Don't Wipe Your Boogers On the Baby!

The Cake Hall of Shame - A Prelude.......

2011-12-01T15:37:00.005+11:00

I'm not a cake maker. At all. Icing, lollies and I go together about as well as the red tutu, pink striped stockings and heavy black boots the Honey Girl tries to wear to church each Sunday!

But each time a birthday comes around for one of my kids, I lovingly let them choose a cake, and then painstakingly set about ruining it.

Seriously - tonight's effort will be approximately Cake #35 (or #70 if you include the "just for the family, not for party/public viewing efforts!

) and I'm still cursing whoever read the freaking Rainbow Fish to my Preppie because now I have to turn him into a cake. That is symetrically and anatomically correct, with the correct shade of scales and he has to sparkle.

And I still can't figure out how to even make the FISH shape!! I really have not improved in all these years of trying.

The very first cake I made, when my firstborn

turned one, was meant to be a cupcake bunch of balloons. I got myself tangled up in an utter mes

s of icing, ribbons and tears, before the Rooster came along and, well, pretty much created the entire masterpiece in about 10 minutes with some icing sugar, sticky tape and a hot knife.

And yet each and every year at Birthday Cake Creation o Clock, the Rooster is nowhere to be found. I'm beginning to wonder if he does this

on purpose - perhaps it's amusing to watch your beloved wife cover the kitchen in icing and sugar, whilst managing to pretty much miss the cake entirely and produce something that looks like

...well, anything other than what it was intended to look like.

Anyway, as I was reminscing about previous cake attempts, I thought I might share my Spectacular Failures of All Time. There were plenty to choose from (about 35 actually!) but here are the very worst of the worst. The Cake Hall of Shame ~ a Prelude!

And can you believe - my almost 9 year old has requested an exact replica of Cake #2. Apparently HE thought it was awesome. I suspect his 9 year old eyes and perception might be a little more critical - and therefore disappointed - than the 6 year old who thought it was a good creation!

This one was meant to be a skull - in ice cream.

Awesome idea, dreadful execution ......

And here's the Rabbit's current favourite - meant to be a street scene where Spiderman and Venom clash ..... except Venom is larger than the entire street, and the building (ie the whole cake!) is about to collapse. (Spidey is hanging by a piece of cotton from a gob of blue tak on the ceiling - I TOLD you this was not my forte!)

That's just a warm up ..... there are more to come soon!!

Wisdom from the Front Line

2011-09-30T20:00:00.008+10:00

It's school holidays.
Which means instead of the mad rush to be out of bed, dressed (apparently I'm not to do the school run in my PJs and slippers!), breakfasted, with bags and lunches packed and out the door by 8am; we get to slowly spread Cheerios across the lounge, slop milk on ALL the kitchen benches, sit on the stairwell to munch toast (so both TVs are in viewing range and you can watch 2 programs at once - my kids are high tech I tell you!) and regularly run up to Mum's room to tell on one of your siblings for some minor infraction of the rules whilst simultaneously breaking about three or four of them yourself.
(Actually this is a bit fun for me - I lie in bed and wait for the next installment and they do not fail me. Every morning at least one child comes in to dob on a sibling for "eating/drinking on the carpet". To get to my room they have to cross said carpet. And they always ALWAYS arrive with a bowl of cereal or a drink of juice in hand. The fun is in lying there patiently and silently and listening to how abhorent their sibling's behaviour and blatant disregard for the rules is, and just waiting for that lightbulb moment when they look down at their own hand and remember the bowl/cup/plate there!)

Anyway, it's holidays. Hour upon glorious hour of drawing, cutting, pasting, play dough, bickering, quarrelling, arguing, throwing things, stealing paper from the printer because Mum surely won't notice we took another three hundreds pieces, drew on them and then put them back, eating anything and everything there is in the cupboard not because we're hungry but because it's there ..... you get the idea.

But I do love that every time we spend a few days together, I learn something new about my delightful offspring. Some quality time is a fantastic way to discover something about each of them, and they never fail to disappoint.

Here's a couple of today's gems, where I just listen quietly and try not to laugh too loudly until they've finished the discussion and left the room. (and then I run off and post it on the internet!)

The Rabbit knows all about childbirth apparently. I did post some time ago about the indepth discussion we had about how Boombah got into my tummy, and how badly that conversation went.
He has not mentioned it since. Not throughout the entire next pregnancy or subsequent 10 months of having another new baby in the house. Not a word. Not a squeak.
I figured I had suitably traumatised him well into his teens, and I'd not need to field any more baby related questions or explanations until about 2017.
Today he told me all about when a baby is born and a doctor immediately smacks it on the back or bottom. Because it's naughty to come out of there and hurt its mother doing so, so the doctor smacks it to make sure it doesn't do it again!

The Honey Girl sang me a beautiful song today. It was one she has learnt at school and sung at Assembly for the other grades to hear. She sings with expression and emotion, and loves to add some hand actions in when possible as well.
Today she sang "I'm Gonna Clap My Hands". And with much feeling and spiritual conviction she belted out that "You are the best friend, that I could ever know.
I lift my hands to You cos you died for me upon a cross.
You took away my THINGS and SHARED 'EM" ......

I thought maybe she meant "sin and shame" - but no, she assured me - Jesus takes away your things and shares them around with others if you're naughty. And off she wandered, continuing to sing about Jesus taking away her things and sharing 'em!

And then she told me that it was rude to stick up your middle finger. Like this. But God could do it because God can do anything. And He'd do it. Like this.

Did I mention we send this delightful child to a private and very Christian-based, Bible-focussed school?!! I do think I might take a peek at the curriculum again - what are those school fees being spent on?!!

Long Time, No Post!

2011-09-06T17:49:00.003+10:00

So it's been a while since I blogged. A long while.
I have a really good reason for that, I promise. And that really good reason is this -

I am absolutely and utterly exhausted. Tired. Worn out. Run down. In desperate need of sleep.

(Plus I always seem to have a baby on my lap which makes my 2 finger stype typing a little more challenging than normal. It's a gamble if I choose to use fingers on both hands at the same time - the more I type, the greater the lean Gavin gets up, and the faster I attempt to hit those keys and get a few more words in before I have to stop him from tumbling off my lap. So I prop him up against me, find his almost-non-existant centre of gravity again - and we do it over. Add in frequent dummy replacements, knee jiggling and back-patting to encouraging burping, and it all just gets too difficult and I refuse to type anything longer than a few status updates on Facebook!)

But I can actually prove that I truly am super-tired at the moment. And my proof does not involve endless stories of multiple baby-led night wakings; breastfeeding 3 year olds who have named my "girls" after his favourite trains (Thomas on the left and Percy on the right!); nightmares about Iggle Piggle and Buzz Lightyear; bed wettings; toilet training the Boombah and a husband who decides to disappear to the wilds of Africa right when the time comes to teach Son #4 to use the toilet ........

No, my proof of total Mummy exhaustion is a short tale about a happening on the highway today. (it's all safe and ends well, fear not!) Whether it's true or not, I'll leave to your own discretion -I'll share the story but am not willing to totally humiliate myself by stating it is fact....just in case the Rooster reads this (they actually do HAVE internet in Africa, sometimes!) and decides to use it as fodder for stirring me up for the next, oh, 40 years or so!

So.... I MAY have been taking a bit of a trip today, which MAY have required me to spend about an hour and a half on the road, in multi-laned traffic. (not my forte)
And I MAY have been driving quietly along, minding my own business, when I noticed a truck beside me wanting to merge into my lane. Now I MAY have braked to let him do so before realising that he was also towing a large trailer and the options were either he was going to merge successfully - into me - or I was going to need to move.
Now I MAY have been reasonably quick thinking at this moment, and indicated my intnetion to switch lanes and give the truck some space; and I MAY have moved over quickly and let the truck merge.

At this point, the truck driver MAY have waved his arm out the window to me, to acknowledge my quick thinking and speedy reflexes, and in gratitude for my foresight and efforts to ensure his safe and timely journey continued.
I MAY have appreciated the gesture and smiled back, hoping he could see me in his mirror, as I was slightly behind him.

He MAY have waved again out his window at me, which MAY have left me thinking he did not see my beaming smile. So I MAY have nodded to him.

And I MAY have driven along merrily for a few moments, grinning and nodding at this friendly truck driver, and thinking how lovely this whole situation was. I MAY have felt a little like I was in a convoy - me and my "truck" (OK, so it's really an 8 seater people mover, but it FEELS like a truck when it comes to parking!) being accepted with open arms and friendly gestures by truckers across the country.
I MAY have imagined my new friend was on his 2 way radio right now, sharing his good fortune to merge in front of me with his colleagues, and telling them to keep an eye out for me and my blue bus, and ensure I also experienced a safe and timely journey.

I MAY have had my thoughts interrupted when I noticed he'd waved again. So, not wanting to appear rude, I MAY have smiled even more broadly and waved back. Enthusiastically.

Picture for a moment - a glass eyed mother commandeering a blue bus that is empty of children but overflowing with carseats, prams, McDonalds wrappers, plastic toys and books; grinning like the Chesire cat and waving enthusiastically at the truck driving in the lane beside her, nodding her head and mouthing the words "no worries mate"!

And at about that moment, I MAY have actually realised the driver of the truck was actually enjoying a cigarette, and was regularly reaching his arm out the window to tap off the ash!!

My SuperPower

2011-08-06T18:20:00.005+10:00

Boombah is nearly 3, and at the end of the day (with no day nap) he's tired and cranky and a little contrary. I gave him a previously-agreed-on toasted cheese sandwich for dinner. As he took the plate, he spied the cupcakes on the bench.

And promptly handed back the sandwich.
"No sandwich - cake" he said

"Sandwich first, then cake" I replied

"No sandwich. Cake!" he demanded and tried to reach for a cupcake.
And so we began the debate over the relative benefits of a cupcake, compared to a nutritional advantage of a toasted sandwich.

Every time he insisted on "No sandwich, cake!" he stretched and reached a little further across the bench. And every time I responded with "Sandwich, then cupcake" he stopped stretching in exasperation and acknowledged me with a withering glance.

Until finally his stretching paid off, and his little fingers laid themselves upon the lone cupcake sitting within reach on the bench. His grasp closed around it and he smirked cheekily at me.
"No sandwich. Cake" he assured me, in that tone only a smug toddler who just "won" can perfect.

He licked the icing, while I started arguing and cajoling with enthusiasm in the background of his chocolate heaven haze.
"Mmmmm Boombah's cake" he muttered and walked off.

"Boombah, if you eat that cake, there's no dessert tonight. Sandwich, then cake."
"Boom's cake"
Another lick.

If you eat the cake Boombah, there's no chocolate milk either". I had pulled out the big guns now. I was getting desperate. I was fast approaching the need to either let him go, or instigate the wrangle-the-toddler-to-the-ground-and-forcibly-remove-the-offending-item maneuvre. And without a strong cuppa tea and a few moments on Facebook I was unable to decide which way to go.

"Boombah's cake".
More licking and pretty much complete oblivion to the outside world now. He had cake. For dinner. The world may have imploded upon itself and he would not know nor care.
Cake. For dinner.

"Boom, do you want gulky tonight?" I asked
And I was rewarded with a brief expression of recognition of the magic word.
"Gulky" is his term for breastmilk.

I repeated the question and he slowed his sugar-inhalation to look at me, I assume to ensure I am seriously placing the weight of this dilemna upon his weak and inexperienced shoulders.

"If you want gulky Boom, you need to have the sandwich. Then the cake. Then gulky.
No sandwich, no gulky."
And for good measure I did my top-lifting, boob-extending, but-totally-appropriate-for-a-toddler jiggly dance in his direction.

Except he was not there. He was already running to the kitchen to place the cupcake on the bench, and take his sandwich to the table for eating.

So how's that?! My breastmilk is better than chocolate, apparently!!

To Time Out or Not to Time Out..... What Was the Question?!

2011-06-20T11:34:00.003+10:00

I am finally mastering the intricate art of shaping disciplinary measures to suit my individual children's personalities and responses.

Where once a loud demand of "Time Out!" accompanied by a firmly pointed finger in the direction of some remote and boring location within the house, pretty much covered everyone for any and every misdemeanor, I've finally learnt how ineffective this is. (Completely aside from the fact that, after 6 children, I've got no memory cells left at all and regularly forget I sent someone off for some time of reflection t until the next meal when I hear a meek voice call out for permission to finally leave Time Out!)

Being placed into the cot stops Boombah in his tracks (since, unlike his siblings, he is almost 3 and still hasn't figured out he can climb out if and when he wants to!). Removal of privileges (and by "privileges" I mean time on the computer) works well for Pants (and by "works well" I mean utterly devastates him). Screen bans are generally effective for the Rabbit. And some time to calm down followed by a detailed, clear explanation of the problem and other more appropriate behaviour works for Tubby.

But I cannot figure out the HoneyGirl. If I put her in Time Out, she finds some creative way to turn her punishment into mine - like drawing on the floor with a random pencil she grabbed on the way past; or pulling bits of paint off the wall where she is sitting; or sneaking past Time Out and into my room where she jumps on my bed, runs the tap in my ensuite, tries on all my shoes and then silently returns to Time Out and pretends she has been sitting there all along.

If I take away screen time or privileges, she waits til one of the boys are enjoying the computer or the Wii and looks suitably uninvolved and innocent until I leave the room, and then manipulates them into "sharing" their turn with her. And then comes running to me to "dob" on her brothers for not sharing or doing it her way!

And so most recently I decided to try the approach that works on Tubby - a nice friendly chat about the matter. A detailed discussion on the reasons why her behaviour was inappropriate. An open forum on why I made the decision I did and why she needs to respect this.
Quite simply - a good old fashioned lecture.

The HoneyGirl likes my reading glasses. She likes to get them out, hold them, sit on them, put her fingerprints all over them, spit on them, wipe them, drop them on the floor, step on them and most of all, wear them. Given she has perfect eyesight, and my glasses aren't designed to cope well with rough treatment, she is not allowed to touch them.
And so of course, she does.
Often.

I put them up high and attempt to hide them from her, but that usually results in her finding them anyway, and/or me completely forgetting where I put them and thus being unable to use them anyway. Until the HoneyGirl finds them to play with again!

The Rooster walked past her at the computer recently and saw that, once again, she had my glasses out. And on. So he reminded her of the rule about Mummy's glasses and told her to put them away.
Upon his return some few minutes later, he noticed she was still wearing them and likely engaging in all manner of optometry assessments as she placed first one grubby finger on a lens and looked through the other side, and the changed lens, and then did a bit of a spit clean before starting her experiments all over again.

Noting that not only was his delightful daughter breaking a well-known house rule, she was also now actively disobeying him, the Rooster did what any responsible and concerned father would do - he told the HoneyGirl he was going to tell Mum.

And so he did.

Once I had fully grasped the whole situation, including the death stare the HoneyGirl had given her father as she'd narrowed her eyes, creased her brows and spat through gritted teeth "Don't. You. Dare", I thought it would be a good opportunity to try the new approach.

I sat down with my daughter and my glasses, got nice and close so we were speaking face to face, and explained all things "optometrical" to her. How eyes work - or in my case, don't work. What reading glasses do. How they help me but might hurt her. How perfect her vision is. How important good vision is. What we use eyesight for. What a true gift eyesight really is. How it might feel to be blind.

Not long after we started this detailed discussion, I noticed the HoneyGirl's expression - it was that of someone who had something pressing to share.
I was encouraged. She was taking this in, wanting to engage and discuss with me. So I continued teaching her and explaining in detail why it was so important she did not touch my glasses or wear them. It was all going so well.

After some minutes of me explaining and describing, and the HoneyGirl patiently awaiting her turn to respond and share some insight on the matter, I paused. And invited her to share her thoughts, since she'd obviously been waiting to express some wisdom since the conversation began. I focussed my attention on her, and waited for her to speak.

The HoneyGirl took a deep breath, looked me square in the eyes and declared
"Mum, when you started talking, you accidently spat on me."

Drivetime Musings

2011-05-18T17:35:00.005+10:00

I overheard an interesting discussion in the car on the way home from the supermarket. (where I may or may not have purchased packaged rubbish for dinner tonight!)

It was about fish fingers. And where they came from. Tubby was adamant they came from fish, mushed up and frozen in big blocks and the cut into finger-shaped pieces.

The Rabbit and Pants argued vehemently that they were from fish with fingers, which were removed and crumbed and sold as fish fingers.

(At this point I should explain that perhaps the most responsible and mature thing for a parent to do would be to intervene and guide a discussion on sea creatures, anatomy of a fish and the processing of our food. I find it infinitely more entertaining and amusing to turn the radio off and listen intently - I LOVE where these discussions go!
One time (some years ago) I quietened the music on the way to church, to listen to a game of "Rock, Paper, Scissors" between Tubby and the Rabbit. Tubby was winning continually and I was curious as to how the Rabbit would react to this, and if Tubby would realise he needed to make some allowances for his younger brother.
I need not have worried, as shortly thereafter I overheard the regular "Rock, paper SCISSORS!!" followed immediately by Tubby exclaiming "WHAT is THAT meant to be??!"

I glanced into the rear view mirror to see the Rabbit grinning proudly, with his pointer fingers formed into a cross kind of shape.
"I win" he declared "This is Jesus. He beats everything!" )

So, back to the in-car discussion regarding the origins of fish fingers.
Which had moved on to other varieties of seafood. Some of which, if you have a speech delay, prove to be difficult to pronounce and comprehend.
Tubby and the Rabbit tried and tried, through their hysterics, to explain to Pants that they were CRAB balls, and were not little balls of poop, rolled up in crumbs. Even if they DID sound like "crap balls" when Pants said it!

And then of course Tubby wondered aloud if fish lost their fingers to make fish fingers, what part of the crab was removed to make crab balls............

And then someone mentioned prawn cocktails, and I turned the music up very VERY loudly!!

More Mother's Day Shenanigans!

2011-05-09T13:26:00.005+10:00

Dinner time in our house is never predictable. Some days it is a quiet, solemn affair with everyone tucking into the meal and not even pausing to chat. Other days it's as you'd expect for a family meal - various conversations and verbal games occurring, some giggling and laughter and the regular protests of "But this is yuck!" and "I don't liiiiike it!". And more frequently than I'd like, it is noisy and crazy and the dining room becomes a chaotic jumble of laughter, chatter, shouting, kicking, peas, mash and visits to the Time Out spot!

For Mother's Day we really indulged and had KFC. Pants had seen an ad on television for "Mum's Banquet" and because the TV man said it would be perfect for Mum on Mother's Day, it would, of course, be perfect for Mum on Mother's Day.
And it included chocolate brownies.

So KFC it was. We brought our bucket of chicken home and sat down around our table. (Can I say even the concept of a "bucket of chicken " is wrong. Why would anyone need an entire bucket of chicken? Why not just a slightly larger box? Or tray? Why a bucket?!)

As we enjoyed the Colonel's secret recipe - which appeared to be predominantly a thick orange layer of batter stuck to the skelton of a dead chook - I mentioned that when I was a child, there was a rumour doing the rounds that KFC had used something other than chicken at times. I asked the kids to guess what it might have been, and told them the animal in question started with "R".
They guessed rats, roosters and rhinoceros before giving in and I told them it was rabbit. And likely to be untrue, and that their dinner was safe, and no this wasn't rabbit, and I knew because KFC are not allowed to sell rabbit and call it chicken and yes I was sure and now that they mention it I have no idea WHY I thought it was a good idea to share that little snippet from my childhood!

In a desperate effort to distract them, I suggested a game called "What's the Colonel Deep Frying THIS Time?". We took turns to think of an animal to "kentucky fry", give the starting letter to the others and then wait for someone to guess.

The Honey Girl is in Prep, and is reading beautifully but sometimes forgets or mixes up her letters. Her turns were a little challenging because I had to point out that while I appreciate her efforts to write the letter in the air with her finger - or indeed the entire word - I am not familiar with hieroglyphics and had no freaking idea WHAT she was attempting to write as a starting letter!

Pants was similarly challenging, as he has some speech challenges which sometimes slightly alter what he *thinks* is the starting letter, and what the actual starting letter is! "KFT" was, of course, Kentucky Fried Trocodile! And he was pretty dirty that we didn't get it!

When my turn came around, I thought they'd find Kentucky Fried Tarantula amusing. I'd recently seen a TV program where some children from a jungle village were out hunting for their version of takeaway - giant hairy spiders that were captured, killed and roasted on an open fire. Ever the parent-teacher, I thought my effort might lead to an interesting cultural lesson.

Instead, the game got way out hand. As he waited for his younger siblings to guess what the "T" stood for, Tubby started to giggle to himself. Had I glanced to see his face I'd have known immediately that his pre-teen mind was someplace it should not be and may have had a chance to salvage the game by redirecting his responses to appropriate suggestions that were of the animal kind. Instead, I asked him what was so funny.

"Kentucky Fried Todgers" he burst out with, and the table dissolved into giggles.
On his next turn, he almost turned purple in an attempt to control his laughter until he had blurted out "Kentucky Fried Turds" ... and the table dissolved into raucous laughter.

It took some serious threats, and some plate-clearing, dishwasher-stacking and teeth-brushing activities to regain control and make a final attempt to continue the game until everyone had had a turn.

In the interests of ensuring everyone feels content and involved, we occasionally stack the odds a little in such games. Especially towards the younger two players, who battle speech and literacy issues to participate and require a little extra assistance to respond correctly.

On one particular round everyone knew what the answer was, but it was Pant's turn to guess.
"It starts with G" Tubby reminded him
"It lives in Africa" the Rabbit offered
"It's got a loooong neck" the Honey Girl added, and we all stretched our necks up for Pants to see

He still looked puzzled, so we started to dance around the kitchen in a conga-line, singing "Melman Melman Melman!" (from the movie "Madagscar", in case you're wondering how often my family spontaneously conga-line around the kitchen for no real reason!)

Suddenly Pants' face lit up, his eyes showed clear recognition and he started jumping up and down in his seat in excitement.
"I know! I know!" he shouted "It's gorilla!!!"

*sigh*

When we'd finally got the boy to utter the magic words "giraffe", we congratulated him on his efforts and moved on.
It was the Rabbit's turn next, and he had run out of superhero animals (we'd done kentucky fried bat, kentucky fried spider etc etc) He'd decided on shark this time, and while we all knew what the answer was, it was the Honey Girl's turn to guess.

Being the caring and kind big brother that he is, the Rabbit tried hard to give his little sister a good chance. He started to "swim" around the kitchen, with his teeth bared and snapping and his arms above his head forming a very obvious dorsal fin.
His sister still looked a little unsure so he began to hum the Jaws theme (I have NO idea how he knows the Jaws theme, I might add!) He got louder and louder and more and more shark-like and fierce, until he "swam" up and stopped, with a snap of his teeth, in front of her.

The Honey Girl eyed him closely, raise one eyebrow and asked "Snail?"

At about this point it came to my attention that the Boombah was no longer participating in the game, and was suddenly nappy-free and coming from the direction of my bedroom.
I scrambled up from the table and ran towards my room demanding the toddler tell me if he "wa-hooed in Mummy's room? We don't wa-hoo on Mummy's bed, ok? You can wa-hoo in the toilet, but no wa-hooing in Mummy's bed!"

Again, my children dissolved into fits of giggles and I found myself wondering what on earth these small people have DONE to me, that I'd have not only spent my evening in such a way but that I had enjoyed it as much as they had.

And where on earth the word "wa-hoo" had come from, and why my children thought it related to bodily functions??!

B is for "Blessed".
Or Bampire Bat, apparently.

Or boobie, but we're not allowed to go there!

Why My Kids Rock!

2011-05-08T10:05:00.007+10:00

A few years ago, the Rooster suggested that he might like to try a fly in/fly out job in, say Africa, where he was at work for 6 - 8 weeks and then home for about 4.

Ever the supportive and optimistic wife, I promptly suggested back that if he ever did such a thing, he could save his employers the cost of the "fly out" part, because I'd change the locks while he was away and there'd be no need to "come home" at all.

Fast forward a few years and here it is, Mother's Day 2011.And the Rooster is at work. In Africa. Where he has been for the last 4 months.

He's a smart man. He knew all along that if he left me at home alone with 6 children, I'd be so busy changing nappies, car seat arrangements and various appointments, I'd never get around to the locks! Instead, we count the sleeps til he is home and make arrangements to meet his flight when it arrives, at 6am, on the other side of the city.
I DID say I was supportive and optimistic!

And so for these last few years I've been teaching and training my children in the ways of spoiling and treating Mum. I figure even if it doesn't kick in for a few more years, I'll end up with a pile of gifts and 6 different breakfasts in bed before I am 50!

Preparation for Mother's Day without Dad here to guide and direct them involves planning and military precision. First we visit a department store. Sometimes I think I should call the chosen shop in advance, to warn them of the impending onslaught.
Have you ever taken 6 excited children to Kmart and let them loose to select a gift for Mum?
Well let me tell you : they scatter. Quickly. One to the women's clothing, another to the electrical, another to the DVDs and games, someone else to tip out half the bottles of perfumes and yet another in search of the fluffiest, pinkest and biggest slippers available.

It may sound a little carefree; perhaps even a little dangerous, to let my children roam free in a large department store but let me assure you, it is perfectly safe. Because of that planning and military precision I mentioned earlier.
Once they have scattered to their various locations, I peruse the books, thoughtfully placed right by the front door. I scan titles, grab something I'd like to read and keep an eye on the door for any escapees who suddenly decide Kmart is too down-market for their tastes and want to try their pocket money power at the nearby jewellers!

When I'm sure there are no returns, I head for the predetermined (unknown to the children but this is how it works) meeting point. My children all have a radar when it comes to department stores - for the toy section! There's a strong, undeniable pull for each of them. Wherever they start, whatever route they take, the destination is ALWAYS the toy section! Perhaps it is some kind of side effect from our constant immersion in Star Wars - some version of "the Force"!

And usually by the time I arrive there, so have they. Once they see me, there's a scuttle to hide various boxes and fabrics and packages behind their backs. Have you ever seen a 2 year old try to hide a giant box of chocolates behind his bag whilst simultaneously trying to open the packet and consume them!
And so we head to the checkout, and the sales assistant smiles while the children watch with wide eyes of excitement as their chosen items are scanned. And then I watch with wide eyes of dismay as the final total is charged to my credit card.

Well, the Rooster's credit card. But he's in Africa, remember?!!

Gifts are wrapped and hidden, and there are usually there are activities at school to prepare extra treats for Mum. This year the Honey Girl's class gave their Mums a foot spa and pedicure. Imagine - a class of excited 5 year olds, enthusiastically massaging their mother's feet with foot scrub. And then drying them, and applying "bum".
That's right - "bum". The Honey Girl excitedly announced she was using "bum" for my feet about 6 times, at the top of her voice, before I realised she meant BALM. I suspect she knew it was balm all along, but could not resist the urge to shout "BUM!" repeatedly in her classroom and not be reprimanded for it!
And then the teacher, bless her, had arranged for the children to paint their mother's toenails. Who needs exams and assessments to determine each child's level of hand-eye coordination and fine motor control, when you have assorted bottles of nail polish and obligated mothers with tolerant smiles plastered on their faces!

Fortunately for me, the Honey Girl has a well developed set of skills and her painting was restricted, mostly, to my toenails. Our choices in colour may differ a little but I can certainly say I left that afternoon feeling blessed, adored, special and .... bright!

Which brings us to today. And why my kids rock.
This morning before 6am, my perfect sleeper Gavin tarnished his sleep record and was wide awake. But the Honey Girl came in to check the time and noticed him, and so she lay with him and cuddled him to keep him quiet. When he began to stir and squeak, Tubby padded in quietly and stole him away so I could snooze a little. He returned the littlest one later, nappy and clothes changed, smiling and happy and ready for a feed.
And then I was bombarded with bags of gifts and homemade goodies and loads of cuddles, giggles and attention.

And the best bit? Last night I left this on the kitchen bench, in preparation for a yummy breakfast together.

And sometime this morning, while I slept, it magically transformed into this :

THAT is why my kids rocks!!

And so to each and every Mum today, I hope and pray you feel as blessed, as treasured and as special as I do - not because you have lots of nice stuff, but because you are surrounded by a family that truly does love you. Happy Mother's Day!

Now please excuse me while I engage in a wrestling match in order to secure at least one of my own chocolates before they are all devoured .......

A is for awesome! My child-minding, coffee-making Tubby; my pancake making, craft extraordinaire Rabbit; my chore-doing, super-cuddly Pants; my smiley, bright and texta-happy Honey Girl; my well-mannered, chocolate loving Boombah and my sound-sleeping, gummy-grinning Gavin. Blessed am I!

Career Aspirations

2011-04-19T17:34:00.003+10:00

Pants has spent considerable brain power planning his future career. He has long been torn between being a soccer player and being a chef.

The soccer player plan is very appealing on many levels, but has one major point of concern : every time he plays soccer at school he ends up in sick bay! Someone once told him that in soccer the ball had to hit your feet. So, being very literal, Pants thinks that a connection with the ball on any other body part is incorrect, painful and involves an injury.
And so, as you'd expect in soccer games amongst 6 year olds where kicking the ball is the main objective and aiming the kick is not so important ..... as I said, soccer games at school result in a lot of sick bay visits.

Being a chef is also a good option. Except for a long time Pants only ate food that came in multiples of....yellow! And right now, he really only eats toast, yoghurt, fruit and spaghetti bolognaise. And Cocoa Pops.
Not exactly a wide variety of ingredients for the next Master Chef to work with.

But there's been a new development today, and Pants has found a career option that apparently over-rides all previous considerations. He was fascinated at the happenings at the airport today and spent a lot of time with his face glued to the window. (Literally - he ate a lollipop and then pressed his face against the window to view the aeroplanes!)

And so the perfect career has been found for Pants, my quirky, particular middle son.

Air Traffic Controller.

He gets to wear ear muffs all the time.
And direct huge planes by remote control.
And operate odd-looking vehicles of assorted shapes and sizes.
And not have to deal with people, only planes and machines.

And best of all, arm waving and flapping is a job requirement!!

A Serious Moment!

2011-04-08T16:00:00.005+10:00

Today was Dress Differently for Autism Day. People with autism think and see the world differently - not wrongly, just differently. And so today, I was out about looking like this -

Lots of lovely people stopped to ask me if I was 'SuperMum'.
Mostly I grinned cheesily and said no, the S stands for "super tired", "stressed" or just plain "stupid"!

But I did spend the entire day dressed "differently". And my children - and most of their school mates - did so too.
At 8am this morning, Super-Stupid-Stressed-Woman climbed into her trusty People Mover and transported one Michael Jackson, one Spidergirl, a Two Face, a baby in roller skates, a boy with his clothes inside out and a toddler who actually had shoes on, to school! That's SIX kids, ALL wearing something "different". And believe me, in a house where it's considered entertainment to wear your jocks on your head, normal to go grocery shopping with 5 Spidermen and a Clone Trooper, and totally mundane to try a new crazy hairstyle - getting all seven of us dressed "differently" was an achievement!

My delightful children were rather hoping their mother would attend assembly as She-Ra, a costume I recently wore to an 80s party. However, said costumes consists of little more than a micro mini dress, gold sequined belt and knee high go-go boots - not especially appropriate attire for a small private Christian school's assembly! Last time I attempted She-Ra's look, I discovered two things - female superheros always have capes because they make it possible to bend over in those teeny tiny dresses and still maintain a little modesty; and since her hey-day in the 80s, I suspect She Ra has been visiting McDonalds and Donut King a little too frequently. Pants and the Honey Girl told everyone I was "Sheila" and I don't think they were far wrong!!

But back to Dress Differently Day. And me being out, in public, all day, in a superhero costume. Can I tell you that it's not the best choice of outfit when attending a new Bible Study group for the first time? Several times I was asked if I was the babysitter, employed by the group to entertain the children while their mothers engage in fellowship and serious study. Perhaps next week they'll expect me to come as a clown?!
I'm not entirely sure what impression I made - it's probably a little hard to take the opinions and views of the crazy woman dressed as Superwoman in the corner, on the matter of spiritual warfare!

It's also probably not the best choice for wandering through the shopping centre.
And it's definitely not the best choice to be wearing should your toddler decide to throw a mega-tantrum in the middle of the food court while you're breastfeeding the baby. People REALLY want to stare at you then!

But you know what? It really opened my eyes and gave me a small taste of what my boys with Autistic Spectrum Disorder experience each and every day of their lives. For a few hours I was constantly aware of people looking at me, wondering about me, judging my behaviour based on their expectations of my appearance (because, you know, if someone has the gall to waltz through the mall dressed as Supermum, she had certainly better BEHAVE like Supermum. And offering your 2 year old donuts and chocolate if he stops screaming is NOT a good demonstration of super-parenting!)
I gave up noticing "looks" long ago. Sometime after having Baby #4, I stopped looking at passerbys and focussed my attention on my children - which, given they usually split into 4 or 5 different directions the minute we enter a shop, is quite a feat!
But Tubby and Pants frequently tell me, when we are out, that people are *looking* at us. Staring at them. Watching them, especially when they are at the height of an anxiety attack or a major meltdown or seeking stimulation or reassurance or reacting without thinking first. Monitoring their behaviour, because they appear "normal", and so they should behave "normally". Making judgements and drawing conclusions based solely on their appearance.

And today, I think I experienced a bit of that. Everywhere I went, people looked. And then kept looking. And stared. And followed me with their eyes, to see what I was doing. And if I was doing it how they expected me to be doing it.
People commented - some muttering quietly, and others loudly enough to make an announcement of my presence to anyone who hadn't already noticed! (Cheers to the Mum who threatened to her small child that Supergirl would "get him" if he didn't hurry up. Which part of me pushing a double pram, overflowing with nappy bags, shopping bags, odd grocery items, spare shoes, hats, drinks and keys - oh and children, there were two children in there - gave you the impression I was capable of doing anything other than prevent the disaster that is my pram, from toppling over?!!)

When Boombah started to scream - and proceeded to scream (because, I should mention, his awful, terrible, dreadful mother took a bite of his sandwich! His SANDWICH! She picked it up, after he had carefully placed it on the table, and BIT the corner off it. He knew she did it, because when he started to gently protest he saw her attempt to swallow the offending sandwich crust whole so she could open her mouth wide and "prove" there was nothing in there, thus pretending she did not just steal a vital component of his lunch! And so he began to scream. Loudly. And had to throw the remaining sandwich onto the floor and declare it "YUCK NOW!" because it was contaminated) - the attention was really drawn my way.

I could feel people's eyes on me. Hear their words about me. Sense their judgement of me. And see their reactions to me.
And I seriously contemplated removing the cape so I could fit in again, so I could become just another shopper, out with her kids, and blend back into the crowd.

Except I realised - my boys can never "remove" their autism. They cannot take off or change or hide the elements that not only make them unique individuals, but that also provide them with a diagnosis of autism. It is part of who they are, what they do and where they will journey in life. It's woven into them and to remove it would be to remove a part of them.

And so the costume remained. Except with the realisation that at the end of the day, I could take it off and go back to being myself and fitting in - a choice my sons do not get. They either be themselves OR they fit in - but in many situations they cannot do both.

The costume remained, with the knowledge that the people who stare and wonder and comment and judge today will not do so tomorrow. But for my sons, the looking and commenting and judging will continue for the rest of their lives.

The costume remained, because I knew if it ever got too much for me, I could take it off in a moment and resume my activities from within my comfort zone. And yet my sons cannot - social interaction and being amongst people is well out of their comfort zone.

So today, I want to thank Tubby and Pants - for letting me share a small part of their world. For their courage to continue to face these challenges every single day. For doing that (mostly!) with enthusiasm, positivity and style! And for being who they are, and growing into wonderful young men embracing their differences and sharing their quirks with the world.
You already had my love, my care and my commitment - but today boys, you also earned my admiration.

Nothing To Fear But ....

2011-03-30T14:08:00.004+11:00

I have this irrational fear regarding my children. Only one, mind you. But it provides me with endless opportunities to be fearful and get lost in my wild and terrifying imaginary scenes and situations ..... and provides the Rooster with just as many opportunities to giggle, laugh, point and grin at me as I sit in my seat in the car, quivering with fear with my eyes tightly closed.

I am just so fearful that, should a bridge collapse beneath us, I would not be able to rescue all my children. Even if I COULD get them all out of their carseats, I'd never be able to keep them all afloat. They would drown. And I would not. And I would not be able to ever forgive myself for loosing any of them.

(I did say it was irrational!)

And I go to extraordinary lengths to avoid a situation where this might become a possibility! I avoid bridges wherever possible. I get lost in the City regularly because I deliberately take routes I do not know so I can avoid a bridge I do know! I do not get caught up in inner city traffic on the way to the airport because I want to avoid the tolls on the direct route - I do so to avoid the really really HIGH bridge between here and there! And if the Rooster is driving and we do cross a bridge, I close my eyes and pretend it isn't happening!

Recently we have been taking some trips to the City to see a travel doctor for vaccinations. Rather than park close to the medical centre (where, I might add, I recently discovered the parking heights are significantly LESS than the height of our People Mover!) I prefer to park a good half hour walk away, so we can cross the river on foot rather than in the car. Because, you know, falling many metres into the river below with 6 children will be so much easier to manage if we're not in the car, right?!

On one such trip I thought I'd take the opportunity, whilst crossing the bridge, to ease my fears a little and reassure that the money we're spending on swimming lessons is indeed worth it. I figured perhaps a little confidence could be found if I was able to ascertain just how strong my children were at life-saving skills. A certain level of peace could be reached if I could hear my children confirm, in their own words, that they would be able to contribute in some way to their own rescue, should such a need arise.

So I quietly asked the Rabbit what he'd do if he accidentally fell into the river below us or fell off a boat or something similar. He took a quick look down and told me he could float. Preferably on his stomach, but he'd do it on his back if he had to, because you could at least breath on your back. And that he'd been practising floating on his back and could do it for a considerable length of time if necessary.

I felt a weight begin to lift from my shoulders already. He even felt confident enough to swim to shore, and said he had learnt how to rescue another person, so he could carry someone with him. Bless his little heart - perhaps he saw the fear in my eyes as we set foot on the bridge, but his words were a soothing salve to my soul.

So I moved on to the Honey Girl. Knowing she was not as confident or able as the Rabbit, I thought I could at least be reassured that she could float for a short while and be calm if/when she hit the water. Could swim up to the surface.
I asked her the same question as I did the Rabbit.

The Honey Girl did not pause for even a moment to evaluate her skills or contemplate the question or a possible solution.
She promptly responded with "I'd walk on the water, to the edge. Jesus did it, so can I".

Right. Well. Who am I to dash her childhood fantasies? It's likely she'd survive on sheer will alone. Just flatly refuse to drown. And grab hold of something solid and never let it go.

I realised this was actually working. My fears were being eased by my childrens' affirmations of their skills and confidence. I was working through my irrational fear of my children drowning and they were walking through it with me. My delightful offspring were playing an active role in my healing and in my finding a sense of peace. One more affirmation and I'd be almost cured!
And we had enough bridge-walking time for one more candidate, so I confidently and firmly approached Pants, with a spring in my step and nary a quiver in my voice. And posed the same question again - if he found himself in deep water, like the river we were crossing, what would he do?

He looked at me with a puzzled expression, obviously thinking his mum had finally lost those three remaining braincells that had survived after 6 rounds of placenta-brain, nappy-brain and so on, and replied "I'd drown".

You'll be relieved to know my irrational fear is as alive and thriving as ever again!

The Bible Like You've Never Seen It Before!

2011-03-25T11:55:00.008+11:00

Recently I've had to speak to Pants about vandalism and graffiti. It's one thing to colour the mouths of magazine models in black so they appear to be missing all their teeth. But drawing in your brother's picture Bible and changing the stories with your additions is not acceptable .... and it's really hard for your mother to discipline you when she's almost choking in an attempt to hold her laughter back!
It seems comedic creativity is a strong point for Pants - if we find a more suitable outlet. Who would have imagined that odd random thoughts, a Bible and a blue pen would be such an amusing combination?!

So here it is folks - the newly improved Toddler's Picture Bible, with added detail and aspects of your favourite stories that I bet you never knew!

Daniel in the Lion's Den
Daniel was thrown into a den of lions! Except some of them were not actually lions.....they were reindeer! And lions with giant noses.

The Christmas Story
Mary and Joseph stayed at an inn in Bethlehem, where they had a very special baby, named Jesus. Except it's all very confusing with these camels and sheep and donkeys and reindeer and Rudolphs and Santas and Marys and Josephs. How is a 6 year old supposed to fit them all into one story?
Well, the secret behind it all is -
Mary and Joseph WERE reindeer. See?

The Wise Men
The Wise Men saw a special bright star in the sky and so they followed it. It was going to lead them to a new king. Except it turns out it was moving because it was a falling star, and it fell. Right onto the Wise Man's head. And he fell off his camel and was dead with a star in his head. He wasn't so wise after all.

Blind Bartimaeus
Bartimaeus's eyes didn't work properly and he could not see. Jesus healed him and then he could see! Bartimeaus was so excited to be able to see - he jumped up and down and cheered.
And a chocolate fell out of his mouth and on to the ground, and Jesus had to bend down and pick it up.

Jesus and Mary
Jesus and Mary were friends. When Jesus came to show Mary He was alive again, she was excited. And she wanted to hypnotise Him, so she started saying "You are *compwetewy* under my controooolllll".... but you can't hypnotise Jesus, so it bounced off Him and got the cat that was standing behind them. And now the cat is *compwetewy* under Mary's controoooool.

Return of the K ....ah ..... K-razy Lady Who Blogs About Her Delightful Children

2011-03-25T11:38:00.006+11:00

Finally, after some crazy months involving a pregnancy where I became very ill, then a new baby born 7 weeks early, then the chaos of Christmas, then the Rooster flew off to work in Africa for 18 weeks straight (smart man isn't he?!) and then the new school year beginning ..... I'm back!!

I'm just doing some tidying up around the blog and will begin posting again very soon! As the family is planning on relocating overseas, to Africa, later this year I'm sure there will be plenty to blog about. I mean - 6 kids on a flight that lasts for over 20 hours when we can barely manage the 3 minute drive to school without someone pushing/hitting/leaning/spitting/ BREATHING on someone else, and that someone else's world collapsing as a result ..... well, there'll be plenty to blog about won't there?!!

Anyway, while I reacquaint myself with my blog let me introduce you to our newest family member - Gavin. (So named because Boombah cannot quite pronouce his little brother's carefully chosen and much loved Irish middle name, and calls him Gavin instead, which has now stuck!
Gavin - born in December 2010, weighing 5 lb 5 ozes and very quickly stealing our hearts and pretty much taking control of this crazy family!
Note in the first picture he is smiling - he already thinks his siblings are crazy and it's going to be a wild ride!!

Doggone it!

2010-09-21T17:59:00.004+10:00

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.....

2010-07-31T18:02:00.004+10:00

...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

2010-07-19T18:05:00.005+10:00

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!

2010-07-10T10:43:00.004+10:00

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

2010-05-10T20:02:00.003+10:00

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!

2010-04-22T15:43:00.003+10:00

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.

2010-03-24T20:37:00.002+11:00

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

2010-02-16T15:01:00.004+11:00

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!

Whose House??

2009-11-16T20:47:00.002+11:00

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

2009-09-26T21:39:00.002+10:00

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

2009-09-13T20:54:00.003+10:00

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

2009-09-05T18:34:00.002+10:00

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

2009-08-29T15:18:00.002+10:00

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 ....

2009-08-21T22:55:00.003+10:00

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??!

2009-06-30T19:38:00.002+10:00

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!!

2009-04-28T10:05:00.004+10:00

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 .......

2009-03-11T18:24:00.003+11:00

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

2009-02-11T13:29:00.003+11:00

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!

2009-02-01T22:22:00.003+11:00

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

2009-01-28T20:29:00.003+11:00

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!!

2009-01-18T16:54:00.003+11:00

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

2009-01-06T22:39:00.007+11:00

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

2009-01-05T19:57:00.000+11:00

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!

Lay All Your Love .. ..Somewhere Else!!

2008-12-27T16:11:00.000+11:00

Even Boombah can reduce us to a rolling, crying ball of laughter. And he's not yet 5 months old!

The Rooster and I recently watched Mama Mia, and (shhhhhh) loved it! Corny, feel good and a great way to wind down and enjoy some Abba classics whilst pretending to catch up on a recent DVD release!

And the next day, Abba songs were whirring through our minds, and frequently popping out our mouths.

Until Boombah woke up and shared his skilled musical expertise on all music of Abba, in particular "Lay All Your Love On Me".

I'll post the photos because in this situation, a picture is worth a thousand words.

Watch closely as our bright and smiley baby boy manages to communicate clearly and perfectly, with no verbal skills whatsoever, to share with the world his personal musings on Abba.

Department Stores

2008-12-14T20:44:00.000+11:00

Not only do our kids' verbal communication skills make me smile (cringe) and laugh (cry), their actions and antics have a similar effect.
Either that or we try to wander by anonymously and pretend they don't belong to us!

When Tubby was a little one, about 3 or 4, we temporarily misplaced him in Target. Whilst the Rooster and I were frantically searching the store for him, he was apparently wandering the store at leisure, stopping to look at the items that took his interest.

And then we heard him - a fearful, confused and desperate wailing coming from somewhere in the children's clothing. The Rooster and I legged it over there and followed the cries until we were stopped short by the site of our small son : holding onto the now-detatched arm of a store manikin.

I think at this point the Rooster began laughing so hard he wasn't able to be of much assistance and so it was up to me to teach our little one that destroying the store property is not acceptable.

"Tubby!" I said as firmly and calmly as I could in such circumstances. I wanted to reassure him that we were there to help him, and decided to deal with the discipline issue of running away and destruction of property later.

He wheeled around to look at me, the wayward arm still firmly in his grip. It belonged to a older child-sized manikin and was still held within the Tshirt the manikin was modelling. When attached the hand would have been about Tubby's head height, but right now it was dangling down near his legs and, from the strain on his little arms, it was becoming quite heavy.

"What are you doing?" I asked in my very best mummy-will-fix-it-all-and-then-you're-in-big-trouble-mister voice.

He looked at me with tear filled eyes and I suddenly realised he wasn't scared or worried - he was mad!
"I tried to say hello to her, but she didn't answer me" he replied, in a voice brimming with indignity and disgust. "So then I shook her hand and she bloody hit me on the head!" And he threw the arm back at the offender, aimed his boot and gave "her" a good hard kick in the shins.

And stormed off as I lunged at the toppling manikin and tried to catch "her" before she fell.
Although perhaps I could have let her fall and land on the Rooster who was, by this time, almost doubled up with laughter.

And just to prove that one of our parenting priorities is consistency, we've also lost the Rabbit in a department store. (Kmart this time I think!) We'd flown interstate to visit family, and had gone on a shopping trip with Tubby and the Rabbit, who at this time, was aged about 20 months old.
As we were flying and travelling with as little luggae as possible, we'd taken along the umbrella stroller and left the bigger, heavier (but far more comfortable!) pram at home.

And regretted the move the entire trip. Because every chance he had, the Rabbit would wriggle out of the straps and get out instead of allowing us to push him and know his whereabouts!

In Kmart we wandered the aisles, and paused in the baby goods section. (because, as is often the case, I was pregnant and clucky!) We then moved onto clothing, electrical and bedding departments, and at some point amidst the sheets and doona covers I noticed the Rabbit was no longer in the stroller.

We panicked and the Rooster, his sister and I ran through the store searching desperately for him. I notified the store assistant at the front door, described him and asked them to watch out for him, and returned to trace my steps.

And found the Rabbit. Back in the baby goods section.

He had perused the prams and chosen the most padded, comfortable and reclining one, climbed in, attempted to do up the harnass and was patiently waiting for us to begin pushing him in his new "wheels"!

I think since then we've managed to not loose anyone for any length of time, in a department store. Or I haven't been aware they've been missing anyway!

Out for a Treat

2008-12-10T22:15:00.001+11:00

We took the family out for a culinary treat tonight - McDonalds followed by Cold Rock Ice Creamery.

Yes yes, I know I know - not exactly a healthy nutritious meal, but after surviving the hairdressing salon where the 4 eldest had their hair cuts with a minimum of screaming, kicking andf fighting, we felt a reward was in order. The Rooster and I really HAD been well behaved, and an evening off cooking and cleaning is about as exciting as a reward gets these days.

The only other kind of "reward" we manage seems to result in yet another child for our family, so McDonalds it was!

Being an evening in the weeks leading up to Christmas, right about when parents across the country are finding ways to wiggle out of preparing and serving the dinner meal - McDonalds was pretty busy. So the Rooster took the kids to the playground area, while I ordered our food.

I learnt about 2 kids ago that the quickest way to order for our family is to write it down on a scrap of paper and hand it over to the person serving me. that way I don't have to repeat things multiple times and end up confusing myself AND the operator. So I gather the trays of food, and find the family who are either playing loudly or sitting at the table waiting, ravenously.

When we're out and about, people tend to notice us. I don't think a family of 7 is all that big or noticeable, but clearly I am in the minority in this thinking. And when we take up most of the party table on our own - well, it looks like there are a lot of us!

So we attracted some attention, sat down to eat, attracted some more attention, and the kids ran off to play.

A little more attention came our way when the Rabbit came hurtling out of the slide with an older child in hot pursuit. Both boys screeched to a halt in front of the Rooster, who paused between mouthfuls of Quarter Pounder and looked questioningly at his son.

"Hey Dad?"

"Yes Rabbit?"

"You do Kung Fu don't you?"

"Yes I do" replied the Rooster, looking somewhat puzzled.

"See?" the Rabbit said, turning to the child behind him "I TOLD you my Dad does Kung Fu.

Now hit 'im Dad! Hit 'im!!"

After a brief chat about how his Dad DOES train in Kung Fu but does not and will not use his skills to beat up the kid who called the Rabbit "Spiderman freak", playing and eating continued and attention began to be drawn away from the super sized family with Spiderman and Kung Fu Panda in their midst.

But not for long.

The Rooster and I were having a quiet and somewhat serious chat when Tubby calls our names. He'd been eating quietly but his voice is quite loud and carries quite clearly and we learnt long ago to acknowledge him the first time he requests, or else he will keep going and going (and going and going and going and going!) until we DO respond!

So we paused our conversation and turn our attention to our eldest - as did most other diners in the restaurant, due to the previously mentioned loud, clear voice this boy has.

And we looked questioningly at him, waiting for him to share a fascinating and obscure piece of trivia he has just remembered, which is something that happens often during mealtimes with Tubby.

"I was just thinking" he announced, in that fore-mentioned loud, clear voice.

"Sometimes I come to talk to you and I see you with Dad, and Dad has his hands on your bottom and sometimes even down your pants. Like this..!" and he stood up to demonstrate.

We finished our meal very quickly and hurried out of the restaurant.

And I have no idea what the other diners were doing after that because I was not prepared to look at a single ONE of them.

Although perhaps Tubby was also aware of the attention and was simply providing the on-lookers with a reasonable and slightly subtle explanation for our family size!!!!

Some things just cannot be explained. We figure he'll work it out in about 10 years time!

Shopping with Daddy

2008-12-08T21:49:00.000+11:00

The Rooster, bless him, prefers not to take all 5 kids shopping alone. He's willing to do it if I'm there as well, or another adult - but something about the idea of 5 young children all running in different directions and grabbing at different items on shelves, and quite possibly ending up with those shelves on top of them and then being pursued by an angry store manager ............... well, it seems to give him chills. .

He is, however, quite willing to take a couple of the kids with him. Especially if it means he can head for the nearest supermarket under the guise of buying bread, and "just happen" to pass the cold section and pick up an Ice Break (iced coffee) while he's there! I'm not sure but I suspect his addiction to these regular shots of caffeine and sugar have something to do with being a Dad of 5??!!

Sometimes, even being the Dad of just 2 is a struggle! Like his recent outing with a couple of the youngsters. .......

He headed into town with a short list, his wallet, his mobile phone and the Honey Girl & Pants. According to all sources they had a pleasant morning together, collecting the items on the list, coming up with new items which just happened to be over by the *ahem cough cough* COLD section, and chatting together. They paid for their purchases and after loading the car and preparing to head home, Pants made the announcement that he needed the toilet.

Now given we've taken over 12 months to toilet train this boy, when he says he needs the toilet, he NEEDS THE TOILET! So the Rooster grabbed both kids by the hand and headed for the parents room/disabled toilet.

As they entered the small cubicle, they stepped back for the woman hurrying out of the same room, and heading for her nearby car. Upon entering the toilet, the Rooster and kids were knocked back by the overpowering odour of cigarette smoke, and pile of ash beside the actual toilet was a clear indicator of what the previous occupant had been doing in here!

So with breath held and a little spluttering, the Rooster tended to the children, and when finished they rushed for the door to breathe some fresh air again. At this point, the Rooster decided to call me at home, perhaps to boast a little about his successful and pleasant morning with his charming and co-operative offspring.

But no sooner had he finished telling me just how delightful these children were, I heard him mutter "No, don't do that".

Followed by a hushed "Honey Girl, stop it." and then a slightly louder "Pants, NO!" and rounded off with an "I've got to go.... ..... Kids, GET UP and GET in the car...." And the phone disconnected.

I waited as patiently as a knowing mother who has just witnessed the destruction of her husband's smugness concerning the behaviour of our children in public, can possibly wait. And eventually they arrived home, with full details which the Rooster managed to deliver after several deep, long swigs of the Ice break he appeared to desperately need!

On leaving the smoke-filled change room, Pants and the Honey Girl had spotted the previous occupant of the toilet, in her parked car, with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. The Rooster noticed that she looked a little scary, a bit rough around the edges. So he rethought his previous intentions of perhaps suggesting to her that smoking in the confined space of a toilet cubicle whilst relieving yourself, when other people are going to need to use the same smoke-filled room, was not such a smart idea. Better to leave well enough alone.

Just as they passed in front of her car, this woman began coughing - that awful, hacking, bringing-up-a-chunk-of-your-lungs cough that smokers develop.

And being sensitive little souls, the children went out in sympathy with her. First the Honey Girl gave a little cough. Then Pants gave a louder, longer cough and reached for his throat. Within seconds they had a complete and dramatic demonstration going on - coughing and spluttering, hands gripped on their throats, eyes bulging and both in death throes on the footpath.

It was at this point the Rooster abruptly ended our chat on the phone, scooped up both children and bolted to the car.

We still haven't worked out how to abbreviate "We really shouldn't pretend to be the nice lady who smoked, by rolling on the ground pretending to die with your hands on your throat and your eyes popping out. It might hurt her feelings"

Perhaps they'd have a spot for these two budding young starlets in the next anti-smoking campaign?!

How did Jesus ............?

2008-11-30T21:16:00.000+11:00

Tonight I watched a Christmas DVD with the Rabbit. It was given out at school last week : a 20 minute movie of the first Christmas.
Once every week or so I try to spend an evening with one of the kids alone - an hour to stay up later than everyone else and watch a DVD or play a board game, eat something special and have alone time with Mum and/or Dad. It's a time I treasure as a chance to get to know one of my children better on their own without the usual family dynamics affecting behaviour and dividing attention. And each of the kids loves it too - undivided attention for one whole hour!

So tonight was the Rabbit's turn. And we watched the story of the first Christmas in cartoon. It was lovely and just when I thought the final carol had faded into an easy transition to bedtime, the questions started.

How did Jesus get into Mary's tummy? (this one was suprisingly easier to answer than the recent "How did Boombah get into YOUR tummy Mum?!)

How can God be Jesus and still be the Father as well?

Does Jesus have power in His hands?

We headed through the nativity, straight through the miracles Jesus performed and ploughed right into the Ascension. Which I thought the Rabbit grasped suprisingly well given his age and the subject matter. He seemed to calmly accept that, at the appointed time, Jesus said goodbye to all His friends and went up into heaven, into the sky.

At this point the discussion stopped, and I quietly gave myself a High 5 for fielding intense questioning from all sides and managing to teach this little one some important faith truths, and explain the power of God and the Ascension of Christ in a manner which sat so well with my nearly-6 year old. The Rabbit was clearly a child of deep religious understanding and spiritual insight - he had just heard of the Ascension and was not questioning it at all. In fact, he seemed quite in awe of the concept. That's my boy!

And then my bubble burst.

"Mum?" he asked excitedly
"Did Jesus fly like an angel or did He have rocket boots?"

Grace

2008-11-17T21:58:00.000+11:00

We say Grace at dinner time. And it can be a lengthy affair, especially since Pants decided that we should all have a turn. So now instead of a single (adult!) person giving thanks for the evening meal, each child offers his/her thanks -
Tubby prays a brief, thankful prayer which is accurate and genuine.
The Rabbit gives thanks "for the delicious meal Mum has prepared", and then often proceeds to tell me it's gross and that don't like it as soon as we say Amen.
The Honey Girl prays long prayers, most of which are not easily understood and presumably are in tongues
And Pants gives his thanks for each individual food item. Which is fine if it's french toast and not so fine if I've served up a casserole or stir fry of multiple ingredients.
But eventually grace ends and we can all eat/complain about the meal.

Last night I served rissoles, mash and vegies. I last served this meal some months ago, and I had neatly cut the rissoles up into small pieces, in the hope that the children might not look too closely and just eat them. Unfortunately it didn't work and I ended up with plates full of cut up and poked around rissoles which could not be used as leftovers because we couldn't distinguish between what was simply cut up and left, and what was cut up, chewed up, spat out and left.

So last night I served the rissoles whole. (albeit hidden under and disguised by tomato sauce!)
We sat down and started on grace and of course everyone took a turn. Sibling rivalry thrives during spiritual moments!

Now I'm not much of a chef. We eat varied, relatively healthy meals and snacks, and while I enjoy cooking, there is still much for me to learn. But only yesterday I was whipping up a batch of scones from scratch, without a recipe, and had commented to the Rooster how far my cooking abilities had come. How improved my kitchen efforts were to when we first met. How much I enjoyed cooking and believed I was doing pretty well with it all now. And he, being a smart man who rather enjoys scones, agreed.

So I was not prepared for Pant's heartfelt thanks when it came. With small head bowed, eyes squeezed tightly shut and lips moving to form his words with the cute slurred lisp he has, he prayed :
"Thankth God for my ninner. For my juith, for peath and cornth, for 'tato, and ..." he paused and looked at his rissole.
"For ....."
He raised one eyebrow at the rissole and eyed it closely.
"For...."
His brow creased, deep in thought over what word to use to exactly describe what was before him.
And then it came to him :
"Thankth God for thith BITHCUIT!"

I guess my rissoles need some more work.

Dishwasher Top Drawer Privileges

2008-11-15T21:02:00.000+11:00

Amongst the daily chores the older boys do, is unpacking the dishwasher. It's not an entirely popular chore, and often the root of much ill-will and frantic negotiation. Apparently getting stuck with unpacking the bottom shelf is the absolute pits - because it means you have to unpack the cutlery and put it away. And no one, in the history of mankind, could ever posibly want to Put. The. Cutlery. Away.

Now if the Rooster packed the dishwasher all the time, I would almost understand the distaste such a duty might invoke. He throws cutlery into the dishwasher like he's throwing hoops in the ring toss, oblivious to where they land. So long as the door shuts at the end, it's all good.

I am quite the opposite. I group the cutlery by kind, and ensure everything is facing handle-down so they are properly cleaned. (except knives which, for safety reasons, go handle up) And as I usually pack the dishwasher, I fail to see the drama behind getting "stuck" with unpacking the bottom shelf.

Yet calling dibs on unpacking the bottom drawer continues, and on days when we do not have a completely balanced and just system in place for awarding the Top Drawer Privileges (ie the days I forget who darn well did it yesterday because I just DON'T CARE!!) there is much conflict in our household. Occasionally it comes to violence against the offending party, but more often it involves sly digs at one another in verbal form or in small deeds designed solely to rile up the observer.

Which is why I recently found myself telling the Rabbit that we DO NOT lick the clean plates we remove from the dishwasher before putting them away.

And to pull out all the plates he had thus far licked, and put them on the bench for me to rewash.

And why I rewashed an entire load of plates.

Apparently the Rabbit wanted to rile up his brothers, and both Tubby and Pants are quite particular about cleanliness of certain items - for Pants it is HIS personal items (ie any plate or cup that is yellow or has a dog on it somewhere) and for Tubby it is ALL items.

So apparently carefully and deliberately licking each and every plate he touched was guaranteed to earn sweet revenge for the Rabbit, on his brothers who had "won" Top Drawer privileges.

We like our plates UNLICKED thankyouverymuch!

Important Lessons

2008-11-12T17:38:00.000+11:00

Just as I sat down to learn a little more about blogging and all it's extras, the Honey Girl came running in to me. She's just started toilet training - or rather I have started toilet training her!After a reluctant start, where we battled just WHOSE bladder it was and who would determine when and where it would co-operate (a battle I quickly and decisively lost, and then moved quickly into bribery territory which is far more effective anyway) she's doing well in the #1's department.

Surely this face could cause no trouble?!

So, I sit down and take a deep breath and revel in the silence (the children are outside) and the Honey Girl enters at lightning speed.

"I do poo! I do poo! Outside Mum, come see!"

Now aside from the obvious lack of excitement and motivation experienced when invited to attend a Poo Viewing, the Honey Girl is yet to distinguish between #1's and #2's. So as enticing as a Poo Viewing is, examining a urine sample on the back lawn is even less so.

And so I attempt to decline, but am met with her persistance to "Come on Mum! Come ON Mum!'.

Then I try distraction and as I begin to ask to show me her "Stella Jocks" (aka Dora underpants) it hits me : they certainly are not covering her cheeky little butt.

So then I think perhaps I had better have a little look outside, so we can determine where she has wee-ed so we can have a little celebration and a banana lolly. (Don't scoff - #1 tip in Negotiation with Children is to find their currency and deal in it. The Honey Girl is most definitely swayed by banana lollies!)

So I wearily rise from my comfortable chair, forget my longed-for moment of silence online and step into Excited Mummy mode, ready to celebrate the achievement of urinating in the backyard.

Except whilst attempting to find my focus, the Honey Girl has disappeared.

"Where are you HoneyGirl?" I call

And she responds "Here I am Mum, in the toilet, getting paper so you can pick it up".

Sweet, HoneyGirl - thanks for that!

WHY is it my darling daughter has finally learnt to distinguish between #1's and #2's the one and only time she managed to dump it in the backyard? And how exactly does one navigate a 1 acre backyard of lawn, shrubs, sand, dirt and scattered toys whilst barefoot and desperately hoping she does not unexpectedly but irrevocably locate the anticipated landmine with her bare foot???

Where it all begins .........

2008-11-11T09:22:00.000+11:00

The Rooster and I have lately found ourselves recalling things we've said to one of the kids, that we'd never imagined ourselves saying.
Most recently, it was "Don't wipe your boogers on the baby".

Loading our car - hereafterknown as the People Mover : Definitely NOT a Bus (the Rooster has iss-ews with being under 30, married with 5 kids and needing to drive a *ahem* bus!)- takes some time and effort. With one in a booster, 2 in full harnasses and one in a reverse facing seat, there's a lot of buckling to be done, and much arguing to be had.
I usually start with the baby - because he argues the least and seems quite entertained by the tomfoolery that goes on as I struggle to strap everyone else in.

So I take Boombah out to the car and buckle him in. I pass the Rabbit (5 years old) on my way back into the house and ask him to get into his seat, while I continue on and track down another opponent to carry and restrain. As I climb into the People Mover : Definitely NOT a Bus I notice the Rabbit sitting very calmly and quietly in his seat.

Which can mean one of 2 things - either OUR Rabbit has been abducted by aliens and replaced by an imposter who does not know how the Rabbit behaves. Or the Rabbit has done something he should not have done.

The Rabbit and his innocent look!

I go for Option 2, and start scanning the car for signs of sabotage.
Nothing.
Radio volume is not secretly turned up to deafening levels.
Blinkers, widnscreens wipers and hazard lights are not all switched on so when I turn the key all hell breaks loose while I try to work out which to turn off first.
Nothing has been done to any sibling's seat to antagonise them and thus innocently start yet another epic Car Wars battle.
Nothing.

As I begin to contemplate that perhaps there really IS life form out there and how likely it is that they HAVE taken the Rabbit for experimentation (and how quickly they will realise their mistake in human selection and hurry to send him back where he came from!) I gaze lovingly at my youngest.

Still strapped in his car seat, snuggled under a bunny rug and quietly watching me move around him. My eyes drink him for a short while - cute little sock-ed up toes poking out the end of his blanket. Chubby little fists clenched and being gently sucked. Bright blue eyes watching around him.

And a giant green booger planted in the center of his forehead.

Fancy marring this face !

And so it begins ............. after moving into detective mode and determining who was guilty (the Rabbit)and how to make him admit his guilt, (the age old - "If you tell me the truth you won't be in trouble. If you lie, you will be in trouble for lying AND for doing it. At 5, the rabbit has not yet worked out the endless lack of logic in such a threat and I plan to keep it that way for as long as possible!) I find myself giving a lecture on why we don't wipe boogers on the baby.

While the Rooster silently rolls on the ground behind me in hysterics.