Kea is the worthy King of the Mountains

If I could be any parrot in the world I would be a Kea.

I shun other average jungle parrots desperate for attention with their flashy plethora of multi coloured madness, crazy stripes of red, blue, green, pink, yellow in every direction screaming look at me!

No, the parrot that evolved to live in the snow line of New Zealands mountain landscape -it's beautiful and simple and perfectly adapted.

Its dark green feathers are interweaved with lighter green and darker green and more shades of green than a paint catalogue, expertly woven and perfectly blended, as if by a master painter. These birds are the Audis of the sky, the Kate Winslets of the icy walk of fame. Compared to these beauties a tropical parakeet is Paris Hilton driving in a psychadelic pink stretched Hummer.

Like the Kea, I would keep my wing-bling, my beautiful flash of orange like a burst of fire, concealed - only to be seen by those beneath me, or really watching me. Its like a flash of gold in the river, sparking the excitement of the gold rush for the desperate man panning on the banks.

The Kea here scavenging at the mountain cafe are total pests. They hang around stealing the food, pooing on the tables, walking with sharp claws on the latest model off road BMW's. But I admire them. They own the mountain. We only rent a small part day by day and get to feel, for a short time, free as the birds soaring high above this craggy range, lungs bursting with icy air, floating, free.

Perfect day for the ski brothers

It's official, we all have the bug. Not the botty/tummy type bug but instead one that I am sure is going to give us countless days of pleasure and wholesome fresh air family fun for many years to come. I'm talking about the 'strap some wood to your feet and hurtle down a snowy mountain' bug.

We ventured en masse up the hill yesterday laden with 4 sets of gloves, goggles, hats, socks, boots, and one grandmother. A logistical nightmare, definitely, but absolutely worth it just for cute factor - Little Brother kitted out in his tiny tiny boots and skis only slightly longer than my feet.

Off we trekked to the learners platter, with a magic carpet and pommer tow. After one trip on the magic carpet and a slide down the slope holding Mums hand Big Brother pointed up to the 6 person chair lift that goes up the whole side of the mountain and declared 'I want to go up there now'. Gotta love that about kids - they don't let ability get in the way of their ambitions.

We persuaded him to have a few turns on the pommer with Dad - and he and Little brother (at the tender age of 27 months, remember!) both went up - and came down again - between Dads legs. They loved it, with basically no skill and no desire to master any, they were just there for the ride - totally trusting, I mean what could possibly go wrong? (So sad that they may learn one day how unforgiving gravity can be, and even end up like that quivering mess of worry at the bottom of the slope called Mum).

We only used bribery (international currency known as the lollipop) once to get them back up the slope, and once supercharged with colouring and sugar, three generations of Gentry's headed up the main chair. And came belting back down a few short minutes later. Big Brother is now hooked on skiing, and we'll be saving up for a few lessons next year, so someone else can gently teach him how to actually ski. Little Brother was a star, too, stomping away through the snow, sliding on his skis and leaning forward, without a grizzle all day. It felt incongruous to take his ski's off and lift him up onto the baby changing table to wipe his bottom. He fell asleep before we got back to the car.

Here's to great family holidays to come. And to breeding adrenalin junkies. And to contracting bugs like these.

We're all going on a winter holiday...

Seems strangely appropriate for us crazy folks, that when the weather gets cold, we pack up and head...somewhere much colder. We get up early every day to drive up a winding treacherous snowy road, pay an exorbitant fee to strap boards to our feet and throw ourselves off a mountainside.

Theres absolutely nothing as great as a holiday in the snow. I am very fortunate to have married into a family who love to ski and so have been over the last few years have been discovering the delights of an annual ski holiday in wanaka.

Not that Ive had anytime up the mountain yet - mothering must be done where ever we are, (although am importing grandmothers today to provide childcare arrangements!) but I just love being here, the air is crisp and the scenery stunning, life is good.

Dad took Big Brother up the mountain on our first day, and he had his second time on skiis (not so keen but plenty of time to work on that). It might have been due to the fact I hadn't tried on his ski suit before we left home, and wouldn't you know he's grown about 4 inches since last year. The pants came to just below his knees and the crutch was somewhere up near his belly button. He must have felt cold and partially dissected even before we put him on skis and pushed him down the learners slope. To add insult to injury our friend started calling him Bruno. (He's the proud recipient of a new birthday ski suit you'll be pleased to know. Stand by for his 21st to see the pictures!)

I'm in two minds about how much strapping to a board I'll get in this year. The first mind is in dilemna regarding rather fresh memories of changing nappies for 6 weeks while in plaster with broken wrist. (Wasnt even very spectacular fall, just wimped out on icy track trying to show off to my husband.) The other mind is on my precious cargo. Although the dragon would love a bit of rough and tumble and fresh mountain air. I know this one will be as much of a dare devil as the other two - theres no chance of escaping those genes.

So we'll see how the days pan out - hopefully its snowing like a demon up there today, and we can have a family day up the hill on Treble Cone ski field, at least to sledge on the learners slope, build snowmen and wallow in powder, while looking at THE most beautiful view in the world. I don't think I'll be able to resist a gentle peruse down the Beginners slope, complete with body amour and wrist guards.

Girl or boy? - No, Dragon

Living in this new house seems to be having a strange effect on us.

I am obsessed with cooking. Well, actually with eating. You would be too if you had a functional kitchen complete with Friand trays (no intention of using them) and a pasta maker (on the list to-do). The woman that owns this kitchen is my hero. I am driven out of bed these days by hunger and it's been a case of banana muffins for breakfast, fresh bread for morning tea, soup for lunch, and slow cooker creation for dinner. With occasional scones in between.

Its no surprise then baby is growing well and hit 20 week mark with all limbs flying. It is a mover and shaker and would hardly lie still for the scan yesterday. I took the boys to see the 'movie of the baby' and they were fascinated. Big Brother proclaimed ' Look - its a dragon'. When he saw the red and yellow colours of blood pumping he added 'Its breathing fire!' The thought of having a dragon for a sibling has definitely raised his interest in the whole affair.

Little Brother still calls it Poop-poop. I think the sonographer is likely to remember us in a few months time when she hears in the news about a woman who gave birth to a dragon named Poop-poop.

Rather strangely also is the undeniable fact Big Brother has grown a tail. Its rather grey and mouse-like but he assures me it actually is a tiger's tail. He wears it day and night, and out around town. He gets a few strange looks from boring adults who have forgotten how liberating it is to have an imagination, but the kids think its cool. 'Look, he's got a tail' one boy called out. BB turned around and roared his best tiger roar. Respect.

Perhaps as the mother of a tiger I shouldn't be surprised when at the moment of birth the midwife exclaims ' well done - its a, its a ....dragon'.

High Tea at Kirks

We hit Cuba street armed with 2 preschoolers, 2 lunchboxes and a keen eye for a bargain. Unfortunately some of the second hand boutiques were more boutiques than secondhand, more designer than bargain (Soup on Blair St is NOT a bargain hunters paradise unless $300 dollars for a jacket is a bargain in your currency. They also made disparaging remarks about farmers and their sense of style. We were Affronted.)
We checked out Hunters and Collectors (possible to get a buggy into, which fulfilled one of our rating criteria) - beautiful but out of our $20 range, as well as Ziggurat, quirky/cool. Rated best find of the day though was the Recycled Boutique (209-211 Cuba St) with great range and pricing - LH got a pair of pants for $4.50! Only downer was not being able get the buggy into the place, although I could have asked them to open the side door. I was stuck outside pressing my nose against the window pane, salivating.
I tried to take the boys into Alistairs Music Shop next door to look at Ukeleles, but we were decidedly shamed out of there when Big Brother gently strummed a double base and the owners went into chorus of (not very appreciative) protest at him but ignored me. Feeling like a bad mother/leper we slunk out heads down. The thing that bugged me most was noone said nicely - Hi, we would appreciate it if you didnt let the children touch the instruments but can we help you with anything?
No Ukeleles for us, no sales for them now or probably in the future - how about having the childrens instruments by the door rather than behind the priceless ones. (Am I being Knarky? perhaps, but if you're going to sell childrens items at least don't treat them all like destructive monsters. BB played that instrument so beautifully I might have bought him one).
Besides that, it was a great day.
To top it of the next afternoon I treated the girls to a surprise outing - High Tea at Kirkcaldie and Stains. We tucked into the three tiered cake stand loaded with goodies wearing our $20 outfits feeling like a million dollars.

$20 outfit challenge

This holidays my nieces and I are hitting the opshops of wellytown. To make it a bit more interesting we have set ourselves a $20 outfit challenge. Once we have our style-EE new threads I am taking them out for a surprise outing....wearing our preloved treasures.

Thanks to a superb bit of research on one of the girls behalf, we have a flower covered manual outlining all the possible shops, addresses and sometimes notes such as 'if vivienne westwood came to wellington she would shop here'. I think we could sell the manual on trademe for a tidy profit...if we could bare to part with our new found knowledge. No, we are officially 'in the IN crowd', we plan to stay there by keeping our vintage scarf covered mouths firmly closed.

So far we have giggled our way through Rebound, in Petone. A treasure trove (I stocked up on preggy clothes blowing my budget immediately). I definetly won the ugly beautiful prize with a violently bright turquiose Homer-esque 'Moo-Moo' - think velour tent. Glorious. I promise I'll only wear it around the house...until I get invited to a bad taste party. Please someone have a bad taste party.

The girls found some great pieces to start off their outfits, and I bought a lovely classic black country road dress ($17), leaving me $3 for shoes,handbag, scarf etc. Cuba street here we come.

My elaborate cover story.

It was like an afternoon at the day spa really.

Goodbye to the kiddies, and have fun with grandmother! A bobbing ferry ride, a peruse of Lambton Quay, window shopping (and stock up of Panadol). Then into the 'therapy session'. 2.5 hours of lounging with optional neck roll, choice of DVDs and a break half way for a hot sweet cuppa. After my session, I had 30 mins in the massage chair provided in the waiting room.

I almost didn't notice the 4 fingers, 3 drills, suction pipe and rubber tent that was in my mouth most the of the time!

When I walked out of the clinic you could have been mistaken for thinking I'd been having a touch of plastic fantastic surgery - lips plumped with collagen, mouth frozen into what I hope is intelligent wrinkle free face (until the injections wore off), and teeth whitened (from the dazzling new fillings). Some people will go to no end to keep looking youthful, and you know I'm turning well, older, this year.

P.S. If you do need a dentist though in Welly City, (or even to use one as an elaborate ruse) I highly recommend Angela McKeefry - General and Cosmetic Dentistry. Great job on a disaster zone of enamel. And did I mention she has a massage chair in her waiting room? Total genius.

Moving House Part 7

Am feeling a bit nervous today as am off to the dentist to pay for my oral hygiene sins. You can hide but you cant run forever from the big big drill of self responsibility. I am reaquainting myself to my dear friend flossy. And I have taken out a bit of future insurance in the form of a breeding programme -my husband has perfect teeth (has only had one filling in his life and that was after he met me, and is therefore my fault also). Heres hoping these boys have their fathers teeth genes. (And just quietly : mine for hairline?)

On the plus side the dental appointment has provided me with the perfect shirking excuse for the latest move - this time from in-laws to 300m down the road to a lovely house sitting job (complete with drawers for all clothes), where we will revell in the lap of luxury until such time as to when we rent ourselves a hovel.

All scheduled in for the same day - so I am officially delegating moving to hubby and the boys. I intend on retiring to my new bed this evening leaving him to pick up the boys, and install them, then move the stuff over the weekend. I am delegating the move to him as his penance for being born with perfect teeth. Plus, he has to pay all my lounging in the dental chair. I think on balance I'm getting quite a good deal.

New Mastercard Ad

Big Brother putting Little Brother to bed every day for his afternoon sleep - priceless.

Big Brother exclaiming in the car - Look Mummy, a brick made of walls! - priceless.

Little Brother unable to say the s in soccer - instead he boots the ball across the room and exclaims with a satisfied grunt ...'FOCCER' - priceless.

The high point of glamour in motherhood - bringing home a wrapped dirty nappy from playcentre and then discovering your handbag stinks of s**t for a week.... Priceless??????