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!

 

The dangers of television avoidance - Part One

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

  

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

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

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

Devil be GONE! 

 

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

A cow-reffying experience

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

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



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

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

Yum yum...slobber slobber

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

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

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

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

The cute car-ride comment

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

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

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

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

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

Or perhaps this one might have been more appropriate!

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mummy...where was I?"

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

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

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

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

   

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

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