Tag Archives: dad

To the two daddies in my world


 

To my own daddy

My father is a man amongst men. From a young age, he has been the one person I can irrevocably rely on, the one person who has remained constant throughout the years and through life’s trials, he has remained unwavering. I know that he is capable of fixing any problem because he always does, and I know that he would bend over backwards to see that his children were ok – even now that we are all grown and have families of our own. My dad has instilled in us, from a very young age, the value of hard work, good morals and ethics and a strong desire to help other people, especially those who are less fortunate than we are. He is very decisive, none of that wish washy emotional stuff, he is practical and reasonable and always makes a lot of sense. He gives good advice all the time and I know I can take his advice straight to the bank. All the time. As a little girl, I loved having this giant who I felt safe and protected with. My dad was and is a real jokester, like his dad and my pa were before him. He has the most amazing sense of humour, and we laugh at the silliest things all the time. He is also so intelligent, he would finish the crosswords in the newspaper every night in like 40 seconds (I’m sure it was longer than that, but in my little mind I couldn’t believe how smart he was!). I used to take his socks and shoes off every evening, then we’d sit on the couch and watch the news until supper was ready. As I got older, we’d watch TV late into the night, and I was always amused at how he’d quickly change the channel if there was any kissing or inappropriate scenes not suitable for younger viewers. I love listening to his stories about his childhood in District 6 in Cape Town, and then later his experiences of Apartheid. I don’t think my dad is afraid of anything. Not even death. You know why? Not because he is a super hero (even though I think he is), but because he knows and loves the Lord. I remember sitting in the front row in church every Sunday, my parents and brothers and sister taking up the whole row. My dad was strict, lovingly strict. I remember him fetching me in his stokkies (old man slippers) from a night club one night, I was SOOO embarrassed, but I now know (15 odd years later) that he was doing it out of love. After high school, I left to au pair in America – that was the first time I saw my father cry, in fact he sobbed like a baby! We have always had this special bond, and although I’ve outgrown his knee, I know that I can crawl back to him at any time and his arms will always be open. Two years back, my dad got seriously ill, so ill we thought we were going to lose him. I felt like my world was crumbling, I don’t know what I would do without him. My hope is that he will know what an amazing job he has done at fathering us. How absolutely awesome I think he is and how deeply loved he is by not only me now, but by his grandchildren too.

To my babies daddy

Before we had children, I was never sure what kind of a father my husband would be. Although I had seen him in action with our nieces and nephews, I wasn’t sure that he was the gooey, romantic type – in fact, I now know that he isnt! But I am astounded everyday at what a wonderful father he is. I guess I can thank my mother in law for raising my hub to be a very independent self sufficient somebody. He can run our house probably better than I can. He can multitask like a mom, seriously! This weekend I watched him handle the kids’ doctor’s visit, go pick up the bag full of meds and administer the meds on time every day, down to the 5.3ml of Augmentin for Liam (I would just have winged that .3ml, you know what I mean!) There isn’t anything he can’t and won’t do for me or the kids. My friends are always amused when I say he cooks, he cleans, he packs my lunch, he dresses the kids in the morning and feeds them their breakfast, he washes dishes, he irons his own clothes when Zoleka isn’t there. He plays with and reads to his children, he takes them to the park and lets them have the TV remote to watch Mouk over and over and over again. He prays with them. Although his patience wears thin and although I often complain that he doesn’t do things MY way, he gets the job done, and done well. I most admire him because he has shown staying power – there were times when I could have packed up and left HIM with two small children – it was rough, and I don’t applaud him for staying, that’s his job and what he signed up for, I admire him because HE was the one who kept telling me how everything would be fine, how our love would keep us together. And he was right. He doesn’t care about clothes and cars, he cares that his kids have everything they need and more, that we can afford to put Liam in a good school and that he can partake in all the extra mural activities he asks for, and I know it isn’t always easy for him, but he always makes a plan. I love watching him with our kids, I love how they love him. I guess because of my own relationship with my father, I always wanted my kids to experience that fatherly love and I am so glad that God blessed me with THIS man. Thank you for being the dad and husband that you are.

I hope that you were all able to love and appreciate your daddies this Father’s Day – whether in the flesh or in spirit. Most importantly, I am grateful for my heavenly Daddy, whose love is unfathomable and forever.

Xxx R

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Door of Hope


 “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it. And He took the children in His arms, placed His hands on them and blessed them.” Mark 10: 14 – 16 (NIV)

Last Friday, I had the honour of spending some time at Door of Hope, a home for abandoned babies. It was incredibly sad and disheartening but at the same time it is a place full of love and happiness and you can’t help feeling like you’re sitting on that silver lining of an otherwise very dark cloud. Presently, there are 29 little puddings housed at Door of Hope. They range from just a few days old, to about two years old. These babies all have tragic stories; some were found in plastic bags, others were left on the side of the road, some were thrown from high rise buildings, while others still have their real moms who visit them there, but these moms can’t financially or mentally afford to keep their babies in their care. The experience left me feeling utterly grateful for my life, for my beautiful babies, for LOVE that I so often take for granted.

Door of Hope opened their doors over 10 years ago. They operate purely on donations from generous people and organisations, with lots of overseas donors. The South African government have yet to provide them with any sort of subsidy, which breaks my heart, because I’d much rather my tax contribution be funnelled through to organisations like this, than to another road upgrade that does nothing to alleviate the traffic anyway. They have dedicated staff and young volunteers from all corners of the globe, who love and care for these precious babies around the clock. Their adoption success rate is phenomenal, with 90% of their babies being adopted by foreign parents. The babies are kept on a fantastic routine of eat, sleep and play, they are happy and healthy (except for the few special needs babies who are mostly HIV infected) and they have beautifully decorated nurseries and lots of toys to keep them busy. Their caregivers spend lots of time just holding and cuddling them, and it’s easy to sense that it is a place of love and hope.

While I bottle fed and cajoled with Njabulo, a 6 month old baby boy who tugged immediately at my heart strings, I wondered which cruel mother would ever have been able to give up such a gorgeous little thing. But the truth is, these babies are victims of grave and very unfortunate circumstances. I can only imagine how desperate, how completely hopeless a mother must feel to have the strength to dispose of this baby whom she carried for 9 months. What terror and almost insanity one must experience to have the will to commit such a dastardly deed. I can, in no way, judge these mothers. I will never know the trauma that she must have endured, and probably still endures to this day, at having to give up her baby. I will never know the levels of desperation that she felt, but I do know that the mind is a powerful thing and in the midst of anxiety and depression, it is possible to make yourself believe that wrapping your baby in a plastic bag is a rational thing to do, rather than letting them live through a life of hardship and struggle. Mothers who were raped, mothers who are uneducated so they don’t know they have other options, mothers who can barely afford to feed themselves, let alone a small baby. So I can’t judge.

Door of Hope encourages mothers who feel this way, to rather leave their children in their legal care. There is a hole in the wall, lined with a soft mattress, and a weight sensor that immediately sounds the alarm, when a baby has been placed on it; the mother who left her baby remains anonymous (sad face!!!!). Or the mother can legally sign over her baby to Door of Hope and the little one is placed on the adoption list.

I cried when I left that place, I cried for those beautiful babies who wait for loving families to take them in, I cried for the volunteers who take time out of their lives to give back to the world in a positive way, I cried for the wonderful families who adopt these babies, I cried for my own children who are such a blessing and who thankfully will never have to endure that feeling of being unwanted or unloved.

I cried for myself… how wrapped up I am in my own little world, with ALL my problems. How I walk around with my head hung low, moaning about traffic and my babies who don’t sleep through the night and my husband who doesn’t pack the dishes away even though he promises to, and my helper who doesn’t clean the bathroom tiles properly and my job that demands so much from me. This is how wrapped up I am in my own problems – my problems that are minute and silly and stupid – that I fail to understand the depth of the problems other people are facing. HOW can I compare having debt that I can’t shake, to a baby who will most likely never know his birth mother? HOW can I compare a speeding fine, to a mother who has to give up her baby because she can’t afford to keep her? HOW can I compare having to eat peanut butter sandwiches for lunch for the second day in a row, to a little baby who is found on the side of the road, starving and dying?

So today, love your family for just being THERE. Look at your “problems” and have a good long think about how bad it REALLY is. Give something back. Volunteer if you can, donate what you can, pray whenever you can, for whoever you can. You see, the sooner we realise that life is bigger than just our “problems,” the sooner we really start to live.

“If you give ,you will get. Your gift will return to you in full and overflowing measure, pressed down, shaken together to make room for more, and running over. Whatever measure you use to give – large or small – will be used to measure what is given back to you.” Luke 6:38 NIV

The Terrible Two’s: A true Story


I’m not sure how it happened..  I am convinced I was with him at the time and I didn’t notice any lightning bolts, thunder, a voice from heaven or the likes? But something happened as the clock struck midnight the morning Liam turned two years old. He went to bed a sweet cherub, and woke up more like the cherub who was thrown out of heaven – if you get my drift.

I’ve always believed that the “terrible twos” was just a myth, I mean how can a child be bad for a whole year, come on now! I know a child must surely reach an age where they start exercising their independence, where they start pushing boundaries and testing the disciplinary waters, but I didn’t, in my wildest dreams, imagine that the move from infant to toddler would be more like dealing with a pre-adolescent tween, than a diapered babe still wet between the legs! The mood swings, the crying, the moaning and groaning, the meltdowns, the tantrums – it makes menopause look like a walk in the park.

I am all for allowing your child to explore this new found independence – letting him pour his own milk into his cereal, even though half of it ends up on the floor, I’m thinking of getting a cat to mop up after him. Allowing him to choose his own shoes and brush his own hair, even though we leave the house most mornings looking like a normal family with a circus clown in toe. Allowing him to choose his own meals, thank goodness his school provides a well rounded breakfast, lunch and two healthy snack options,  because as a mother, I know that Smarties and yoghurt do not constitute a healthy evening meal. Now this sounds simple enough, but you must understand that with every decision he wants to make, comes lots of crying, jumping up and down, the occasional toy thrown in my face and ME, the mother, the disciplinarian, the ruling authority, left to feel like a complete failure; frazzled at the fight I’ve just had to endure with a child who can’t even spell his own name yet. And even this I guess I could handle every so often, but this has become our lives! Nothing is simple to Liam, not even saying his prayers is simple anymore. Let me illustrate below.

 

 

Pre two years old:

Mum: Dear Jesus

Liam: Dear Jesus

Mum: Thank you for this lovely day

Liam: Thank you for this lovely day

Etc, etc.

Post two years old:

Mum: Dear Jesus

Liam: NO

Mum: Come Liam, say your prayers

Liam: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Mum: Jesus help me to be a good boy

Liam: *silence*

Mum: JESUS HELP ME TO BE A GOOD BOY

Liam: Liam IS a good boy?

Mum: *siggghhhhhh*

I’ve been told to ignore him when he behaves this way, and this is quite a safe method because no one would want to steal your screaming child in a shopping centre anyway – believe me. Still, you have to go and peel your miserable lump off the shopping centre floor eventually if you have any plans of getting your shopping done. I’ve tried reasoning with him, but this frustrates him to the point of a smack in the face (my face, not his). I’ve tried the art of distraction, which works if I am distracting him with a big fat sugary treat, but at the risk of him losing all his teeth before he is three, I’ve had to cut back on this method. The trusty wooden spoon has also lost its allure. Pre two years old, I had just to mention the wooden spoon and he’d revert to being the sweet cherub we talked about earlier. Now, he laughs scornfully when I mention the wooden spoon, probably because he knows I don’t have the guts to use it! Which brings me to the last method – the swipe across the bottom, or the rap over the knuckles – this method worked for a while, but now my soldier takes it in his stride, as if he sees it as an army stripe in the Battle of the Wills.

I’ve been told to chose my battles with my domineering two year old, and rather focus on winning the war. So as we battle along each day, I try and keep a mental score of who’s winning, hoping that I can let this particular victory slide, so that we can get through one conversation without a dramatic ending. I get shivers down my spine when I realise that as Liam learns to let this obstreperous behaviour go and grows up, I’ll be going down this road again with his little sister soon. I doubt my experience will be advantageous, as I’ve already noticed that Missy has a stroppy streak. I have no doubt that when I see their two little heads huddled together, loud giggles erupting, and little hands clapping together in delight, they are concocting a plan to see who can get mum to go grey faster.