Lost & Found

I like Christmas. I’m not even going to beat around the bush. I love Christmas. Since I was a very small girl, I’ve always been spoiled immensely by my entire family over Christmas. Sure, as I’ve grown up, I’ve learnt that Christmas is definitely not about the gifts under the tree. It’s not about ripping through the paper in a haze of excitement. It’s not even about “celebrating Jesus’ birth”, as Jesus wasn’t born in December (apparently). It’s about family and that special sticky glue that binds us together. Love. Fellowship. Being thankful.

Having said that, I remember a Christmas a few years back where Adam went through great lengths to disguise the box which my gift came in, and when I started opening this elusive treasure, I nearly passed out I was so excited. A Carrol Boyes recipe book stand for my kitchen. The man knows me so well.

Then we had kids, and Christmas took on a whole new meaning altogether. No longer was it about what we wanted to give one another, but we could barely wait to give Eli’s 133 gifts to him and it was our Tori’s first Christmas too. It also helped that this past Christmas was the first year Eli was really excited about Christmas. We were even more excited for him. To see the look on his face as he opened his first gift was priceless. And then he got so stuck on that first gift – something which he had wanted for such a long time – that he showed little to no interest in his other gifts. Kids. We, the sulky parents, kept some gifts aside for him to open on Boxing Day and went to bed mumbling, consoling one another, “He was just overwhelmed and tired”.

And then there were my gifts. Once again, I was spoiled so much. Like when I was a little girl. Adam pulled out every single stop, and he outdid me at Christmas. I felt like crying, while he simply said I deserved to be spoiled. In short, he “out-Maryke’d Maryke”. One particular gift from my husband really stood out above the rest – a beautiful pair of vintage-looking earrings. They are so me. They are exquisite, the shine they cast reflecting and bouncing across the room and I couldn’t stop looking at them. The man knows me so well.

Of course I wore my new earrings to our Christmas lunch, which my mom had booked months in advance for us. We decided to go for a buffet lunch instead of slaving in front of the stove for days. I made a delicious roast beef on Christmas Eve, so this was just an extension of our feast.

And then life happened. The Grinch stole Christmas…in my heart.

The lunch booking was an absolute disaster. Not only did the restaurant decide to put an almost 100% mark-up on the buffet, but the food looked atrocious. Far from the feast I has imagined, I could feel my heart sinking in my shoes. This was not the Christmas I had in mind. My bottom lip started trembling. Adam and I then decided to walk around the mall to see if any other restaurants were open. We were hopeful, and “lucky”. What we found was an open McDonalds, Chicken Licken and Cape Town Fish Market. Oh, the options! We phoned my parents (who were still sitting at the buffet restaurant, waiting for some news from us) and we asked if Cape Town Fish Market wasn’t perhaps a better option. Sure, it sucked, but we were desperately trying to make the best out of a really sucky situation.

We’re all finally sitting at a table at Cape Town Fish Market, when I try to console myself by touching my gorgeous earrings, a reminder of how special I was feeling that morning. And one is missing. I can only feel one earring and I can literally feel the panic rising up in me. Adam looks at me and asks, “What’s the matter” and I can only manage tears. What a horrible Christmas indeed.

So my dad and I decide to retrace my steps in hope that we might find The Missing Earring. We walk around the mall a few times, I’m wiping the tears away angrily, cursing under my breath how unfair life is and how this was the worst Christmas I had ever had. And that didn’t help me to find The Missing Earring, either.

Back at the table, the mood is sombre. We order our food begrudgingly (sushi doesn’t exactly scream “Christmas”) and Adam decides to do some of his own Sherlock Holmes-ing. He stays away and then he stays away some more. Then he’s back. His pokerface giving me zero hope – ah well, kudos to him for trying.

And then he dangles it in front of my face.

Christmas redeemed and my heart feeling a 100 times better. My husband saved Christmas. I immediately tuck both earrings in my purse and vow to put some proper butterflies on them lest one should ever leave me again.

Fast forward about a month down the line. Adam and I decide to go and watch a very late movie, which means both kids would be asleep and my parents would only have to listen for a cry here and there, but they generally sleep right through. Adam and I sneak back into the house at about 1am and it’s dark and quiet. We get undressed and into our pyjamas by the romantic light that is the cell phone hue as to not wake anybody up. I take The Beloved Earrings off and place them on the dressing table and get into bed.

The following day, around noon, Adam tells me, “You know only one of your earrings are on the dressing table?” Impossible. I know for a fact that I had made a point of placing both earrings on the dressing table. Together. I rush to where I know I put them. And lo and behold, the same bloody earring is missing. I am absolutely devastated, but also very cross because I know for a fact that I had taken extra special measures to ensure that I keep both earrings together.

Enter prime suspect number one.

“Eli, did you take one of mommy’s earrings?”

“Yes.”

And that’s that. He runs away without an explanation. All of us gently try and coax little bits of information out of him, which only leads us on a wild witch hunt and my mother turning out her cutlery drawer in the kitchen. Nada.

I try to go for a run that afternoon, but my heart is feeling so incredibly heavy. I barely manage 1km when I stand next to the side of the road and sob into Adam’s chest. Why did this have to happen again? What was the purpose of this? Why is God punishing me? Sure, it was only an earring, but after it was found on Christmas, its value increased by at least three zeros.

Two more weeks go by and I have almost forgotten about The Missing Earring again. Adam I went to the jeweller where he purchased it initially, and unfortunately we are unable to order just one other earring, but “what about turning the remaining earring into a necklace?” Next please.

It’s Valentine’s Day and Adam and I prepare for a 10km Valentine’s Night Race – my first 10km since the birth of Tori and something awesome to do together. We scurry to get enough safety pins together between the two of us to pin our numbers to the front of our shirts. Adam says he knows where there might be some more.

“Babe, where is your earring?” he asks.

“You mean the remaining one? It’s here, in my jewellery box.”

And then he dangles it in front of my face.

Valentine’s Day redeemed, even though it wasn’t even bad to start off with. Eli (yes, I still think he did it) placed (hid) one of my earrings in the shaving bag Adam uses to put all his running odds and ends in. That would have been the last place I would have ever looked.

Needless to say, I haven’t been overly keen to wear my (now) R5 million earrings too often. What if I was to lose one again? Surely my heart won’t be able to handle another case of lost and found…

And that brings me to my final point. No matter how we get beaten around in life – or how lost we feel, how far we stray from God – we are never really lost. God knows where we are in our lives, and he will leave thousands behind to come and find one lost sheep. He says so in his word (Matthew 18v11-13 - "For the Son of Man has come to save that which was lost. What do you think? If any man has a hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine on the mountains and go and search for the one that is straying? If it turns out that he finds it, truly I say to you, he rejoices over it more than over the ninety-nine which have not gone astray.”)

Just like that one earring is of immeasurable value to me, even more than the complete set, we are of immeasurable value to God. He will not relent till we are safe and sound and back where we belong. With Him.

I once was lost, but now I’m found.

Amazing Grace.

The Story of Her: The Girl with the Hair

I’ve been writing and rewriting this post in my head since the moment I first held her close to my naked chest almost six months ago, my heart pounding and singing in my ears. I have been mincing my words between my fingers – like the most fragrant mix of spices you’ve ever smelled – and yet no combination of words ever seemed to work just right. No words have seemed adequate enough to describe what happened to me, to us as a little family, the day we met her. Tori Eve. The Girl with the Hair.

Before I tell you about the 29^th of August 2013, I want to go back (briefly) to the 19^th of April 2011 – the day he arrived. Eli Hunter. It was hands down one of the best days of my life as I stared down into his big eyes, his small body drowning in his red dinosaur baby grow, and I just knew without a shadow of a doubt that this little boy is going to teach me everything I thought I knew about life. The good and the bad. He was going to expose me – my strengths and my weaknesses. After all, he made me a mother.



The day Eli met Tori. And vice versa. Pure magic.

But sadly his birth wasn’t the magical affair I had dreamt about for 9 months. Quite the contrary. I felt robbed and I honestly felt butchered. Misguided. Absolutely devastated. There’s a huge gap in the show reel of “Eli’s Birth”. A few pieces of the puzzle are completely missing and the only people who really know what happened in that theatre, what his first cry sounded like, are the people who were present (I was there, but I was under general anaesthetic). An uncaring doctor and some nursing staff. People who are of no consequence to my son.

Now let’s go back to Tori’s birth. I’ve had 2 years and 4 months to prepare myself both mentally and physically for the onslaught. Of course my guard was up since the moment I found out I was pregnant with Tori, but only because I knew I would fight tooth and nail to have a different birth experience. And I did.

Needless to say, I changed gynaecologists and went to a wonderful and well-respected doctor with whom we had walked a very tough road after I had lost a baby in 2012. He knew me and I knew he was a good man. Plus, I love his sense of humour. I can clearly remember the day I told him that I am not going to opt for an elective Cesarean (the obvious choice after a previous C-section), but rather a VBAC (Vaginal Birth after Cesarean) delivery. He raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise, but hardly looked up from where he was busy making notes. I knew I probably went against the grain of everything that he believed in, being a very traditional and Orthodox Jewish man in his late 60s/early 70s. But kudos to him for not once trying to talk me out of my decision in the 9 month road I walked with him, or for trying to use the silly scare tactics that so many doctors use to get their way. I have nothing but the utmost respect for him.

The months rolled by and Tori was growing beautifully – I couldn’t have asked for a healthier pregnancy. She was so gentle on me. I felt fabulous. I felt the glow that everyone was talking about. By the 6^th month, Tori was lying in the anterior position with her head down and I felt such a sense of satisfaction – my clever girl was doing exactly what I expected her to. At every appointment with the gynae, I almost had to “remind” him that we were planning for a VBAC and then he would almost remember all over again. I put this down to the forgetfulness that comes with old age. He did mention a few times that Tori was probably going to be a “big baby” (about 3.5kgs), but I just smiled and nodded because I knew from doing extensive (and borderline obsessive) research that having a big baby is not a good enough reason to have a repeat c-section.

Come the final month of my pregnancy (August), everything was still on track for my VBAC. Tori was still in position and I was feeling huge. But even my discomfort wasn’t enough of a reason to deter me from the original plan. My Dr “provisionally” booked the theatre for a c-section should we need it, as he said it’s better to plan for the unseen and we could always cancel the theatre. 14 August – "Not C-Section Day" in my mind - came and gone. My response: she’ll come when she’s ready.

Twelve more days went by, which equals about three years in late-pregnancy terms, and still no sign of Tori. I was over 40 weeks pregnant and my patience was really wearing thin. “Good thing it’s a due date and not an expiration date,” I told myself. I saw my Dr on Monday the 26^th of August and he was just as shocked as the rest of the world that I was still pregnant, as he had really thought that she would be here already. He was willing to let me walk till the 29^th, but not a day later. 41 weeks was his cut-off point, as no good would come from going longer. If she didn’t come in the next 3 days, I needed to be at the hospital on Thursday for an induction.

Induction. That dreaded word. The reason Eli’s birth turned out the way it did. I went home and cried a bit. I spoke softly to Tori. I prayed that she would come out of her own and that we could avoid an induction. I went for a session of intense reflexology to help the labour process along. I walked (OK, waddled) kilometres around the block. I prayed some more. Nothing. So I found peace in my heart, packed my last few things, had some sushi and frozen yogurt with my adoring husband the night before and I went home and waited the last few hours out.

It’s August the 29^th. We drive to the hospital while it’s still dark. I am excited and nervous, but mostly I feel ready. I remember praying that I could still have a natural delivery, and all I heard was God saying to me, “Your daughter is being born today. Let’s dance.” That last phrase spoke to the very depths of my soul and told me that it was a day of celebration, and that nothing else really matters. I had already won the battle.

I won’t bore you with all the details of the next 14 (yes, 14) hours that was my labour, but let’s just say it was intense and slow. And curiously satisfying. Empowering, even. My Dr popped in every now and again, always cracking jokes and laughing, but other than that I was left in the capable hands of Nurse Dumi, my doula Zaheda and my Adam. Time didn’t matter to anybody. I walked around. I squatted. I bounced on the ball. I cried. I swore. I got foot and back rubs. Things were happening…things were really happening. And when things slowed down and I got really despondent, I was put on a Pitocin drip (to help speed things along). But not once did anybody mention the dreaded c-word.

Around the 5cm dilated mark, I couldn’t take the pain anymore and I opted for an epidural. Life-changing stuff that! Immediately, my whole demeanour changed and I went from feeling like a rabid animal, to a relaxed and calm state of mind. I quickly dilated from 5cm to 8cm while talking to Adam, smiling, fixing my hair and even redoing my makeup - and this after I had been ready to give up a few hours earlier because I couldn’t handle the pain any longer. Everyone was just about ready for the action to start happening – I was merely minutes away from being wheeled into the delivery room to meet Tori.

And then all my contractions stopped dead. Tori’s heart rate started dropping. The Dr examined me and what I saw on his face was bad news. My labour was literally regressing – I was back to being 6cm dilated. He went from being this happy-go-lucky Dr, to the Professional we had placed our lives in the hands of. I needed to have a Cesarean. No questions asked and no hesitations. I was so extremely disappointed, but so was my Dr. He just kept on saying, “I’m so, so sorry”. And that’s when I knew this was the right thing to do. This was the key, differentiating moment. Peace washed over me as Adam and I and even the doula wiped our tears away. Everyone was praising me for how incredibly brave I had been, and I knew it wasn’t just words. I had tried my heart out. I felt it.

Moments before Tori was born.

 

“Your daughter is being born today. Let’s dance.”

And there she was. At first a muffled, and then a resounding cry. The art of being born. The most electric and defining moment of my life. Witnessing the birth of my daughter in the present tense.

I rotated this picture so that you can see Tori's face. This picture takes my breath away.

All I remember was the Dr commenting on how incredibly tangled Tori was in her umbilical cord – it was properly wrapped around her torso like a seat belt and bunched around her shoulders. Thank God for his protection over her life. She never would have come naturally given the circumstances. Like I even cared in that moment.

The paediatrician – who literally only gave Tori a once-over before placing her on my chest, no checks and tests – commented on how much hair she has. Everyone commented on her beauty. Everyone was in awe. Everyone was just about in tears. I couldn’t stop staring at this perfect creature that was lying all cuddled up on me, sucking on her little hand. The way she looked at me – we knew each other. The way she smelled – like the earth, like life and like the sweetest fragrance I have ever smelled. The look in Adam’s eyes will stay with me till the day I die – a look of pure adoration, pride and love. I had done well.

My girl weighed in at a massive 3.97kg and 53cm and she was the most perfect and beautiful girl I had ever laid eyes on. Tori Eve – Victorious Life – the one person who taught me even more than Eli did when he was born. I felt no disappointment, no anger and the “ifs, buts and maybes” of that day blurred into obscurity and faded into nothing when compared to the pink rosebud that is her mouth. I had done well.

Tori Eve. The Girl with the Hair.

The absolute high of Tori’s birth has of course worn off over the last few months, but all I have to do is look at her, still with her beautiful head of hair, the most beautiful big blue eyes I have ever seen, her adorable, loving nature and I am transported back to that place. Back to where God gave me what I needed on that day, and not necessarily what I wanted. And in the end, what I wanted was exactly what I needed.

My heart needed healing, and only the Girl with the Hair could do that.

Birth

“Yet you brought me out of the womb; you made me trust in you, even at my mother’s breast. From birth I was cast on you; from my mother’s womb you have been my God.” – Psalm 22 verses 9 & 10.

Birth. Life. Death.

Oh how uncertain yet awe-inspiring the cycle. It is something which we all go through. Each and every one of us was conceived, knitted together in our mother’s womb. Fearfully and wonderfully made. And born.

Let me tell you, I had so many preconceived ideas about how Eli’s birth would play off.

I always had a picture in my mind of the “perfect birth”. I would go into labour in the middle of the night, and gently wake Adam up with the words, “Love, my waters have broken. I think it’s time to go to the hospital.” We would calmly gather the hospital bags, which I carefully packed weeks in advance. We would drive to the hospital and upon arrival, they would probably wheel me into the delivery room as I huffed and puffed…and pushed a baby out! Ha, yeah right.

How things played out in reality, is a different story altogether.

An OB/GYN with ulterior motives (Easter weekend…she wanted to go on holiday…Maybe I should have seen the signs, but in my defence, we paid her for her professional opinion and guidance). A “recommended” induction a few days before I was due anyway (“Doctor knows best,” I thought. Plus, she said my baby wasn't thriving anymore, as my placenta was rapidly deteriorating). A failed induction. An emergency Caesarean. A failed spinal block. General anaesthetic and a frantic husband in the hallway of a hospital. A first breath and a resounding cry. Eli.

I won’t bore you with all the details, but let’s just say that Eli’s birth was less than perfect. But he was and is. God had Eli in the palm of His hand since the moment He was born, and he was and is a healthy, clever, busy and amazing little boy. Ask anyone who knows him. What more could we really ask for?

And here I sit once again. Two years and three months down the line, with the impending birth of our daughter, Tori, on the horizon. According to my (new) OB/GYN’s calculations, she is due in 38 days.

I won’t lie…I’m grappling with my thoughts – how is this time going to turn out? I’m scared. I’m nervous. I’m excited to meet her. Surely this time is going to be different?

This time I’m not expecting perfect, because there is no such a thing. Just better. Quieter. Calmer. Different.

Tori, I can’t wait to meet you.

My girl, there are no guarantees in life. I can’t guarantee you the perfect birth, but I can guarantee you that God is in control and that He has already got your name written on the palm of His hand. I promise to relax in these last few weeks, and to allow you the necessary time to develop as long as you need to. Take your time, Princess, because we have an eternity together to look forward to.

We will see you soon.

Mommy, Daddy and Eli xxx

PS: Eli can't wait to play with you. And probably bully you. But we know you're already feisty and strong.

Let's Leave the Titles

Yes, I know we are different…

but we are more alike than you think.

Let me explain:

I’m a mom, and so are you.

I’m a wife, and so are you.

I’m a friend, and so are you.

I want the best for my family.

And I know you do too.

Because I am a mom, I learn new things every day.

Because I am a wife, I grow every day.

Because I am a friend, I am vulnerable every day.

Can you relate?

Because I am an imperfect mom, I spend time on my knees every day.

Because I am an imperfect wife, I need guidance every day.

Because I am an imperfect friend, I drink a cup of grace every day (no sugar, please).

Maybe you know what I’m talking about.

Yes, I know we are different…

but we are actually the same.

Let me explain:

Do we not breathe the same air?

Do we not touch the same textures?

Do we not get moved by the same symphonies?

Do we not climb the same mountains?
Do we not fear, dream, laugh, cry, scream and wish?

Yes, I think so, too.

When I look in the mirror, I see only who I am, and not who I could be.

I can only be who I am today, and maybe tomorrow I will be different.

But you need to love me for who I am today

because tomorrow is not a guarantee.

When you look in the mirror, you see only who you are, and not who you could be.

You can only be who you are today, and maybe tomorrow you will be different.

But I need to love you for who you are today

because tomorrow is not a guarantee.

And when we are face to face with each other,

try to see the good in me first, as I am painfully aware of the bad already.

Try to talk to me, and not at me.

Try to understand me, even though you might not agree with me.

Try to hear what I’m saying, and not what you think I’m saying.

And try to love me as if I am one of your own.

M xxx

2012: Hate to see you go, LOVE to watch you leave

Yes, I know, this one is wayyyyyy overdue. Yes, I know that we are already on the 27^th day of the second month of 2013. Yes, yes, yes…tut tut tut. I’m blogging now and that should be enough. Who makes the rules anyway? Thought so. Love you too.

Anyhow, I decided - a while back, granted - to write a blog about 2012. Sure it was a year that many of us are all to glad to be rid of, but let’s be honest: it was a good year. I never said a “perfect year”, but I’m willing to give credit where credit is due.

I got kicked in the teeth by 2012 on numerous occasions, dragged around by the hair a bit. Disillusioned. Discouraged. Disarmed. But you know what, I’m a firm believer that your attitude determines your altitude. Yes, only about 2% of the people I know in my life saw the “behind the scenes” footage of what was really going on in my life when the going got rough, how I dealt with things when the single rug got pulled from underneath me. And it wasn’t always pretty. But that’s life. We kick, we scream, we throw a tantrum or two, we rage against God, we question things, we cry. And then we put our big girl panties on and make it work for us, because you know what, what lies on the flip side of the coin is not even an option for me. Giving up has never been an option.

So here I am in 2013, feeling rather bright-eyed and bushy tailed. If 2012 had been so terrible, I can promise you that I would not be feeling this way. In fact, I would not be writing this blog right now. But I can, in all honesty say that 2012 has taught me great lessons, values and it has showed me a depth that I have never experienced before. It has given me strength which I look forward to strengthening even further in the coming years. It taught me that I can be my own, greatest friend…or my own worst enemy – the choice is all mine. I will always think of 2012 as the year “I overcame myself” and to be honest, that was no small feat. So without any further ado, here’s my 2012 in retrospect.

2012: The year I turned 26

Ok, let’s be honest here – there ain’t nothing special about turning 26. In fact, the 5 years leading up to the big THREE OH are nothing spectacular. But you know what? I celebrate every birthday with gumption. I love making a semi-big deal about every birthday. It’s a milestone, a celebration and another year that I was granted the absolute privilege of being alive on this earth.

2012: The year we went to Europe

This section actually deserves a dedicated blog on its own, but to sum my first ever European experience up in two words: mind blown. First of all, April 2012 was the first time I ever went overseas. I didn’t know what to expect, other than what I’ve seen in pictures and what other people have told me. And Europe – especially the places where we went in France, Switzerland and Germany – surpassed all my greatest expectations. I have never been the same on the inside ever since.

But by far the highlight of my vacation, and the reason we went to Germany in the first place, was meeting Adam’s dad, his wife Esther, and their four kids Jason, Emily, Joseph and Louann for the first time. It was truly special and the love I developed for family members I didn’t even knew existed B.A. (Before Adam) is really something. And to stay with a group of people and become a part of their household for four weeks, you really get to know them on a personal level. I miss them more than I can describe.

If I were to single out one experience that has really stuck with me, it has to be the day we went to Colmar, France. You see, before I visited France for the first time, I had many preconceived ideas about the country, and I can gladly say that I was right about most of them.

It was Easter weekend and quite cold, but the sun was shining bravely. There was a beautiful French market happening, which was the main attraction of the weekend (imagine…handmade nougat, patisseries selling the most scrumptious treats, 100s of cheeses on display, friendly faces all around and you’re hardly able to understand a word anybody is saying, but you don’t care because whatever they’re saying sounds beautiful). A band was playing romantic music. A couple was actually dancing cheek to cheek on the cobblestone street. Little French children eating croissants for breakfast. And me, sitting in the sun, eating delicious French/German food and smiling like I just won the lottery. That’s France, and my recollection of it. I can’t wait to go back.

2012: The year Eli turned one

Now THAT’S one worth celebrating. Not so much for the infant in question – although he got spoilt rotten – but for the parents. When one’s child reaches the age of one, it is a clear indication that one does, in fact, not suck as a parent and that one has arrived. The fact that I had managed, in my very limited capacity, to give birth to such a beautiful baby boy and that Adam and I have been given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be his parents, is nothing short of a miracle.

The day after Eli turned one, which was also the day we found out I had miscarried, also turned out to be the day before his planned “Minion Celebration”. Can you imagine the chaos? All I can say about that day is: God, our families and friends carried us. The sun was shining, there was more sweets and delicious food than I had ever seen at our house, everyone who is near and dear to us were right beside us and we gave our boy the best first birthday party he could have hoped for. All in all, I can look back on that day and say “WE ARE LOVED”.

2012: The year of The Body and of Running

A common theme that has been threaded throughout my blogs, has been the love/hate relationship I have with my body. I am proud to say that since August last year, it has mainly been a relationship of love. When my friend Denise and I decided to take on the SHAPE 10km challenge, something inside of me changed. From August to October, I managed to lose 8kg and I felt healthier and fitter than I ever had before. Running longer distances taught me something about myself, about perseverance and about my limits.

And then I came to a crossroad: do I want to run Two Oceans half-marathon (which is happening in March 2013), and put my absolute all into training for this race…or do I want to have another baby? This was something which only I could decide, because as selfish as it sounds, it is my body and I get to choose what I want to do with it. So after praying about it and really just listening to my heart, I made a decision. It all came down to that one question once again: what do I really really want?

The verdict: Eli is getting a baby brother or sister in August, and we couldn’t be more thrilled.

(Two Oceans 2014 – you are marked. I will come for you, I will finish you and I cannot wait).

2012: The year of The Smoothie

When I was pregnant with Eli, I suffered from the most terrible morning/all day sickness for almost 20 months. One of the only things that I could stomach any time of the day or night, was fruit smoothies. Delicious, ice-cold, fruit smoothies. The place which makes some of the most divine smoothies (in my opinion), is Kauai. To say that I was a regular during my pregnancy, is an understatement. I practically kept them in business.

Last year I found that if you are trying to get the kilos off (and keep them there) while trying to up your intake of raw fruit and vegetables, making your own smoothies is one of the best way to do so. Of course, you have to be careful of what you put in them, as you can easily push up the calories without even knowing it. I found what works best, is frozen chunks of seasonal fruit and berries, some diluted fruit juice and sometimes plain, fat free yogurt. I also added some flax seed oil to get a daily dose of omegas in.

There are no rules when it comes to making your own smoothies and the combinations are endless. Here are awesome pins I found on Pinterest on making smoothies, which you can print out, laminate and keep next to your blender:

2012: The year of Pinterest

I am very reluctant to write about Pinterest, just as I am very reluctant to actually go onto Pinterest. You see, for some unknown reason spending only a few seconds on Pinterest makes my days seem shorter. Substantially shorter. And it gives me inspiration. Too much inspiration. And it makes me hungry. Very hungry.

But I love Pinterest and when I do go on, I make sure that I enjoy every second and stay focused (yes, like that is even remotely possible).

If you would like to see what I’ve been pinning, you can find my profile here: http://pinterest.com/marykew/

2012: The year I went blonde

Shock! Horror! I never thought I'd actually move away from the dark side and back to my roots...but after much deliberation, a few blank stares from people who didn't know where our son got his angelic tresses from and gentle hints from Adam, I took the plunge. I went all out blonde.

I'm still not entirely convinced that I love my blonde hair and it has taken some getting used to, but you know what, it's only hair. I can always dye it darker if I want people to take me seriously again. I'm only kidding, sheesh :)

2012: The year of The Novel

I love writing. I think we’ve established that. I’ve always considered myself more of a poet and I started writing poetry at a very young age (we’re talking early teens here, maybe even younger). Poetry helped me to get through those “hectic” teenage years, through break-ups, leaving school, losing myself and then finding myself. It has been my outlet for such a long time – my way of saying what I’m feeling without batting an eyelid because it is, after all, only poetry…I have volume upon volume of poems which I wrote over the years, and reading them from time to times makes me smile. I have come a long way.

Then, in 2009, while having the most amazing time with God in my bedroom, He gave me a vision so real, a dream so big, that it still blows my mind to this very day: I am going to write a book. Don't panic. Details to follow.

And over the past years, I have kept this dream alive – sometimes barely, because it scares me too much – often handling the box labelled “Novel” as one would handle a wet cat in a plastic bag: with gloves on. Cringing. Barely looking.

Then I took the plunge last year – the time was now, God was adamant (but still very gentle) – and I started writing a book. I can honestly say that when I wrote the first few lines of the prologue, I was shaking like a leaf. It was one of the most thrilling, scary, liberating and satisfying experiences of my life.

Although my book is still far from complete, the dream is getting bigger and bigger, blooming like a beautiful flower inside my heart. I can’t wait to finish it (hopefully this year). For me.

And on that note, I want to end off this blog. I have so many goals, ambitions and dreams for 2013. Some of them are already in full swing (I’m a student again, majoring in Creative Writing) and I got a fabulous job opportunity yesterday (starting on Monday). But at the centre of all this, I just want to keep my eyes on The One who makes every day, every week, every month and every year worth living. And this year, I want to live.

We’ll chat again soon (now that I’m back into the swing of things, it seems).

Love,

Maryke

PS: Happy birthday to my beautiful friend, Crez. May your dreams come true this year and may you feel loved beyond measure.

She's back...and here's your recipe

So the award for the world’s most inconsistent blogger goes to: me. I know. BUT don’t be too quick to judge, I’ve had a lot on my plate these last few weeks, hence my absence. Good things. Exciting things. All in good time, of course. And it doesn't mean I didn't think about writing numerous blogs. Doesn't count, does it?

I’ve hinted about the following recipe on Facebook and on Blackberry Messenger and I’ve had so many people ask me for it (which I am happy to share). But first off I just have to say that it’s not an official recipe. In other words, I made it up. But I promise you it tastes amazing and you’ll want to make it again. The sauce is sort of a deconstructed satay sauce, and that goes very well with the chicken, which in turn goes very well with the sweetness of the pumpkin. So, here goes:

Chicken in a coconut milk and peanut butter sauce, served with brown rice and caramelised pumpkin

Ingredients (chicken and sauce):

6 chicken breast fillets, cut into cubes

1 tablespoon olive oil

½ teaspoon of fresh, crushed green chili

1 teaspoon garlic

1 small onion, chopped finely

Rosemary, chicken spice, salt and black pepper

1 tin coconut milk

2 tablespoons (generous) peanut butter

Method:

Heat the olive oil in a frying pan over medium heat.

When the oil is hot enough, add the onion, garlic and chili. Fry together until the onion is soft and see-through.

Add the chicken cubes and fry with the onion, chili and garlic until the chicken is almost cooked completely. Season with rosemary, chicken spice, salt and pepper (use your own discretion here). You can also add a bit of water now, just to make sure the chicken doesn’t go dry and to mix all the gorgeous spices through.

Now add the entire tin of coconut milk and the peanut butter. Stir it through continuously with a wooden spoon to make sure the peanut butter blends in well.

Turn the heat down low, and let your chicken simmer in the sauce for 30-40 minutes (or until it has thickened up), stirring occasionally.

In the meantime…

Ingredients (caramelised pumpkin):

500g pumpkin or butternut, cut into chunks

100g butter

1 cup brown sugar

Method:

Boil the pumpkin for 20 minutes, or until soft. Drain off any excess water.

In a separate pot, melt the butter and add the sugar. Stir well until the mixture begins to boil and the sugar caramelises.

Pour the mixture over the pumpkin, and stir through once or twice.

And there you go! Serve the chicken and sauce on brown rice, with the pumpkin as a side dish. I’m not going to give the method for brown rice, as it is self explanatory (1 cup of rice, 3 cups of water, salt, boil forever).

I hope you enjoy making – and eating - this dish as much as I did. Pop me a message if you have any questions.

I’ll be back tomorrow J Yes, I’m committing. I want to do a blog on “The Favourites and Flops of 2012” and I’ll also be posting links to a whole bunch of awesome websites/tricks/tips I discovered this year (mostly thanks to Pinterest). Definitely not to be missed.

Tata for now.

xxx

Foodie Friday - Stained Glass Window Biscuits

Hi Sweeties!

I hope you've all had a good week :) Thanks for the 1000 (and counting) hits on my blog - that makes me really happy. And for the feedback - whether good or bad - I always take it to heart.

So,am I the only one who's really getting that warm,fuzzy,cinnamon-and-oranges Christmassy feeling? I bet not. Tomorrow we get to whip out our Advent Calendars and the countdown to Christmas officially starts. With chocolate. I can live with that.

One thing I really love about Christmas, is baking dozens and dozens of cookies. The whole house smells amazing, all the jars are full of awesome goodies and I always share the cheer with others (because a sugar high is always best when shared). A girl I follow on Twitter challenged all her followers to bake Christmas cookies and to hand them out to the beggars at traffic lights. I am definitely going to do that - anyone else keen to join me? I think it's a great idea.

Back to today's recipe. I made these beautiful and almost too-amazing-to-eat biscuits for the first time last year...and it was a bit of a disaster to begin with. The recipe calls for 100g clear boiled sweets or lollies, crushed. Nothing too inconspicuous about that sentence, but the word "crushed" should have been a dead giveaway to me that this recipe spells trouble.

So there I was, struggling for hours to crush a packet of Sparkles (hard boiled sweets). I used a granite rolling pin - no luck. I used a hammer - no luck. I used my husband's brute strength - no luck. I used my Twister chopper - and damaged the blades. All I ended up with, was something resembling sherbet, and shards of sweets freaking everywhere. But instead of giving up, I said "screw it", and used whole sweets instead of "crushed" ones. And it worked.

Before you decide not to attempt this recipe based on my struggle, here's a picture of the marvellous Stained Glass Window biscuits:

Too beautiful. Tastes good,too.

See, they're gorgeous. They take a bit of work, but it's so worth it in the end. Here goes:

Ingredients

250g butter, softened
2 tsp lemon/orange rind
½ tsp almond essence
165g castor sugar
1 egg
1 Tbsp water
335g cake flour
100g clear boiled sweets or lollies, NOT crushed (wink-wink)

Method

Pre-heat the oven to 180 degrees Celsius.

STEP 1: Beat the butter, rind, essence, sugar, egg and water until smooth. Sift in the flour and knead until smooth. Wrap in cling wrap and chill in the fridge for 30 minutes.

STEP 2: On a floured surface, roll the dough to 4mm thick. Using cookie cutters of your choice (the more Christmassy, the better) cut out shapes and place on baking trays lined with paper.

STEP 3: Using a tiny cookie cutter (or the handle of a wooden spoon) make holes in the centre of each cookie. Bake the cookies for 5 minutes, then remove from oven and fill the centre with the sweets. Return to the oven for 5 more minutes.

STEP 4: Leave to cool on a tray.

And now you have some amazing biscuits to show off with.

To turn your Stained Glass Window Biscuits into tree decorations (which will also make great pre-Christmas gifts for your friends and family), do the following:

Make another small hole near the edge of the cookie before baking and when it has cooled down, thread a piece of ribbon through the hole for tying onto the tree.

And if you do decide to crush your sweets, you can add different colours to the biscuits to get a multi-coloured effect.

If you decide to make these, please post some pictures! I'm definitely going to make them again - I think Eli will really enjoy them as a treat.

I hope you all have a wonderful weekend. We are going to a Christmas market and Carols by Candlelight on Sunday...I'm excited. It means the end of the year - a time to relax, unwind, reflect and eat amazing things - is on our doorstep.

Lots of love,

Maryke