Santa. The fat man in the red suit. Ah, the joy he brings children. Or perhaps, sometimes, NOT! But that time of year is here again (whether we like it or not) and, amazingly, he seems to be popping up at every shopping centre from here to Timbuktu. Well. Probably not quite Timbuktu. I don't imagine Timbuktu have the amazing range of shopping centres we do here in Melbourne. Even rather dingy shopping centres, like my local, where (up until the appearance of a Myer store a few years ago), the shopping experience there was nearly dominated by the appearance of crappy two-dollar shops, and the like. Now. Where was I? Ah, that's right! Santa!
Santa and my little madam go way back. All the way to the start of December 2008, when I decided to take her (at three months of age) to a local shopping centre - not my regular local, but one of the many in the vicinity - for her very first photo with Santa. And what a breeze it was. Although, it did take little madam (who has always been a rather serious child) a few minutes to break into a smile. But, overall, the experience was lovely, and the photo I have to remember it by gives me nothing but fond memories. Unfortunately, the experience almost a year later, to the date - little madam must have been fifteen months if I'm not mistaken - did not go quite so well.
I ended up taking little madam to my local shopping centre (yes, the dingy one which, by now, wasn't so bad due to, not only the appearance of a Myer store but, a couple of other tasteful stores - the ABC shop being one of them). Unfortunately, although little madam didn't seem frightened by the sight of the fat man in red, who was seated in a large throne and surrounded by an array of sparkling, not-to mention extremely eye-catching, decor, the queue to see him was quite lengthy. Lengthy enough for little madam to become rather interested in one of the impressively decorated Christmas Trees (along with a giant toy soldier) that made up Santa's impressive set. Therefore, when it was time for her to do what you'd expect any "normal" little child to want to do (ie. sit on Santa's knee) she was less than impressed to be dragged away from the sparkling tree that had captivated her attention. I'm actually surprised that Santa managed to leave that day with a full set of teeth, mostly due to the fact that little madam (my sweet, innocent little madam) almost kicked them out in fury. So violent were her actions, that I literally heard Santa mutter an extremely surprised, "Oh!", as he was forced to duck for cover from her flying feet. Needless to say, the photograph that was captured on this particular day, to remember the experience by, does not give me fond memories. As, captured in this photograph (due to the fact that I was forced to grab hold of little madam and literally pin her to my lap, while I took the seat next to - not on, lucky for him - a very surprised Santa) is an embarrassed red-faced with teeth-baring - no, I most certainly was not smiling - mother (me) with her arms around a furious and red-faced little girl (little madam).
Now following this horrifying, and somewhat mortifying, experience, I had absolutely no intention (following the birth of little man at the end of October) of going through similar turmoil and torment the following year. The Santa photo this particular year just happened by chance. We were strolling through my usual local shopping centre (my husband, little madam, little man - he wasn't strolling, by the way. I was carrying him in a sling - and I) and we happened to pass by Santa (the same Santa from the year before, believe it or not). Well. I'm not sure why - whether it was the fact that there was no queue to allow for little madam's attention to be taken by a Christmas Tree or a giant toy soldier - but little madam walked straight up to Santa and climbed (without a single second of hesitation) onto his lap for a terrific shot. I also managed to unhook a sleeping little man from the sling, as well, and hand him over to a rather nervous-looking Santa; no doubt he was probably nervous over the prospect of having to hold a sleeping, four-week-old baby. The photo captured was gorgeous, and despite the fact little man was sound asleep (and it was obvious he really didn't give a fat rat's bottom about the fat man in red) both my wonderful children (even a smiling little madam) featured in it. Needless to say, I have very fond memories of this experience.
Now, this brings us to experience number four, the experience of the current year, that took place only a couple of weeks ago. We returned, once again, to our local shopping centre - the one that now has an improved reputation thanks to Myer. Although, not for long as I hear that Myer is being replaced by Harris Scarfe sometime in the New Year and it will, therefore, no doubt become the dingy shopping centre it once was - and sought out Santa, following several pleas from little madam that she'd like to see him. It was late in the morning, on a Sunday, when we arrived and, after locating the jolly old soul (the same one from the year before AND the year before that...geez, he must really love kids I'm guessing!), we joined a queue behind ten-or-so other excited little children (and their anxious looking parents). This time, little madam was not distracted in the queue by Santa's surrounding decor, and she waited patiently. Little man, on the other hand (I realised as the wait time in the queue passed the half-hour point) was the one who was going to pose a problem. I can't really blame him. Half an hour is a long time for a little person to sit still. So, after making enough noise to wake a dead cat, I ended up getting him out of his pusher and holding him. Anyway. Little madam seized the opportunity, at this point in time, and took a seat in the pusher - her little legs were probably tired of waiting, too. I didn't think anything of this, at the time. It wasn't until we eventually got to the front of the queue (almost an entire hour after arriving, believe it or not), that this - the fact that little madam had found herself a comfy spot - became a problem. Now I don't know whether it was the intimidating photographer (she was a woman, by the way. I'm not sure whether I've mentioned this before, but little madam has always been much keener on men), or whether it was the fact that little madam simply got sick of waiting. But when she was invited, by the over-enthusiastic photographer, to come and take a seat on Santa's knee, she refused to budge.
Now unfortunately, with a long queue of people behind us, I didn't feel that there was time for negotiations, so I simply insisted that she get out of the pusher. She, again, refused to budge. My final attempt to try and get her to stand up out of the pusher involved an even firmer demand (as I glanced at the impatient queue of people waiting behind) which resulted in her turning to daddy with tears in her eyes and pleading with him desperately. Of course, there was no way Mr Softy (aka daddy) was going to force a tear-streamed little madam out of her comfortable position in the pusher and onto Santa's lap, so my battle had been lost. In the end, a lovely photograph of little man on Santa's knee was captured; he managed to smile for just long enough for the shot to be taken before he realised he wasn't all that keen on Santa.
Now for the dummy spit part. And ,for a change, it wasn't little madam or little man responsible. Embarrassingly enough, it was me. After rescuing a terrified-looking little man from Santa's lap, I made my way over to the table where the price-list for the photos was located. And it was then, that I realised, that I'd just waited an entire hour for little madam - the little madam who'd pleaded with us to be taken to see Santa - to not feature with little man in one lousy photograph that was going to set me back almost thirty dollars. Don't get me wrong. It wasn't the money that was the problem - although, prices had risen significantly since the year before as I remember paying just under twenty-five dollars for an entire pack of photographs! A pack that even included a nice calendar! - it was the principal. So I began to express my disgust at little madam, who was now glaring at me from the safety of little man's pusher. I expressed my disgust (ie. spat the dummy) so loudly, that daddy was forced to remind me that I was in the middle of a busy shopping centre; not to mention the fact that I was probably overreacting slightly to the situation.
So there you have it. Santa experience number four. And probably the last one I'll bother with; EVER! Alright. Probably not. I'll probably forget my woes in a few weeks and be back for more punishment with the fat man in red next year. I guess we'll just have to wait and see.
Thanks, little madam, for making me wait an HOUR in a queue to see a fat man in a red suit. Sorry about the dummy spit, by the way. I have to admit, now that I can look back and laugh...well, almost...it wasn't an entirely necessary reaction. I guess I can blame that on being HUMAN! Sorry, also, to little man for making you sit on Santa's knee; despite the fact that it wasn't an entirely enjoyable experience. Love you both!
And for those who've been reading, and hopefully enjoying, my blog (even if you've only gotten around to read one or two posts), thank you very much. I really appreciate you taking the time to read my stories, which are all about what it's like to be caught up in the chaos that is motherhood (or parenthood, of course), and I hope you continue to enjoy them in the New Year. I probably will take a short break (a couple of weeks) and be back to update you with more madness in the first week of 2012! Until next time, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
The Soft-Soled Shoe Shock
Now, as a parent with two young children, I've been there, done that - learnt my lesson, so-to-speak - with regards to how unpractical shoes for babies are. I mean, don't get me wrong, little shoes look cute, but (in my opinion) shoes for babies – babies who aren't yet walking – are almost a complete waste of money. I did say almost, though. After all, one practical use for baby shoes is, they can be relatively effective at preventing your little one from behaving like my clever little man, who has formed the rather annoying habit of being able to pull his socks off (and usually lose at least one of them) while being pushed around in his pusher when I’m busy rushing around, out and about, trying to get things done (things like grocery shopping and other less-than-exciting tasks). Needless to say, little man’s sock drawer is crammed full of lonely, single, socks that are sadly, unlikely to ever be reunited with their perfectly-matched partners.
Of course, I didn't realise that shoes for babies were almost a complete waste of money a few years back when I was having my first child (my little madam). I was, naturally, thrilled to bits when I received, as a gift, a tiny pair of baby Nikes - I’d never seen anything so small and sweet in my whole entire life - and, I was even more ECSTATIC when my wonderful sister showed up a short while later with a brand-new pair of pink baby Ugg Boots. This, of course, was the beginning of little madam's lovely shoe collection, which I added to, somewhat regularly (at my own expense, of course), quite a bit before she was born. I guess, aside from being a useful way to save her socks from spending the remainder of their lives single and lonely – although, come to think of it she wasn’t nearly as determined to force her socks into a life of loneliness as little man has been - it wasn't until she was walking, at fourteen months of age, that shoes really became practical and necessary. And, to my dismay I realised, at that point, that all her sweet little tiny baby shoes that she'd never had a chance to wear – even the tiny baby Nikes – were now all far too small. For the benefit of my sister, though, I’m pleased to say that the Ugg Boots did, in fact, manage to get worn once. And, of course, they looked as cute on little madam as they did off!
So, as I said, I've learned my lesson and, therefore, I didn't go to the trouble of buying any special little shoes in anticipation for little man's arrival thirteen-and-a-half months ago. I was given, however, a really sweet little pair of Converse One-Stars (the lace-up boot style with the soft sole) and it was while I was getting little man dressed the other day, for a particularly chilly December days outing, that I spotted the little shoes and decided (after being reminded by a good friend that this might be a good way to prevent him from forcing his socks to lead a lonely existence) it was time for little man to give shoes a try.
Now I have to be honest. This wasn't the first time I’d tried to get shoes on little man. I did attempt get a pair of blue, cotton, booty things – these were a gift, too, by the way - on his feet when he was only six-months-old-or-so. And I realised that – even though they were made of really soft cotton, and were more like socks than shoes – getting shoes on a baby isn't easy. It was, seriously, like trying to stuff a horse-hoof into a rubber glove. Especially due to the fact that little man decided it was time to show me how well he could curl his toes; so effective was his toe-curling ability, in fact, that his foot (while I was struggling to try and get it into this small pair of booties) resembled a closed fist ready for a fight.
Perhaps I should have remembered this first attempt when I tried the Converse-One-Stars the other day. Perhaps if I'd remembered this first attempt, I wouldn't have been so shocked, or surprised, by his reaction. But, of course, I'm human, and do forget things. I guess I was feeling pretty determined on this particular day, though, and really wanted to make sure he didn't manage to pull off his socks because it was, as I said, particularly chilly for December (what is going on with the weather, I ask?). So, after dressing little man completely, I began to embark on the task of putting on his shoes. Of course, the feat wasn’t easy and It took quite a bit of stuffing and swearing (don’t worry, I was careful little madam wasn’t within earshot) till I eventually managed the get one of the little lace-ups on. Unfortunately, my excitement over this small achievement was short-lived because, when I finally succeeded...Well! Anyone living remotely nearby, and not extremely hard of hearing, would have (I’m certain) heard the carry-on. First, little man, upon realising that one of his feet was now bound by a strange and foreign object (aka, a shoe), gave me a look of sheer and utter terror. But once the shock wore off, not more than five seconds later, he began to make the most horrible shrieking howling sound; while, of course, doing his best to try to yank the little shoe off. After realising, though, a short while later, that the odd thing covering his foot wasn't going to come off as easily as a sock, he really started to bellow.
I was rather flustered at this point, as the effort of just putting the one shoe on had wore me out somewhat - and I was feeling a bit bad because I really had no intention of causing little man any grief - but I decided (despite little man's desperate pleas, and even a few shouts of "Mummy! Take them off! He doesn't want to wear them!" from his big sister, little madam, who, AMAZINGLY, had heard his cries for help and come to his rescue), to persist and quickly try to put the other shoe on. Thankfully (and rather miraculously, I might add) after a more shouts of protest from little man (and little madam, too...it was quite a scene), and a little more toe-curling and some kicking, as well, both shoes were soon on.
Now I have to admit, apart from feeling flustered (and a little guilty, too, for being the cause of little man's apparent turmoil), I was relieved a short while later as, after a cuddle and a kiss from well-intentioned-mummy, he calmed down completely and was back to being the happy little man that he normally is. Although, it was funny for a while afterwards - actually, until the clever little sod did eventually manage to pull the shoes off in the car not more than an hour later- because, although he seemed to have forgotten the horrendous ordeal, every now and then he'd catch sight of his feet and give me the shock look - the look of terror - again. Poor bugger.
Whoever thought that an innocent thing like a small pair of shoes could cause such a fuss? Wow. Not even I, the unsuspecting parent, could have anticipated such a shocking reaction to a pair of shoes, not to mention the guilt I’ve been left with for causing him so much apparent turmoil. And now that little man is beginning to take a few steps – well, he’s not quite walking, but almost – I can only begin to imagine how difficult and tumultuous the task of getting him used to wearing shoes will be.
Thanks, little man, for making me (once again) realise that I won’t be one of the lucky few in the running for the mother of the year awards, due to the fact that I insisted you wear something as shocking as a little pair of One-Stars. Love you!
Of course, I didn't realise that shoes for babies were almost a complete waste of money a few years back when I was having my first child (my little madam). I was, naturally, thrilled to bits when I received, as a gift, a tiny pair of baby Nikes - I’d never seen anything so small and sweet in my whole entire life - and, I was even more ECSTATIC when my wonderful sister showed up a short while later with a brand-new pair of pink baby Ugg Boots. This, of course, was the beginning of little madam's lovely shoe collection, which I added to, somewhat regularly (at my own expense, of course), quite a bit before she was born. I guess, aside from being a useful way to save her socks from spending the remainder of their lives single and lonely – although, come to think of it she wasn’t nearly as determined to force her socks into a life of loneliness as little man has been - it wasn't until she was walking, at fourteen months of age, that shoes really became practical and necessary. And, to my dismay I realised, at that point, that all her sweet little tiny baby shoes that she'd never had a chance to wear – even the tiny baby Nikes – were now all far too small. For the benefit of my sister, though, I’m pleased to say that the Ugg Boots did, in fact, manage to get worn once. And, of course, they looked as cute on little madam as they did off!
So, as I said, I've learned my lesson and, therefore, I didn't go to the trouble of buying any special little shoes in anticipation for little man's arrival thirteen-and-a-half months ago. I was given, however, a really sweet little pair of Converse One-Stars (the lace-up boot style with the soft sole) and it was while I was getting little man dressed the other day, for a particularly chilly December days outing, that I spotted the little shoes and decided (after being reminded by a good friend that this might be a good way to prevent him from forcing his socks to lead a lonely existence) it was time for little man to give shoes a try.
Now I have to be honest. This wasn't the first time I’d tried to get shoes on little man. I did attempt get a pair of blue, cotton, booty things – these were a gift, too, by the way - on his feet when he was only six-months-old-or-so. And I realised that – even though they were made of really soft cotton, and were more like socks than shoes – getting shoes on a baby isn't easy. It was, seriously, like trying to stuff a horse-hoof into a rubber glove. Especially due to the fact that little man decided it was time to show me how well he could curl his toes; so effective was his toe-curling ability, in fact, that his foot (while I was struggling to try and get it into this small pair of booties) resembled a closed fist ready for a fight.
Perhaps I should have remembered this first attempt when I tried the Converse-One-Stars the other day. Perhaps if I'd remembered this first attempt, I wouldn't have been so shocked, or surprised, by his reaction. But, of course, I'm human, and do forget things. I guess I was feeling pretty determined on this particular day, though, and really wanted to make sure he didn't manage to pull off his socks because it was, as I said, particularly chilly for December (what is going on with the weather, I ask?). So, after dressing little man completely, I began to embark on the task of putting on his shoes. Of course, the feat wasn’t easy and It took quite a bit of stuffing and swearing (don’t worry, I was careful little madam wasn’t within earshot) till I eventually managed the get one of the little lace-ups on. Unfortunately, my excitement over this small achievement was short-lived because, when I finally succeeded...Well! Anyone living remotely nearby, and not extremely hard of hearing, would have (I’m certain) heard the carry-on. First, little man, upon realising that one of his feet was now bound by a strange and foreign object (aka, a shoe), gave me a look of sheer and utter terror. But once the shock wore off, not more than five seconds later, he began to make the most horrible shrieking howling sound; while, of course, doing his best to try to yank the little shoe off. After realising, though, a short while later, that the odd thing covering his foot wasn't going to come off as easily as a sock, he really started to bellow.
I was rather flustered at this point, as the effort of just putting the one shoe on had wore me out somewhat - and I was feeling a bit bad because I really had no intention of causing little man any grief - but I decided (despite little man's desperate pleas, and even a few shouts of "Mummy! Take them off! He doesn't want to wear them!" from his big sister, little madam, who, AMAZINGLY, had heard his cries for help and come to his rescue), to persist and quickly try to put the other shoe on. Thankfully (and rather miraculously, I might add) after a more shouts of protest from little man (and little madam, too...it was quite a scene), and a little more toe-curling and some kicking, as well, both shoes were soon on.
Now I have to admit, apart from feeling flustered (and a little guilty, too, for being the cause of little man's apparent turmoil), I was relieved a short while later as, after a cuddle and a kiss from well-intentioned-mummy, he calmed down completely and was back to being the happy little man that he normally is. Although, it was funny for a while afterwards - actually, until the clever little sod did eventually manage to pull the shoes off in the car not more than an hour later- because, although he seemed to have forgotten the horrendous ordeal, every now and then he'd catch sight of his feet and give me the shock look - the look of terror - again. Poor bugger.
Whoever thought that an innocent thing like a small pair of shoes could cause such a fuss? Wow. Not even I, the unsuspecting parent, could have anticipated such a shocking reaction to a pair of shoes, not to mention the guilt I’ve been left with for causing him so much apparent turmoil. And now that little man is beginning to take a few steps – well, he’s not quite walking, but almost – I can only begin to imagine how difficult and tumultuous the task of getting him used to wearing shoes will be.
Thanks, little man, for making me (once again) realise that I won’t be one of the lucky few in the running for the mother of the year awards, due to the fact that I insisted you wear something as shocking as a little pair of One-Stars. Love you!
Friday, December 9, 2011
What goes around, comes around
Rewind time thirty years and picture this. It’s a typical summer day in the quiet, yet quaint, town of Mansfield in Victoria. A young mum (who is carrying a one-year-old baby on her hip) grips her little girl – who is aged around four years old – by the wrist as they cross the main street. Suddenly, the little girl spies an overweight woman crossing the road in the distance, and decides to – rather than be polite and ignore his woman’s probably unavoidable (or perhaps typical) middle-age-spread –shout, at the top of her small (but effective) lungs, “Hahah! Look at that fat lady over there, mum!!!!” In case you haven’t guessed, the little girl in this story is ME! And the poor (and no doubt extremely embarrassed) mum, with the one-year-old baby attached to her hip, is my mum.
Now I want you to fast-forward thirty years, and picture this. It’s a typical late-spring day, in the hustling bustling city of Melbourne in Victoria. A mum (who has a one-year-old baby sitting in front of her in a pusher) keeps a watchful eye over her little girl – who is aged three-and-a-bit-years-old - as they wander through Federation Square. Suddenly, the little girl spies an overweight man in the distance, and decides to – rather than be polite and not pay any attention to this man’s probably unavoidable (or perhaps typical) middle-age-spread – say (as soon as the man is within earshot), in a rather loud, and clearer-than-usual, voice, “Hahah! Look at that big man, mummy!!!” Now in case you haven’t guessed, the little girl in this story is, none other than, my little madam. And the mum, standing behind the pusher, is ME! Now that’s what I call Karma!
And, just to further reinforce my belief in Karma, just the other morning little madam threw up all over me. Of course, I was concerned about her wellbeing at the time because she's not sick all that often, and the Karma thing didn't occur to me immediately. It wasn't until later in the day, after I'd relayed that morning's incident to my wonderful sister, that I was reminded me of the following scenario that took place many years ago (sorry, mum...I just never get tired of laughing about this one!). We, my sister, brother and I - along with some overnight bags, and a sleeping bag or two - were crammed into the back of a Mitsubishi Express Van on a long and exhausting journey to visit my aunty, uncle and cousin in the small town – well, it was back then - of Horsham. We must have been about halfway there, when the beginnings of a tummy bug began to bite me. I only have one clear memory of this experience. It was the memory of me relaying my sudden stomach discomfort to my mum (who was sitting directly ahead of me in the front bench-seat of the van, and probably trying her best to use the journey to take some time-out, from her three constantly quarrelling children, by having a short snooze) - in a rather whingy, whiney voice, I might add – with a, "Mum....I feel sick." Without even turning around, my mum’s response – before I violently vomited the entire contents of my lunch (it was salami and gherkin sandwiches on rye bread that day...something I wasn’t able to go near for years after this incident) over almost the entire back of the van, including all over my sister and one of the sleeping bags (which had no hope of being saved and had to be ditched on the side of the road – that’s the sleeping bag, not my sister, by the way) – was, “Tough!”
Now, before these incidences occurred – the incident at Federation Square that caused me to cringe and turn redder than the flesh of an over-ripe tomato, thanks to little madam’s innocent, yet extremely embarrassing, comment, and the incident that resulted in me being covered in vomit – I already believed in Karma, despite the fact that I’m no Buddhist. But I thought I’d already been paid back for my behaviour in other ways; such as having to deal with my own, near-impossible to control, middle-age-spread. I honestly believed that the reason I'm a little on the plump side (and have been for a large chunk of my life) was because I loudly, and very rudely, made fun of a fat person when I was little. But now I know otherwise. This fact in itself (the fact that I now realise that Karma has paid me back in an almost identical way on these TWO occasions - and probably many more if I put my mind to it), makes me shudder with dread as I picture myself, not only as a young child but also, as a teenager. Not just an ordinary teenage, mind you. A horrible, revolting, rebellious teenager that couldn’t give a fat rat’s backside about anyone but herself. Now I look at my beautiful daughter, my sweet innocent little madam, and wonder if it could be possible for her to become like me one day (the horrible rebellious teenager who didn’t give a fat rat’s backside about anyone but herself – and who, no doubt, caused her poor parents a fair amount of angst and turmoil during those terrible teenage years). And then I experience an incident like I did that day at Federation Square - or witness little madam’s true personality (the personality that makes me realise that there is no such thing as the “terrible two’s”; it’s the “terrible three’s" you really have to watch out for - and I'm reminded, without a shadow of a doubt, that what goes around, most certainly comes around.
Thanks, little madam, for making me realise that Karma has only just begun to rear its awful head. I'm sure Aunty Kerri really appreciates the payback on her behalf, too. Love you!
Now I want you to fast-forward thirty years, and picture this. It’s a typical late-spring day, in the hustling bustling city of Melbourne in Victoria. A mum (who has a one-year-old baby sitting in front of her in a pusher) keeps a watchful eye over her little girl – who is aged three-and-a-bit-years-old - as they wander through Federation Square. Suddenly, the little girl spies an overweight man in the distance, and decides to – rather than be polite and not pay any attention to this man’s probably unavoidable (or perhaps typical) middle-age-spread – say (as soon as the man is within earshot), in a rather loud, and clearer-than-usual, voice, “Hahah! Look at that big man, mummy!!!” Now in case you haven’t guessed, the little girl in this story is, none other than, my little madam. And the mum, standing behind the pusher, is ME! Now that’s what I call Karma!
And, just to further reinforce my belief in Karma, just the other morning little madam threw up all over me. Of course, I was concerned about her wellbeing at the time because she's not sick all that often, and the Karma thing didn't occur to me immediately. It wasn't until later in the day, after I'd relayed that morning's incident to my wonderful sister, that I was reminded me of the following scenario that took place many years ago (sorry, mum...I just never get tired of laughing about this one!). We, my sister, brother and I - along with some overnight bags, and a sleeping bag or two - were crammed into the back of a Mitsubishi Express Van on a long and exhausting journey to visit my aunty, uncle and cousin in the small town – well, it was back then - of Horsham. We must have been about halfway there, when the beginnings of a tummy bug began to bite me. I only have one clear memory of this experience. It was the memory of me relaying my sudden stomach discomfort to my mum (who was sitting directly ahead of me in the front bench-seat of the van, and probably trying her best to use the journey to take some time-out, from her three constantly quarrelling children, by having a short snooze) - in a rather whingy, whiney voice, I might add – with a, "Mum....I feel sick." Without even turning around, my mum’s response – before I violently vomited the entire contents of my lunch (it was salami and gherkin sandwiches on rye bread that day...something I wasn’t able to go near for years after this incident) over almost the entire back of the van, including all over my sister and one of the sleeping bags (which had no hope of being saved and had to be ditched on the side of the road – that’s the sleeping bag, not my sister, by the way) – was, “Tough!”
Now, before these incidences occurred – the incident at Federation Square that caused me to cringe and turn redder than the flesh of an over-ripe tomato, thanks to little madam’s innocent, yet extremely embarrassing, comment, and the incident that resulted in me being covered in vomit – I already believed in Karma, despite the fact that I’m no Buddhist. But I thought I’d already been paid back for my behaviour in other ways; such as having to deal with my own, near-impossible to control, middle-age-spread. I honestly believed that the reason I'm a little on the plump side (and have been for a large chunk of my life) was because I loudly, and very rudely, made fun of a fat person when I was little. But now I know otherwise. This fact in itself (the fact that I now realise that Karma has paid me back in an almost identical way on these TWO occasions - and probably many more if I put my mind to it), makes me shudder with dread as I picture myself, not only as a young child but also, as a teenager. Not just an ordinary teenage, mind you. A horrible, revolting, rebellious teenager that couldn’t give a fat rat’s backside about anyone but herself. Now I look at my beautiful daughter, my sweet innocent little madam, and wonder if it could be possible for her to become like me one day (the horrible rebellious teenager who didn’t give a fat rat’s backside about anyone but herself – and who, no doubt, caused her poor parents a fair amount of angst and turmoil during those terrible teenage years). And then I experience an incident like I did that day at Federation Square - or witness little madam’s true personality (the personality that makes me realise that there is no such thing as the “terrible two’s”; it’s the “terrible three’s" you really have to watch out for - and I'm reminded, without a shadow of a doubt, that what goes around, most certainly comes around.
Thanks, little madam, for making me realise that Karma has only just begun to rear its awful head. I'm sure Aunty Kerri really appreciates the payback on her behalf, too. Love you!
Friday, December 2, 2011
Mr Messy Mealtime Moments
Like the character out of Roger Hargreaves' eighth Mr Men book - the fluorescent-pink blob of scribble with eyes - my little man (although he's not quite fluorescent pink) has a really nice smile and is also extremely messy. He's so messy at mealtimes, in fact, that I'm beginning to dread the task of having to feed him; so are my poor knees. Because after every single meal - due to the fact that little man (who's now thirteen months old) has decided to adopt some early independence and refuses to let me feed him anymore - I have to spend (on average) a good twenty minutes on my hands and knees scrubbing the dreadful mess that he's managed to splatter about.
Now I’m not sure whether it's his age, or whether it’s a “boy thing” (as I honestly can't remember little madam being nearly as messy), but mealtimes in our house, have become an almost despairing and exhausting experience; this is mainly due to little man's inability to keep his food on his plate (or, better still, get it in his mouth). Instead, little man has managed to turn mealtimes, into mess-times. And did I mention he’s also quite keen on using his food for target practice?
For instance, the other morning's despair began at breakfast time. I was running a little behind - this isn’t that uncommon in my household, by the way, and is something you'll probably hear often from me due to my inability to get my arse up and out of bed early for the purpose of organising myself somewhat before little man and little madam get up themselves - and I'd given little man some toast, and a small bowl of Weetbix with milk, in his highchair while I managed to sneak away for a quick shower. I returned a couple of minutes later all clean and dressed, with a nice new pair of thongs on my feet, not only to have a full spoon of mushy, slushy Weetbix hurled in my direction. To my disgust, it flew off the edge of the highchair and landed, with a loud SPLAT, right on top of my foot. Needless to say, my thongs have never been the same - or looked quite as new as they were - since. Not to mention, I was then required to spend time (time that I really didn't have on this particularly morning due to the fact that I was RUNNING BEHIND!!!) on my hands and knees – which were still a little sore from the day before - cleaning the mess off the floor.
A few nights ago, I also made the disastrous mistake of serving rice for dinner. Now I know rice can be messy - little madam has proved this many times - but little did I know HOW messy (not to mention ANNOYING), this particular ingredient can be. After making an unsuccessful attempt to feed little man, I decided that I'd take a few deep breaths and forget about the floor for a short while. After all, we have floorboards. What does it really matter if a few grains of rice get dropped during mealtime? I plonked a small bowl of rice with chicken stir-fry in front of little man, along with a large plastic spoon, and then joined little madam at the table and ate my meal, while little man began to plough through his bowl of food in the highchair beside me. Now I wasn't surprised (given the fact that he's only really just started using cutlery) to see, a short while later, a large plastic spoon (with some food on it) flying through the air. After all, I can only imagine how frustrating, trying to put a spoon full of food in your mouth only to find you’ve lost half – or sometimes more – of the load on the way, can be. But little man carried on eating, and continued to give me the impression that he was enjoying his meal, using his hands; he actually seemed to be getting more in his mouth this way so I was thinking Terrific! Go little man!
Unfortunately though, when I took my eyes off him a short while later, to take in another mouthful of my own meal, I heard a strange noise. At the time, I mistook the noise (strangely enough considering the weather had been typical for Spring that day) for rain and so I glanced out the window to see if the weather had suddenly changed. Oddly enough, though, there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was then, when I heard the noise again, that I realised it wasn't rain that I'd heard after all. I turned towards little man just in time to see the third handful of rice leave his tiny fist and fly through the air. Now at this point, I could have broken out in song to the tune of It's Raining Men, and replaced the word Men with (yes, you guessed it) Rice. But for some reason (perhaps because I knew my knees were going to be really sore again later) I didn't really feel like singing at the time. I felt, instead, like SCREAMING! I quickly left my seat at the table to grab a cloth from the kitchen - I wasn't thinking too clearly at this stage, and taking the bowl away from him hadn't even occurred to me...I am human, remember - and he let fly another two handfuls of rice, and managed to hurl the bowl a good two metres before I returned.
All I could manage to do, at that point in time, was shake my head at little man (and his rice covered surroundings) and mutter something along the lines of, "You've gotta be kidding!" Little man just looked at me with one of his really nice smiles and I wondered then how I could possibly start teaching him not to throw food. I decided that the best way would be to make him wait for his desert while I cleaned up some of the mess. I guess my logic behind this was, if he worked out that throwing food meant his desert would be delayed, he might be less inclined to do it. Unfortunately, though, as I got down on the floor and began to clean-up the rice, little man decided to play a target-practice game again and throw some of the collection of rice he had in his lap (and on the highchair table) onto my head. My, my. The joys of motherhood.
I gave up my quest to clean-up immediately, no doubt, and decided I'd give him desert immediately to distract him from the task of giving me a cold and soggy rice shower - clearly I'm terrible at following through with my lessons. So it didn't surprise me at all to find myself, at the end of the meal, cleaning up almost an entire tub of yoghurt, which had also - like the rice - been creatively splattered about the floor almost like a work of art from Pro Hart.
It also didn't surprise me, the following day, that almost another tub of yoghurt ended up on my good friend’s lovely mahogany-coloured polished boards when she was kind enough to offer little man a tub at her house. Sorry Terri!
Thanks, little man (aka Mr Messy), for forcing me down onto my knees more than well-trained horse. I’m sure the floor really appreciates your sharing efforts too. Love you!
Now I’m not sure whether it's his age, or whether it’s a “boy thing” (as I honestly can't remember little madam being nearly as messy), but mealtimes in our house, have become an almost despairing and exhausting experience; this is mainly due to little man's inability to keep his food on his plate (or, better still, get it in his mouth). Instead, little man has managed to turn mealtimes, into mess-times. And did I mention he’s also quite keen on using his food for target practice?
For instance, the other morning's despair began at breakfast time. I was running a little behind - this isn’t that uncommon in my household, by the way, and is something you'll probably hear often from me due to my inability to get my arse up and out of bed early for the purpose of organising myself somewhat before little man and little madam get up themselves - and I'd given little man some toast, and a small bowl of Weetbix with milk, in his highchair while I managed to sneak away for a quick shower. I returned a couple of minutes later all clean and dressed, with a nice new pair of thongs on my feet, not only to have a full spoon of mushy, slushy Weetbix hurled in my direction. To my disgust, it flew off the edge of the highchair and landed, with a loud SPLAT, right on top of my foot. Needless to say, my thongs have never been the same - or looked quite as new as they were - since. Not to mention, I was then required to spend time (time that I really didn't have on this particularly morning due to the fact that I was RUNNING BEHIND!!!) on my hands and knees – which were still a little sore from the day before - cleaning the mess off the floor.
A few nights ago, I also made the disastrous mistake of serving rice for dinner. Now I know rice can be messy - little madam has proved this many times - but little did I know HOW messy (not to mention ANNOYING), this particular ingredient can be. After making an unsuccessful attempt to feed little man, I decided that I'd take a few deep breaths and forget about the floor for a short while. After all, we have floorboards. What does it really matter if a few grains of rice get dropped during mealtime? I plonked a small bowl of rice with chicken stir-fry in front of little man, along with a large plastic spoon, and then joined little madam at the table and ate my meal, while little man began to plough through his bowl of food in the highchair beside me. Now I wasn't surprised (given the fact that he's only really just started using cutlery) to see, a short while later, a large plastic spoon (with some food on it) flying through the air. After all, I can only imagine how frustrating, trying to put a spoon full of food in your mouth only to find you’ve lost half – or sometimes more – of the load on the way, can be. But little man carried on eating, and continued to give me the impression that he was enjoying his meal, using his hands; he actually seemed to be getting more in his mouth this way so I was thinking Terrific! Go little man!
Unfortunately though, when I took my eyes off him a short while later, to take in another mouthful of my own meal, I heard a strange noise. At the time, I mistook the noise (strangely enough considering the weather had been typical for Spring that day) for rain and so I glanced out the window to see if the weather had suddenly changed. Oddly enough, though, there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was then, when I heard the noise again, that I realised it wasn't rain that I'd heard after all. I turned towards little man just in time to see the third handful of rice leave his tiny fist and fly through the air. Now at this point, I could have broken out in song to the tune of It's Raining Men, and replaced the word Men with (yes, you guessed it) Rice. But for some reason (perhaps because I knew my knees were going to be really sore again later) I didn't really feel like singing at the time. I felt, instead, like SCREAMING! I quickly left my seat at the table to grab a cloth from the kitchen - I wasn't thinking too clearly at this stage, and taking the bowl away from him hadn't even occurred to me...I am human, remember - and he let fly another two handfuls of rice, and managed to hurl the bowl a good two metres before I returned.
All I could manage to do, at that point in time, was shake my head at little man (and his rice covered surroundings) and mutter something along the lines of, "You've gotta be kidding!" Little man just looked at me with one of his really nice smiles and I wondered then how I could possibly start teaching him not to throw food. I decided that the best way would be to make him wait for his desert while I cleaned up some of the mess. I guess my logic behind this was, if he worked out that throwing food meant his desert would be delayed, he might be less inclined to do it. Unfortunately, though, as I got down on the floor and began to clean-up the rice, little man decided to play a target-practice game again and throw some of the collection of rice he had in his lap (and on the highchair table) onto my head. My, my. The joys of motherhood.
I gave up my quest to clean-up immediately, no doubt, and decided I'd give him desert immediately to distract him from the task of giving me a cold and soggy rice shower - clearly I'm terrible at following through with my lessons. So it didn't surprise me at all to find myself, at the end of the meal, cleaning up almost an entire tub of yoghurt, which had also - like the rice - been creatively splattered about the floor almost like a work of art from Pro Hart.
It also didn't surprise me, the following day, that almost another tub of yoghurt ended up on my good friend’s lovely mahogany-coloured polished boards when she was kind enough to offer little man a tub at her house. Sorry Terri!
Thanks, little man (aka Mr Messy), for forcing me down onto my knees more than well-trained horse. I’m sure the floor really appreciates your sharing efforts too. Love you!
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