubble of love that I envelope them in. But still, they just don’t get it. And it grates me that they don’t.

Do they think that Dad will read them campfire stories every night of their life? And do they think that when he returns home from work in the evenings that he would then resort to full playtime attack mode, burning up every second of available time together to have their fun before bedtime? Do they realise that he will never have snacks in the house, that cereal will be something that is always left off the grocery list, that he won’t have a throat lozenge in his pocket or a tissue in his bag for when they need it? Do they honestly think that he will be able to assume the far reaching and infinite role of a mother? They don’t understand that he would never be able to cope with them on a full time basis, and that if he were forced to he would soon become “The Bad Guy” and they would be wishing to be home with Mom.
There have been times where I’ve cried about it for hours on end. I have written and re-written my thoughts into diaries, onto scrap paper, into emails and now here. No amount of querying or questioning will ever change the fact that the most difficult job for anyone to undertake is that of being a mother. Being a divorced mother adds something of a tangled twist to it, but it doesn’t change the fact that it is something you do selflessly, and never without incidence.
I have donned the cloak of “The Bad Guy” and continued to sweep through the corridors, prowling the night and making sure kids are in bed on time. When a muffled, squeaky voice calls out for more hugs and kisses, I venture towards and see small, wiry arms reaching out from under the duvet that wrap tightly around my neck. I feel a tug at my heart as I close my eyes and relax into the pure energy that is love. A soft whisper of “I love you, Mommy. Don’t bite the bedbugs…” followed by a trickle of giggles and I realise (not for the first time) what it’s all about.
As difficult a job as it is to be a Mom for all it’s trials and adversity, it is also the easiest thing in the world for all it’s treasures. I have to keep on reminding myself of this, and perhaps have to remind them too. Life is not easy, this is something we are all well aware of. Being a mother… well, that is just another level of life. Not ever going to be easy, Good Guy or Bad Guy, you are always going to encounter difficult times. I think it’ what you do with those moments that define the difference.

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