If I’m inspired I’ll hop up onto the desk and recline and be pouty.
I may even flip over onto my belly.
On stifling days, I’ll sometimes write in the nude, but there aren’t any pictures of that.
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.
Maybe 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…
I 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 self-esteem.
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 does help.
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 schools/environments.
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).
Take my hand
Come back to the land
Where everything’s ours
For a few hours…
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.
Nothing in life is without it’s opposite. Wax and wane, ebb and flow, peaks and troughs. No joy without pain, expansion without contraction, light without dark. In South Africa, even in relatively settled times, those last two poles can feel very close together.
When we first moved back six years ago I struggled with the disparities. At the time, I wrote this:
The short stretch of road on my daily school run is like a microcosm of life here, where wealth and desperate poverty coexist. Moments after you pass an exclusive gated community cosseting the privileged minority, you’re left contemplating life behind the high walls of one of the country’s most notorious prisons.
Possibly as a coping mechanism, I’ve become an ostrich, my head buried deep in the sand. And like most people in our privileged pocket of suburbia, we’ll have our noses to the grindstone, building our life, when we hear of a tragedy that makes us despair.
After the senseless killings of Meghan Cremer and Uyinene Mrwetyana, who was raped and murdered in a post office, fear and outrage have reached a crescendo.
My news feed is awash not only with despair over the escalating violence against women, but there also seems to be a spike in the stay or go debate. It feels like people are leaving the country en masse. Political instability is one thing, but crime is usually the straw that breaks the camels back for those sitting on the fence.
We haven’t for a second regretted moving back home. Our hearts are here. But something that strikes me as South Africans grapple with what to do is how we attack each other’s decisions.
Anyone who writes about their love for this country (the lifestyle, the natural beauty, the strength and resilience of its people) gets lambasted by those who don’t. South Africans abroad, or those wanting to leave, are not great ambassadors for our country. Leaving can be heart-breaking, so it helps to have reasons to justify your decision, and there are reasons aplenty.
Usually, those writing about whether to stay or go are the ones with the freedom to actually leave, which just serves to alienate those who desperately want to go, but can’t. And so rather than have each other’s backs, we resort to mudslinging and the debate becomes quite divisive.
It is a fraught issue, but it’s one that plays out in a tiny percentage of South African households—the same households that can (partly at least) immunise themselves against crime and corruption and poor service delivery. Those most affected by the country’s travails have precious few choices.
I don’t know what it’s like to have my life ripped apart by a violent crime. But like most South Africans, I know someone, a lifelong friend, who does. Not long ago, on a sublimely beautiful spring morning, we spent time together drinking tea on her patio.
We spoke about renovations and gardens, we oohed and aahed over her new yellow pot, and we laughed about some of the things our children had done. But we also spoke about how she was coping after her attack and why bad things happen to good people. We wondered why some people are born into abject poverty and some experience the worst of humanity, while others are surrounded by love and good fortune.
How do we make peace with the darkness in the world and not let it swallow us? Do we block it out? Do we wrestle it?
‘Gratitude,’ my friend said to me.
Her life took a very dark turn, and she says the person she was before died on the day she was nearly murdered. But on this sunny morning, over a soul restoring pot of tea, this woman with an indomitable spirit reminded herself, and me, that there is always somebody worse off, so we need to be thankful for all we have.
‘It’s what all the great teachers say,’ she told me.
‘We can’t dwell on the despair. It just adds to the darkness. We need to be grateful so we can find the joy in life. It’s our joy that adds to the light.’