Doggone it!

No cute stories this time.
No endearing pictures.
No amusing lead up or colourful background or wntertaining explanations.

Just a very concerned mother who is struggling to determine which lesson is most important to instill in her offspring -
Is it :

1) Don't paint in dog poo on your brother's back?

OR

2) If someone wants to paint in dog poo on your back, don't be so compliant. Refuse the offer, at the very least.

I've just spent my early evening attempting to convey both messages. Apparently I'm the only one who is seeing the "big deal" here ...........

Do I Have.....

...a facial hair problem??

No, really. Seriously. If you know me in real life, does my glaringly obvious growth of facial hair attract your awkward gaze and make it difficult for you to maintain eye contact. Because you keep wanting to stare at my upper lip and chin?!


Because I just told Pants to get into my shower. (to avoid the Cold War - where he gets into the shower with his older brothers and antagonising younger sister and they take turns throwing the soaked-in-cold-water facewasher at him so it splats water all over him)

"But Muuu-uuuum" he moaned "I hate that pink thing."
"What pink thing?" I asked perplexed
"That pink thing in your shower."
"I don't know what pink thing you mean Pants. What's it look like?"
"It's pink." (Incredibly helpful and detailed in description!)

"I really don't know what you mean. Now get in the shower."
"But I don't want to get in there with the pink thing" he persisted

"PANTS! WHAT pink thing are you TALKING about??!"


"That pink thing you use to shave off your moustache and beard, Mum."

Search for the Truth

As we're expecting the 6th and final installment in this crazy household (due in January) there's been a little interest recently in the biological facts of life. I've dodged the questions, created diversions and distractions, suggested it'd be a conversation better suited to when the Rooster is home and even taken a deep breath .................. and run off screaming to hide under the bed.

But alas, my children's search for knowledge is insatiable and they are determined to continue on their quest. And discover the truth.

HOW did that baby get into your tummy. And HOW is going to get out?




This is one of those tough aspects of parenting for which you are never quite prepared. And, in my case I suspect, also one of those aspects of parenting that you mess up no matter how much practise you get.
And I've already had some practise.


When I was pregnant with the Boombah, the elder two boys were a little curious as to how he got in there. Of course, as with the current situation, such questions arose when the Rooster was working away. (I'm beginning to think it's part of his plan - knock me up and get the hell outta here so he can avoid dealing with the hairy questions!) It fell on my shoulders to ensure our older sons received an age-appropriate lesson on the biological processes of conception, pregnancy and birth. It was my duty to send my young men out into the world armed with truth, knowledge and understanding about this delicate and incredible part of life. I carried the burden of education, increased awareness and understanding in the future generation.

And so I sat Tubby and the Rabbit (then aged about 8 and 5) down at the kitchen bench, took a deep breath, and began.
I described the body and the basic differences between a man and woman. All good. I explained that things were different inside as well. All good. I chose to use the word "womb" instead of uterus, as it seemed easier for a small mind to remember and gentler on the lips of a 5 year old. Not so good.
The Rabbit's eyes opened in horror and he began gasping. About me having a "worm" inside me.

Then I spoke briefly about ovaries and eggs. Tubby wondered if I'd cluck like a chicken, and could he have an omelette next time please?

We moved (hurriedly) on from anatomy to body functions. The delicate matter of the act of conception. Tubby brightened up when he realised this part involved a "race" and that he was the result of a winning sperm! He had won a race against millions before he was even born. Yes, impressive, I know!

Then began the questions on how the eggshell was cracked. And was it like baking a cake? And did the sperm need to bash the egg on the side of a bowl or hit it with a knife?
They're both still convinced the "act" of babymaking involves the man peeing on the woman.

And then we quickly descended into a whole host of inappropriate jokes and hysterical giggles. Peppered with me attempting to clarify what they had clearly misunderstood, and both boys hiding under the bench, ears covered, squealing "Oh GROSS Mu-um!".
And then popping back up for another joke or crude remark.

At about this point I gave up trying to teach anything, fix something or correct any misconceptions. I think it was about this point that I did the aforementioned deep breath, followed by running off screaming to hide under the bed.

So you can possibly understand why I am reluctant to embark on this educational journey again. And why I am keen to make any and every effort to avoid a re-attempt until the Rooster is home to do his share. And by his share I mean, it's HIS turn to explain it all. Preferably to the whole brood, unborn baby included! I never want to go there again!

Clearly the "birds and the bees" talk is not my forte as a parent. Although I suspect I am a step up from the Rooster's Dad, who cornered him one day and gruffly muttered "Boy - always wear a quandong"!

Well Of Course!

We've been enjoying the school holidays - long lazy mornings in bed, breakfasts that slowly turn into lunch, and DVDs and pizza for dinner. Particularly the long lazy mornings in bed.

Well at least I have. The kids seem to get up at the same time as always, but if I stay in bed they trickle in one at a time, for a warm snuggle and a giggle. It's a time to be treasured and I've learnt some special things about each of my children during these moments.

Like when Pants came in early one morning in tears, because he'd lost his favourite bedtime toy and had missed him all night. We talked a little about "Tuffly" through the tears and Pants was eventually reassured that the stripey tiger with the big eyes was very likely playing hide'n'seek in the car, after his trip into town with us yesterday.


Fears of having lost him forever soothed, Pants wiped the tears from his eyes with one finger and began drawing on his forehead.
Curious, I asked what he was doing.

"Well", Pants explained, "When my tears are finished I use them to draw rainbows on my forehead, because rainbows come after the rain"!

*sigh* So beautiful!




There's also plenty of silly, giggly moments.
Like when Pants was pretending to be my pillow and had his biggest brother and me laying on him. Amidst the giggles and wriggles, I cautiously whispered "Pants! Can you breathe?"
And he whispered back "NO!"

So I hurriedly gave instructions to get off the poor child before he suffocated with his mother sitting on him. How would I explain THAT should he require medical attention?!

As we fumbled to move and relieve Pants of our weight he continued whispering
"I'm a PILLOW! Of COURSE I can't breathe! Pillows don't breathe!!"

Career Paths to (re) Consider

I've had to dash the Honey Girl's heartfelt and long awaited dreams for her future tonight. Take her deepest longing and lifelong dream and dash it into a thousand broken pieces upon the rock of harsh reality. Utterly destroy a longing her soul .......... ah you get picture!!

Tonight I was making up some music CDs for the boys in iTunes. This is a "game" we play where they select about 127 different songs to go onto a disc, I try to create the disc only to be told the disc space is limited to 20 songs. Then I try to edit the song list and cut it back to 20 without the boys noticing I missed "a few" ..... and then they listen and name the 107 selections I missed, and recite the lyrics.
And we start all over again. *sigh*

So I was distracted tonight. I sent the Honey Girl off to bed with the promise of a story shortly if she waited quietly for me. And, suprisingly, she padded off silently and did not return.
(in hindsight, that should have got the alarm bells a ringin'!)
We finished playing "Can't You Get the Playlist Right Just Once Mu-um?" and I started with the usual evening threats of what will happen if certain boys do not brush their teeth and get into bed. Apparently Pants doesn't mind if his teeth "go all black and fall out" because 1)his brothers keep loosing THEIR teeth and getting paid for each one, so imagine how much money HE'D get if he lost ALL his teeth overnight and 2) black is a way cooler colour than white anyway so who cares if his teeth go black.

I was still pondering an appropriate response to these rather ingenious concepts when the Honey Girl came running excitedly toward me. (In hindsight this should have set the second set of alarm bells ringing!)
"Look Mum! Look!" she shouted "I've been being a hairdresser girl. With my puppy. See - I was the hairdresser girl and I gave her a haircut!"

Let me point out at this crucial stage that her puppy is not alive - we're talking about a small stuffed poodle that was once white and is now a vaguely grey/poo brown shade with fluffy ears and tail tip.

"I'm going to be a hairdresser girl when I grow up, ok?" the Honey Girl continued.

And so I looked. Carefully and very seriously, as such situations require.

And took a deep breath and broke the news as gently as I could.

"Honey Girl, you might need to rethink your future career options. Maybe we can think of something you can be other than a hairdresser?"

"But WHY? I WANT to be a hairdresser girl. I did it already. I'm a hairdresser girl, see? Why can't I be a hairdresser girl when I grow up?"





"Because the puppy is now bald and you've slit open her back with the scissors and her stuffing has all fallen out."

It seems it's not only the Honey Girl's dreams, her hopes and future, lying in a soggy mess on the floor. Poor puppy isn't in such good shape either!!!

5 Minutes of Fame .... or Not!

Recently at the Honey Girl's Kinder, there was cause for celebration. Some funding had been approved and in the near future there will be some changes and modifications being done, and in a small, older Kinder like the Honey Girl attends, this is something to celebrate.

Which explains the recent visit to Kinder, from a Parliamentary Member. The Rooster was waiting to collect the Honey Girl when her session finished, and joined the growing congregation of parents milling around outside. The well-dressed man with the photographer tagging along stood out - especially compared to the tracksuited parents with bits of toddler's lunches and play doh stuck to their shirts.
Or maybe that was just the Rooster?!
Anyway, the distinguished gentleman introduced himself, briefly explained the funding (whilst congratulating his own party on such an achievement!) and informed the group that he'd like some photos taken with some of the children when the session ended.

The Rooster went inside when the doors were opened, packed up the Honey Girl's belongings and greeted her with open arms. And this conversation -
Rooster : Honey Girl, there's a special man who wants to have a photo taken with you. It might go into the newspaper. Do you want to be in the newspaper?
(The Honey Girl HAS wanted her picture in the paper since Pants started school and had HIS photo in the paper with his new class. She's been pretty put out that her slack mother cannot, or will not, just ring the paper and insist they publish a photo of her daughter)
Honey Girl : What man? Where?
Rooster : Well he's outside, I'll show you in a moment. He's a nice man though, and an important man, and he wants some photos with some of the kids for the paper.
Honey Girl : What man? Where?

So they make their way outside, to The Man.
The Rooster: (gesturing towards the Man) This man. Here is the man who wants to have some photos taken.
Honey Girl : (after a long close perusal of the Man and his face, outfit, shoes and expressions) No. Not with THAT man.
That Man : Hi there! Would you like to have a photo with me for the newspaper? We can go out to the play ground and have a picture taken out there. On the climbing equipment. You can climb on the monkey bars, and we'll have a picture together? (beginning to really sell the idea now...) That sounds like fun - a photo in the paper, and you get to climb on the monkey bars. Do you wanna go climb on the monkey bars for a picture?

Rooster begins to step in and say that it appears she isn't interested today, when he learns, very quickly, that our Honey Girl can speak for herself :
Honey Girl : No. YOU can climb on the monkey bars. I'm going home!

And walked off to the car, leaving the Rooster to apologise and The Man to find a new photo candidate.
And me to wonder if the distinguished gentleman in the nice suit did end up climbing the monkey bars himself for the photo!!!


Once she sets her mind to something, there's no changing it! Even with the lure of monkey bars!

The Desperate Search for a Babysitter.

PART I
WANTED : Babysitter for 5 children aged 10, 7, 5, 4 and 18 months.
Toddler is adorable - smiles, giggles, cuddles. Doesn't eat anything you prepare, but likes to load up his fork or spoon in pretense of attempting it, only to launch the load across the room the moment you turn away. Do not, under any circumstances, serve foods such as fried rice, custard or Weetbix.

Preschooler is a delightful blend of feminine bliss and tomboy spunk. Has been single-handedly involved in teaching her parents why to NOT name any other children after angels aka "messengers of God". The girl is LOUD! Currently obsessed with "lady gardens" and whether there is a need to comb them, or put in clips or pigtails, because if so it might hurt and she sure as hell ain't growing the stuff. Ever.

New Preppy has mild ASD. He is experienced and showing remarkable talent at clearly expressing his emotions. Basically, if he doesn't like you, he will pee on you. (apparently he decided last night he did not like hsi bed any more, as it squeaks. He did not tell me however, and I pulled his bed back tonight and was knocked flat with the aroma of day-old "dislike".

Second Eldest Son is easy going and laid back. Likes to draw. On multiple pieces of paper if provided otherwise the floor, walls, TV, furniture and dog are all suitable materials. This boy is a Primary school by day, and a superhero by night. His cupboard is void of shorts, jeans, tshirts or jumpers (they're lurking, unwashed, beneath his unmade bed which can be reached by mountaineering through his excessively untidy room) but it DOES contain rows of neatly pressed and hanging superhero costumes.

The Eldest will charm you from the moment you walk in. Every new sitter delights in having things thrown at them, abuse screamed at them and new swear words invented solely for the purpose of insulting them. Just ask his "turd-sniffer" of a father.

And now, to make the job even easier, we have removed all TV, DVDs, Wii, computer, games, toys and art/craft materials. Each child has one bike, a few balls and one single indoor toy item. And that is all they will have until such time they have demonstrated to us that they can properly care for their belongings, wherein we will increase the responsibility by adding to the amount of items in need of care. Which is likely to happen long long loooooong after you disappear up the road, screaming in desperation for someone to save you.


So .... do you think I can convince someone?! Anyone?!

PART II
So, still seeking a babysitter, I was chatting with one of Boombah's carers outside Day Care today. He's a lovely young man and Boombah has bonded with him, so he seemed a good choice!

He was just gently explaining to me that we live in the middle of woop woop and he doesn't drive, he actually has a life on the weekends, and it's almost footie season anyway.

And my boob started to sing. In Spanish.



Earlier in the day I was getting sick of my phone falling out of my dress pocket, so I popped it up in my bra. Which was fine for grocery shopping and driving around and putting away groceries and repeating my instructions to my kids 17 times over. But not so good now, since it had slipped somewhere into the abyss between my left boob (now the size of a watermelon after having not breastfed for the whole day) and my armpit.

So I couldn't quickly extract it, or even reach into the depths and turn it off. I tried a subtle jiggle, hoping a spot of melon-smashing might cause the right button to be hit, but there's nothing subtle about DD breasts being shaken and it was beginning to look like I was going to sustain a severe shoulder injury.


So there we stood - my boob vibrating and singing some Spanish love song; the Boombah patting my boob, shouting "Mum? Mum? Ha-mo??" and trying to reach into my bra, and me thinking I no longer needed a babysitter as I was planning to disappear just as soon as the ground would swallow me up.

Blessedly, the carer graciously (and hurriedly) ended the conversation and ran away from the crazy mother with the choral cleavage headed for home.

Barbie Love

The Honey Girl is rather taken with Barbies these days. And her big brothers join in, whilst pretending desperately that they are not even slightly interested. We've gathered a motley crew from various op shops, and ensured there were plenty of boy barbies, to accomodate my traditionalist sons who wouldn't be caught dead playing with a girl barbie.

Unless it was to undress her (which evokes squeals of laughter and silly giggles)

While no one is watching!


Yesterday the Honey Girl and the Rabbit were playing barbies together. The ensuing conversation went like this :
Honey Girl :I wanna marry Dad
Rabbit : You can't marry Dad, the Mummy Barbie is married to Dad
Honey Girl : Yes I can. I'm marrying the Daddy Barbie, he's dumping Mummy Barbie. Mummy Barbie, you're dumped.......

Daddy Barbie and Honey Girl Barbie embrace.
Mummy Barbie runs off sobbing.
And the wedding music begins.

Wow. Just wow. The girl is 4.
Apparently she has been watching re runs of 90210 while I sleep!