Dinner time conversation starters

‘Mum - Do you think my stomach operates on an alternate universe?’

‘I’m hot! - both mentally and physically!’

‘Now,’ (having just eaten his veges and starting on his chop) ‘for the delux part of the meal!’

‘I can’t wink, I can only blink with one eye’

‘Mum, when you explain stuff, you don’t start with 1 plus 1 equals 2,  you start with 24 times 1.7.8’

LB: ‘I don't think its all that bad, - Jail.’

BB: ‘But there’s nothing to do!’

LB: ‘You get a perfect toilet. And, a double bed. Well, I mean bunks. They’re like, chained to the wall, it’s so cool.

BB: ‘But, what would you do?”

LB: ‘There’s other people in there! I’d ask them maths questions. And we’d play Paper- Scissors-Rock.’

BB:’What if you’re the only person?’

LB: ‘I’ll ask the wall maths questions. Or, I’ll carve’

BB: ’But you won’t have a knife!’

LB: ‘- Then, I’ll carve with my face!’

BB: ‘You’ll rub your nose off!’

LB: ‘And you get three square meals a day. In prison.’

LB : 'Mum, can I watch TV?'

Mum :‘You can watch TV…..NOT!’

LB: 'But that means I can watch TV, because what you said doesn’t qualify as a sentence’.

From lion to chicken

I am hardwired to protect my child, shield them from pain, keep them alive to go forth and breed thus ensuring the survival of my particularly winning genetic combination of squinty eyes and pun-ability.

However, the truth is this - pain is a part of living, in fact, it is the price we pay for such a gift. (How much you pay seems random and somewhat distributed unevenly to me, but we all pay.)

When the children were babies, the protective mother-lion in me picked up things that they could choked on, prevented them from walking into swimming pools and let them teethe on my cracked nipples cause that’s what mums do, right?.

But now, as they get older, I can feel my mother-lion role is being downgraded to more of a mother-hen. I’m clucking around the outskirts of the pen offering scraps of advice that are largely swallowed whole or ignored.

Sadly, I cannot rid the world of all hazards anymore, nor keep them swaddled in the dark room for 16 hours a day. These days I have to teach them the world is not fair, how to deal with the unchewable bits, how to meet a challenge, and how to pick themselves back up from a fall.

And to do that I have to role model it.

Everyday I am reminded that I have to role model that I’m ok that Life is totally not fair. That I’m ok with Life being actually quite hard work. That when things go wrong I can and must pick myself up. That when I fall out with someone else I have to build a bridge and get over it. That I will be happiest if I meet the the daily unexpected fall from plan with a response of  “what ev’s!’ and go with it. Everyday I remind myself that I can’t and shouldn’t protect them from the world because they’ll miss out on too much joy if I do.

In mother hen style I must scratch myself out a little dust-bath in the sun and cheer/bok when they choose to be happy no matter what, watch over them as they fall over, and cheer/bok again when they pick themselves up.

Killing Christmas with Kindness

When the eldest child comes of age, there is a nasty job to be done. If like my son, the fantasy element runs strong and you passionately believe in dragons, magic, time travel, gremlins and vampire-zombie-mutant-house-pets, then this day may come later in life than for others. If you have a daily onslaught of fantasy play, fully supported by your brother, you are in the lucky position to let the force for suspending reality run strong and together commit to lengthy ongoing fantasy role play (latest one being an epic vampire-zombie-mutant- house-pet saga which involved the entire plastic animal collection strategically placed around the house, and the floor littered with the decapitated bodies of lego mini figures lying in their zombie attack crazed wake).

I often lament the lack of time I get to spend in the fantasy world these days as an adult, yet there comes a time when I must share the brutally truth of reality with them.They really do need to know some of the facts of life, even if to protect them from the teasing of other children.

That is why, this morning before work, I slaughtered Santa. The opportunity came up. And like all good assassins, I calmly took aim and fired.

The oldest child will always get the longest ride, as we try and protect the younger ones from losing their imag-innocence. But there needs to be some resilience building-shocks to the system, imparted in a safe and secure environment, where they can weep into the pillows for a few moments, as the dreams of flying reindeer, jovial chaps in bright colored britches,and bulging sacks full of every present on the planet dissolve into the murky pooled reality of a lifetime of parental lies.

He took it rather well. He actually admitted he did know the truth, all along, but he just refused to accept it, until Dad or I had confirmed the betrayal. (There’s my boy - denial in the face of overwhelming evidence is my personal M.O).

Its just like any other pretend game, I told him, once the tears had ceased. If you still play the game, Santa will keep bringing you a stocking.

I related the painful time I learned ‘the truth’. I was 5 years old and my older brother and sister sat me down and told me all about the great santa scam. Next they went straight to Mum and said ‘Gina knows all about Father Christmas, Mum’. Mum said ‘Thank God thats over’, and never made another stocking for me or any of my 5 siblings again.

5 years old!  We bonded over my obvious childhood neglect, despite the painful truth of his situation he could appreciate he’d had a good run.

He then suggested he could help me pull the wool over the eyes of the other children - join the giant conspiracy - and be santa's helper this year. We agreed, and he promised not to tell the others until they were at least 10 years old. We carried on into our day, him with the glint in his eye of having a secret to lord over everyone else. Welcome to the adult world, I thought. It’s all about haves and have-nots, those in the know and not ‘privi’ to the juicy bits.

I thought, Im glad thats over.

But, then I realised - It’s not for long though. How many more awful truths must I tell? What next on the hit list?

Exterminate the easter bunny and break the messy news on how babies are really made.

Random Cogitations at Dinner

The dinner conversations are just getting better and better.
Little Brother, a deep cogitator from way back particularly likes this forum to air some of his more, random ideas.  Its fascinating to see what inspires these discussions, everything from Skulduggery Pleasant, their latest reading material, to house insurance and mortgages. And their amazing school. I am constantly impressed by the random information they come home armed with. So much for just going to school to eat your lunch, like in the good old days.

"I can't wait until the world explodes!' he announced one night over carbonara.
'Really?; I asked, "Why is the world going to explode?" (Thinking - Did I miss something big in the news and mentally running through the state of the emergency kit.)
"The earth is actually moving one centimetre closer to the sun every year and one day its just going to get so close that BOOM!"
"Its going to be awesome!" he continued.
"Awesome" Big Brother corroborated. "BOOM!"
I figured we have enough time to restock the baked beans and muesli bars before that day, so I relaxed.
Pause. Then -
"Why aren't men allowed to be nuns?"

Another night he got onto the hot topic of our new mortgage. Its obviously given him cause for thought. He's been coming up with plans to pay it off but first he needs to understand how it works.
"When we've paid off the mortgage will we then be just saving money?"
I explained about just paying the interest at this stage. He knows we have 30 years to pay it off, and we might not have another holiday or any pocket money during that time.
"So we're not even paying the house off, we're just kind of renting it from ourselves?" he continues.
Pause.
"Can I give up blogging for lent?"

One night over corned beef he heard us talking about the insurance. That led to Insurance 101, and discussed home and contents, house and car insurance. The knowledge that if the house burns down we would claim the money back to build a new house was strangely inspiring to their tardis brains.
"Lets burn it down and then claim the money to pay off the mortgage!" was Big Brother's plan.
"I think you'll find thats illegal, the insurance company will find out and then you'll be a criminal"I advised.
Pause - while Little Brother looks for the loop hole.
"Can I get someone else to burn down our house, then they'll go to jail and I'll get all the insurance money?'
"Well, I think you'll find thats criminal activity too and you're going to need a good lawyer"
"Well," he continues, "I actually want to keep fit. I want to keep fit so I can keep skinny, so I can fit through the bars. Then I can solve all the crimes. And do the crimes."
"Whats a lawyer anyway?" he asked
I babbled something along the lines of "A lawyer is a person who argues one side of a case, say there would be a lawyer arguing in court that you didn't commit the crime of burning down the house, and there would be another lawyer arguing for the police that you did burn down the house. Then a judge and jury would decide if you were guilty or not guilty. "
I have a feeling arguing for a living would appeal to him.
Another pause.
"Mum, what body part would you have two of, if you could have two of something? Two heads? Or maybe four arms?"

New Year, New regime

Im not sure why I stopped blogging about these three offspring of ours. Days, weeks, months tick by, and there's lunch to be made, on demand telly to catch up on, and god forbid - work to go to in the morning.
Little Miss has grown up a lot. She's now a uniform wearing child of the formal education system. Five years old and after two weeks at school she's able to confidently proclaim - "God made the earth, Mum, and Bob the builder made the houses."
She is taking the independence-or-die-trying approach to finally ditching her mother at the school gates. Some days she won't let me enter the school front door.
"Shall I pick you up after school today?" I asked, like the jolly good chauffeur I am.
"No, I'm catching the bus home!'
"Would you like me to pick you up, today, though, since its your first day?"
"No! I'M CATCHING THE BUS HOME WITH THE BOYS!"
And so she did. The first few days I was rude enough to ask 'How was your day at school?" as she got off the bus.
"Don't ask me that !,' she wailed back, bursting into tears - "I hate it when you ask me that all the time."
She turned up in our room on Sunday morning at the end of week one, dressed in uniform and hair clips at 6am. 'Is it a school day today?" she asked
"Sorry darling, no school on sundays" I had to break it to her, then retreated quickly under the bedcovers.
Then there's the hairdos. First day she requested 3 plaits and seven hair clips for the starting fulltime education look. By day three I had to threaten she couldn't go to school if she didn't let me brush her hair. I'm not counting on that threat working for long. She pores over each school reader, desperate to read it.
Meanwhile the boys have been subjected to a rash of new regimes designed to be implemented at the dawn of the year, with the aim of making our lives smooth and efficient. They're not going that well. Ive brought in Cooking lessons - each child will learn to cook meals and at least help out once a week. We have baking Mondays - designed to have some nice time with my daughter who loves lick the bowl. Hopefully she might share some of her day with me over the cookie dough.
 We've got emptying the dishwasher duty and no tolerance regime to crimes of apple-core-discardment. I found two ends of a carrot under a cushion today so that regime may have been overthrown already. It all makes it feel like the holidays were a long time ago.
Little Brother made Carbonara tonight. He really enjoyed it, chatting away -"And you always tell us how hard it is to cook! We're not listening to you anymore! " he berated me.
 He informed me over the cheese grater that he really wanted to be a miner and find some gold flakes. Or a pirate (bigger pieces of gold).  And of course if he lived in Medieval times he'd like to be a Ranger. I said I'd like to be a medieval princess.
"Do you think it would be better to have a wooden foot, or a peg leg?" he continued.
"Well,  I think you'd trip over on a boat if you had a foot, a peg leg would be more practical"
"If I cut off my foot, would you get me a peg leg?"
"Sure, ok, maybe a prosthesis shaped like a blade that you could run on"
Grate. Grate.
"I think if I was a miner I'd cut off my leg and then put a pickaxe on my peg leg. That would be awesome, that way I could kick and use my hand pickaxe at the same time! I'm going to mine heaps of gold. And a diamond."
His announcement as he getting off the bus was that he'd like to start writing a blog. We got right onto that after dinner was devoured by the appreciative diners.
"What are you going to call your blog?" I asked
"My Blog!" - he'd obviously been thinking about this for a while.
"What happens if everyone on the planet - all 7 billion of us - all called our blogs my blog, how would we tell them apart? "
"Ok, I'll call it My Blog NZ, like the TV show The Block NZ"
But that name was taken.
So, instead, he called it  The Fire Sheep.