Surviving chickenpox

All kindergarten classes have these little chatgroups were class parents can bitch and moan about everything. And they do.. from upset tummies to trying to sell their home-made crap. Then there’s the inspirational pictures and shitty jokes…. okay it’s pretty obvious I’m never the parent that gets asked to help sell cookies or organise the school play. I may lack a little school spirit. 

But waking up this morning and reading a group message already planned out my day. Ajay has this little friend who he loves. Their like tequila and lemon, like wine and a gossip night, like a movie with pizza you snuck in. When one is in shit… you can bet your ass that the other one is right there with him. His mom sent the group message stating that he has the dreaded pox. I knew, I fucking knew that I’d be going back to school in an hour and picking up my poxed out, itchy four year old.

We’ve been here before. Xander got chickenpox just before he turned 5. And I did what every mother who has a 5 year old who wants a party when he has chickenpox does… took him on the Gautrain to ensure that there’s at least two other people sharing in his birthday pox. 

We survived it once.. But that was my gentle baby, and two other babies ago. 

Ajay, aka picker of scabs, his own and others, is the worst kid to get chickenpox.

So experience has thought me these next steps to survive an itchy kid.. And here’s hoping it works again.

1) NOTHING helps for the itch.

2) make your peace with pox marks. We all have them, we all ignore them.

3) heat is a bitch! Keep the little ones on ice and it’ll keep most of the pox on ice. (We literally let Xander sleep on the tiles when he had chickenpox)

4) chamomile lotion goes on pink and dries to a weird chalky white. If they do not look like they’ve lost a fight with a chalkboard eraser, you’re not doing it right.

5) bath them.. well this is probably personal preference. Some people believe that water makes the chickenpox come out even more.. They are also usually the people that go looking for that pot of gold at the bottom of a rainbow. It’s a fucking viral infection. Shit happens. It needs to run it’s course, the least you can do is wash of the pit smell. 

6) be sure you’re stocked up on both fever meds and wine, it’s going to be a long few nights.

7) explain to your kid that if they do scratch, their skin is going to get seriously infected, rot and eventually fester into loss of limb.

8) ensure they get enough to drink and screw it if they don’t eat

9) get sleep, even when you’re not dead tired … understand that you will be in a couple of hours.

10) avoid pregnant friends and family. I can’t stress this enough, don’t be a dick. It’s roughly two weeks. Call, sms, Skype, Facebook……… welcome to a world of convenience. 

The only good thing about chickenpox is that you get to use it as an excuse to stay home, cancel meetings and avoid people. 

So good luck with those little pesky spots, scratches and white faces. I hope to see you on the other side.


The thrillers of real life

I used to love watching scary movies. The bloody kind. The more out there, the more I loved it. I used to watch it and pretend that I am a tough son of a bitch that does not get scared of creepy Asian kids in attics making weird noises or girls in wells that needs haircuts or flies that drag you to hell. I pretended so well, that I did come to a point where I actually became that tough son of a bitch. Then I had babies. It’s like you sweaty-fear-pits and baby growing uterus are best buddies reunited after the fall of the Berlin wall. Now a days if you even pop a balloon 5 meters in my vicinity I jump like a cat living on nothing but scraps at a shooting range. 

Having boys means that they constantly scare the shit out of you. They have two sound levels. 

1) the sneaky fighting with one another sound level

2) ear splitting loudness

Ajay has a double dose of loudness piled up in that tiny little body…. only when he wants to.

Confusing as all of this may sound… There is method behind my ranting.

No scary movie that I have ever watched compares to breastfeeding in the dark at two in the morning, not really awake or functional. Glancing down the hallway and seeing your 4year old awake and staring at you for fuck knows how long. That’s the creepiest shit little kids do. So I’ve decided I’m going to, in honour of being scared out of my skin once again by my son, make a list of the top scariest things in parenting boys.

1) telling your sons to brush their teeth.. going into the bathroom after them and finding only one wet toothbrush…. and it’s yours.

2) putting baby down for the 5th time in the past 2 hours and stepping on the creaking floorboard that will evolve, have babies and die before your husband fixes it.

3) buying one flashlight for each of the boys and realising there’s only batteries left over for one

4) accidentally deleting a minecraft city because I have no fucking clue where the buttons are on a PlayStation 

5) finding your baby elbow deep in bumcream on your new bedding

6) something that looks like chickenpox on the kid that constantly picks at his scabs

7) waking up to one of the little monsters just standing silently by your side of the bed

8) the gut wrenching sound of dark silence disturbed by a mosquitoe 

9) the little plume of smoke from behind your house where you know you raked up all the dry leaves

10) the school’s name registering on your phone and you know it’s because they watched Rocky with dad

Having kids is just about the scariest thing in the world, so be a tough son of a bitch while you still can. Nothing, scares more than sleep deprivation.


When I was a youngster we had many party nights. You know the kind I’m talking about. Those, dress up in pretty shoes, glam up your make-up, have guys hit on you, get shit faced beyond comprehension and working with a mild head ache the next morning,nights. I’m a firm believer that if you’re  in your early twenties you actually have a separate liver that you carry around in your handbag… lest name it Steve. Steve loves to come out and party with your dear friends tequila and mojito. Steve is a social kinda guy, that only shows his face in your prime years, and then abandons you when you need Steve the most. I hate Steve, or better yet, I hate the false sense of carefree can do attitude, that Steve inspires.

When you get closer to my age, and ladies it happens to us all, Steve gets replaced by a three glasses of wine and you’re tipsy Betty. Betty is a softer poessier version of Steve. (Usually Betty comes with her own muffin top and turkey arm) Now a days my party nights all come down to one thing….

PJ drill. (Sigh)

Oscar is such a strange kid to get to know, and having two before him, I honesty though I’m going to rock this shit like Martha-fucking-Steward. That just goes to show. NEVER GET COCKY! 

  1. Tip: if you think that having two kids is the same as having three, get back on those happy pills you’re taking, it’s obviously worth the price. 
  2. Tip: if you think that you know what you’re doing because you have a kid that has already survived up to age 5, adopt a cat. Each little gremlin comes out with their own unique personality and temper.

Xander was a feed on demand baby. What that comes down to is that every time he made a sound he got tit for reward. He slept in my bed, when I went to sleep, got up during the night without opening his eyes, drank and slept again. In fact, every braai we had usually ended up with me doing the whole “I’m just going to go lay down with Xander so he can fall asleep” and waking up to dishes and an empty house the next morning. If you feed on demand and do what I did, I applaud you for still standing! I don’t judge, parenting is like running constant humanoid tests and finally finding the best option for you. Ajay was routine crazy! Slept at the same times each day and night, ate at the same times each day and night, shat at the same times each day and night. Funny how he ended up being my unpredictable kid. So Oscar is a new kinda crazy. I kind of try to force a routine and end up knees deep in his way any way. Sweet little cuddly covered assassin. 

Most nights I can’t complain. It’s like an early twenties Steve party. You wake up after getting up twice during the night and your sort of okay. But then there are “those” nights. Where you’re up every 20 minutes and trying everything from burping, over feeding, pain meds, crying along with him, getting feet first in his cot next to him and nothing works. It’s like taking Betty out for a Steve kinda party. 

Just like when we occasionally get to go out and sort of forget that we have to parent in the morning, it takes me three whole fucking days to recover from “those” nights..
But if I’m being completely honest, no party beats waking up to those cute little giggles and baby talk and that million dollar smile when they look up at you as if you’re the most beautiful woman they have ever seen. Even with morning breath, bad hair, puffy eyes and no make up. 

Cheers to you, Steve, my long forgotten friend. I’m strangely content with Betty, babies and a blubber but.

Ignoring the comments on breastfeeding

This is such a controversial topic that I’ve been putting off writing about it for a while. Don’t you just love how every one is so PRO breastfeeding. … aslong as you don’t feed where it makes anyone uncomfortable. Then if you do use a bottel you’re judged for the amount of sugar you’re forcing down your baby’s open little maw. All men have seen some form of tit, whether it’s their wive’s, creepy cousin’s, or candy at the strip joint…. or candi with an I that falls in all three descriptions. 

The reality of it is that men were built to be practical, not beautiful. You never hear woman comparing the classic man nippels with the over popular fat man nippels. It’s not that we don’t have opinions on nippels but honestly the male body is not that interesting. We females on the other hand are works of art. Every curve was well planned either for seduction,  femininity, or practical use. Boobs are option C – all of the above. 

I’m a proud breastfeeding mommy, and I hate  sitting anywhere other than my own home to breastfeed.  Reality check: if you walk passed some one in a mall that’s feeding her baby and your uncomfortable. ……… shut the fuck up and carry on with your fucking business …. that mommy had to pull out her tit in public to feed her baby. Instinctively we hide our boobs. We were raised to respect our bodies. Plus those tits used to be a lot less viny and without so many stretchmarks. If any one is feeling uncomfortable in this situation it’s the mommy! No body is judging the fat chick eating her large burger and chips in a restaurant but God forbid your baby needs to eat. 

I was always under the impression that there are only two groups of people when it comes to breastfeeding 

1) complete tree huggers happy to assist you while breastfeeding 

2) the dark side 
… you can guess in which side I plant myself. 
Recently though,  I’ve descovered an extra group. 

3) “draadsitters” – feeding your baby is fine, but there’s an age limit of 6 months to it.

I have many friends that fall in category 3. Sweetie you’re either with me or against me. 

So the trick on surviving the breatfeeding debate is simple. 

Step 1: stop giving a flying fuck about the breastfeeding debate.

Step 2: make your peace with the fact that we’re surrounded by a bunch of assholes that feels they know what’s best for your baby 

Step 3: if people look at you funny as they walk by you, greet them with a smile and a “first peak is free sugar, the next one will cost you”

Step 4: if people ask you how long your still going to breastfeed tell them until his beard’s stubble starts scratching your boobs.

Step 5: It’s your kid. You do whatever comes naturally and fuck the world. (Have this printed on a shirt and wear it while breastfeeding)

People, don’t be assholes. Raising kids is a hard enough job without the constant stream

 of criticism. Breastfeeding is already a massive task of self sacrifice, sleepless nights and sore boobs. Cut us some slack. 

pro’s and con’s on becoming a “homemaker”

I utterly love the new label that stay-at-home mom’s now get to use… “homemaker” how fucking fitting. It’s like some one finally realized that we do a shitload more than sitting on the couch watching TV in our pj’s all day. 

We manage a position that no person in their right minds would even consider. In fact, my husband sent me this video about the struggles mom’s face. (One of his sweeter moments I’ll admit) 

What it entails is this:

If you had to write up the job description for “mother” it would sound something like this…

Position – operations manager 

This position requires unlimited hours on your feet. Meal times are optional but only after the director has eaten. You will have to have excellent skills in mediating, cooking, diplomacy, self motivation, nursing, time management and teaching. There are no holidays or sick leave and there will be no salary what so ever. 

Ladies we do not give ourselves enough credit for what we do! Own it! It frustrates the living shit out of me when you’re meeting new people and they ask “so what do you do for a living?” And you get the “oh, that must be nice” comment accompanied by the look of “you’re a gold-digger” after you tell them your a stay at home mom. 

I used to arrogantly pride myself on my brains. I gave up a lucrative career in accounting to whipe asses, make food, homeschool, and sit at every sports event and school play and biology class. 

I’ve been responsible for many people’s financial prosperity for years and have never had a more difficult job than raising my boys. You fuck up an account and your client is a little pissed off.. you fuck up a child and you’ve single handedly ended any possible chance of a future for a human. Nothing is more intimidating then that thought! 

And no matter what method of adulting you use, or how you bring up your children there is no way of knowing how they will turn out. Shitty parents have good kids too. And good parents sometimes have shitty kids that become statistics and have babies at 18. (Ask my mom)

The only thing we as mom’s can do is pull up our skirts, get on some running shoes, strap down our boobs and hit the world running, and to hell with the little things that slip through the cracks.

So the con’s of becoming a stay at home mom is pretty obvious:

1) the only respect you’ll get is self respect for dragging your sleep deprived body out of bed, slapping on a layer of make-up (maybe 2 out of 7 days), zombie walking to the kitchen for coffie and then pretending that you’re a rockstar that’s handling life just fine, and repeating this process every day

2) you do not get a brake like working mom’s to look pretty, say smart things and get credit for it, then compartmentalise work mom and home mom.

3) you are constantly tailed by more than one shadow.. even when going to pee anytime of the month 

4) your messy house becomes your office and before you know it, you’ve become your own OCD mother that shits and whistles over bread crumbs and socks

5) MONEY! I’m telling you, if you’re the type of woman that goes for manicure and pedicures, facials, treatments and shopping sprees …. home making is NOT in your cards. 

6) you instantly become every ones PA. From ordering cupboards to filing personal documents to assisting with dishing out fake compliments while serving tea at a school play. Name it and you’ll have to do it…. because all working class people love asking you “so how did you keep yourself bussy all day?, specially while eating their already prepared hot dinner 

But there are some positives..

1) you get to choose when you feel up to traffic on the crazy roads 

2) you get to drink coffie (or adult grape juice) as often as you want

3) nobody knows if you are wearing pj’s underneath your blazer…. and nobody cares anyway

4) you get to really understand the game minecraft by actually playing it with your son

5) you see it all first. First steps, firts laugh, first bonfire in the garden, firts bed making

6) you get to have real experiences with your kids. No rush, no fuss.

The choice is never easy, some days I think I was a complete and utter fucking lunatic for choosing to become a homemaker but most days I get to call myself a proud homemaker. Specially when my domestic lady has been here.

The dirty, smelly truth

I find it difficult to form the words that adequately define the smell that accompanies boys. This is something that all mothers with sons can attest to. Waking my boys up is usually a ritual of throwing open any window available, holding your breath until you’re almost at passing out point and even then it takes about 10minutes before it starts smelling like less of a fucking bio-hazard scene. 

I am severely outnumbered. Four to one … that’s some fucked up odds. What it comes down to is that having the toilet seat down is a unimaginable sight. Like getting to see a unicorn in it’s natural habitat, unimaginable . Knowing that if we were to put this to a vote, I’d lose, makes it a little pointless to bitch about taking a midnight dive, ass first, in your own piss.

The reality of having men of all ages and sizes in your house is that it’s a smelly business. Ajay (my four year old) literally pulls his fingers to fart. Xander (my nine year old) keeps his farts in until we get in the car. Then he lets them loose and some days it’s so bad I feel like I’m about to vomit after practically tasting his second hand dinner. 

Once I am accustomed to the smells,  there’s the mess. For some reason the male species has been ill-advised in the general purposes of most household items. For example, pissing in the toilet is optional.. clothing is merely to semi-cover the weird spots but it should under no circumstances fit. Mom’s toothbrush is like a young gay ass in prison’s general population … open to use by any one.  Farting on your brother’s pillow is as manditory as a pillow case. Clothing is meant to be everywhere, from the chairs, to the darkest parts of the unmade beds. From the tops of doors to the bathroom floors..and my personal favorite the corner BEHIND the washing basket. 

I swear if you were to ask my kids (all four of them) if they believed in fairies they would unanimously agree that they do. They believe they live in a house were clothing just magically picks itself up from every fucking corner of the house, decides that it’s in the mood for a bath and a tan in the sun and a folded up nap in the closets. The dishes go on spa trips to the magical land of Samsung and the mop is an enchanted flying machine that mom sometimes uses to fly to her friends, but mostly it lives for eating their spills. We even have magical carpets and countertops that has all filth dissappear during the night. 

I often wish I was a man. 

But then there are these fleeting moments that makes picking up 50 shades of underware worth it. Things like the coffie that Xander so dutifully brings me every morning. Or the compliments Ajay sneaks in when he is knee deep in shit. Or that adorable smile Oscar smiles after he has kept me awake most of the night. Loving your kids.. it’s instinctive. I might not like them all the time but my heart grows more with love every day. 

I have been blessed not only with three beautiful healthy boys but with three clean canvases to create and shape the better generation of men. 

I might not often remember this.. but I am thankful for the life I’ve been granted.

6 0’clock eat in 15 minutes pasta.

Here we go:

Step 1: open fridge and retrieve a chilled Castle Lite

Step 2: boil kettle

Step 3: add mince to blazing hot pan and season with salt and robertson’s chicken spice (also available in bbq and mince flavour, but making due with what I’ve got)

Step 4: add boiled water to pot


Step 6: when water is seriously bubbly… like the foam in your bear add salt and little bit of oil. Then add the pasta. Any fucking pasta will do

Step 7: cook pasta till almost soft and chuck away any water left over (if you haven’t burnt it by now)

Step 8: add Ina Paarman’s creamy cheese sauce to mince

Step 9: put it all in one pot. Spoon it about and pretend that you’ve made the sauce yourself.


PS: this recipe works brilliantly when your done by the time that your husband gets home so that you can brag with your mad sauce cooking skills. Maybe even get a foot rub out of it … if you’re married to a Martian

Monsters on the go…

Born after the famed moonwalk, I never had the profound honour of hearing those famous first words that Neil Armstrong spoke on the moon … “one small step for man.. one giant leap for mankind”… (speaking under correction and lack of sleep)

But a simple trip to the shop kinda feels like a giant excursion to another shitty planet. Shitty with a capital  WTF!

Feed the baby, force your 9 year old into his shoes (for the 100th time), grab the baby, get him in the car seat… and who in HIS right fucking mind decided that regular scrawny armed mommies need to work on their muscles logging around a ton of car seat?!… strap them in, run back for the diaper bag, because we all know the little monsters time their shit according to our driving schedule, picking up my 4 year old at kindergarten, driving to the shop, waiting calmly for the 78year old to get out of the double parking space that her tiny little Getz took up… and parking.



And then the real fun kicks in. I’ve seen this thing on pinterest. … yes I’m a pinner… that a parent used this huge bright round sticker, stuck it on her car and renamed it.. the “do not move dot”. So basically each kid has to have their claw on the dot at all times. Makes it look a lot easier when getting out a baby. When looking at this innovative idea, only two things came to mind.

  1. Miss, are you perhaps hiding a dent underneath that dot… because I tried it to and nobody is buying that bullshit
  2. Do you stick super strength velcro to your kids hands before or after you’ve done the same with the dot?

Getting them like tiny little ducks in a row is a cute idea…… but so is climbing mount everest in your bikini.

I have to force my boys to hold each others hands while getting my baby out of the seat. Even then it’s a constant “get out of the fucking road, you don’t know if that idiot can see you”!

Then there’s the trollies. … or as my four year old (Ajay) so lovingly named them… tollie… (as in the male version of a brain) that has one chair created for the world’s smallest infant, and a partition for all the shit you need to buy.. which instinctively becomes the joy ride of the other two.

It blows my mind how my husband only end up buying the stuff on the list. ALWAYS! Like that’s his super power.. well that and burping the ABC’s.

I go for dishwashing tablets and pasta and end up blowing a weeks budget on things I’m sort of, kind of, maybe running low on.. and candy… and wine…

Not to trash any super market or anything but could you please … for the love of all things holy… STOP MAKING YOUR MARKETING TOYS! From angry birds to little shop to animals…. SPEND R150.00 ONLY AND GET ONE TOY ONLY AND YOU’LL SEE REAL FUCKING ANIMALS! And picking up your silly little sales pitch everywhere in every room available in my entire fucking house is forcing me to seriously consider torching the place! But thanks ’cause all I’ve ever wanted as a little girl was a tiny little milk jug to shove up my dogs ass! Newsflash! Every one still needs to eat and shit, if you want more parents to shop at your store instead of the competition. …. hand out free shots! Include a nanny! Valet a fucking car!

Anyway, I bought myself a chocolate (aka the 5 seconds of utter joy in my life), stuffed it in my mouth before the kids can finish theirs and look at me with those beedy little feed me eyes and like a good wife, hid hubbies candy in the fridge…. if he doesn’t find it in 10 hours It’s open season.

I’m cooking pasta tonight and I will gladly share my recipe in my next post.

DIY guide to not end up in the nuthouse

Let me start of with saying that I may not be completely sain… I might be thinking that I am completely sain until the point that I get shipped of to a padded white room. Granted, listening to the war that’s curently raging in the kitchen about a leapard print cup, the nuthouse sounds like an awesome get away….



Welcome to the nuthouse Mrs Smit. Here’s your room. As you can see it’s covered in white because we know that the last time you owned anything white was on your wedding day. As an added bonus we have a lovely view of absolutely no mess. We promise to keep you medicated to the point of passing out, we’ll feed you (for a change), and restrict all visits from your loved ones (aka the offspring)… fuck, if that doesn’t sound beter than a paid trip to Mauritius then thank the holy spirit we are not friends.



Don’t get me wrong. I love the boys. But sometimes I can’t help but think… Ciska you fucking idiot. Kids will probably outlive you, get a fucking dog!


… (there goes the leapard print cup, followed shortly by the “you broke my favorite cup” ((that has been hidden in a cupboard for roughly 5months and no one even noticed)),  and the “it was mine since I was a baby”….. and all I can think is that someone better be cleaning that shit or I might need to go nuclear on their asses)…


Well I’m still in my PJ’s, wishing I had some coffie and watching the time knowing that we will be late for school, again. After many wine induced conversations with my friends I’ve decided to start this blog..


Parenting is the hardest job in the entire world. It’s messy, it’s noisy, it’s all consuming and for some reason every one is so shit scared to be judged that no one is honest about the struggles we all face. It’s time to lay it all out. To show up.. tits hanging out and ready to stand up for your self. To say it as it is and screw the stupid lady next door. To call out the bitch that destroyed your husband from ever being emotional. To be brave. To admit that you loose a battle with a four year old more often than you whipe your ass after mexican food. To be silly, crazy, emtional.To be at fault. To be real… to be mom.