Little Brother has always been an alternative thinker, a philosopher, what I'd call an old soul. His perspective on life is emerging as a comedian, and a philosopher. He pulls me up all the time, like the other day when I found popcorn all over the floor.
"Who dumped this popcorn on the floor? " I ranted.
(Apparently I'm all about the shame and blame).
" Well, It was half Miss A, then quarter of Big Brother and quarter of me" , he confesses in perfect fractions.
I thought that was impressive blame apportion, but I blustered on " well, you absolutely MUST NOT leave food on your bedroom floor.....that is why we eat at the table.....food dumped like this will bring ANTs and RaTS and MiCe and everything .... and we'll get sick and it's just NOT hygienic" I continued in full flow (apparently I'm not so good to moderating my inner drama queen).
Eventually I stopped. Silence. Then, Mr 6 chimes in, ever the voice of reason, "Mum, its not the worst disease you can get .... popcorn on the floor".
Earlier that day we arrived home and they asked to play on the computer -
" OK, get in your pjamas and you can play until dinner" was the unexpected reply.
"You are the best mummy ever" he cries. " you could only be better if you were.... better! "
Then there is his school writing - these two were published in the school newsletter-
Blue
Blue looks like lightning strikes.
Blue sounds like a cat hitting a mattress.
Blue tastes like blueberries.
Blue feels like air you can touch.
Blue is big chills on the skin.
Surprise
I asked Mum "What's for dinner?"
She said "Surprise!"
I ran to the table because it sounded so yummy like hot dogs or a hamburger, but it was casserole. Dis...gus...ting!
At the table on Friday night BB was discussing a new magic show he wanted to watch. ' It is so awesome! When I grow up I just want to be a magician!'
Little Brother join in with perfect comic timing ' And when I grow up....I just want to be...... able to take off my pants in public!'
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Monday, November 18, 2013
Half my continent life
As I was putting the rubbish out on the street last night in my floral P'Jamie's, I looked across the road to the crystallized harbour and the row of young neighbors sitting on the sea wall. They were in their twenties and just getting started for a rip roaring sunday night party, and I was nearly 40 and ready for bed. There is no use denying the passing of time and changing of priorities.
There have been a few reminders from the universe of passing time. My first grey. The ache in my back. The way kids I don't know refer to me as 'that lady.' Ever increasing amounts of facial hair. My optometrist suggesting I leave eye surgery a few years so that it could also correct the quote "shortsightedness that also comes with middle age".
My sister tells me the year between 39 and 40 is the worst, there's no escaping the passing days as they tick down but once you reach the date it gets easier to accept, there's a certain freedom, you never really get any older, birthdays cease to matter. I like that plan.
So far each decade has brought a new and exciting set of challenges and thrills. My teens were all about learning and setting myself apart from my family, my twenties were a festival of travels and work and carving out a life. My thirties so far (and they're not yet over) were all about the breeding and love and a learning curve so steep I am struggling to catch my breath at the top.
So, in a year's time I will hit 40, and statistically speaking I am likely to have
lived nearly half my life, (at least half of my continent life).
I have a year to work on what my 40's are going to about. I have an inkling of a plan to make them simply about being me.
There have been a few reminders from the universe of passing time. My first grey. The ache in my back. The way kids I don't know refer to me as 'that lady.' Ever increasing amounts of facial hair. My optometrist suggesting I leave eye surgery a few years so that it could also correct the quote "shortsightedness that also comes with middle age".
My sister tells me the year between 39 and 40 is the worst, there's no escaping the passing days as they tick down but once you reach the date it gets easier to accept, there's a certain freedom, you never really get any older, birthdays cease to matter. I like that plan.
So far each decade has brought a new and exciting set of challenges and thrills. My teens were all about learning and setting myself apart from my family, my twenties were a festival of travels and work and carving out a life. My thirties so far (and they're not yet over) were all about the breeding and love and a learning curve so steep I am struggling to catch my breath at the top.
So, in a year's time I will hit 40, and statistically speaking I am likely to have
lived nearly half my life, (at least half of my continent life).
I have a year to work on what my 40's are going to about. I have an inkling of a plan to make them simply about being me.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Hi Ho Hi Ho ....
....It's off to work I go, after 8 years of being a stay at home mum.
Yes, for the past 8 (very lovely) years you might even say I've been a kind of sham Snow White (work with me on this analogy) who after sending her worker out into the world, passes her daytime hours sweeping, cleaning, cooking, joyfully carrying, bearing and then tending to the babies, all whilst singing harmoniously with small woodland creatures. Ok, I admit not so much cleaning and sweeping ever went on round here. But, as of the last few weeks, my stay at home time has come to an end. If you were being dramatic, and - I clearly am - you might say the axe has fallen, and cleanly chopped Snow White's head right off.
Poor old Snow White (please read me being facetious here).
Poor old me; it's been rather a shock.
So much of a shock that these days I am less Snow White and more one of the dwarfs.
First I was ACHEY. My body has reacted to the sheer physical shock of being back in a very physical job with no abdominals (missing in action after 3 pregnancies), a suspect pelvic floor (3 births later), and a generalised de-conditioning from possibly too many afternoon naps (no regrets there, though).
Next, I became HUNGRY, as the 8 hour day and increased brain challenge caused my metabolic rate to soar. Once I'd eaten every day I quickly transformed into SLEEPY, clocking up an average of 10 hours a night.
Ok, Ok, I admit it - I've also been HAPPY. It's great to be back doing what I used to love. I am re-discovering that I do have skills, and it's very rewarding work.
But, at times I've said hello to MOPEY, and WEEPY. These are hard roles to reconcile, as hard as it is to honestly write about them. For these eight years I have loved being a stay at home mum, and I can only now appreciate how this role has formed a large part of my identity, fed my sense of self, and been a source of pride. It was simply who I have always wanted to be. Letting go of that title fills me with a deep sense of loss, an acute awareness of the passing of time, of moving on through the stages of my life. But, if I want to work, and part of me does, I need to face down the inevitability of being JUGGLY, the working mum dwarf (that sounded better in my head). My plan is to follow the lead of inspiring family and friends who, like the thousands of other amazing juggling mums out there, get on with it. Being JUGGLY comes with her challenges and dealing with these will be my steepest learning curve since my third child was born and I realised I was truly outnumbered. The steep curve has led me to find my inner MANIC-y (that less well known dwarf). She is scary and should not be approached, rather carefully maneuvered into nearest bed, and left for those 10 hours.
My main nemesis, however, the one I fear becoming the most, as well as the hardest to admit to and avoid, is old GRUMPY. While this job lark has so many positives - its part time and will work around school hours once my youngest starts, its my first pay check for years, its resuscitating my hypoxic career - it is still a massive change for us all here on the ranch. I am at risk of the wind changing and being stuck forever with my GRUMPY face on, far too stretched to be nice to my kids (and husband) at the end of the day. I am not for one minute saying that I wasn't grumpy as a stay at home mum, but at least the kids largely copped what they caused. Internalizing GRUMPY will require scraping out a whole new bottom of my boots level of self control, and patience.
The 3 actual munchkins around the place have so far managed the change very well, notwithstanding monumental meltdowns from Big Brother and Little Miss. (So no change there at all).
Little Brother, aka THINKY, quietly asked me after my third day - Mum, did you get fired yet? '
'No! That wouldn't really be a good thing !' I said.
'Well, ' he reasoned, 'if you did get fired, then, you could just hang out with us all the time again!'
Can't argue with that.
Snow White is dead, Long live Snow White. (At least, until she gets fired).
Friday, August 23, 2013
Information sponges
My children are sponges. They absorb knowledge by all sorts of means - copying and watching, pure osmosis, practicing and sometimes, very occasionally and at last resort, by following instructions. I think the following instructions method is the slowest, especially when those instructions come from mother.
Little Miss still learns a lot by copying and pretending - to be me, or a princess, or a ninja, or a spoilt brat. She can't wipe her own bottom, but she can unlock and play a TV ondemand series on the Ipad without a second tap. She has a fixed slightly skewed world view and is totally inflexible. If the real world doesn't conform to her ideas, then, look out, its mega-tanty time. She is often still like all good toddlers, the Mugabe of her manor.
Little Brother preferred method of learning is digital. Ben 10 and FRIV teach him all he needs to know to advance his career as a weapons design expert (expanding his range that began with the walking axe). Thank goodness for Lego, which gives him a real life R&D platform. He also loves the nightly news weather report. Second preferred method is copying/following the instructions of his brother. Least preferred of all time is listening to Mum telling him to pick up clothes, close his drawers, put away his shoes, empty his lunchbox. That stuff is the work of the robots he is trying to design, so stop interrupting me, Mum! He is working hard on reading as an information source but the bandwidth is limited, upload and download a bit slow (especially b, d, p and q's confusion, I mean what imagination-less fool designed them).
Big Brother initially needed more parental instruction as first child off the block - but these days I'm semi-retired as the others just copy him. At eight years young, his brain is now wired for information via the written word. He's embarked onto a journey into the world of Harry Potter, picking up a wealth of helpful knowledge - 'Mum!' He greeted me first thing this morning - ' Guess what! Don't worry! Aunt Marge has a moustache too!'
(That's a slap in the face on a number of ego-crushing levels, cause, you know, I had always pictured myself as more of a Hermione)
Big Brother picks up information from the TV too, and on hearing that a golfer got played $1.6 M for winning one game, he declared - I am definitely going to play THAT game'.
'Rugby players, and tennis players get paid a lot too' I commented.
Little Brother looked worried. ' Is there a way to make money without playing sport?' He asked.
' Sure' I said, ' you could always invent or design things'.
'Yah!' He pumped his fist into the air and leapt off the couch as he yelled, ' I'm going to sell my inventions to the WORLD!'
'And, ' he added slyly, ' I' m going to sell them to myself!'
However there are times when holes in their knowledge suddenly become glaringly obvious. Big Brother turned 8 recently, and stealing my sister's plan for growing independent children, he started making his own school lunch. Which became a problem day one when he didn't actually know how to butter and cut a sandwich! (How on earth did I miss that lesson - was it was always easier to make the things, than deal with the chaos of teaching 3? Shabby parenting, I admit).
That night I also noticed he couldn't really use a knife and fork to eat a meal! Another habit of mine - automatically setting the table with fork and spoon, and providing pre-cut food for ease of mastication. So, it's my turn to refine a few skills, perhaps starting with identifying with heroes more my own, (cough), age range, and, keeping in mind I'm learning too - the always changing and everyday different lesson of how to be a parent.
Little Miss still learns a lot by copying and pretending - to be me, or a princess, or a ninja, or a spoilt brat. She can't wipe her own bottom, but she can unlock and play a TV ondemand series on the Ipad without a second tap. She has a fixed slightly skewed world view and is totally inflexible. If the real world doesn't conform to her ideas, then, look out, its mega-tanty time. She is often still like all good toddlers, the Mugabe of her manor.
Little Brother preferred method of learning is digital. Ben 10 and FRIV teach him all he needs to know to advance his career as a weapons design expert (expanding his range that began with the walking axe). Thank goodness for Lego, which gives him a real life R&D platform. He also loves the nightly news weather report. Second preferred method is copying/following the instructions of his brother. Least preferred of all time is listening to Mum telling him to pick up clothes, close his drawers, put away his shoes, empty his lunchbox. That stuff is the work of the robots he is trying to design, so stop interrupting me, Mum! He is working hard on reading as an information source but the bandwidth is limited, upload and download a bit slow (especially b, d, p and q's confusion, I mean what imagination-less fool designed them).
Big Brother initially needed more parental instruction as first child off the block - but these days I'm semi-retired as the others just copy him. At eight years young, his brain is now wired for information via the written word. He's embarked onto a journey into the world of Harry Potter, picking up a wealth of helpful knowledge - 'Mum!' He greeted me first thing this morning - ' Guess what! Don't worry! Aunt Marge has a moustache too!'
(That's a slap in the face on a number of ego-crushing levels, cause, you know, I had always pictured myself as more of a Hermione)
Big Brother picks up information from the TV too, and on hearing that a golfer got played $1.6 M for winning one game, he declared - I am definitely going to play THAT game'.
'Rugby players, and tennis players get paid a lot too' I commented.
Little Brother looked worried. ' Is there a way to make money without playing sport?' He asked.
' Sure' I said, ' you could always invent or design things'.
'Yah!' He pumped his fist into the air and leapt off the couch as he yelled, ' I'm going to sell my inventions to the WORLD!'
'And, ' he added slyly, ' I' m going to sell them to myself!'
However there are times when holes in their knowledge suddenly become glaringly obvious. Big Brother turned 8 recently, and stealing my sister's plan for growing independent children, he started making his own school lunch. Which became a problem day one when he didn't actually know how to butter and cut a sandwich! (How on earth did I miss that lesson - was it was always easier to make the things, than deal with the chaos of teaching 3? Shabby parenting, I admit).
That night I also noticed he couldn't really use a knife and fork to eat a meal! Another habit of mine - automatically setting the table with fork and spoon, and providing pre-cut food for ease of mastication. So, it's my turn to refine a few skills, perhaps starting with identifying with heroes more my own, (cough), age range, and, keeping in mind I'm learning too - the always changing and everyday different lesson of how to be a parent.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Conversation starters
I was admiring Little Brothers latest drawing of what might have been a motorbike. Mum : "Tell me about your picture, it looks amazing"
LB : " It's got really big guns"
Mum: " It sure does. You are going to be a great engineer or maybe, a designer when you grow up"
" Me too! " said Big Brother. " I want to be an all black and a policeman and a designer and an engineer. I'm already a weapons expert"
"Me too! " LB agreed, " I already invented the walking axe".
Another day, LB "Why did god make mosquitoes?"
Mum : " Umm, I don't know . Do you have any ideas ?"
LB : " No, duh, Mosquitoes don't even have ears. But, I think he made them to suck out the blood of things that had too much blood."
Fair enough.
Another day, BB " Mum, I think I have worked out why you are growing a mustache"
Mum : "Oh?"
BB : "I think when you were younger you ate too many kiwi fruit skins. And now the prickles are coming out in your mustache."
Gee, thanks.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Superheroes unite
Being a parent can be really good for your ego..and also, really bad.
I was thrilled to be the recipient of a big hug from little brother a few weeks ago - he's been super affectionate after we deserted him and his siblings for a week or 9 days while we holidayed on a romantic pacific island sans offspring- and, well, I've enjoyed the welcome home/she didn't ditch me after all cuddles.One day he said to me in a loving baby-voice "you are my mumma. (Squeeze) You are my secret agent mummy".
" yes I am" I replied, thrilled to bits with the promotion.
I've been quite chuffed at the thought.
I have been talking it up a bit, working up my air of superior knowledge and world changing abilities, for surely, if you can't be a super hero to your children, then who can you be? A secret agent to ? Huh?
Walking past the neighbors new super-high super-flash fence I'd pointed out the wee camera on the keypad at the gate used by all and one for filtering the wanted visitors from those trying to sell you a new improved religion/vacuum.
"see that little camera "- I informed the kids - " it's actually an eye ball scanner. It's actually used to check the identities of visitors off an Internet based data base"
They were impressed. Everyday now they line up to have their eyeballs scanned, just incase they get granted access.
" you ARE a secret agent mumma" little brother re-stated ( the obvious)
" Yess, I am" I agreed.
But then on the weekend I heard them talking about their own secret agent identities.
"I'm Zac powers," little brother said " secret agent rock star"
"I'm Leon," said big brother, " secret agent tech head"
(Better than secret agent dick head! I commented. he agreed.)
"I'm Annie" said little Miss, " secret agent Princess"
"For sure, "I agreed, " but, uh, what about Dad?"
" He is Gary, Secret Agent Tool Shed"
"And me?" I stupidly asked, way too eager.
"Mum, " they agreed, breaking it to me gently, " you are Sally, Secret Agent Big Bum."
And later, as if it could get worse, I heard them discussing super heroes. Apparently they may not like me when I get angry, because the options they were discussing for my super hero persona were either a green eyed cyclops or, the Incredible Hulk.
I was thrilled to be the recipient of a big hug from little brother a few weeks ago - he's been super affectionate after we deserted him and his siblings for a week or 9 days while we holidayed on a romantic pacific island sans offspring- and, well, I've enjoyed the welcome home/she didn't ditch me after all cuddles.One day he said to me in a loving baby-voice "you are my mumma. (Squeeze) You are my secret agent mummy".
" yes I am" I replied, thrilled to bits with the promotion.
I've been quite chuffed at the thought.
I have been talking it up a bit, working up my air of superior knowledge and world changing abilities, for surely, if you can't be a super hero to your children, then who can you be? A secret agent to ? Huh?
Walking past the neighbors new super-high super-flash fence I'd pointed out the wee camera on the keypad at the gate used by all and one for filtering the wanted visitors from those trying to sell you a new improved religion/vacuum.
"see that little camera "- I informed the kids - " it's actually an eye ball scanner. It's actually used to check the identities of visitors off an Internet based data base"
They were impressed. Everyday now they line up to have their eyeballs scanned, just incase they get granted access.
" you ARE a secret agent mumma" little brother re-stated ( the obvious)
" Yess, I am" I agreed.
But then on the weekend I heard them talking about their own secret agent identities.
"I'm Zac powers," little brother said " secret agent rock star"
"I'm Leon," said big brother, " secret agent tech head"
(Better than secret agent dick head! I commented. he agreed.)
"I'm Annie" said little Miss, " secret agent Princess"
"For sure, "I agreed, " but, uh, what about Dad?"
" He is Gary, Secret Agent Tool Shed"
"And me?" I stupidly asked, way too eager.
"Mum, " they agreed, breaking it to me gently, " you are Sally, Secret Agent Big Bum."
And later, as if it could get worse, I heard them discussing super heroes. Apparently they may not like me when I get angry, because the options they were discussing for my super hero persona were either a green eyed cyclops or, the Incredible Hulk.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
There and Back Again
Being away from the children for nine days broke something. In a good way. It opened a door and gave us a glimpse on a life, a life of a couple that we used to know, a life that is coming back as they get older, grow up and one day fly the nest.
I feel like we have packed up that part of our lives that contained baby buggies and nappies and sleepless nights and cracked nipples. Mushy food and 24/7 on call. LIke childbirth, the memory fadesm and I'm left with I know I have even mostly fotgot what it was actually like in the Breeding years, because I look back on those days so fondly. A tropical holiday reminded me how quiet and peaceful the house will be one day. And it reminded me to enjoy the chaos while it lasts. For although we have packed away the baby paraphernalia, we are by no means out of the kids at home zone, and as they grow a new set of challenges emerge.
Challenges like, managing the addiction behaviour of a 6year old to computer games? Encouraging creativity and independent thought? Keeping them safe as they gradually spend less time under my wing and gaze, and more time in the public arena. (Luckily on holiday i could temper these tricky questions with a few mai-tais from the poolside bar)
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the team of super-nannies (grandmother, nieces, aunts uncles and 1 dog) all played tag team to keep the wheels turning. I felt a little impressed by the size of the instruction booklet I left - wow, when you write it all down I do have a busy job.
Big Brother had let his sister come into bed with him if she got sad at night.
They had drawn a beautiful and detailed Welcome Home poster.
The reunion was epic, loud and emotional.
I thanked Big Brother for his prayers, praying I didn't get eaten by a shark over there (and reassured him it is more likely to be donked by a falling coconut than chomped by a shark)
We are back in the zone, and the break seems like a fabulous dream. Back in daily life I am trying not to grump, but go with it, gladly giving away my peace and personal space for just a few more years.
I feel like we have packed up that part of our lives that contained baby buggies and nappies and sleepless nights and cracked nipples. Mushy food and 24/7 on call. LIke childbirth, the memory fadesm and I'm left with I know I have even mostly fotgot what it was actually like in the Breeding years, because I look back on those days so fondly. A tropical holiday reminded me how quiet and peaceful the house will be one day. And it reminded me to enjoy the chaos while it lasts. For although we have packed away the baby paraphernalia, we are by no means out of the kids at home zone, and as they grow a new set of challenges emerge.
Challenges like, managing the addiction behaviour of a 6year old to computer games? Encouraging creativity and independent thought? Keeping them safe as they gradually spend less time under my wing and gaze, and more time in the public arena. (Luckily on holiday i could temper these tricky questions with a few mai-tais from the poolside bar)
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the team of super-nannies (grandmother, nieces, aunts uncles and 1 dog) all played tag team to keep the wheels turning. I felt a little impressed by the size of the instruction booklet I left - wow, when you write it all down I do have a busy job.
Big Brother had let his sister come into bed with him if she got sad at night.
They had drawn a beautiful and detailed Welcome Home poster.
The reunion was epic, loud and emotional.
I thanked Big Brother for his prayers, praying I didn't get eaten by a shark over there (and reassured him it is more likely to be donked by a falling coconut than chomped by a shark)
We are back in the zone, and the break seems like a fabulous dream. Back in daily life I am trying not to grump, but go with it, gladly giving away my peace and personal space for just a few more years.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
The Hungry-kini Dilemma
I obviously have not had anything interesting to say, or think lately because the last time I blogged was March ! MARCH? My picolini's have spouted a-plenty of cute and world changing intelligent pithy commentaries during that time but I have been missing documenting them. Gone, they have - (I'm practicing talking like Yoda because I find the boys listen to me more when I talk like him, "Shoes, put on your", or Your teeth, you must clean").
Well, now it's the end of May, and here's a thought - I have recently been contemplating the cultural and social implications of whether or not I can pour this body that has given birth to 3 children and knows it, into a hungry-kini. And then go out in public. Well, at least, into the surf at the beach.
Being in a climate where it is possible to just wear a hungry-kini and be warm as toast leads itself to the question - just because you can, should you?
Am I really OK with the thought of the citizens of this beach seeing my barely covered birthday suit?
No matter how cute the suit, how flowery the kini, are people looking at the expansive pasty skin or do they only see the strategically placed bits of material? I mean, is there anyone even looking?
Do I need to look like the bombshell surf board toting bleached babes to feel happy with my body, flomps and all?
And now I have had a few days to think about it , the answer is well, why not? I worked hard for this stretched and sucked on body, I have devoted nearly eight years of my life to the production, extradition and nutritional support my three children, and yes that has taken a toll on my collagen, my ability to jump up and down with confidence, my self awareness. Gone, the perkiness has.
However, as I man my hungry-kini and head down onto the beach, I find it is proudly done.
And it helps we are thousands of miles away from anyone we know.
(Other interesting discoveries this climate have lead to include the fact that the way that my belly flomps over the top of said hungry-kini when I sit down makes it possible to belly type on an Ipad.)
"Hungry-kini " - describes the phenomenon which occurs when wearing a bikini while surfing, wherein a significant portion of the material gets eaten by the space between your buttocks.
Well, now it's the end of May, and here's a thought - I have recently been contemplating the cultural and social implications of whether or not I can pour this body that has given birth to 3 children and knows it, into a hungry-kini. And then go out in public. Well, at least, into the surf at the beach.
Being in a climate where it is possible to just wear a hungry-kini and be warm as toast leads itself to the question - just because you can, should you?
Am I really OK with the thought of the citizens of this beach seeing my barely covered birthday suit?
No matter how cute the suit, how flowery the kini, are people looking at the expansive pasty skin or do they only see the strategically placed bits of material? I mean, is there anyone even looking?
Do I need to look like the bombshell surf board toting bleached babes to feel happy with my body, flomps and all?
And now I have had a few days to think about it , the answer is well, why not? I worked hard for this stretched and sucked on body, I have devoted nearly eight years of my life to the production, extradition and nutritional support my three children, and yes that has taken a toll on my collagen, my ability to jump up and down with confidence, my self awareness. Gone, the perkiness has.
However, as I man my hungry-kini and head down onto the beach, I find it is proudly done.
And it helps we are thousands of miles away from anyone we know.
(Other interesting discoveries this climate have lead to include the fact that the way that my belly flomps over the top of said hungry-kini when I sit down makes it possible to belly type on an Ipad.)
"Hungry-kini " - describes the phenomenon which occurs when wearing a bikini while surfing, wherein a significant portion of the material gets eaten by the space between your buttocks.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Observant males
Driving through town Big Brother spotted the familiar yellow-green brick of his school bus.
'There's my bus' he cried,' and look it is my bus driver,'
'She's very nice.' I said, thinking of all the times she lets me IOU the bus fare. 'But I don't know her name. Do you know what her name is?'
'Paul' he says after a pause.
Another pause. 'I didn't know she was a girl'.
Sitting at the dinner table. I smiled at Big Brother who was looking so angelic with his blue eyes. He's been very sweet lately, telling me every hour or so that he loves me. And will always love me, he assures me, even when he's naughty.
'Mum !' He exclaimed, 'you have gills! On your cheeks, when you smile! You're like a fish ! You can breathe under water! Look everyone - Mum has gills on her face - Here (he points to his cheeks)..... and there (he traces lines radiating out from both his eyes) and...there!" (He traces line after line across his forehead).
That's what they're from, alright, breathing while under water , isn't that what stress is? Keep calm and grow more gills.
Little Brother is more abstract in his observations. 'Do you know, mum ' he begins, ' do you know that when you jump off a cliff you should always wear a t-shirt.'
'Really?' I asked
'Especially, he continued slowly, sifting the thoughts in his head, 'if you are jump off a cliff and you don't have a parachute. Then, you always need a t-shirt. Because, you can always take your t-shirt up over your head like this (he demonstrates) and with one hand hold onto the sleeve and with the other hand, reach through and hold the other bit. And that will make a parachute.'
'Wow' was all I could think of.
'I've known that for a long time' he says.
'There's my bus' he cried,' and look it is my bus driver,'
'She's very nice.' I said, thinking of all the times she lets me IOU the bus fare. 'But I don't know her name. Do you know what her name is?'
'Paul' he says after a pause.
Another pause. 'I didn't know she was a girl'.
Sitting at the dinner table. I smiled at Big Brother who was looking so angelic with his blue eyes. He's been very sweet lately, telling me every hour or so that he loves me. And will always love me, he assures me, even when he's naughty.
'Mum !' He exclaimed, 'you have gills! On your cheeks, when you smile! You're like a fish ! You can breathe under water! Look everyone - Mum has gills on her face - Here (he points to his cheeks)..... and there (he traces lines radiating out from both his eyes) and...there!" (He traces line after line across his forehead).
That's what they're from, alright, breathing while under water , isn't that what stress is? Keep calm and grow more gills.
Little Brother is more abstract in his observations. 'Do you know, mum ' he begins, ' do you know that when you jump off a cliff you should always wear a t-shirt.'
'Really?' I asked
'Especially, he continued slowly, sifting the thoughts in his head, 'if you are jump off a cliff and you don't have a parachute. Then, you always need a t-shirt. Because, you can always take your t-shirt up over your head like this (he demonstrates) and with one hand hold onto the sleeve and with the other hand, reach through and hold the other bit. And that will make a parachute.'
'Wow' was all I could think of.
'I've known that for a long time' he says.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Good mum,bad mum
Sometimes it just all goes pear shaped. I think I've been a better mother since I have come to realise that there are highs and lows to be expected in everyday. Even as we enjoy the moment of a loving cuddle or caring sharing chat, we are aware of the icebergs big enough to sink the titanic that we navigate around. We avoid them as much as we can but sometimes we scrape past them and end in deep cold water, or languishing in a life raft. The shit hits the fan, the wheels fall off, the yelling voices come out, the tears fly and we beat ourselves up for bring less than Mother Theresa.
The patience of a saint, or as my friend describes it, it's scraping the bottom of your boots for a sliver more patience.
Just because I never write about my shipwrecks doesn't mean they don't happen. I am so awful to them sometimes. I yell. I stamp my feet. I slam doors. And then I put them in time out for doing exactly those things. I lie to them - 'maybe Santa will get you one for Christmas!', and I stretch time - 3 mins in timeout becomes 10 when I forget them. Or 10 mins on the computer becomes 2 because I'm desperate to get them to bed. I lose my cool. I hide in the toilet reading my book. I send them on errands to distract them when I know they won't find what they're looking for. I forget to brush their teeth, then blame my husband when my son develops 4 cavities. One day recently I had man flu and couldn't bring myself to get out of bed and make school lunches so I let them stay at home and play free on-line games. Another day my son had a bleeding nose in the car and I threw him back a spare nappy to stop the flow not realising until later that it had already been used, for number 2's.
But I love them and they love me. I never hit them, because I know I am their role model and they copy my behaviour, and it's absolutely not ok. I repeat to myself 'who's the adult? - I'm the adult' over and over again. I try not to hold grudges because they never do. I let the clouds pass then pick myself up and learn more about myself and them everyday. I have a glass of wine (after 4pm if i'm alone) and find an adult to have a laugh with.
I try not to be offended when Little Brother tells me he had a dream where I was a giant green gollum. Or when Big Brother announces loudly at school swimming sports in front of the kids and parents - 'look, mum, your moustache is getting longer! Look, Gus, my mum is growing a moustache!'
I hold onto the buzz I feel when Little Miss looks me up and down across her weetbix bowl and nods approvingly 'beautiful girt (skirt), mama' and I remember that tomorrow is another chance to sail the Titanic safely, happily into shore.
The patience of a saint, or as my friend describes it, it's scraping the bottom of your boots for a sliver more patience.
Just because I never write about my shipwrecks doesn't mean they don't happen. I am so awful to them sometimes. I yell. I stamp my feet. I slam doors. And then I put them in time out for doing exactly those things. I lie to them - 'maybe Santa will get you one for Christmas!', and I stretch time - 3 mins in timeout becomes 10 when I forget them. Or 10 mins on the computer becomes 2 because I'm desperate to get them to bed. I lose my cool. I hide in the toilet reading my book. I send them on errands to distract them when I know they won't find what they're looking for. I forget to brush their teeth, then blame my husband when my son develops 4 cavities. One day recently I had man flu and couldn't bring myself to get out of bed and make school lunches so I let them stay at home and play free on-line games. Another day my son had a bleeding nose in the car and I threw him back a spare nappy to stop the flow not realising until later that it had already been used, for number 2's.
But I love them and they love me. I never hit them, because I know I am their role model and they copy my behaviour, and it's absolutely not ok. I repeat to myself 'who's the adult? - I'm the adult' over and over again. I try not to hold grudges because they never do. I let the clouds pass then pick myself up and learn more about myself and them everyday. I have a glass of wine (after 4pm if i'm alone) and find an adult to have a laugh with.
I try not to be offended when Little Brother tells me he had a dream where I was a giant green gollum. Or when Big Brother announces loudly at school swimming sports in front of the kids and parents - 'look, mum, your moustache is getting longer! Look, Gus, my mum is growing a moustache!'
I hold onto the buzz I feel when Little Miss looks me up and down across her weetbix bowl and nods approvingly 'beautiful girt (skirt), mama' and I remember that tomorrow is another chance to sail the Titanic safely, happily into shore.
The best medicine
My dad has an amazing sense of humour. I have recently come to appreciate how much he uses it to carry on in the face of insurmountable challenges. It is the way he connects to people (and assesses how seriously they take themselves), instantly creating a bond through laughter, and quietly reminding them that he is so much more than a man with a bunch of broken ribs, pneumonia and a blocked bowel lying in a hospital bed after an accident.
He's covered in bruises and circumnavigated by tubes. "I'll know I've got the full set when they shove something up my bum," he jokes.
The nurse reaches down his shirt and attaches the ECG machine to assess why his heart is working too fast. 'Watch out what you grab down there' he warns. 'I'm not reaching that far,' she replies. He feigns shock 'I was talking about my nipples, what were you meaning?'
He laughs, and that sets off a round of hacking and coughing as his lungs work to bring together all the distant flecks of infection for the great expectoration. He's disappointed by his spitting range, as it gets lodged on either his nasal tube thats draining his stomach contents, or gets stuck in the oxygen mask. 'I can usually hit the arse of a fly at ten yards' he says by way of explanation of poor form.
The Physio helps him to sit in the chair as he explains his multiple medical problems. 'aren't you a work of art' she pronounces kindly, although he thinks she says 'arent you a right arse'. He tells her he is a spy for the medical association undercover checking out the treatment of patients by staff, and that he is going to report her. I tell him staging a motor bike accident to get into work was taking his pretend job too seriously.
We discover he coughs the most effectively after a laugh so the ICU nurses are encouraged to deliver their best line in the spirit of healing. I feel sorry for the consultant who doesn't take the time to listen to his patient, in this case to hear the joke he's got to tell. Every else who comes and looks after my Dad feels so much better afterwards.
He's covered in bruises and circumnavigated by tubes. "I'll know I've got the full set when they shove something up my bum," he jokes.
The nurse reaches down his shirt and attaches the ECG machine to assess why his heart is working too fast. 'Watch out what you grab down there' he warns. 'I'm not reaching that far,' she replies. He feigns shock 'I was talking about my nipples, what were you meaning?'
He laughs, and that sets off a round of hacking and coughing as his lungs work to bring together all the distant flecks of infection for the great expectoration. He's disappointed by his spitting range, as it gets lodged on either his nasal tube thats draining his stomach contents, or gets stuck in the oxygen mask. 'I can usually hit the arse of a fly at ten yards' he says by way of explanation of poor form.
The Physio helps him to sit in the chair as he explains his multiple medical problems. 'aren't you a work of art' she pronounces kindly, although he thinks she says 'arent you a right arse'. He tells her he is a spy for the medical association undercover checking out the treatment of patients by staff, and that he is going to report her. I tell him staging a motor bike accident to get into work was taking his pretend job too seriously.
We discover he coughs the most effectively after a laugh so the ICU nurses are encouraged to deliver their best line in the spirit of healing. I feel sorry for the consultant who doesn't take the time to listen to his patient, in this case to hear the joke he's got to tell. Every else who comes and looks after my Dad feels so much better afterwards.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Back from Holidays
After 7 weeks of routine free fun in the sun, I felt especially obliged to be really rant-y tonight when putting the three kiddies to bed.
"It's a school night!' I blazed. "NO, you can't listen to that story until midnight".
You see, I needed to prove to myself that I've still got it.
After weeks of 'Sure, eat another bowl of cereal, you've only had three meals of weetbix today!', or "Sure, you don't need to wear undies", or "Yes, sleep in your clothes", or "Yes, lets go back to the beach" or "Yes, stay up and play spotlight in the dark", or "Yes, lets play cards all morning and make ray guns all afternoon", I just needed to check I can make the rules, that I'm the adult again, (rather than the leader of the gang who happens to have a visa card and a driver's liscence.)
We have had fun with these cool little people that we are so priviledged to drive around, spend money on, beat at cards, and during term time, parent.
They have all handled the long break in their own way.
Big Brother has been reading up on war. Following a christmas present of "War stories for young boys" - he has read it cover to cover a few times, and filled me in on tank warfare, aircraft firing, how to escape from prisoner of war camps, and how to get across a field littered with land mines (they started to demonstrate this by mining the front lawn of the bach, but someone was going to break an ankle, let alone be blown to bits by the hand crafted lego mines).
He also spent hours drawing. We compiled a 2cm thick book of compiled artistic creations by the end of the holidays and stapled them together for future wet weather reading on holiday.
Little Brother still inhabits the superhero Ninja world, where a beach full of pumice and sticks provides a weapons cache that would put General Gentry (aka older brother ) to shame.
"Can I get some weights, Mum?"he asked
"ah, why? " I asked
"Because I want to get muscles. When I grow up I want to be a Fat Ninja"
One day he spent hours drawing a picture and dictated to me a 7 page book describing his superhero powers (blue lightning, ice), his team of superhero warriors, and of course the enemies.
Another day I was helping him into his togs and commented on the 2 pairs of undies he was wearing (more than sum total of whole holiday that far). "Well, ' he says, " every time I lose a pair of undies I lose a life. Look, over there" - he indicated the discarded pair by the toilet - " I died over there, today".
(He's saving his pocket money to buy himself an Iphone. At the current rate he'll be 27 when he can afford it.)
Little Miss attacked her holidays with typical cheerfulness, expanding vocabulary, and multiple costume changes a day while still managing to spend most of her time naked.
"When I an adult", she confided in me one day while I was making a cup of tea, " I GOING to drink tea. " Then she lent forward and whispered ' "and, wine!"
Another day she was moaning after a walk across the long grass.
"I have scratchy ball-ies!" She said
"What's that?" I asked not quite sure I heard her correctly.
"I have scratchy balls-ies! " She yelled
"Which part exactly is scratchy? "
She pointed at her bitten ankles -
"You mean you have scratchy ankles," I corrected.
"No, they look like little balls! "
"It's a school night!' I blazed. "NO, you can't listen to that story until midnight".
You see, I needed to prove to myself that I've still got it.
After weeks of 'Sure, eat another bowl of cereal, you've only had three meals of weetbix today!', or "Sure, you don't need to wear undies", or "Yes, sleep in your clothes", or "Yes, lets go back to the beach" or "Yes, stay up and play spotlight in the dark", or "Yes, lets play cards all morning and make ray guns all afternoon", I just needed to check I can make the rules, that I'm the adult again, (rather than the leader of the gang who happens to have a visa card and a driver's liscence.)
We have had fun with these cool little people that we are so priviledged to drive around, spend money on, beat at cards, and during term time, parent.
They have all handled the long break in their own way.
Big Brother has been reading up on war. Following a christmas present of "War stories for young boys" - he has read it cover to cover a few times, and filled me in on tank warfare, aircraft firing, how to escape from prisoner of war camps, and how to get across a field littered with land mines (they started to demonstrate this by mining the front lawn of the bach, but someone was going to break an ankle, let alone be blown to bits by the hand crafted lego mines).
He also spent hours drawing. We compiled a 2cm thick book of compiled artistic creations by the end of the holidays and stapled them together for future wet weather reading on holiday.
Little Brother still inhabits the superhero Ninja world, where a beach full of pumice and sticks provides a weapons cache that would put General Gentry (aka older brother ) to shame.
"Can I get some weights, Mum?"he asked
"ah, why? " I asked
"Because I want to get muscles. When I grow up I want to be a Fat Ninja"
One day he spent hours drawing a picture and dictated to me a 7 page book describing his superhero powers (blue lightning, ice), his team of superhero warriors, and of course the enemies.
Another day I was helping him into his togs and commented on the 2 pairs of undies he was wearing (more than sum total of whole holiday that far). "Well, ' he says, " every time I lose a pair of undies I lose a life. Look, over there" - he indicated the discarded pair by the toilet - " I died over there, today".
(He's saving his pocket money to buy himself an Iphone. At the current rate he'll be 27 when he can afford it.)
Little Miss attacked her holidays with typical cheerfulness, expanding vocabulary, and multiple costume changes a day while still managing to spend most of her time naked.
"When I an adult", she confided in me one day while I was making a cup of tea, " I GOING to drink tea. " Then she lent forward and whispered ' "and, wine!"
Another day she was moaning after a walk across the long grass.
"I have scratchy ball-ies!" She said
"What's that?" I asked not quite sure I heard her correctly.
"I have scratchy balls-ies! " She yelled
"Which part exactly is scratchy? "
She pointed at her bitten ankles -
"You mean you have scratchy ankles," I corrected.
"No, they look like little balls! "
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