"Follow my adventures as I try to juggle motherhood, ongoing domestic dramas, my startup skin care company - Meld Labs - and my long-gone independence. Add frequent travel to the mix and there is never a dull moment."
I just realized that its been over 6 months since I last wrote a post. I wish I could give you a valid, rational, justified reason for my uselessness. But let's be honest, very little of what I do these days is valid, rational or justified. That's what happens when you hang out all day with three-year-olds. And just to clarify, the cursing at the idiot driver in the school parking lot this morning was totally valid and justified and rational - the lives of children were hanging in the balance. And my coffee almost spilled which is tantamount to the same thing.
So what have I been up to over the past few months? Well we, in reality it was me (sotto voce of course), have been renovating our house. And ridding it of all signs of hookers and human sacrifice. And painting and planting and killing (only weeds although I've been tempted to widen the list). Coming to think of it though, there was a squirrel death. We have a Staffordshire terrier called Coco. I don't write about her much because she is sweet and kind and quiet and, just between us, kinda ugly.
But we love her desperately because I think she was Mother Theresa in a past life. Except when she sees squirrels, then her crazy alter ego comes out. I wonder if Mother Theresa had the same thing? Only with her it was probably rats - have you seen the size of rats in a slum? Anyway, Coco has been chasing squirrels her whole life and she's never caught one. Until now. She got one... kinda. Somehow she managed to paralyse its back legs. And it was still able to move (drag) itself incredibly fast, all things considered. Coco was horrified. In true Mother Theresa form, she skulked under the bed to self flagellate herself. Molly, the basset, on the other hand was not as holy (no surprises there). The paralysed squirrel awakened a blood lust until now undocumented in her breed. It was like something out of an alien movie - all drool and teeth and growling and cursing (me, not her). And in its terror the poor squirrel dragged itself into the neighbor's yard. All I wanted to do was put it out of its misery. And I had to decide whether to follow it onto the (as yet un-introduced) neighbor's lawn and kill it with the shovel (no judgement okay). Can you imagine if they looked out of their window and spotted me killing a paralysed squirrel with a shovel on their lawn? Not great for neighbor relations!
And then there was Christmas. Which was fun. And made even funner by my hero Micah, who saved Christmas for kids across the universe. Apparently, and who am I to argue, one of Santa's reindeer was attacked by a grizzly bear and was up to his elbows (do reindeer have elbows?) in a workplace injury lawsuit. Thankfully, Micah has a herd of dinosaurs that he keeps on an island near Catalina. One of them is reindeer-sized so Micah volunteered him to pull the sled. So if you thought you heard the shuffle of little dinosaur claws on your roof on Christmas eve, you did. No need to cut down on your eggnog consumption.
What else can I tell you? I (not "we", I hate it when people do that. You don't see the father puking into the toilet 50 times a day) are still trying to get pregnant. After hundreds of visits to the doctor, nearly all of which were as a result of my conviction that I had cancer of some kind, I have been diagnosed with unexplained secondary infertility. Which is a fancy way for saying that the doctors have no freaking idea why I'm not getting pregnant. And I know I should be grateful for what we have. My son has a herd of dinosaurs for heaven's sakes - it doesn't get cooler than that. Except that I get really sad every night when we sit down for dinner because it feels like someone is missing. You know how some Catholics set an extra place at the table for the souls of the dead. Kinda like that, only not. And I know that makes me an ungrateful, horrible, squirrel-killing, irrational person. But there you have it, I am what I am. Which just goes to show... you can live with Mother Theresa and Santa's helper and still want more. Maybe my next kid will manage the Easter bunny? You just never know...
So you know all about our teeth-pullingly, excruciatingly slow house search? We saw bats, squatters, donkeys, flood zones, fire damage and, of course, rabbit hutches. Oh, and don't forget the Catholic cult house, complete with glass-walled bedrooms (for innocent Catholic viewing pleasure, of course), and a 10ft Jesus on the cross inlayed on the hallway floor. Here's my question... is there a person that specializes in creating marble inlays of Jesus, complete with all the blood and dragging intestines? And if so, are they as dark and weird as I'd expect? This is just screaming for a documentary. Just saying.
Anyway, in amongst all that weirdness, we found our house. And don't get me wrong, it has its own share of weirdness. At our price point, that's inevitable. The previous owners were DIY builders, so there are home-made rooms tacked onto the side of the house. And sheds randomly built throughout the yard. And dark brown paint all over the walls. But you know what, underneath that "independent spirit" is a truly great house. And no, its not huge. But its got a great layout and we kinda like it. I'm reserving any declarations of love until we're sure there are no bones in the yard. I don't think anyone was ever sacrificed or murdered on the property (which in my mind are the same things, but the Catholic cult might argue the semantics). But you never know. We've already found 6 pairs of lacy lingerie strewn in the bushes, so there is a possibility it may have housed a hooker or 2. Either that, or maybe the elderly previous owners were a bit more frisky than we thought. I'm hoping for the latter, for obvious reasons. Even if the mental images will scar me for life.
Here are some pics. Prior to the renovations, which are ongoing, and almost as excruciating as the house search.
We moved in last weekend and the tiles were still in boxes and the paint still wet. Which is just the perfect scenario with a 3-year-old and a drooling, shedding basset hound. I'm opening a bottle of wine just thinking about it #involuntaryshudder. But things are starting to look up. Nobody is dead (that we know of), and the house is definitely looking better than it did when we bought it. But we're nowhere near the end of the renovation. So here's some free insider trading advice - buy Bevmo shares now. Because I have a feeling that my wine consumption is only going to increase over the upcoming weeks. The way I see it, its a mental illness prevention drug. And drugs are good, right? This is America after all.
Are you sitting down? After renting for years and years, we have finally decided to buy a house. And, phewmungus, its stressful! Not just because we're selling our souls to a mortgage company (we haven't got much left anyway after the credit card companies took their share). But mainly because we're no longer going to be the carefree gypsies we've always been. Okay, I must be honest. I'm about as far from a gypsy as you can get. I hate small, enclosed spaces, I detest billowing floral skirts and I'm about as carefree as, well, Mr Obama himself. But I am a wanderer. I have never lived in one house for more than 4 years. I've traveled all over the world, and for the last few years I've dragged my family with me. In 2 years, Micah has visited 8 countries and 5 states. And he's loved it.
But now we've decided to buy a house and settle down (gulp). It just makes sense since the real estate market is up shit creek depressed and we're getting older more responsible and we're thinking of having another kid expanding our family again. See, I am capable of rational, objective decision-making. Mum would be proud.
And of course, buying a house involves looking at a LOT of houses. Something I didn't think about when I signed up for the job. Not because I don't enjoy house hunting - what's not to like about snooping through weird people's houses and figuring out what makes them tick? One dude was into bondage (ribbons on the bed post) catholic guilt (pic of Jesus on the cross over the bed) and eating (100 boxes of Kraft mac & cheese in his closet on the shelf... in the bedroom). Seriously? The potential scenarios are just mind-blowing. I mean why was Jesus there? To keep an eye on the eating or the bondage?
But what makes house hunting really hard is dragging a 3 year old along for the ride. Because, let's face it, its boring for kids. And because 3 year olds have more pent up anger than a teenager on crack. And because they're 3, and sometimes that's enough in itself.
Until we saw a run-down hell-hole of a house with collapsing walls and cockroaches and bats (I swear). And Micah fell in love. Not with the bats, thank god. But with the feces-infested rabbit hutch outside. There was no rabbit (it was probably scared to death by the cockroach-eating bat), but Micah was convinced there would be one day. When we bought the house. And got him a rabbit. And the rabbit's name would be Jack. And he'd be brown. End of story. No negotiation. That. Was. That. He flat-out refused to look at any more houses. Why bother when you've already found your dream home?
And I'm not falling into the trap of buying him a rabbit (when we eventually do find something bat-free in our price range). Firstly because pets are a lot of work - we already have a basset hound who's more admin than Lady Gaga and Britney Spears combined. Secondly because I'd end up doing all the abovementioned work. Thirdly becuase our other dog likes to kill chase small animals. And lastly because rabbits are the freaks of the animal kingdom. Those little needle-claws are just waiting to gouge out your eyes and their deceptively bony bodies remind me of something out of the exorcist. Laugh all you want, but its true. Did you not see Donnie Darko? It was practically a documentary.
So the house hunt continues. And we're paying for a babysitter each time (add that to the mortgage payment). And Micah is convinced I'm going to buy him a rabbit each time I leave. "You fetch Jack? You fetch Jack?" he says with big, wide excited eyes. Somehow a 13-hour plane ride doesn't seem so bad any more.
Maybe I'm more gypsy than I thought.
This is why I don't want another pet. Molly basset hound is a full time job already! And yes, that's mud. And yes, it did end up all over my kitchen.
I'm a career girl at heart. There I said it, phew. I tried to do the full-time mom thing, I really did. I immersed myself in the beauty of my newborn baby. I snuggled, swaddled, nursed and cooed. All the stuff that's supposed to come naturally to women. And it lasted exactly 3 months. THREE MONTHS. I know that seems like a really short time, but to me it was a frickin' eternity (granted, I was awake for most of it). Of course I loved Micah. Desperately. But I craved mental stimulation - I'd had a career for so long, it was impossible for me to quit cold turkey.
So I decided to start a skin care company, something I could control and manage on my terms. I imagined myself tapping peacefully on my computer while my son hummed quietly on the mat with his cars. Which is partly true, except that the cars are being thrown at me (with force). And there is bloodcurdling screaming (from him) and the dog is eating the couch so there is more bloodcurdling screaming (from me). And the phone is ringing. And Dora is singing. And the smoke alarm is going off because I forgot the fish sticks in the oven. And somehow I send an email to the patent attorney. I think. Or did I send it to the babysitter instead? Did the TV just blow up? Who knows? Wine... I need wine!
For some (naive) reason I thought I'd be equally good in both worlds. I thought motherhood was something all women were good at. That I just needed some practice. But now, 3 years later, I can honestly say that's horse-crap. I'm still far better at work than I am at parenthood. My friends say that's because parenthood is so much harder, but its not true. At the end of the day some people are good moms, and others are good bosses. That's just how it is. All you can do is keep trying to get better, even if that means you'll never be great. I guess there's a major learning for my Type-A personality there somewhere. Mental note to explore this at 3pm tomorrow....
And now I'm stuck with the decision on whether to have another baby. And its a weird thing. Because my head says I'm crazy. Where will I find the time? How can I keep track of 2 kids when 1 has me stupefied? How many times can I set the oven on fire before it blows up? How little sleep does a woman need before she self-combusts? I looked on Google, and apparently you can go around 28 days without sleep before you drop dead. Good to know.
And then my heart says its the right thing to do. That I'll regret it if I don't. That things will all work out. The universe will provide. Ok, I don't think my heart said that last bit, but I read it on Pinterest and it sounded great. Plus my clock is ticking, and if there is one thing I hate more than anything, its the feeling that I might miss out on something, even if that something is a really bad idea. Which has gotten me into some sticky situations in the past, most involving law inforcement, stern warnings and begging them not to tell my parents.
But I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be able to talk my way out of this decision.
So what do I do? If this was a business issue, I'd go to an expert for advice. Someone that's got way more experience than me and expects a fancy lunch in return. But I don't think a free lunch is gonna cut it this time. Something tells me that there is no right or wrong answer. Which is yet another reason I'm not a great mom, I look for right and wrong where it doesn't exist.
Something tells me that my heart might win on this one though. Not becuase I'm soft hearted or emotional. But becuase Micah asked me for a sister the other day. And he promised her he'd feed her every day. Just like the dogs.
I just hope she won't eat out couch. That might be a dealbreaker.
I should start this post by explaining that I just finished reading the most brilliant book, The Fault in Our Stars by John Green. For those that haven't read it, it's all about young love and teenagers that die too soon and broken-hearted parents who lose their lovestruck kids to cancer. And there's some great poetry thrown in too, just for good measure. Which sounds kinda sad and sucky. Except its not because the characters are totally kick-ass and smart and sarky. Kinda like Juno, but more hugable. Basically the kind of kids I dream my son will be one day. Naturally I sobbed my eyeballs clean out of their sockets. But the cool type of sobbing, the right kind. The kind that reminds you you're alive. Which sometimes you forget when you've had 12 hours sleep in the past week and meetings with the preschool and a business to run and a tantrumming toddler and visitors staying back-to-back for 3 months.
And then this morning I got the most brain piercing headache ever. The kind where you pray that your grey matter will explode out your ears, just to alleviate the pressure in your skull. I've had migraines since I was a teenager so this is nothing new. But today I was convinced I had a brain tumor. And that I was going to drop dead on the floor of Trader Joes (this is an unfortunate side effect of reading books about cancer). And my first thought was "I hope I don't pee myself in front of everyone". And my second thought was that my son would grow up without a mother. And then I was kind of reassured that I had my blog because at least Micah could read it and feel close to me. And then all I could think was that my blog is full of bitching and moaning about how exhausting it is to be a mother. About how much I need more sleep, or miss my shoes, or am dying of boredom. And then I had the worst thought of all - what if he thinks I don't love him?
So I vowed that if I survived the headache (you know me, never one to underplay the dramatic), I'd write a post about how much I really and truly love my son. A sad, soppy, sappy, cheesy, nauseatingly gushing post about how he's everything in my life. So that if I ever drop dead, he could read it and know how I feel without a shadow of a doubt. Except now that I've sat down to write, I just can't do it. The problem is, I don't know how to do gushing. And I'm missing the gene for soppy. Plus, I like to think he'll love that I'm sarky and kickass and smart. And that he'll hate the hallmark channel as much as I do.
So Micah, here is what I will say. I love you. I love that you make your own way in life. That you live in a magical land of your own creation. I love that you move ants off the path so they won't get stepped on. I love that you're shy with people and brave with life. That no slide is too high, no wave too big, no skateboard too fast. And that you question everything, even if it drives me barmy some days.
Your dad and I are thinking about whether you should have a brother or sister. And I'm terrified. A little because I don't know if I can handle it. And a little because I don't think its possible to love anyone as much as you. But mostly because I don't think my heart can handle the weight. I feel like it will shatter into a million pieces if I have to share it all over again.
I really hope I get to live another 60 years. I want to show you the streets of Harajuku and the mountains of KwaZulu Natal. And I when you're older I want to teach you to curse. Properly. And how to make milk tart. And how totally cool it is to be kickass. That tattoos and graffiti can bring beauty to places that don't believe it exists. And how important it is to be smart. Not grade-smart. But streetsmart, lifesmart. And I want to show you the honor of callouses on your hands. And of giving to others. And teach you to love fearlessly. If all I do in my life is give you the gift of fearless love, I will be happy. At the end of the day, what else is there?
So here's the thing. I made a conscious decision years ago never to talk about anything contentious in my blog. Not because I don't have opinions abut these things. Ohhhhhhhh no, believe me I do. But because I try to avoid right-wing nut-jobs as much as possible. And (for reasons I still can't get my head around), nothing unearths the nut-jobs quite like an opinionated liberal mommy blogger. And since I spent the first 18 years of my life surrounded by angry right-wingers in apartheid South Africa, I try my damnedest to avoid them these days.
So that's meant I've had to bite my tongue about religion, abortion, breastfeeding, politics, co-sleeping, marijuana and, of course, gay rights. But today I'm breaking my rule. I had a fantastic night's sleep last night and I'm feeling strong. So I think I can take on the right-wingers, religious zealots and even a few nut-jobs thrown in for good measure.
So here goes. Gay marriage is not a social issue. Social issues are things like poverty, obesity, homelessness or abuse. These are real issues that we should all be thinking about and working to fix. Gay marriage is just 2 people that love each other and want to spend the rest of their lives together. End of story. I don't understand why everybody makes such a big deal about it.
As Clint Eastwood so aptly said, "These people who are making a big deal about gay marriage? I don't give a fuck about who wants to get married to anybody else! Why not?! We're making a big deal out of things we shouldn't be making a deal out of ... Just give everybody the chance to have the life they want."
Frankly, I'm bored by the whole thing. Just let gay people get married so we can focus on the real problems. And most importantly so gay people can too. Because they are some of the smartest, richest and most connected people I know. If anyone can help fix America, gay people can. And right now all that collective gay wealth and brainpower is focused on gay rights when it could be fighting homelessness, poverty, abuse and joblessness.
So stop wingeing and crying about the downfall of America. Let gay people get married. And then let's all work together to make America better.
Okay, that's the end of my rant. Oh, and one last thing. Don't use the "what do I tell my children when 2 men get married?" excuse. Here's what you say; "when 2 people love eachother, they get married". I guarantee your kids will accept that and move on. Will you?
I survived halloween. Just. I'm so over the stores screaming about it, my sugared-up 2-year-old whining about it and my neighbor's creepy lawn-zombies moaning about it until all hours. I thought the neighbors were getting "down and dirty" the first time I heard the noise from over their fence. They're originally from the midwest (the neighbors, not the zombies) and they go to church and they can tell the difference between skunky smells and horse manure. And Kelly drives a pick up truck with a picture of tinkerbell holding a hunting rifle on the back. So the next morning I winked at her with that knowing, "you lucky minx... you go girl" look. Then after a few days I realized that the sounds were from the gore-drenched zombies in their yard. And that Kelly probably thought I was hitting on her. And that I'm 99% sure she owns a hunting rifle. Happy Halloween. Not.
I'm from South Africa, and we moved to California 4 years ago. So I'm a bit of a Halloween novice since we don't celebrate the holiday there (that's my story and I'm sticking to it). But Micah is 2 now so I thought I should make some kind of effort to include him in the pure Americanness of the whole thing. So we went to the pumpkin patch and he chose a pumpkin that weighed more than he did and I almost did my back in carrying it to the car (cue previous back injury posts). Then he threw a fit because I wouldn't let him drive home with it on his lap. Apparently "his legs are big and strong. No get squashed". Cute. "Just like mummy's". Hmm.
Then we rolled the damn thing into the house and I explained to Micah how we were going to carve it. I even showed him my 12 inch forged chefs knife (take that Kelly) and his useless kiddy pumpkin carver that he'd been nagging me to play with for 4 days. Then he lost it. I thought he was going to have apoplexy. "NO NO NO NO NO NO CARVE MUMMY. WE COOK IT!" Seriously? Cook it? No, I explained. We carve the pumpkin. "NO NO NO NO NO. WE COOK". Guess who won that argument? Suffice to say I now have pumpkin soup, pumpkin bread and pumpkin pie coming out the ying yang. And I'm a terrible cook, so the soup is bitter, the bread is like a rock and the pie is in pieces because it stuck to the freakin' pie tin. Thanks a lot Martha Stewart. I hate you.
But the weird thing is, I've never understood the concept of carving pumpkins either. I come from a country where there are people starving. The idea of carving food into pretty shapes and leaving it on your porch to rot seems wrong to me. So I gotta say, part of me loves my son's adamance to make the pumpkin into something useful. Pity he has me as a mother though. I don't think even starving people would eat that soup. I guess I could always throw it over the fence? Nothing sends the message that "I'm just not that into you" better than a gallon of bitter soup and a couple of burnt rock-breads!
I'm pretty busy. I think that's the topic for every freaking post I write and I'm so bored by the whole thing, wah wah wah. As my mom would say, "I'm flogging a dead horse". Which is an old English saying meaning I should change the subject already (mental note... never use that saying ever again. It's awful).
The long and the short of it is that I'm tired of being tired. I'm tired of talking about being tired. And I'm tired of wishing I wasn't tired. So I'm on a quest to simplify my life. And the first step in the revolution of my life is a list. Nothing new there. I don't know whether I've mentioned this before, but I secretly love lists. Not because I like to be organized (I don't). Or because I like to plan (where's the fun in that). Nope, I like lists because I like to cross things off. Tick and move on. I'm an over-achiever, type-A, get-it-done kind of gal, so a list helps me feel like I'm conquering my life. Like I'm moving in the right direction. Hell, like I'm moving in any kind of direction, as long as I'm moving.
So I wrote a list of all the things I hate. The things I'd give my left arm never to add to a list again.
And I realized that if I became a hippie, I wouldn't have to do any of them. I could drift around the house happliy all day with fuzzy legs and crazy hair. In rumpled clothes and flip flops. In soft hemp outfits and questionable underwear. And I'd never cook again. I'd throw some seeds and an apple on a plate and that would be dinner. I'd be late for everything and forget stuff and drive badly. All the things I already do. Except now I'd have an excuse. I'd be on a quest for higher consciouness and the rejection of the superficiality of the modern world. Who could argue with that? Genius!
I could feed my son granola for every meal. And live in a tent in the summer (how awesome is that?). And forget to enrol him in preschool. And forget my husband's colleague's names. And wear mis-matched socks and get chickens. Ok, on second thoughts, scrap the chickens - they are stinky and early and loud. But we could find friends with chickens. And get an old camper van and make our own wine.
I'm really excited about this. Can you tell?
I'm not sure how I'm going to avoid the accounts issue though. While on one hand it's totally un-hippie to do accounts and visit a bank - yay, let's scatter flower petals from the sky. On the other I have an irrational fear, bordering on phobia some would say, of the IRS. And something tells me they don't look kindly on hippies. How do I stay friends (huggie, smoochy, BFF's) with the IRS, and embrace hippie-dom at the same time? Is it even possible? Can hippies and the IRS ever be "one"? Is there a way to broker peace between the two? I'm on a quest to find out... I'll let you know!
This is what I'm going to look like. All zen and peaceful and young.
Except I'll probably mess it up and end up looking like this. And if I do, I'll blame the IRS!
And in the spirit of changing the world, check out the new video we recently made for our skin care product, Fei'd (pronounced "fade"). Join us and help spread the love. You won't have to shave your legs, I promise!
I'm the queen of multitasking. Okay, maybe not the queen. But definitely a princess. In a cool Kate Middleton kind of way. Except I'm not as pretty as Kate. So I guess that makes me more like Beatrice and Eugenie (eeew... cold shiver)!
I live my life in complete and utter chaos. My house is a mess, I can't cook and I haven't ironed anything in 9 months. But I do juggle my own business, I'm a full-time mom and I have 2 dogs (one of which is an arthritic basset hound which is more work than a kid any day). So quite frankly, clutter isn't too high on my priority list.
But the balls came crashing down this week. C-R-A-S-H-I-N-G down. It seems that I developed a juggling injury - my lower back went into spasm in a way that I never thought possible. I couldn't walk. I couldn't get out of bed. I couldn't eat (okay I could, but for once I didn't feel like it). And I even needed help going to the bathroom. For the princess of multitasking, it was a serious wakeup call. If I'd known this was a possible career side effect, I might not have been quite so ambitious.
Here's proof of my injury. Thank God for acupuncture. And yes, that's my fat ass. And yes, that is the sound of me screaming. And yes, it sucked. It sucked big time. But hopefully my ass has shrunk. Both from the needles and from my lack of eating. Because I'm going on vacation next week and I don't think any of my bikinis fit anymore. See, I'm trying to look at the bright side. At the end of the day I still have my amazing husband and incredible son. And pain meds. Man, I love my pain meds!
Sorry about the recent blog silence, but I have been a way for a few weeks. I went back to South Africa to visit the children's homes my company supports, and to find a few more organizations to help. And what a worthwhile trip it was.
As always, I arrived with a clear list of "business" objectives (ever practical me... can anyone say OCD?):
And yes, all this was achieved... tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
But the trip ended up being about way more than just that. It was about spending time with regular, happy, jumpy kids. Kids that are no different from my son here in the US. Kids that love making funny faces and eating marshmallows and reading books and playing dress-up. And that is why I keep going back to visit them, time and time again. Yes, I need to make sure that our donations are ending up where they are supposed to. And that the kids are getting the care they need. And that we are sending them items that that are really useful. But mostly it's just to spend time with the children.
Because when it's all said and done, I'm a mom. Not necessarily the best mom in the world, but I'm a mom none the less. And if I know one thing, it's that all moms are on a quest to make the world a happier place. We can't help it, the second we squeeze out our first child (or in my case the second he is dragged out kicking and screaming with a ventouse suction thingy), we just want the world to be pink and fuzzy and happy and brimming with love. And of course it's not - far from it. But that doesn't stop us from trying. And when I go back to spend a day at a children's home 10,000 miles away, I get happy and pink and fuzzy. And joyous. And I feel grateful. I feel like I've helped make the world a better place for my son, just a little bit.
In fact, I'm tearing up right now just thinking about it. Sorry. I know this blog is supposed to be funny. You're supposed to leave this page feeling reassured that you're not the only imperfect parent. Or person. That I'm just blundering my way through life and trying not to lose it along the way. And don't worry, I'm still the queen of blunder. I stupidly booked my flights on the cheapest airline and was surrounded by people eating curry out of home-tupperwares for 42 hours. I left my sneakers in South Africa and had to travel all the way back in stilettos. And I packed stilettos because my vertically-challenged husband wasn't traveling with me and I wanted to look tall and sophisticated when I saw my friends (vanity, thy name is woman).
And now I'm back home. And the reality of everyday routine has hit me. So I'm trying to keep busy. And sane. And send big hugs to the kids so many miles away. I love you guys!
PS: Big thanks to Chris Geils for the amazing photos. To donate to the children's homes, visit www.homefromhome.org.za/