5 Minutes of Fame .... or Not!

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

The Desperate Search for a Babysitter.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

And my boob started to sing. In Spanish.



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

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


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

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

Barbie Love

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

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

While no one is watching!


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

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

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

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!