Stuff I've learnt in the past eight months (mostly stuff I've learnt this week be ause that's as far back as I can remember).
*Babies grow. Horrifically. Speedily. No matter how you malnourish them. No matter how their big brothers regularly squish them.
*Santa lets you down. 4 and a big bit appears to be the age at which you begin to notice the limitations of your life. Even though he got 'a hundred presents!' there's always something you can think of in the next 16 hours, that you might have liked. Not only is he meeting disappointment with his life, but he is also being taught how to be a chronic over consumer. Poor lamb.
*Gluten free is hard. But it kicks the screaming crying crapping arse of the alternative with your poor sick baby.
*regardless of how much of a Brady Bunch stereotype it is, being the middle baby is hard. All day long. Even when your three.
*Christmas for mummies is hell on earth. I'm convinced that the mummies who won't admit this are being all repressed in case they ruin the magic. I'm sure they wouldn't. Around here I AM the magic. And cook and events planner and MC and shopper and manager. They should have shelf available Valium in the Christmas aisles at Coles. Christmas shopping would rock.
*While your best blogging might occur at times of excitement, you're also too damn busy to do it when it all goes down at your house. Cross your fingers that with full time preprimary, part time 3yo kindy, an allergist at the local children's hospital and the magical fairy of housework I might actually come here once a month.
What else is there? Who knows? Can't think. Wasted on excess gluten free vegan mince pie, and post Christmas blues. Maybe I'll make more sense if I get a couple of hours sleep.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
If you kick your brother, he will kick you.
If you pillow beat your brother, he will pillow beat you.
If you push your brother out of a tree, he will push you out of a tree.
If you push a coffee table at your brother, he will throw it back at you, breaking your thumb and leaving you in a cast up to your elbow.
You had to push the coffee table didn't you.
If you pillow beat your brother, he will pillow beat you.
If you push your brother out of a tree, he will push you out of a tree.
If you push a coffee table at your brother, he will throw it back at you, breaking your thumb and leaving you in a cast up to your elbow.
You had to push the coffee table didn't you.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Campers of the future.
Things I learnt this weekend:
Further exposure will not teach Boogie not to fall off picnic tables.
Gravity is not that kid's friend. He falls off picnic tables every time he goes near one. His usual technique is to suddenly disappear between the chair and table, managing to simultaneously smack his face and spine, but he's open to faceplanting off the side and leaning backwards right off the seat.
4 times that kid came off. His forehead is purple and there's probably still a facemark in the dirt.
Kids will never remember that tent doorways start a few inches from the ground.
Every single time they go through the door, they will land on their faces. This doesn't stop them from going in and out seventeen billion times, but if you hold a small hand and help them through it will lead to them gasping in astonishment "I didn't go bonk Mummy!" like they didn't know it was possible.
You can't convince them that the neighboring campers aren't listening to poosic.
This is because even you know it's true. Unfortunately they will also tell said campers this the next morning. And cheer when their batteries go flat.
To be continued..
Further exposure will not teach Boogie not to fall off picnic tables.
Gravity is not that kid's friend. He falls off picnic tables every time he goes near one. His usual technique is to suddenly disappear between the chair and table, managing to simultaneously smack his face and spine, but he's open to faceplanting off the side and leaning backwards right off the seat.
4 times that kid came off. His forehead is purple and there's probably still a facemark in the dirt.
Kids will never remember that tent doorways start a few inches from the ground.
Every single time they go through the door, they will land on their faces. This doesn't stop them from going in and out seventeen billion times, but if you hold a small hand and help them through it will lead to them gasping in astonishment "I didn't go bonk Mummy!" like they didn't know it was possible.
You can't convince them that the neighboring campers aren't listening to poosic.
This is because even you know it's true. Unfortunately they will also tell said campers this the next morning. And cheer when their batteries go flat.
To be continued..
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The boy who cried wasp
Turns out, the euros have friends. Many of them. The department of Agriculture has been as forthcoming as it can manage (one fella doing the whole city, trying to catch them in plastic cups) but considering we're all still alive so far, I'm not so worried.
I had a moment or two of fright when Boogie came up to me pleased as punch, holding a writhing live wasp between his index finger and thumb, grinning ear to ear, squealing "Mummy, lookit bug!" How he managed to catch a live wasp like that I'll never know. Look out Mr Miyagi. I myself only managed a horrified gurgle before stuttering to "put it down, it's a bitey bug!"
I'm too late! He flicks it away, bursts into tears and stuffs his suddenly dewasped fingers in his mouth. Whisked to the kitchen, pegs and washing falling from me like dust behind the RoadRunner, he's dumped on the bench and thoroughly inspected. Through the wailing and tears he hears my demands to know where he's bit, producing a tear-and-slime covered finger trembling with apparent horror. Whatever am I to do? Icepacks right? Surely. Although all the icepacks appear to be in the sandpit (along with everything else we value). Peas? Nope, ate them. A steak? Chips? Iceypoles! Just made for freezing little fingers till they feel like they'll drop off. The moment I whip the top off and shove it into his damaged paw he bursts out laughing. Tears, snot, trembling and laughter! The utter little bugger! If I had a stinger, I'd sting him my bloody self. I fell so damn hard for it!
It's bloody hard to appreciate signs of intelligence when they're used to screw with you.
Sadly they also get taken advantage of when only a few hours later you're telling him, for the twentieth or so time, that if he looks into the popcorn maker while it's going the popcorn will burn him. He cries, he shows you that same hand that caused all the trouble earlier. He pours water from his bottle all over it (learnt from an experience with the iron that will remain unmentioned). Mummy remains firm as the whimpers subside, and dances on the inside, convinced that Boogie recognises that I'll not be falling for any funny shenanigans. Gloats even. Mummy is in fact, setting herself up nicely for when the 'imaginary' burn turns into a great fat blister nearly as wide as the finger it's on.
Now. If you'll excuse me... I'll be restocking the first aid kit.
I had a moment or two of fright when Boogie came up to me pleased as punch, holding a writhing live wasp between his index finger and thumb, grinning ear to ear, squealing "Mummy, lookit bug!" How he managed to catch a live wasp like that I'll never know. Look out Mr Miyagi. I myself only managed a horrified gurgle before stuttering to "put it down, it's a bitey bug!"
I'm too late! He flicks it away, bursts into tears and stuffs his suddenly dewasped fingers in his mouth. Whisked to the kitchen, pegs and washing falling from me like dust behind the RoadRunner, he's dumped on the bench and thoroughly inspected. Through the wailing and tears he hears my demands to know where he's bit, producing a tear-and-slime covered finger trembling with apparent horror. Whatever am I to do? Icepacks right? Surely. Although all the icepacks appear to be in the sandpit (along with everything else we value). Peas? Nope, ate them. A steak? Chips? Iceypoles! Just made for freezing little fingers till they feel like they'll drop off. The moment I whip the top off and shove it into his damaged paw he bursts out laughing. Tears, snot, trembling and laughter! The utter little bugger! If I had a stinger, I'd sting him my bloody self. I fell so damn hard for it!
It's bloody hard to appreciate signs of intelligence when they're used to screw with you.
Sadly they also get taken advantage of when only a few hours later you're telling him, for the twentieth or so time, that if he looks into the popcorn maker while it's going the popcorn will burn him. He cries, he shows you that same hand that caused all the trouble earlier. He pours water from his bottle all over it (learnt from an experience with the iron that will remain unmentioned). Mummy remains firm as the whimpers subside, and dances on the inside, convinced that Boogie recognises that I'll not be falling for any funny shenanigans. Gloats even. Mummy is in fact, setting herself up nicely for when the 'imaginary' burn turns into a great fat blister nearly as wide as the finger it's on.
Now. If you'll excuse me... I'll be restocking the first aid kit.
Friday, February 11, 2011
A snifflette
Thanks to the wonders of mobile technology, blogs can be written while lying half flopped out of a toddler's bed as you bodily prevent him wandering across the house to sleep in yours. I have one muscular little hand holding me by the ponytail, a long, heavy leg pinning down my side, Elmo wedged into my spine, and a growing need to pee, but all will be worth the joy if my own side of the bed in 10 minutes... Or 20 if a warm seeping feeling requires me to re-shower before bed.
I'm taking full advantage of a small germ that has knocked about all 5 of us. It's great, with absolutely no sensible parenting everyone was asleep by 630 and we got to watch a whole grown up movie. Not only that, but they've been too docile all day to get a decent tackle on, and have had to read books to each other all day. It's like having children from an Enid Blyton novel, without the questionable hallucinations enticing your kids to climb up trees. Not that mine would make it up one today, they'd lie about at the bottom thinking about it before wandering back to pass out on the couch, dropping iPhones mid-game onto their own faces.
I feel I should share the love and invite all the local kids over to collect and farm a few germs themselves, earning various mummies a day off, rather reminiscent of the chickenpox parties of a few decades ago. Surely we're not the only parents who value a mild sniffle so highly?
Hoping it's a two day virus,
MM
I'm taking full advantage of a small germ that has knocked about all 5 of us. It's great, with absolutely no sensible parenting everyone was asleep by 630 and we got to watch a whole grown up movie. Not only that, but they've been too docile all day to get a decent tackle on, and have had to read books to each other all day. It's like having children from an Enid Blyton novel, without the questionable hallucinations enticing your kids to climb up trees. Not that mine would make it up one today, they'd lie about at the bottom thinking about it before wandering back to pass out on the couch, dropping iPhones mid-game onto their own faces.
I feel I should share the love and invite all the local kids over to collect and farm a few germs themselves, earning various mummies a day off, rather reminiscent of the chickenpox parties of a few decades ago. Surely we're not the only parents who value a mild sniffle so highly?
Hoping it's a two day virus,
MM
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
The only today you're ever going to have
Difficult days suck. You're going to make mistakes. You're going to say things you don't mean. You're going to hurt yourself, your relationships and the people you love. You're going to let down those who depend utterly on you, for their entire being.
And you're not going to get today again to do it right. You're not going to get a chance to scream less, to take a deep breath when you need to, to see your mistakes coming and bypass them. You can hope you'll learn from those mistakes, and really try to, but those mistakes arent going to be unmade (and lets be honest, your track record for learning from them doesn't look promising).
For future reference, however:
A 2 year old cannot understand the instruction "For two minutes, two godforsaken minutes, just pull your crap together, just chill out, ok?"
You don't like your crockery that much anyway.
The kids at playgroup had it coming.
Who gives a damn if the children EVER go to bed? If you're making them go to bed cos you're sick of them, then it's your problem. Go drink all of MrsNextDoor's booze instead.
And you're not going to get today again to do it right. You're not going to get a chance to scream less, to take a deep breath when you need to, to see your mistakes coming and bypass them. You can hope you'll learn from those mistakes, and really try to, but those mistakes arent going to be unmade (and lets be honest, your track record for learning from them doesn't look promising).
For future reference, however:
A 2 year old cannot understand the instruction "For two minutes, two godforsaken minutes, just pull your crap together, just chill out, ok?"
You don't like your crockery that much anyway.
The kids at playgroup had it coming.
Who gives a damn if the children EVER go to bed? If you're making them go to bed cos you're sick of them, then it's your problem. Go drink all of MrsNextDoor's booze instead.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Bloody Europeans
We have european wasp. Not wasps, just wasp. One, which has been forwarded to the department of Ag in a wee lunch baggie. Thank my lucky stars MOTH didn't dump it in a dime bag, I don't want to be forwarding that to the authorities, even if it was only used to store buttons.
We also have a vast collection on paper wasps filling the garage, so when the authorities decided to have a wander around the backyard hunting them, they originally decided that I just couldnt tell my Nordics from my wrapping supplies. To be fair I feel like the Europeans are making things unneccesarily difficult by not having blonde hair and wearing little viking helmets.
I know what to do about the paper wasps, although I need to keep my nerve for at least another 6 hours until the sun sets before going out to torture them, but the single solitary euro is apparently cause for a little fanfare from small delegations of local council officials looking nervous and the appropriation of my wee baggies.
I've been instructed to remove all the paperwasp nests, before spending a good week inspecting anything that floats around looking wasplike and seeing if the Euro has any friends. It doesnt seem to likely as the area apparently hasn't had a decent turnout of Euro's in 20 years, but that doesn't explain my little soloist.
It hardly seems fair that the only damn nasties in 20 years turn up at my house. I seem to get every damn pest in creation swarming my house. The influx of flies, spider and ants at the moment I don't mind too much, they're only mildly icky, but my house is also prone to seasonal mice, the odd rat, a few lost bush cockroaches and what I really hope is either a cat or a morbidly obese possum in the roof. The possibility has been suggested that its a very quiet stalker. As long as it doesnt eat the rafters I'm ok with that. The only housemates here I'm truly reviled against are the billions of german cockroaches (what is it with this post and stuff from Europe?) Three times we've had the house treated with stuff so powerful its illegal in most other first world countries and they just dont give a damn. When we're finished with this house we're probably going to have to burn it down, and every thing we've ever owned inside.
The first person to mention living a more hygenic lifestyle gets a dirty look.
In fact, a good friend of mine has had a house she felt so grubby that she wouldn't let us visit for about 3 years. She's recently got her first mouse. Her first. Not freaking cool mousie! So she will be my excuse for merely running a vaguely maintained house while I have a bit more fun instead of cleaning.
On that note, I'm pretty sure the mopping is calling me... Nah, a cuppa tea it is.
We also have a vast collection on paper wasps filling the garage, so when the authorities decided to have a wander around the backyard hunting them, they originally decided that I just couldnt tell my Nordics from my wrapping supplies. To be fair I feel like the Europeans are making things unneccesarily difficult by not having blonde hair and wearing little viking helmets.
I know what to do about the paper wasps, although I need to keep my nerve for at least another 6 hours until the sun sets before going out to torture them, but the single solitary euro is apparently cause for a little fanfare from small delegations of local council officials looking nervous and the appropriation of my wee baggies.
I've been instructed to remove all the paperwasp nests, before spending a good week inspecting anything that floats around looking wasplike and seeing if the Euro has any friends. It doesnt seem to likely as the area apparently hasn't had a decent turnout of Euro's in 20 years, but that doesn't explain my little soloist.
It hardly seems fair that the only damn nasties in 20 years turn up at my house. I seem to get every damn pest in creation swarming my house. The influx of flies, spider and ants at the moment I don't mind too much, they're only mildly icky, but my house is also prone to seasonal mice, the odd rat, a few lost bush cockroaches and what I really hope is either a cat or a morbidly obese possum in the roof. The possibility has been suggested that its a very quiet stalker. As long as it doesnt eat the rafters I'm ok with that. The only housemates here I'm truly reviled against are the billions of german cockroaches (what is it with this post and stuff from Europe?) Three times we've had the house treated with stuff so powerful its illegal in most other first world countries and they just dont give a damn. When we're finished with this house we're probably going to have to burn it down, and every thing we've ever owned inside.
The first person to mention living a more hygenic lifestyle gets a dirty look.
In fact, a good friend of mine has had a house she felt so grubby that she wouldn't let us visit for about 3 years. She's recently got her first mouse. Her first. Not freaking cool mousie! So she will be my excuse for merely running a vaguely maintained house while I have a bit more fun instead of cleaning.
On that note, I'm pretty sure the mopping is calling me... Nah, a cuppa tea it is.
Could you just stop bleeding for a moment so I can think?
Last Monday starts out well enough. There's a trickle of excitement in the air as Bambi is about to start school for the very first time next Thursday, and the suspense is getting to us all. The boys are coping with this by repeatedly beating the living snot out of each other, in new and interesting ways. I'm regularly impressed by the ingenuity they bring to the ring, though I think I'd prefer I didnt have to be aware of it quite so much.
But you can only fight the fighting (ha ha) so long, and eventually you have to call it Healthy Rough and Tumble and let them know its ok as long as they bugger off outside. Turns out this was a terrible idea and leads to them dismantling the rockery in the hunt for new weaponry. So back inside with you two...
Thing is, the tackling wouldn't be as bad if they were running at full capacity to start with, but earlier in the day Boogie has stacked it backwards off a chair and busted open his head on the runner of a sliding door. Not only did I not notice he had a whopping great head injury for a good 5 minutes, but when the kids pointed out that I had blood all over me and asked how I'd hurt myself, I STILL couldnt find the injury on the small boy for another minute. Parent of the year.
So pull ourselves together, drag him up to the drs, and ask them to take a look, but all the medical staff are off at lunch. Fantabulous. They suggest popping up the hospital, but I know that will take even longer than waiting here, because the boy wonder is happy enough and doesnt look like he's going to die in a hospital waiting room. After a jolly good wait, bleeding all over the shop, having the nurse superglue herself to the boys head, having the nurse pull one way and me pull the boys head the other in order to unattach the two, and being fortified with a jelly bean, we're off home confident that we've had enough excitement for the day.
Who am I kidding?
Bambi soon realises that the way to win rough and tumble for a few minutes is to hold your brother by the hair and beat his head against the floor until it bleeds again. I realise now that this was the point at which I should have strapped them to the couch like some sort of future abuse victims on Oprah, but sitting in the corner and thinking about what he'd done was all that came to mind. He's weaponless and sitting on his hands then, when his brother beats him with a coathanger, blackening one eye and leading to future facial scabs. Bambi immediately retaliates with a fistfull of Jessie the yodelling cowboy, fattening K's lip and drawing blood yet again
All of which leading me to take a superglued, fat lipped, head injured toddler, and a kindy boy with a black eye and facial scabbing up to the school for our first day ever there. I suspect I'm on some sort of special list already. That'll save time.
But you can only fight the fighting (ha ha) so long, and eventually you have to call it Healthy Rough and Tumble and let them know its ok as long as they bugger off outside. Turns out this was a terrible idea and leads to them dismantling the rockery in the hunt for new weaponry. So back inside with you two...
Thing is, the tackling wouldn't be as bad if they were running at full capacity to start with, but earlier in the day Boogie has stacked it backwards off a chair and busted open his head on the runner of a sliding door. Not only did I not notice he had a whopping great head injury for a good 5 minutes, but when the kids pointed out that I had blood all over me and asked how I'd hurt myself, I STILL couldnt find the injury on the small boy for another minute. Parent of the year.
So pull ourselves together, drag him up to the drs, and ask them to take a look, but all the medical staff are off at lunch. Fantabulous. They suggest popping up the hospital, but I know that will take even longer than waiting here, because the boy wonder is happy enough and doesnt look like he's going to die in a hospital waiting room. After a jolly good wait, bleeding all over the shop, having the nurse superglue herself to the boys head, having the nurse pull one way and me pull the boys head the other in order to unattach the two, and being fortified with a jelly bean, we're off home confident that we've had enough excitement for the day.
Who am I kidding?
Bambi soon realises that the way to win rough and tumble for a few minutes is to hold your brother by the hair and beat his head against the floor until it bleeds again. I realise now that this was the point at which I should have strapped them to the couch like some sort of future abuse victims on Oprah, but sitting in the corner and thinking about what he'd done was all that came to mind. He's weaponless and sitting on his hands then, when his brother beats him with a coathanger, blackening one eye and leading to future facial scabs. Bambi immediately retaliates with a fistfull of Jessie the yodelling cowboy, fattening K's lip and drawing blood yet again
All of which leading me to take a superglued, fat lipped, head injured toddler, and a kindy boy with a black eye and facial scabbing up to the school for our first day ever there. I suspect I'm on some sort of special list already. That'll save time.
An Auspicious Start
Mum's convinced I can write a book.
In the seas of daily exasperation I'm regularly texting her with the little gems of excitement from my day, for example, the moment I find out how much I value shoes that can be cleaned with a hose, or to compare the health benefits of cola over beer (we decided beer is healthier). Sadly if I never write it down, I'm not going to remember any of this by the time I've got 2 minutes to write something.
So I'll happily crumble under the pressure of her next door (one day I'll link her blog here) and at least attempt to enter a few posts in a blog. I finally got around to this, because its been such an week that I know if I dont write it all in, I may not believe it in a few years. Although maybe I shouldnt be attempting anything new during the exciting week, as I went to get the laptop in order to type this up, I accidentally ripped the door off the laptop cupboard. Son of a beech... cheap pine...
Onwards and upwards.
In the seas of daily exasperation I'm regularly texting her with the little gems of excitement from my day, for example, the moment I find out how much I value shoes that can be cleaned with a hose, or to compare the health benefits of cola over beer (we decided beer is healthier). Sadly if I never write it down, I'm not going to remember any of this by the time I've got 2 minutes to write something.
So I'll happily crumble under the pressure of her next door (one day I'll link her blog here) and at least attempt to enter a few posts in a blog. I finally got around to this, because its been such an week that I know if I dont write it all in, I may not believe it in a few years. Although maybe I shouldnt be attempting anything new during the exciting week, as I went to get the laptop in order to type this up, I accidentally ripped the door off the laptop cupboard. Son of a beech... cheap pine...
Onwards and upwards.
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