I’d been living in Johannesburg for just over a year when Stuart made a bold and creative move – an indescribably romantic proposal that was to ensure my return to Cape Town. The story of our engagement still takes my breath away. It was April, autumn, and I was going to my mom’s 50th birthday celebration in Cape Town with Craig, my beloved brother. We arrived late that evening in the pouring rain. As Craig and I stood chatting together at the carousel waiting to pick up our luggage, I felt a sudden stirring in the people around us. Then a handsome young stranger wearing a tuxedo and clutching a bunch of white roses walked straight up to me. “Miss Badings,” he said, smiling, “please will you follow me?” What was this? I quickly turned to speak to Craig, but he was no longer beside me. In fact he was being mysteriously whisked away by a tall person in a long coat and a hat. Mysterious indeed. “What’s going on?” I asked, confused.
Somehow, this young chap convinced me to go with him (this was before cellphones and Craig was no longer to be seen). I had recently had a rather unexpected and romantic reunion with Stuart at our friends Ian and Jillie’s wedding, and so a small part of me imagined he might be behind this. Outside the airport a white stretch-limousine stood waiting, but now I was having doubts. The poor tuxedoed youth was agitated. Clearly his brief was to get me to accompany him, no matter what. “You have to get in, Miss Badings. Please.” He held the limousine door open, leant inside and pushed Play on a cassette tape-recorder. Phil Collins. Phil Collins was symbolic for Stu and me. I took a deep breath and climbed in.
Nerves and excitement built as we drove towards the city, eased only by a glass of cold bubbles. What on earth was I doing? Forty minutes later we pulled up at the brand-new Bay Hotel in Camps Bay, rain still pouring down outside. The manager walked out. “Miss Badings, will you please come with me?” he said. It felt like a scene from a James Bond movie. Then I started to fret. What if Stuart was not on the other end of this plan? My heart pounded as we walked down the long passage towards a door. The door opened and there stood Stu.
Stuart had spent the entire day prepping this room. Roses, a fire, a ready-drawn bubble-bath, soft music … I fell into his arms all atwitter. That night Stu proposed. I knew we were meant to be together and within a month I had moved back to Cape Town. We were married six months later, in November 1990, at a large, happy and festive celebration for family and friends.
One year into our marriage Stu and I bought our first home, a gorgeous little Victorian cottage that we called Lilliput Lodge, after the Lilliputians in Gulliver’s Travels. We poured our hearts and energy into renovating our little place on a shoe-string budget and loved every minute of it. We worked hard, played hard and contributed where we could to making a difference to the lives of others. Early into our marriage we joined forces with four other young couples and formed a group called Action For The Underprivileged (AFTU). We used our combined skills, networks and resources to raise funds for the homeless, for orphanages, shelters and other organisations that were in need of support.
The ’90s were exhilarating times. South Africans were fired up with change and fuelled with hope. Stu and I grabbed all the opportunities life afforded us with enthusiasm and climbed our respective career ladders with gusto and determination. I left the world of magazines and moved into retail, working in the marketing department of Woolworths, one of South Africa’s premium retailers. It was a busy and exciting time. By 1994 I was 30 years old and we’d been married for four years. It was time. Excited about the future of the country and our first democratic elections to be held in April that year, we were ready for children. By the time I stood in the queue with a long line of fellow South Africans to vote four months later, I was already pregnant. My child would be a child of the rainbow nation.
Like most pregnant mothers, my first trimester was punctuated with morning sickness and fatigue, but by 14 weeks I was feeling great. I will never forget the first time I felt my baby move, light bubbles floating across my tummy from the inside. I felt an overwhelming rush of love for this little being growing inside me. It was the beginning of an intense relationship.
I was due at the end of October. I needed an assistant to help out at work while I was on maternity leave. That was when Glynis arrived in my life. She was tall and commanding, with long red hair and light blue eyes, I didn’t know it at the time, but this was to become a significant, cherished friendship, one that would sustain me through some very dark times in the future.
CHAPTER 2
When a child is born
Jenna Jean Lowe came into the world after 36 long hours of labour on the 28th of October 1994. Exhausted, elated and totally overcome with emotion, I pulled her out of my womb and cradled her slippery body on my chest, staring down into her velvet brown eyes. She was utterly focused and calm, gazing intently at me with an inquisitiveness that felt uncanny. In that life-changing moment time was suspended. I knew instantly I would give anything to protect this little being in my arms. I stared at her in wonder and awe. I never tired of that exquisite face with its creamy skin and rosebud lips. Her delicate little features were framed by arched eyebrows. She had tiny hands, the softest baby skin and smelled delicious. Jenna Jean Lowe was absolutely and utterly perfect.
Unconditional love is such a magnificent and all-consuming emotion, but let’s face it, caring for an infant is demanding. As a driven, A-type personality, I expected myself to do everything “just right” and it came as a shock to discover that there is no such thing when it comes to parenting. Babies cry, they don’t read the manual and initially it’s hard to know what they need or want. To my own surprise I became anxious, and at the same time ashamed to feel that way. I found it impossible to leave Jenna’s side and I barely let anyone touch her. I exhausted myself trying to perfect the amounts of breast milk, the amounts of sleep, the amounts of stimulation and a consistent routine. Poor Stuart. I don’t think he knew what had hit him. At 4 am one morning, about three months in, he tip-toed through the darkness to find me in Jenna’s nursery, cradling her, both of us crying inconsolably. He took Jen gently from my arms and said firmly, “Babies cry, my love, that’s what they do. Now go back to bed, it’s okay, I’ve got her.” I slept and slept and slept, exhausted from trying to pre-empt my baby’s every need.
In the morning, Stuart brought Jenna to me for a feed. We were cuddled in bed together, all three of us, when he hesitantly suggested we seek some help. As first-time parents, we were clueless as to what “normal” should look like, but he told me he didn’t think it was “normal” for me to feel so exhausted and overwhelmed. I looked into his soft brown eyes and loving face and I knew it was a plea, not criticism. The only person judging me was me. I agreed.
I had post-natal depression. I felt vulnerable, I had trouble sleeping and I didn’t want to leave the house, or Jenna, for a single second. My mood was often flat or blue, and I lost interest in the wider world. Many women who suffer from PND lose interest in their babies, but I became obsessive about mine. For the first three months, I didn’t let anyone near Jen; even Stu had to fight to hold her.
On the recommendation of a close girlfriend, I started seeing a therapist, something that has become a regular and valuable practice in my life. My therapist has been a pillar of strength, guidance and wisdom during challenging phases, helping me to interrogate, integrate and make sense of my internal world.
Within a few months I found my feet as a much more confident mom. Jenna and I had a powerful connection, as if an invisible string joined us together. I learned to sense when she was tired, sore, hungry, sad or having a bad dream. For Stu and me, it was an adjustment having a third person in our relationship. We were no longer each other’s “exclusive everything”. But, like all new parents, we muddled our way through and along the