Are Exams Important?

 Hello, people! Welcome to another Monday! That glorious and beloved day of the week. People love Mondays! The same way they love root canal. Do you know what I'm saying?
Anyway, once again I am joining in the fun for Life This Week over at Denyse Whelan Blogs.  I missed it last week. Oops. 

Let's talk about exams! Simply because that's the prompt. Otherwise I wouldn't really talk about them. If I did I'd have two words: 

EXAMS SUCK!

I say this because I wasn't very good at them. 

Case in point: it may be hard to believe it (if this blog is anything to go by), but English was one of my best subjects in high school. However, I failed English in my HSC!

My poor mother was so astonished and dumbfounded that she truly believed there must have been some kind of mistake. She insisted that we enquire into this grave injustice.

We wrote back to check. This was back in in 1988, the time of the old snail mail.  Subsequently, I received confirmation of my abysmal results. YAY! 

EPIC FAIL.  

Every now again I still have hideous dreams (nightmares) that I'm back at school or doing exams. It's always such a relief to wake up!

Whenever I'm in a situation of being tested or having to think quickly on the spot, I can't seem to process it. It was exactly the same for me with job interviews. I'm not sure if it's an ASD thing or just a Ness thing. Either way, clearly I'm special. So very SPECIAL. 

I sometimes wonder if I'm doing the right thing as a parent, because I'm not pushy or demanding about exams or achievements. Sure, I want my boys to do their best, but I don't want them to be despondent if they don't or can't. The HSC and high school is not the be and end all of life! I don't think so, anyway. But then, I would, wouldn't I. Considering what I just revealed. Moving along...

Anyway, in my (admittedly limited) experience, no employer was ever the least bit interested in school or HSC results. I have no idea if this has changed these days. Has it? 

So that's my thoughts about exams! Deep, huh? Yeah, not really. It's obvious why I never became an academic. 

However, I feel like I should throw in an impromptu exam, just for shits and giggles. I should test YOU. But I know nothing. NOTHING!

Hang on, I know about The Carpenters!  

May I present to you the most IMPORTANT test you will ever take. 

 A Carpenters Pop Quiz: 

What were The Carpenters Christian names?: 

a) Richard and Linda.
b) Sharon and Darren.
c) Karen and Richard.

The Carpenters were one of the most successful pop music duos of all time. But how did they meet?

a) In college.
b) At the hairdressers, getting a bowl haircut.  
c) They were brother and sister!

How did they come up with the name "Carpenters"?

a) They were devoted Christians and Jesus was a Carpenter.
b) They loved woodworking
c) It was their family name. Duh. 

The Carpenters often referred to their music as being influenced by 'the three B's'. What/who were they referring to? 

a) Boring, banal, bland.*
b) Beethoven, Burt Bacharach and Barbra Streisand.
c) The Beatles, The Beach Boys and Burt Bacharach.

*(I don't think we can be friends anymore). 

Finish the lyric: Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near...?

a) They sprinkled moon dust in your hair of gold and starlight in your eyes of blue . 
b) Before the rising sun, we fly.
c) Just like me, they long to be, close to you. 

During the 1970s, The Carpenters were known for voicing THE ultimate burning question of that tumultuous decade. What was it?

a) Don't you remember you told me you loved me, baby? 
b) Can't we stop hurting each other? 
c) All of the above. 

What instruments did the duo play?

a) None. They just pretended like all those dumb 70s pop groups.**

a) Glockenspiel and tambourine.
c) Piano and drums. 

**(You're pushing it).

In 1978 The Carpenters recorded a Christmas album. What was its title?

a) Christmas With The Carpenters.
b)  Merry Christmas, Darling.
c) Christmas Portrait. 


Karen Carpenter tragically died on February 4th, 1983 at just 32. How did she die? 

a) A plane crash.
b) Who cares?***
c)  Heart failure due to complications from anorexia nervosa.

***(You are officially dead to me). 


Which iconic pop star is responsible for this quote about Karen Carpenter: 
"I'm completely influenced by her harmonic sensibility."

a) Cher.
b) Michael Jackson.
c) Madonna. 

If you answered with all C's, then congratulations!

You scored A PLUS! 

As for the rest of you; take a good hard look at yourselves. What are you actually DOING with your lives?? Disgraceful! 

This is the most IMPORTANT exam! The rest are rubbish. 

You've been told. 

Now off you go and educate yourself about all things Carpenters! 

But before you go, just one tiny question...

What exactly DO 'normal' people think about and remember? Ahem.

Linking up for Life This Week. 

Also linking for  Open Slather and Mummy Mondays.

Do you think exams are important? You know, proper ones...? 

Images: Pexels; Pinterest

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My Mum's Sayings

It's funny how certain people have their own expressions and phrases. I always wonder if there are any particular ones that my loved ones associate with me because I'm not very verbal. 

Although lately I  have noticed that I'm starting to repeat of few of the classics I heard when I was growing up, courtesy of my mother. 

My Mum's Sayings

Mum and I at my 21st birthday party.

What do you want me to do about it? Turn cartwheels? 


This was usually in response to being told something that was supposed to be urgent, but turned out to be completely underwhelming. It was delivered deadpan, with heavy sarcasm. Mum couldn't actually turn cartwheels. So I'm not sure what her plan was if we'd replied in the affirmative. 


I could work the clock around when I was your age!


This expression referred to the fact that Mum worked her butt off from sunrise until late. To be utterly fair, this was quite true. My Mum is a ninja. One of those capable creatures who is up at 5 am and has done some gardening, baked scones, ploughed through several baskets of ironing plus a billion other things before 9 am. She may insist that she can no longer achieve the above (working the clock around), but she still runs rings around me at age 75. 


That's as boring as a nanny goat pooping on a tin dish.


Well yes, I suppose that would be rather boring when you think about it. But do goats really poop on tin dishes? This expression actually originated from my Pop, Mum's dad. A true classic in the tradition of something being 'as boring as batshit'. Love it!


You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink.


My poor Mum had to trot this old cliche out (pun intended) many times to my teachers. She was cornered in parent/teacher interviews about my antipathy to anything sport related. Not to mention my excruciating shyness. They advised her to drag me to girl guides or something, anything to 'fix' me. I did end up doing a whole year of jazz ballet when I was ten, but I had two left feet. At 45 I'm still shy and exceptionally non sporty. Personally I don't believe there was or ever will be any sport or activity that will change that. Yep, you can lead the horse to water but you can't make it drink. Well, this horse doesn't mind a wine...

Image credit: 

http://jokideo.com/you-can-lead-a-horse-to-water-funny-quotes/

Because Y's a crooked letter and Z's no better!


This was Mum's exasperated answer to my brother and I's endless round of but WHYS??? I must admit I've used this on my boys. The response: a disgusted glare with a groan. 


Because I said so. 


No negotiations. All I could do was sulk or pout after this was said. But Mum meant it. She said so. The end. And who hasn't tried this one as a parent? 

He's got a head on him like a racing tadpole.


An expression used to indicate that some one wasn't very attractive. I can't say I've ever examined a tadpole that closely, so I'll have to take my Mum's word for it.  This ties in with the next expression...


As ugly as a tub full of arseholes (tossed up and down). 


Similar meaning here to the previous tadpole one, except a notch more insulting. And if you wanted to take the insult up even one more level, you tossed the tub full of arseholes up and down. Interesting. 


Five foot tall and nine foot up themselves.


This describes someone who is insufferably pretentious, fake, phony and conceited. A total wanker, in other words. 


Bread and duck under the table.


This was Mum's answer to the inevitable and dreaded question: What's for dinner? I've definitely resorted to this answer when my boys query me. There's no sensible answer to the question that can please everyone.

However, as a child I was confused about this. I actually wondered if there really was, in fact, a duck under the table, that we were going to eat with bread. If this wasn't an example of my Aspie brain and it's literal interpretation, I don't know what was. I had thought that this was just one of my Mum's unique expressions, but a quick google search reveals that it dates back to the depression era when food was scarce and you may have only had bread to eat. You learn something new everyday! 


She went mad and they shot her!


Another saying that was wailed in sheer desperation to our endless cries of : "MUUUUUUUUUUM!" It's true what 'they' say. You never understand your parents until you have kids of your own. 


I'm not Houdini!


I've found myself muttering this lately when it seems like everyone wants you or wants something all at once, just like Mum did. I'm not a great multi-tasker, so the ability to do so seems like the equivalent of magical powers to me. 


And last but not least, my absolute FAVOURITE of my Mum's sayings...


If my brains were dynamite they wouldn't blow a part in my hair!


GOLD. A rueful expression, often exclaimed when you've forgotten something you were supposed to buy or do. I say this to myself frequently.


Looking back at Mum's expressions, it strikes me that she must have been stressed and exhausted, despite giving the appearance of a Super Mum Ninja. So thanks Mum, you're a legend! I totally get what a hard job it is now. And thanks for providing me with these classic expressions. 

Mum and I on my 40th birthday.

Now I'd better go and do some housework. Even if it is as boring as a nanny goat pooping on a tin dish. 

Linking up for IBOT. 

Linking up for FYBF

What classic expressions do you remember?

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Parenting Fail

WARNING: This post is a bit on the gross side so if you're eating or easily grossed out, don't read any further! You've been warned!

 

Today I am meant to be confessing to any parenting fails. The only problem is that obviously I am the most likely candidate for Mother Of The Decade! I don't have any! OK, I made that up.

The truth is, it's a bit of a sensitive topic for me. I think I'm a terrible mother because I'm scatty and disorganised. However, my boys seem to genuinely love me. Additionally, they are all healthy and going well at school. So I guess I'm doing something right.

There is one funny anecdote which happened many years ago when Mr 13 was Mr 3 and Mr 11 was a newborn, so let's call him Baby. Yep, I'm very original with names and aliases.

One day we decided to go out for a picnic at Mt.Tomah Botanical Gardens.  I don't know what we were thinking. We must have been feeling extremely optimistic on that day. Otherwise, we were just delirious with sleep deprivation. If this wasn't foolish enough, we also decided that it would be a brilliant idea to invite our friends, Kim and Ziggy, to come with us.

It all started out looking promising. We arrived at this picturesque location and strolled around happily. Eventually we found a spot to have our picnic. At this point, Baby began shrieking incessantly. Meanwhile, a rather over-powering stench began emanating from the direction of Mr 3. It was all quite mortifying for us, while our friends kept smiling politely as if nothing was amiss.

Except it was impossible to ignore the smell. No problem, we'll just change him and clean him up, we thought. The trouble was, we soon realised that although we had packed a baby bag with everything except the kitchen sink for Baby, we had left Mr 3's backpack at home. We did have some wipes but not his nappies or a change of clothes.

Somehow, Mickey Blue Eyes took Mr 3 to a discreet location and cleaned him up as best he could. Except this was one of those horrific poo explosions. Something that only a bath and then another bath and then another bath could clean. He had no choice but to put the same trousers back on him. Not surprisingly, he still reeked.

This didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. He chattered on merrily, excited about the picnic. At the same time, Baby had kept up his cacophonous screeching. I fed him, but he still wailed and voiced his disapproval of being dragged out for the day.

Mr 3, oblivious to his rancid, toxic odour spotted another family having a picnic and figured he'd join them. I think he just wanted to make friends with the other kids. Within minutes, the family disappeared, probably unable to consume their food.

I guess it was one way to ensure that we had the entire gardens all to ourselves for the day.  Needless to say, it wasn't exactly a relaxing picnic and we ended it as soon as possible.

From that day forward whenever our boys had one of those utterly disgusting poo explosions they were referred to as a 'Mt.Tomah'.




And that, my friends, is what I would call an epic parenting fail. Bows to applause. But it's all good, because I've been a perfect parent ever since. And slightly delusional, but we won't mention that.

SHHHHHHHHH!!!

Linking up for I Must Confess.

What is your most epic fail?

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A Continuing Theme

Those of you who have read my previous post may remember my description of my blogging style as being rather ad hoc. Therefore, it will probably come as no surprise to you when I reveal that my parenting style is, *coughs*..somewhat similar. Using the phrase 'somewhat similar' in the sense of EXACTLY THE SAME. Ahem...

But aren't we all just making this shit up as we go? Or is that just me?

Before I had children of my own, I had such lofty, ridiculous ideas of what a perfect mother was like.  For the record, Mr 5 informed me on Saturday evening that I AM one. A perfect Mum. I guess that settles it. Oh, and it involves giving them hot dogs for dinner and putting Scooby Doo on the telly, just in case you were doing it wrong. You're welcome.

My pre-children lofty ideals involved nothing of the kind. Sigh.

There is probably a reason why I was so deluded. Until I had children of my own at age 30, I really had little to no experience of being around babies or children. Except for being around a younger cousin or two, and perhaps nursing them now and again, absolutely nothing. I never babysat or really spent any time being a full-time carer of a child or children.

I was so judgemental of other parents. If I heard a child having a tanty in a shopping centre I would be the first person to roll my eyes in scorn. My children would never behave like that! If I saw somebody feeding an infant commercially prepared baby foods, I'd shudder. How hard could it be to puree  home made mush?

I have always been a shy, quiet and introverted person. I also have an official diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome. This happened at age 40, three years ago. Somehow I did vaguely realise that my extreme need for solitude and quiet time would be a challenge for me once I had kidlets. However, I still wanted them. I figured I'd probably have two children at the most and that they would most likely be quiet little bookworms like me. Wrong.

My boys are quite articulate and love a good chat, particularly Mr 10. They're not shy and say whatever they think without reserve. They also make me laugh constantly, which is a plus. On the flip side,  there are heated arguments and rivalry. This means constant noise and attempts to smooth things over and restore peace.

I also didn't realise that having children meant remembering stuff. A LOT of stuff. Like their names. I mean, there's a reason I call all three of them 'honeybunch'. Shut up. It beats constantly tripping over their respective names until I hit the right one.

Don't get me wrong, I love my boys passionately. I'm the kind of mother who can hug her children and say 'I love you' a million times a day, but on a practical level I'm sadly lacking. I couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery, as the saying goes. I'm also extremely ad hoc regarding routines. Even when I have managed to sustain a good habit, such as exercising everyday, I don't have a routine. I just do it whenever, at different times of the day.

I suck big sweaty balls when it comes to time management and multi-tasking. I'm constantly off with the pixies, so I suddenly snap out of my little world and realise it's dinner time when my stomach starts growling. Somehow, I'm quite astonished that the Dinner Fairies haven't arrived. I realise with a start that I'm the one whose supposed to be wearing the fairy wings and tiara. This is my job. 


 
When I do try to plan in advance and write lists, I'm STILL quite capable of forgetting essential stuff on the list. Alternatively,  I'll end up forgetting to take the list. This means that I'll try to rely on my dodgy memory and become confused about which ingredients I needed for which recipe. Plus, I agonise over making decisions about the simplest thing, so I don't really like grocery shopping. I tend to just randomly chuck things in to avoid this pointless indecisiveness and then end up buying way to much crap.

By the time I've lugged all the crap home I'm too overwhelmed to cook, anyway. I find cooking for a family everyday a chore and somewhat stressful, instead of the relaxing ritual it seems to be for some people. So I stick to the most basic, boring meals of meat and veg, or salad, spaghetti bolognase or roasts. Sometimes (okay, a lot of the time) I cheat and buy a cooked chook to have with salad or just order take-away. Then, I feel guilty that I'm bringing my boys up on crap.

I'm constantly going on at my boys about picking up after themselves, but the truth is, I'm just as disorganised and messy. At least I've got hypocrisy down to a fine art. Winning!

Unfortunately, Mr 13 seems to have inherited my tendency to forgetfulness. He forgets and leaves things at school, such as his sport uniform. Then I forget to ask him when I pick him up. I end up feeling sorry for him because I suspect a lot of 13 year olds are similar, except they have a mother who's got all that shit covered. On the positive side he also has a good heart and a sense of humour and I'd like to think he got some of that from me too, so it's not all bad.

When it comes to teaching my boys organisational skills, I may as well attempt to teach them how to speak fluent Japanese. NO FUCKING IDEA IN HELL.

I rarely talk about my Assburgers Asperger's here as I fear it will sound like me whinging and whining as weepy violin music swells in the background. I realise it's not a death sentence and I'm not in a wheel chair. This is the one of the best things about it and yet at the same time somewhat frustrating. Just because people can't see anything debilitating on the surface, that doesn't mean that I don't have genuine struggles.

The shrink (I say shrink because it's easier to spell) who diagnosed me assured me that some women on the spectrum that she sees are sometimes quite austere and don't like to show affection, not even to their children. She added that from a psychologist's (did I spell it right?) point of view this (showing love and affection) is much more important than routines and a spotless home. I cling to those words everyday. She may have just been trying to make me feel better but it's all I've got, so don't rain on my parade, okay?

So yes, my boys may always live in CHAOS*, but there will also be cuddles!  LOTS of cuddles. And cakies! Let's not forget about those. As if I could. Shut up.

* CHAOS stands for Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome. I read this on somebody else's blog, but am unable to remember whose. So if I stole it from you, sorry! But I did mention my memory issues. Erm...what was I saying?

Are you a forgetful person?

Do you ever feel like a hypocrite?

Linking up for I Must Confess and Laugh Link

And a VERY belated link up with The Lounge.

 No, I didn't forget, I just have dodgy internet connection. Outta here.....
 

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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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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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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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