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!

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!

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!

The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Handset

My little man has just turned one-year-old. And I'm not sure whether it's the Y
chromosome in him (the y that I'm certain stands for "Why on earth is he into rifling through the rubbish bin, again?", or, "Why is it so hard for me to remember to close the door to the separate toilet when I'm having a shower?" - this one is especially relevant to this story, by the way), or whether it's his age (although, I have a three-year-old girl, too, but I seriously can't remember her being quite as inquisitive), but he's into EVERYTHING. And I don't just mean toys and books and age-appropriate things. I'm talking about absolutely EVERYTHING he can get his hands on. And so, my story begins.

It was just a way - a new innovative way - to try and distract the little man from wriggling and squirming, like a freshly dug-up earthworm, while I tried to change his nappy this morning. Offering him the cordless telephone handset seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I'd just finished a telephone conversation when the whiff of a post-breakfast pooey nappy filled my nostrils, so I quickly leant down and collected the little stinkpot off the ground. Well naturally, he immediately went for the thing that was in my hand; the telephone handset. So I thought, what the hell, what harm could possibly come from letting him play with the handset while I change his nappy? before locking the keypad (in an effort to avoid him accidentally dialling triple zero - a thought that crossed my mind with terror, when my daughter was around his age, after I realised that randomly pressed buttons on a telephone handset might actually result in a knock on the door from a very cross police/ambulance officer whose valuable time has been wasted. I used to shudder at the thought of having to explain to an annoyed police officer, "Oh I'm so sorry for wasting your time officer, but my daughter just adores playing with the telephone." It'd be pretty similar to, or worse than, the time on the train a couple of weeks ago when my daughter actually did reach out and press the emergency button (which, mind you, for some ridiculous reason, is conveniently located at the perfect height for a toddler or pre-schooler...and, it's also the colour RED!) But that's a story for another day.

Anyhow. Where was I? Oh yes. That's right. So, after locking the keypad on the handset, I made my way to the little man's room and had him changed in a flash, while he was (for a change) miraculously preoccupied the entire time by the silver and black thing (aka the telephone headset) which was gripped firmly in his tiny but rather capable fingers (amazingly, as I'd locked the keypad, it wasn't even making noise, but it still did the trick). After the deed was done in record time, the little man decided it was time to play on the floor, however, he wanted to hang onto his new (but temporary) toy. So, eventually, after careful consideration, I left it with him. After all, I was desperate for my morning shower - something I hadn't yet had the chance to have. And besides, what harm could possibly come to the telephone handset left in the hands of a tiny one-year-old?

I'd taken my shower, and was just getting ready for a trip up the street when I noticed the telephone handset cradle was missing something; the handset. So I thought back: Where was I when I last used it? Aaggh! That's right. I gave it to the little man to play with. I checked his room (where I'd seen it last), then conducted a thorough search of the entire house, but to no avail. I was in too much of a hurry at that point to dwell on the matter too long and bolted out the door a short while later.

It was sometime after arriving home that the mystery - the mysterious case of the disappearing handset - which I'd forgotten all about due to my mind being filled with other pressing matters (including, What are we - my two children and I - having for lunch?, and, How many loads of washing need to be done today to try and stop me going insane? etc) was solved. I was actually doing a virtual sweep of the house - which, at the time, could have easily been mistaken for a small play centre after a really busy and messy day (after all, my little man and his sister had been greatly amusing themselves while I showered earlier) - for pieces of washing to add to the immense and ever-growing collection, when my daughter alerted me to the fact that the little man (her little brother) was, "In the toilet!" Believe it or not, my first word at this point - and an appropriate word given the news I'd just received - was, "CRAP!"

Now you'd think an experienced mum - no, that's not right. I'm not an "experienced mum". I think a more fitting term is probably a "mum with some experience" - would know better, wouldn't you? Yes. I know. Surely I should be aware that the toilet is not the place for a curious little person. Surely, the last time I visited the toilet, I should have known to close the door. But, for some reason, I don't always remember. I don't always think back to the time when I found my little man - who was only five-to-six-months-old at the time -in there with the toilet brush in his mouth. I don't understand why this is, but perhaps it's mainly because I am HUMAN. And being human, I am very capable of forgetting things. Even the most horrific experiences, can be forgotten. After all, not even the sight of my five-to-six-month old little man with his tongue on, no doubt, the most germ-covered thing in the entire house (perhaps the entire world) isn't enough to make me remember to close the toilet door every time I visit there.

Anyway. I dropped the pile of washing I'd managed to accumulate on my tour of the house, and ran. When I arrived, I was suddenly reminded of the mystery that I'd been unable to solve earlier. As, after quickly grabbing the little man, who'd taken it upon himself to stand up in front of the toilet - grabbing hold of the toilet seat for support (although he's not quite walking yet, he's great at pulling himself up on things), I caught sight of something there, under the water, in the bottom of the bowl. Something that didn't belong. Something that is as foreign to the toilet as I am to the country of Zimbabwe. Yep! You guessed it. The mystery had been solved. For there, lying in wait, drowning in revolting dirty toilet water, was the telephone handset!

Although, at first, I was unsure what to do, and I just stared at it for a while with a look of pure and utter disgust on my face - the same look that I might give my daughter's shoe if it were covered in cow-manure - I did manage to put my thinking cap on and (after covering my hands in a set of old rubber gloves - which have now been well and truly disposed of, mind you) I rescued the handset and gave it a thorough rinse in some disinfectant. Although I left it in the laundry to dry out, I'm not sure it will ever work again. But I can tell you with some certainty, I won't be too sad if it doesn't.

Thanks for keeping me on my toes today little man. I really appreciate it! Love you!