When I think about living in Cape Town, my mind automatically wanders through the endless stream of coffee shops that anchor me here. It’s the life in these places that make me feel most at home, especially on those days I long to be somewhere else.
— Elizabeth Stone
That’s the quote that came up in my head as I dropped my almost 3-year old daughter off at school on Friday morning. I lingered in the parking lot, watching her make her way across the playground. She seemed strong and confident, already secure in who she is. It made me so proud and happy.
But just like all parents do sometimes, I looked right through that exterior to the fragile vulnerability of innocence and childhood within. And it hurt like hell, because I know that one day a boy will break her heart and all I will be able to do is sit in her room with her and listen. I will gently try to guide her through the pain, not around it. And then I will have to leave her so that she can find her own strength and confidence again.
I will continue to feel her heartache, though. It’s my heart, after all.
I haven’t written here for a long time. The main reason is that I’ve been spending a lot of time trying to build up my other blog, Elezea. I enjoy that, but I also miss the personal outlet that this blog gives me. So I think I’ll try to come back and write here every once in a while.
The biggest change is that I’ve migrated my Wordpress blog to Tumblr, since it means I won’t feel bad about posting shorter thoughts, links, videos, etc. I lost all the comments from the old blog, but hey, cleaning out is good for the soul, right?
Oh, and since this is Tumblr… here, have an animated gif of a happy pig:
It’s 7:43am and my phone rings. I don’t need to look at the phone to know it’s my wife, and I know it’s not going to be a good call. She left early to stand in line at the Department of Home Affairs to apply for permanent residency as an American married to a South African citizen. It is our second attempt to get the paperwork accepted.
She is in tears. They’re not accepting a copy of her police clearance, despite a letter from the South African Consulate in Los Angeles explicitly stating that they have seen the original and they can verify its contents. The guy who is going through her documentation is not being helpful. He is impatient and downright rude to her.
I try to think of a solution. Will they start the paperwork and we can give them the original police clearance later on? I hear muffled objections in the background as my wife asks him.
“No,” she manages to say through deep, frustrated breaths. I want to reach through the phone and punch the guy in the face. I am ashamed to send my wife into this bottomless pit of stale bureaucracy. I tell her to come home - we’ll figure it out. We’ll get the original copy from the FBI in Washington, even though that will take at least 3 months.
At 8:30 I open the gate for our domestic worker. Her name is Aretha, and she is a real-life angel. She lives in Gugulethu and she has four kids. She works full time, she volunteers at her church, and she helps out at an orphanage nearby. Then, in her spare time, she chaperones every one of her daughter’s school events, and she runs a business selling Tupperware. Every week she walks into our house with a smile, asks us how we’re doing, and then she hangs up her coat in the pantry and gets to work. She never complains. About anything. I don’t understand it.
At 8:40 I try to get our almost 2-year old daughter in the car to go to the Waterfront Aquarium. It’s not easy. She has now realised that Mama isn’t here, and she is not happy. With all the spirit she can muster she “explains” to me how unhappy she is with the situation. I plead and promise. Somewhere between multiple references to “Nemo” and “Puppet show” I get the car started and we’re on our way. She calms down as we drive out of the neighbourhood. She likes looking outside. The pensive look I see in the rear-view mirror is one of the few things she inherited from me. I’m glad she looks like her mother.
I drive down the R27 on a crisp autumn day. Table Mountain sits right in front of me in the middle of a giant cloud, like it’s being protected from something. It’s beautiful. I stare at it as I try to get our Hyundai Atos above the 80 km/h mark. I miss the Rav4 we had when we lived in America. And I think about this blog post.
Homecoming Revolution asked me to write a follow-up to my Homecoming Thoughts post from a year ago, and I am at a loss. That post generated a lot of comments, and I’m worried because I know if I write down how I really feel many of those commenters will come back and say, “I told you so.” And the question that’s been on my mind for weeks hits me again: Why did we move back?
Meanwhile my wife is at the Milnerton Police Department getting her fingerprints done. She walks in and asks someone where to go; she explains that she is applying for permanent residency in South Africa. “Why would you want to do that?”, the woman asks, perplexed. “I’m married to a South African and we live here now,” she says. The woman shrugs and points my wife in the right direction.
I miss America. I miss the openness of the people, the need to debate everything and anything just because you can. I miss ubiquitous, fast, cheap Internet. I miss Target and customer service that actually provides service. I miss cheap everything, actually (well, with the exception of wine). I miss the vastness of it all, I miss the way the talent in Silicon Valley almost makes you smarter by osmoses. I miss live music. I miss not having an electric fence that malfunctions and wakes us up in the middle of the night. I’m like a poster child for whitewhine.com.
My daughter and I spend all morning at the Aquarium. I’m silently glad we never took her to the Monterey Bay Aquarium - it’s just not a fair comparison. When I get home my wife and I hold a mini strategy session. We lay out our plans for getting around the inefficiencies that stare us in the face every day. We take a break because our daughter is obsessed with the moon right now, and she needs us to “check that way” if maybe it came out during her nap.
At 2:07pm my wife takes our daughter to the park, and I head off to Melissa’s Food Shop for a Flat White and some reading time. On the way I’m reminded that tomorrow is trash day. Countless people are outside going through trash cans, eating what hasn’t gone bad yet, storing anything of value for later use. I sit in the sun at Melissa’s, I listen to the Afrikaans conversations around me, and catch glimpses of the Blouberg beach. I’m confused.
At 4:37pm I drive Aretha to the taxi stop at Bayside Mall. She is smiling. She is always smiling. She asks about my time with Aralyn this morning, she asks about my parents. She remembers that my dad turned 70 recently and she asks me how he’s doing. I try to answer through the lump in my throat. For the second time today, I am ashamed. Ashamed for my privileged whining. Ashamed that I can be so discontent in the midst of the enormous blessings I live in every day. I watch Aretha head off into the crowd to find a taxi for her long commute home. And I am ashamed.
All the reasons we gave for moving back to South Africa are still true. The potential of this place is staggering. It’s beautiful beyond measure. But sometimes it is So. Damn. Frustrating. But maybe that’s ok. Because it’s not about an easy life, it’s about a meaningful life.
I mentioned before that we moved here to write a new story for our lives. A story with conflict, because that’s what all great stories are made of. Now that we’re getting what we asked for it might not be fun all the time, but it doesn’t make it a wrong decision. It just makes it the life we chose, and the life we’re determined to live well. We’re here to stay, and all we can do is whine a little less and use our enormous privilege to give back to our community with every possible opportunity we have.
Because that’s what it means to love a country as much as I love mine.
Our daughter recently turned one, which, sure, is a big accomplishment for her. But let’s be honest, she didn’t have a whole lot to do with that accomplishment. I really think the first birthday is all about the parents. Every single birthday from now on can be about her, but I claim this one for us. Well done, us. We made it to toddlerhood.
I just scanned through some of the posts I’ve written over the past 18 months or so since we found out Jess was pregnant. It feels like a lifetime ago. I stopped writing for a while when things got really rough (that’s a story for another post), and then I started again, and then I started writing about other things. But today I want to write about 5 things I’ve learned about parenting during this first year. Which, based on #1, you might want to ignore completely. But let’s do it anyway.
I’ve learned that the Internet is the worst possible place to go for parenting advice. And within that vast expanse of bad advice, Facebook stands apart in its ability to make you feel like a complete failure as a parent.
Every parent has an opinion on sleep training, what to do with runny noses, how important vaccinations are, whether TV makes your child smart or dumb, how safe humidifiers are, what food you should give your baby… the list is endless. And the problem with Facebook is, you know these people. They are your friends. So you’re supposed to trust them, right? And if you hear advice that is different from someone else’s advice, as you inevitably will, you feel like someone’s going to judge you for what you do, because these people are your friends.
The reality is this. Every child is different. Every parent is different. But it goes beyond that — every child/parent combination is different. This means that there are endless permutations of child/parent relationships, and each combination requires something completely unique: your instinct. No one knows what is best — least of all you as the parent. But you know what feels right. And that is what you have to trust.
Sure, there are some questions that are innocent enough, like what the best nappy is for sleeping in. But for the most part, if I ever give you parenting advice, please ignore it and just follow your instincts.
Speaking of advice, the worst piece of advice I ever heard goes something like this:
Don’t let the baby set the agenda for your household. They are joining your family, not the other way around. They can fit into your schedule.
Simply. Not. True. The needs of the baby come first, and that means that your needs are a very distant second. I’m not saying this is a bad thing, just that if you expect to go on as if nothing happened, you’re in for a big surprise.
Say what you will about the movie Marley & Me, but I think it is one of the most realistic movies about parenting ever made. This quote sums up my point perfectly:
I just got overwhelmed. No one tells you how hard this is all gonna be.
Which part?
All of it: Marriage, being a parent. It’s the hardest job in the world and nobody prepares you for that. Nobody tells you how much you have to give up. I feel like they do tell you, but you don’t listen… or you think, ‘Ah, they’re just miserable.’ I’ve given up so much of what made me who I am. But I can’t say that because… I’m a very bad person if I say that. But I feel it. I really do. I feel it sometimes. I just want you to know that.
I do know that. And you can say it. I say it.
But I did make a choice. I made a choice, and even if it’s harder than I thought… I don’t regret it. ‘Cause it kinda has like a… ‘there’s no place like home’ feeling to it. I just think these things are gonna happen and we’re gonna get through them. And we’ll just do it together.
Realistic expectations are extremely important. You are giving up your life for something amazing and magical, but don’t be under the illusion that things won’t change — they will.
When I started writing about parenting, I had this grandiose dream of becoming the male version of Heather Armstrong, blogging my way through things and inspiring people along the way. I don’t have this dream any more, because nothing has humbled me so much about my own abilities like parenting has.
I can now change a nappy, get my daughter dressed in the morning, get her from point A to B using various forms of transport, including but not limited to our car and a hot pink tricycle. I can read her stories and encourage her enthusiastically when she takes a few steps. I can teach her about Jimi Hendrix and Miles Davis, and hopefully one day about Coldplay and Bon Iver and The Album Leaf. I can play guitar for her, give her kisses, and tell her I love her. I can now even put her to bed without much of a hassle.
But I still feel like I don’t know anything. And I have a suspicion that I will always feel like that. It is not necessarily a bad thing though, because it keeps me on my toes. It makes me think about how I interact with her, how my actions will influence hers, how everything I do can teach her in some small way to be honest, honorable, and passionate about everything she does. I don’t know anything, but I’m ok with that. Because I think like most of us, I can use a daily dose of humility.
As bad as Facebook is for parenting advice, it is a fantastic place for community. If we’re friends on Facebook and you have kids, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. From the “Hello again, 3am” status updates to the “Hooray, the diarrhea stopped” ones, as soon as you say a word about parenting, we know what you mean. And nothing encourages you like knowing you are not alone.
The parenting tribe has sustained us through many difficult nights and days, so to you I say: thank you. And keep posting.
I have long since given up my shyness about asking people for help. Even if their offers seem insincere at the time - it’s their fault, right?
“Hey, let me know if you ever need a babysitter to come and…”
“Can you come Friday night?”
This parenting thing is not meant to be done alone, so don’t even try. Ask for people to help with lifts, food, babysitting, cleaning, laundry, old toys, old clothes, new nappies, whatever. People want to help, and we need to give them the opportunity to do so.
Over the course of the past year or so, three things that people said to me about parenting has stuck with me:
There is a little bit of truth in all those statements. But when my daughter runs into my arms, and I think about the past year and all the ups and downs, the one I keep coming back to is this. It’s a tough job. But I love it.
As I pull up to Mabu Vinyl in Cape Town, the first thing I notice is the businesses around it. A locksmith, an iPod repair shop (and yes, of course it’s called iFix), and a second-hand furniture store. Oh, and OutlawDVD. Cape Town’s Premium Adult DVD Superstore. Which makes me wonder how many Adult DVD Superstores Cape Town has in the first place… But I digress. In short, it’s not the best part of town. Actually, I take that back. It’s a short, less-than-savory street in the middle of what is a really nice part of Cape Town with plenty of coffee shops and boutique clothing stores, etc. It’s one of the many reasons Cape Town reminds me of San Francisco so much — it’s a great place until you turn the wrong corner.
Luckily, I must have arrived towards the tail-end of the 5 minutes. Because within 3 minutes, a young guy appears, dressed as if he’s just been to a Jimmy Eat World concert. I didn’t need to ask if he works at Mabu, it’s already written on his “I love sad music and that’s why I work at an indie music store” face. I immediately like him, too. I can tell this is going to be great.
Inside, Mabu Vinyl looks and smells like an authentic second-hand store should. It’s stacked to the ceiling with used VHS tapes, random posters, loose CD’s, second hand books, and of course, vinyl records. It’s all about the vinyl. As it should be. It’s dark, it’s moody… it’s perfect.
The selection at Mabu Vinyl is about what I’d expect based on what I know people listened to here in the 80s and 90s. There is lots to explore, but it’s unfortunately mostly not my taste. The thing is that it is virtually impossible to find new vinyl in South Africa. It’s just too expensive to import, and it appears that the bug hasn’t bitten enough people to have enough demand for it. So finding any vinyl post early 90s is a bit of a mission.
I will keep looking, though. For now, I will have to adjust my demand to the supply, until stores like Mabu make enough money out of vinyl to start importing all the great new stuff that’s coming out on the format.
A couple recently walked by me and gave each other a spontaneous high five. My first thought was that we really don’t see enough of that. They were pushing a baby in a stroller, he said something, they laughed, and in one synchronous movement they shared this high five as if they were the only two people in the world. It stopped me dead in my tracks. The Wikipedia definition of the high five is pretty dry, but it’s a good place to start:
The high five is a celebratory hand gesture that occurs when two people simultaneously raise one hand, about head high, and push, slide or slap the flat of their palm and hand against the palm and flat hand of their partnerYou wouldn’t think that such a thing would be open to controversy, but apparently the origin of the high five is a bit of hotly contested history. The most credible story is that it started in US baseball in the 70s, but of course there’s some basketball player who says he executed the first high five in the 60s. But I guess the origin or meaning is not that important. What is important is, why was this couple high five-ing? What did he say to her to elicit that response? As a new dad myself, I feel like it had to be something about the baby. Probably something like “Look, she just fell asleep!” or “Did you see her poop isn’t yellow any more?” What’s also important is why this struck me as so odd. It shouldn’t. Walking through a mall should expose us to one giant high five circus. Maybe I find it odd because when we’re knee deep in parenting, we tend to not have the time or the inclination to look up long enough to see the high five-able moments. Maybe it’s because, as I wrote earlier, we forget that life is staggering. Or maybe it’s because we lower the bar too much to save us from disappointment — or as Frank Chimero put it (much more eloquently than I ever could):
When does the magic of a situation fade? When do we get acclimated to the exceptional? Is this how we get by? Would anything get done if we were constantly gobsmacked? Is this how we survive, how we stay sane? We define a pattern, no matter how exceptional, and acclimate ourselves to it?I guess what I’m trying to say is, we need to high five each other more. Couples, especially, need to find those moments of celebration. Because things can get pretty bleak if you don’t raise your hands every once in a while. So, here you go, a gift from me to you: ^5. You’re welcome.
It’s been just over a year since my wife and I decided to move from San Francisco to Cape Town. Since then we had a baby, I changed jobs, and we systematically packed up our lives and moved here in March this year. When we first started planning the move, we agreed on one thing: it’s going to be difficult as hell, but it is a story we have to live. What I kept saying to Jess was this: The next year is not going to be easy. It’s too much change, and too much uncertainty, too quickly. But we needed to remember that a year down the road it was going to be September in Cape Town. It would be Spring, and we’d wake up to a sunrise over Table Mountain, and we’d suddenly be ok. Last night our almost-1-year-old slept through the night, something she’s done maybe 10 nights since she was born. This morning I went for a run on the Sea Point Promenade and witnessed that sunrise over Table Mountain. I had a perfect cappuccino at Origin. And then I got an SMS from my wife to say that our daughter cut her 7th tooth. Also, someone I respect unfollowed me on Twitter, but you know, in the bigger scheme of things that’s probably ok. So yes, I’d say that we’re home now, and that everything is going to be all right. I have written before about how instrumental Donald Miller was to us during our moving process, and today I was reminded again of this quote from A Thousand Miles to a Thousand Years:
We get robbed of the glory of life because we aren’t capable of remembering how we got here. When you are born, you wake slowly to everything. Your brain doesn’t stop growing until you turn twenty-six, so from birth to twenty-six, God is slowly turning the lights on, and you’re groggy and pointing at things saying circle! and blue! and car! and then sex! and job! and health care! The experience is so slow you could easily come to believe life isn’t that big of a deal, that life isn’t staggering. What I’m saying is I think life is staggering and we’re just used to it. We all are like spoiled children no longer impressed with the gifts we’re given — it’s just another sunset, just another rainstorm moving in over the mountain, just another child being born, just another funeral.So, hey. Let’s allow ourselves to be awed every once in a while, ok?
The ultimate blog post to defend the use of vuvuzelas at World Cup matches has already been written, but based on the constant Twitter and Facebook onslaught I am getting about this, I really have to say a couple of things about it too. First, consider the lead-up to this tournament. Think about the endless mockery of FIFA’s choice, the stream of articles on how South Africa does not have the ability or infrastructure to host an event of this scale. And most recently, the ridiculous reports in the British press of machete wars and who knows what else. We just sucked it up, and quietly went about our preparations. And now, here we are, in some of the most beautiful stadiums the world has ever seen, at a tournament that is running smoothly. Reporters on the ground are talking about the “sustained display of pure joy” by South Africans in hosting and enjoying this event. There are the constant great reviews of our hospitality and friendliness. So instead of fighting about inefficiency or bad logistics at matches, we’re fighting about vuvuzelas? Ok, we’re fighting about vuvuzelas. So come, let us reason together. This whole debate eventually boils down to one simple question: What responsibility does a host nation of an event have towards foreign visitors to the event? That really is it. If you look at the arguments on both sides, that is what it comes down to.
