Monthly Archives: October 2011

Countess’ personal pity party…


Taken and amended courtesy of Natalie Norton’s blog.   Written to help me cope with finding out about Molly’s cerebral palsy and the days thereafter…

I knew this girl once.

She was happy and brave. She had a skip in her step and a song in her heart. She loved the world completely, and the world loved her right back again.

The girl grew up.

And sometimes, she felt as if the world had stopped loving her quite so much. . . or just maybe, he’d forgotten about her altogether.

The girl felt all alone.

The girl cried. She cried and she cried and she cried.

A hundred rivers, she cried to overflowing, and then she cried some more.

Then one day, the girl woke up, and she didn’t want to cry any more.

The girl wanted to laugh.

She wanted to laugh, and she wanted to sing! She wanted to skip, and she wanted to dance!

She wanted to love the world, and she wanted to show the world how to love her right back again.

The girl declared war on her hurt, and she sang as loud as she could to overcome the
sound of her sorrow.

The girl had forgotten how to skip, so every day she tried to learn how to skip and to put on a brave face. She found new projects to sink her teeth into and to keep her mind busy from the sad voices in her head

She worked and worked and gave and gave. The people around her took and took and took.

She wasn’t working and giving to feel better about things. She did this to survive day by day. She felt like was running right over the top of it all. She wanted to show she wasn’t different and that she was strong and brave, and that she had so much fight left in her. Enough fight for all the world (and then even more left over, just in case).

The girl found her smile again. The girl found her courage.

The girl had proven that she (and you) can overcome anything in life, just so long as you stay brave and keep right on loving (and believing in) the world, no matter what.

So even though the girl knows that in a different life, on a day like today she’d be seeing the world in innocence and through a 5 year old little girls viewpoint. She’d be dropping off the girl at school or watching her swim or listening to her
read she knows that her life in retrospect is not that bad.


She’s Ok.

Bruised, but not beaten.

Yes, today, she’s dying from so much ache. The wanting is heavy on her chest, and the hurt keeps finding it’s way to the girl’s stomach until she can literally feel the vomit rising into her throat. She feels lonely.

Yes, the girl has much to wonder about. . .But one thing is clear.

The girl knows that this day will be but a moment. And one day, sooner than later, this pain, so deep and so wide that it threatens to swallow her away, will be filled with joy twice as deep as is her sorrow.


Santa’s shoebox and other musings…


Today my kids and I bought two boxes of goodies for the Santa’s Shoebox Project. Molly bought for a 6-7 year old girl and Aidan bought for 4-5 year old boy. I have to get the kids to decorate and wrap the shoe box. Molls will need lots of help from me. Social awareness is what I’m trying to get into Aidan’s head. He needs to understand that some kids don’t have anything and that clothes are even awesome to get.

My little chap is going through a stage where he resents receiving any kind of clothing item as a gift. It’s so wrong and CRACKS me!  I really have one wish for my children, and that is that they grow up hungry. Not hungry in the physical sense but hungry in the yearning sense. Hunger for ambition and challenges. Hunger for new horizons and knowledge.

It’s tough getting the balance right with children. You don’t want to break them and you don’t want to spoil them. It REALLY is the most difficult job or responsibility on Earth.

My friend Kim was telling me yesterday, at the famous boomgate stop, that anti-depressant usage has gone up by 400% and that we should all go back to basics. Basics like walking barefoot in the wet grass. Walking outside. Just stopping and smelling the roses. This is easier said than done. Why are we so hell-bent on chasing our tails. Why do we take it all so seriously?

Ants in my pants….


October is not a great month for me. We find out too many bad things in October.

For example we found out that Molls was cerebral palsy in October. A few years ago, in October, John received a phone call from California in the shearing shed to say that we should fly his brother home ASAP as he was addicted to Cristal Meth.

So not a great month on the one hand and awesome on the other hand. Every October John and I sit down and give thanks for the way Molls has progressed and give thanks that we don’t have to digest any other terrifying news. We have  a lot to be thankful for.

But…..I still have to suppress and ignore this gnawing underlying feeling of anxiety. Thank goodness it’s the 27th!

See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya- Jack McFarlane


This weekend we are going up the Wild Coast. Looking forward to the break and the lie-ins. We are taking our nannies for this very reason. All the moms made this pact a while ago. The nannies LOVE it! The en-suite bathrooms, 4 course meals, white fluffy towels and coffee and tea on tap. My nanny is AWESOME, but she’s very rural. She refuses to drink out of the white mans modern china or eat off the crockery and so tucks her Country Fresh 2 Litre ice-cream dish under her arm and her kommetjtie (enamel cup) and uses them at every meal. Her kindness and patience with my children overshadows my shallow embarrassment at such inappropriate behaviour. At the end of the day who actually cares? She usually endears herself to all the waitering staff and has them rallying around her by the end of the weekend.

I personally plan to drink my favourite Nederburg Duet while admiring the sea-view. I know, I know, Nederburg Duet is funny duddy but I love it. No Fat Bastard or any other for me. I’ve  bought a new costume that I will not be showing to anyone in public. It’s black and criss-crosses across my boobs in a vice-gripping fashion. No slipping under the elastic for the twins I’m afraid! They’re up and out and exposed for all the world to see. I can honestly say that I have a SPLENDID  cleavage.

So on this note I leave you……. In the words of the GREATEST queen this century as EVER seen, Jack McFarlane from Will and Grace, “See Ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya!”

Those bloody pull-in panties…


My mom calls them Pull-in panties. Also known in my circle as Bridget’s Jones’ knickers. You know the ones? The ones you buy from Edgars and the Woolworth. They come in  magnificent shades of white, beige or black. You get medium support or maxi support. I buy the maxi support. My mom actually asked me why I didn’t wear pull-in panties the other day. The cheek of it? I answered  back in a very clipped tone that I fucking was! (I think I might have skipped out the effing part).

My best form of torture is to wear the Pull-in cycling shorts. I’m not talking about the ones you buy from Verimark. Those are a breeze compared to the pugnacious pair I own. Mine are beige. Have the thickness and feel of flexible canvas. John has to leave the bedroom and may not observe the agonising procedure of me ……slipping them on. Ha ha…slipping is a joke, it’s more like me wrangling and trying to put a 5kg polony into a vienna sausage casing. It involves grimacing, squeezing, lots of talcum powder for easier lubrication and a few beads of perspiration on my forehead. And when I finally have them on…I snap the waistband in jubilation, wipe my brow and slowly run my hands over my smoother bum and thighs!

They definitely make a difference. One can’t breathe or eat in them or wear them when it’s too hot but they definitely… make a difference….

Tickle my tits ’til Friday….


As Shirley Valentine once said in a dark dingy semi-detached house in London: “Well  tickle my tits ’til Friday”.

Seriously, tickle my tits ’til Friday…I’m on a roll and framing up a storm today. Getting through such a lot of work. Each framing job is a responsibility as each artwork/ memorabilia is sentimental or valuable to each person. I often have a panic attack and have to talk myself into calming down and tackle each job slowly and calmly. I never EVER said I was completely sane!

Talking about sanity…I went to see a psychologist earlier this year for three sessions. I’d been feeling particularly anxious about having another child with Molly being cerebral palsy and all…and needed to talk through my fears. I am no closer to the truth within myself, as I was when I started. I did however find out that seeing someone professionally is:

  •  SO healthy
  • I’m not as fucked up as I thought…very little in fact
  • I give too much to the kids and John with little regard to myself
  • it’s stuffin’ expensive
  • it’s so nice to talk about myself for an hour
  • she said I must have another child
  • I’m still fearful as I was initially, to fall pregnant, even though I know I should get over it.

So in short, I pray and I wait. I wait for an answer to fall out the sky or for someone to come to me and tell me they’ve had an apparition that I have another normal child(actually someone did). Or God told them in a dream to tell me that I must go forth and have another child and he/she shall be normal (say in a sombre serious voice).

Forgive me for this cliche, but only time will tell. I pray I have the enormous courage and faith that will have to be with me for every second I carry the baby. Well…if I decide to.


The Velveteen rabbit


From “The Velveteen Rabbit” by Margery Williams

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things
don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”