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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.