
Once there was a little boy
He was my pride and joy
That little boy has grown
A man now fills his place –
Sweet child was mine on loan

Once there was a little boy
He was my pride and joy
That little boy has grown
A man now fills his place –
Sweet child was mine on loan
Somewhere along the way
I changed from a young child
Into a woman
And observe with melancholy
Love and sadness
As the fruits of my womb
Do the same
The plan was always to send my daughter to a girls-only school for high school. Now with my son in a mixed school, we are thinking of sending her there too. She spoke to me about it yesterday. Do I want her in a mixed school so she can find a boyfriend when she is older? I don’t think so, I told her. I want her to focus on her school-work, but the world is made up of males and females. So it is perhaps good for her to get used to boys now, instead of being separated until later. And good to get used to their smell, she replied.
Because they smell really bad, she clarified.

My son started high school today (not exactly sure of the term used elsewhere?). Here I am pictured with my baby boy who was at that time maybe 8 weeks old? Working in IT with all the stress and late nights that came with it, made new born babies seem like a walk in the park. And now he is in high school with a broken voice and taller than his mom. I’m not sure I’m ready for this next stage! Of assignments and exams and pressure and responsibility. I’ve been having flashbacks of my high school years in a convent. Are they good flashbacks, my son asked. Not the ones I’m getting, I had to admit! And life is dragging me along, ready or not.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Our House.”
The first place I can remember living in was an apartment by the name of Ivanhoe. I was four or less, for I was four in the photo at my sister’s fifth birthday party and that was taken in the house we lived in next. I remember my mother in her bedroom with a window looking out to the main road, and my sister and I were going on an aeroplane to my grandparents in Cape Town. We were to fly attended only by the airline staff and my parents were going to drive down a short while later. My father was still enlisted for compulsory military camps so every few months he had to leave and go for a camp. I remember my sister and I playing in our bedroom one evening when he returned. For some reason I can remember playing with a toy iron the night he came back. Why I remember this I have no idea!
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “I’ve Become My Parents.”
Do you ever find yourself doing something your parents used to do when you were a kid, despite the fact you hated it back then?
My mother was the nurturer and carer in my childhood home. My father was the disciplinarian, and has a short temper. I knew to behave around him and speak with respect. No back-chatting or arguing. He would not tolerate it. I am scared of men even today. I had to choose a life-partner who did not display a temper. Because my mother was soft-natured I could get away with more. And as children are, they learn boundaries and push those boundaries where they know they can. I kept to myself at home, my sister used to help prepare the evening meal and chat about her day with our mother. I would listen in, write in my journal, and focus on my schoolwork. Not really sharing much.
I thought when I grew up I would naturally be a mother like my own. But I realized quickly I am more like my father. I discipline my children. I do not tolerate disrespect. I have a shorter fuse than my husband. My husband is the nurturer. He reads the bed time stories. He tries new recipes. He is constant and calm. My mother was the rock holding our family together, and my husband is the same. I am still wrapped up in my own world, writing on my blog, or being pre-occupied with work, or fantasy-land or whatever is on my mind.
My daughter and I are on the same wavelength. She chats to me all the time. My son seems to be more like me when I was growing up. Just being there, but not sharing much. I can see that part of myself reflected in him. And I know there’s nothing I can do to change it.
Yesterday I updated a post to include a school photograph taken when I was eight. I was taken aback at the few things that stood out for me. I have written before about how unhappy I was at moving to a new school, and right before me was the evidence. It looks like I was scowling, and turned away from the camera as if I didn’t want to be there (which I didn’t).
Also, the other thing that seemed so normal to me at the time was the demographics of the class. I was brought up in the height of apartheid-era South Africa, and captured in the photograph was a testament to that. My children in Australia attend the local public school, and in their class they have children of all races.
I became especially aware of the politics of the country when I went to a convent at the age of 13, which was allowed by the State to include children of all races. My best friend turned out to be of dark skin, and we became the best of friends. This was from the year 1987, when apartheid was still strictly enforced. My friend was not allowed to catch the same bus as me. We were not allowed to have coffee in a coffee-shop together. But we looked past all that, and enjoyed the friendship that we had. It was just how it was. We are still friends today, even though I am so far away. What it taught me is that friendship is color-blind. Policies can dictate, but love overrules.
I was six turning seven when I started school. We lived in a little town an hour from the main city Johannesburg. My best friend and I had grown up together, we lived around the corner from each other and we were ‘family friends’. Her name was Angelique and we were best friends forever. Our personalities complimented each other.
In those days we used to walk in a group to school. Even from first grade, we would walk by ourselves without adult supervision. I loved my school. I loved my teacher. I had my friend Angelique and we would run amok and have as much fun as we could. I was the first child to be able to read fluently. So my teacher Mrs Van Wyk used to call on me to help with reading groups. I was really confident. And happy.
The following year my parents decided to move to the city. We left the week after my eighth birthday at the end of April. I started my new school in the middle of the term, was introduced to the class first thing on a Monday morning. I was never able to embrace the new school fully. I was always looking back.
This morning I saw a group on FB. It is a school group of my first school. They celebrated their sixtieth anniversary last year. A couple of people in the group remember Mrs Van Wyk. It seems she really was as nice as I can remember her.
And I realize we scar in our lives. And sometimes time doesn’t quite heal those scars. Even now over thirty years later I find myself looking back. I can enter into those feelings. I wish we hadn’t left. I wish my parents hadn’t removed me. From a place where I was happy and confident to a place where I never quite fitted in.