Whose House??

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Luscious Lashes

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

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

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

Nana explained that they were beautiful. And perfectly normal.

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

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

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

And eat them.

Where do you go with THAT?!!

Arachnoids Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have very long legs and a fairly short body.

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

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

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

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

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

Stretching the Truth

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

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

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

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

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

*sigh*

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

His ego-boosting and confidence-instilling suggestion?

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

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

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

Young Love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some Explaining ....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naming Rights??!

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

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

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

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

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

"Why's that Pants?" I patiently asked

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


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