Whose House??

We've had a few issues with chores lately. No one wants to do anything to clean up a mess someone else might have made. "It's HIS mess!" and "It's not MY job!" and "I didn't do it" and "They're not MY things!" are cries that echo these bruised and smudged walls of late.

And in response, my own voice joins the raucous din :"I don't actually CARE who made the mess. Ultimately it's MY house, and I will decide who cleans what!"
or "It's YOUR room - go and clean it before the timer rings or I'll remove everything I find on the floor and keep it until next Monday!" (this has become known as loosing things to the Monday basket. Which was originally accurate, as I used an empty laundry basket to gather and collect the confiscated items. But then I got slack on doing the laundry and eventually the other 16 baskets I owned got filled, so I had to use the remaining basket for laundry, and now I threaten the Monday basket more than I use it. Because to actually USE it, I'd have to empty it first!)

Recently, on a (somewhat regular) mad panic to get out the door for church on time, I grabbed a packet of Ritz crackers. To feed my noisy children during the service, because I find the sound of them crunching on biscuits at the back far preferable to the sound of them swearing and fighting at the front.
(Yes, that has happened. I have serenely and silently picked up a child in each arm and regally swept down the church aisle, removing them from centre stage, so they can continue their punch up in the car park rather than under the pastor's feet. It must be very challenging to deliver a sermon on unfailing love or eternal forgiveness when you have 2 small boys laying in to each other beneath the pulpit. Perhaps "turn the other cheek" might have been appropriately re-eneacted that day!)

Normally I don't take crackers. They are too crumbly and dry and leave a large mess on carpeted floors when consumed by small ravenous children (whom I am certain skip breakfast on Sunday mornings so they have room for an entire packet of chocolate or Scotch Finger biscuits)
But this day, it was the first thing I grabbed on my way out the door.

And so, half an hour later, the Honey Girl and Pants sat on the floor, quietly and amicably (excuse me - WHO are those children and where did my own go?!) chatting and sharing some crackers.

And making one giant crumbly mess. Partly because for every bite one took, she or he also dropped about a third of the biscuit on the floor in crumb-form. And partly because for every sentence spoken, she or he managed to spit about half their mouthful onto either their sibling or the floor.

When I noticed the rapidly growing mound of cracker crumbs, rising before the sound desk I hurried over to my adored offspring.
"Hey you two!" I whispered "You've made a big mess! Look at all these crumbs! You'll have to sweep it up when you're finished. We can't leave it like that. Honey Girl and Levi, when you're finished eating, ylu need to clean up this mess."

"No we don't" the Honey Girl retorted
"It's Jesus' house - He can clean it"!

Luscious Lashes

Our kids all have these amazing long eye lashes. They get a lot of comments - especially the boys because they are so long and lush and thick, and apparently that's unusual on a boy?!!

The Honey Girl has them too, but doesn't get as many compliments. Probably because when these random strangers approach us to comment on the children, she pokes her tongue out and spits at them.

Last night, however, she discovered that she, too, had been blessed with delicious long lashes. Her Nana was babysitting (while I headed into town to gush over a friend's newborn *sigh*) and they had a fairlyintense discussion about eye lashes.

Nana explained that they were beautiful. And perfectly normal.

The Honey Girl replied that she hated them because only boys have "ley-lashes".

Nana calmly explained again that they were beautiful, and that EVERYBODY had them, girls AND boys.

And the Honey Girl declared she still hated them, and so she was going to rip them out.

And eat them.

Where do you go with THAT?!!

Arachnoids Part II

The Rooster is away. For quite a long time. And I'm parenting solo.

And I can do it! I really can! I can juggle 5 children and the Houdini dog, multiple car runs to and from kinder/day care/school, manage a trip to the supermarket with all 5 in tow, ensure my schedule is reworked so I never have to do THAT again, keep up with who is swimming and who is dancing and who is sulking in the corner and refusing to take part in any extra-curricular activities, soothe nightmares, defend our home against an alien attack and generally ensure the children feel safe, protected, loved and nurtured.

But I cannot "do" spiders. Not big ugly hairy ones anyway. I'd face any of my other fears before I faced a huntsman.

And so, of course, who should grace us with his presence this morning but Mr Bigger, Uglier and Hairier than ever. Hanging off the bathroom ceiling, with nary a care in the world. Like he already KNEW there's little I could do about him being there, because Icould not bring myself to even walk up the hallway toward the bathroom now his existance had been screamed throughout the house by the Honeygirl.

Actually first she came in and announced that she could not brush her teeth for church, because there was a spider. When I asked my standard "How big?" she held out her hands to the size of a dinner plate.

I gulped, took a deep breath, struggled to find the courage I knew lay beneath the surface .......... and sent Tubby and the Rabbit to inspect it further.

The shade of the Rabbit's face gave me a good indication - he returned with a complexion to match the toothpaste the Honey Girl had dumped on the floor!

Now in our house recently, I've made a genuine effort to ensure I do not pass my great fear of spiders on to my children. (Clearly, from the Rabbit's reaction, I'm not doing so well in that regard just yet!) When a Spider Alert is put out by one of the children, I do an inspection and often my reply is "It's just a Daddy-long legs, he's alright".

And then we argue about whether it is permitted to reside in the toilet/pantry/bedroom/hallway and why it is still possible to do chores/pack up/laundry/shower/poo with a Daddy-long-legs nearby.

Now might also be a good time to point out that I have very long legs. If my body proportion matched my leg length, I'd be in supermodel territory. (that's my story and I'm sticking to it!)

I have very long legs and a fairly short body.

I am not, however, hairy. This is an important point to note. I am most certainly not hairier than the Rooster. I have a short body and long legs, but I work hard at NOT being hairy. Okay?!

So ..... there we were. Giant mutation of a Huntsman hanging on the ceiling of the bathroom, as confirmed by Tubby and the Rabbit. Both of whom are prone to slight exaggeration. But there was also no way I wanted to discover their single attempt at truth for the day by finding myself face to face with the monster of my nightmares. Big, long, hairy legs hanging off a short, rounded body, covered in those tiny hairs and beady eyes; watching me; waiting, ready to launch itself at me ..........

So I sent Pants to investigate. He's much more likely to give an accurate representation of the situation.

He ran down the hall in much excitement, and stopped at the bathroom door. Peered in. Looked up.

And let out a shout of awe : "Wooooaaaah! That's not a Daddy-long-legs..... that's a MUMMY long legs!!"

Stretching the Truth

The Boombah has been ill lately, and so, in true "man" style, he's been whinging and moaning and looking for sympathy. Or another breastfeed. Or both.

It's been a little more challenging, caring for the rest of the tribe, when the Boombah is so demanding. So with his latest demands for comfort and cuddles when I was trying to finish making dinner, put another load of laundry on, send the dog (who is as disobedient as the children!) outside, chat on Facebook with the Rooster (who is away for work right now - isn't HE the smart one?!) and respond to Tubby's ever-increasing interst in all things Michael Jackson, I thought I'd try a new approach.

I've been a baby-wearer since my first came along, and have an assortment of slings, backpacks and carriers. None handy or easily located, of course, but all hideously expensive and regularly vomitted on.

So, inspired by a recent video clip I'd seen of an African woman, I grabbed a cot sheet and proceeded to tie myself and my baby together.

After nearly dropping the Boombah a couple of times, I enlisted Tubby's help. I asked only that he hold the Boombah in place, on my back, while I tied secure knots. I did not ask for him to lift the baby. I did not ask him to move the baby. I did not ask for him to tie the knots. I certinaly did not ask him for advice on how to go about this somewhat-technical, but-it-looks-easy-when-someone-else-does-it manouevre.

*sigh*

After watching me struggle for a short time, and seeing his smallest brother gradually relax as he snuggled into my back, Tubby made a very reasonable and sensible suggestion. To him, anyway. (Please remember : African women wear their babies on their backs. )

His ego-boosting and confidence-instilling suggestion?

"You could put your boob around there too and he could feed and cuddle at the same time"

Excuse me while I remove my "girls" from their position - tucked into my socks - and feed the Boombah again.

Tubby : charming looks AND useful suggestions all-in-one!

Young Love

The Honey Girl is smitten with a gorgeous little boy at church. His name is Jonah, and he is about 5. She talks about him a lot, gets very excited when we're going someplace where Jonah might be, and enjoys our Thursday night home group because she may get the opportunity to sit beside him on the couch and gaze at him while he watches a movie.

He, of course, doesn't know she exists except as a sword-fighting, ball-kicking, costume wearing tomboy!

So the Honey Girl's mind is constantly aware of opportunities that might give her the chance to draw the name "Jonah" into the conversation. She refers to him as "MY Jonah"!

On a recent drive home, Pants and the Honey Girl were safely strapped into their seats behind me, chatting amicably. This is a rare occurence. Usually trips to and from our home involve epidodes of Car Wars : a series of brief but intense milary-style attacks on each other, complete with missile launching, screaming and assorted insults.

So I resolved to keep myself seperate from this unusual interlude by simply listening and not partaking in the general pleasantries being exchanged behind me.

Until I heard what they were actually discussing.....

"Boys have a bottom and a todger, and girls have two bottoms" Pants was carefully explaining to his sister. They discussed this between themselves, including functions, location and humour of those particular body parts.

And, inevitably, they came across a question they needed me to answer. So I gently explained what the "real" names for those particular anatomical structures were, for boys and then for girls.

The Honey Girl became quite excited at this point and was almost cheering by the time I paused in my biologically correct definitions and labelling.

"A va-jonah?! I have a va-jonah?! A va-jonah?! Not va-jonah from church, but a different va-jonah. My own va-jonah" ......

And so I imagine the time will soon come when I am explaining to Jonah's Mum, probably amidst a serious sermon or moment of silence during prayer, why the Honey Girl is calling out to "her" *Va-Jonah*!!

And I guess I'll have to cross Jonah off my list of favourite boys' names now.

Some Explaining ....

There was an incident on the school bus recently, which has led to our family needing to rename the Boombah. We're thinking "Pleasantly Plump" might be approrpiate, or "Slimically Challenged" or possibly maybe "Donut" (as he is sweet, round and a little bit fatty!)

From the moment our youngest emerged into the world, all 9 and a half pounds of him, round, squishy soft and with cheeks that begged to be squeezed, he's been known as Boombah. We used to sing the Fatty Boombah song to him while cuddling him and gazing into his eyes. He just IS a Boombah - he's the very essence of the word!

But sadly, it's time to rename the baby.

The Rabbit apparently misunderstood the loving and caring attitude behind the name that made it an acceptable and loved nickname in the family, and referred to another child from school as a "Fatty Boombah". And got himself into a lot of trouble, as the Principal happened to be riding on the bus that day.

Which is why I found myself explaining to the Principal the next day WHY my child might think it's okay to refer to someone as a Fatty Boombah. And why I've decided a name change is on the cards!!

How does one eloquently explain that, at 30+ years old, I thought it was a good idea for my children to call the plump youngest member of our family a Fatty Boombah? How do you swallow that look of combined suprise-disapproval clearly lacking in humour and continue to justify WHY the baby is called Fatty Boombah.

the Boombah was sitting on my hip at the time of this "discussion", but I resisted the urge to hold him up say "LOOK! He IS a Fatty Boombah!! THIS is a Boombah".

I just turned very very red, hung my head in shame, agreed that it was a "very silly thing to do" ( I THINK he was talking about the Rabbit and not my naming skills!) and scurried into the classroom feeling like I was in primary school again!

Naming Rights??!

The pressure is on! Pants will be 5 in a few months, enrolling to start "big school" next year and he is still not toilet trained. Not even remotely. Like totally-doesn't-have-a-clue UN toilet trained!

And so he gets a minor lecture about his toileting habits from time to time, usually when I am up to my elbows in excretement and have been looking fondly towards a future time when I have only one child left in nappies. And then I remember ................ that day is far far off!

Pants also has some struggles with speech difficulties. For example, "L" comes out as "W".

He spent a few moments in deep deep thought recently, and approached me with great excitement and the air of one who has discovered a truth of mankind.

"Mum! Mum" he eagerly shouted "I know why you called me Weebi" (his name is Levi)

"Why's that Pants?" I patiently asked

"Because I WEE in my jocks all the time!"


Well, maybe, I guess. Perhaps we had some inkling almost 5 years ago that this tiny little bundle of joy would fail to toilet train in 5 whole years ................ maybe?!

The rose between the ....ahhhhhh.....brothers!!

The HoneyGirl is gradually becoming aware that, in this household, she is in the minority. She has 3 older brothers, and a younger one - and Mummy is the only other "girl" in the house.



Previously we used to joke about how much she is going to just LOVE this situation when she is about 16 and trying to date. As if a protective Dad ain't enough - every girl longs for 4 brothers to watch over her and threaten any male companion she might attract, with violence and death should he dare to hurt their beloved sister!



Lately though, it doesn't seem so funny. All things pink and fluttery and girly are featured in the HoneyGirl's room - but beyond the boundaries of her own special space - Transformers and weapons and superheros reign supreme!



And it seems the HoneyGirl has been doing some thinking about this, and has hatched a plan of her own to remedy the situation.



Recently I saw Pants and the HoneyGirl being a little too rough with Boombah, and spoke ( a little too harshly perhaps!) to them. I explained that if they jumped on him again, he may become very very sick, and possibly die. And that then we would have to put him into a little box, and dig a hole in the ground, and put the box into the ground and we would never ever see Boombah again. Ever.



Now I'm not a total killjoy. Even I can relish the sheer pleasure of launching oneself onto a wobbly, squishy, fat blob on the floor and enjoying the rolls and waves of chub that almost rise up to meet you. So I suggested they continue the jumping game on the trampoline! (or the couch, if the Rooster is not around to notice!)



A few weeks later I again saw the HoneyGirl being overly rough with her baby brother. Calmly this time, I reminded her to be gentle with him or else she would hurt him.



And she responded brightly and with a little too much excitement :

"Yes, and then we'd have to put him in the box into the hole in the ground. And then we could go back to the hospital and get another baby. And THIS time, it can be a GIRL baby"!!
Note the look of resignation already, at only 3! She WILL be protected by her brothers, and she WILL put up with it!

What's Good for the Goose .......

Bear and her Bruvva stayed with us in February while their Mum and Dad went to India for 2 weeks. (note : Belle clearly got the brains in our family - she was the one leaving a total of 7 children in one household and flying as far the heck away as she could get!)

So the Rooster and I survived 14+ days of utter chaos, sheer volume max and a regular and alarming disintigration of carefully planned schedules and routines.

I said "survived" - we may not have "thrived" or "excelled", but we survived.

And the Rooster has been squawking about getting that vasectomy ever since!

So, early on in the Giant Long Sleepover we set a few ground rules. With a baby, a toddler, 3 preschoolers and 2 schoolboys in the house Ground Rule # 1 involved Anger Management. And it was simple - you may be angry. you may feel mad. You may choose to kick, scream, shout, wave fists, swear and carry on like a pork chop, but you must do so in your room. I will not attempt to control your anger for you - that's your job - but I do not have to be subjected to it in my kitchen or lounge room or laundry.

If you want to be angry, be angry in your bedroom.

Actually aside from a few half-hearted attempts at insisting vegies were eaten before ice cream, and faecel matter belonged in the toilet preferably NOT via your hands ..... the anger one was the only rule we stuck by.

I explained this rule to each of the kids on Day 1. Mine already knew it pretty well - it's a standard rule for our house - but in the interests of us all beginning the Giant Sleepover on the same grounds, I explained it again.

When the Bear had her first major outburst, I walked her up to her room and gently explained that she was not locked in here, and she could be as cranky as she wanted. She just needed to finish being cranky up here in the bedroom, and then she could join us again.

So she did.

A few days later, things were beginning to get heated. That utter chaos I mentioned had set in and appeared to be here to stay. My laundry was overflowing, my bathrooms were swamped, toys spread from one end of our 2 acres to the other ........ it had overwhelmed me!

And as the Rooster was being particularly unhelpful on one occasion (I can't remember for certain but it's likely he made a crack about a "dry spell" or a wedding ring signalling the end of life as man knows it)

So, as all good women know how to do, I may have taken my frustrations out on him, and snapped. Maybe just a little. Maybe.

But I certainly did not go into a tirade, or even a lecture on the Rooster's personal version of "helping" me.

Because I did not get a chance. The minute I started, and that "I'm a little ticked off here" expression came over my face and into my voice (which often signals the growth of sound-proof material over the Rooster's ears and a blank look over his face while his mind happily wanders his dreamland where Gretsch guitars and Ice breaks wander the countryside freely) - the very MOMENT I began to warm to my subject, a little voice piped up :

"Bic? Bic! You said you can be angry if you want to but you need to do it in your bedroom.

Are you going to your bedroom now Bic?"

Oh I loved having Bear and Bruvva stay, even if she is quick witted and confident enough to pull me up in my own house, on my own rules!

Miss you Bear and Bruvva!

My Dear, Sweet, Self-Sacrificing Eldest

Tubby is a dear sweet boy. Not quite 9 years of age, and in Grade 4. He has stuggled with mental illness recently, and continues from paedeatrician to psychiatrist to psychologist to pharmacy with amazing strength and hope that we will emerge on the other side of it all.

He had some challenges at school last year, and attempted a variety of different extra-curricular activities after school, in an attempt to find him an interest he might turn his energy and focus on. But between poor self-image, non-existant self-esteem and all the dramas of 8 year old boys, he did not show much excitement or interest in anything.

Which is why I was SO excited last night to see him rummaging through his bag for a permission slip, for an activity he was really keen to try. He dug and peered and searched and threw until he finally emerged, triumphant, with the pink slip requiring my all-important signature.

And as I read it, my heart swelled. My eldest son, in his 8 years of maturity, was as excited about this activity as he usually is about Star Wars and Captain Underpants. I rarely see permission slips from Tubby - he tends to loose them somewhere between his school locker and our front door, and I usually learn of their existance (and my failure to sign them) the day of the proposed activity, when Tubby remembers that "It's TODAY!" as he runs for the bus!

Yet this permission slip arrived home on the day it was given, in perfect flat condition with not a crease or a tear in sight. I would never have guessed that such an activity would inspire such care and concern in my son - but it did.

And so I read the form, and teared up a little with pride as I signed it.

And gave my heartfelt approval and permission for my son to travel to a local nursing home and read aloud to the residents there. Tubby is an avid reader, and I was so pleased to see him find a way to meet and share with the community whilst exploring something he enjoys so much.

After handing back the permission slip, I shared some of my feelings - my pride in him, my happiness to see my own son selflessly sharing his time and skills with others, my love for him and his choices, what a good thing it was for him to be prepared to travel the distance into town and share his reading skills with others ..................... and so on and so on!

And he listened patiently right to the end.

And blushed a little.

And grinned at me sheepishly and said : "Mum, if it gets me out of Maths on Tuesdays, I'll do ANYTHING!!"

Bottoms Up!

Being Sunday, and being Christians, the family went to church this morning. And made up about half the congregation, by the time me, my kids, plus my sister and her kids all troop in.
Well maybe not exactly half - but we take up a considerable chunk of one section of seating - and make more noise than the rest of the gathering together!

Sometimes I wonder why we go to church. Between answering odd questions fired at me by my own children and the half dozen others I find seated with me when the service begins; trying to sing worship songs while Pants attempts to cover my mouth with his grubby little fingers and the Honey Girl hisses "STOP MU-UUM! Don't sing!"; refereeing fights between the Rabbit and Tubby over who got hold of the church library book printed in c.1786 about some imaginary characters we're never heard of or show interest in EXCEPT when your brother is holding the book; and Boombah requiring multiple feeds which usually leave me wondering when I get home if I remembered to tuck my boob away after Feed # 245, when I stood up walked out mid-sermon, or if maybe 3/4 of the congregation saw a "sign" they won't forget in a hurry and which perhaps burned images on their minds they won't forget for all eternity ........ I'm not sure I actually DO much "church" besides arriving (mostly!) on time and leaving when it's all over and the coffee has run out!

But we attend nonetheless - the boys pack their light sabres and swords, and the Honey Girl brings along an assortment of tea sets and weaponry to cover all potential play bases. And they pretend to listen attentively to messages about love and kindness and compasison, and then join the other church boys in games of warfare and destruction as soon as the service ends!

Today I had the pleasure of sharing some of the service with Bruvva - my sister's almost-2-year old and younger "bruvva" of Bear. The Cousins From Up the Road. When Bruvva wasn't climbing in and out of our pram, or sitting on my lap cheering "BIIIIIIIC!", he was seated placidly on his Daddy's lap nearby, apparently listening carefully to the message accompanying communion.


Communion in our family is something we share with our children, and we use the time to explain the basic truths behind the ritual to them, in terms they understand. And for the most part, Belle and I think our children understand the importance of such a tradition; they seem to grasp the meaning behind the deed; they appear to accept the spiritual importance and strength of the act. If nothing else, they respect the solemnity of such an occasion.

Bruvva's patience was admirable in one so young, as he quietly sat through the entire communion message, and solemly accepted his small biscuit and munched quietly. His patience and serious attitude continued as the tiny glasses of grape juice were handed out to the congregation with instructions to hold onto the glass until all were served and then we would share the drinking together.
Now remember this boy is not quite 2 - and he sat through the entire process with patience and solemness not easily mustered in even a much more mature person. He held his little glass and seemed intent on not even tasting it until the appropriate time.



And then the leader stopped speaking, and it was clearly *almost* the moment Bruvva had been awaiting so long. Just before the communion leader announced that the congregation would now drink together; in that time of silent reflection and spiritual peace, Burvva's little voice piped up - loud and clear and bursting with excitement :

"CHEERS!"


And he knocked back his glass of juice and grinned at his audience!

Arachnids on the Loose

Occasionally the entertainment comes not from the children, but from the adult sector. Usually it's a situation which is incredibly NOT funny at the time, but as emotions fade and we are able to look back on the incident objectively, it becomes ridiculously silly. And we laugh. At ourselves.

My sister and I spend quite a bit of time together now we live near. She was kind of my hero, growing up, because she always seem so much older and wiser than I, and was capable of handling things that were still far off to me. Belle was always ahead of me, at a place I longed to be.

Belle has birthed 2 gorgeous children and continues to tame them daily. She has worked in the outback, travelled overseas, competed in equestrian events, assisted foaling mares through long cold nights and a whole pile of other things for which I admire her.

But she is very very scared of big hairy spiders.

So you can imagine her reaction when, driving into town one day recently, her 4 year old daughter Bear calmly announced "Mummy, there's a spider" and edged a little further towards the back of her seat, while pointing to that "spot" right above Belle's right shoulder.

Did you know that technically there is no such thing as a "blind spot" when it comes to spiders and my sister? Certainly a motor vehicle travelling in the exact same spot, out of her line of vision, would be unseen, because one's head simply cannot twist far enough behind to make visual contact.
But place a giant hairy spider in much the same location - INSIDE the car - and suddenly the head and neck become able to spin and twist the full 360 degrees.

I believe Belle's head did exactly that, as she threw the Rav 4 down a gear, swung to a safe spot on the road to stop, slammed on the brakes and leapt from the car with her two children safely wrapped in her arms whilst simultaneously making a half-hearted attempt to swipe at the hairy monster slowly advancing on her bare neck.

Perhaps the only mistake Belle made, to this point, was to loose sight of the Spider as it hit the floor and scurried somewhere to a safe hiding place inside the car.

Her next mistake was more obvious.

She rang me. And asked for help.

If there is only one thing I truly outshine my sister in, it is in my fear of giant hairy spiders. I am terrified of them. Creepy, crawly, hideous creatures with long, scurrying hairy legs and no predictability. I have goose bumps just typing about them!
Exactly WHAT kind of help Belle thought she'd get from me, I am not sure - but I responded to the call of distress. My sister was stranded on the side of the road, with 2 small children beside her and a beast of a spider lurking in her car.

I did what any hero of the moment could do - made a strong coffee, grabbed a huge can of Mortein and drove as quickly as possible to the rescue.
Where I handed over the coffee and bug spray, and locked myself in my (spider free) car with the children!!!

When it became obvious Belle required more of me than caffeine and chemicals, I settled all the children in my car for a picnic. (And by picnic I meant a quiet and elegant sharing of chocolate biscuits and water, seated on the floor of the People Mover. By picnic the children apparently thought I meant squash as many biscuits as possible into the car interior and then add water, thus creating a chocolate-biscuit-mud-sludge.) And I climbed out to offer further assistance.

What a sight we must have been for passers-by.
A Rav 4 parked precariously on the very edge of the road, doors thrown open and assorted bags, car seats, strollers, DVDs and toy boxes up-ended on the road side. One giant can of bug spray between two well-dressed and made-up women, who alternatively sprayed wildly into the car then leapt back and watched with hawk-eyes for the tiniest hint of movement.

Of course with a giant hairy GREY spider inside a GREY car with GREY interior it was never going to be easy.

With occasional back-up and support from Bean (Belle's ever-encouraging husband who is to be commended on his ability to NOT laugh over the phone at us when we called to update.Which is more than can be said for the Rooster, who I believe mumbled "It's just an effing spider, get over it" and went back to sleep. Admittedly he'd just finished a 12 hour night shift when I woke him in the height of excitement to inform him of the Spider Situation) we continued and refined our Emergency Response of Spray - Leap Back - Watch for some time.

Not once did it cross our mind to assume the Spider was, by now, drowned in the fumes of the bug spray and would therefore be terrorising us no more. Not a mention of climbing back into the car and heading into town for a spot of shopping or a strong coffee. No - Belle thought the hairy intruder had likely made his way into the DVD player which was conveniently located ......... directly beneath the driver's seat!!!!

Quitting was therefore not an option. We would continue until the arachnid was sighted, destroyed and removed ................ and even then I wasn't not sure I wanted to ride in their car ever again.

And so we continued the spectacle, much to the delight of morotists driving by. Spray, Leap Back, Watch. Over and over. With some cheers of encouragement from the children. We varied the routine a little by Belle spraying on one side of the car and me watching on the other - an arrangement I was more than happy to continue seeing as it meant the hairy invader would need to crawl across the car floor BEFORE he could launch his hairy, scuttling giant body at me and attack me.

It took a long time, and finally, just as I'd shut my eyes to beg for some Divine Intervention in locating and removing The Spider, Belle squealed "Here it is!". Before I could respond the Rav 4 shook and rocked with heavy blows, and a cloud of bug spray mist enveloped it completely.

"Got it!" Belle cried, and we all cheered.

And gingerly replaced all items to their previous locations within the car, headed to town for that strong coffee .................... and both became the proud new owners of a full house and car's worth of spray treatment to keep spiders at bay!!!!!!!!!!

We heart Mortein!

You Call That a Toasting Stick? THIS is a Toasting Stick!!

Just before the fireban started for the summer, we had a small bonfire to get rid of all the rubbish and grass clippings in our paddock. My brother-in-law, Bean, handled the "manly" side of things, as the Rooster was on shift, and after a few days of building the kids up for it all, Bean and his family arrived and we headed down to the paddock to toast some marshmallows on the fire.



Being of a military background, Bean had things well planned and ready to be executed safely and swiftly. The excited children - 6 in total - were instructed to each find a long stick for skewering marshmallows, and once the initial heat of the blaze had died down, marshmallow rations would be carefully distributed and a toasting demonstration would proceed before the children would be permitted to toast their own sticky balls of coloured gelatin!



Much noise and crazy footwork followed (mostly from Bean lighting the larger-than-expected blaze!) and eventually the children lined up with their selected sticks.

The idea of handing out the marshmallows carefully was one of necessity. In a family like ours, things must be done completely and utterly equally and fairly, so as to avoid calls of "He's your favourite!" and "That's not fair, he got more than me!" and " I want the last one toooooooooo!"



And so we count and ration food treats. And we do not distribute anything until all are lined up and ready, so as not to avoid anyone and spark a conflict of great intensity!



With children lined up, eager to show off their Toasting Stick selections and begin the exciting work of toasting and eating blackened, charred lumps of gooey goodness, we began to hand out A. Single. Marshmallow each, accompanied by explanations of "Only one at a time".



When inevitably asked to explain WHY we were doing this one marshmallow at a time, the best answer seemed to be the honest one : "Because there's only room on your stick for ONE. Toast and eat ONE, and when it's gone there will be room for another one."



This all went remarkably smoothly until I got to Pants who, as usual, required a personal and in- depth explanation as to why he was only having one marshmallow. Pants' mind only operates in derivatives of 4. Previously it was 3 - when he WAS 3 years old - but since turning 4 and after much conditioning and preparing for this momentous occasion of moving up a number, his mind works in 4s. 4 biscuits, 4 handclaps, 4 kisses at bedtime ... you get the idea!



So he lined up, I explained, again, the importance of him only taking one marshmallow and gently took his stick to demonstrate that only one would fit on it at a time.



And then I actually LOOKED at the stick he had chosen - and what could I do?!



If you can't see in the picture properly, Pants is holding the stick&marshmallow equivalant of a jewellery tree. Or cup stand. Or egg carton. Or spice rack. Or tool box. Or any other item designed specifically to hold multiple numbers of whatever it's designed to hold!







So we continued our bonfire and marshmallow experience, 4 marshmallows at a time!

To Become a Jedi

The Rabbit got a light sabre for Christmas. A you-beaut, flash-as-Michael-Jackson light sabre with removable parts and coloured discs to change the blade colour and rearrange the order of the pieces to create an exact replica of whichever Star Wars hero he wants to "be" today.

It's also really useful for beating up your brothers, prodding them in the car, belting them over the head and generally wreaking havoc. And the Rabbit discovered ALL these uses within minutes of putting it together.

We tried calmly redirecting him, confiscating the weapon, arguing over whose idea it was to give him a weapon in the first place, helping him create imaginary foes to battle .............. but apparently none of our suggestions were as much fun as the Rabbit's ideas.

And so, finally, exasperated and completely over his constant misuse of this toy, we sat him down and had a good, long chat. I did the talking and the Rooster nodded approvingly beside me.

I told the Rabbit all about jedis, and how they do not receive their light sabres until they are properly trained. How a jedi only ever uses his light sabre for good, and how he nevers hurts those on his own team. I taught him that his brothers were on his team, and that meant he was not to hurt them. That the boys were all jedis, and they were to all work togther to battle as a team and save the day.

I went into great detail about jedis, training, jedi etiquette, respect, trust and Star Wars in general.

At this point I should mention that it's been a while since I last saw Star Wars. I used to watch "The Empire Strikes Back" as a kid, over and over on the VCR. And I think I saw the first of the newer movies when they were released more recently - but I actually have no understanding of the storyline or characters.

I do know, however, that Annikin starts off good and is trained to be a jedi, and then turns bad. And as the Rabbit especially likes to be Annikin, I pounced on this character as a final analogy of what happens to one who misuses his powers, training and weapons.

"Think about Annikin, Rabbit" I gently reminded him "He did all his training and learnt all about being a jedi. He worked hard to earn his light sabre, but then he did the wrong thing. He hurt people with his light sabre, and he got into trouble because of what he did."

And I turned to the Rooster, who was looking a little suprised that I'd taken this route, but was nodding in agreement nonetheless. All I needed was for the Rooster to back me up and complete this lesson and we'd be done - a suitable ending to this story, something about Annikin having his light sabre taken away forever, and our little boy would understand.

"Let's ask Dad about it Rabbit.

When Annikin did the wrong thing with his light sabre, what happened to him? What did they do?"

The Rooster looked the Rabbit square in the eyes, paused for a moment and then told him clearly :

"Obi Wan took his own light sabre and cut off Annikin's arms and legs.

And I'm Obi Wan."

I definitely need to know the plot and storylines of any movies I attempt to use as metaphors for lessons for my children in the future.

Or I need to stop suggesting the Rooster finishes a moral tale I started!

The Rabbit can also be suprisingly gentle and loving with his younger siblings.

Tales of the Toilet

There are occasionally situations in our family where I hold my head high, claim whichever of the children have not embarrassed me, and proudly stalk off - leaving the riff raff behind.
The riff raff of course, being the Rooster and whichever of the kids he's led astray!


Tubby has one of those voices which carries. It's a little higher pitched than anyone else's voice, it's quite loud and it seems to bounce off all surrounding structures and echoes long and loud. When Tubby speaks, you can't help but hear him, and usually what he has to say is well worth listening to!

We occasionally visit distant family members in far off cities (alright, so we catch a flight to Brisbane now and then!) It's usually crazy at the airport - kids running in all directions, baggage flying off the trolley which the Rooster insists on stacking with precision and delicate balance, and a panic to make it to check in on time so we can wander aimlessly for hours afterwards until the flight boards.
The Rooster struggles a little with these family outings, and seems to shift moods regularly from overwhelmed and crazed loner with multiple children following him as he weaves wildly through the crowd with his trolley; to doting and focussed Dad trying to amuse the children and keep them entertained, usually by making them laugh.

On one particular outing he parked the luggage trolley and headed for the men's room. Once the boys noticed that Dad was obviously going somewhere fun and exciting, they also needed the toilet, of course. And so they ran off after him, and once he'd accepted that his private and quiet moment alone with the urinal had turned into a small circus, he stepped boldly into Dad-mode and they disappeared from my sight.

I waited quietly for their return, and was relieved to see the door swing open and the male members of my family emerge, seemingly in great spirits. They were obviously sharing some private joke, and given it involved what goes on in the men's rest rooms, I was content to enjoy their smiles and know no more.

Alas. Remember that loud voice I mentioned, belonging to Tubby?
He was beside himself with laughter, and was still a good 10 metres away from me when he could not wait a moment longer.
"Mum! Muuum!" he shouted to me, while about 92% of the passengers in the Melbourne airport also turned their attention to him. He seemed to swell in the attention of so many on-lookers and his voice became even more audible than usual.

"We were peeing in the toilet, and Dad told me to pull his finger. I did - and HE FARTED!!!!!" and he collapsed into a pool of giggles again.

I suspect the Rooster turned all shades of red because when we rejoined him a significant time later he was still a shade similar to a steamed lobster. But I cannot know for certain - because I was gone before he clapped his hand over Tubby's mouth to prevent further truths escaping!