The terrible truth about toilet training...and number twos!

Sorry to start the New Year off with a post about a shitty subject, but have you ever done a Google Image search for 'toilet training?'  Well I have, and the images are more than a bit deceiving.  What you'll find is smiling toddlers, perfectly posed parents proudly praising their children, and absolutely no mess at all.  What a load of crap (pardon the pun)!  

The main reason I say this is because I’ve just experienced another problematic public toilet moment with little man.  You see in a bustling public toilet, in the middle of a busy shopping centre, little man decided to haul himself onto a toilet and, after spying something between his legs, grabbed hold of the interesting object.  Turns out, the object that had captured little man’s attention was his willy.  And he happened to grab it the exact same moment he began to wee.  Now as you can imagine, as his willy wasn’t pointed down towards the porcelain and was sticking up towards the ceiling, the fountain-like effect was rather spectacular. 

Little man's fountain wasn't quite as spectacular as this one.  But you get the picture, right?

 Thankfully, because I hadn’t planned on the accident and didn’t have a change of clothes handy (I do realise this probably makes me sound about as disorganised as I am) the spray missed little man’s clothes.  So after quickly wiping the floor, and frantically scrubbing my hands, I was out of there. 


To be honest, I was quite relieved on this occasion to be only cleaning a bit of wee off the floor.  After all, the experience that had occurred only a few days earlier, when I’d been forced to push an overflowing trolley full of groceries along a carpeted floor of a small shopping centre (now I know what you’re thinking: Who on earth installs carpet in a shopping centre?) up a ramp and through two narrow doors, so little man could go to the toilet, was a far more eventful, and not to mention messy, one. 

You see, little man, who is only a few weeks into his toilet training journey, has not yet mastered the task of wiping his own bottom.  Not that I expect him to be able to this of course.  But I don’t remember the same level of messiness when little madam was first toilet training.  Perhaps she had longer legs than little man, or had perfected her dismount from the toilet at an earlier stage.  Whatever the case, little man’s method of getting off the toilet – the way he rather ungracefully slides off, instead of carefully lifting himself off - has caused me (on more than one occasion whilst at home) to head into the toilet armed with rubber gloves, disinfectant and a heavy duty scrubber to remove the thickly smeared evidence of his unwiped bottom off the toilet seat. 

Heavy duty ones of these are usually needed

So when I finally had made sure the door was propped open by the heavily loaded trolley, and turned around to discover that little man had locked himself inside the cubicle, I was immediately concerned.  And several minutes later, well after little madam had emerged from finishing her business in the second (and only other) toilet cubicle, I began to really worry.  ‘Are you okay in there?’  I asked.  No reply.  ‘Please unlock the door’, I pleaded.  No reply.  Another lady entered the second cubicle, as I began to knock urgently on the door. 

Not a good sign

Eventually, little man reluctantly unlocked the door.  And the sight that greeted me, was not only a heavily poo-smeared toilet seat – with poo that had been further spread by little man’s efforts to clean up the mess himself with half a roll of toilet paper – but a poo-covered little man.  I mean not only was it all over his bottom and halfway up his back, his t-shirt was pretty much plastered with it.   This time, there were no rubber gloves, no disinfectant, and no heavy duty scrubbing brush to help me out.  Hell, I didn’t even have a spare t-shirt of a packet of lousy wipes. 

So after desperately trying to clean the seat with dry toilet paper, I was forced to exit the cubicle (and with a red face explain to the couple of people now queuing for the toilet, as I wet a wad or two more of toilet paper in the sink, that my son wasn’t quite finished his business) then return to clean up the mess.  All while throwing instructions toward little madam to, ‘Look after the trolley while I take care of your brother!’  After finally cleaning up the mess, I was then faced with the job of having to remove little man’s grubby t-shirt.  Which then caused even more poo to spread up little man’s back, which forced me to again leave the cubicle to revisit the basin with more toilet paper. 

And, after the mess was finally cleaned up, just to make the whole situation that little bit worse than it already was (yes, it is possible), as we finally left the cubicle together a kind old lady, looked at my lovely shirtless little man, then up at me with a rather bewildered look on her face, and asked, ‘Why is he not wearing a top?’  As I hurriedly scrubbed my hands with twenty sprays of foamy soap under the warm tap, I muttered an explanation that his top had gotten dirty.  The old lady then tutted, shook her head, and stated, ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s dirty.  Just put it on.’  She then gestured the air, and added ‘It’s too cold.’  All I could do was shake my head and laugh nervously while I muttered, ‘If only you knew.’ 

So, that day, as I battled my way out of the toilet, with little madam and a shirtless little man in tow, feeling more frazzled and exhausted than a parent with two sets of triplets under the age of two, I began to reflect on my horrendous experience.  And I asked myself:  Could it ever get worse?  Well.  I suppose I should be thankful that...crap...no...sorry.  I had nothing to be thankful for at that moment.   
 

Thanks, little man, for the worst public toilet experience EVER.  Love you!

Sticks and stones...are less scary than spiders

Did you know that one of the most famous naturalists in existence, the legendary David Attenborough – who’s now most well known for his exceptional narration of wildlife documentaries – began his boyhood journey as an avid collector of natural specimens and objects?  I’m reminded of this often.  Especially when little madam insists on constantly picking up sticks, stones, gumnuts of many sizes, bark, leaves....you name it, she’s got it...to add to her growing collection of “the outdoors” which she stores in jars and boxes in her bedroom.  ‘Oh she’s just like David Attenborough’, mum tells me, when I screw up my face at yet another jar or margarine container filled with an array of sticks, stones, gumnuts and leaves collected from her walks down to the creek near her grandma and grandpa’s (who are known as Oma and Opa to Little Madam and Little Man).  I guess now, when I think about it, I should have been a little more grateful that she was excited about collecting inanimate objects. 

A collection similar to Little Madam's

You see, what began as an interest in collecting sticks and stones, has rapidly developed into a desire to collect anything Little Madam can get her hands on.  Even rather quick moving things such as beetles, bugs...and even spiders.  This desire began a short while ago, when she began coming home from her days spent with Oma and Opa with worms, small millipedes, or even those revolting grey Slater bugs housed in a margarine containers with pin pricks for air holes.  Then, as summer approached and the sounds of cicadas filled the air, she started finding – and collecting – cicada shells.  One here, one there.  She now has a whole jarful of them.  At least they’re not alive, I thought to myself, when the cicada shell collection started building.  That was until Little Madam scored her very first LIVE cicada a couple of weeks ago.  Unfortunately for this poor cicada, Little Madam quickly forgot about her LIVE catch.  And I was completely unaware that one of the two shells she’d brought home in an empty clear plastic – and very airtight container, was alive.  WAS being the operative word.  Poor cicada. 



Little Madam's growing collection of cicada shells

Anyway.  The fascination with cicadas continues.  To make up for the mishap, the other day Little Madam even rescued one from being drowned under a steady stream of water as I provided my thirsty vegetable garden with a much needed drink.  She carefully picked the poor soaked thing up and transferred it to a tree far away from my freshly watered vegetables.  I think it was rather grateful that it didn’t suffer the same fate as one of its long lost cousins.  The cousin that was (by accident) left inside the airtight plastic container.  Because the following day she found yet another empty shell to add to her collection right near the same tree.    

Anyway.  Enough about cicadas.  The eight-legged point of this story is yet to come.  You see, yesterday Little Madam and Little Man were enjoying a bounce on the trampoline, when she came running up to me and said “I’ve found Harry!  He’s on the trampoline.”  Now if you haven’t figured it out, Harry is the nickname we’ve given to any Huntsman spider who has decided to take refuge in our house at one time or another.  And to be honest, these spiders don’t bother me a whole lot.  Well when they’re at a safe distance from me that is....like on the ceiling of the bathroom or huddled on a cornice in the hallway.  No kidding.  I even tell myself they are even an excellent w ay to minimise fly populations inside the house. 

Now I know most people would be horrified at the thought of leaving a spider – especially a large, hairy Huntsman - to live peacefully on the ceiling inside your house.  After all.  There are those that do believe in that myth about swallowing at least 3 spiders in your lifetime.  But I’m not one of those people.  And to be honest, I’d simply rather leave them up high because removing them is always much harder than that.   

I was grateful, however, that after quickly catching sight of the Huntsman on the trampoline, Little Madam’s attempts to catch it were unsuccessful.  But this afternoon, when I arrived home from work, to find my dad (Little Madam and Little Man’s Opa) - who’d kindly brought the kids home so we could all head up to Little Madam’s kindergarten for her lovely end of year concert – Little Man and a very pleased Little Madam, who had in her hand another hole-covered margarine container.  ‘I found Harry, mum!’ she said excitedly, as she waved the container under my nose, then proceeded to remove the lid to show me the latest addition to her collection.  Now do you remember what I said about not being bothered by Huntsman’s...when they’re at a safe distance from me that is.  Well.  Let me tell you.  A margarine container with a rather eager to escape Huntsman being held close enough for me to see its beady eyes looking up at me was not, in my opinion, a safe distance.

The beady eyed Steven Mr Skinny Legs was a little too close for comfort

I hope tomorrow I can convince her to set it free.  After all, I don’t think I’m all that keen on the newest addition to Little Madam’s collection.  Even though she has come up with the rather cute nickname of ‘Steven, Mr Skinny Legs.’ 

Thanks, Little Madam, for getting me closer to nature than I’ve ever been before.  Love you!     

 

A lesson in manners...courtesy of the staff at Bunnings

As a parent, I try to be consistent when it comes to reinforcing the importance of manners.  To both little madam (who is now five) and little man (who is almost three).  Sometimes it pays off, and on these occasions I feel proud that my efforts are not in vain.  Unfortunately, there are occasions I wonder whether my constant reminders to, 'say please', or, 'say no thank you', are a waste of breath.  And the other day, during our exit from a large hardware store known as Bunnings Warehouse, I experienced one of these rather embarrassing occasions. 
       

Good old Bunnings Warehouse

You see Bunnings (as we have recently discovered) can quite often be an enjoyable place for children.  Not always, though (as we found during a recent stage during which we were required to visit the store almost weekly while we constructed a cubby house).  But, when visits aren't required weekly (or at least every other week) the place can be a lot of fun.  After all, with mini trolleys to push around, face painting (which happens at our local Bunnings store most weekends), a small playground, and regular goody handouts (courtesy of the endless array of friendly, tradesman-like staff that patrol the large store) what child wouldn't love a trip to Bunnings?  Oh, and with the promise of a delicious barbecued sausage on your way out the door, what parent wouldn't either?  

Little madam pushing her Bunnings trolley

 
 


Little man getting his face-painting fix

The other day our trip to Bunnings started out really well for little madam and little man.  After all, it began with them being handed a balloon on a stick on their way into the store.  Then, after a decent play at the playground, a milkshake from the cafeteria, and a dab of facepaint, we made our way (after paying for our purchases) to the exit.  Unfortunately, this is when things started to go a little pear...or perhaps balloon is a better term...shaped.  You see, the lovely balloons that were handed to little madam and little man on the way in, didn't respond well to being thrown up in the air repeatedly and, as a result, one after the other, they broke with a rather loud BANG!  Little man's went first.  And, by the time he'd recovered from the shock of losing his balloon, it was time for little madam's to suffer the same sad fate.  Unfortunately, this resulted in quite a few tears of distress from little madam.

 
Sadly for her, she was so caught up in her own world of pain, mourning the loss of her lovely balloon, she didn't notice the kind lady manning the exit offer little man a replacement gift in the form of a really cool plastic blow-up hammer.  And, I guess if she'd been able to settle down and pay attention, rather than responding to the kind lady's offer of the same cool gift, with her very rude and abrupt:  'No!  I want a balloon!' she might have been lucky enough to receive a blow-up hammer too. 
             
Instead, because I was totally mortified by her rudeness (not that she meant to be rude, she was just really upset) I apologised, declined the kind lady's offer from behind my glowing red face then left the store.  As you can imagine, after ushering little madam away, who by the time we arrived at the car realised what her rudeness had caused her to miss out on (as little man had unwrapped his awesome little gift by now), her distress over losing a balloon, turned into her world turning upside down because of what she'd missed out on. 

And, although our ears were a little worse for wear by the time we arrived home that day (thanks to the carry on we had to endure the WHOLE journey home) there is a positive end to this story.  I have noticed that since this day, little madam has been a  little less forgetful in the manners department, and I'm fairly certain the experience has had a lasting impact on them.  Well.  Time will tell, won't it?

Thanks, little madam, for...well...actually...I've got nothing to thank you for this time.   Sorry you missed out on the blow-up hammer, though.  Maybe next time?  Love you!
  

Diddled by distractions

As I sat and watched my children playing today, I suddenly realised how precious time spent with them is.  And by spending time I don’t just mean being present.  Because if being present was the same as spending time, then I could claim that I spend a whole lot of time (heaps of time, in fact) with little madam and little man.  But what I mean is, actually spending time on them, and them alone. 

I mean amongst all the usual chaos, it’s not all that often I get to sit back and observe little madam and little man in action without all the distractions home has to offer.  Distractions which are about as pleasant as a poke in the eye mind you.  Distractions which include the washing (which never stops growing for some reason), the dishes (which continue to pile), the toys (which I continue to find scattered all over the place) and the never-ending list of other things I find necessary to do around the house to keep me believing I’m still relatively sane. 

Yes...this definitely looks like mine!

But as I sat today, away from the home and all of its distractions, I discovered that by sitting back and actually observing little madam and little man (as they repeated the task of riding the flying foxes at a park we visit every now and then – one which is usually packed but, due to today’s dampness, was practically deserted) I experienced happiness and bliss, along with the realisation that quality time spent with little madam and little man is so extremely valuable.    

Now don’t get me wrong.  I love spending time with my kids.  Most of the time, anyway.  But I usually find that, especially when we’re at home, I’m torn between them and an endless array of thoughts about a whole range of things (including thoughts about when I’m going to get around to ticking the distractions I mentioned early off my list of things to do).  So actually being able to experience (for a good hour or so) the joy of just sitting and watching little madam and little man in action today, made me really appreciate the time a whole lot more.  And it made me realise that moments like the one I experienced today, are not always going to be so readily on offer. 

So I solemnly swear, from this day forward, I’m going to spend a lot less time getting distracted from the housework and more time with my children.  What the fuck!  Who am I kidding?!  No.  In all seriousness, today’s realisation – the realisation that I’d like to spend a little more time enjoying little madam and little man, and a little less time being  distracted – will result in me trying my hardest to find a few more moments to sit back and enjoy little madam and little man.  I suppose now that the warmer weather is on the approach, and we can head outdoors and away from the home a little more, following through on this might just be possible.  But, at the very least, I’m certainly going to try and remind myself that one day, in the not too distant future, little madam and little man will be less interested in spending time with me, and be more caught up (like I am, most of the time)with their very own distractions. 

Thanks, Little Madam and Little Man for making me forget my distractions today.  Now, who left all their toys in the lounge room AGAIN!?  Love you!

Little madam flying

Little man flying



The Real Reason I Won't Be Mother Of The Year

As a mother with two young children – a little madam, who is now five (going on fifteen), and a little man, who is almost three – I’ve had my fair share of wonderful experiences.  I’ve also had my fair share of the not-so-wonderful experiences that make me realise that I’m not going to be in the running for an Australian Mother of the Year Award; anytime soon, that is.  I realised quite early on, in fact, that a nomination for this award – the annual award that’s aimed at recognising mothers and the important role they play in our society – was going to be quite a way out of my reach. 

I guess the first time I truly realised this, was the time I carelessly, (but by no means deliberately), left a young little madam – who was only a wee five-month-old at the time – on the couch, while I quickly disappeared into the kitchen to warm a bottle of milk only to, seconds later, have my ears filled with a surprisingly loud THUD.  In case you haven’t realised, this was the sound little madam made as she rolled off the couch onto the floor (which, mind you, is hardwood, not carpet.  Naturally, this thud was followed by a terrifying howl.  And, although this howl still haunts me to the day, amazingly I still hadn’t learnt my lesson when I made the exact same mistake with little man – who was also only a wee five-month-old – a couple of years ago.  On this occasion (ironically) the same loud THUD, which was followed by the same terrifying howl, preceded the same realisation.  Looks like I’m not going to be in the running for that award, again!

Although I believe my lesson, with regards to leaving littlies unsupervised on a couch above a hard-wood floor, has now been learnt, I guess (given I’ve decided two is enough children for me) I will never have the opportunity to prove it.  And, of course, as there are no instruction manuals that come with the task of raising a child (or children), and it’s trial and error most of the time - I guess in my case (and probably in the case of the majority of mothers out there, I’m guessing) it’s the latter -so unfortunately, these two incidences aren’t the only reason I'm certain I have a long way to go before I will even come close to being eligible for a nomination in the Australian Mother of the Year Awards. 

Take a more recent incident.  Perhaps one that occurred at the very start of the year, when I promised little madam an afternoon outing to the park; only to find myself having to renege on that promise, due to the fact that I had to cook dinner, then clean up the mess I had (in order to allow myself a few spare minutes to chop vegetables and brown meat etc) allowed little man to make.  He had pulled almost everything out of the cupboards in his reach (and in my small kitchen, this is quite a number and, as a result, amounted to quite a lot of stuff on the floor; stuff which included half a jar of sprinkles!), then tend to a never-ending pile of washing, which was nearly as high as the ceiling (this is also, mainly, thanks to little man, who wasn’t the cleanest of individuals at the time and insisted on needing his outfit changed several times a day).  So, by the time I’d gotten around to doing all the “necessary things” – or perhaps, “things I considered necessary”, is a better term - I was forced to have to explain to little madam (who has a memory like an African Elephant) that there wasn’t going to be time for the park, after all.  And, despite the fact that I promised her we'd definitely go the next day, I’m fairly certain that the pleading, which became crying, which then became an uncontrollable sobbing fit (and a very loud tantrum) could have been translated into the following statement: “You are not going to be in the running for the 2012 Australian Mother of the Year Award!” It's hard to believe, I’d managed to blow my chances in only the second week of the New Year! 

I guess, in summary, if I were to list, and describe, all the incidences that have occurred in my time as a mother so far, that make me consider myself undeserving of a nomination in the Australian Mother of the Year Awards, I could fill an entire book.  Instead though, I guess I should try a little harder to focus on the positives; the moments when I actually take the time to observe my two littlies and realise that I don't need an award, or a nomination, to realise that I’m actually doing a reasonable job of this parenting gig.  And, although I’m guilty of doing things most mothers do, but don’t want to admit to - such as yelling a little more than I should, focussing a little too much on the state of my house at times, rather than on little madam and little man (did I mention the washing is nearly as high as the ceiling, though?), and, not to mention, making promises that are sometimes impossible to keep – the truth is this:  The real reason I won’t be in the running for an Australian Mother of the Year Award is because, at the moment, little madam, and little man, are still far too young to be able to write up their nominations.  Well, that’s the excuse I’m going to use while I can, anyway.

 

Thanks, little madam and little man, for reminding me that babies and couches are a terrible combination.  Love you both! 

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!