In her column, Tracy shares experiences and lessons learnt as she navigates life and grows with her two boys. To share your views email Tracy on tracy-lynn.ruiters@inl.co.za
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My heart in human forms
Image: In the gallery
The first week of school and crèche was done and dusted, and like many parents, I felt quietly victorious. Lunchboxes were packed, routines reinstated, and we had all survived that delicate return to structure. Or so I thought.
My weekend actually began at around 2am on Friday morning, when I was jolted awake by a sound no parent ever forgets that half-choking, half-retching noise coming from a one-year-old. Moments later, my baby was throwing up. And then again. And again. This wasn’t your average upset tummy.
My mommy sense was tingling, loudly. He refused to drink, his little body exhausted, and by morning light, my decision was made: we were going to the doctor.
Diagnosis? A tummy bug. Antibiotics prescribed. Round one begins. We headed home, both of us drained, but relieved to have answers.
Later that day, I fetched big brother from school, who bounded into the car brimming with excitement. Between breaths, he informed me that I would soon be meeting his new teacher at the parent-teacher meeting. “She’s the best teacher, Mommy. She gives us hard work, but it’s actually easy.”
I smiled to myself, thinking his teacher probably already knew him well. Mr 100-Words-Per-Second does not shy away from conversation.
That evening, my husband and I made what felt like a very grown-up decision we would leave boeta with Ma and Pa for the night. With a tummy bug doing the rounds, it felt safer to protect at least one child from the chaos.
Saturday brought the parent-teacher meeting. His teacher shared a story that had us equal parts proud and amused. A child in the class had asked what would happen if all the water left the ocean. She explained it would cause a tsunami. “No,” the child replied confidently. “You’re wrong, teacher. It becomes a desert.”
She glanced at us. We nodded. Yes. That’s ours.
Her approach to teaching, a holistic one, settled something deep in my heart. As any parent of a highly energetic, emotional and excitable child knows, reassurance is everything. My boy is very much like his mommy, and overstimulation is real.
Afterwards, we fetched him from Ma and Pa. My husband suggested a trip to the skate park while I stayed home with the baby to catch up on the sleep I had lost over two nights. I agreed. Gratefully.
They returned home hours later and both of them were sick. Throwing up. The bug had claimed its next victims.
Dr Mommy immediately went into action. Dad was medicated and tucked into bed. I created a makeshift camping setup in big brother’s room so the three of us could sleep together, while Dad quarantined.
By Sunday morning, miraculously, everyone felt better. I whispered a quiet, “Praise God.”
And then… the flood.
Big brother decided to wash his dirty clothes in the bathroom basin. Trying to help and how could I say no? I prepped Sunday lunch while he busied himself. Later, I sat down to watch a bit of TV and heard what I assumed was the pool pump running... it wasn’t.
When I opened the bathroom door, I imagine it’s what Rose felt like in Titanic when the water came rushing in. The tap was left open. The bathroom was flooded.
Mop in hand, adrenaline pumping, I asked Dad to keep the kids outside. His suggestion? “Let’s throw Dettol everywhere and sanitise the whole house while we’re at it.”
Honestly? Genius.
Once everything was dried and disinfected, I sat down emotional, overwhelmed, exhausted. Why was all of this happening?
And then it hit me.
Maybe this was a sign. In 2026, my cup will runneth over. The flood gates will open. This year, we will be blessed.
So here I am, after my first column of the year, wishing you a Happy New Year. May the flood gates open for you and yours too.
Because I think, no, I know it’s already beginning for me and mine.
tracy-lynn.ruiters@inl.co.za
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