Have you ever noticed that if you fart while your backside is parked on a plastic surface, the noise is much louder – and is far more effectively amplified – than if you fart when you're seated on a cushioned surface? No? Yes? Maybe? Perhaps you haven't taken much notice of this. Well. I know from experience - not my own experience, mind you - that this is definitely the case.
You see, not too long ago, my husband and I decided that it was time little madam – who’s three-and-a-half now – had her first cinema experience. So after agreeing on a suitable film, and dropping little man – who’s only fifteen-months and far too young to be expected to sit still for an entire film session – off at his Oma (Grandma) and Opa’s (Grandpa’s) place, we headed down to our nearest Village Cinema to catch a session of Happy Feet 2. It was such an exciting time for me - mainly because I'm a huge movie buff (well, I used to be pre-children, anyway) - and anticipation filled me as we queued for tickets, and enthusiasm gripped me, when little madam’s face lit up as we bought her very first bucket of popcorn and slushy drink from the candy-bar. Even the ride up the escalators was a new experience for me – even though I’ve ridden the same escalator many times in the past – because it was the first time I’d been accompanied by little madam. Then came the time, after handing our tickets to the cinema ticket-collector, for us to...well...as we’d arrived fifteen minutes before the session was about to begin...wait.
It was during this wait, while little madam had gone off with my husband to use the toilet – in the hope that a trip to the loo before the movie started would prevent any interruptions during the film (sadly, this backfired, by the way, as the minute she realised there was a "new" toilet to visit, there was no counting the number of times she then claimed she needed to go while the film was on) –that I spotted the stack of plastic (not cushioned...PLASTIC) booster seats just near the cinema entrance. Of course any parent who’s taking their child to the movie’s for the very first time, is going to see the benefit of being able to prop their child up on a booster seat so they, too, can enjoy the same view of the big screen as you. So I did what’s expected and collected one on my way into the cinema.
I guess you might be wondering, by now, why I emphasised the fact that the booster seat was plastic, and not cushioned. Well. Keep reading and you'll soon find out. As it wasn’t till after we – little madam (on her PLASTIC booster seat, of course), my husband and I, were settled in the cinema a short while later, and enjoying the previews to the up and coming flicks, that this story actually gets interesting.
Because the movie was a fairly recent release, and we'd chosen the middle of the school holidays to go, the cinema was rather full. So when little madam decided to let out her very first fart, with her backside nicely settled on the PLASTIC (not cushioned) booster seat, I was really regretting choosing such a busy time to take little madam to her very first film. And I was also of the opinion that it would be far better if Village had supplied cushioned, NOT PLASTIC, booster seats. Because the sound that reverberated off the plastic, at that very moment, was - despite the fact that we were in a noisy cinema - embarrassingly loud. I guess at that point, more than anything, I was really hoping people didn’t think it was me. And, to make it clear that it hadn’t been, I uttered a rather thunderous, “I beg your pardon, little madam!” Of course, even I had trouble keeping the smile off my face, and little madam, who finds farts just as funny as me, snickered involuntarily; even my husband shared in the joke and laughed quietly along. Unfortunately, though, she then decided that the best way to keep the joke going would be to let another one rip. And another. And another. Well. The only thing preventing the other cinema patrons from seeing the bright red flush in my cheeks at this point, was the fact that the cinema was pitch black. Damn those plastic booster seats!
Now the farting eventually stopped, I'm pleased to say (actually, it was interrupted by an imaginary urge to use the toilet, believe it or not). But not before she'd let at least ten noisy little rippers fly. And for those who know little madam as well as I do, you'll believe that this is no exaggeration. As from the time she was just a tiny little bub, she's been exceptionally good at releasing wind. Not that this was such a bad thing when she was little, because there's nothing more uncomfortable than being a bloated little baby with a wind-filled tummy. No. There was no crappy colic for my little madam. But unfortunately now, although I'm certain it still has its advantages for her (advantages like still not getting a sore tummy, for example), it can be a rather embarrassing habit. Especially if she chooses a place, like on top of a plastic booster seat inside a packed-out cinema, to practice it. Or perhaps, like a few days ago, a place like Oma's cosy and warm (particularly after little madam let a few go) lap.
Thanks, little madam, for sharing your frequent flatulence with us, and for making your first trip to the cinemas so memorable. You little ripper! Love you!
Friday, February 24, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
Cling on...cry...it’s time for crèche
A few weeks ago, I suffered a rather unexpected, and heightened, level of anxiety when, for the first time since my eldest child (little madam) was born, three-and-a-half years ago, I decided it was time to utilise the available services of the crèche at my gym. Yep. That’s right. A whole three-and-a-half years and I’ve never needed to utilise the services of my local childcare centre, occasional care centre, or even a dial-a-babysitter. And, although I have absolutely nothing against the idea of childcare, I guess I should consider myself one of the fortunate few that has a terrific support network around me (actually, a support network that consists only of my poor, exhausted - and possibly over-utilised parents and, on two occasions rather recently, my good friend, Terri, and her husband, Simon) which has enabled me to avoid childcare and all the little things – including the constant runny-noses, conjunctivitis and all-too-frequent bouts of vomit-inducing gastro – that come hand-in-hand with placing your child in an environment where they interact closely with other littlies and their under-developed immune systems. Not-to-mention the costs associated with having to use such a service.
So I guess, for me, when the decision was made just before Christmas last year to give the crèche at the gym a go – as without it, I was finding it rather difficult to make it more than one or two times a week, and because I rely far too much already on good-old Oma and Opa (my parents) and felt it was time I started to take a little of the reliance of them for a change. Besides, wouldn’t it be great for the kids to have a change of scenery and an alternative form of stimulation? – it was a pretty big deal for. Oh yes. And also for my two lovely children, who up until this point in time, had never before been left – not even for a minute – in the care of strangers.
As I was aware little madam and little man, might find it difficult to accept this new way of life, I started the process by actually spending a short while with them in the small crèche room at the gym – which is a lovely little space filled with toys and activities of all sorts – in order to prepare them slightly. Unfortunately, despite the preparation my two lovely children were offered – preparation most littlies don’t get – I (and them, too, of course) found the experience (that very first time left in the care of strangers) extremely difficult. It was also an experience that to set my heart racing before I even set foot on the treadmill to begin my workout.
I guess the first reason for this, was that little madam – yes, the little madam who’s never been left in unfamiliar territory - reacted rather badly; surprisingly badly, in fact. I honestly expected that she would accept the new experience much better than she did. And, given that she’s now three-and-a-half, her flying leap through the air, and attempt to claw her way along the carpet while the crèche supervisor (a lovely lady named Andrea) tried to peel her off the floor, was a little difficult to take. But little madam’s superman-like manoeuvre – along with her pleas and the tears she shed – wasn’t the only difficulty I faced.
You see, little man – who is a tad younger than little madam and, unfortunately, currently in the thick of his, “stranger danger”, phase – also reacted badly to my first attempt at leaving him in the care of a few complete strangers. And, although at first he was completely unaware of what was about to take place, he cottoned-on to the fact that I was about to leave him as soon as I attempted to hand him to one of the well-intentioned crèche ladies. So, not only did I have to contend with little madam’s incredible aero-acrobatic display, I also had to listen to little man’s terrified-sounding shriek, and watch his face distort in horror – which is the image that haunted me the entire time I tried to get my exercise that day – as I left the room. I assume it’s now obvious why my anxiety level was so high.
Now as you can imagine, I was a little...well, maybe a lot...put off by this experience, and I was reluctant to give it another go. But after receiving numerous assurances from friends, who’ve all been there (experienced childcare/crèche) before, I decided to try it out a second time. I guess I was thankful little madam avoided any incredible acrobatics, tears and pleas, and she managed her second time much better than her first. Unfortunately, though, little man didn’t. I believe he was even a little worse the second time around. And I think this is because he knew, the minute we set foot in the crèche room, what was in store for him. And prying his little hands – which had attached firmly around my neck – was not an enjoyable (or easy) task.
The third time, for little man, was similar to the second. Although, I was deluded enough to think he’d progressed slightly, as we made it into the room, and I managed to distract him with a toy for long enough for me to make it to the door. I was nearly outside before I heard his shriek; the shriek he gave once he, no doubt, realised he’d been tricked. Still, I was optimistic given I’d only heard his protest for a brief moment before I stepped out of the room, and because he’d allowed the distraction, so I went back a fourth time just the other day.
Unfortunately, things have gone south once again, because the minute he spotted the exterior of the gym building, as we pulled up in the car outside, he began his distressed-sounding shrieking. And, to be honest, he really didn’t stop carrying on (in my company, anyway) until we were on our way back out of the building an hour later. Although, I was assured by the lovely crèche ladies that he had settled for a short period after I’d left.
I guess I’m wondering, at this point, whether things will get any easier. But then I have to remind myself that, like most things in life, things have to get worse before they get better. And I’m as pleased as pineapple punch to report that, since her first experience, little madam has been going great-guns. She even started three-year-old kinder last week without a single tear, or any superman-like displays. So, despite the fact little man seems intent on making me feel like a horrible abandoning parent, for the one-hour-or-so a week I decide to leave him while I get my heart-rate moving on the treadmill at the gym, I will continue in the hope that little man will follow his big sister’s lead and accept his new fate, eventually.
Sorry, little man, for forcing you to experience the little “c” (aka. Crèche). I really am hoping you’ll get used to it sooner or later. If not, too bad because I really need the bloody exercise. Love you!
So I guess, for me, when the decision was made just before Christmas last year to give the crèche at the gym a go – as without it, I was finding it rather difficult to make it more than one or two times a week, and because I rely far too much already on good-old Oma and Opa (my parents) and felt it was time I started to take a little of the reliance of them for a change. Besides, wouldn’t it be great for the kids to have a change of scenery and an alternative form of stimulation? – it was a pretty big deal for. Oh yes. And also for my two lovely children, who up until this point in time, had never before been left – not even for a minute – in the care of strangers.
As I was aware little madam and little man, might find it difficult to accept this new way of life, I started the process by actually spending a short while with them in the small crèche room at the gym – which is a lovely little space filled with toys and activities of all sorts – in order to prepare them slightly. Unfortunately, despite the preparation my two lovely children were offered – preparation most littlies don’t get – I (and them, too, of course) found the experience (that very first time left in the care of strangers) extremely difficult. It was also an experience that to set my heart racing before I even set foot on the treadmill to begin my workout.
I guess the first reason for this, was that little madam – yes, the little madam who’s never been left in unfamiliar territory - reacted rather badly; surprisingly badly, in fact. I honestly expected that she would accept the new experience much better than she did. And, given that she’s now three-and-a-half, her flying leap through the air, and attempt to claw her way along the carpet while the crèche supervisor (a lovely lady named Andrea) tried to peel her off the floor, was a little difficult to take. But little madam’s superman-like manoeuvre – along with her pleas and the tears she shed – wasn’t the only difficulty I faced.
You see, little man – who is a tad younger than little madam and, unfortunately, currently in the thick of his, “stranger danger”, phase – also reacted badly to my first attempt at leaving him in the care of a few complete strangers. And, although at first he was completely unaware of what was about to take place, he cottoned-on to the fact that I was about to leave him as soon as I attempted to hand him to one of the well-intentioned crèche ladies. So, not only did I have to contend with little madam’s incredible aero-acrobatic display, I also had to listen to little man’s terrified-sounding shriek, and watch his face distort in horror – which is the image that haunted me the entire time I tried to get my exercise that day – as I left the room. I assume it’s now obvious why my anxiety level was so high.
Now as you can imagine, I was a little...well, maybe a lot...put off by this experience, and I was reluctant to give it another go. But after receiving numerous assurances from friends, who’ve all been there (experienced childcare/crèche) before, I decided to try it out a second time. I guess I was thankful little madam avoided any incredible acrobatics, tears and pleas, and she managed her second time much better than her first. Unfortunately, though, little man didn’t. I believe he was even a little worse the second time around. And I think this is because he knew, the minute we set foot in the crèche room, what was in store for him. And prying his little hands – which had attached firmly around my neck – was not an enjoyable (or easy) task.
The third time, for little man, was similar to the second. Although, I was deluded enough to think he’d progressed slightly, as we made it into the room, and I managed to distract him with a toy for long enough for me to make it to the door. I was nearly outside before I heard his shriek; the shriek he gave once he, no doubt, realised he’d been tricked. Still, I was optimistic given I’d only heard his protest for a brief moment before I stepped out of the room, and because he’d allowed the distraction, so I went back a fourth time just the other day.
Unfortunately, things have gone south once again, because the minute he spotted the exterior of the gym building, as we pulled up in the car outside, he began his distressed-sounding shrieking. And, to be honest, he really didn’t stop carrying on (in my company, anyway) until we were on our way back out of the building an hour later. Although, I was assured by the lovely crèche ladies that he had settled for a short period after I’d left.
I guess I’m wondering, at this point, whether things will get any easier. But then I have to remind myself that, like most things in life, things have to get worse before they get better. And I’m as pleased as pineapple punch to report that, since her first experience, little madam has been going great-guns. She even started three-year-old kinder last week without a single tear, or any superman-like displays. So, despite the fact little man seems intent on making me feel like a horrible abandoning parent, for the one-hour-or-so a week I decide to leave him while I get my heart-rate moving on the treadmill at the gym, I will continue in the hope that little man will follow his big sister’s lead and accept his new fate, eventually.
Sorry, little man, for forcing you to experience the little “c” (aka. Crèche). I really am hoping you’ll get used to it sooner or later. If not, too bad because I really need the bloody exercise. Love you!
Friday, February 10, 2012
Why it sucks to be a Libran
Being a typical Libran, I have a terrible time making decisions. And I’ve discovered, as a parent in particular, decisions are something that have to be made on a daily basis. So with this being the case, I’ve had to improve my poor decision-making skills quite significantly. However, every now and then - when I get the chance anyway - I tend to slip back into my old Libran ways, and try to find ways to avoid making decisions altogether.
I guess one of the downsides to slipping back into my old indecisive habits is that I often get into trouble. Particularly when I try and use my children (well, at the moment it’s just little madam because little man’s still a little too young to have his say) to make decisions for me. An example of this happened recently, when I went online to shop for some labels for little madam’s kinder gear. Well, the array of labels available – with labels of every colour and size imaginable, not-to-mention designs from almost every animal in existence, television and book characters, and even a range of more simple ones – sent me (the typical indecisive Libran) into a frenzy of inability; inability to decide, that is. Miraculously, deciding on the colour wasn’t difficult. After all, it’s a well-known fact that little madam’s favourite colour is green. But when it came to choosing a logo for the labels, and with so much choice available, I was having all sorts of difficulty; I felt like I was in a restaurant, with a really expansive menu. And I was just about to give up on the task altogether, when I spotted the butterfly. Well, I know little madam is a definite fan of butterflies (particularly as she has a butterfly cushion she sleeps with at night) so the choice was almost made. But just I was about to click on the butterfly to confirm my choice, my eyes caught sight of the symbol next to the butterfly; it was an owl. Well, as you can imagine, the dilemma I now found myself in, was unbearable. After all, little madam’s favourite character (and one of mine, too) is none other than Hoot the Owl. The same Hoot the Owl that stars on little madam’s very cute kinder backpack, lunchbox and drink bottle. And, although the owl symbol available to accompany the label wasn’t exactly Hoot, it was very, very sweet indeed.
It was as I sat there agonising over a choice I couldn’t, for the life of me, make, that I made the decision (or perhaps mistake is a better word) to rid myself of the terrible task of having to choose between the butterfly and the owl symbol for the label. So I summoned little madam to come to my aid, and asked her to help with the task of choosing her very first labels for kinder. Surprisingly, after only a small amount of hesitation – you see, little madam is far from being an indecisive Libran – she pointed at the choices in front of her, and made known her decision. It was at this moment that I realised I had left on display, in addition to the lovely little owl and the butterfly symbol, a few other symbols too. And it was then that I realised that she had her finger very adamantly pointed on – no, not the owl or the butterfly - none other than a black, wiry spider. I guess she mistook the look of panic across my face as confusion, because she then very clearly verbalised that she wanted, “the spider.”
Right then, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I guess, although I’ve got nothing against our little eight-legged friends, I really didn’t feel as though they would make a particularly nice label for little madam’s small selection of gear required for kinder. So I started the somewhat lengthy (which can often be quite difficult) negotiation process. “What about the butterfly? It’s just like your butterfly...” I tried. She shook her head. “I want the spider.” “But the owl looks just like Hoot”, I blurted out, desperate for little madam to change her mind. But again, she shook her head and reiterated her decision. “I want the spider.”
Naturally, my frustration and annoyance grew, as the negotiation continued for several minutes, before I was eventually forced, by little madam’s adamant insistence, to purchase the revolting spider labels. I wasn’t frustrated or annoyed at little madam, by the way. Just at myself for being such an indecisive sap! And as a result, I was now expecting, in a few short days, an envelope filled with icky spider labels. Not that they were all that bad. And I guess the positive to these labels was no-one could accuse little madam of being a sheep; after all, how many other little girls are into spiders?
I am relieved to say, that although I’d made and paid for the purchase of spider labels, after making it my mission to try and convince little madam to change her mind, I succeeded. Thankfully, I e-mailed the label company and asked to change the order, in typical Libran fashion – although I’m embarrassed to say I blamed the change of heart on little madam - and, to my relief it wasn’t too late. And a few days later an envelope arrived with an order of lovely little owl labels.
Phew! Hopefully this experience will be a firm reminder to myself every time I am tempted to be taken over by indecisiveness; although, as I’ve said many times before, some lessons are too quickly forgotten when you’re a human being. And, not-to-mention, a Libran who absolutely hates making decisions.
Thanks, little madam, for reminding me why I need to stop being such an indecisive fool. Sorry I talked you out of the spider labels; I hope this doesn’t deter you from continuing to express your individuality in the future. Love you!
I guess one of the downsides to slipping back into my old indecisive habits is that I often get into trouble. Particularly when I try and use my children (well, at the moment it’s just little madam because little man’s still a little too young to have his say) to make decisions for me. An example of this happened recently, when I went online to shop for some labels for little madam’s kinder gear. Well, the array of labels available – with labels of every colour and size imaginable, not-to-mention designs from almost every animal in existence, television and book characters, and even a range of more simple ones – sent me (the typical indecisive Libran) into a frenzy of inability; inability to decide, that is. Miraculously, deciding on the colour wasn’t difficult. After all, it’s a well-known fact that little madam’s favourite colour is green. But when it came to choosing a logo for the labels, and with so much choice available, I was having all sorts of difficulty; I felt like I was in a restaurant, with a really expansive menu. And I was just about to give up on the task altogether, when I spotted the butterfly. Well, I know little madam is a definite fan of butterflies (particularly as she has a butterfly cushion she sleeps with at night) so the choice was almost made. But just I was about to click on the butterfly to confirm my choice, my eyes caught sight of the symbol next to the butterfly; it was an owl. Well, as you can imagine, the dilemma I now found myself in, was unbearable. After all, little madam’s favourite character (and one of mine, too) is none other than Hoot the Owl. The same Hoot the Owl that stars on little madam’s very cute kinder backpack, lunchbox and drink bottle. And, although the owl symbol available to accompany the label wasn’t exactly Hoot, it was very, very sweet indeed.
It was as I sat there agonising over a choice I couldn’t, for the life of me, make, that I made the decision (or perhaps mistake is a better word) to rid myself of the terrible task of having to choose between the butterfly and the owl symbol for the label. So I summoned little madam to come to my aid, and asked her to help with the task of choosing her very first labels for kinder. Surprisingly, after only a small amount of hesitation – you see, little madam is far from being an indecisive Libran – she pointed at the choices in front of her, and made known her decision. It was at this moment that I realised I had left on display, in addition to the lovely little owl and the butterfly symbol, a few other symbols too. And it was then that I realised that she had her finger very adamantly pointed on – no, not the owl or the butterfly - none other than a black, wiry spider. I guess she mistook the look of panic across my face as confusion, because she then very clearly verbalised that she wanted, “the spider.”
Right then, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I guess, although I’ve got nothing against our little eight-legged friends, I really didn’t feel as though they would make a particularly nice label for little madam’s small selection of gear required for kinder. So I started the somewhat lengthy (which can often be quite difficult) negotiation process. “What about the butterfly? It’s just like your butterfly...” I tried. She shook her head. “I want the spider.” “But the owl looks just like Hoot”, I blurted out, desperate for little madam to change her mind. But again, she shook her head and reiterated her decision. “I want the spider.”
Naturally, my frustration and annoyance grew, as the negotiation continued for several minutes, before I was eventually forced, by little madam’s adamant insistence, to purchase the revolting spider labels. I wasn’t frustrated or annoyed at little madam, by the way. Just at myself for being such an indecisive sap! And as a result, I was now expecting, in a few short days, an envelope filled with icky spider labels. Not that they were all that bad. And I guess the positive to these labels was no-one could accuse little madam of being a sheep; after all, how many other little girls are into spiders?
I am relieved to say, that although I’d made and paid for the purchase of spider labels, after making it my mission to try and convince little madam to change her mind, I succeeded. Thankfully, I e-mailed the label company and asked to change the order, in typical Libran fashion – although I’m embarrassed to say I blamed the change of heart on little madam - and, to my relief it wasn’t too late. And a few days later an envelope arrived with an order of lovely little owl labels.
Phew! Hopefully this experience will be a firm reminder to myself every time I am tempted to be taken over by indecisiveness; although, as I’ve said many times before, some lessons are too quickly forgotten when you’re a human being. And, not-to-mention, a Libran who absolutely hates making decisions.
Thanks, little madam, for reminding me why I need to stop being such an indecisive fool. Sorry I talked you out of the spider labels; I hope this doesn’t deter you from continuing to express your individuality in the future. Love you!
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Little Dude's Dangle
This week’s tale describes a near-miss which has made me realise, yet again, that, despite the fact that I’m a mother of two young children - and a whole thirty-four-years-old - I’m still extremely capable of making the odd...well, perhaps frequent is a better word...mistake.
It was nearing the end of a very long day and I – the rather disorganised and always rushed mother – decided I might just have enough time to take the washing off the line, and even fold it in the process. Dinner was on the stove and, thankfully, little madam (who’s three-and-a-half, and can be surprisingly helpful when she feels up to it) had agreed to push little man (who’s now fifteen-months-old) on the backyard swing.
Things were going exceptionally smoothly, and little man’s delight at being pushed on the swing by his big sister was evident in the loud laughter which rang-out across the yard (and was certainly much easier thing to listen to than the usual tantrums and carry-on I have to put up with as hungry tummy’s begin to recognise dinner is almost due) as I came close to unpegging and folding the last piece of clean and dry washing from the line.
It was at this moment that I heard the pot, which contained rice to accompany the curry we were having for dinner, bubbling furiously on the stove. So I quickly dashed inside to turn down the heat and give it a stir. When I re-appeared outside again, a short-while later, I realised that things were still going just as well as they had been before I dashed inside, with little madam and little man, so I decided to seize the opportunity (because opportunities like these seldom occur when you’re a mother with two young children) and quickly dashed back inside to try and put the folded washing away.
Now I can just imagine my husband’s horror when he reads the next part of this story. As, although he’s a terrific father, he has a habit of being a little too hover-happy when it comes to parenting. And he would never do anything as irresponsible as leaving three-year-old little madam in charge of little man for even a second; particularly in a place as dangerous as the great outdoors. But I guess that’s because, on a daily basis, he doesn’t really have to concern himself with the washing, cooking, cleaning etc – the everyday stuff that goes on while he’s busy at work - and he really has no idea how difficult it is to find those opportunities; opportunities, like the brief one I got the other day, where I might actually achieve something great. Even if this, “something great”, is as insignificant as folding and putting away an entire line-full of washing.
Now. Where was I? That’s right. Dashing back inside to attempt to put away the washing, while little madam continued to occupy little man on the swing. It was all going so well, up until the time I was up to putting the final small pile of washing away; it was a couple of sets of little man’s pyjamas. It was as I opened the drawer in his room, that I heard the creak and slam of the backdoor. And I realised that, although little madam could be considered strong for her age, there was no way she was quite capable of actually getting little man off the swing by herself.
“Everything okay?” I called out nervously, as I hurriedly shoved the freshly folded jim jams into a spare space in the drawer. “Fine. I’m just going to the toilet”, she replied. I quickly made my way into the kitchen to peer out the window and, just as I suspected, she’d left little man swinging in the swing. He seemed pretty happy still, so initially I wasn’t too concerned.
But the next time I glanced at little man, I realised that things were no longer going as well as they had been. As he was no longer swinging happily on the swing all by himself; he was now, in fact, hanging - or dangling to make it sound better. And (although it could have been disastrous, of course, if one of his arms hadn’t caught on the swing seatbelt), apart from the fact that was looking rather rattled and had an incredibly concerned expression on his face (what did I expect? He was practically suspended in mid-air, with only a thin chain-seatbelt between him and a rather heavy fall to the tanbark) he was completely unharmed.
Naturally, despite the fact that I felt about as careless and irresponsible as a mummy seahorse at that moment, I quickly rushed outside and rescued him. And I was thankful that he hadn’t managed to wriggle himself free by the time I arrived. And he was, therefore, fine and not too put off the outside play equipment as a result of this incident.
I guess, after rescuing the dangling little man off the swing, I could have tried pointing the finger at little madam and blaming her for the careless move that resulted in little man nearly plummeting to the earth; but then I remembered that she is only just over twice his teeny age; not-to-mention the fact that I am the parent here. So all I can do is, once again, take full responsibility for this near-miss (and a whole heap of others that have that preceded this one) and admit, once again, that as a human I am capable of making the odd mistake. And, although I’m hopeful I will learn from this incident - learn that temptation (well, the temptation of being able to get at least one job around here done) should never get in the way of being a responsible mother – given the constant state of the house, not-to-mention the pile of washing that never seems to shrink, I doubt very much this particular occurrence will be at the forefront of my mind next time I’m presented with a similar opportunity.
Thanks, little man, for hanging on long enough to allow me to rescue you. Sorry my desperation to get the washing put away almost caused you to fall off the swing. Love you!
It was nearing the end of a very long day and I – the rather disorganised and always rushed mother – decided I might just have enough time to take the washing off the line, and even fold it in the process. Dinner was on the stove and, thankfully, little madam (who’s three-and-a-half, and can be surprisingly helpful when she feels up to it) had agreed to push little man (who’s now fifteen-months-old) on the backyard swing.
Things were going exceptionally smoothly, and little man’s delight at being pushed on the swing by his big sister was evident in the loud laughter which rang-out across the yard (and was certainly much easier thing to listen to than the usual tantrums and carry-on I have to put up with as hungry tummy’s begin to recognise dinner is almost due) as I came close to unpegging and folding the last piece of clean and dry washing from the line.
It was at this moment that I heard the pot, which contained rice to accompany the curry we were having for dinner, bubbling furiously on the stove. So I quickly dashed inside to turn down the heat and give it a stir. When I re-appeared outside again, a short-while later, I realised that things were still going just as well as they had been before I dashed inside, with little madam and little man, so I decided to seize the opportunity (because opportunities like these seldom occur when you’re a mother with two young children) and quickly dashed back inside to try and put the folded washing away.
Now I can just imagine my husband’s horror when he reads the next part of this story. As, although he’s a terrific father, he has a habit of being a little too hover-happy when it comes to parenting. And he would never do anything as irresponsible as leaving three-year-old little madam in charge of little man for even a second; particularly in a place as dangerous as the great outdoors. But I guess that’s because, on a daily basis, he doesn’t really have to concern himself with the washing, cooking, cleaning etc – the everyday stuff that goes on while he’s busy at work - and he really has no idea how difficult it is to find those opportunities; opportunities, like the brief one I got the other day, where I might actually achieve something great. Even if this, “something great”, is as insignificant as folding and putting away an entire line-full of washing.
Now. Where was I? That’s right. Dashing back inside to attempt to put away the washing, while little madam continued to occupy little man on the swing. It was all going so well, up until the time I was up to putting the final small pile of washing away; it was a couple of sets of little man’s pyjamas. It was as I opened the drawer in his room, that I heard the creak and slam of the backdoor. And I realised that, although little madam could be considered strong for her age, there was no way she was quite capable of actually getting little man off the swing by herself.
“Everything okay?” I called out nervously, as I hurriedly shoved the freshly folded jim jams into a spare space in the drawer. “Fine. I’m just going to the toilet”, she replied. I quickly made my way into the kitchen to peer out the window and, just as I suspected, she’d left little man swinging in the swing. He seemed pretty happy still, so initially I wasn’t too concerned.
But the next time I glanced at little man, I realised that things were no longer going as well as they had been. As he was no longer swinging happily on the swing all by himself; he was now, in fact, hanging - or dangling to make it sound better. And (although it could have been disastrous, of course, if one of his arms hadn’t caught on the swing seatbelt), apart from the fact that was looking rather rattled and had an incredibly concerned expression on his face (what did I expect? He was practically suspended in mid-air, with only a thin chain-seatbelt between him and a rather heavy fall to the tanbark) he was completely unharmed.
Naturally, despite the fact that I felt about as careless and irresponsible as a mummy seahorse at that moment, I quickly rushed outside and rescued him. And I was thankful that he hadn’t managed to wriggle himself free by the time I arrived. And he was, therefore, fine and not too put off the outside play equipment as a result of this incident.
I guess, after rescuing the dangling little man off the swing, I could have tried pointing the finger at little madam and blaming her for the careless move that resulted in little man nearly plummeting to the earth; but then I remembered that she is only just over twice his teeny age; not-to-mention the fact that I am the parent here. So all I can do is, once again, take full responsibility for this near-miss (and a whole heap of others that have that preceded this one) and admit, once again, that as a human I am capable of making the odd mistake. And, although I’m hopeful I will learn from this incident - learn that temptation (well, the temptation of being able to get at least one job around here done) should never get in the way of being a responsible mother – given the constant state of the house, not-to-mention the pile of washing that never seems to shrink, I doubt very much this particular occurrence will be at the forefront of my mind next time I’m presented with a similar opportunity.
Thanks, little man, for hanging on long enough to allow me to rescue you. Sorry my desperation to get the washing put away almost caused you to fall off the swing. Love you!
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