Thursday, December 8, 2011

Reflections of the way life used to be....

Husband and I attended our first school concert event this week, it was an eye opener on many levels. Firstly, Primary School auditoriums are nowhere near as big as I remember them! Secondly, I witnessed some truly lovely nurturing behaviour between teachers and pupils. Upset, scared children were consoled and hugged, others were high fived for their awesome work and some were gently ushered back to their seats when they vagued out and stared at the ceiling for too long. It made me realise how amazing school teachers are and how influential they are throughout your whole life.

I spent some time sitting in that not so big auditorium being transported back in time to the mid 80s, and remembering way more than I had allowed myself to remember in the past. There were some early influences that hadn’t popped into my head in a very long time.....

*queue wavy ripple effect and xylophone music*

Mr Nicholson – I suspect you were the first brush I had with OCD neatness and perfection, you had great influence on me wanting to maintain order and keep my pens in a nice neat row. I have since wondered though if, with your neatly side combed hair, perfectly ironed clothing and smart organiser/briefcase, you were in fact a serial killer, disguised as a Grade 1 Teacher. You know the ones that need everything to be in perfect order and have a little bit of a problem socialising? Often wondered what happened to little Stuart, did he really move interstate...... because his parents still live here.

Miss Forsyth / Mrs Fletcher – yes you got married over the term break! Any royal wedding *ever* had nothing on this – I had never been so excited in my life. We made you cards, we marvelled at your magazines with pictures of gypsophila and rose bud bouquets, your blonde hair was newly permed and trimmed to fit inside your lace asymmetrical head piece. You gave me everlasting hope that if you worked hard and kept your Ford Laser tidy then you too could find a handsome young husband that had hair as long as yours and wore a skinny tie. Mr Fletcher was super handsome and a total Prince Charming, grade 3 girls were consumed with jealousy and plotting your demise. I really do hope you’re still as happy as you were in 1984.

Mr Smith – you were the funniest and most hilarious Grade 5 teacher anyone could ever have. Such fond memories. Yes fond memories, ok and maybe a little bit of a crush, but in my defence you wore those Ken Done knit jumpers with such pride and pizzazz and WOW, zipper shoes – holy mother of invention they were cooler than vests with removable arms! You were the epitome of the young hip man teacher of the 80s. Then I found out you had an affair with the prep teacher and ran away together. Ruined. Ruined. Still upset about that.

Mr Ross, Primary school principal or Chrome Dome as someone’s parent named him. I will never forget the day you chased my best friends and I around the school for throwing rocks at boys. We ran like the wind, just hoping we wouldn’t get a stitch before the bell went, because then we would be safe. It didn’t occur to us that you would be waiting outside our classroom after lunch, didn’t you know that was out of bounds for chasers and we were totally safe? Anyway thanks for letting us attend the leavers dinner after all – My Mum would have been devo if I hadn’t been able to wear my medieval costume she painstakingly put together using a skivvy and my Nanna’s old ball gown...... (seriously though, medieval theme? Not fair, wanted to wear my ra-ra skirt!)

Such fond memories, I’m so excited about following the wee ones journeys through Primary school (not so keen about High School....)

Finally though, with a heavy heart and a keen sense of denial that Kinder is almost over for my eldest wee one, I would like to shamelessly spruik his wonderful Kindergarten teachers - Mrs Horne, Mrs Heynes and Mrs Hodgeman (or Triple H as Husband and I call them), such splendid, perfect first teacher memories have been created inside Charlie’s mind. They have given him the ultimate first impression of teachers, approachable and kind hearted yet they have somehow managed to cultivate a healthy respect for authority within him (which unfortunately he deposits at the school gate on the way home...). A big thank you for my favourite saying, which Charlie changes the name as necessary and repeats to anyone that is grumpy ‘A crabby Mrs Horne isn’t a pretty sight’.

Now don’t ruin it and run away with the prep teacher – it would destroy him


(you get graded in Kinder right? This is going to help , yes?)


(Don’t judge him on my poor use of grammar and punctuation.....!, ..)

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Relax. Don't do it

By that I mean “Relax? I don’t do it”.

Apart from not being spontaneous I also have the inability to relax in relaxing situations. May I remind you of the Chinese Grand Palace of Pain? Today I used a last year Christmas present facial massage voucher that is due to expire in a week.

I’d never been to this particular establishment before, but it appeared pretty standard

Tranquil music. Check.

Neat little matching uniforms on all the staff. Check

Oddly refurbished office space with treatment room walls that don’t reach the ceiling. Check.

Off I was led by my therapist, who I shall name ‘Lady Fingers’

She seemed nice (read botox permanent smile), she hands me a miniscule flannel sack and says ‘Put this on and prepare to relax’. My body says yes, but my mind says ‘that’s a bit of an oxymoron’

I never quite know how many clothes to take off for these things – do I get down to underwear or do I leave my jeans on? Always with the panic that someone is going to burst in at any moment to see me bending over stepping into this weird tubular dress with my bra half on and scream at me ‘OH MY GOD, PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON!! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING, WE’RE A REPUTABLE BUSINESS!!’

There’s a plastic lotus flower on the bed (Lady Garden reference?), I carefully move it aside and lay under the covers. Arms out, arms in, arms over stomach, arms flat – where the hell do I put my arms??

Lady Fingers comes in and tells me we’re going to start with a face mask then commences a running commentary about my skin problems, some I knew of (bags under the eyes? No kidding Lady Fingers, got kids?) and some I didn’t (lazy capillaries, really?)

Slimey cold stuff has been slathered on my face, She places some little wet things over my eyes and says she’ll be back in 10 minutes.

Firstly, whenever I get those things on my eyes I just want to open my lids, I can’t help it, it’s an internal battle I have with myself. (Don’t open them, don’t open them, it will sting, you don’t need to see what colour the little things are, you’ll regret it, it’s dark anyway don’t do it, oh. Too late. Ow ow ow it stings.......)

Secondly, how long is 10 minutes? Really, when you’re in the dark with your eyes weeping how do you know you've only got 30 seconds left or you're only 5 minutes through?

Ok yep going to lie here for "10 minutes" and R.E.L.A.X.

Itchy toe, scratched. Might just shift a centimetre to the left, yep better. Hair is tight, just loosen it a little. Ow ow CRAMP CRAMP CRAMP shouldn’t have used other foot to scratch at toe, stretch relax, all good. Wonder what the kids are doing. That’s a funny noise. Empty my head, no thoughts please no thoughts. La la la la la. Did I have to make tea tonight or was Mum going to do it. Dolphins.

I just started to nod off as she flung the doors open and stamped over to her seat. Righto, so that’s what 10 minutes of relaxation feels like.

It’s time for the facial massage component. I can sense the overly expressive hand movements as Lady Fingers ‘massages’ my face – swirling and circling, leaning and stretching, some little drum roll effects and then some undulating hands – I feel strangely like my face is her piano.

Once she gets the Beethoven out of her system she turns on the aromatherapy steam machine and points it right at my face

Oh yeah that’s the shit now I’m relaxing.... hello bright shiny light and tingly sensation, oh hang on, no, I think that’s early signs of hypoxia....... I'm not getting oxygen.... lungs filling with lavender scented water..... going to drown lying on a table in the dark...... desperately trying to breathe sideways out of my mouth where I sense oxygen laden air might be, don’t want to bring attention to my dilemma, that would be rude and quite frankly a violation of the terms of entry (please remain quiet for the sake of other patrons....), thank god I kept my arms out of the blankets because I am now spreading my fingers hoping they will absorb oxygen and send it up to my lungs. Within the nick of time she turns the machine away, perhaps the sharp gurgling sounds emanating from my throat alerted her to my situation.

Hot towels on face. Nice, but not relaxing. Some very gooey stuff is rubbed into my skin and I’m practically slapped on the back and pushed towards my clothes. Over.

I hurriedly get dressed with that underlying panic that someone might forget I’m in there and barge in.

I am loving myself sick in this gooey stuff though, it smells so good, hang on, is that a hint of relaxation I feel? So I do it, yeah that’s right I do it like a deer in her cross selling headlights. Wait for it;

“What is on my face? “ *pause* “Your $120 moisturiser with inbuilt age inhibitors? You bet your (my) bottom dollar I want some - bag it up Lady Fingers I’ll take it!”

It appears I can relax after all. Was I relaxed after that purchase? Oh hells yeah – turns out that pretty packaging and nice smelling product sends my muscles and mind into a trance like state.

Husband on the other hand.... well let’s just say I’m about to go peel a bunch of price tags off some very small bottles......

Saturday, October 15, 2011

What the funk?

So recently I was accused of always being gloomy and cynical in my blog, told that I always see the negative in situations and not the positive.

See I always thought that I found the *funny* in situations, sometimes the bizarre but mainly the funny.

I’ll be the first to admit that I take the piss out of myself so that it doesn’t sting as much when other people do, I cover embarrassment up with humour and call me a fool because sarcasm is my wit.

But I wouldn’t have called myself a negative person.

It’s knocked the wind fair out of my sails actually, my perspective on situations has changed because now I’m questioning whether I’m funny or negative.

There was a hint of a tear in my eye and my lips were stretched across my teeth to simulate a smile, but inside I think a little bit of me actually died! I feel shocked and surprised, disappointed that I’ve painted this strange picture of myself and that someone who doesn’t really know me now has an unshakable wrong impression of who I am.

Or are they wrong at all?

When someone just shakes their head and says ‘no’ it leaves little room for misinterpretation. I’m unsure even why one person would feel it’s ok to have developed an unwavering opinion about an individual and be bold enough to verbalise it, I ended up verging on irate, how dare they! Of course my rage was manifested in a polite smiling bobble headed silence.

To say I’m glum about it is an understatement – but I guess it’s to be expected from someone so negative!

See now I feel like I can't tell you about pulling the wrong blind chain and giving the neighbour a horrifying eyeful as the blinds went all the way up instead of down or how when visiting Husbands grandmother she talked about the bed she stayed in on the night of her honeymoon and how we squirmed in discomfort listening all about it or my inability to introduce myself to the immaculately dressed new co-worker and the three awkward and embarrassing moments that have ensued since......

Maybe I’ll start a cake-off blog instead.......

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Forget about it....... (please?)

Something really embarrassing happened to me at work today, I was called into the meeting room but not given a reason why, when I asked what was going on someone said the word ‘flowers’, Seeing as I am actually leaving on Thursday, I immediately got up and said something like ‘oh no, I’m not really leaving I’m just going to another office’ to which I was told they weren’t for me but for a colleague who is returning...... did I go red? You betcha.

It was such a ‘Phil’ from Modern Family moment, there really wasn’t any coming back from it – then I had to look at that perky bunch of gerberas and re-live the humiliation over and over and over.....

I thought surely most people will forget about it, I’m the only one dwelling on it and burning with self centred shame every time I think about it. But then I remembered, all the embarrassing things other people have done that I totally remember and regularly tell others about

A over T girl with the big bottom. I didn’t know her but after pushing past me whilst talking loudly with business like intent on her mobile, I was in the right spot to see stockings and knickers when she went down like a tonne of bricks, adding to the moment her mobile phone scuttled across the pavement and into the gutter. She was so embarrassed she definitely did not want help, she just wanted to get up, run and hope that would mean it didn’t happen. But I still see that ginormous rear end and splayed out arms on the pavement in my minds eye and can’t help but have a little snort and when I remember hearing ‘Gayle.... Gayle.... are you there’ coming from the gutter I’m in total fits.

Vomitting new girl at work drinks. Sure being the new kid sucks, but being the new kid that hasn’t drunk alcohol before and downs a myriad of vodka filled drinkies at an open bar is no way to endear yourself to your colleagues, especially if it ends up with you hugging a toilet and crying about how many peas you vommed up in front of your manager. Nothing says ‘Commited to Excellence’ like being carried to a taxi with your toes dragging along the ground

Bursting the bubble. I was not there to see this but my sister in law had consumed a few glasses of bubbly at a wedding and was feeling chatty, introduced herself to another lady and being the mum of a toddler excitedly congratulated her on being pregnant. Only she wasn’t. My brother stepped back quietly and ran away, leaving her there to talk about how unseasonably hot it had been lately.

Hate that name. In Primary school my friend and I were talking with her Mum about names and what names we would hate to be called, we went through the normal embarrassing ones and then I said ‘My Dad wanted to call me Ruth – oh my god, Ruth could you imagine it?’ to which her Mum answered ‘Yes I can, Mine did’. *sound of distant crickets whilst I surmised her name was Ruth* I was only 11 and I could have died, it’s not really all that embarrassing but was the first real social faux pas I committed, still makes me shudder with shame.

Dude, where’s my family? when I was about 10 we were waiting in the supermarket car park for my Dad. After about 5 minutes this strange man jumped in turned the key, mumbled something about long line and then turned to look at my mother. Wrong Car. A white Ford Falcon two spots down had a bunch of kids with confused faces pressed against the window, mouthing ‘What are you doing Dad?’. My Mum, god love her, just sat there mouth agape. The man was super embarrassed and apologetic. I was left wondering what would have happened if he drove off, how long before Mum was going to say something???

I’m not sure if I have any chance of my colleagues forgetting my moment this morning, but at the very least I am now expecting a bunch of flowers.

I have to go run around in a circle and shake my hands it’s the only way to make the embarrassment stop!

(Gayle..... Gayle..... are you there..... bahahahahahahahaha)

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Riddle me a boy

My eldest wee one has my eyes, they're big and blue and totally gorgeous on his face! It's an odd feeling to see your own eyes staring back at you.

One thing I am becoming abundantly aware of though, is how through his set of my eyes he sees the world very differently.

He's a beautiful boy shaped enigma to me, he must get sick of seeing my raised eyebrows and gaping mouth as I bear witness to his unusual boy activities.

Here are 5 things I don't think I would have been aware of if I didn't have my own boy mystery package;


1) At 5 his logical thinking has developed but is applied sporadically. When 'GO TO YOUR ROOM NOW!' is met with 'But you didn't say please' my anger and pride collide. So glad the manners thing is sinking in, but for the love of tea leaves why doesn't this logic extend to this simple equation;

punch sister = time on your own in your room.

Use it for good son, use it for good not evil.

2) Dobbing is like breathing for kids, it just comes naturally. If I had five cents for every time I heard him say 'Muuuum she hit me', 'Muuuum she's sitting right in front of the TV', 'Muuuum she's in my room' or 'Muuuum she's eating bottom cream again' then I would have approximately $1.75 or more

3) To a five year old boy it really does matter if someone else puts the toothpaste on your toothbrush, like 'end of the world hysterical red alert screaming' matters. Someone saying 'does it really matter?' only makes it matter more

4) I knew men had an obsession with their special appendage but I had no idea it started so soon. It really isn't going to fall off, seriously don't touch it every 5 minutes, it will be still there if you leave it be. Although if you keep pulling at it the way you do it might just fall off (or you could join Puppetry of the Penis..??!).

5) You couldn't dress yourself to save your life. Thank you for enabling me to understand your fathers inability to dress either of you well. It appears the urge to mix different stripes, or wear completely mismatching clothes is innate in all men, I understand this now. If you ever manage to get yourself out of your pyjamas feel at peace with the fact that I've already laid your clothes out for you and will do so until you find a stylish partner.

Finally, something profound for you to remember in life my little boy wonder;

Unfortunately the box seat doesn't always afford you the best view, someone cuter and smarter will always try to position themselves in front of you (meaningful on so many levels....)




Bless your cotton socks boy one, will love you for as long as I breathe and probably after that too!

(can't believe I said 'penis' in my blog....)










Thursday, July 14, 2011

What's so good about spontaneity?



Some of you may have heard or read me banging on about some personality tests I completed recently. I find this sort of thing strangely comforting and alarming at the same time. I get a warm little buzz in my innards when I can see that I fit neatly into a personality type and somehow those little cards were written just about me. But then I look at some of the other cards and get a sharp pang of wanting – I want to be artistic, not driven by timelines, able to quickly adapt to an ever changing environment and wear maxi dresses without feeling self-conscious (nothing to do with personality types, I just have a maxi dress ‘thing’) – but it’s just not me.

In my ‘things that will upset you’ section of my personality type is ‘spontaneity’. I scoffed when I saw it at first, hey I’m as spontaneous as the next person who has time to plan it…. I’m totally up for something random and completely out of order that makes no sense and probably is irresponsible

(gasp gasp someone pass me a brown paper bag, for the love of order……)

Oh god it’s true, I don’t have a spontaneous bone in my body. I can’t do last minute, I just can’t.

As with any of lifes questions I feel this can be explained through a make-up example (what?). The other week my lovely Avon lady (Betsy Avon) and I were flicking through the pages of a catalogue, the dewy faced photo shopped models got me all inspired and I said to Betsy ‘I’m going to go crazy and get some different eye shadow’ checked out all the combos and got the one that seemed the most different, something totally random and new

What I have now


Next to what I bought





What the …….


It seems even in my spontaneous moments my brain can’t help but bring me back into check. Because it remembers…..

It remembers the ‘hey it’s lunch time why don’t I just drop into a hairdressers and get a super awesome haircut’ day. It remembers the feeling of walking around wondering why people were staring with horror at my Partridge family fringe bob/backwards mullet. It really did seem cool in front of the hairdressers mirror with all the other backwards mullets around – but on its own it just couldn’t take the pressure.

It remembers the spontaneous purchasing of multiple bottles of red wine one night and the ensuing emotional gabfest with sober husband which resulted in huge plans to sell the house and roam the east coast of Australia in a combi van – the next day all emails sent to real estate agents at 11.30pm were quickly recalled, husband and I agreed it wasn’t such a grand plan after all. Combi van, I mean really – we all know it would have to be at least a Winnebago and yes it still disturbs me to know that Husband was sober throughout the grand planning.

It remembers (and so does Husband) the thousands of dollars spent on various ‘current fashion’ items that were perhaps slightly outside my standard ‘Stepford Wives’ style – the poncho, cork wedges, mutli coloured bolero jackets, cowl neck jumpers, ra ra skirts (not again….), fish net stockings, military style jackets, a million maxi dresses and let us not forget the resurgence of the leg warmer – all these things very awesome to look at, not so practical and no way on gods green earth did I wear a single one of them (oh except for the poncho…. And that really was a faux pax on my part….)

It seems I’m hard wired to be responsible and practical. No hope for me to be the artisan that I desperately want to be, I simply have to pay bills on time and return phone calls and RSVP within the given timeframe and throw food out that’s past it’s use by date and water my plants (actually that one is not true) and remember peoples birthdays and vote on the right day and buy age appropriate presents and eat tea at the same time each night……..

Just this once I’m going to be spontaneous and stop.

The End.







Yep, still here. See you guys later and thanks for reading.






Bye.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

This fun Mum caper is working out great......


Play dough - yep no worries, sure a change of clothes before 10am is fine, it's not like you're wearing the pants I asked you to put on anyway.....



oh dear lord, ok yep no need to pack stuff away before you get more stuff out, 20 different puzzles upended on the floor, now THAT is a puzzle....



Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.... lalalalalala



and why exactly are YOU the one crying????

A surreal moment

I just had a shower with a Tonka truck driven by Tigger.

Yes a surreal moment indeed.

Not so surreal when you back track through my day and realise that the tonka truck was in the bath so I could clean the chocolate milk out of it.

Still surreal?

No it makes perfect sense.

The Tigger, which is not duplo but the other one, was in there to be washed of the vicks that was rubbed all over it (he apparently had a cough).

Not feeling it yet?

Couldn't use the laundry sink because it was full of shoes - they had to be washed of sand and glue (best not to ask......)

Confusion started to set in?

Kitchen sink? Full. Play dough shape cutters left out too long - need to soak multi coloured goo off them.

Bathroom sink? Nope. some one sucked the toothpaste from the tube and then spat it on every spare inch of china.... or so it looks....

We'd be no good in an emergency - no receptacle left to fill with water.

The toilet? No comment.

Makes perfect sense now, yes?

See you tomorrow Tigger, if you wouldn't mind, could you please look the other way next time?

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

It's a little bit funny

Just recently I found my 2 year old daughter spitting on the floor and laughing. I told her not to do it and it wasn’t funny. Her response to me ‘It’s a little bit funny’

To be honest, it was a little bit funny. Not funny enough for me to join her, but a little bit funny. It got me thinking though – when did I become the ‘do right’ Mum and not the ‘good time’ Mum that I always wanted to be?

Look I am going to admit something here – I really think I might have been the ‘hip to the beat of the news on the street’ Aunt – until I had kids of my own. I used to buy awesome birthday and Christmas presents, let the nieces and nephews eat whatever they wanted, go to bed without cleaning their teeth, pop a few lollipops under their pillows..... Seeing myself with these little people and how relaxed I was made me believe that I was going to be the Mum of all laid back Mums – the kind that everyone else’s kids wanted to be around..... insert noise of a needle scratching across a record and we have this;

“Can’t stop and blow bubbles with you because this load of washing isn’t just going to hang itself out.”

Firstly, we don’t even have a washing line (fun Mum!), secondly, what’s more important clean clothes or blowing magical bubbles with a loved up wee one? Well hell you know it’s the clean clothes bit plus if we blow that shit around I’m going to be cleaning bubble marks off the walls and floors for days..... NO! Gah! What has happened to me?

Where’d the fun go?? When did I become such a stickler for the rules?? And why oh why do I say things like this;

“You got the lego out of your room, you put it back”

“If you don’t eat all of your tea there’s no ice cream for dessert”

“Right! Go to the naughty corner NOW, we use gentle hands in this house”

“Cabbage is good for you, just eat it”

“Because I said so”

“It’s go-‘ing’ not goin”

And my all time favourite

“I’m telling your Father when he gets home”

That last one is normally yelled by me from the floor as I sit legs akimbo and shoulders hunched, simply aghast at my inability to manage two wee ones, eye twitching and wine trigger finger at the ready, pity it normally happens around 10am.

I think sometimes about my own childhood and remember the times when I really wanted Mum’s attention after Play School had finished but she was busy soaking whites or something, did we stifle her relaxy-ness with our constant need to be fed and cleaned? I feel bad now for being cross with her for not building that working play dough/bicarb soda volcano that Benita so adeptly put together...

As a kid I loved that messy arty crafty stuff they did, mud pies, walking through paint all over the floor, chalky murals. It looked like so much fun through the eyes of a four year old, but now I know why Mum used to go pale at the idea of getting the water colours out, kids are not ambidextrous after all and things don’t stay quite as contained in the home environment.

My generation of mothers has to deal with a lot worse I think. You all know him, the smarmy git himself - Mister Maker. I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets lynched by a mob of overworked mothers one day..... ‘This is for the paint soaked tennis ball pictures, you twerpy mess making know it all.........’ ‘glue covered string that looks like spaghetti! Well chow down bozo chow down....’

Oh ok I digress and am now trying not to hyperventilate by breathing into a brown paper bag.

For the sake of my wee ones I am going to commit to finding the fun Aunt again and making her into the fun Mum – I may just have to check with the nieces and nephews that I wasn’t deluded back then, nothing worse than a hip Aunt that isn’t all that hip after all....

Fun times ahead kids, strap yourselves in, we’re on the train to fun-ville – we just have to detour through Howards Storage world so I can organise the fun into neat little drawers.......

Disclaimer: Mum I know you are reading this - you were fun. Put the phone down, do not call the brothers for confirmation.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Things I do when Husband is away.......

Husband is away all week again, experience has shown that once the wee ones are in bed the first night always goes like this;

Consume a, maybe two, or a few, perhaps a random number of oversized bowls of icecream for dessert ( "Dessert"?? pfft oh who am I kidding I didn’t even have "dinner", I’m using this ‘away’ time as a total intense diet weight loss regime) Break out the old bottle of topping that’s kept at the back of the fridge. Revel in the satisfying crunch noise as the crust around the lid breaks when I open it, slightly disappointing that we only have banana flavour – but hey who can afford actual bananas for smoothies these days (Smoothies, ha, sure).

Lie spread eagled on the couch waiting for that sick feeling to go away, can’t move, ice cream must digest.

Buy multiple items online – it seems ok when he’s in another state, he can’t stop me and I can claim loneliness as the reason behind my binge buying. He’ll eventually love what I buy anyway – it’s how we ended up with the set of owl shaped salt and pepper shakers with optional squirrel toothpick holder that he claims he adores (I was having a total ‘forest animals’ moment.)

Queue inordinate amounts of ‘Lady TV’ on the multimedia player. You know what I mean, Husband doesn’t get a kick out of tasteful documentaries on human culture or intellectual thought provoking reality driven product. That’s why I’ve got a weeks worth of the staples covered; America’s next Top Model, Tabatha’s Salon Takeover, The Real Housewives of somewhere, Jersey Shore and Teen Mom (don’t judge me).

Cook whole bag of oven chips, sugar high worn off, will desperately need some salt, with a side of tomato sauce.

Lie spread eagled on the couch waiting for sick feeling to go away, can’t move, chips must digest.

Decide it’s an awesome idea to stay up until 3am – I can sleep on the couch whilst the wee ones watch Series 1, 2 & 3 of Peppa Pig in the morning (Mental note to self; remember to change settings on multimedia player, Wee ones still not completely over seeing Jersey Shore Series 02 – they can’t understand why Sam wont accept that her and Ronnie were on a break, it’s too much for them)

Ah it’s a lonely game being the wife of a man who works for a company that thinks it’s cheaper to send people away for a week of training rather than pay the trainer to come here…..

Chin chin - down the hatch with a banana 'smoothie'.

Monday, April 25, 2011

Pinch and a Punch, but it's not the first day of the month...

At lunch today I decided to treat myself to a 20 minute neck and shoulder massage. I often walk past this place called ‘The Chinese Grand Palace of Pain’ (not it’s real name…..) and think it would be fun to duck in for a bit of relaxy me time. Caution was thrown, the wind caught it, so in I went.

My friend is a Bowen practitioner, which is where they just give the muscle a nudge along to relax at it’s own pace. If that is the hippy of the massage world then I just had its military cousin.

Holy mother of invention! I think I may have been assaulted. My muscles relaxed because they were too bloody scared not to. My masseur appeared to be a lovely smiling, petite lady, but for now we’re going to call her ‘The Smiling Assassin’

She led me to a booth type set up, two chairs, each with a plastic bucket in front of them, I assumed for my belongings, but am beginning to wonder if some clients may actually vomit from the pain, hence the requirement for a receptacle. A small curtain was closed, but I could still see reception, not as private as I would like, but it’s just shoulders and neck, no nudity.

It started gently enough, what felt like practised fingers started rubbing my shoulders and then slowly the rubbing turned into gouging, full on get under my shoulder blade gouging. My eyes popped open as I racked my brains wondering what I had done to offend this lady in the 30 seconds since we met.

Soon enough the fingers were abandoned for a particularly bony elbow. The Smiling Assassin only came up to my armpits, so I wondered how was she able to get the full weight of her body through her elbow into my shoulder?. I thought on it for a millisecond before the excruciating pain in my shoulder made little dots tingle in my eyes.

Oh ok, that’s not my muscle, I’m pretty sure you’ve pierced between my ribs. I wondered if I should say something, but this was not advertised as a relaxing massage or even a remedial one – perhaps this was a traditional Chinese massage that was all about business. The business of working out my actual pain threshold.

I soldiered on.

As I began to acclimatise to the leaning elbow the tack suddenly changed. She pinched me. More than once. I don’t mean a two finger pinch I mean a two hand pinch. All down my neck. Pinch, squeeze, let go. Pinch, squeeze, let go.

I didn’t want to cry but I think the pressure being placed on the base of my neck forced liquid out of my bulging tear ducts.

I’m thinking of my happy place at this point, which is anywhere but at the ‘Chinese Grand Palace of Pain’.

Pinch, squeeze, let go.

Focus on the scuff marks on the wall. Wow they’re pretty high for scuff marks, maybe the pain was too much for some people and they kicked their legs out to get up and run away. Or maybe she’s used the wall for leverage before……

Pinch, squeeze, let go.

What’s that noise? The receptionist got up, went in to the room next to us and pounded what sounded like a sack of flour for a minute, then glided back to her desk. She does this a few times, I feel confused.

Pinch squeeze, let go.

Can your skin just come off?

Pinch, squeeze, let go.

That unassuming calming piano elevator music seems oddly sardonic right now.

Pinch, squeeze, let go.

Oh ok we’re back on the elbow, but now it’s both and they’re coming at me like jack hammers.

The ‘sack of flour’ from next door leaves her massage room, she looks bemused, I try to give her a knowing look but in an effort to protect myself my shoulders have rolled forwards and my forehead is trying to touch my knees.

After one last lengthy body weight lean on my shoulder blades for good measure, it's finally over.

I stand up, slightly startled, arms out, eyes darting around. Is she coming at me?

The smiling assassin looked me up and down and said “you tired – you need more sleep. Sank you.”

I pay them for the pleasure. I even say thank you. I gather my self respect and walk out the door.

Outside I see a lady looking at the menu, checking her watch, a little smile coming across her face. I give her a look through my only open eye, shake my head just once and limp off with my right shoulder slightly lower than the left and my hair sticking out in all directions.

She scarpered.

I saved her.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

School Pick Me Up

I am only new to this schooling caper, of course I went myself many moons ago, but I mean this being a parent of a student gig.

There’s a lot to talk about, later on I will give you the lay of the land on the School Mum Jungle, but I think I need to get something else out of my system first. It’s the most eagerly anticipated and equally dreaded part of the day.

The school pick up (dah dah daaaaah)

Each afternoon I trot up to the kinder all excited about seeing my little man, he runs to me, we embrace, it’s all smiles and giggles until..... ‘Did you bring me a snack?’ Silence. Shit.

New scene; me carrying a school bag, drink bottle, 45 pieces of paper with shit glued to them in different spots, dragging a raincoat through the puddles with a 4 year old trotting along behind squawking and jabbering about being hungry and needing something to eat now, now, Mummy I’m hungry, now Mummy.....sob sob sob ....hungry.....

It’s a similar scene at child care when I pick up the smallest wee one. She shouts ‘Mummy Mummy Mummy’ we embrace and then as we leave she will remember that she wants something I have no chance of actually supplying which results in hysteria.

Pack ‘em in the car and take off in a cloud of smoke.

I’ve often wondered if there is such a thing as a stress-o-meter, something that measures how much stress you are under and how well you are dealing with it.

Picture this - two scenarios;

1)
A mother driving a car through school pick up traffic, dodging other crazy arse mother drivers, with two kids screaming and fighting in the back, the wiggles blaring on the stereo and someone randomly kicking the back of their seat.

2)
A pilot flying some kind of F1 Eleven super jet who has to decide whether or not to drop a bomb through the fog on a densely populated area to debilitate enemy gun making factories – life or death decisions coupled with a super confusing machine to operate

Who would come out on top? Who would be handling it better?

The pilot obviously. There isn’t a 4 year old child in the back of that jet screaming about how much they hate peas and how they will never eat them for tea ever ever.

Anyway I digress, you know what would make school pick ups more palatable? Drinks. A lovely tray of cocktails greeting us at the gate. Martini Mondays. Mai Tai Tuesdays. I’m just saying. Might bring that up at the next P&F.

Next post will be a positive one I promise.

E

Ps: I never said I knew anything about aircraft types ok – I have no clue what an F1 Eleven is.....

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Nit Wit

Oh no you didn’t (dih ent?). No you did not send your kid to school with nits, do you know what that means for me? It means hours and hours of arguing and wrestling and consoling and soothing and cajoling as I attempt to get close enough to look through my son’s hair.

If I didn’t know better I would be sure that the eldest wee one had some kind of Rainman thing going on with his head. Don’t touch the head, especially without permission. More importantly, you DO NOT mess with the hair.

It’s hard enough just washing his hair with normal shampoo, through the hysterical squealing he will beg me to not cleanse it. We’ll do it tomorrow he promises. Tomorrow never comes – there’s always an excuse, unfortunately for him someone has to lay down the law and wash the playground out of that mop, it sure as hell isn’t ever Husband either. I really thought the shampoo Mohawk could calm the angriest of beasts, but not this one; it’s just not funny to him.

What am I going to do if I have to comb it all with one of those midget combs? I’m going to have to sedate him or wrap him tightly in a few towels with his head poking out the top, like you do when you want to clip a cats nails

So thank you foolish non attentive parent, I hope you can hear the ruckus tomorrow morning as I spray a fine mist of lacquer over my screaming childs head, I hope you look around and see how many kids are rubbing at their eyes because their crazed bug paranoid parents have massaged eucalyptus into their scalps........

Oh god I have to go, my head is itching like a bastard.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

The Mother Load.

It’s such a cliché but no one ever really tells you what you’re in for when you decide to have a baby and to be honest I don’t think I would be telling anyone either.

The baby stuff is definitely new and difficult, sorting out how to care for them and what they need. But it’s the emotional side of it that hit me like a 10 tonne Tessie. I had no idea that I could sit bolt upright awake at 2am in a panic about the fact that I wasn’t really holding onto the pram tight enough as we walked down a hill the other day and what if I had accidentally let go just as a bus drove in front of us. It really came as a shock to me that my mind could come up with all these impossible scenarios and somehow turn them into very real and plausible threats.

And then there is the guilt.

I have guilt attached to leaving my children in care as I go to work, I have guilt attached to not being able to work the full time hours my job requires, I have guilt attached to the fact that I’m not willing to change our lifestyle dramatically to ensure that I don’t have to go to work, I have guilt attached to the fact that I feel so much guilt.

I don’t think I can ever rid myself of it, I just get used to it always being there, always feeling like I’m just not quite enough for everything. Why can’t I hold it together like so many of my friends that have children? Is there something missing in my make up that means I’m just not able to cope with all the competing pressures?

The other night I was simply defeated. I picked the eldest wee one up from after school care a little after 5pm – he was sitting by himself at a table playing quietly, waiting patiently. I couldn’t hear anything the carer said to me because my heartbeat pounding in my ears and the gut wrenching guilt were too loud and my focus was on holding back the tears. We picked up the smaller wee one from child care and got home about 5.40pm.

The dog and cat were barking and meowing, I was carrying 4 bags, school jumpers, drink bottles and the mail. The wee ones fought over who got to put the key in the lock to open the door, we finally got inside, I rubbed at the red welt on my palm from all the bags (result of being made to wait for 10 minutes whilst the eldest wee one painstakingly put the key in the lock and slowly turned it....), dinner needed to be heated up, the eldest wee one was crying because his t-shirt was stuck on his head and he wanted help getting changed, the smaller wee one was crying because her molars are coming through and she just wanted to kick back and watch Peppa Pig NOW.

Feed the animals, check the dinner, get the plates out, unpack the lunch bags, wash the containers, I’ve got work on my mind and the way that makes me constantly feel inadequate, too much, too much, too much. Husband arrives home and I dissolve into tears.

Hopeless.

I went to the supermarket for some ‘me’ time, got a lot of pitying looks because I didn’t bother to check my face before I left the house. Blocthy red face and neck, puffy eyes with a hint of mascara over the cheeks. I chose not to care. It’s official, my self respect has tendered it’s resignation.

The worst part of it all, in my post melt down vagueness I accidentally gave the youngest wee one a double dose of Nurofen. After a panicked (read slightly hysterical) call to the Poison helpline we found out that it was ok and wouldn’t harm her. But I am sure I now have an ulcer, a guilt ulcer. Can guilt give you an ulcer? Well it should because I deserve it.

Today will be a better day. Next week will be a better week.

This is not a particularly funny piece, it’s a reality piece, well perhaps more a self pitying piece, because I’m sure there are people who have a lot tougher things to deal with and manage it all quite well.

I feel better for writing it and I hope if someone else is feeling like this, then maybe you will be comforted to know you are not alone.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Oh my god we're 'those' parents.....

What’s the one thing that can completely ruin your awesome plans for a kiddie friendly super fun day? Your kids.

Rainy day, time for a trip to a not too far away restaurant on an old steam train. Milkshakes maybe some pancakes should be fun, yes? No, not on your fucking life.

The eldest wee one was lovely, just lovely. But the youngest turned it on like an angry bear covered in ant bites.

She was loud. I’m not 100% sure at what point noise can make glass break, but I’m pretty sure we were a few decibels away from it

She was yelling, she was screaming. Running back and forward, I tried to grab her, we banged heads, not funny. She escapes the other way. Husband goes to get her and she does that limp lay on the floor thing, complete with screaming ‘NNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO’

People are looking. People are whispering

The milkshakes we ordered arrive and the waitress says to her ‘Time to sit down, be quiet and remember that you’re in a restaurant’ Um lady we’re sitting in a fecking old train on plastic seats about to eat toasted sandwiches – this aint no restaurant honey. But I take your point about the noise levels on advisement.

I have a friend who recently confessed that she doesn’t give a flying wasabi laden chip who watches her scream at her kids in public as long as those little creatures snap to. Well I tried, I really tried to not care. I wanted to scream at the smallest wee one ‘Cut the crap with the crayons, they’re for drawing not eating’ but to be fair they had already taken half an hour with the toasted sandwiches, I was ready to eat a crayon too.

I talked sharply to her, but my parenting words were drowned out by her squealing. Very counter productive.

People are looking annoyed now, this whole eating on a train experience is being ruined for them, simply ruined.

So Husband and I took it in turns to take her outside for ‘fresh air’ – it was blowing a gale and raining, but at least it drowned the screaming out. Didn’t want to go this way, didn’t want to go that way. Wants to touch sharp and dangerous things and is quite interested in drinking from a puddle.

People are now quite obviously talking about us, tsk tsking and doing that smiley head shake between each other (wouldn’t happen in my day.... quick clip under the ear would fix that).

Finally after watching Husband chase her out of the carpark and back into the play area, in that half bent over arms out in front way with a ‘get back here’ gritted teeth facial expression on, I decided enough was bloody enough. I slammed back the remnants of my coffee, burning lips, tongue and trachea in the process;

‘Can we get that to go actually please?’

10 minutes later (yes 10 minutes, obviously hadn’t fully got through the toasted sandwich maker instruction booklet yet... toasted sandwiches?? But we only make pancakes??? What the!), everything is handed to me in a neat bag and I could practically feel the waitresses hand on my back as she directed me to the door.
I am glad that I burnt 30% of my insides with the coffee, because if it wasn’t for the pain I would have given the whole train car a serve . I really would have you know!

The tears, well I would like to say it was because of quickly formed blisters on my soft palette, but I think it was more about the embarrassment of realising I am incapable of holding my shizz together and managing a two year old in a confined space – I mean seriously how hard is it?

I felt bad for the larger wee one, we made him save half of his milkshake for when the toasted sandwiches came out and because that was right after never, he missed out on the rest of it.

20 minute car ride home in semi silence, we all refused to talk to the smaller wee one whilst she giggled - she doesn’t like trains anyway.

E

Ps: 45 minutes until wine time.......... 44m55s 44m50s 44m45s

Sunday, February 27, 2011

For the Glove of Children

I don’t want to sound cruel, but I’ve just spent the last half an hour trying to get a pair of gardening gloves on my eldest wee one so he could pick some lemons and I feel disappointed in his dexterity.

I like to think I’m a patient person, but seriously child, why do his fingers move independently from his brain? What is so hard to understand about gloves and the way they work??

I asked him to take two of the three fingers he had squeezed into one hole back out again, instead he took the thumb out of the correct spot.

I laughed at first, it was kind of funny, but for the love of lemons it was not funny after five minutes and even less funny after fifteen.

We did a practise run of pretending to put on a glove. I mimed like I have never mimed before, Marcel Marceau would have been proud, I even did the surprised face when my imaginary glove fit perfectly, four fingers and thumb nicely cocooned in their own make believe glovey goodness.

The wee one understood, displayed an appropriate amount of mirth at the necessary mimey moments, so we progressed to putting on the real glove

Slid it over his fingers and hand, he spread them out into their little boy finger sized homes and Success!

NO!
Three empty finger holes and a boy with pincer hands..... That will do wont it? No, apparently not according to the inappropriately hysterical response.

3 deep breaths

Try again

Fingers in, fingers out, fingers in, thumb out, glove off, glove back on, fingers out, thumb in, glove off, glove on other side of room, glove retrieved, glove on, fingers squashed, glove off, glove used to wipe perspiration off face..........

Wee one now picking lemons with newly created fingerless gloves.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Supermarket Stories Part I

One from the Vault – and oldie that some of you may have seen before.

How do your kids behave at the supermarket? I'm scratching my head about my wee one - I think he's got dissociative identity disorder or something - his multiple personalities come out when we're shopping - maybe it's the fluro lighting and all the pretty packaging or something

I normally like to shop with Husband so one of us can deal with crazy boy and the other can shop but this time I had to go by myself because Husband has been working late and we haven't been able to go and there's only so many days in a row that you can palm salada's off as being a nutritious lunch......

So we get there – the wee one wont get into the trolley seat - no biggie - I just whip out the biscuit from my front pocket and give it to him (high five super Mothering moment!)

We wheel around, I'm careful not to leave him too close to the vegies, he normally pulls them off the shelf - he's being good so I give him the cucumber to hold.

Wheel around some more, he puts the cucumber in someone else’s trolley...... and I realise it's had a few bites taken out of it..... I don't know what to do about it...... I look at their trolley..... look at the wee one..... they didn't notice so I think if I put my hand in their trolley they are going to think I'm strange..... so I leave it there and we move quickly away.....

Then the wee one thinks it's fun to squeal at the top of his lungs in short sharp bursts...... alot..... after I wipe the blood from my ears I hand him another biccie from my back pocket - that keeps him quiet for a while

Then he decides to reach backwards and grab what he can from the trolley and just drop it on the floor... oh man - so annoying! I move all the stuff to the front of the trolley so he can't reach it and he fuh-lips out - big time - trying to stand up (I got the trolley without a restraint..... didn't think it would matter..... so so so so wrong)

So he's trying to stand up, I'm trying to grab the can of dog food that is rolling away and the squealing starts again

seriously I felt like such a loser tool mother it was ridiculous - and I had run out of biscuits

I thought fuck this lets just pay for what we have and get out of here - 30 people lined up and only 2 check out chicks - I go for the shorter line and this piece of work woman practically runs to cut me off from the other direction - I glare, she ignores and then the wee starts squealing some more, not really bothering me now, but really bothering her.

We get through the check out and I go to the escalator to go upstairs to the car park and wouldn't you know it I have a trolley with broken brakes - I had to hold it the whole way up with the wee one on my hip - I wasn't sure we were going to make it (How did she die? squashed by her own groceries after being rolled over by a shopping trolley.....)

Shopping used to be so easy - now it's such a monumental pain in the arse!



oh and I forgot to get a replacement cucumber.....

well ok then.

Dear Warner Bros,

I took my son to see Yogi Bear at the movies the other day. It was a sunny day so I don't know why we went.

After seeing the movie I would like to ask for a refund.

And that hour and a half of my life back.

Regards, E.