A Dangerous Mission

The car came to an abrupt halt outside Sydney Domestic Terminal.

"Hurry!" the driver ordered, eyes wild. I opened the car door to searing heat. Within seconds I was sweating profusely. Ten percent heat. Ninety percent nerves.

The suitcase thudded next to me. Anxiously, I gripped the handle, aware of the arduous task ahead of me.

"Come on!" I called to my young accomplice. The car sped off.  Through the doors and a sea of people. The rush of cool air did little to soothe my jangled nerves.  I headed to the agreed waiting place. Breathe, I told myself. Everything is okay. It had seemed such a good idea. So far, our plan was working.

Surveying the crowds of people, my mind raced. Where were they going? Why? Did they have such a dangerous mission ahead of them? How would I get through this?

Breathe. My heart was beating faster now. Dear God, would I survive? As I was about to do the unthinkable. Take three boys on a flight to the Queensland!!! Cue dramatic music. The Sunshine Coast, to be exact.

As per our plan, Micky Blue Eyes, had dropped myself and Mr4 off, and was heading back to his parents house, who live closer to the airport (let's face it, anywhere is closer than Boganville) to pick up Mr11 and 8 and return with his father. Because this is what bogans do. Just to save parking or taxi fairs.

An overjoyed  Mr 4 was peppering me with questions as we waited.  I answered vaguely, too busy trying to stay calm.  Suddenly, a commanding voice pierced loudly through the noise.

"Passengers travelling on flight JQ783 to Maroochydore, if you haven't already checked in, please do so immediately. This is the final call for flight JQ783 to Maroochydore. Thankyou!"

Maroochydore? Um, no problem, right? We were going to the Sunshine Coast. Pause. But where on the sunshine coast exactly?  Gingerly I unfolded the paperwork from my handbag. To my horror I read Flight JQ783 to Maroochydore! It was our flight! Mick and the boys were still not here! Shit! What should I do?

Now, obviously the best thing to do at this point would have been to just calm down and think logically. The flight wasn't until 2.50pm, which was still a way off. However, logic has never been my strong point. I immediately became alarmed.

Surveying the queues, my panic mounted.  Calling to Mr 4, I headed towards the end of a line, suitcase lumbering behind me. Mr 4 was agog with curiosity and excitement, oblivious to my frantic musings.  There I hovered, wondering what to do. An official looking woman in an orange Jetstar vest approached me briskly, perhaps noting my uncertainty.  She then began punching the flight number into one of the machines and printed out our boarding passes, urging me to join the line.

Frowning intensely, I did as instructed, willing Mick to make an appearance pronto.  The line moved along. No Mick. I scanned the crowd nervously. I let people in front of me. Still no Mick. The calls to check in for our flight came over the loudspeaker yet again. This should have been a give away that there was nothing to really panic about as they had said the previous announcement was a final call, yet here they were announcing it again!

All rational thoughts appeared to have deserted me, however and I became more and more jittery. Hurry up Mick!!  The same official woman noticed my agitation as I let more people in front of me.

"What's the problem?" she queried.  I explained the situation.

"You need to check in," she informed me, emotionless "otherwise you may miss your flight."

EEEEEK!!!

"Perhaps you should call him." she suggested.

"I don't have a phone!" I admitted, feeling foolish. The only phone we owned was with Mick.

"Oh here, you can use mine." said another lady in the line behind me, who had heard the whole exchange.  Thanking her, I punched in the number, my fear rising. Voice Mail. I left a frantic, babbling message to hurry or we might miss the flight.   The queue moved again. Still no Mick mercifully appeared.

"Call him again," the kindly lady offered me her phone again.  This time I spoke to a startled Mick, who assured me they were in the car, just minutes away.  I hung up.

"You should have told him what desk number you're at." the lady pointed out.

Shit!

"Ring him again, it's fine," she handed back her phone for a third time. All I could do was thank her exuberantly.

 I told a distraught Mick we were at desk 39. He said he was just coming in the door. Finally!  A minute or so later they all appeared, pale and panting. Thanking the lady again, we hurried to the counter.  We checked in our suitcases and headed through to departures. After putting everything through the security conveyor belt thing, we then hastened to our departure gate. 

Quickening our pace, we rounded a corner. A luggage buggy beeped at us to get out of the way. Mr 8's Ipod clattered to the ground in front of it. Mick lunged, grabbed it just in time and we continued our break neck pace through the airport. A long ago memory flashed through my mind. Of returning home from a family holiday to Holland when I was only ten years old. Somehow my parents had miscalulated our boarding time for our flight back to Australia.  We were strolling around the airport, window shopping, when we had heard our names called out over the speakers! The plane had been delayed because of us. I still recalled the humilation of dozens of disgruntled eyes boring into us, as we shame facedly boarded the flight. Hopefully we weren't about to suffer the same humilation!

Breathlessly we reached the gate. Bored people sat around, listlessly flicking through their Iphones or scrolling down lap tops. The plane hadn't boarded at all!  We sank onto a seat, exhausted already.  There we waited. For at least another forty five minutes!! After all our racing, the flight was delayed! Silently I cursed that official woman for stressing me uneccessarily.

Eventually we boarded the plane and prepared for take off. Due to the searing Sydney heat that day we circled the tarmac for at least another half hour. Apparently it was so scorching that the breaks over heat, so we had to wait until they had cooled sufficiently for take off. After what seemed like an eternity of Mr 4 endlessly asking when  we were going, the plane finally rocketed down the runway. We were airbourne, headed upwards and towards the Sunshine Coast.Yep, exactly what we needed More sun. Find out what happened next time.

 Linking up my old crap with Kim from Falling Face First for The Lounge's freestyle session, because that's what lazy bogans do.

 Do you like flying? Have you ever missed a flight?

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Weird and Wonderful

I frequently wonder what it would be like to live in a ‘normal’ house.  With a ‘normal’ family. Because it tends to become a tad, um, shall we say, interesting, around here.

Take for instance some incidents that happened over the past week or so.  One day, the usual mountain of lego  was obscuring the living room floor.  I ordered the boys to clean it up.  Fights and mayhem ensued.

“You know what, Mum?” cried Mr 4, amidst all the hollering.

“What?” I replied.

“You’re Mum!” he laughed “you’re funny!”

Then he turned to his brother, segueing abruptly “I don’t love you!” he informed him vehemently. Mr 8 promptly burst into tears.

I ignore the washing up to play with the boys,
or just ignore the washing up to do anything that
isn't washing up really.

After smoothing that over, I then coaxed Mr 11 into a bath.

Trudging  back into the kitchen, I surveyed the usual truck load of washing up. Ignored it and headed back to the computer.

Some time later, I meandered back into the bathroom.

An over powering stench greeted me. Mr 4 grinned at me from the toilet. Which he had filled to the brim with toilet paper. Among other things.

Meanwhile, Mr 11 was soaking blissfully in the tub.

Fully clothed.

I booted him out and hastily bustled a slightly putrid Mr 4 in.  

When I wander back to the bedroom, I find Mr11 now flinging himself backwards and forwards with wild abandon, apparently head banging to some kind of rock music which is only in his mind.

Completely nude.

Also in the past few weeks, all three boys have started a game called making 'huts'. This involves positioning coffee tables and chairs in certain positions in the living room, then draping blankets over them. They then crawl in under their little self designed hidey hole.

Or they will congregate in our bedroom and do somersaults on the bed. Or decide to play 'tips' or hide and seek. Sometimes I am coaxed into joining in.

Mr 4 will be beside himself with glee.

"You hide here!" he cries, pointing behind his bedroom door "and I count!"

Trying to explain that it kind of defeats the purpose if he tells me where to hide is a fruitless exercise.  Ditto if he yells out "I'm in here!" and alerts me to his hiding place. Which he often does.

Meanwhile, Micky Blue Eyes will have one of three reactions to such pandemonium.

They are:

1.       He is a grumpy old man. Completely and utterly over such frivolity, insisting that it be curtailed immediately.

2.       Distracted indifference. He is too busy looking up old 80’s bands on Youtube, like Journey and Foreigner (if I’m lucky) or footage of Tsunamis or other natural disasters if I’m not.

This means he will yell at me approximately every 12 minutes or so to come quickly and look at some horrific doom and gloom thing that frankly isn’t extremely helpful to when you tend to be a bit wobbly (anxious) at times.

3.       If you can’t beat em, join em. He will join in with the boys antics, perhaps even roughing them, thusly hyping them up even more. Quite handy when it occurs at bed time, as is quite common. Something I never do.
 

Except for the other day when it was heatwave conditions and I looked up from folding laundry to see Mick spraying Mr 11 with the hose while he bounced on the trampoline. Gleefully I ditched the clothes and hurried outside where I proceeded to join in.

Next thing you know I was bouncing around being sprayed and whooping and laughing. Mr 8 joined in.

“This is the life! Wheeeee!” he shouted, arms and legs flying, soaking wet. 

It felt so good to be so utterly silly and ridiculous and just laugh. To see the boys so full of joy.

At which point I decided ‘normal’ is over rated.

When was the last time you did something completely silly? What ridiculous antics happen at your house?

 

 

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Let's Make A Deal

Recently it became obvious that the boys were in dire need of a hair cut. They could possibly be mistaken for girls if I left it much longer. Especially Mr 4.

This was a prospect I relished with all the enthusiasm normally reserved for a root canal.  For some reason Mr 4 has an unreserved antipathy towards hair cuts.  In his short life, I had only managed to make him have one at the Barber's once. 

To do this, K, the lady barber we always go to, was only able to manage to complete the procedure by shoving the lolly pop, usually handed out upon completion, into his glowering mouth, thusly shutting him up and putting a plug in his protests.

This has meant he has sported many a dodgy at home hair cut done by Micky Blue Eyes.  I wouldn't even attempt it. This may be considered the equivalent of child abuse to some people.

Unwilling to subject him to such embarrassment any longer, I decided it was high time to use my exemplary parenting skills and take swift and immediate action. Like so.

I  gave him my sternest look and said firmly "If you get a hair cut, I'll get you McDonald's after."

"Okay," he agreed quite happily and immediately. Well, duh.

Yep. Bribery. Works every time. 

I'd always been reluctant to use bribery on my boys and resisted it greatly when Mr 11 was little.  I suffered the indignity of every other parent smugly informing me how their child was fully toilet trained while I was still struggling with it. I'd never thought of using bribery.

I bribe my boys with junk food. And the Mother of
the Year Award goes to...

Well, that's not entirely true, I did think of it, but assumed that it would be the wrong thing to do.  What a novice parent I was. Some time later, I realised that I was the only idiot and other parents went straight to the bribe tactics. 

"Oh no, I always bribe them, " a neighbour told me, unashamed. 

So the bribery began.

Now Mr8 is a seasoned deal maker.

 "What do I get?" he demands, when asked to anything. Even something as simple as picking his shoes up.

"I'll give you a massage," he'll offer " for five dollars!"

But back to the hair cut.

Arriving at the Barber's, Mr 4 warily sat himself up in the chair. Reluctantly, he allowed the hair cut to proceed, eager to keep up his end of the deal. Trying to get him to talk, however, wasn't going to work.

"It's his birthday tomorrow," I told K

"How exciting!" she enthused, while he sat sulking and she kept clipping away.

Meanwhile, in stark contrast with Mr 4's sullen silence, Mr 8 happily chatted away.

"One time Dad took us to this other Barber's," he informed us " and they accidentally cut our ears."

"Really?" K replied "I don't think I've ever done that to you."

''Yeah," he went on "they were really bad because they were Chinese."

Taken aback, I admonished him, mortified.  Apparently, I was raising a racist. Oh dear.

K just laughed. Then it was his turn for a hair cut.  While he was in the chair a lady popped her head in to purchase a packet of cigarettes.

"Why do you sell cigarettes?" Mr 8 demanded, his tone dripping disapproval. 

"Oh, because my boss wants me too," K answered.

"It's not illegal to sell them," I told him. He looked astonished.

Apparently I am raising a deal making, racist, anti-smoking fanatic. Oh dear. Admittedly,I'm actually quite proud of the latter.

Mr 11 decided to skip the hair cut.

"I'm growing my hair," he announced. For years he hadn't cared what he wore or looked like. Suddenly at age 11, all that has changed.

He has to have Nike shoes and he's growing his hair. He's too cool for me. In a few years he'll be taller than me I expect. My miracle baby. Not a baby anymore. Sigh.

Hair cuts completed, we exited to conclude the deal with some Maccas. A done deal.

Until the next one.



Do you use bribery or rewards?Or would you? Is there a difference?

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Computer Wars

Now that Micky Blue Eyes is working from home it is quite interesting.  Having failed to become Cashed Up Bogans thus far, we currently only have one computer.  This has become the most coveted item in our home as everyone including Master 3 clamours to get online.

It is of the utmost importance that he should be able to watch Spectacular Spiderman on Youtube. Since Youtube doesn't work worth a damn on our dodgy computer, this can be quite tedious.  When his demands are rebuffed he immediately becomes irate. His little face contorts into a scowling grimace as he glares at us and defiantly declares "I HAAATE YOU!!" 

As I am attempting to type this, he climbs on my lap and starts pleading "Five more minutes and I go on here Muum?" Then starts grabbing at the mouse.  I send him on his way, sulking.

Similarly, Master 8 becomes incredibly distraught when his waddling around on Club Penguin is interrupted or denied. It is very dramatic.

Very, very, dramatic.

Very, very, very dramatic.

Very, very, very, very dramatic indeed.

That, or we have just been reading too many Mr. Men books lately. (Master 8's favourites)

 It is as if he has had to endure all the suffering and injustices in the World ever, since time began.  And it really does feel like that at times when we are all vying for computer time.  Which is probably an indication that we all desperately need to get a life. Or another computer. FAST.

Micky Blue Eyes spends hours upon hours online doing Accountant type stuff involving spreadsheets  and all that stuff that sends me to snooze land...zzzzzzzzzzz.

But I also need time to type these blogs because all my millions (ie. one - thanks Mum) of fans are so demanding and they have just been bombarding me and begging me to resume. Oh okay, only one person enquired when I would be posting a new one. So I forced myself on here for longer than five minutes, much to everyone's disgust. 

It is rather galling to realise that the average 5 year old probably has their own laptop while I am begging for whatever computer crumbs I can procure.  But then again we have always been a tad behind the times.

I have a pathetic Nokia phone which doesn't even have a camera. While all other parents pull out their whizz bang phones for a photo opportunity at every occasion, I stand there feeling like an antiquated fool.  We also possess an archaic Corolla for a car.  Not to mention the charming old fibro we live in.  

We really need to get with the times and become one of those modern families.  The ones where every family member has an iphone, laptop, xbox, ipad, etc, etc (I'm sure there are gadgets I've never even heard of) and they never talk to each other but instead text each other from the individual rooms of their gigantic McMansion. 

We actually sit at the table for dinner.  And suffer a lot of indigestion, as everyone tries to be the first to finish so they can get on the computer.  Which reminds me, I really need to make dinner, but if I move from the computer it will be promptly taken.

It is not unusual to sit here desperately busting for the loo but too afraid to move for fear you will never get back online. So hopefully, it won't be too long before another bogan installment.  But if you don't hear from me for a while you now know why.

Computer Wars.

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Miscellaneous Morsels

A few days ago I appeared to be in a cooking mood.  I made Spicy Puke ie curry, rice pudding and pikelets. I totally forgot that you're supposed to take artfully lit photos of these tempting treats, so you'll just have to imagine them.  All of these offerings were actually partaken of and consumed.  This is a monumental event in our house.

Truthfully, I will never be auditioning for Master Chef. Or even Mediocre Chef.  Even though, in reality every meal here feels like a Master Chef challenge, with my boys being tougher critics than Matt Preston and co.  It is quite the challenge trying to feed them.
Master 8 will scoff grilled fish with enthusiasm, one night, exclaiming "Mmmmm! I LOVE fish!" So then, I confidently serve fish again with flourish the following week only to hear: "Yuuuuuck!! I HATE fish!"

This battle started from the day they were born.  I sucked at breast feeding. The baby didn't.  I felt like a failure.  The feeding problems persist to this day.

Cake made by my Mum for my 40th birthday.Who needs Masterchef, I have my Mum.

My mother happens to be the best cook in the whole world. Makes melt in your mouth apple pie.  The Best Caramel Slice In The World Ever.  That's what I call it.  Because it is.

Unfortunately I did not inherit this ability.  Sometimes my culinary efforts are fine.  Often they aren't.  It may have more to do with the fact that I frequently  can't be bothered more than anything else. I'm sure I could become reasonably competent in the kitchen if I could somehow summon up the interest and desire to do so.

Somehow when you have three fussy kids and this has to be done everyday it suddenly becomes a massive chore. "Get them involved" say the 'experts' "Get them into the kitchen, cooking with you."  Yeah right. It's all very well for the Jamie Oliver's of the world to suggest this, but they obviously don't  have a kitchen the size of a postage stamp.   Frankly if I put on any more weight, I'll have a hard enough time fitting in there myself let alone getting my kids in there as well.

Besides, they only want to help if we are making something cake like, so they can make a gigantic mess, with flour everywhere, get to lick the bowl then leave me with said gigantic mess to clean up. As well as cakie things which they won't eat because they weren't made by Grandma.  I will then proceed to eat all of them, when I really shouldn't.

I also hear all these stories of children who just love vegetables.  When I announce I can never get my boys to eat anything green, such as broccoli (I don't think their own snot counts) other parents stare at me open mouthed. "Really?" they say "I just tell them it's little trees and they eat it." So I attempted to convince Master 3 to eat it with this method "Look at the little trees!" I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.  Truthfully I don't really get that excited over it either, at least not as excited as I do over chocolate and cakies, but I had to try to convince him.

Master 3 then proceeded to show me exactly what he thought of my pathetic attempts at vegetable consumption coercion by throwing the 'little trees' at me. He also threw the burgers we had last night.  When I informed him we were having burgers he reminded me rather scornfully "You get those at McDonald's you know." perhaps also inferring that they might be superior to anything I could cook.

Is it foolish to keep repeatedly trying to make healthy meals for your kids when they are happier with fish fingers and two minute noodles? And I'm happier with a lot less washing up? I think I'll just go with the second option tonight.

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The Three B's

Sport and I do not mix.  I associate all sport with the three B's, ie. Bats, Balls, BOOORRRRING.  It all started in year 4 at primary school, when I had this appalling teacher who forced us to play endless games of volley ball.  Endless for me meant any number greater than zero.

I simply detested it.  I had a dread of the ball coming near me and would flinch and move away instead of diving in and hitting it like you're supposed to.  I never noticed the ball was headed my way until it was right on top of me, as I was already tuned out anyway.  Unlike other kids who looked forward to sport as a means of escaping formal lessons, I dreaded it like most people dread root canal.

  Of course I was always the last person standing there that nobody wanted when team captains had to choose people during sport at school.  You couldn't really blame anyone for not wanting me on their team.  I was completely inept and uninterested. The frequent jibe I heard was always: "You're supposed to hit the ball!"

On one occasion I do remember becoming annoyed when somebody yelled at me yet again during sport at school and shouting back something really forceful like "Oh, shut up!" That actually  was forceful for me, as I think it was the only two words I uttered through all of high school. "Come here young lady!" the teacher announced sternly.  I trudged over sullenly, preparing for reprimand.  "Congratulations," he announced instead "that's the first time you've ever stood up for yourself." It was probably the last too. Oh well.

Unfortunately for me, becoming a mother of three boys hasn't lessened my antipathy for all things sport like.  I still have zero interest.  I haven't even made an appearance at Master 8 or 10's soccer as yet this year.  The season has just started, so I expect I will eventually, at which point the following will happen:

• My eyes will glaze over in approximately ten seconds , even when it's my own child playing.
• When an occasion pops up where we have to go in opposite directions to take both boys to a soccer match at the same time at different parks,  Mick will then ask me detailed questions about the game, such as which team mates were there, who scored the goals and who, in fact, won, and I will have no idea, because after glazing over after ten seconds, I was then tuned out for the entire game.
• All the other parents at the game will be overly concerned with their child's team winning and their child actually scoring a goal, screaming at them insanely throughout the match.  All I will be concerned about is if there is coffee available at the kiosk, and when it will be over so that I can go home.
• When I get there I will have to rely on Master 8 or 10 to locate their team mates because I'm still not entirely sure who they are or what they look like, even near the end of the season, because I've been so tuned out.
• I can't ever really remember the actual name of the teams they play for.  Is it Under 9 Dolphins or Wombats? It's some sort of an animal, I know that much. Can't remember which one though.
• Canteen duties will traumatise me.  This requires me to do all of the things I am hopeless at, at once.  Dealing with people face to face, remembering stuff and adding up numbers all at the same time.  Too scary. Was it one sausage sandwich and two cans of coke? Or one can of coke and two sausage sandwiches?  And then I will proceed to add it all up wrong, either giving the delighted person a free drink or the peeved person the incorrect change.  Consequently, I think I've only done canteen duty a grand total of once. 

Then, in addition to all of that, if the entire season isn't tedious enough, you have the end of year presentation.  This is when you are required to sit through several hours in an auditorium, hearing multiple long-winded, dull speeches about what a great year it's been and politely clapping for every other child clopping up to the stage to get their trophy while completely bored out of your mind, when all you are interested in is your kid getting their trophy and getting the hell out of there and having lunch and a drink or two. Because frankly you need one after having to sit through such mind-numbing boredom.  Or maybe that's just me. 

Sadly though, the joke is on me.  The truth is that because of my tendency to be a sooky la la stresshead I desperately need to exercise. I also need to burn off all the cakies and crap I eat, but I have given up on this presently as this would require completing a triathlon daily.  And then I still may not have burned enough calories.  But I still need those endorphins.  So what do I do?

 I can't do team sports.  Don't even talk to me about Gyms. I have attempted to go to them in the past  when I came to this conclusion. I hate them with a passion.

The queueing up for machines, the doof doof music, the overly polite, patronisingly fake staff who are only interested in getting you to sign up for a hellishly expensive membership.  The posturing people giving you pitying looks at your Best & Less purchased sport wear.  No thanks.

So I exercise at home.  By myself.  Where nobody can see what an uncoordinated klutz I am.  Wearing an attractive ensemble of leggings, one of Mick's t-shirts and joggers with holes in them.  Huffing, puffing, sweating, face red as a beetroot.

Which reminds me.  I suppose I had better go it do it.  Soon.  Oh, okay, now.

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I Vant To Be Alone

It is Easter Sunday and I now have alone time.  Mick has taken the boys to a soccer match. The house is echoing with blissful silence.  I can even hear a bird cooing along with the wind chimes outside the door. No deafening roar of a PlayStation, combined with the television blasing. No cries of "Muum, can you get me a cup of tea?" vying with "He started it!" to be heard.

 Consequently, I cannot think of single interesting thing to write about.  So I expect this blog entry will be boring as batshit.  Just like all the others then, I guess. Oh well.

Whenever I have absolutely no hope in hell of getting near the computer, then, no doubt I would be bursting forth with all sorts of brilliantly witty insights and revelations (ie. full of shit). Today, I've got nothing.  But since nobobdy is reading this anyway I guess it doesn't matter.

So, now that I have alone time, here is a list of things I could do:

• Exercise (I do need the endorphins.  No point worrying about burning calories.  I could jog to Melbourne and back and I still wouldn't have burned off the calories I've eaten in chocolate.)
• Blast Carpenters REALLY LOUD.
• Write
• Eat more chocolate
• Do 20 truck loads of washing up (hmm might actually be forced to, if I fancy a cup of tea later)
• Read a book
• Put away 20 truck loads of laundry
• Eat more chocolate
• Clear away/tidy
• Clean the bathroom
• Stare into space vacantly
• Eat more chocolate
• Have a bubble bath
• Call a friend
• Text a friend
• Ironing ( yeah right)
• Watch tv
• Watch a girly movie
• Eat more chocolate

Right. So far, have managed to read a book, eat more chocolate, stare into space vacantly, eat more chocolate, blast Carpenters, eat more chocolate ,write this boring as batshit blog and eat more chocolate.  Comforting when you can tick stuff off your to-do list isn't it?

On a day when most people would unite with their extended families for a big get together or bbq, I am quite content being alone. I have chocolate. Books. Carpenters. Computer.  Ahhh, heaven.

I guess it seems like I don't really love my kids when I crave alone time so much.  But I really do love them.  I just really love them to go out with Mick and leave me alone sometimes too.  This gives me time to ponder on things like the deep and intellectual thinker I am.  Like my reflections on being so quiet and introverted.  Coming soon.

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Group Therapy

Today I was hit by a bus. Metaphorically speaking.  Pushed way out of my comfort zone.  Completely out of my depth.  Feeling awkward, alien like and anxious.  This happens every Wednesday.  One word.

Playgroup. Actually it could be two words.  Not sure.

It's only two hours a week.  Two very  over-whelming hours.  For me, anyway.  Noise.  Children.  Apparently they are essential for a Playgroup.  Fleurescent lights. People.  Lots of people.  Scary.

Not to mention the giant huntsman that crept out to greet me in the bathroom there, a few weeks ago. Eeeeeeeeeek!

On any given week, there will be children running around playing, including my very own Master 3 (when he isn't clinging to me).  Babies crying.  Mum's chatting.  Toys everywhere.

Where am I amongst all this?  Standing, mute, in the corner, in quiet discomfort.  It's not that the folk there aren't friendly and welcoming.  They are.  It's just me.  Groups intimidate me. Always have.

Although I can sometimes manage an awkward one to one conversation, groups are a mystery to me.  I have no idea in hell how to join in an already established conversation.  Am clumsy at starting one. Posess zero ability to shout out and project my voice (which rarely reaches more than a whisper anyway) across a crowded room.

I can't bounce off people speedily with instant witty comebacks.  Trade jokes and banter with effortless ease. I do not have instant rapport with anyone I meet or make friends easily wherever I go. Let's not even talk about eye contact. Impossible.  Just. Does. Not. Compute.

I am capable of being a loyal friend and confidante, I know that, but not capable of making them easily.  Luckily, I do have my family and a small group of friends who seem to accept me the way I am (the quietest person in the room where ever I go) for which I am very grateful.

Plus, when at Playgroup, or anywhere for that matter,  I seem to have a decidedly unhelpful habit of comparing myself to all the other mothers.  How on Earth do they manage to look so neat, tidy and frankly, awake?  Wearing white.  White. With children.  Just. Does. Not. Compute.

In addition to this, their children tend to look like they've just stepped out of a Target catalogue.  My Master 3, on the other hand, looks like he's been dragged backwards through a hedge, wearing faded hand me downs, impeccably ironed to perfection though, of course, ( if you have been reading all my posts you will know I just made that last bit up, just wanted to check if you are paying attention) including a Spiderman shirt that belongs to a dress-up suit, at least a size too small.  As well as sporting a dodgy at home hair cut.  Classy.

The main thing is, he seems to have a good time.  So I will keep going,  and hopefully he will learn to navigate groups with slightly more ease than his mother.  Also, even the most quiet, shy, introverted Aspie craves company sometimes.  Even if I do come home exhausted, wanting quiet time.  If such a thing even exists as a mother of three boys!

I just hope that the huntsman spider doesn't make another appearance.  That thing was huge.  Eeeeeeek!

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A Day In The Life Of A Mad Boganville Housewife Part Three

Time for the stunning conclusion of a day in my life. Read on for fascinating insight.

PART THREE

The boys now all sit gape jawed looking at the tv.  "Do your homework." I tell them.
"Not now!" shouts Master 8 "later!"
"But my favourite shows on!" roars Master 10
"When does that finish?" I ask, patiently.
"Half an hour."
"Okay." I comply.

  Half an hour later.  "Do your homework." I tell them.
"But I'm going on the trampoline!" Master 10 says frantically, trying to shut the back door so his brothers can't come out. He wants alone time.  Master 3 starts crying at the door.  Master 8 tries to placate him unsuccessfully, receiving a thump to his stomach for his efforts. So he then proceeds to kick him in the shins in return. 

Another twenty minutes of wailing and shouts of "He started it!" ensue, while I try to comfort and smoothe over the argument.  Master 10 wanders back in from the trampoline. 

"Homework!" I remind them. Mick chimes in too.  Reluctantly they get their homework and sit at the table.  "What's twelves times nine?" asks Master 10, scrunching his face up in concentration.  I rack my brains and come up with.....nothing.
"Ummm..not sure," I reply, feeling stupid "ask Daddy."

Mick prattles off the answers immediately, unwittingly doing Master 10's homework for him.  More grumbling, shouting and arguments errupt as Master 3 tries to scribble all over Master 8's homework.  Finally it is done.  Now for the next battle.

"You have to have a bath. " I tell them.
"But I had one yesterday!" howls Master 10
"Later!" declares Master 8.  Master 3 is already half naked.  He loves baths. 
"Bubbles!" he says in excitement.
"I don't have any."
"Want bubbles!"
I squirt shampoo in.  I try to coax Master 8 or 10 into the bath also. The door bell chimes.

It is their friend, Miss 9, from next door, asking to play.  They scurry off, happily, dodging a bath.  Master 3 comes running out swathed in nothing but bubbles.  "Want go plaaaay!" he cries.  I wrestle him to get him dressed.

They all go out and start jumping on the trampoline, bouncing around blissfully and playing 'tips'.  Next they decide to play hide and seek.  Suddenly the back yard is left in eerie silence.  "Where are they?" Mick asks, looking up from the computer in alarm.

I rush out to the front of the house and scan the street, panicked. Nothing.  Then I hear a giggle over the fence.  They are hiding next door at Miss 9's house.  "Play in the back yard only." I order.  They scowl and sulk, then obey and start playing on the swings.  Master 3 demands to pushed. "Higher!" he orders, giggling.

Miss 9's Mum hollers over the fence for her to come home.  She skips off.  The boys and I trudge back inside. I realise I should start dinner. Suddenly, I remember they still haven't had their baths.
"You have to have a bath after dinner." I warn them.

Mick grills the chops on the bbq health grill while I boil baby potatoes and corn on the cob. I cut up salad.  Master 3 strolls into the kitchen.  An overwhelming stench emanates from his direction.
"Did you do a poo?" I ask, frantic.
"No!" he denies it vehemently, but the smell is all too obvious.  I drag him to the bathroom. It's everywhere, in his underpants, down his legs and up his back.  "Arrrrgggh!" I yell, while the smell over powers me.

"It's not poo, it's chocolate!" Master 3 declares, defiantly. I am forced to give him another bath, this time putting a nappy on him afterwards. 

I then set the table.  The food is ready.  Master 10 puts one chop on his plate and tries to skulk to the living room with it.  "Sit at the table!" Mick and I chorus.  He does so, glowering.  All tv and play stations are switched off.

Master 8 gobbles everything in sight.  Except anything green, that is. "Eat this." Mick says sternly, putting a tiny amount of salad leaves on his plate. "NOOOOO!!!" he yells, as if we were forcing him to eat dog poop.  He manages to swallow a small piece, but not before turning nearly as green as the lettuce. 

Meanwhile  Master 3 is howling over his potatoe. "TOOO HOOOOT!!" he wails "BLOW IT!"
I blow on it half-heartedly.  "TOOOO HOOOOTT!!" he keeps on howling.  Master 10 eats his one chop and picks at a piece of corn before announcing: "I"m full. May I leave the table?" PlayStation goes back on.

Master's 8 and 3 start arguing again, this time over lego.  There is now more washing up to be done.  It's all too much.  I retreat to my room and put on a Carpenters Cd instead.

Master 3 bangs on the door, crying over some new injustice from Master 8.  I comfort him then go back to my Carpenters.   Master 8 bangs on the door.  "Mum, can you scratch my back?"
I scratch it and then go back to my Carpenters.


Bang, bang.  Master 10 this time. "I'm starving.  Can you make me some noodles and a cup of tea?" 
I give up on my Carpenters and traipse back to the kitchen, which now resembles a war zone.  I make two minute noodles, and cups of tea and coffee for everyone.

With grim determination I start washing up, when I remember they still haven't had their baths.  I sigh. Oh well, one day without a bath won't hurt I tell myself.  I need to reserve my energy.  For it is time for the mother of all battles.

Bed time.

"Time for bed!" I announce, cheerfully.
"NOOOOO!!" they shout at ear splitting volume, just as if I had announced "Time to sever off your dangly bits with a sharp instrument!"
"Five more minutes!" they yell simultaneously.
"Alright." I give in, feeling that familiar throb at the temples again.  Half an hour passes.

"Right, time for bed!"
"NOOOOO!!" they bellow, just as if I had said "Right, time for your colonic irrigation!"
"Five more minutes!"
"Alright." I retreat, feeling tired and defeated.  Half an hour passes.

"Bed time!" I try, hopefully.
"Strewth, is that the time!" says Mick, looking up from the computer in a daze, where he is blasting Iron Maiden on Youtube.  "Get your pyjamas on." he orders.  They do.

"Can we sleep in your bed?" they both ask, smiling, cherub like.
"Ask Daddy." I reply.  They do.
"Ask Mummy." he says.  They come back to me.
"No, go in your own beds." I say.  They sulk and head to their room.

"Can we read a book first?" Master 8 pleads, clutching a Where's Wally book.  My heart sinks.Those books take approximately twenty hours to 'read'.  By which point you still haven't found Wally. I suggest a different book to no avail.  I try to skip pages, but they are too smart for me.  Finally Master's 10 and 8 get into bed. 

"Can you pat me?" sobs Master 8
"Mum, come in my bed?" begs Master 3, pleadingly.  I sit and pat Master 8, while Master 3 tugs at me to come with him.

Suddenly, Master 10 springs up out of his bed with a great "RAHHHHHHHHHH!" deliberately scaring the bejesus out of us, a charming habit of his.  I rouse on him and comfort the other two, then say goodnight and take Master 3 to bed.

"Lie down on my bed." he instructs me, solemnly.
"No, I'll just sit and pat you."
"Lie down on myyy beeed!" he is crying.  I lie down.  After 15 minutes or so he starts to fall asleep.  The other two start giggling and talking across the hall.  "Shhhhhh!" I hiss, afraid they will wake Master 3 up.  I lay there for another 15 minutes or so, at which point, I nod off.

Half an hour passes.  Mick finds me there, snuggled next to Master 3, comatose, snoring.

So endeth a true saga.

Stay tuned for more musings.

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A Day In The Life Of A Mad Boganville Housewife Part Two

As promised here is Part Two of the gripping saga that is my life.  Read on for drama, suspense and intruige.

PART TWO

Micky Blue Eyes has now returned and I am booted from the computer.  What to do now?   There are several truck loads of washing to be put away.  This strikes me as tedious, so I flick the tv on for entertainment while folding. 

First channel.  Infomercial about funeral plans. Too depressing, as I realise I don't really wish to plan for my death.

 Flick to the next channel.  Infomercial about miracle weight loss programme and exercise gadget.  Too depressing, as I realise I desperately need to lose weight. 

Flick to the next channel.  Infomercial about some wonder mop that will make mopping effortless, leaving all floors gleaming.  Too depressing, as I realise that the highlight of my day may involve mopping my filthy floors.  And there will nothing remotely wonderous about it.

Sighing, I switch off the tv.  Haphazardly, I start folding clothes.  On closer scrutiny it appears that most of them require a hideous process known as ironing.  This strikes me as tedious, so I convince myself the crumpled look is in and put them away as they are.

Then, I survey the living room.  There are toys everywhere.  In order to vacuum/mop I will need to clear approximately 20 tonnes of clutter.  Bugger that.   I procrastinate by making another cup of tea. 

Mick is still working away on the computer.  He starts talking to me about something Accountant-like as the kettle boils.  I try to not to look bored.  I retreat into the bedroom with my tea.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I flip through my biography on Karen Carpenter for the millionth time and zone out.  Seems like only ten minutes go by but possibly an hour later, I glance up and catch sight of myself in the mirrored wardrobe.  I have a disgusting roll of belly flab, thunder thighs and a humongous double chin.  I am horrified.

Grimly, I pull on my holy joggers (as in they have holes in them, not as in they are sacred) and put on an exercise dvd. Within minutes, several pert, patronising aerobics instructors are beaming at me from the tv screen, looking scarily fit and promising me I too will have rock hard abs, buns of steel and melt away pounds if I work out with them.  So I do.

I begin the warm up, marching valiantly.  This is okay, I think, happily.  The pace picks up.  I start sweating.  The scary women bounce along effortlessly.  "You're doing great!" she shouts.  Why don't I feel so great?

"Time for some push ups!"  she announces as cheerfully as I would announce "Time to sit down with a cup of tea and a cakie!"
"Drop and give me twenty!"   Bugger that.  I jog on the spot instead.  I puff and pant.  Bugger that.  I march on the spot instead. 

Scary Woman bounces back up again.  "Now, go and get your Fanny Lifter. " she says.

My what??

"Position yourself over the Fanny Lifter."  Ummmm...okaay.  It appears to be some kind of bench/step thingy.  I improvise and do the squats without one.  Then we are huffing and puffing again.

There are several more references to the Fanny Lifter, which strikes me as a completely ludicrous name for an exercise gadget, so I am too busy laughing to exercise properly.  I improvise as best I can for several more minutes, before giving up and skipping to the cool down section.  At least I have managed to break a sweat, I tell myself, as well as make my head pound in earnest.

I swallow some painkillers and head for the shower.  Once there, I recoil in revulsion at the state and smell of the bathroom.  Might have to pull out the tub of Gumption first.  I half-heartedly give it a once over, then take a shower.  That done, my stomach growls.  Lunch time.

I then proceed to sabotage all my exercise effort by making Mick and I ham and cheese toasties. Then guiltily gobble a biscuit or other sweet treat with a cup of tea after the sandwich. 

There are several truck loads of washing up to be done.  This strikes me as tedious, so I dart back to the computer as Mick has disappeared outside for a few minutes.  I check my Facebook again. Yep, I am still a crashing, heaving bore compared to everyone else.

Mick comes back inside armed with yet another giant basket of washing from the line that I eye wearily.  He comments on the glorious weather and how it just makes him want to jump in the car and drive to Darwin. I try not to look alarmed.

Dismally, I do the dishes, wondering what to have for dinner.  I get the chops out.  Seemingly only 15 minutes have gone by but it is already time to get the boys. I set of to get Master 3 while Mick goes to get the other two.  This is the true highlight of the day, for when Master 3 sees me he his little face lights up, he runs to me joyfully, and I scoop him up in a big bear hug.  We head home.

Mick and the boys are back.  "Hi Mum," says Master 8, looking around dubiously "what did you do today?"

"Muuuum!" Master 10 shouts, already in his recliner/throne. "Can you make me a cup of tea?"

Stay tuned for Part Three, the stunning conclusion.  Coming soon.

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A Day In The Life of A Mad Boganville HouseWife Part One

Howdy folks.  Due to the fact that my life is so thrilling and glamorous (you, know the chops, three veg and tubs of gumption kind of glamorous)  I thought you might be gasping to get a glimpse into a typical day in the life of me: Boganville Housewife Extraordinaire.  So here it is, brought to you in a gripping three part saga, that will have you on the edge of your seats.

PART ONE

The raucous rumbling and roaring of what sounds like a jumbo jet at take off penetrates my restless sleep.  Simultaneously a small foot thuds into my forehead.  Master 3.  He had somehow snuck into our bed in the middle of the  night unbeknownst to me.  Thus, I am awake.  Sort of.  I snuggle with the little man for a bit longer.

Some minutes later I drag myself up and out of bed in my usual fashion, ie. like a hundred year old woman named Enid.  Back aching, neck stiff and sore.  Dizzy, nauseous. Nose clogged.  The promise of a pounding headache later, lurking behind my eyes.

Blearily, I stumble to the kitchen, and instead of 'a cup of ambition' I am handed a lovely, frothy vegetable juice. It was my idea to start Micky Blue Eyes on juices when he had Cancer.  In doing so, I created a monster as he now forces us to drink his concoctions almost everyday.

"Muuum! Can you make me a cup of tea?" Master 10 yells from his recliner/throne. 

"Drink your juice first!" Mick orders.  Pandemonium ensues as three very reluctant boys are forced to drink juices while turning an alarming shade of green.

Time for breakfast.  Crumpets with honey for Master 10.  Honey Weets for Master 8.  And for Master 3?  He wants tuna.  Or circle meat ie.  devon, which strikes me as particularly revolting. But, as my mother recently reminded me, I used to eat olives straight from the jar for breakfast as a girl.  As you do.  So I give it to him, then start packing school lunches.

Promptly, Master 10 is dressed and ready, eager to get to school.  "C'mon, hurry up, get dressed!" he wails to his dawdling brother.

"I aaaaam!" bellows Master 8.  They then start chasing each other and fighting.  Master 3 gleefully joins in. Testosterone bounces off the walls. I am forced to chase him to get him dressed.

Once in his room, he rejects every article of clothing selected for him.  "That's boorrring!!" he shouts, then stubbornly insists on choosing his clothes and dressing himself.  "I do it!" At least this is a refreshing change from Master 10, who no doubt would still allow us to dress him if he could get away with it.

There is a mad last minute panic and flurry of activity looking for hats etc, and making sure all notes are filled out, signed and school things paid for.  There seems to be something nearly everyday. Mick then takes them to school and kindy.  Ahhh, blissful silence. 

Armed with a cup of tea and toast I dash to the computer.  This might be the only ten minutes or so I have on there all day, as Micky Blue Eyes works from home.  I check my Facebook.

I scroll down my Newsfeed.  It seems everyone on my friends list is striding off purposefully to jobs and careers, planning holidays and looking forward to catching up with friends.  Meanwhile what does my thrilling day hold for me?  Stay tuned to find out in Part Two.  Coming soon. 

 

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The Great Chocolate Box Dilemma

Presently, there is huge box full of chocolates residing in our house.  We are meant to sell them.  All parents will be familiar with this phenomenon.  Fund Raising.  Ugh.  As this particular box is from our youngest son's kindy where we already pay an alarming sum of  money for him to attend, the fact that we are also expected to fund raise for them is particularly galling.

The box was handed to me as I left from picking Master 3 up on Tuesday, with the words "Do your best."   What they don't realise is that this is the equivalent of handing Amy Winehouse a giant box of heroin with the same parting words.  A not especially brilliant idea, considering what happened to that poor woman.  Death by chocolate, however, is a distinct  possibility for me.

It's true.  My name is Vanessa.  And I am a chocoholic.  With a huge box of chocolates in the house.  Which I have to resist.  Or sell.  Fast.   Especially before they cost me a fortune.

You see, in addition to being a raging chocoholic myself, I have also succeeded in causing my children to become chocoholics too.  Classy.

Some mothers manage to keep their addiction to themselves, furtively sneaking the Kit Kat from their handbag when the little ones aren't looking.  How on Earth do they manage this?  My addiction is so all-consuming that this is entirely impossible for me.

Plus, my boys seem to have an internal radar for sensing any chocolate or junk food for miles.  Particularly since we only live in a small house.  There are only so many hiding places.  They have figured them all out, being way smarter than I ever will be. 

With their combined intellect, stubbornness and intense drive for junk food in triplicate, they are a force to be reckoned with.  Delightedly aware of the fact that I am so incredibly weak willed that whenever we pass the corner shop on the way back from school, all they have to do is say, "Mum, can we get something at the shop? Pleeeeease?"  and I will give in, secretly coveting a chocolate treat for myself.   So I am in deep trouble with a whole box in the house.

But, how do I sell them?  I don't go to paid work.  Micky Blue Eyes works from home.  I do not wish to go door knocking.  I just don't. 

The only time I ever did, massive, menacing dogs bounded out to front fences barking furiously, scaring the bejesus out of me and permanently terrorising Master 10, who now has an intense fear of dogs.  Or, small, fluffy dogs pattered out to front fences yapping, irritating me beyond belief.

People took an aeon to answer their doors, clearly irritated.  Then, demanded to know what we were selling the chocolates for, and looked dubious when I told them.    All the good chocolates were sold in the first street, leaving only the less desirable ones, which people tutted over disapprovingly before reluctantly choosing one or rejecting them altogether.   So we only sold half the box after all that effort! (ie.  30 minutes tops, in the 3 shortest streets near us)

I definitely do not know what to do about The Great Chocolate Box Dilemma.  I guess what I am really saying is, would you like to buy some chocolate?  Please?

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