It could be my husband’s farming genes that rubbed off on me, or perhaps it was a decade of living in smoggy, congested cities that did it, but a few years ago I planted a veggie garden. At the time I knew nothing about growing and googled things like:
What does a garlic plant look like? How do you grow something from seed? Do pineapples grow on trees?
I was, in a word, botanically illiterate.
Just as my baby fig tree was getting it’s first leaves and the kale seedlings were pushing through, the fierce Cape Town drought hit and, without a wellpoint or borehole, my fledgling plants withered and died within weeks, which broke my heart. But I learnt a whole lot about composting and mulching and propagating, and fell totally in love with growing things.
My garden became my happy place.
Now, it’s not the sort of garden that’ll be featured in House & Garden any time soon. You know the ones— sweeping, ornamental, dramatic, breathtaking in their beauty.
Out here in the deep south we get lashed by the south easter which rids the air of every trace of moisture—plants have to fight to stay upright and things are a little parched.
Our garden, a compact space where we experiment and often fail, needs to be robust and resilient. What we stick in the ground can’t be too thirsty or fiddly & fussy. Delicate roses will wilt. Pansies and petunias—far too naff.
In these parts, it’s the hardy succulents and fynbos that thrive.
Writers are often encouraged to write about the things they’re scared to write about. That’s where the meaty stuff lies; the fears and frailties that make us human. When we peel back the layers and show our true selves, it gives others permission to do the same and we can all breathe a little easier. We realise we’re all in it together and are, as Ram Dass so beautifully put it, ‘just walking each other home.’
The meaty stuff is the important stuff, but so too is the light and the frivolous, and these days, whenever I sit down to write, it’s plants I want to write about. They are just so very beautiful.
I can’t wait to tell you about how we transformed our dull lawn into a characterful higgledy piggledy patch of fynbos and aloes, about why I love the grubby mess that is composting, and why I’m nuts about succulents.
Meantime it’s a brand new decade. Happy New Year! May 2020 be planty, abundant, packed with growth, with as much sunshine as there is rain.
Mark Twain famously said that travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness.
It skyrockets us out
of our comfort zone and makes us realise that in a great big world, our way of
being is just one tiny way.
I long prided myself on being a traveller. Until a year or two ago, I couldn’t go a few months without cabin fever setting in. Usually I’d hop on a plane, but a short road trip out of town would suffice. Travel and momentum had always been in my DNA. It started, perhaps, with long car trips to and from boarding school since the age of 6. And was cemented by a deep restlessness in my young adult life, to see the world, and make sense of who I was relative to the rest of humanity.
I prided myself not
just on being a traveller, but an intrepid, gritty one. I worked hard at
ticking off the list of experiences any good backpacker worth their salt ought
to have had:
A severe case of Delhi belly. Ripped off by a carpet trader in Goa. Backpack stolen off an overnight train somewhere in Eastern Europe (my girlfriend and I were also, as an aside, flashed twice in the space of 24 hours in Prague, and both times the flasher treated himself to a happy ending). I woke with a crick in my neck after a night spent on a slab of rock on Mount Sinai. Spent 3 days sailing down the Nile on a felucca, hopping overboard to wash, hoping not to be taken under by a Nile croc. I strolled the Champs-Elysees with my fiancé. Hiked the Great Wall of China. Spent the night on a bench in Heathrow so I could catch the red-eye flight.
But can I come right
out and say that I’m a little over travelling and I really just want to stay
put. Not absolutely put. Just a little bit put. The thought of far-flung
destinations that involve airports and long haul flights and stopovers piques
my anxiety rather than my wanderlust.
Can I blame my kids?
Old age crankiness?
I still adore the idea of travel, it’s just that I’ve
become quite lousy at it. I get thrown by the inevitable curveballs, and I like
to be assured of a good nights sleep. Travel can be arresting and confronting,
and hence, quite exhausting.
What thrills me now is
chucking a few bags in the boot of the car and finding a spot close to home.
Preferably a beach, but in the Cape we’re terribly spoilt and have mountains
and rivers and winelands. Few places are as astoundingly beautiful and diverse
as South Africa; there is so much wonder on our doorstep.
I love the idea of
discovering a local gem, then returning to it again and again, to experience it
in a different light, a different season, a different mood. To discover the
rhythm of a place that is not your home but has come to feel comfortingly
familiar through the holiday rituals that become part of each trip you make.
the bug will bite again. Hopefully—as I want my boys to see the world. And
there are still places on my bucket list! Walking the Camino de Santiago,
Buenos Aires, a retreat at a remote monastery. I used to dream of packing my
boys into a caravan and road-tripping across the States, a country I haven’t
seen much of…
just need to reconnect with my inner wanderer. I know she’s in there, she’s
just taking a sabbatical, and she shan’t be rushed.
When Caro was pregnant with her daughter Evie, she imagined, like most of us do, a fairly typical trajectory—sleep woes, toddler tantrums, playdates, netball matches, mainstream schools.
But when Evie was 4 she enrolled in a mainstream school and within days
it was clear it wasn’t the right fit for her. Spirited and life-loving, Evie,
who has severe ADHD, is one of the kindest, most empathetic 7 year olds you’ll
meet. But parenting a ‘neurodivergent’ child in a world that caters to ‘neurotypical’
children has been a journey of highs and lows for her parents.
So many areas are implicated in an ADHD brain—those that affect
emotions, analysis and judgement, the parts which relay and interrupt
information, and, crucially, those responsible for ‘feel good’ feelings and
Basically, messages in the brain are not reaching their destination
before being inundated with the next wave of information. Being bombarded in
this way makes it hard for kids to learn impulse control, to be alert, remember
things, organise their thoughts, or coordinate their bodies and movements.
Many kids like Evie go on to do remarkable things as they’re able to come at things from different angles (Albert Einstein had both ADHD and Asperger’s Syndrome). Our modern world needs these out-the-box creative souls who’re not bound by conventional thinking. Greta Thunberg comes to mind. She believes her Asperger’s has helped her focus on her environmental crusade.
Still, as Caro’s beautiful insights reveal, parenting neurodiverse kids can be an exhausting and humbling journey. Here, in her words, is some of what she’s learnt:
‘When you tell people your child is special needs, they want a label or an explanation of exactly what is wrong with her, especially when, to the untrained eye, she appears to be a regular little girl. But ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Distorder), like Autism, occurs along a spectrum, and each case is unique. Plus it’s so layered and seldom occurs in isolation. There is a lot of co-morbidity—meaning a child with ADHD will likely also have anxiety, lack of self-esteem, low muscle tone and a host of other issues.
There’s such a huge sense of guilt when you have a special needs child.
You question if it was something you did. Was it because you fed them colourants
or gave them too much sugar, or is it because you didn’t breastfeed? But the
guilt doesn’t achieve anything.
Things like gluten, food colourants and sugar don’t cause ADHD. It can
be caused by multiple things. It’s partly genetic (usually inherited from the
father’s side, or from a tapestry of genes from past generations). Environmental
factors can play a part too (for example, if there’s severe trauma in utero).
There’s a tsunami of kids being diagnosed with ADHD and you hear parents
say that teachers are drugging kids because they want to control their class. I
used to be the judgiest judge about drugging your children, but the medication
Ironically, Ritalin (or any cousin of it such as Concerta or Nucon) are
all stimulants. This seems so ironic considering a lot of ADHD children seem to
need anything other than a stimulant! Ritalin helps messages in the brain to be
received more clearly and without as much interference or noise.
ADHD has been around for a very long time. I remember a teacher who used
to tie children who couldn’t sit still to their chairs, or tape their mouths
shut when they talked too much. And children who really battled were put into
the ‘slow class’ or removed completely and put into severely special needs
One of the hardest things about having a very regular looking and
seeming child is that people think the reason for her poor social skills such
as nagging or clumsiness is merely a lack of discipline. The reality is, she
really can’t help it most of the time and, when you parent a child with these
challenges you know all too well how damaging certain lines of discipline can
be. They have more damaging effects on their self-esteem than actually
achieving any ‘good behaviour’.
In this day and age, with the helicopter parent stigma, it’s all too
easy to be judged as an indulgent parent who gives in to her child. There’ve
been times when I’ve succumbed to the fear of being judged in social settings
and have actually shouted at or reprimanded my daughter for things I knew she
did out of a lack of control.
Later in the day she might come to me, sobbing, and apologise for being
a ‘dumb child’. This is heart-breaking. Not only is it a label I have never
uttered but it’s so far from the truth, and reveals to me the depth of shame
and difficulty she experiences when she knows things have happened that she
didn’t want to happen. It makes me feel extremely ashamed as I know better, and
I have to be her number one champion, her main support.
So it can be a lonely journey. It’s a shame thing, you’re embarrassed that your child is behaving differently and because she is not overtly any different, like someone with Downs Syndrome, people point and stare.
It is of course the biggest irony that having spent most of my life
desperately trying to fly under the radar as far out of any public scrutiny as
possible, I am raising a child who has forced me into the limelight, and not
always in a very easy way. I always wanted to fit in come hell or high water,
so having Evie happened for a reason.
When she was younger, I used to be hung up on mainstream schools, but
not anymore. Only 8% of kids learn the way they teach in mainstream schools.
Education is such a dinosaur, and these kids are teaching us that the system
needs to change. The entire world has changed, so why do we feel bad when our
children can’t function in ‘normal’ schools.
If she goes to a mainstream school, she goes. If she doesn’t, she
doesn’t. We all just want to raise a kid who is kind, caring and empathetic.
That’s the ultimate goal.
As mothers we come under such a magnifying glass. If you’re sensitive to
judgement, it’s a minefield out there.
So what would’ve made the journey easier? Support, support, support.
It’s easy to isolate yourself because it’s an ever-changing journey.
We’ve found a bit of a community with families in the same situation. Still,
it’s hard because Evie is highly social and she craves interaction but she
doesn’t have many friends. The classes at her special needs school are so small
and each kid has their own issues. Other kids who’re not at school with her
have their own circle of friends and it can be hard to break into that. It’s
only natural to take the path of least resistance, to gravitate towards people
who are in a similar stage to you, so I understand that.
And I can’t expect friends to help as we don’t parent in a village
anymore, and everybody is so busy themselves.
Because things are always changing there are always decisions to make. Like recently I’ve been looking for a nanny. It has to be someone very specific who can relate to Evie and be patient and compassionate and not end up reprimanding and shaming her.
It’s such an all-consuming job. There are the pressures of the modern world generally but, a child like Evie requires additional support and has endless other appointments to add to the list of things—physio, speech, eye, OT (and with this of course goes the mounting cost of things).
You can never fully relax or take your foot off the accelerator. You
have to constantly ensure your child is ok and receiving the best support for
her growth and development.
So there’s often not much time to engage with her on the level where we can just be. Sometimes, if there are no scheduled appointments, I can get anxious, as without structure she can be demanding and exhausting, and it’s always very messy. Because of her spatial awareness she breaks things and knocks things over. Time with her can be very inconsistent, and you never know how it’s going to go.
Evie presented with severe Hyperactivity from an early age, so we’ve
been on this journey a long time now. Some children who present more of the
Attention Deficit side can often go unnoticed for years.
Over the years, you find your team and your support crew who genuinely
care for and want to help your child. Ultimately, just like everyone else, you
want your child to become a fully functioning member of society who believes in
herself, has friends and a purpose they can believe in.
One of the big lessons for me is that a mother always knows. And when you know something, don’t be ashamed to talk about it. Don’t doubt yourself, or spend thousands of Rands getting assessments. It just delays the inevitable. Go with your gut and speak to people you know who are on the journey. Friends and word of mouth were actually more helpful than trawling through lists of potential professionals who could help.
I sometimes see kids who are struggling, and I can see the parents don’t
want to deal with it. There’s no point denying it, because in talking about it,
you free yourself. There is no shame in being a parent raising a child with
struggles. All parents go through phases of angst and fear. For us, it’s these
formative years. For someone else it might be a child with a drug problem later
on in life.
I believe life is a journey of growth and evolvement and rather than focus on the ‘shoulds’ I’ve learnt to embrace the now and the heartache, and to continually remind myself that we will always get through whatever we are going through. There is always learning and, somewhere in it all, joy and love. And aside from all the challenges and heartache, our child has brought us more joy, delight, humour and inspiration than could ever be imagined. She is so bright, perceptive, empathetic and she has a heart filled with pure kindness, determination and love.’
My hubby is a clever clogs who knows stuff about numbers and spreadsheets, but his actual area of expertise (apart from knowing every Seinfeld line ever spoken) is song lyrics. I don’t know if he listens extra carefully to songs or is just good at surmising what the singer is likely saying. Either way, it’s a special talent.
This morning, in a spot of procrastination, and to save some money on hiring a painter, I decided to repaint our outdoor furniture myself. Cue overalls and loud music. I was in the mood for Eighties so for the first time in decades listened to the cult classic 101.
It was a proper, paint-splashed step back in time.
And step aside Bono, Martin Gore is a genius lyricist. His words are timeless and resonate as much today (perhaps more?) as when they were written. Hubby wasn’t around to recite the full lyrics to me, but google was:
Everything counts in large amounts The grabbing hands Grab all they can All for themselves after all It’s a competitive world Everything counts in large amounts (*I’m not sure what was meant in the line about Korea, but a good lyricist needs to be a bit cryptic).
Stripped Take my hand Come back to the land Where everything’s ours For a few hours… Metropolis Has nothing on this You’re breathing in fumes I taste when we kiss…. Let me see you make decisions Without your television
People are people People are people so why should it be You and I should get along so awfully… Now you’re punching and you’re kicking And you’re shouting at me I’m relying on your common decency So far it hasn’t surfaced But I’m sure it exists It just takes a while to travel From your head to your fist I can’t understand What makes a man Hate another man Help me understand
Profound, right? Written for our times?
Profoundity aside, few things cheer me up as much as botched song lyrics. I can dine out on it for years.
Two of my faves (from friends of friends):
Shivers in my foolish pride (Je ne sais pas pourquoi)
I like the mogen pogen (I like to move it move it)
I couldn’t think of any more real life examples so I googled ‘misquoted song lyrics’ and actually ROTFWL. These are too good:
There’s a bathroom on the right (There’s a bad moon on the rise)
Don’t go, Jason Waterfalls (Don’t go chasin’ waterfalls)
Hold me closer, Tony Danza (Hold me closer, tiny dancer)
And I’m sorry—my best:
I blow bubbles when you are not here (My world crumbles when you are not near)
If these don’t cheer you up immensely you may be dead inside. It’s a cruel crazy world so sometimes you gotta grasp onto the little things. Like cuddles with your kids. A dip in the ocean. A steaming cuppa. Botched song lyrics. And this jar of gooseberry jam. Made by me, with gooseberries grown in our garden, and picked by my son.