kids

The last couple of weeks have been incredibly busy.



Mister has started kindergarten and LOVES it. Missy Mopps has started pre-school and LOVES it. WIN!



We started the fall season of gymnastics; Mister chucked his seasonal hissy fit, running away and refusing to join in his group, protesting loudly and laying on the ground, like I am the most torturous mother on earth...which is ultimately what I ended up being. After about 10 minutes of his antics, I thought "Bugger this!" Got down to his level and muttered that we would be coming to these lessons every week for the next 10 weeks whether he liked it or not, so he had better get used to the idea because there is no way in hell he is getting out of gymnastics. And yeah...I have noticed that he only carries on like this while I am present so perhaps next week I will leave him and go and do something else for the hour, and come back at the end. Mafia style tactics prevailed and he eventually participated. Predictably he ended up loving it - like every other time (why me????) and can't wait for next week, because one of his friends ended up in his group. Missy Mopps on the other hand was champing at the bit for her lesson the same afternoon and had a great old time, minus the self-inflicted drama.



Speaking of Missy Mopps, I actually had a great day with the kids today. We are getting used to the new, frantic routine, but today turned out perfectly.



At present, it is still lovely weather out, so we have been making the most of these warm sunny days in dwindling supply and have spent most of this week outdoors.



While Mister was in kindergarten Missy rode her trike while I walked. Her trike is pretty cute. It has an umbrella top and a handle so I can push her when she gets tired (and to save my back). This trike pulls a lot of attention and she loves it. A little old lady was walking by when we were heading back from the park. The lady asked Missy if she would give her a drive home if she sat behind her on her bike. With a wide eyed nod of the head, Missy agreed to ride the lady home on her trike...melted that lady's heart she did. "Oh, you are sooooo cute", she crooned. She really is. My little missy mopps is so sweet.



Funny ting happened at the store today. We were walking along the pavement, heading toward the area where they keep the shopping carts. Along the way there is this great pile of dried bird crap - there must be a nest high in the rafters or something, because no other mounds of crap were visible. On the way back to the shop entrance, cart in hand, I notice a little boy, probably about 7 years old, standing, staring at this great pile of dried bird shit; he appeared totally mystified by the vast quantity of shit heaped on the ground. As I passed him by, he spoke, trance-like, as if speaking the private thoughts of his own mind, "did some bird die there or something", he questioned to no one in particular. I lost it - cracked up laughing. It sure did look like some one had blown the shit out of some bird.

open house

It has been one of those day, you know. After the realtor took the photos for the website, he casually informed us that we already had our first cabs of the rank, as far as tire kickers and beard pullers go; "6:30pm". "Gee thanks", I replied. It looks like evening showings are going to be the norm; everyone works around here, so I guess they have to come after work or risk leaving it until the weekend, when the place might (HAHAHAHA) already be sold.

As soon as the realtor put the sign up, we had people on the prowl, doing the drive-by, rubber neck style. One couple even parked next door in the car park, got out and cased the joint; peering over the fence and what not. I was making dinner at the time, and it was most disconcerting to have a couple of strangers grinning at me through the kitchen window (now I know how the gorillas at the zoo must feel). I must say, it was a bit exciting to see people interested in the house, but then again, they were probably just sticky beaks agog that the place is on the market so soon. The neighbours have been awfully friendly all of a sudden, coming out for a chin wag and a pry...even got asked to Saturday lunch...that NEVER happens. Boy, am I an old synyc today!

Anyway, after the realtor's look-see at 10am, we had three appointments lined up:6pm, 6:30pm and 7:30 pm. Dinner was screwed. We ended up ordering a pizza and eating it in the park, then letting the kids play in the playground. It was a huge novelty for them.

It would have been great to be able to go to a restaurant and have a nice dinner, but we had the dogs with us. They are quite unbearable to most people- they yap and howl and jump up on people's legs; tearing stockings and planting muddy foot prints on pristine white slacks - no manners whatsoever - so we have to take them away when prospective buyers are on the scene.

Not only the dogs are we carting around town, but also the smelly old dog bedding, as they camp out on the floor of our room. We also have our portable microwave on the front seat. Oh, you didn't know you could get portable microwaves - you can't. We have two microwaves. We bought a cheapie when we moved into a friends house for the month prior to moving into this house. This friend had no mod-cons whatsoever, even his kettle was of the heat on the stove variety. Anyway, when we moved into the house, we found the built-in microwave to be lacking a handle, and of course, that particular size was no longer made by anyone, anywhere in the world. The only way to open the darn thing was to jimmy it open with a steel ruler....no thanks, so the cheapo microwave stayed and took up precious bench space, thus, it must be removed during showings.

Last week, Ashley had a brain wave and took a handle off one of our old cupboard doors and managed to cut up a white light switch surround, and somehow managed to secured the handle good and tight. The microwave opens now, but I am too afraid to use it in case the thing blows up or something equally ironic, and we will have to replace it anyway - at $500...no thanks. So the cheapo, counter hogging microwave, which I quite prefer by the way, stays, and these days gets to go on trips every so often (dear me).

Tonight's three showings went well apparently, though no one made an offer. We have another group coming at 6pm tomorrow. That means we have to stay away from the house all day again - the kids can't make a mess if we aren't there.

We did have a reasonably good day out today though. I had to go into the next town to pick up some shoes, which didn't happen (oh well). Afterwards, I promised to take the kids to the park. The kids played there for about 90 minutes, before we headed off for a walk through the gardens. Mister chucked an enormous hissy fit after playing the entire day and insisted upon sprinting around the 400 metre running track they have alongside the park. He was determined to run the entire 400 metres in lane 5 (because he is 5), and he insisted that missy mopps and I run too, in our own lanes. Missy mopps was tuckered out and wanted to be carried and to be honest, I really couldn't be stuffed, but because we didn't play the game, he chucked a monumental wobbly. Then another after I convinced him that we would just watch him run the final 100 by himself, during which he confused the track lines and veered out of his lane. He was insisting he start the race over again (for about the fifth time) when I managed to lead him to the car, screaming, but not kicking, where more wailing and gnashing of teeth occurred amidst laughable claims that he was "not tired". "suuuUUUuuure!"

Needless to say, it has been a long day - for us all.

The Dinner Fix - Sandi Richard

I detest making dinner. It stresses me out; is a thankless job and there is so much cleaning up afterwards and what for...no one seems to appreciate the effort I go through each night.

As many of you know, I have two kids, 4 and 3 years old. For me, and countless other parents (I am sure) dinner is a fiasco largely considered with dread. I slave over a hot stove, in the largely futile attempt to create some healthy, balanced meal that will ensure the future well being of my children and sustenance for their day to come. What I get in return is mostly turned up noses, and nasally whines of "I don't like that", to which I protest, "but you haven't even tried it. How do you know if you have NEVER tried it?...TRY IT!"

Torture is a closer word for dinner in my house - both from the kids AND for me. Dinner is also the time when Ashley returns home from work - not a pleasant home-coming for him; frustrated wife and defiant, tired kids. I had indeed resigned myself to this disgruntled over dinner fate, hoping with time, this phase would pass, and my kids would one day become enlightened to the benefits of the vitamins and other nourishing details of foods other than Dora the Explorer tinned spaghetti.

Me, I was never really into meat, although not exactly a vegetarian, I tend not to go for meat - fish and chicken.... yeah, but red meat...not so much. I have always enjoyed vegetables and salads, and living out in whoop whoop, we never had fast food or take out - a meat pie or a pastie at the footy on Saturday was about as crazy as it ever got. McDonald's was a treat we only ever indulged in on the way home from Adelaide - which occurred only once in a blue moon - and then, believe it or not, I always ordered the garden salad with french dressing (oh and a sundae with hot caramel sauce).

Don't get me wrong, I am not professing to be a health nut, but I do appreciate and enjoy eating vegetables. But my frustration is not simply about my kids eating more vegetables. Rather, I would like them to eat more balanced meals and be open to trying new things - healthy things.

Anyway, when in Calgary, my friend, who like many of us, suffers similarly with the dinner dread, stumbled upon a Sandi Richard cook book. She is on telly and all , but her thing is meal planning, as opposed to cooking, but what is the difference?

I don't know about you, but at about 5pm I go to my pantry, unconscious and clueless about what I am going to make for dinner; already resigned about the predictably balked at outcome and protests of "yuck", all the while muttering to myself about why I bloody bother anyway. Then I scan the uninspiring ingredients lurking moodily upon my balsamic vinegar ringed shelves and the stress and pressure of what to make, begins.

Sandi Richard books are more than cook books - sure, they are filled with great recipes, but they also tell you how long each recipe will take to cook - from pantry shelf to dinner table, and there are shopping lists in the back, based on a weeks worth of recipes, according to how the book is set out.

i.e Week One of "The Dinner Fix" book, includes these recipes: Mexican Hamburgers, Spinach and Cheese Ravioli in a tomato tapenade with green beans, Asparagus stuffed Chicken with hollandaise and Greek salad, Red snapper with pineapple salsa Pecan wild rice and asparagus, Asian Meatball soup with baby carrots and dinner rolls. Then on page 161 the book lists all the ingredients you will need to make all of these recipes. Ont he back there is even room to adjust the list.

The beauty of the meal planning idea is that you can confidently choose something to make for dinner (in the morning even), knowing that all the ingredients are there in the cupboard waiting to be used. On top of that, all the recipes are sooOoo easy and quick to make.

So far I have made the Spinach and Cheese Ravioli in a tomato tapenade with green beans and Asparagus stuffed Chicken with hollandaise and Greek salad. Both recipes were very well received and eaten. I demanded that the kids try each one, despite the protests and assurances of "not liking it". Mister didn't care for beans in the ravioli dish, but he liked the rest of the meal. He requested that I make it again with a different side veggie, and I will certainly take that feedback on board for next time. The chicken was soooOOOooo good. I will certainly be making that one again, and I am looking forward to making the snapper dish next time. I believe there is hope concerning dinner after all.

If you are interested, you can check out Sandi Richard and her "cooking for the rushed", yourself.


*My only quibble about Sandi's writing is that she uses an excessive number of exclamation marks. I was exclaiming a few things myself at each glimpse of all those unnecessary vertical distractors. Enough with the exclamations marks!

The Alex's

We just came back from a fourth birthday party. It wasn't overly abundant with guests; just five little girls and four little boys.

Three of the little boys were named Alex. They were all about the same age and got on like a house on fire - collectively they were called "The Alex's".

When we were pregnant with our kids, we chose a few names that we liked, and then scanned the birth announcements pages in the months leading up to the big event, to ensure that our chosen name was not being reproduced in abundant quantities; "who would want to be one of 10 of that name, in their class room?", we figured.

In hindsight, I am SO glad we chose to call our son "Mister"!!!!

under-estimated

I remember when Dad first took my training wheels off my bike; I was six.

I remember the anticipation; my self-doubt and concern about riding without my tiny support wheels. I remember Dad's encouragement and promise that he would not let go of my bike until he knew I was ready and able to ride on my own. I remember taking off for the first time, Dad running along side me holding the seat so I would not topple over. He kept telling me to peddle and concentrate on where I was going - "look straight ahead". We did this over and over again, on the circular driveway out the front of the ole homestead, near the garage. Unbeknown to me, Dad, though still running alongside me, was decreasing the amount of support he was applying in order to keep me upright, until his assistance was no longer required. Then eventually, we took off together, Dad stopping part way while I rode on - solo.

I had ridden a few metres before I realised he was no longer there; of course I turned to see where he was, and of course I fell off and scraped my knee, but I was also encouraged to get right back on there and try again, and eventually...at some stage, I must have gathered the experience and confidence to ride steadily.

Mister is an avid bike rider. He loves to tear around the street on his bike, and show off to the neighbour, delighting in her telling him "how fast" he can ride. Now and again we have suggested that perhaps he might like to take his training wheels off, but as is usually the case with him, we were met with much wailing and resistance, but since he is still only four, we didn't push it.

On Thursday afternoon, Mister was watching "Franklin", a cartoon about a turtle and his mates. During the episode, Franklin took the training wheels off his bike, and for whatever reason, Mister suddenly declared that he would also like to take his off. We were delighted to hear this, and bargained with him that we would do the deed on Saturday and spend all afternoon nurturing his confidence and guiding him in the art of bike riding sans trainer wheels.

On Saturday, Mister was champing at the bit, waiting impatiently as Ashely removed the wheels. We encouraged him to ride on the lawn at first, but the ground was too moist and spongy and he was having a hard time getting started, so we took him out the front, where there is a pavement and lawn for him to fall onto. So we took him out there, nervous about how this experience might turn out; how much wailing and disenchantment there would be as he struggled to control and balance the bike, without the customary support. We were bracing ourselves for a very long day; some skinned knees and howling; the beloved bike very likely being tossed aside to pouting promises of "never riding it again UNLESS those trainer wheels are replaced"...but we were wrong.

I kid you not, we had scarcely gotten into the front yard before Mister, without ANY assistance whatsoever, jumped on his bike and rode off BY HIMSELF! Ashley and I were both stunned, looked at each other, and then threw our heads back and laughed out loud. Mister couldn't understand what we were laughing at, and since we didn't want to make him paranoid, we explained that he was doing a fantastic job, and "could not believe" that he was riding so well so soon after removing the trainers. We told him "we could have removed them weeks ago if we had known he was that good". Basically we praised him up, and he was very proud of himself. He even went for a ride around the block. He did very well, but got a bit wobbly when the path appeared to narrow, but overall he rode exceptionally well for a first go.

Yesterday morning he showed a friend his new biking skills, and then he declared that he was going to teach another friend how to ride without trainer wheels - I am sure the other friend would be wrapped!

Mister, who has been known to be an overly resistant nervous nelly about practically EVERYTHING, has really gained a lot of self-confidence in recent weeks. He is really enjoying being a "big boy" and we are also, very happy to see him bloom.

It never fails....

Whenever I use the bathroom, it never fails that either one or both of my children will cause incident during the brief time I am in there. They will follow me and sit, stand or lay next to the door, and either quietly tap the door, thump it violently or yell at me through it, until I come out.

Should I manage the miraculous task of creeping away unseen, it never fails that one or both children will start screaming for me to "come here" and much to my urgings, they will not divulge the reasoning behind my immediate and urgent summonsing.

On the even rarer occurrence where I have managed to venture to the bathroom alone, without being followed; they knowing exactly where I am going, but are too engrossed in whatever it is they are playing to care, it never fails that some freakish mishap or bizarre turn of events should befall upon one or both children in my absence, causing one or both children to scream at blood curdling decibels, which leaves me panicked and helpless in my efforts to speed things along so I can attend to the broken limbs, broken teeth, gauged eyes and split open heads I am imagining I will find upon scrambling out of the bathroom...which, for your information, is never the case, despite the stuck pig-like squealing and squawking going on, or the terrorised tone of the non-injured party who is frantic for me to emerge "quiiiiiiiick"and call 911.

Why oh why oh WHY, can't I use the bathroom in peace...just once?

An innocent Eff Word

My daughter is nearly three. Her speech is coming along quite well, but today an utterance emerged from her sweet little cherry mouth; one I didn't expect to hear - The Eff-word.

"WHAT did you say!" I spluttered as we were driving along.

"*uck", she repeated, without flinching, she was looking out the car window.

I followed her gaze. OHHHHHH! "Truck!" sigh of relief, "yes, a truck. Can you say truck?"

"*uck".

"T-ruck"

"T-*uck"

"Listen to me, T-R-uck. Can you say that?"

"T-R-*uck", she giggled, repeating it continuously.

"We really need to work on that word, Missy Mopps".

"Why?"

"Well, the way you say "truck" sounds like something else".

"What?"

"A bad word"

silence...

"*uck".

"Lets stop saying that now. We'll work on it later."

"Ok, Mummy".

Then today, we were in Dairy Queen....

"Look! *uck!", she yells out pointing to a truck outside.

A whiplash of head turn our way.

Where can I hide?

"Missy Mopps, look at me", I whisper.

"Can you say T?"

"T"

"Good. Can you say R?"

"R"

Great. Can you say Uck?"

"Uck".

"Excellent. Now put 'em together. T-R- Uck"

"T-R-Uck"

"Now Truck"

"Truck"

"Yay"!

Thank God for that.

the nest

I have two kids, one is four and my daughter will be three next month.

My first pregnancy was not planned.

In fact, I hadn't planned on ever having kids.

The very thought of becoming a mother was an utterly terrifying concept to me, and one I hoped never to entertain. Harsh I know.

Until I became a mother, I had not one moment of prior experience. I had held one baby once...my bosses, and the baby was kind of thrust into my inwardly refusing, quivering arms, with me awkwardly holding the baby at arms length and, no doubt, with an expression of complete and total fear, smeared across my horrified face.

It was not that I disliked children, I just felt that I lacked experience, was totally clueless and would probably be a screw up as a parent, and didn't want to be held responsible for my own child's misery; besides...I had plans, and a career to plunge into.

I graduated from university 7 months pregnant.

Only one person in my graduating class knew I was pregnant, which is a bit surprising, not to mention insulting, that no one happened to notice the protruding belly (ha ha), but I didn't want anyone to know. I thought I might be discriminated against, in my pursuit of a career. Yes, career, career, career...that was all I thought and dreamt about.

Once I had my baby boy, I was a nervous, unconfident, puddle of insecurity, but I coped, and I learnt - that is all you can do really - mothering is the ultimate, on-the-job-training experience. I lacked support, from extended family and friends. I really was alone, and though everyday I felt I had fallen short, as a parent (and mostly still do), I wasn't the total screw up I thought I might be.

I had a second baby straight away, deluded that I should get the reproductive phase of my life over with, so I can get on with that blessed career, that somehow kept eluding me.

The second baby was a dream child, and at the time, my husband was feeling rather disillusioned at work and so we were talking about doing a role reversal thing - he stay at home with the kids, and went after that career I had been longing for....it didn't work out.

I went for the dream job. I got to the final cut...but I didn't get it. Then opportunities came up for my husband to work in Canada. He was successful in his bid, we moved, and ironically, I have visa restrictions preventing me from working in my field.

It is funny how fate works sometimes...(NOT funny "ha ha"), and I have spent many years coming to terms with the why's of all this....

My children are older now...still young, but older. My eldest will be starting kindergarten in the fall and my youngest will be starting pre-school. I have decided to put my sensitive, panicky and, at home, dominating son in an afternoon kindergarten class, so his sister gets as much focus and concentration from me, regarding her morning pre-school class. I could have placed them both in morning classes and took the 2 hour break - the first in 5 years- but I think it is more important that my youngest gets her needs met, as she commences this new level of independence.

If you allow me to digress just a little....I have gotten to know one family here in town. They have a son who attends pre-school with my son. They also have a daughter, who will be in pre-school with my daughter. The boys, along with the girls, both get along quite well. Although my daughter is still pretty shy with others and clings to me a bit, just for reassurance until she feels comfortable - its normal behaviour.

I have gotten to know the Dad a bit. He is a stay at home Dad, and like me -the foreigner, he doesn't really fit in with the clichey local mothers. He is nice, and I have gotten to know his lovely wife now, too.

My son has gone over to this family's house for play dates, and their son has come over to our house for the same. I even had the little girl over for a couple of hours while the boys were in pre-school.

Tonight however, I got a call from The Dad, asking if my son would like to go over on Friday, for a play date, and perhaps stay for dinner. My son would definitely love that, he did go over for dinner with the family once before and had a ball...I missed him though. Then The Dad extended the invitation to my daughter, who has never been to any one's house by herself. Man, I could feel the tension in the wholeness of my being. Every morsel of myself was screaming "NOOOOOO, don't take my baby".

I started spluttering and back peddling like I was on a moped careering toward a pack of sleeping lions. I told him I would have to "think about it" - boy, in hindsight that was really rude. It is not that I don't' trust the family, it is just that...I (pathetically) don't know what I am going to do with myself for all that time, by myself! I haven't allowed myself to think of my future beyond full time care, yet. There was no point. I have let my career aspirations drift away. I am no longer that same person. I am a changed person due to my parenting experience...for the better I think...And secondly, I am just not ready to let my baby go just yet...not for all that time, anyway.

So I think I am going to retract my acceptance of the invitation for Mister to stay for dinner, and suggest he and his sister play for a few hours, and I pick them both up at 5pm. It would make me feel more comfortable, and I will still have to find something to do with myself during those few hours, but it won't be for as long.

It is ironic that I had once thought the idea of me as a mother totally abhorrent, and now I can't let them go...I love them.

when NOT to encourage sharing

I have two kids, one is 4 years and the other, nearly 3.

My four year old goes to pre-school.

I help out one of the working pre-school Mums, by allowing her to drop her child into my house on Wednesday mornings. I take care of him for the hour or so before school; take him to school with my son, and drop him to his baby sitters after school.

I know it is not much. This particular mother has had a really hard time since going back to work - some unbelievably bad strokes of luck; major car trouble, unprecedented school closures, snow storms, major wind storms, anyone of her three kids sick at any one time, out of town family deaths, you name it. So I am more than happy to help her out and ease a tiny bit of her load.

The week before Christmas my kids were sick.

There had been a nasty virus going around, and of course, schools seem to breed such things in plague-like proportions. Unfortunately for my youngest, her illness turned to pneumonia, but she is ok now.

Last week was the first week after the holiday break that I had taken in the previously mentioned boy, for the pre-school run. The week prior her eldest son's school bus broke down AND there was snow, which caused further head aches for the boy's Mother- anyway the little boy didn't go last week.

My son and this particular boy get of very well, in fact this little boy is quite a sweetie, but he turned up to our place last week with a gut churning, lumpy, bumpy and chunky cough. If anyone was going to cough up a lung (and more) it was going to be this kid!

It was perhaps 15 minutes after the drop off, that the boy made his first attempt at stifling the unstoppable cough. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

The mother hadn't said a word about it, but considering the difficulties she has been experiencing in actually getting to work on time, or at all, I can understand why she might have chosen not to have mentioned it.

I did voice my concern, since his cough sounded so painful and utterly dreadful.
"Are you ok?!!!" I asked.
"Yep", he assured me.
"Were you sick over the holidays ?" I furthered.
"Nope", he informed me innocently.
"Well that cough sounds just awful!" It was quite obvious he HAD been sick.

Yesterday my son awoke and wasn't really himself. He kept telling me he was tired. He was also unusually quiet all day. He kept crying over meaningless things, lost his normally insatiable appetite, then finally, last night, he informed me that his head hurt when he jumped up and down. He was coming down with something...

I gave him some Tylenol and suggested he sleep for as long as he wanted. This morning he woke at 8am with a fever, runny nose and an awful cough, one that echoed that of his little friend.

Time to stock up on the Kleenex - AGAIN. Sigh....

Finds

My old lounge suite is made of a very poor design.

The back cushions easily fall off and are frequently removed by the kids. Whereas the seat cushions are fixed.

The stupidity of such a design is that everything falls down the back of the lounge, without any way of retrieving it.

Many an item has vanished into that black hole, and whenever the lounge is moved, for whatever reason, there is a jingle and a jangle of all sorts of mystery items.


Yesterday it all came to a head.


My daughter lost one of her beloved littlest pet shop animals down that icky abyss, and the wailing was simply too much to bear.


So I lifted the couch onto its end, sending a tinkling of bits of pieces to the bottom. Then I took to the under fabric with a sharp knife.

I was actually dreading the thought of putting my hand into the gooey glizzards of that lounge to fossick around for the lost toy; there would probably be enough crumbs and lost food items down there to feed a nation of mice (shudder).

Nevertheless I did the nasty deed and rescued the toy. I also found three matchbox cars, a toy motor bike, several puzzle pieces, two odd socks, four crayons, a pen and a brown pencil, a Boots the Monkey figurine, numerous crackers and Cheerios, a dogs worth of fur, crumbs galore and one blue Smartie. The vacuum cleaner did a good job of syphoning up the crusty bits, so now the couch is a little less ...well, funky.

While I was more than a little repulsed by the whole exercise, the kids were delighted to be reunited with the long lost items, and eager to replace the missing puzzle pieces with the corresponding puzzles.

So we ventured upstairs in search of the puzzle boards, which happened to be laying under an elephant's weight of assorted unlabled boxes, sitting idle and unopened since we moved from Australia, almost two years ago.....or more.

We decided to go on a search and discovery mission and find out what was in all the boxes. Much of the stuff my children had not seen before, and so their excitement was well worth the clean up effort after we were done.

I found a box containing the headpiece from my wedding day, wedding shoes, bridesmaid dress material, leftover invitations hymnials and thankyou notes, but also in that box was a newspaper clipping of a letter I wrote fifteen years ago. The letter was in response to some sour grapes and rather prejudiced views by commentators and public alike, who found the 1992 Australian of the Year - Mr Mandawuy Yunupingu - to be an unworthy recipient. I begged to differ.

There was also another newspaper clipping. This one included a photo of my Grandfather, who passed on almost three years ago. He was handing out an award to someone, of behalf of an organisation he was involved in.

In another box I found a variety of long lost jewellery, collected or given to me over the course on my lifetime. I even found a silver Humphry B Bear pendant, which has to be nearly thirty years old.

I found purse given to me by my late Great Grandmother. In it were one of each denomination of Australian coin; every one dated with the year of my birth and wrapped in a note from my Great Grandmother, urging me to keep her hand collected gift. The note was dated 1977.

There was also a bamboo flute, which my Dad made for me from my Grandparent's bamboo ...umm....patch. It too, must be close to thrity years old.

We carted down a pile of board games, which intriged my four year old no end. Most of the games had a recommended age of ten years on the box, but this didn't deter his interest, and next I found I had Monopoly set up and was involved in a lengthy discussion about the game's objectives and rules....that was until Missy Mopps kicked the bankers tray over and scattered the meticulously arranged and colour coordinated real estate cards - then she was all over red rover and I was now having to stem the lead up to world war three.

With Monology packed up, Chinese Checkers followed, then Kwatro and then ....my husband came home. It was 6:30pm and dinner hadn't even been thought of. Where DID the time go?

We had fun sorting through all that stuff. I am glad that I lugged that chest full of memories and moments halfway across the globe; past connects with present...one generation to the next. Let the games BEGIN!

The seemingly unforeseeable

We trundled off to playgroup today - just for something different, it was freezing out after all. When we arrived Mister and Missy Mopps went straight for the water table as they do every time.

The water table is a tub of water on legs with a scraping of the wet stuff at the bottom; just enough to gather a little into a small jug if dragged along the tub floor. The water is then poured into a container with a hole in the bottom, which makes a wheel spin around.....but this blog isn't really about the water table, it is about paint.

We were at the water table when one of the coordinators wandered over to inform us of a 'foot painting' opportunity over in the far corner of the playgroup hall. "Okay....thanks," I hesitantly replied.

A little later, a second coordinator came over. She too inform us of the foot painting. I glanced over at the foot painting area; it was as I had feared it to be - a long piece of butchers paper, surrounded by some trays of paint (if you can call three pieces of tin foil with paint slopped in the middle, 'paint trays'). At the end of the butchers paper was a bowl of water of questionable stability, presumably placed there to wash one's feet afterward.

"Do you want to do a foot painting?", I asked Mister in a bored tone, so as not to excite his imagination too much.

"No!", came the reply, much to my relief. I looked at the coordinator and shrugged, "he doesn't want to do it. Sorry". She wasn't heartbroken, believe me.

Later into the session, I was playing cars with Mister and Missy Mopps. Many of the other women chatted together, content that their children had settled enough to go play with whatever took their fancy. However..... this satisfying mid-session calm was about to be brought to an abrupt halt!

A woman who brought her neighbour's child to the group, gasped upon noticing that the fourteen month old was covered in bright orange and blue paint - all eyes were momentarily on the woman and child as she blurted "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

Bracing ourselves for what we might see next, the room slowly turned and we lifted our eyes toward the foot painting area (hee hee!).

Evidence demonstrated that the little girl had indeed traipsed through the paints and had contributed her own set of prints to the masterpiece. But she did not stop there - no sirree!

She had sat in the paint, and stomped around the perimetre of the butchers paper, all over the wooden floor.

She had also toppled the precarious looking bowl of water. The grayish river fully soaking one end of the painting and spilling under the locked cupboard door running alongside it.

To top it off, she then managed to make she squelchy way around the room with her paint sodden feet, to where she now stood, in front of a throng of mouth gaping caregivers.

The foot painting was a write off. It was seen scrunched and discarded in the corner of the room after the rest of us grabbed towels to mop up the water or scrub paint off the floor, while the horrified caregiver scrubbed the little girl - who no doubt, had a lovely time!!!!

It was a priceless moment really, but why no one could have foreseen such an incident occurring between a room full of 0-5 year olds and a largely unsupervised paint project, is beyond me.

You Rock!!!

Mister is mad about rocks. He has a large box of them in his wardrobe; rocks he had retrieved from all over the neighborhood.

The sight of Mister's rock collection provokes recollections of that Lucille Ball movie The Long, Long Trailer, which sees a newly-wed Lucy and Ricky on an absolutely riotous and disaster stricken caravanning honeymoon, across the USA.

In the movie, Lucy takes a rock from each resting stop, as a souvenir of their journey. By the end of their honeymoon the couple are looking at divorce, and the caravan, overloaded with rocks, or should I say boulders, nearly tips the couple over the edge - literally.

Well I really don't mind Mister having a rock collection; my brother had a rock collection as a boy, and I had a seashell collection, still do.... somewhere. The problem with Mister's rock collection was well....all the rocks were the same - road base gravel, and he had filled a whole wooden box with them.

He would get them out and look at them often, and ask me which of the similar looking blue chunks "was my favourite"?

Well.....errrr...."that's a hard one, mate", was my tactful reply.

I did try suggesting (gently of course), that it wasn't the greatest collection of rocks. Sure they were different sizes and shapes, but they were all essentially the same. Mister couldn't see my point, or rather, I couldn't see his. God, what a big meanie I am!!!

Yesterday we went on a walk around the block with the dogs. Mister usually rides his bike, but mid-way, got off his bike to collect rocks - more boring blue road base. Noooooooo! (sob).

The only way I could avoid more road base in the house was to suggest we make a trip to the beach.

We did, and with container in hand, we gathered rocks of all different shapes and sizes. Mister collected purple ones, green ones, orange and black; spotted, striped and oddly patterned. Mister was so over-joyed with his new treasure that he allowed the road base to be let loose beside the road where it belonged, without so much as a prayer, and excitedly thrust the glistening prizes into his father's face moments after he had returned home from work.

This morning he got out all his rocks and named them. Mister's favourtie is a small bright red rock called "volcano". My favourite is the purple one with white speckles. We named it "the milkyway".

more horrors

This morning my husband asked me to go to the local hardware store and get him a new hammer and some sand paper. (Shudder, pasty white face, anxiety chest pains, hot tears) "Sure", I said smiling through clenched teeth.

Mister, Missy Mopps and myself bundled into the car and off we went. It was just before lunchtime, so chaos was not yet reigning, or so I thought......

My plan was to go in, grab the stash and get out as quickly and as quietly as possible, with minimal damage; much like a thief planning to hold up a bank.

In the early stages, the plan was going well. We had managed to infiltrate the building. The most direct route to the hammers was found. With the hammer stash secured, we vied our next target. The sand paper was quickly located. There was now only one obstacle between us and the get away car - a solitary cashier. Unfortunately that is when the plan went to hell.

I had to wait until this one cashier was done serving 5 others before me, and also those requesting information on the constantly ringing telephone.

First, Mister and Missy Mopps ditched the shoes and ran hysterically around the aisles; then they rummaged through some large sharp edged metal thingies, which made an absolute racket when they whacked them up and down on the shelves. Finally, my turn came, but halfway through the debit transaction the phone rang again, and the guy leaves me hanging.

"Don't you care that you shop is being ransacked", I screamed in my head.

Then Mister wanders over:

"Come quick and look", he says pulling my arm.
"I can't right now", I responded in a terse tone, "I am in the middle of paying for this stuff".
"Missy Mopps took her pants off", says Mister.
Bugger the stuff! I dropped my bag and ran.

Missy Mopps had indeed taken her pants off and her nappy (diaper), and was found standing at the display of toilets chanting "poo....wee".

"NOOOOOooooooo!" (that was me....pleading to the God's!)

I did manage to reach her in time and no "damage" had been done - if you know what I mean.
It was so embarrassing. I dragged her clothes back on, paid for my stuff, shuffled the two of them off to the car and vowed NEVER AGAIN to kids and hardware shops, which means that my husband will just have to go to the hardware store alone in future...or perhaps I should send HIM there with the kids.

Mother's worst fear

I took the kids to gymnastics today. Afterwards I was in the change room layering the kids in the necessary winter garb, ready for the mad chilly dash to the car. I noticed a woman with two young boys, doing the same. She was dressing the youngest one, who was perhaps 2 and a half, while the older boy, perhaps 5, announced he was going off to the bathroom. Now I don't know what took place in the moments in between, but as I was walking out into the centre foyer, I happened to see the same woman, minus the youngest child, but now with a sheer look of terror on her face....she could not find her young boy. She asked everyone if they had seen her child, "blond hair, blue eyes, answers to the name Noah". But, no one had seen him.
She begins frantically calling his name, centre staff guard the door to prevent any motherless child or suspicious adult from leaving. Other parents joined in the search, we don't know this boy, but we can imagine or might even know that same feeling of dread when our own child has disappeared out of sight. They do not answer our bleating call. They do not rush back to sooth our panicked voice. They do not suddenly emerge into sight when a sea of people begin to disperse.
The mother, fearing the worst, runs outside into a cold gale which threatens snow, and begins calling her child's name with wild abandon...nothing.
We scour every toilet stall; the ice rink; the ice rink stands; the centre corridors; the stair wells and every inch of the gym. The mother is now out of her mind with worry; eyes darting, mind racing, disbelieving how this could have happened. We can almost hear her thoughts, "but I withdrew my eyes for only a second.... just a second. Forgive me for that one second of neglect. Please return my son to me".
It is cruel and unfair, but that can truly be all it takes for a mother's worst fear to be realised.
Having searched the entire premises, we start over again - he simply HAS to be here - we all want him found.
Finally a staff member, a gymnastics coach, finds the little boy. He was there all along, hiding from his heart sick mother behind the girls change room door. Mother and Son reunite. We watch the mother run to her boy, arms outstretched and then drawing her child tightly into the empty cavity in her chest...the only antidote for this kind of broken heart. We hear the mother lovingly scold the child, "what were you thinking, I was worried sick", before we leave them alone together...to breathe.
The little boy need take just one look at the agony written over his mothers face and glance into her misty eyes to know that he should never EVER try that again.... and I doubt he will.

Perpetuating Myth

Why do we really perpetuate the myth of Santa Claus?
I remember when I was in grade 3; it was almost Christmas time, and also the end of the school year. I was in my class room, talking with some school friends about plans for the coming holidays and what Father Christmas might bring us. I remember our conversation being filled with great anticipation, and our minds oozing with excitement, magic and fantasy. That is, until Nola Bennier wrestled her way into our discussion and snuffed out a magic that was reserved for children, but conspired, conjured and indulged in, by adults...
"Father Christmas is NOT real", she blabbed.
This meant WAR!
"How would YOU know?" began the rapid fire.
"Yeah, how would YOU know?"
" Yeah? "
"YEAHHHHHH!"
This was largely the sum of our counter attack.
Then the unexpected reply...the reply that won the war for Nola. The reply that ultimately burst the fantastical bubble for all who heard her damning words of truth....
"My Mum told me!", she announced smugly.
Her Mum told her...
We were speechless...there was nothing left to say. Although David, with courage enough to question the words supposedly spoken by a parent, staged a last ditch effort to salvage the doubt that is really at the basis of our feeble beliefs - the what-if-there-really-is-a-Santa doubt, that ensures a child will hang onto such beliefs because they inspire the imagination, either that or for fear that Santa might not come if we were to disbelieve and announce him a fraud, a fake, a phony, or even a CONSPIRACY development by parents to control and manipulate innocent young kiddies into being on their best behaviour and help out during the flurry of Christmas preparation! Ok... not likely words from a seven year old, but I am sure you get the picture.
"Well, if Santa is not real, then who puts the presents under the tree", says David, thinking this will surely stump Nola Bennier.
"Mum buys the presents at the shop and my Mum and Dad put them under the tree when we are asleep."
And with that, the fantasies and the magical possibilities that were scripted into our child-like Christmases, were crushed and then evaporated into the plume of illusion that they always were.
Silence....Nola walked away, leaving us with the tragic wreckage of what had been our lively discussion only moments before.
Did we feel jibbed? Did we feel angry at our parents for the deception? Did we feel we had to rush home and question them about the truth and plead to know why they had conjured up this ridiculous fabrication? No, not really, but once the shock of Nola's confession had subsided, we were angry! But not at our parents, because deep down, I think we knew that the whole Santa thing was just slightly unrealistic, but then again, Santa IS magic right? We were mostly angry at Nola for repeating her mothers confessions - to us. We didn't ask HER if Santa was real - she volunteered the information. We were blissfully happy with our delusions - THANK YOU VERY MUCH.
I know I didn't rush home to confirm the tragic news with my parents, and I don't think my friends ever raised the issue again, or to anyone else....well, until now that is.
I think the real magic of the whole Santa myth is the excitement and creativity, along with the fantasy and nurturing that our parents give us through their attempt to perpetuate a similar Christmas fantasy that was perhaps theirs, when they were children.
As a parent, we start off the idea of Santa very early.usually with the child's first Christmas. We show the child Santa, perhaps in the mall. We tell the child that Santa will be visiting on Christmas Eve. As the child gets older, they start asking questions, like..."we don't have a chimney, so how will Santa get in our house"? "How does Santa know where I live?" "How do his reindeers fly?" "What do you mean the Diego Rescue 4X4 is out of stock? Santa will make me one in his workshop...won't he?"
Such questions require creative answers that fill the child's mind with possibility, magic and wonderment...or a pack of lies, as Nola's Mum would suggest. It is a tradition- right, wrong or indifferent- for parents to subscribe to the Santa myth, and nurture that sapling idea. It is not what Christmas is ultimately about, I know that. But the original nativity suggests the miraculous, a long journey made by important people bearing gifts, and a gift to the world laid out for all creatures, both great and small, to partake in, not just on Christmas Day but for always, whenever the story of hope, peace, magic and miracles is remembered within us. Perhaps the Santa myth is nothing more than capitalist inspired hoopla, or perhaps it opens the door of possibility for children, who first know magic and miracle through the idea of Santa, and are then able to adhere similarly outlandish concepts of possibility, hope and belief to both a troubled real world, and also into the realms of glorious spirit.

Shop of little horrors

I guess you could say we brought it all on ourselves. Ashley (husband) and I did the unthinkable today. We took the kids to the store after spending the entire afternoon running non-stop at a birthday party - two tired and sugar high little kids are neither a good starting point nor a good combination in any circumstance, but locate the scenario inside the gigantic box-like mega hardware store, and well.... it just adds a whole new level of crazy to the mix.

We required several items from the mega hardware store; a mail slot, some pipe, garden edging, butterfly screws, rubbish bags, window trim and who knows what else. On a normal day, it is not uncommon to see me shuddering upon entry at one of those God forsaken stores, but I can never usually remember exactly why I loathe those joints so much. They have everything you are ever likely to need - right? However, the mere mention of the mega hardware store is enough to reduce my face to pasty white, induce anxiety provoked chest pains and have my eyes to produce streams of hot tears. There are mega ladders at these mega hardwares stores, so staff can climb up to reach an item placed in the upper stratosphere of the mega shelf. These ladders have wheels and a punchy warning - "DO NOT CLIMB". That is it - a sign - nothing else. So of course, at their earliest possible convenience, both kids (pre-readers) are either climbing the mega ladder or pushing it into some carefully constructed display of light bulbs.

These mega stores also have tools, as you would expect - hammers, axes and hand saws, all placed at the convenient toddler taunting level. Note: nothing makes the mega store staff come off their "break time" with greater enthusiasm and in greater numbers than seeing a 2 year old wielding a hand saw.

The mega store has trays and trays of open topped nails, in all different sizes that little hands LOVE to sift through and grab as you walk on by. It has rows and rows of LOOOOOONG aisles so kids can run off screaming down them just as someone walks through with a big old mirror or pane of glass. They have things on spinny racks, which, if spun fast enough sends dozens of garden gloves flying north, south, east and west.

They have interestingly shaped and brightly coloured bottles of poison at little kid level- so they can make believe it is a drink..... "Mummy look! Glug Glug Glug".

They have bulk vinyl on a roll so kids can pull it to see how long it can stretch, and also teetering piles of rugs and mats just asking to be jumped on and spilled all over the place. And lets not forget to mention the fountains, ponds and water features, which always seem to have something handy nearby, so kids can play "does it float or does it sink".

So while Ashley was tripping over his own tongue and drooling over all the man goodies (like every other man at the mega hardware store), I had been reduced to a chook with its head cut off in the attempt to replace deconstructed displays, remove objects from tiny hands and intervene before one disater turned into another.

Ragged and traumatized, I followed the kids to the check out- Olivia , Miss two year old, with a roll of garden edging wrapped around her head so she couldn't see, but still singing an incoherent song. The sales woman, (who had witnessed the glove flinging contest) strides over and says in a cheery and very annoying voice, "Oh look! Who is having more fun in the hardware store- "Mom" and Dad or the kids?" "Well, it certainly isn't me", I snarled. She laughed. And then so did I, she made me feel better.