All I want for Christmas is my two f....fuck she wants a harp!

Pardon my French but that damn time is just about upon us once again.  Oh yes.  The big “C” is almost here.  I can’t believe I’m about to mention the “C” word.  Christmas, that is.  Oh, the joys of Christmas.   ‘Tis the season to be jolly, is it not?  Well.  I’d say “not”.  As, not only do we get to dig around in the back of our dusty, red-back spider infested sheds and drag out the busted up box containing the plastic tree (which spends its entire time on display in the house shedding tiny green plastic needles onto the floor), and spend hours upon hours decorating this tree, only to spend the next few weeks picking the baubles and tiny ornaments off the floor (after a little man decides pulling them off is far more fun than just admiring them).  UGH!

 And then there are the trips to the shops where, not only can you NOT find a carpark, but you have to endure crowds of people all hustling and bustling as they desperately search out gifts for loved ones amongst oodles and oodles of available crap; but where you’re also driven insane by the constant repetitive sounds of “Have yourself a merry little Christmas” playing over the loudspeakers Give me strength!  Well.  As you can probably tell, Christmas is not my most favouritest (that’s not a word, is it?) time of year.  Not that I don’t enjoy getting together with my loved ones on the day (the one time of the year where I will generally see my entire family altogether).  I do.  It’s just all the other nonsense that goes with it that makes me shudder. 

And, now that I have children, I have to add another fun-filled element to the whole thing; the element that involves the so-called visit from the fat man in red.  That’s right.  Santa Claus is coming to town.  Well.  Now that little madam’s four, she’s really getting into the spirit of things.  And she’s really looking forward to her visit from St Nick, not to mention the fact that he’s going to bring her something she asks for.  And, unfortunately for me (aka Santa), her one desire this year doesn’t involve two front teeth.  Although finding these might be easier than finding what she’s now put her hand up for. 

 

The Mahalo guitar...or ukelele

The terrific little trumpet, from ELC

Now little madam, I’m proud to say, is rather fond of music.  Seriously, for Christmas two years ago, she asked Santa for a guitar.  Well.  Thanks to the brand Mahalo, a guitar was a cinch to come by.  And only thirty dollars at the local music store.   Actually, it’s a ukulele but little madam is none the wiser.  The next year I thought was going to prove a little trickier when she pulled, out of her hat of requests, a trumpet.  Yep.  Thanks to...actually I can’t even remember how the trumpet came about to be honest...I found myself in a panic a few weeks shy of Christmas as I contemplated the, what I thought was going to be an impossible, mission of finding a trumpet small enough for a three-year-old (not to mention affordable enough for me).  Turns out, finding a trumpet wasn’t hard, after all.  ELC (Early Learning Centre) have an awesome trumpet on the market.  And, although it’s plastic, it’s not a bad replica.  And little madam loves it. 

 

The ELC sexoophone...I mean saxophone

Now I really didn’t think that I’d have too much of a challenge this year.  As, at the start of the year, she spotted Jimmy Giggle (that’s Giggle, from Giggle and Hoot) playing a saxophone.  Well.  The next thing she’s saying is (and has been saying all year, up until recently anyway) “For Christmas I want Santa to bring me a sexophone”.  Yes.  She actually pronounced it sexophone, not saxophone (funny hey?), but the point is, this request was (once again, thanks to ELC) going to be real easy for this Santa to accommodate.  That was, until her Oma (that’s Grandma, to those who aren’t familiar with German) decides, a couple of weeks ago, to take her to see Noni Hazlehurst and the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra.  And, as you’ve probably figured out, this Santa’s in for one hell of a challenge.  As, not only has little madam changed her mind about what she wants the fat man in red to bring her for Christmas, she’s changed her request to, a harp!  A bloody harp!  Where the fuck is Santa supposed to pull one of these from?  His red hat (or sack) I suppose.  But really, can you believe it?  And, despite my efforts of trying to talk her round, as little madam is fairly stubborn and difficult to negotiate with these days, I’ve find myself (since the request was aired) frantically searching Google for an affordable option.  One that isn’t $180.00 like the lovely thing pictured below. 

 

I know it's sweet, but seriously!

Any thoughts or suggestions would be most welcome at this point in time.  And, although I could take my slight dislike of the big “C” to the next level and tell little madam, “Sorry, but Santa’s just not a miracle worker!”, or even, “There are no harps in The North Pole!”, I’m determined not to let my scroogism (that’s not a word either, is it?) rub off on her just yet, and would really like to make the effort to try and bring her the one thing she’s asked for (given that I am quite pleased she’s showing a genuine interest in music, no matter how offbeat); providing it’s not going to break the bank, that is.             

Thanks, little madam, for setting this Santa a very difficult challenge.  Love you!

The tale of Shadow and her two new friends

Did I mention that I have cat named Shadow?  Well, there you go.  She's a little black thing, and I'm quite fond of her.  Although, I'll regularly admit that she's in my bad books for committing the unforgivable act of weeing down my heating ducts.  Yes.  You read right!  She actually (despite the fact that she had a perfectly clean, full tray of lovely litter available to her in the laundry) decided to take it upon herself, some years ago, to give the dining room (yep...the place we generally go to eat), lounge-room (yep...the place we generally sit back and relax in) and bathroom (yep...the place we generally go to take a shower and clean ourselves up) heating ducts a try.  I mean, what better way to empty your bladder than over a warm blast of air.  And, as you can imagine, the smell is something that's never really left me.  And, despite the fact that my husband (and others) tell me I'm imagining, when the warmth of summer begins to fade and I feel the need for a bit of artificial house-heating, I'm certain that I encounter the waft of warm cat urine up my nostrils for a brief moment as the ducted heating comes back to life.

This is me every time I turn on the heating

 Anyway.  Enough about cat wee down ducts.  Back to the point of my story.  Shadow, my cat.  Or, as little madam likes to remind me, her cat.  Although Shadow was around many, many years before the arrival of little madam and little man, little madam (who's quite bossy at the best of times) has decided to claim her as her own.  Not that this worries me.  It's actually lovely to see how fond of Shadow little madam has become.  And, despite the fact Shadow is approaching thirteen years of age, and has practically been BANNED from entering the house (read paragraph one again if you need a reminder on why this is the case), she's actually in pretty good shape.  Not to mention, rather tolerant too. 

 

"I am tolerant...most of the time"

A good friend of mine often comments about how good she looks "considering what she's had to put up with in her lifetime".  What he means is this:  When we first got Shadow, almost thirteen years ago, we also had a couple of rather large and boisterous Rottweilers.  Rottweilers that were friendly enough, but more than capable of snatching possums off the fence by their tails as they attempted to perform balancing acts at night.  I won't go into detail about this, but as you can imagine Shadow's, "Welcome to your new home", moment, probably wasn't what a cat would ordinarily class as ideal.  Not that the dogs didn't love her.  They did.  And I'm not talking about for breakfast, either.  They really were very gentle with her.  But I'm just trying to imagine what she must have been thinking the first time she was brought home and introduced to her adopted siblings.  A big "What the f***!" I guess.

Anyway.  Skip a few years, and past the banishment from the house thanks to the unforgivable deed committed (again, refer to paragraph one if you need a reminder), to the arrival of little madam, then little man.  Well.  I bet she never saw it coming.  I mean, after all, what cat would bat an eyelid over a couple of small kids, after having to share a house with a couple of large Rottweilers?  Thankfully, she's a sensible old thing and has learnt (since the arrival of little madam four years ago) the dangers children pose.  Although, not that she can't give as good as she gets.  Little man only had to pull her tail once to learn what damage a small claw could do.  I can assure you, he's pretty gentle with her now. 

Shadow...assessing whether the hand might be considered a threat

 As for little madam, who has claimed Shadow as her own, she's taking the responsibility part rather well I'd say.  Although little man certainly enjoys offering his own interference.  For example, each morning one of little madam's little jobs is to feed Shadow.  She brings the food bowl inside, gives it a wash in the bathroom sink (I know this sounds disgusting, but it's the only sink she can actually reach without too much difficulty so I've just had to accept it), then fills it with food before taking it out to her eagerly meowing friend.  Nine times out of ten, this terrific beginning ends in cat food being sprinkled all over the back yard.  All thank to little man, who doesn't quite get the concept of Shadow not finishing all her food at once - and, not to mention, is rather inquisitive about everything around him (what is it with boys???? - and feels the need to chase her around the yard with the food bowl in hand calling repeatedly, "here's your food Shadow."  And this is combined with his own efforts of trying to refill her bowl (usually with mulch, dirt and other inedible stuff). 

Little madam begins the search for Shadow...
who's decided, on this occasion, to hide

Little man joins the search....

But, all in all, Shadow the cat has (after a few years of learning that sometimes, when it comes to children, it's far safer to keep your distance) a fantastic relationship with little madam and little man.  And, I'm pleased to say that (despite the couple of tail and fur pulls in the early days), they are as fond of her as gentle.  And, I'm pretty sure - based on Shadow's advancements towards them which occur on a daily basis - she's pretty fond of them too. 

Little madam shows Shadow some loving...

and little man showers Shadow with some affection too...
"Well.  I guess it's better than being showered with MULCH!"

Thanks little madam and little man, for learning to be good to Shadow.  And thanks, Shadow, too, for learning to put up with your two new friends.  Love you all!

 

The dangers of television avoidance - Part One

Television and I go way back.  Although, not as far back as the average person, believe it or not.  In fact, thanks to the anti-television movement that was rife in my household during the early years of my upbringing, I was forced to attend school each day with absolutely no knowledge of what had gone on the previous night in Summer Bay or Ramsay Street (something that most of my friends and acquaintances during my school years would spend a great number of hours each day discussing).  So with that being said, and perhaps because I wasn’t able to discuss the various programs that were being aired throughout the country each night during my younger years, I now have quite a bit to say about the good old idiot box.  Which is why I’ve been required to break this rant post up into more than one part. 

  

Now don’t get me wrong.  I’m an avid television watcher.  In fact, most nights – once little madam and little man have eventually (and usually reluctantly) been sent away for a (hopefully) lengthy visit to the land of nod – if you’re looking for me, all you need to do is find the television in  my house and I can personally guarantee I won’t be far.  Most nights, in fact, I can quite happily allow whatever crappy rubbish that’s being aired on the idiot box to turn me into a zombie-like being, who enjoys letting anything and everything on the television drain away any cares and worries that have arisen throughout the day.  Yes.  The television and I have a relatively good relationship these days.  Which is something I’m sad (or perhaps I’m not sad, just torn) to say little madam and little man don’t yet have. 

This is me...once the kids are in bed, of course!

 So, let’s get down to the reason for this; the reason little madam and little man don’t share the same (or have an even remotely similar) relationship to the television as me.  I think the reason is largely due to my own upbringing where, when I was a wee lass (up until my tumultuous teenage years, at least, when no-one or no-thing – not even good-old mum and dad – could control my outrageous and rebellious behaviour) the television was not favoured in our household at all.  Now don’t get me wrong.  I can’t remember the television being treated as a poisonous demon or anything – my family aren’t fanatical religious people or anything – but I do remember that it was only allowed to be on at certain times (certainly not every day, and absolutely not for morning cartoons, or even for background noise etc).  And I also recall that we were mainly only allowed to watch programs shown on the good-old non-commercial ABC.  And, eventually, when I was well and truly much older than little madam’s current age of four, the odd movie; but only if it was considered appropriate. 

Devil be GONE! 

 

Now, although I don’t exactly remember my mum being neurotic about the television, I’m fairly convinced she must have been.  After all, I most certainly am.  Not neurotic about the television itself; just neurotic (and rather excessively controlling) about little madam and little man’s exposure to it.  For example, despite the fact that there is an array of terrific, and no-doubt educational child-friendly material being aired on a daily basis – even an entire channel dedicated to children – I will generally refuse to allow the sound of the television to echo through our humble abode before the Play School afternoon time-slot of 4:30pm.  And even then, I’ll only allow it to remain on for half an hour (or long enough to see the end of Giggle & Hoot’s brief five-pm sing-along). 


Believe me, this is not the upbringing I had envisaged for my own children during my very own television-deprived childhood existence.  After all, I have distinct memories of visiting friend’s houses, and being truly green with envy as the sights and sounds of commercial television banter echoed constantly around living rooms and, not to mention, in kitchens.  Oh how I longed for my mum to become one of those mums who had a television (that was constantly on, mind you) in the kitchen, to allow them to enjoy the late-afternoon game-shows that were being aired while they chopped vegetables for dinner.  After all, my mum would certainly never hear of such a thing.  And I longed to be able to wake up, like so many of my friends, at the crack of dawn, and sit in front of the television still warm and snug in my pyjamas watching the daily cartoons. 

This is what I wished I was doing Saturday mornings as a kid!

For mum’s sake, though, I don’t really think a huge injustice was done by depriving me of these small things.  I mean I had a lot of things many children didn’t.  In fact, in fairness to her (and dad, too, of course) I truly had the most wonderful upbringing and wasn’t really deprived of anything; of course, the television perhaps being the exception.  I mean our experiences as a family counted for more than a regular Saturday morning cartoon session.   And I’ve spoken at great length to my cousin – whose mum is my mum’s sister – and he, who also experienced similar restrictions during his upbringing when it came to the television, confirmed that this anti-television trait (or whatever you like to call it) definitely runs in my family.

I’ve also raised the topic of the television with my mum, and tried to get her to shed a little light on the matter at hand.  She actually admitted that, while she was a young child herself, she used to wag school just so she could stay home and watch it (sorry mum).  So I guess I can kind of see why she was more uptight than most mothers about the television; I suppose she didn’t want me (or my brother and sister) following her square-eyed path. 

It’s interesting, though, how (depending on which stage of your life you’re in) your opinions on various things can change.  I mean as a young child, the television restrictions didn’t really have any bearing on my outlook.  But as a teenager, as I sat through (and was unable to contribute to) various gossip sessions with my friends about the various happenings in Ramsay Street or Summer Bay, I began to feel as though mum and dad had wronged me in some way.  Wronged me so much, in fact, that I recall making a very firm decision I would not allow my children to suffer the same television-deprived upbringing as I.  Which brings me to my next point.  When did I unknowingly become an almost exact replica of my parents (with young children) and feel the need to restrict/control the television in my own household?     

Well.  As I ponder the answer to this point – and whether, by the end of my series of television posts, I’m likely to apologise to little madam and little man for preventing them from ever being witness to Saturday morning bugs bunny and daffy duck toons (or is something else clogging up the airwaves on Saturday mornings these days?) - I’d like to ask whether any of you are, like me, slightly neurotic about the idiot box?  Am I the only one with a family who avoided the television like one would avoid the plague during their upbringing?  Please, for the sake of my own sanity, tell me I’m not alone! 

A cow-reffying experience

Well it’s official.  Little man has had his first, and last, cow encounter.  Why’s that, you ask?  Well.  It began on a day like any other.  Actually.  It wasn’t just any day.  It was the day of little madam’s fourth birthday.  The same day we decided to take little madam and little man to a nice friendly animal farm just on the outskirts of Melbourne.  After all, what better thing to do to celebrate a four year olds birthday.  Not to mention a great outing for little man, who’s similar to his older sister in that he shares a real love and fascination for all creatures great and small.  Well.  That was before he had a close encounter with a rather large and hungry cow.

We were having a ball to begin with.  Little madam patted a range of friendly animals, had her first pony ride and even got to handle a couple of rabbits and a guinea pig.  And little man had a terrific time throwing around – then rolling around in – a heap of hay and sawdust in the animal pens.  He even took the opportunity to dip his hand and have a splash in a few of the animal’s drinking water buckets.  But the real fun began when we decided to take the so-called “feed trail” armed with a loaf of wholemeal bread that we were given on the way in to the farm.  And, although the signs ensured we understood that feeding the kangaroos was forbidden, apparently feeding the cows was not. 



Hello down there...do you have some food for me?

Admittedly, I’ve never in my life come close enough to a cow to actually feed it.  And it’s amazing how their long and warm – yet rather slimy - tongues literally leave their mouths to grab hold of the bread.  And it’s even more amazing – and perhaps a little gross too – how much slobber gets on your hand in the process.  I suppose, if you think about, the slobber could be the cow’s way of saying “thank you” for the food.  But the grossness of the slobber, or the larger than life tongues, didn’t deter little madam or little man from getting in and having a go at this fascinating feeding exercise. 

Yum yum...slobber slobber

Thankfully, little madam managed a couple of slices without a problem, and little man had no trouble on his first go.  But second time round, little man caught sight of the massive tongue making its way towards him and panicked slightly.  Or so it seemed.  I assumed the tears, which erupted after the cow had snatched the second slice of bread from little man’s hand, had been brought on by the fright he’d gotten from realising that the cow’s tongue was nearly bigger than he was.  And, naturally, I giggled a little at his over-the-top reaction.  I regretted laughing later though when I noticed a small graze on little man’s hand, and realised the cow had actually taken an unintentional nibble only seconds before the tears began.  Whoops! 

Check out the chompers on this one!!  OUCH!!

Thankfully, I'm pleased to say that no real harm was done.  But I’m pretty sure little man will think twice before he decides to offer food to a hungry cow.  Although given I’m almost thirty-five and this is the first time I’ve fed a cow, little man might forget the bad experience before he gets the chance to do it again.  With any luck, anyway!

Thanks, little man, for being brave in the face of such a large and sharp-toothed beast.  Sorry I wasn’t more sympathetic with you at the time.  Love you!

The cute car-ride comment

I want to share a rather funny comment my almost four-year-old little madam came out with in the car a couple of days ago.  Well.  The actual thing that led to the comment happened about a week ago when little madam, little man and I were on our way home from our weekly supermarket shopping expedition.  There we were, driving along, trying to get home before the ice-cream melted, when we turned into a street (where the speed limit was fifty kilometres per hour) only to find ourselves stuck behind a loony learner driver who, in his/her quest to pick up the rather difficult skill of driving a car, was doing less than thirty kilometres-per-hour.  Well.  Although I’d consider myself to be a responsible mother driver, who drives a responsible motherish car (a Subaru Forester...and not a turbo-charged one either) - and someone who’s given up their hooning ways and tends to stick to the speed limit more often than not - come on people!  I’m sorry, but even my car (which is far from being the super-speedy sports mobile I dream of owning) almost stalls if it’s forced to travel at a ridiculous thirty-kilometres per hour!  So, naturally, my first instinct was to mutter a few words of disgust at the fact that I was now forced to slow the car to a speed that I could almost walk faster than. 

Now little madam - who was sitting quietly in the back at the time and doesn’t normally go a single moment without questioning everything that goes on around her (she’s going through the “what” and “why” stage at the moment) - was no way going to let my muttering pass without asking, “What’s wrong mummy?”  After realising that my muttering had drawn the attention of little madam, and suddenly becoming aware of the horrible and impatient behaviour I was displaying, I sighed and then explained to little madam that the person driving the car in front of us – the one with the big yellow “L” sign attached to the back – was learning to drive.  Then I went on to explain, while reminding myself at the same time, that I also drove slowly, like the person who was driving the car in front of us, while I was learning to drive many years ago.   

And after a much slower journey than I’m used to, I’m pleased to report that we eventually reached home before the ice-cream melted all over the boot of the car; only just anyway.

Then a couple of days ago, as I pulled out of our street, with little madam and little man in the back again, I found myself repeating my behaviour from the previous week, and muttering disgustedly as I was, once again, forced (in a fifty-kilometre zone) to drop my speed down to around thirty-kilometres-per-hour.  And, despite the fact the car in front did not have a big yellow “L” sign displayed on the back of it, a very astute little madam leaned across from her seat, peered out the front window, and asked, “Mummy, is that person learning to drive?”   Naturally, as you can imagine, I forgot my annoyance quicker than I could put my foot down and increase my speed as soon as the slow-coach in front turned off. 

Hmmm.  This sign might have been well-placed on the back of the car I was behind a couple of days ago.

Or perhaps this one might have been more appropriate!

Thanks, little madam, for giving me something to cackle at in the car.  I guess I should try and take this as a lesson to be a little more patient and tolerant.  Love you! 

Whoops.  Perhaps I should wear a sign like this myself sometimes.  After all, a lesson in patience and tolerance probably wouldn't go astray... 

When, “Where was I?” became a very difficult-to-answer question

I never anticipated that the fun task of showing little madam (who’s now three-and-three-quarters) through some of my old photograph albums, could end up in a tearful and extremely difficult Q&A session.  I mean who would have thought that, as a mother, such a fun experience could have ended so....um...well - thanks to my complete and utter inability to know how to respond to little madam’s rather difficult question -awkwardly. 

The experience began rather well.  After all, it was terrific to see little madam’s rather astonished face when I pointed out photos of people she knows - including her Oma and Opa (that’s Grandma and Grandpa to those who aren’t familiar with the German language) - in some rather old photos.  And it was amazing to watch her excitedly point out people she recognised as we turned the pages of each album, despite the fact that many of the faces have changed over time.     

But the fun didn’t last, I’m afraid.  As we made it through the albums, and eventually stumbled upon our old – well, not that old really – wedding album (an album in which she once again recognised the faces of friends and family) this difficult-to-answer-question came about: “Where was I?”  Well, of course, at first it didn’t seem like that difficult-a-question to answer.  But unfortunately my simple, yet rather blunt, reply of, “You weren’t around then”, wasn’t the right (or perhaps “best” is a better word) answer.  As although immediately, after a short moment of confusion, little madam stopped frowning and looked as though she understood, when she came back at me with, “Oh! Was I at Oma and Opa’s?” I realised that little madam "understood" as well as little man understands the word "No!"     

"Mummy...where was I?"

Now, given that a couple of pages earlier she’d actually seen Oma and Opa in a photo at the wedding, I decided I’d better not beat around the bush (in case it caused more confusion) and answered – a little less confidently, this time - with, “No.  Oma and Opa were at our wedding.  You hadn’t been born yet.”  Well.  Talk about a bad reaction.  I mean it was obvious a second later, when tears filled little madam’s eyes, and she shouted out a rather distressed, “But...but...I need a mum!” that the whole matter of a world without her (and life before her arrival) is way beyond the scope of a three-and-three-quarter year old's understanding.    

"How dare a world exist without ME in it!"

Thankfully, though - after I laughed (unintentionally) at little madam’s distress, along with the apparent difficulty she faced with having to comprehend a world without her in it (it’s ironic, after all, as even I have a huge amount of difficulty remembering what life was like without her around – she and little man are my world, after all) – little madam was distracted away from the photo albums and she forgot her little conundrum.  And I, at the same time, was able to avoid any more difficult-to-answer questions for the time being. 

To mummy's relief, little madam busies herself with another task...PHEW!

   

Could I have done a better job answering little madam’s question?  Was I wrong to feel extremely relieved when little madam was distracted away from the photos and forgot her worries altogether.  Absolutely!  I’m sure of it!  But if you ask me how I could have done a better job at dealing with the situation, I honestly wouldn’t be able to tell you (which I guess this means this would be an equally as difficult-to-answer question).  For now though, until someone can tell me how to better respond to such a difficult-to-answer-question, I think I’ll keep the photo albums out of sight.

Thanks, little madam, for giving me another amazing thing to ponder.  Love you! 

The BOO BOO that became a BIG BOO!



Whoops!  I've made a boo boo!

 
This story isn’t quite like my other posts.  I mean it isn’t actually about parenting as such.  It’s about the potential to parent; the potential to parent not just two, but three children.  Yes.  That’s right.  THREE!  As this, for a very long week-or-so (for some unexplained reason), was what I thought I was going to have to do.  Yes.  Although I am in my thirties (and not some careless teenager...no offence to teenagers), I honestly thought (for that very long week-or-so) I (with the help of my lovely other half, of course) had made one very large and terrifying boo boo.

Towards the end of this very long week-or-so, when the panic really started to set it, I don’t know what was worse.  Knowing that I’d have to explain to my shocked (and possibly somewhat horrified) family and friends, that the shop (the same shop that I’d said after little man was born nineteen months ago...the shop that is also known as my own “baby making shop”) was well and truly closed for business.  This is also the same shop that I swore black and blue would NEVER again reopen.  And, on top of this, knowing that I’d have to explain to these same family and friends, that although this could be described as an accident, my own view on the situation put it in an entirely different category.  The category of stupidity. 

Now I won’t go into details, in case there are youngsters reading, but my other half and I have been using the same method of contraception for years (many, many, many years before the arrival of little madam and little man, anyway).  And on top of that, this method of contraception had to be well and truly put on hold (no pun intended), in order for us to be able to finally announce the imminent arrival of both little madam and little man.  So call me naive, but it was only after I Googled our particular choice of contraception that I discovered (with a large and impossible to swallow lump in my throat) that 6% of women still fall pregnant using the very method of contraception that’s been keeping me “safe” for years!  Surely not!  Well.  As they say, “You learn something new every day!”  I mean, is the only real way to avoid falling pregnant to avoid doing the deed altogether?  Goodness me!  What has the world come to? 

But perhaps, worse than this – worse than having to reveal to my family and friends my stupidity - was coming to terms with the very real realisation that my house – the one currently occupied by myself, my other half, little madam and little man – was already far too small for its four occupants.  And that the two solutions to this very small (well three-bedroom, anyway) problem – being either 1.  Buy a bigger house, or 2.  Put on an extension - were going to be well and truly unattainable thanks to our current financial situation; which is thanks, by the way, largely due to the fact that the shop (you know, the baby making one) has been opened for the last few years.



Now this is a bit of a worry!

Now I admit after sobbing on the couch at five-am, in front of my early-rising husband while he hurriedly dressed for work, and muttering something along the lines of, “This isn’t what I had planned for my life” – as though adding another little someone-or-other into our current mix was going to be the worst thing in the world – and then having to deal with my own thoughts after he bolted, with a rather worried look on his face, out the door (he did call me later, by the way, to say “Whatever happens, don’t worry, everything’s going to be fine”), I did come to terms slightly with the idea.  And believe it or not, by the time my rather late signal (the monthly signal that confirms a pregnancy is definitely NOT on the cards) I had even begun to think that having a third might be actually something great.  I mean, my mum did it.  And I love the fact that I have not one, but two terrific siblings.  And I know a couple of people that have three – and a couple that even have more than this -and they’re not so badly off.  They actually are (or seem, at least) really happy.   AIso.  Believe it or not I really love kids (especially my two little treasures who I adore to death) and babies are the bees knees.  So, I guess I think I might even have been a tad disappointed when I finally received confirmation that the above scenario wasn’t actually to be.  Despite my initial dread-filled reaction.

Oh.  But don’t worry.  To those reading this and thinking, “She can’t be seriously considering another”, rest assured, I’m not!  I’m actually planning an overdue trip to the doc’s in the next couple of weeks to make damn sure I don’t have to go through any drastic steps (such as avoiding the deed altogether) to ensure my shop (yep, the baby making one) remains closed; for now anyway.               

Thanks...um...to Google I guess.  For teaching me something new today!  

Phew!  What a relief!

Parenting lesson number 1567...

Here's a brief lesson for all you parents:  Never give your nineteen month old son the car keys (then close the door) to distract him while you attempt to load the shopping, pram and a hundred other things, into the boot.  Would you like to know the reason this lesson became obvious to me only yesterday?  Because yesterday, I did this exact thing (ie. gave my nineteen-month old little man the car keys to distract him, then closed the door, while I attempted to tend to the job of loading a pile of stuff into the boot of the car) and the clever little sod managed - only a second after the thud of the car door closing echoed into my ears - to push the lock button on the car key.  I know what you're thinking?  How stupid is this woman?  But honestly - and I dread to think of the consequences of such an action in the middle of a sweltering summer day - I've done this heaps of times before.  Given little man the keys, that is.  And, I'm pleased to report, he's never managed to press the lock button.  Until now that is.  Well.  You can imagine the state I was suddenly in.  All of a sudden, my nineteen-month old son has locked me out of the car...and locked himself and his sister in.  The latter, being my three-and-a-half year old little madam, is the reason I can now laugh at this scenario and put it behind me.  Because, it didn't seem to matter how clear my instructions were (given the pressure I was suddenly under), little man was not going to be able to (no matter how clever or nimble his fingers are) find the much smaller button on the key that would have unlocked the door. 

Eventually though, after shouting "Press the unlock button!" a number of times (and realising this was getting me no closer to solving my conundrum) I went around to the other side of the car and shouted a different instruction to a rather shocked and confused looking little madam.  And, thankfully (despite the fact that she's never in her life had to unlock a car), after only a few attempts, she managed to push the unlock button and I was able to promptly open the door.  And, naturally, reach over little madam and yank the set of keys clutched firmly in the very nimble fingers of little man, so they were once again in my possession.  Phew! 

Thanks, little man, for teaching me this very valuable parenting lesson.  I can't believe, in hindsight, how easily the mistake was made!  Love you!

Regression; or was it just a case of deliberate defiance?

Sorry.  I know it's been a while since you’ve heard from me.  Believe me, my absence from blogging has not been by choice.  I've just been flat out. And, on top of being just regularly flat-out running around taking the kids to their various activities, running around to try to get things done myself, and running around the house to try and keep on top of the mess (and the operative word here is “ try” because I’m not all that successful at this), I recently found myself at the local Maternal & Child Health Centre for little man’s eighteen-month check-up, and little madam’s three-and-a-half year check-up.  And, despite the fact little madam’s check-up was a couple of months overdue, in an effort to reduce the strain on my already chaotic schedule, I decided I’d delay little madam’s check-up slightly so I could take little man and little madam together. 

Well.  I realised almost as soon as the appointment began, that organising an hour long appointment for little man and little madam to have their particulars checked, was most definitely not my best move.  In fact it was apparent as soon as I sat down to begin my brief chat with the lovely Maternal Child Health Nurse (MCHN), when little madam began to crawl around the floor in an effort to imitate little man (the little man before he started walking, at least), I should have found a separate time in my busy schedule for each of their appointments. 

Perhaps the MCHN sensed my dismay because, in an effort to get little madam off the floor, the MCHN - who had strategically placed a few coloured pencils and a piece of paper on the small table in the centre of the room - asked little madam to draw a picture.  Well.  Not only did little madam refuse with a rather defiant “No.  I don’t want to!” she did so in a tone of voice that I could only describe as babyish. 

The drama continued when little madam decided to again raise the eyebrows of the MCHN by throwing the small plastic tea-set, that the MCHN had pulled out for her to play with, around the room.  And, despite my gentle request of, “Why don’t you make me a cup of tea...”, she, again, exercised her defiance by refusing, and continued to toss the plastic cups and plates around the room.  Well, I’m pretty sure by the time we finished with little man’s check-up, the MCHN had more than one concern about little madam’s behaviour; perhaps she even felt that I’d booked her in for her three-and-a-half year check-up prematurely.  

Never-the-less, the appointment continued and little madam’s assessment began.  As expected, it didn’t begin all that well.  First, little madam refused to participate in the eye-test.  Well.  Actually.  Her initial protests of, “I can’t do it!” had me a little worried.  Perhaps she really was struggling to see the cards the MCHN was holding up from the other side of the room.  Thankfully, though, it turned out that little madam was, in fact, just demonstrating her defiance once again.  As, after a few protests on her behalf, she eventually complied and was able to complete the test successfully.  Phew!

I was so relieved at the end of the hour long ordeal – as little man wasn’t exactly fantastically well-behaved either, and I found myself, towards the end, having to wrestle one of the small wooden chairs off him after he threatened to tip it over rather forcefully – that I’ve made a vow never to attempt a double appointment with the MCHN again; unless, of course, I can go alone.   Not likely though is it? 

Thanks little madam for showing your true colours to the MCHN.  I really was hoping you’d leave your defiant side at home that day!  Love you! 

The Secret De-Clutter

I've been asking myself the same questions, numerous times over the last several months.  "Where on earth did I put that thing last?"  "Why can't I seem to find it anywhere?" Of course, I'm referring to objects around the house - and a rather vast range of objects, at that - when I ask these questions.  Objects such as the egg whisk, some pieces of one of little madam's puzzles, bottles of rather expensive, nice-smelling hair product from the bathroom cupboard, soft toys, blocks...the list goes on.  And, as you can see, quite a list it is. 

Interestingly enough, although I've had the sense to turn the house upside down in my quest to find the various missing objects, I lacked the sense - for some reason or another - to look in the one place little man, over the last several months, has shown quite a fondness for.  No. I'm not talking about the toilet, for those who read my very first post titled, "The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Handset."  Thankfully, little man's obsession with the toilet seems to have died off recently.  And what a relief this is, too.  After all, as a walking - or should I say, running - and constantly on -the-go busy little eighteen-month-old, he can get his hands on a lot more things than the telephone handset these days.  Which brings me back to the original point of my story. 

As I was saying, the one place I'd forgotten to look, in my quest to find missing things, was the bin.  Of course, for those who've also gotten around to read another of my earlier posts (one titled "What a load of RUBBISH! The Terrible Sin Involving The Poor Kitchen Bin"), his bin infatuation will come as no surprise.  But, like the toilet, I honestly thought he'd moved on, to bigger and better things.  Things like the washing basket - where, of late, I've managed to rescue a few misplaced items before they've ended up in the machine, including some crayons and sheets of paper which, I'm certain, would have been quite disastrous for any clothes they ended up being washed with - and even outside in the garden.  Oh.  And I mustn't forget to mention the bath. Unfortunately, poor Charlie Bear - little man's favourite of all soft toys - ended up having to participate, rather unwillingly I'd say, in a swimming lesson in a tub full of hot water (it was in the process of being filled for little man and little madam's bath) only a few nights ago.   

So, as you can imagine, with so many other wonderful places around the house to hide/place/toss things, it hasn't really occurred to me to check the bin recently, when conducting a search of the premises for a missing object.  The other day, however, when my husband located the roll of bin lining bags -purple in colour, with a lovely lavender scent - lying patiently awaiting discovery in the kitchen bin, I realised how stupid I'd been.  Why of course.  The bloody bin!

Suddenly, my questions have been answered.  Now I know exactly what's happened to the missing pieces of the puzzle, the missing toys, the kitchen utensils, and even my bottles of expensive hair-product.  They've all been unfortunate enough to end up at the tip!  And long before their used-by-dates I might add.  Well, I guess I could never accuse little man of having, like little madam in my last post, hoarding tendencies.  And in a house the size of ours (which is rather small, I might add) it's not such a bad thing.  Even if little man's de-cluttering has involved disposing of a full bottle of Moroccan Hair Oil.  Ouch!

Thanks, little man, for taking the initiative to clean out the bathroom cupboard, and kitchen drawer, and etc.  I suppose, given the state of my hectic life recently, I probably wouldn't have gotten around to using any of that hair stuff anyway.  Love you! 

The Young Hoarder

It’s amazing how many junky little bits and bobs accumulate around the house; particularly when you’ve got kids.  Yes, thanks to the good-old McDonald’s Happy Meal, cheap, tacky Christmas crackers, and lolly bags crammed full of plastic whistles that don’t sound, my house has, at times, resembled nothing more than the shelves of a $2 shop.  Thankfully, little madam’s toy-box (an amazing invention, the toy-box) has played (in the three-and-a-half years-or-so, that it has been in our possession), a huge part in helping to rid the house of much of the clutter.  So, every time I get sick and tired of seeing crappy McDonald’s Happy Meal toys, and the like, scattered around, I find myself on a mission to eliminate the clutter these small - and more-often-than-not completely junky - toys  seem to create in an otherwise relatively normal, yet still chaotic, home. 

Unfortunately, the downside to toy-boxes is they aren’t – like Mary Poppin’s amazing carpet bag – bottomless pits.  And the other day, when I tried to find room for the latest collection of plastic fantastic toys in little madam's toy-box - and after I realised the toy-box wasn’t going to close with ease due to the immense collection of stuff that seems to have built up over the years, I decided it was time for a spring clean (or perhaps early autumn clean, if you go by the actual seasons). 

What a great opportunity, I thought to myself.  A great opportunity to teach little madam that cleaning and de-cluttering is just as important as accumulating.  Great opportunity my a**!  As, what began as a mission to eliminate some of little madam's junk, almost turned into an ordeal which, if captured on film, I'm certain would have been a terrific addition to the latest season of that fascinating (yet sometimes horrifying) show, Hoarders.  For those who aren't, like me, completely addicted to crap television, this is an American series that's aired on one of those new channels (not sure if it's 73 or 90) every-now-and-then, late at night, about people who actually have real-life hoarding issues.  Yes.  Little madam, it seems, is quite the hoarder.  Unlike me, who is keen to throw out just about everything in sight when the mood strikes. 

Anyway, so on this particular Autumn day, after convincing little madam that her toy-box was well and truly overdue for a clean-out, we began the task of attempting to select a few items to dispose of .  I think, all up, I suggested that little madam select ten things, and this was in addition to all the little crappy junky toys. 

Unfortunately, as we began slowly sorting through the mass of toys, it soon became clear that this wasn't going to be as easy as I'd first anticipated.  As, not only was little madam rather insistent that she was in no way willing to part with the plastic cockatoo that came in last month's happy meal, she was also rather adamant – to the point of tears, I might add – that she couldn’t possibly survive without the handful of plastic insects, a handful-or-so of small plastic bits and pieces, and the array of plastic smurfs  – including a revolting wind-up one that spins around on the ground, but looks rather odd, like a break-dancer with dislocated elbows – despite the fact they haven’t been looked at since the day our house was graced with their presence.

It was at this point, that I began to lose patience.  Well, perhaps I began to lose it the minute she refused to let me chuck out those damn insects.  So I decided I’d force her to make a decision, by giving her an ultimatum.  Well.  Not a very clever move on my part because, when I asked little madam to choose for the tiny chuck-out pile, between a beautiful musical Steiff bear – which was a gift from one of our overseas relatives, and something I NEVER EVER thought she’d part with – and a bloody two-dollar shop tiara and wand, I nearly fell over in shock (although I shouldn’t have I guess) when she opted to add the Steiff bear to the chuck-out pile!  Aaagghh!  Needless to say, it wasn’t too long later that the mission was aborted.  You’ll be pleased to know that the lovely musical Steiff bear was secretly (by me) returned to the toy-box as soon as the ordeal was over. 

As you can imagine, the toy-box remains an overflowing nightmare.  Funnily enough, I was reliving the experience with a friend a few days later, and complaining about little madam’s hoarding tendencies, and she very kindly and wisely told me that I would only be successful in achieving my mission of ridding little madam’s toy-box of all the clutter, if she was far from the task.  I wish I’d realised this before.  See.  As I’ve said many times before, a little bit of foresight would have gone a long way.  So I can assure you, with this being the case, next time I decide to conduct a clean-out of little madam’s toy-box, I will complete my mission with great success; of course, I’ll be making certain little madam is out and about at the time.    

Thanks little madam, for making me realise that using your toy-box to help rid the house of clutter, is not exactly a wise move.  Love you!  

Bruises can be good medicine, too

It’s amazing how people – even rather little ones – work out ways to make others around them laugh.  And it’s even more amazing what lengths people – even rather little ones – will go to go make others around them laugh. 

For example, I was dressing little madam in little man’s room the other night, after dinner and a bath, and little man – who finally started walking (and I mean real, full-on walking) a few weeks ago – who was exploring his surroundings, began tugging at his lovely snugly cot blanket that was tucked firmly in amongst his bedding.  Because lately he’s been finding rolling around in blankets on the ground quite a bit of fun, I decided that rather than allow him to remove the rather large cot blanket  - because I had the foresight (yes, amazingly, I had some on this occasion) to realise that allowing him to drag his lovely snugly cot blanket around on the floor (the floor that I hadn’t gotten around to vacuuming in at least a week) was going to result in a rather grotty cot blanket; which, in turn, would have needed to be added to the pile of washing in the basket that seems to be capable of breeding better than a pack of rabbits – I decided to try and find a replacement.  So, after quickly scanning the room, I grabbed a smaller blanket and handed it to him. 

Thankfully, he was immediately pleased with my offering, and left the lovely snugly cot blanket alone.  But, instead of throwing the blanket onto the floor to begin his regular rolling game, he proceeded to drape it over his head.  And, despite the fact that the blanket was small, because little man isn’t that tall yet, the blanket draped over him practically covered him completely.  From behind, he looked like a miniature master Yoda (he’s a little green man in Star Wars, by the way), in fact.  Although unlike Master Yoda, little man’s face was no-where to be seen under his very own make-shift cape. 

Naturally, I was immediately enthralled by little man’s strange actions, so I stopped dressing little madam momentarily to observe his next movements.  And I couldn’t believe my eyes, when he started moving forward, despite the fact his vision completely hindered by the little blanket draped over him.  I was soon in disbelief, when little man took a few more wobbly steps and actually made it out of his room and into the hallway.  Unfortunately for him, this was as far as little man got.  Because he – probably as a result of the fact that he couldn’t see a thing - collided with the wall and was knocked off his feet.  I, along with little madam – who was witnessing the fascinating movements of the tiny ghost-like figure under the blanket – couldn’t help ourselves and we were both laughing, almost hysterically, before his backside hit the floor.  It was the funniest thing I’d seen in quite a while, that’s for sure. 

Then, only seconds after he landed, little man peeked from under his blanket, with a larger-than-normal grin across his little face, then stood up to do it all again.  And, although I’m absolutely certain he had no vision whatsoever – thanks to the blanket draped over his head – he managed to locate the small wooden block trolley and was next seen zooming down the hallway behind the trolley.    

As you can imagine, little man’s collision with the wall outside his room, wasn’t the only one he had that night.  And it wasn’t the only time little madam and I had a good laugh either.  Unfortunately for little man, the evidence of his over-the-top attempts to make us cackle, were obvious in the bruises he was covered in the following day.  And in addition to the regular bruises which he accumulates on a daily basis, as he continues to develop and practice the art of walking – with quite a few trips and falls along the way – he had the extra self-inflicted ones.  In fact, the poor bugger was so blue, he practically resembled the balls of an African Vervet Monkey. 

Thanks, little man, for the wonderful sideshow.  It’s really lovely to see you developing into such a great little comedian.  Love you!

Introducing Mummy's Parenting Proverbs

Why hello there.  This week, instead of my usual waffling (waffling that's intended to make those who have the time to read it laugh; a little or perhaps even a lot) I've decided to take this opportunity to introduce my new blog - Mummy's Parenting Proverbs.  What?  No more mad moments of motherhood? I hear you ask.  Don't worry.  I'll still be updating you with more mad moments on a regular basis but, in addition, I thought I'd also show you a different (perhaps a more visual - not to mention short and sharp) perspective of my life as a mother.  In my new blog, as well as having regular (hopefully weekly, as well) posts - in which I'll share with you a great number of phrases that I've come up with to highlight some of the fun (and not so fun) moments I have with my two wonderful children - I'll also be including some photos.  Please, if you have a spare minute (and for those who have children, believe me, I know how difficult that minute can be to find) check it out at:
www.parentingproverbs.blogspot.com

Drum roll, please! Announcing the winner of the bad parent award: Oh bugger...It's me!

What is this bad parent award everyone's talking about these days? I mean aren't we punishing ourselves enough for being terrible parents when, the truth really is, we're doing our best? Yeah, probably, but every now and then, even we (the bad parents) need some recognition for all our hard work, I guess. Unlike some, though, I have not won this week's bad parent award for leaving a sweet biscuit, or a piece of cake, in little madam's lunch box at kinder; although I definitely contemplated this, and would have, by now, if another "bad parent" didn't beat me to the punch and receive the, "no sweet biscuits, please" note from the kinder teacher. Thanks to you (and no, I'm not mentioning any names this time), I've managed (on this occasion, anyway) to avoid the guilt that's, no doubt, associated with this ho-hum, new-age, healthy approach to raising children we're all supposed to have adopted.
But, unlike you (the giver of sweet biscuits, and a piece of cake) I've taken out this week's bad parent award for...are you ready? Losing my temper. Ah yes. The joys of raising a threenager (this is a term I heard for the first time the other day, and I've been dying to use it because I think it's spot on, don't you?). A threenager (aka, little madam) who insists on making it her mission to throw every single punishment I've dared to dish out to her, straight back into my face. Punishments such as the use of time out - which in our house involves little madam being sent to her room - to give her time to calm down just a tad so I can begin to reason with her over the latest cause of her occasional misbehaviour. This punishment (or perhaps disciplinary tactic is a better term), I've only started resorting to fairly recently because little madam (although not always a perfectly behaved child....she is human, after all, and she has my genes, let us not forget), up until not that long ago (perhaps the dreaded threenage years are when it all began) has been a pretty well-behaved kid, and quite easy to distract. And, although for the most part, she's still a pretty well-behaved little lass, there have been times lately where I've needed to try a different strategy (different to distraction, that is) to deal with some of her rather frustrating (and quite normal, I'm assured) three-year-old behaviour. So began, in our house, the beginning of time-out.
Unfortunately - although the use of it has done its bit to diffuse some of the ridiculously unnecessary temper tantrums, and is terrific at allowing little madam to bring her rather over-zealous emotions down to the level of normal again - time-out has also been used as ammunition in little madam's rather growing desire to make me feel nothing more than a terrible, torturing parent. An example of this occurred only this morning, when I took little madam and little man to Playgroup. It was towards the end of the morning, after story-time, when a suggestion was made that the box of musical instruments make an appearance to aid in the final ritual of the session: the dreaded sing-along. Actually, the sing-along's not really that bad because there's usually a guy playing guitar, but unfortunately, he was absent on this occasion.
Anyhow. My frustration level reached a peak when little madam, who I'd only just praised a couple of minutes earlier for being a, "terrific sharer" (you see, I'd seen her hand a doll over to one of her friends, after her friend had asked for a hold, and felt that it warranted some recognition), refused to hand-over her musical instrument to the same friend, when she was asked (a few minutes after the start of her turn with this particular instrument) to do a swap.
After trying to negotiate with little madam, and assuring her that she'd get another turn of the instrument, she continued to hold her ground. And eventually, I was forced to tell her that if she wasn't going to share, we'd need to leave (it was only two-minutes till the end of Playgroup, anyway, so not that great-a-deal). I guess she sensed my annoyance, because she immediately started crying then, at the top of her lungs, began saying repeatedly, "I don't want to go to my room!" Can you please tell me when, in the above scenario, I told her she'd be going to her room? That's right! I didn't! But once again - as this was by no means NOT the first time she's used the same words in front of a crowd - little madam had chosen the punishment (or disciplinary tactic) I used the most, to try and make everyone around aware of what a terrible mother I am; a terrible mother who is responsible for frequently locking little madam in her room. Well, that's certainly how it sounded to me. And by the way, just for the record, I can almost count the number of times on one hand I've actually used time-out on little madam, so it's really not a frequent occurrence in our house; certainly not frequent enough to warrant her rather loud (and embarrassing at the time) plea.
Of course, I followed through with my intention. We left. But, it wasn't until I was securing her seatbelt, in a rather forceful manner, a few minutes later, that I became eligible for my award. As by the time we'd reached the car, and I'd settled little man into his seat (and, in the meantime, had to listen to little madam's near-constant wailing and the, "I don't want to go to my room", line another one-hundred times or so) I was more-than-a-little flustered. So as I did up little madam's seatbelt, rather quickly and firmly, she shouted, "DON'T BE ROUGH WITH ME!" I'll be honest. I was furious, at the time. Furious enough to have been a little, "rough", with her if this was, at all, my style. Although, to clear something up, I've never resorted to smacking, or using any form of force, in the past, and I'm fairly certain, by now, I never will.
Unfortunately, though, I realised, as I made my way round to my side of the car again and climbed in, I was being watched. And the observer - who then decided to make his presence known by turning on his car and headlights (it was day-time, too, mind you) - who had no doubt heard loud and clear little madam's "DON'T BE ROUGH WITH ME!" plea, decided to glare at me through his windscreen.

Oh the joys of raising children. As I drove home, and continued to endure little madam's nonsense from the back seat - which turned into a ridiculous level of noise when she realised I'd begun to ignore her (well, the best that anyone can ignore a screaming, shouting three-year-old) - I could almost picture myself, dressed in Versace, up on that stage, giving my speech, after accepting my bad parent award. "I'd especially like to thank you...the man in the black car...for glaring at me and making me feel like a terrible mother!" I bet he'd never had the pleasure of dealing with a threenager!

Thanks, little madam, for giving me the opportunity, once again, to win the bad parent award. I also really appreciate being able to refer to you as a threenager! Hahah! Love you!