Never, since I had children, have I been allowed to go to the bathroom in peace.
Not once, I tell you.
My Beloved, on the other hand, (along with the husbands of every other woman I know when the subject has come up in conversation) can do his ablutions in absolute privacy.
The man can even wallow in the bathtub reading a book for up to an hour undisturbed.
But, as soon as I even think about taking a shower or answering the call of Nature, the natural reaction of my children is to desperately need me for something that cannot possibly wait just a few minutes more.
Due to a design flaw (just one of the many) in our supposed award-winning-architect designed (read: male, in every sense of the word) house, if the doors to the Master bedroom and the family laundry are open simultaneously, the neighbours get a direct view into our room…and whatever’s going on in there at the time.
Worst time is first thing in the morning, when the kids duly deposit their dirty washing then just have to come into my room whilst I’m having a rinse. Yes, all too often I’ve been caught with a real ‘roo-in-the-headlights look as too late I realize my error in strutting out of the shower sans towel.
The same architect also thought it a good idea to install the type of window in the ensuite that if opened to let the steam out or fresh air in, enables the next door neighbours- and those next door to them- a clear view through too. I’m positive it’s not quite what the muppets meant when they sang about how you get to meet the people in your street, on those children’s TV shows. (Just quietly, I've never lived in the kind of neighbourhood where you meet the kind of people they do on a daily basis!)
Nonetheless, I am sure that the entire neighbourhood knows it whenever I’m ‘visiting the ladies’- if not for the aforementioned ludicrous layout, but by the accompanying “I am in the bathroom, please leave me be!” from me.
I actually started composing this blog in my head whilst parked upon the porcelain- to the strains of “Mu-um, he called me dumbhead!” and “Mu-um, can you fill up my water bottle?” and this particular chorus also included my Beloved at the door: “Are you in there? You’re wanted on the ‘phone.”
For goodness sake, let me pee in peace please!
But no, a quiet time on the pot is not my lot in life. Nor can I ever seek solitude in the shower. As for tranquility in the tub- forget about it.
So, again I pose the question: does a mother ever get some privacy in the privy?
Unfortunately every mum I’ve asked has the same answer, and it is not the same one to: Does a bear poop in the woods?!
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
One Small Step for Womankind
I’ve been chiding myself for being too physically inactive lately.
Oh I had good reason after I was injured in a car accident late in 2007, but I’m almost walking without a limp these days and really should be fitter. But I have to admit it’s been quite a while since I’ve been intimately acquainted with a gym, a pool, or even the local jogging trail. It’s even longer since I took part in team sports of any sort (that one’s definitely back in the days BC…before children that is).
So I was thinking I should take up something, anything, in order to enhance my endurance, and reduce the risk of some certain diseases (I’ve recently had reason to reflect on same, thanks to nasty things happening- thankfully to other people).
But after this past week, I’m starting to think that maybe I do get enough exercise after all, just by being a mother. Cool.
Now, it’s not like my son doesn’t have enough medical appointments to keep us busy already, but since he happened to break yet another bone after yet another incident with a chair (oh, don’t ask), it was back to the hospital again.
Our local hospital is a 'teaching hospital', so it’s pretty darn big. To entertain myself (and take my mind off even more medical bills) I started counting our footsteps, just to see how much ground we covered in the almost 3.5 hours we were there.
OK, so from car to the clinic (to see the doctor) = 257 steps.
The clinic to X Ray department (to check for fractures) = 583 steps.
X Ray back to Clinic (to get results) = 583 steps.
Clinic to Physio (to see a therapist who wasn’t even there, d’oh) = 186 steps.
Physio to OT (to get measured for a splint he couldn’t wear) = 112 steps.
OT to the Pharmacy (to put in script for chemo drugs) = 259 steps.
Pharmacy to cafeteria (purely killing time by filling up the boy) = 368 steps (would’ve been more if we took the stairs).
Cafeteria to Physio (to apply plaster) = 432 steps.
Physio to the Pharmacy (to pick up medications) = 287 steps.
Pharmacy back to car (to collapse) = 225 steps.
Total = 3292 steps! Even more, if you count the pacing back and forth I did whilst waiting for doctors, radiographers, therapists, and pharmacists, and just plain old stressing out.
Yep, seems I got a decent workout after all, simply by having a son have yet another altercation with a chair (no really, don’t ask). Not that I’d recommend it as a motivation to get moving.
Oh and with all that exercise, I didn’t feel at all guilty for the pizza we picked up on the way home for dinner that night.
Next time I think I’ll wear a pedometer to the supermarket … with a bit of luck it’ll cancel out the calories of the confectionary aisle.
Jx
©2009
Oh I had good reason after I was injured in a car accident late in 2007, but I’m almost walking without a limp these days and really should be fitter. But I have to admit it’s been quite a while since I’ve been intimately acquainted with a gym, a pool, or even the local jogging trail. It’s even longer since I took part in team sports of any sort (that one’s definitely back in the days BC…before children that is).
So I was thinking I should take up something, anything, in order to enhance my endurance, and reduce the risk of some certain diseases (I’ve recently had reason to reflect on same, thanks to nasty things happening- thankfully to other people).
But after this past week, I’m starting to think that maybe I do get enough exercise after all, just by being a mother. Cool.
Now, it’s not like my son doesn’t have enough medical appointments to keep us busy already, but since he happened to break yet another bone after yet another incident with a chair (oh, don’t ask), it was back to the hospital again.
Our local hospital is a 'teaching hospital', so it’s pretty darn big. To entertain myself (and take my mind off even more medical bills) I started counting our footsteps, just to see how much ground we covered in the almost 3.5 hours we were there.
OK, so from car to the clinic (to see the doctor) = 257 steps.
The clinic to X Ray department (to check for fractures) = 583 steps.
X Ray back to Clinic (to get results) = 583 steps.
Clinic to Physio (to see a therapist who wasn’t even there, d’oh) = 186 steps.
Physio to OT (to get measured for a splint he couldn’t wear) = 112 steps.
OT to the Pharmacy (to put in script for chemo drugs) = 259 steps.
Pharmacy to cafeteria (purely killing time by filling up the boy) = 368 steps (would’ve been more if we took the stairs).
Cafeteria to Physio (to apply plaster) = 432 steps.
Physio to the Pharmacy (to pick up medications) = 287 steps.
Pharmacy back to car (to collapse) = 225 steps.
Total = 3292 steps! Even more, if you count the pacing back and forth I did whilst waiting for doctors, radiographers, therapists, and pharmacists, and just plain old stressing out.
Yep, seems I got a decent workout after all, simply by having a son have yet another altercation with a chair (no really, don’t ask). Not that I’d recommend it as a motivation to get moving.
Oh and with all that exercise, I didn’t feel at all guilty for the pizza we picked up on the way home for dinner that night.
Next time I think I’ll wear a pedometer to the supermarket … with a bit of luck it’ll cancel out the calories of the confectionary aisle.
Jx
©2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
45 Odd Socks
There are some questions in life that will never be answered.
One is: How can one small slice of chocolate cake make your favourite jeans shrink overnight?
Another is: Why would a man ever think a ‘comb-over’ is a good look?
But the number one question that seems to pose a problem to households all over the world, since human beings first donned clothing, is: Where do socks go after they enter the washing machine?
It is the bane of my existence as the resident washer woman in this particular household. And I know I’m not alone.
Even for a family of four (occasionally five) there is enough clothing to have me visiting the laundry room every day of every week of every month of every year (sadly there’s no room for a holiday for Good Friday or Christmas Day in this routine). Take one 7 y.o. boy, add a 5 y.o. girl, a truck-driving husband, and occasional visits from a teenager, and there is enough dirty stuff to keep our house in a perpetual cycle of wash-rinse-repeat. And considering I’m the one who goes through the least changes of clothes on any given day, I’m also the one who gets to do the honours (or horrors as the case may be) with the washing. How ironic. (Or should I say ironic?)
Take today’s effort - after an hour and a half of solid sorting and folding, guess what I was left with? Come on say it with me… 45 odd socks.
How does that even happen?
I mean, you buy them in pairs, surely they were both worn at once, and put into the wash at the same time … so how on earth, I ask you, does one end up with 45 odd socks?
And what does one do with them?
Oh sure, I could pair them up creatively and tell everyone we’re rebelling against conformity for feet. I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time my Beloved has worn mismatched socks under his work boots (in his defense, black and blue do look pretty much the same at night). I could be crafty and donate them to my children’s school, there’s nearly enough for each kid in each class to make a sock puppet or two.
Or I could do what I always do, throw them into the lost socks basket and hope that one day their partner will show up from wherever it is they went in the wash.
Some of the socks have been waiting for a mate for about 2 years now. In fact, there are some in there without a pair that don’t even have feet to fit anymore (kids do have a habit of growing, don’t they?) And I am positive that some socks shouldn’t even be here- I’m the sole sock buyer for the family and I sure as hell don’t recognise them!
So where do they come from? And where do they go?
There have been many theories. Not all of them scientific. But in the interests of entertainment (for me, even if no one else) I’ll recount a few here.
1. The ol' Black Hole. If indeed there are wormholes sucking up these socks- why would worms want them? They don’t have any feet!
2. Alien abduction. Surely even little green men would like to have two matching little green socks (unless of course they also go for the 'comb-over', then it’s not totally outside the realm of possibility).
3. A sock monster. Seriously, even if I would fall for the first two, there’s just no way I could go for that one. But some people do. Some people are desperate for a sock solution.
Then there are the less-creatively minded, those who have thought long and hard about the enigma that is odd socks; and they have put forward the theory that small items like socks are the main offenders for crawling into crevices in the washing machine. Some have even presented the evidence of stray socks wrapped around the agitator. Well, pooh. Where’s the fun in that?
Whoever these sox offenders are, one thing’s for sure, I will remain forever optimistic and keep dropping strays into the aforementioned laundry basket.
And I live in hope that these 45 odd socks, just like the rest of us, will one day find their solemate.
Jx
©2009
One is: How can one small slice of chocolate cake make your favourite jeans shrink overnight?
Another is: Why would a man ever think a ‘comb-over’ is a good look?
But the number one question that seems to pose a problem to households all over the world, since human beings first donned clothing, is: Where do socks go after they enter the washing machine?
It is the bane of my existence as the resident washer woman in this particular household. And I know I’m not alone.
Even for a family of four (occasionally five) there is enough clothing to have me visiting the laundry room every day of every week of every month of every year (sadly there’s no room for a holiday for Good Friday or Christmas Day in this routine). Take one 7 y.o. boy, add a 5 y.o. girl, a truck-driving husband, and occasional visits from a teenager, and there is enough dirty stuff to keep our house in a perpetual cycle of wash-rinse-repeat. And considering I’m the one who goes through the least changes of clothes on any given day, I’m also the one who gets to do the honours (or horrors as the case may be) with the washing. How ironic. (Or should I say ironic?)
Take today’s effort - after an hour and a half of solid sorting and folding, guess what I was left with? Come on say it with me… 45 odd socks.
How does that even happen?
I mean, you buy them in pairs, surely they were both worn at once, and put into the wash at the same time … so how on earth, I ask you, does one end up with 45 odd socks?
And what does one do with them?
Oh sure, I could pair them up creatively and tell everyone we’re rebelling against conformity for feet. I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time my Beloved has worn mismatched socks under his work boots (in his defense, black and blue do look pretty much the same at night). I could be crafty and donate them to my children’s school, there’s nearly enough for each kid in each class to make a sock puppet or two.
Or I could do what I always do, throw them into the lost socks basket and hope that one day their partner will show up from wherever it is they went in the wash.
Some of the socks have been waiting for a mate for about 2 years now. In fact, there are some in there without a pair that don’t even have feet to fit anymore (kids do have a habit of growing, don’t they?) And I am positive that some socks shouldn’t even be here- I’m the sole sock buyer for the family and I sure as hell don’t recognise them!
So where do they come from? And where do they go?
There have been many theories. Not all of them scientific. But in the interests of entertainment (for me, even if no one else) I’ll recount a few here.
1. The ol' Black Hole. If indeed there are wormholes sucking up these socks- why would worms want them? They don’t have any feet!
2. Alien abduction. Surely even little green men would like to have two matching little green socks (unless of course they also go for the 'comb-over', then it’s not totally outside the realm of possibility).
3. A sock monster. Seriously, even if I would fall for the first two, there’s just no way I could go for that one. But some people do. Some people are desperate for a sock solution.
Then there are the less-creatively minded, those who have thought long and hard about the enigma that is odd socks; and they have put forward the theory that small items like socks are the main offenders for crawling into crevices in the washing machine. Some have even presented the evidence of stray socks wrapped around the agitator. Well, pooh. Where’s the fun in that?
Whoever these sox offenders are, one thing’s for sure, I will remain forever optimistic and keep dropping strays into the aforementioned laundry basket.
And I live in hope that these 45 odd socks, just like the rest of us, will one day find their solemate.
Jx
©2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
And now, a Blog with Heart
NOTE: I'm reposting this one from another blog of mine, in view of what happened to Michael Jackson yesterday- 50 is too darn young to die.
I just got a ‘phone call: my 39 year old female cousin is in hospital after having a heart attack.
Not good news at the best of times.
Rotten news if you also happen to be a 39 year old female!
I know there’s a history of heart problems in the family- my grandfather arrived home from work one day, walked in the front door, and dropped dead. Just like that.
And there are other cousins who have had bypass surgery- single, double, even triple. But they were much older males.
Seriously, who has a heart attack at 39?
Well, apparently, a lot.
Heart disease (which also includes stroke and blood vessel issues) affects 1 in 5 Australians, and every 10 minutes another Aussie dies from it.
In fact, in 2007, 47% of those who died were women!
It shouldn’t surprise me, I know. After all, one of my school friends was Fiona Coote. So I know that heart conditions can strike anyone at any age. You just don’t think it’s going to strike so close to home.
So I visit the Heart Foundation website and run through the risk factors:
• Smoking (no way)
• High Blood cholesterol (no)
• Physical Inactivity (yeah)
• Diabetes (no)
• High Blood pressure (no)
• Being overweight (ok, yes)
• Depression (yes, unfortunately)
Plus being a little too close for comfort to the 40-65 year age group, with a family history of heart disease, well that ups the ante- and not in my favour.
After giving me the news about my cousin (resting comfortably, and with luck will come good) my mother and I revisit her own experience with heart troubles.
And let this be a little lesson to all of how not to go about it.
One Sunday a few months back, mum was sitting up in church when she started to feel ‘a little off’. She described the feeling as a bit woozy and a bit sick in the tummy. So what did mum do? She said a prayer, of course! Good Catholic that she is (good grief).
A few days later, at a scheduled checkup with her doctor, she happened to mention this incident, only just as an afterthought, mind you. Naturally, the doctor took the whole thing a little more seriously than my mother, and scheduled some tests….which showed that mum had in fact suffered a small heart attack!!
In giving the results to mum the doctor said, “You really should’ve done something about it.” Mum said: “I did, I said a prayer.” The doctor said, “That’s not going to do you any good.” To which mum replied “It worked, didn’t it?!"
As you can imagine, mother dearest got a stern talking to- first from the doctor, then from 3 very worried daughters (albeit whilst choking back the laughter).
So I guess I should thank my cousin for having a heart attack. It’s a timely reminder that we are indeed mortal creatures, and really should look after ourselves a lot better than we do at times. (Hands up other parents who put their own health last?)
It’s excellent timing really, because June is when the Heart Foundation have their “Go Red for Women” Day, raising funds and awareness for the Heart Foundation's campaign for ladies.
While red is not my usual colour of choice, I’m making sure I choose at least a little something in that particular shade as I go about my business this month, because it’s a lot better colour than deathly white…don’t you think?
Jx
©8 June 2009
I just got a ‘phone call: my 39 year old female cousin is in hospital after having a heart attack.
Not good news at the best of times.
Rotten news if you also happen to be a 39 year old female!
I know there’s a history of heart problems in the family- my grandfather arrived home from work one day, walked in the front door, and dropped dead. Just like that.
And there are other cousins who have had bypass surgery- single, double, even triple. But they were much older males.
Seriously, who has a heart attack at 39?
Well, apparently, a lot.
Heart disease (which also includes stroke and blood vessel issues) affects 1 in 5 Australians, and every 10 minutes another Aussie dies from it.
In fact, in 2007, 47% of those who died were women!
It shouldn’t surprise me, I know. After all, one of my school friends was Fiona Coote. So I know that heart conditions can strike anyone at any age. You just don’t think it’s going to strike so close to home.
So I visit the Heart Foundation website and run through the risk factors:
• Smoking (no way)
• High Blood cholesterol (no)
• Physical Inactivity (yeah)
• Diabetes (no)
• High Blood pressure (no)
• Being overweight (ok, yes)
• Depression (yes, unfortunately)
Plus being a little too close for comfort to the 40-65 year age group, with a family history of heart disease, well that ups the ante- and not in my favour.
After giving me the news about my cousin (resting comfortably, and with luck will come good) my mother and I revisit her own experience with heart troubles.
And let this be a little lesson to all of how not to go about it.
One Sunday a few months back, mum was sitting up in church when she started to feel ‘a little off’. She described the feeling as a bit woozy and a bit sick in the tummy. So what did mum do? She said a prayer, of course! Good Catholic that she is (good grief).
A few days later, at a scheduled checkup with her doctor, she happened to mention this incident, only just as an afterthought, mind you. Naturally, the doctor took the whole thing a little more seriously than my mother, and scheduled some tests….which showed that mum had in fact suffered a small heart attack!!
In giving the results to mum the doctor said, “You really should’ve done something about it.” Mum said: “I did, I said a prayer.” The doctor said, “That’s not going to do you any good.” To which mum replied “It worked, didn’t it?!"
As you can imagine, mother dearest got a stern talking to- first from the doctor, then from 3 very worried daughters (albeit whilst choking back the laughter).
So I guess I should thank my cousin for having a heart attack. It’s a timely reminder that we are indeed mortal creatures, and really should look after ourselves a lot better than we do at times. (Hands up other parents who put their own health last?)
It’s excellent timing really, because June is when the Heart Foundation have their “Go Red for Women” Day, raising funds and awareness for the Heart Foundation's campaign for ladies.
While red is not my usual colour of choice, I’m making sure I choose at least a little something in that particular shade as I go about my business this month, because it’s a lot better colour than deathly white…don’t you think?
Jx
©8 June 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Get a Haircut, and Get a Real Job!
One of my sisters is a hairdresser.
Why anyone would choose that profession is beyond me.
Oh don’t get me wrong, I admire the lads and lasses who work wonders for those who are follicularly challenged. I just don’t have the same skills as my sis when it comes to doing do’s. In fact I would be so honest as to admit that my big sister has more talent in her little pinky, than I possess in both hands combined!
Take my daughter, it's a battle to run a brush through her hair, let alone style it into something as simple as pony or piggy tails! Now, part of that’s her, part of that’s me, but even my little girl chose to lose some locks to reduce the time I have my hands in her hair. Wise move.
And here’s a good time to confess to having had an epiphany that I was indeed becoming my mum the day I threatened to whap my daughter on the head with the brush if she didn’t. sit. still!
But I can also thank my maternal gene pool for gifting us with the type of mane that simply will not be managed for any length of time; I’m yet to find an industrial strength hairspray that will hold our hair. (But at least I was consistent in my school photos- pick the kid in the class with the messy tresses and there you go.)
My son, too, has fairly unruly curls, but because he’s a boy he can get away with it looking like he just crawled out of bed. Truth be told, he probably did. (I know, some people pay a fortune for the bed head look, so at least we save money getting it for free!)
As for my Beloved, well his hair is the strangest I’ve ever seen. And I mean that in a nice way. Truly. It’s just a bit too much like a steel wool afro for my liking. Imagine Michael Jackson back in the day (may he RIP), crossed with a Brillo pad, and that’s kinda the hair we’re talking.
But after one too many comments à la “Hey Garfunkel, where’s Simon?” he figured it was time to put his life on the line and his hair in my hands (and all over the towel, the floor, the dog, the kids, down the front of me…) once again.
And so it was through ‘shear’ desperation (pun intended) he sat himself down in front of me last weekend, clippers in hand.
Now, if there’s one thing I insist before I do someone else’s hair, it's this: they have to brush it first. If that happens, there’s less tears all ‘round.
It was fairly obvious that he had not done so when the number 4 comb got stuck in there, and had him physically lifting his butt up off the chair every time I tried to pull it out.
And at this stage of the game with one side of his hair clipped and the other sticking up, he was looking kinda like that guy from Boney M (who puts a part in a ‘fro anyway, I ask you?)!
After much coaxing from me (and more than a little cursing from the man in question) we got the job done- only to watch in amusement and amazement as the local birdlife swooped in to carry off the clippings. I sure wouldn’t choose to use it to feather my nest (seriously, who wants a hairy backside?)
Now, there’s an old wives’ tale that if a bird steals your hair, you’ll go mad. But in my Beloved’s case, I’d say it was the birds that had to watch out- and I’m sure even the backyard cuckoos are a little more so after collecting his curls.
But I’m no birdbrain- I managed to get the clippers down to a number 2, so that despite the fact that he’ll be wearing a beanie to work for a good few nights yet to keep the chill off his newly rediscovered ears, at least none of us need to go through the harassment of hairdressing at home for a long while to come.
And despite my earlier comments about those who do this haircutting stuff for money, I'm thinking there could be something in it for me after all.
Next time my Beloved asks for a trim, I’ll try to remember to set up the video camera before I begin…I hear Funniest Home Videos pays big dollars for the kind of stuff I see for free.
Jx
©2009
Why anyone would choose that profession is beyond me.
Oh don’t get me wrong, I admire the lads and lasses who work wonders for those who are follicularly challenged. I just don’t have the same skills as my sis when it comes to doing do’s. In fact I would be so honest as to admit that my big sister has more talent in her little pinky, than I possess in both hands combined!
Take my daughter, it's a battle to run a brush through her hair, let alone style it into something as simple as pony or piggy tails! Now, part of that’s her, part of that’s me, but even my little girl chose to lose some locks to reduce the time I have my hands in her hair. Wise move.
And here’s a good time to confess to having had an epiphany that I was indeed becoming my mum the day I threatened to whap my daughter on the head with the brush if she didn’t. sit. still!
But I can also thank my maternal gene pool for gifting us with the type of mane that simply will not be managed for any length of time; I’m yet to find an industrial strength hairspray that will hold our hair. (But at least I was consistent in my school photos- pick the kid in the class with the messy tresses and there you go.)
My son, too, has fairly unruly curls, but because he’s a boy he can get away with it looking like he just crawled out of bed. Truth be told, he probably did. (I know, some people pay a fortune for the bed head look, so at least we save money getting it for free!)
As for my Beloved, well his hair is the strangest I’ve ever seen. And I mean that in a nice way. Truly. It’s just a bit too much like a steel wool afro for my liking. Imagine Michael Jackson back in the day (may he RIP), crossed with a Brillo pad, and that’s kinda the hair we’re talking.
But after one too many comments à la “Hey Garfunkel, where’s Simon?” he figured it was time to put his life on the line and his hair in my hands (and all over the towel, the floor, the dog, the kids, down the front of me…) once again.
And so it was through ‘shear’ desperation (pun intended) he sat himself down in front of me last weekend, clippers in hand.
Now, if there’s one thing I insist before I do someone else’s hair, it's this: they have to brush it first. If that happens, there’s less tears all ‘round.
It was fairly obvious that he had not done so when the number 4 comb got stuck in there, and had him physically lifting his butt up off the chair every time I tried to pull it out.
And at this stage of the game with one side of his hair clipped and the other sticking up, he was looking kinda like that guy from Boney M (who puts a part in a ‘fro anyway, I ask you?)!
After much coaxing from me (and more than a little cursing from the man in question) we got the job done- only to watch in amusement and amazement as the local birdlife swooped in to carry off the clippings. I sure wouldn’t choose to use it to feather my nest (seriously, who wants a hairy backside?)
Now, there’s an old wives’ tale that if a bird steals your hair, you’ll go mad. But in my Beloved’s case, I’d say it was the birds that had to watch out- and I’m sure even the backyard cuckoos are a little more so after collecting his curls.
But I’m no birdbrain- I managed to get the clippers down to a number 2, so that despite the fact that he’ll be wearing a beanie to work for a good few nights yet to keep the chill off his newly rediscovered ears, at least none of us need to go through the harassment of hairdressing at home for a long while to come.
And despite my earlier comments about those who do this haircutting stuff for money, I'm thinking there could be something in it for me after all.
Next time my Beloved asks for a trim, I’ll try to remember to set up the video camera before I begin…I hear Funniest Home Videos pays big dollars for the kind of stuff I see for free.
Jx
©2009
Mum's the Word
My mother has decided to live for another 20 years, “if it’s not a burden on anyone.”
It’s a funny thing to say, don’t you think?
But it’s also got me thinking about what life has been like for her over the past 70 or so years she’s already been around.
Born 'between the wars' she has certainly seen a lot of changes in this war-torn world. It hasn’t always been easy, that’s for sure.
But I wonder if we make it harder for ourselves in this day and age. We certainly seem to.
As I struggle through another day with my two genetic offerings to humanity in a 3BR home, I shake my head at just how my grandmother coped with 10 people under the one roof, with only two bedrooms! (There was an addition as the additions came along, but that only took the bedrooms up to a grand total of 4!!)
And as we seem to barely survive on one main income, I marvel at how my grandfather provided for his family ‘in the olden days’. He was but a worker in a saw mill, so there wasn’t any golden handshake awaiting him on retirement.
Fast forward a few years and I really wonder how my mum raised three daughters on a pension, with no sort of support from my father (– oh yes this was before the new legislation that gives the Child Support Agency the power to pursue non-paying parents). Yet she paid off the house, put us through private school, and we never went hungry, really. Sure, we got all excited about the Vinnies’ hamper at Christmastime, but our clothes were always clean and usually fit us (except when we were going through the 80s when everything was BIG!).
Our mother managed to get us to school, and church, and sport, and shopping, and social outings without the use of a car. Whereas I’ve felt absolutely stranded with the recent troubles mine’s been giving me.
And mum kept us relatively healthy too, considering her own challenges (bilateral breast cancer, degenerative disc disease, emphysema, asthma, macular degeneration, IBS, just some of the biggies). Whereas I'm almost in despair when one of my little loved ones brings home yet another lurgy from school (I can cope with the big JIA ok though, funnily enough).
I guess not having much means you don’t want much, and mum’s always been a simple sort of lady when it comes to material possessions. Oh she likes a little bit of 'bling' and she was rapt when she finally got the house painted and carpeted for the first time in 30+ years (after we’d all moved out, of course; and it appears I’m aiming for the same timeline, LOL) … but through it all, she’s the one who likes to keep the good stuff for visitors or special occasions, and is almost embarrassed by our shows of affection come Christmas and birthday (like today- Happy Birthday Mum!)
Compare this with a world of ‘Generation Y’ers who expect a 10% pay rise despite this current global financial crisis (did you see that in the news recently?) and who simply cannot operate without the latest iphone, ipod, i30, and i-anything-else I’ve missed. Even we 'Gen X' crew take a lot for granted.
OK, so sure mum sometimes gets herself in trouble with using out-dated phrases in these modern times (like telling the milkman my sister was knocked up after a hard day on the job!), and sure she is yet to grasp the concept that a mobile phone works much better if you actually take it with you.
But if living for 7 decades on this particular planet gives one the same dignity and sense of humour that my mum possesses, then long live us all I say!
It has crossed my mind how I’ll go when mum goes. We’ve had occasion to reflect on it when her health has been more than a bit shabby. And I admit to being really worried about how my kids will take the news when Nanny’s not here anymore.
So if the old girl decides to hang around for another 20 years, I don’t think that will be a burden at all. In fact, I wouldn’t even mind if she stretched it out long enough to get that telegram from The Queen (provided Lizzy can hang out ‘til then too).
Jx
©29 May 2009
It’s a funny thing to say, don’t you think?
But it’s also got me thinking about what life has been like for her over the past 70 or so years she’s already been around.
Born 'between the wars' she has certainly seen a lot of changes in this war-torn world. It hasn’t always been easy, that’s for sure.
But I wonder if we make it harder for ourselves in this day and age. We certainly seem to.
As I struggle through another day with my two genetic offerings to humanity in a 3BR home, I shake my head at just how my grandmother coped with 10 people under the one roof, with only two bedrooms! (There was an addition as the additions came along, but that only took the bedrooms up to a grand total of 4!!)
And as we seem to barely survive on one main income, I marvel at how my grandfather provided for his family ‘in the olden days’. He was but a worker in a saw mill, so there wasn’t any golden handshake awaiting him on retirement.
Fast forward a few years and I really wonder how my mum raised three daughters on a pension, with no sort of support from my father (– oh yes this was before the new legislation that gives the Child Support Agency the power to pursue non-paying parents). Yet she paid off the house, put us through private school, and we never went hungry, really. Sure, we got all excited about the Vinnies’ hamper at Christmastime, but our clothes were always clean and usually fit us (except when we were going through the 80s when everything was BIG!).
Our mother managed to get us to school, and church, and sport, and shopping, and social outings without the use of a car. Whereas I’ve felt absolutely stranded with the recent troubles mine’s been giving me.
And mum kept us relatively healthy too, considering her own challenges (bilateral breast cancer, degenerative disc disease, emphysema, asthma, macular degeneration, IBS, just some of the biggies). Whereas I'm almost in despair when one of my little loved ones brings home yet another lurgy from school (I can cope with the big JIA ok though, funnily enough).
I guess not having much means you don’t want much, and mum’s always been a simple sort of lady when it comes to material possessions. Oh she likes a little bit of 'bling' and she was rapt when she finally got the house painted and carpeted for the first time in 30+ years (after we’d all moved out, of course; and it appears I’m aiming for the same timeline, LOL) … but through it all, she’s the one who likes to keep the good stuff for visitors or special occasions, and is almost embarrassed by our shows of affection come Christmas and birthday (like today- Happy Birthday Mum!)
Compare this with a world of ‘Generation Y’ers who expect a 10% pay rise despite this current global financial crisis (did you see that in the news recently?) and who simply cannot operate without the latest iphone, ipod, i30, and i-anything-else I’ve missed. Even we 'Gen X' crew take a lot for granted.
OK, so sure mum sometimes gets herself in trouble with using out-dated phrases in these modern times (like telling the milkman my sister was knocked up after a hard day on the job!), and sure she is yet to grasp the concept that a mobile phone works much better if you actually take it with you.
But if living for 7 decades on this particular planet gives one the same dignity and sense of humour that my mum possesses, then long live us all I say!
It has crossed my mind how I’ll go when mum goes. We’ve had occasion to reflect on it when her health has been more than a bit shabby. And I admit to being really worried about how my kids will take the news when Nanny’s not here anymore.
So if the old girl decides to hang around for another 20 years, I don’t think that will be a burden at all. In fact, I wouldn’t even mind if she stretched it out long enough to get that telegram from The Queen (provided Lizzy can hang out ‘til then too).
Jx
©29 May 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Too much Testosterone...So little Time
If you logged onto my blog thinking you were in for some juicy news about a cougar-cub on the prowl, well I’m sorry to disappoint you- the story here is much more mundane, although you just might see some animal action if you read on…
We’re car-hunting at the moment. And hunting seems a close to appropriate word for it- it is a jungle out there in used car territory!
I’m also starting to think that the representatives selling these vehicles wouldn’t be entirely out of place wearing animal skins whilst beating their chests about how good a deal they’re doing you.
At the very least, they remind me of a pack of wild dogs chasing a scent.
I’m a big one when it comes to researching if we're about to outlay any significant amount of money. Partly because we never seem to have that kind of cash ready to go too early on in the piece; also because if I am going to hand over our hard-earned dollars, I want to make darn sure that someone else is going to work for it as well!
So I scour the motor vehicle classifieds, check out the Trading Post online, log onto the plethora of places that offer ‘realistic’ valuations on used cars, sign up for eNewsletters with the latest hot deals, and make the odd phone call to scout out the pedigreed from the mongrels before we go see who’s best in show.
But the other day, on impulse, I stopped in at a caryard I drive past on my way to work, and took a walk through the automotive graveyard (which should’ve tipped me off straight up as the whole arrangement kinda reminded me of carcasses around a kennel). There were cars in every body shape and size– sedan, hatchback, ute, 2, 4, and All-Wheel-Drives, and those funny little coupés and convertibles mostly driven by men who like to feel the wind in what hair they have left.
Anyway, not long after I entered this classic masculine domain, the dominant male in the pack came sniffing around:
"So, how can I help you today?"
(Um, I’m here to get my legs waxed, how do you think you can help me?) “Yesss, what can you tell me about this car?”
After much prowling and posturing, he proceeded to parley with me about the various pros and cons of the carcasses -I mean, cars- answered a few questions, got out a business card and then said the fatal words: “So bring your husband in with you and we’ll take it from there.”
Now if there’s ever been anything to raise my hackles, that’d be it.
I growled out a “Thankyou” and slunk back to my low-value trade-in.
See, my husband (God love him), though he possesses the XY gene that apparently automatically provides one with an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things motorised, has never been in "top gear" when it comes to the mechanical (mind you, he does bear a passing resemblance to Jeremy Clarkson in hair and height). He takes care of the basics, but is lacking a basic instinct when it comes to bargaining.
And when it comes to driving home a deal, my Beloved best take the passenger seat.
My husband squirms in said seat when I ask questions like “Is it a full-sized spare?”, “Do you have a fuel consumption comparison?”, and the good old conversation starter (or stopper, depending on the answer) “Why’s it for sale?”
And my Beloved is well and truly reaching for the door handle when it comes to fine-tuning; “So that’s with all the mats and plastics and tint included, yes?”
Therefore my husband knows if anyone in any way suggests that I bring him in to seal a deal, the writing's on the wall- and it's an obituary at that.
Nosirree, that certain car dealer might be top dog when it comes to his particular pack, but he found out it can be a real bitch to bargain with the one actually holding the purse strings.
So maybe there was the world’s best car deal waiting for me in that pokey little yard I still go past on an almost daily basis, but damned if I’ll be driving anything out of there.
And it looks like the hunt is to be continued…
Jx
©2009
We’re car-hunting at the moment. And hunting seems a close to appropriate word for it- it is a jungle out there in used car territory!
I’m also starting to think that the representatives selling these vehicles wouldn’t be entirely out of place wearing animal skins whilst beating their chests about how good a deal they’re doing you.
At the very least, they remind me of a pack of wild dogs chasing a scent.
I’m a big one when it comes to researching if we're about to outlay any significant amount of money. Partly because we never seem to have that kind of cash ready to go too early on in the piece; also because if I am going to hand over our hard-earned dollars, I want to make darn sure that someone else is going to work for it as well!
So I scour the motor vehicle classifieds, check out the Trading Post online, log onto the plethora of places that offer ‘realistic’ valuations on used cars, sign up for eNewsletters with the latest hot deals, and make the odd phone call to scout out the pedigreed from the mongrels before we go see who’s best in show.
But the other day, on impulse, I stopped in at a caryard I drive past on my way to work, and took a walk through the automotive graveyard (which should’ve tipped me off straight up as the whole arrangement kinda reminded me of carcasses around a kennel). There were cars in every body shape and size– sedan, hatchback, ute, 2, 4, and All-Wheel-Drives, and those funny little coupés and convertibles mostly driven by men who like to feel the wind in what hair they have left.
Anyway, not long after I entered this classic masculine domain, the dominant male in the pack came sniffing around:
"So, how can I help you today?"
(Um, I’m here to get my legs waxed, how do you think you can help me?) “Yesss, what can you tell me about this car?”
After much prowling and posturing, he proceeded to parley with me about the various pros and cons of the carcasses -I mean, cars- answered a few questions, got out a business card and then said the fatal words: “So bring your husband in with you and we’ll take it from there.”
Now if there’s ever been anything to raise my hackles, that’d be it.
I growled out a “Thankyou” and slunk back to my low-value trade-in.
See, my husband (God love him), though he possesses the XY gene that apparently automatically provides one with an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things motorised, has never been in "top gear" when it comes to the mechanical (mind you, he does bear a passing resemblance to Jeremy Clarkson in hair and height). He takes care of the basics, but is lacking a basic instinct when it comes to bargaining.
And when it comes to driving home a deal, my Beloved best take the passenger seat.
My husband squirms in said seat when I ask questions like “Is it a full-sized spare?”, “Do you have a fuel consumption comparison?”, and the good old conversation starter (or stopper, depending on the answer) “Why’s it for sale?”
And my Beloved is well and truly reaching for the door handle when it comes to fine-tuning; “So that’s with all the mats and plastics and tint included, yes?”
Therefore my husband knows if anyone in any way suggests that I bring him in to seal a deal, the writing's on the wall- and it's an obituary at that.
Nosirree, that certain car dealer might be top dog when it comes to his particular pack, but he found out it can be a real bitch to bargain with the one actually holding the purse strings.
So maybe there was the world’s best car deal waiting for me in that pokey little yard I still go past on an almost daily basis, but damned if I’ll be driving anything out of there.
And it looks like the hunt is to be continued…
Jx
©2009
Air Apparent
I knew I should’ve changed my socks.
But at 6.45am on a public holiday, one can be forgiven for not thinking straight. Or at least for not planning any further ahead than a cuppa coffee for the trip to the airport, at any rate.
My boss was a little early in collecting me, which was quite fine as I was ready and waiting, just filling in time by giving my kids a couple more cuddles to stock us all up for the 3 days of absences on the way.
My bag was packed, and off we went to Williamtown.
At least the trip to the airstrip went smoothly.
We check in, collect our boarding passes and head for the gate (sadly, my borrowed carry-on could not be carried on; a tad over a kilo overweight and a smidge too wide).
Now, you gotta love the newly-upgraded secure status of these places; it’s reassuring for travellers that there’s but a slim chance of anything untoward happening whilst you’re en route to your destination. But I really am starting to suspect that I have a sign on my forehead (visible only to airport staff) that says “Pick me for the full security routine”.
I had my first inkling of it when I went to the USA for a conference on Juvenile Arthritis in 2007 with my small son in tow. Without fail, every time we arrived at a checkpoint, I was the lucky lucky traveller they ‘randomly selected’ to check their luggage, their handbag, even their body! I actually asked the rather large african-american lady that was scraping her fingernails along the soles of my bare feet at LAX, “What is it, exactly, that you think I am hiding there?” Obviously, they’re not big on teaching small-talk at airport security school.
Back to this trip; we approach the gate and duly start to empty our pockets and place our handbags on the conveyor belt to go through screening:
Ding ding ding ding!
“Step back please, and remove your belt Ma’am”
“Sure, but I gotta tell you, if I do that, my pants will fall down!” (Yes, in a bid to be as comfy as possible for travel I had chosen my ‘fat pants’. My bad.)
So I step through the archway again:
Ding ding ding ding!
“Step back please ma’am, and remove your boots.”
“Oh good grief, at this stage I will be standing in my smalls- unless of course the underwire sets the damn thing off again!”
To which the security guy says, “My day’s getting better all the time!” (Seems Aussie security staff have a sense of humour, at least.)
Thankfully no more bells and whistles, but there I was collecting my gear, hopping on one foot holding my pants up with one hand, while trying to restore my clothing and at least some shred of dignity. And there you have it, my bright purple knee highs had a hole!
Well at least I provided some early morning entertainment for travellers of not only Jetstar, but Virgin Blue too.
Now, settled into my window seat awaiting take off, I tune into the hostie’s demonstration of what to do “in the unlikely event of an emergency” and follow along on the safety card from the pocket in front; I can’t help wondering why in the picture, the air stewards watching passengers assuming the ‘brace’ position, are smiling! They obviously know something we don’t. And I also reflect on the silly fact that if a lady like me tried bracing by placing one's generous chest on one's legs as illustrated, there’s no way I’m ever going to be in the correct “head down” position required in such drastic circumstances (thanks for the mammaries)! In my opinion, that’s right up there with printing those photo offers on the sick bags. (Hopefully you get to use it for the former before the latter.)
I amuse myself in this manner for a little while until the scenery and a touch of turbulence grabbed my attention. As I was staring out the window trying to identify the landscape below, and pondering the fact that clouds are bumpy…the passenger in front of me lets rip with a gaseous cloud of their own. It really made me think I’d be reaching for the oxygen mask after all, or at the very least the surgical face mask I packed in preparation for our trip to ‘Swine Flu Capital’.
Thankfully, the rest of the journey passed in relative peace. And all went well at Tullamarine, until it was time to head home again.
Despite the fact that any number of other passengers were all but bearing their entire life’s belongings as they boarded the plane for the return journey, the girl we got on the check-in desk was playing by the rules and weighed and questioned everything our little group was carrying, to the point where when we finally were checked in, we headed to Gate 6 via the bar.
And after sitting at the terminal for half an hour longer (waiting for errant passengers), the plane finally started taxiing towards the runway taking us to our loved ones back home.
The night flight was fairly uneventful (except for a rather nervous passenger sitting next to me), but it was only fitting that when we arrived at Newcastle airport, and watched and waited as the baggage carousel did its thing, we realised that we had fallen prey to yet another cliché of air travel- and at least one of our bags got a longer holiday than we did! (Of course it had been checked through in my name- the curse of the random passenger strikes again!)
As I write this, I’m still waiting to hear of its final destination.
But on the up side, I am happy to report that I was prepared for the sock-hopping-through-security this time; no toes peeping through the hose!
Jx
©2009
But at 6.45am on a public holiday, one can be forgiven for not thinking straight. Or at least for not planning any further ahead than a cuppa coffee for the trip to the airport, at any rate.
My boss was a little early in collecting me, which was quite fine as I was ready and waiting, just filling in time by giving my kids a couple more cuddles to stock us all up for the 3 days of absences on the way.
My bag was packed, and off we went to Williamtown.
At least the trip to the airstrip went smoothly.
We check in, collect our boarding passes and head for the gate (sadly, my borrowed carry-on could not be carried on; a tad over a kilo overweight and a smidge too wide).
Now, you gotta love the newly-upgraded secure status of these places; it’s reassuring for travellers that there’s but a slim chance of anything untoward happening whilst you’re en route to your destination. But I really am starting to suspect that I have a sign on my forehead (visible only to airport staff) that says “Pick me for the full security routine”.
I had my first inkling of it when I went to the USA for a conference on Juvenile Arthritis in 2007 with my small son in tow. Without fail, every time we arrived at a checkpoint, I was the lucky lucky traveller they ‘randomly selected’ to check their luggage, their handbag, even their body! I actually asked the rather large african-american lady that was scraping her fingernails along the soles of my bare feet at LAX, “What is it, exactly, that you think I am hiding there?” Obviously, they’re not big on teaching small-talk at airport security school.
Back to this trip; we approach the gate and duly start to empty our pockets and place our handbags on the conveyor belt to go through screening:
Ding ding ding ding!
“Step back please, and remove your belt Ma’am”
“Sure, but I gotta tell you, if I do that, my pants will fall down!” (Yes, in a bid to be as comfy as possible for travel I had chosen my ‘fat pants’. My bad.)
So I step through the archway again:
Ding ding ding ding!
“Step back please ma’am, and remove your boots.”
“Oh good grief, at this stage I will be standing in my smalls- unless of course the underwire sets the damn thing off again!”
To which the security guy says, “My day’s getting better all the time!” (Seems Aussie security staff have a sense of humour, at least.)
Thankfully no more bells and whistles, but there I was collecting my gear, hopping on one foot holding my pants up with one hand, while trying to restore my clothing and at least some shred of dignity. And there you have it, my bright purple knee highs had a hole!
Well at least I provided some early morning entertainment for travellers of not only Jetstar, but Virgin Blue too.
Now, settled into my window seat awaiting take off, I tune into the hostie’s demonstration of what to do “in the unlikely event of an emergency” and follow along on the safety card from the pocket in front; I can’t help wondering why in the picture, the air stewards watching passengers assuming the ‘brace’ position, are smiling! They obviously know something we don’t. And I also reflect on the silly fact that if a lady like me tried bracing by placing one's generous chest on one's legs as illustrated, there’s no way I’m ever going to be in the correct “head down” position required in such drastic circumstances (thanks for the mammaries)! In my opinion, that’s right up there with printing those photo offers on the sick bags. (Hopefully you get to use it for the former before the latter.)
I amuse myself in this manner for a little while until the scenery and a touch of turbulence grabbed my attention. As I was staring out the window trying to identify the landscape below, and pondering the fact that clouds are bumpy…the passenger in front of me lets rip with a gaseous cloud of their own. It really made me think I’d be reaching for the oxygen mask after all, or at the very least the surgical face mask I packed in preparation for our trip to ‘Swine Flu Capital’.
Thankfully, the rest of the journey passed in relative peace. And all went well at Tullamarine, until it was time to head home again.
Despite the fact that any number of other passengers were all but bearing their entire life’s belongings as they boarded the plane for the return journey, the girl we got on the check-in desk was playing by the rules and weighed and questioned everything our little group was carrying, to the point where when we finally were checked in, we headed to Gate 6 via the bar.
And after sitting at the terminal for half an hour longer (waiting for errant passengers), the plane finally started taxiing towards the runway taking us to our loved ones back home.
The night flight was fairly uneventful (except for a rather nervous passenger sitting next to me), but it was only fitting that when we arrived at Newcastle airport, and watched and waited as the baggage carousel did its thing, we realised that we had fallen prey to yet another cliché of air travel- and at least one of our bags got a longer holiday than we did! (Of course it had been checked through in my name- the curse of the random passenger strikes again!)
As I write this, I’m still waiting to hear of its final destination.
But on the up side, I am happy to report that I was prepared for the sock-hopping-through-security this time; no toes peeping through the hose!
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Good Morning...Let the Stress Begin!
Whoever said that Motherhood is not a fulltime job has never seen it from where I stand…
Daybreak, no not even that yet and already I hear my 7 y.o. son on the way to the bathroom for his morning ablutions. A split second later, my 5 y.o. daughter tap taps on the bedroom door: “Good morning Mama, can I use your toilet?”
And so begins another day.
Actually, that’s how a good day starts at our place.
On a bad day, I’ve been up half the night with one child or another. Or with the dog whining outside because he’s dragged his bed halfway across the back patio and tipped the sheepskin off it again. Or I’ve had one of my less pleasant bouts of insomnia with bonus night terrors because my Beloved forgot to lock the door again when he went to work in the middle of the night. (Ha! May as well hang a sign out the front saying “Come on in; unattended and unsuspecting woman and small children inside!”), and grudgingly greet the dawn with yet another headache from lack of sleep.
So anyway, back to the original, happier start to the day…
After they empty their bladders they open their arms to me for our traditional “morning cuddle”. If I’m lucky, my daughter also serenades me with ‘the morning song’ - a little ditty I made up to help wake the kids up in a happy mood (I’m yet to discover one that works on their father!); my son, being all of 7 years old now, is way too old for that baby stuff, of course.
And then it starts…“Mu-um, I wanna watch that show on TV”, “Can I have another piece of breakfast?”, “I don’t want that on my sandwiches”, “I haven’t had my medicine yet”, “Can I go to someone’s place for a playdate today?”, “Do you know where my hat is?”, “I was supposed to give you this note yesterday”, “Do I have to go to school today?”, “I feel sick”, “I broke my shoelace again”, “When’s dad coming home?”, “I haven’t got anything to take for News!”, “Do you know where my splint is?”, “Why do I have to go to school?”, “I really feel sick”, “There’s no toothpaste left”, “When can we have a lunch order?”, “I hate doing homework”, “We forgot to clean our shoes again!”, “Mummy, I really truly feel sick now”
After all that, we have the usual mad panic to get out the door and down to school before the assembly begins, deliver the bags safe to the classroom and my children safe into the hands of the teachers for the next 6 hours, often a quick stop in at the office, then I get to begin my ‘real’ work for the day.
Given an all-too brief period of time before the afternoon school run, I manage to do a casual job, run an online support group, check the secretarial details of just one of the committees I’m on, try to catch up with people I’ve been neglecting, try to pay bills I can ignore no more, run to the shops (being creative with the family meals on an artist’s budget), glance again at the online certificate course I’ve signed up for (and estimate just how many assignments I can squeeze in before the final deadline), run another load of washing through the front loader and dryer, attempt to fold and put away the stuff that’s done, unload then repack the dishwasher, empty the garbage bins, sort the recycling, check the mail, clean up after the kids, clean up after the dog, clean up after the husband, clean up after myself!
Once the kids are collected it’s empty the school bags, identify or simply throw out uneaten foodstuffs left in lunchboxes, assist with any assessment tasks, ensure the uniforms actually make it into the laundry and school shoes are somewhere they can be found the next day, provide afternoon tea, referee any arguments along the way, do the artistic hunter-gatherer thing in time for tea, bathe the kids, repack the dishwasher, feed the dog and put him out for the night, read with the kids, turn off any unused appliances, lock up the house, all while keeping the children quiet while daddy gets some sleep.
And once the other half and offspring are finally quiet at the end of the day, I find time to reflect on an old piece of advice a lady once gave me - count your kids, and if you still have the same number you started out with, congratulate yourself!
Then I try to manage some sleep before it all begins again.
Yep, if that aforementioned 'whoever' had to walk a mile in my shoes, I am sure that before too long they would take off at a run - in the opposite direction!
Jx
©2009
Daybreak, no not even that yet and already I hear my 7 y.o. son on the way to the bathroom for his morning ablutions. A split second later, my 5 y.o. daughter tap taps on the bedroom door: “Good morning Mama, can I use your toilet?”
And so begins another day.
Actually, that’s how a good day starts at our place.
On a bad day, I’ve been up half the night with one child or another. Or with the dog whining outside because he’s dragged his bed halfway across the back patio and tipped the sheepskin off it again. Or I’ve had one of my less pleasant bouts of insomnia with bonus night terrors because my Beloved forgot to lock the door again when he went to work in the middle of the night. (Ha! May as well hang a sign out the front saying “Come on in; unattended and unsuspecting woman and small children inside!”), and grudgingly greet the dawn with yet another headache from lack of sleep.
So anyway, back to the original, happier start to the day…
After they empty their bladders they open their arms to me for our traditional “morning cuddle”. If I’m lucky, my daughter also serenades me with ‘the morning song’ - a little ditty I made up to help wake the kids up in a happy mood (I’m yet to discover one that works on their father!); my son, being all of 7 years old now, is way too old for that baby stuff, of course.
And then it starts…“Mu-um, I wanna watch that show on TV”, “Can I have another piece of breakfast?”, “I don’t want that on my sandwiches”, “I haven’t had my medicine yet”, “Can I go to someone’s place for a playdate today?”, “Do you know where my hat is?”, “I was supposed to give you this note yesterday”, “Do I have to go to school today?”, “I feel sick”, “I broke my shoelace again”, “When’s dad coming home?”, “I haven’t got anything to take for News!”, “Do you know where my splint is?”, “Why do I have to go to school?”, “I really feel sick”, “There’s no toothpaste left”, “When can we have a lunch order?”, “I hate doing homework”, “We forgot to clean our shoes again!”, “Mummy, I really truly feel sick now”
After all that, we have the usual mad panic to get out the door and down to school before the assembly begins, deliver the bags safe to the classroom and my children safe into the hands of the teachers for the next 6 hours, often a quick stop in at the office, then I get to begin my ‘real’ work for the day.
Given an all-too brief period of time before the afternoon school run, I manage to do a casual job, run an online support group, check the secretarial details of just one of the committees I’m on, try to catch up with people I’ve been neglecting, try to pay bills I can ignore no more, run to the shops (being creative with the family meals on an artist’s budget), glance again at the online certificate course I’ve signed up for (and estimate just how many assignments I can squeeze in before the final deadline), run another load of washing through the front loader and dryer, attempt to fold and put away the stuff that’s done, unload then repack the dishwasher, empty the garbage bins, sort the recycling, check the mail, clean up after the kids, clean up after the dog, clean up after the husband, clean up after myself!
Once the kids are collected it’s empty the school bags, identify or simply throw out uneaten foodstuffs left in lunchboxes, assist with any assessment tasks, ensure the uniforms actually make it into the laundry and school shoes are somewhere they can be found the next day, provide afternoon tea, referee any arguments along the way, do the artistic hunter-gatherer thing in time for tea, bathe the kids, repack the dishwasher, feed the dog and put him out for the night, read with the kids, turn off any unused appliances, lock up the house, all while keeping the children quiet while daddy gets some sleep.
And once the other half and offspring are finally quiet at the end of the day, I find time to reflect on an old piece of advice a lady once gave me - count your kids, and if you still have the same number you started out with, congratulate yourself!
Then I try to manage some sleep before it all begins again.
Yep, if that aforementioned 'whoever' had to walk a mile in my shoes, I am sure that before too long they would take off at a run - in the opposite direction!
Jx
©2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Hell at the Hospital (or, Don't Look at the Broccoli)
Ever have one of those days?
You know the ones I'm talking about- the dog barks all night, you can't sleep for coughing, no bread for breakfast, the car won't start first go, a not-so-friendly red Reminder notice in the mail, technology malfunctions at work, you fight with your hubby, the kids fight with each other, reeeallly bad hair day, and then ... uncooperative vegies.
Yep, after the hell of the last few days/weeks/months, I am faced with floppy broccoli.
Call it the straw that broke the camel's back (Do camels eat broccoli? Or straw for that matter?) but it is enough to make me squeeeeze the last few drops out of the red wine bottle, and want to run away from the world for a while.
Here's the Reader's Digest™ condensed version for you:
My son had to go back to hospital (second time in just over a month) for some pretty aggressive treatment for his Juvenile Arthritis. Now, at age 7, and having had JIA since he was about 7 months of age (and being under anaesthetic 7 times now), he is, understandably- OVER it. So he resisted- with extreme prejudice- the latest lot of aspirations and injections.
And so, having had to leave home a whole day ahead of schedule to catch a train (a load of laughs with a wheelchair) then beg a bed and a ride with a friend because my car is still M.I.A., it was one unhappy little boy that was being prepped for anaesthetic. So I had to hold him while they put the numbing cream on, then hold him down again while they cannulated him, and then I had to hold the gas mask over his face to put him to sleep because he flat out refused to let the doctor or nurse do it. Oh, and then gently hold him down again as he was coming out of it (like a junkie on a bad trip).
In the days after he has been alternating between crying and cranky due to the pain of having needles stuck into his swollen joints (and quite frankly, can you blame him?) and all he wanted for tea was fish fingers and broccoli (it's his favourite vegetable, go figure).
So because My Beloved has taken himself off to bed, I am on dinner duty again (do mums ever really get a day off?) and I pull the vegies out of the fridge. You got it, floppy broccoli.
I pad it out with the frozen veg I keep on hand in case of emergency (like, now!) cross my fingers and hope for the best. With luck, he won't notice, I can put the kids to bed at a reasonable time, and get back to the business of draining the dregs of the red.
Cheers!
Jx
©6 May 2009
You know the ones I'm talking about- the dog barks all night, you can't sleep for coughing, no bread for breakfast, the car won't start first go, a not-so-friendly red Reminder notice in the mail, technology malfunctions at work, you fight with your hubby, the kids fight with each other, reeeallly bad hair day, and then ... uncooperative vegies.
Yep, after the hell of the last few days/weeks/months, I am faced with floppy broccoli.
Call it the straw that broke the camel's back (Do camels eat broccoli? Or straw for that matter?) but it is enough to make me squeeeeze the last few drops out of the red wine bottle, and want to run away from the world for a while.
Here's the Reader's Digest™ condensed version for you:
My son had to go back to hospital (second time in just over a month) for some pretty aggressive treatment for his Juvenile Arthritis. Now, at age 7, and having had JIA since he was about 7 months of age (and being under anaesthetic 7 times now), he is, understandably- OVER it. So he resisted- with extreme prejudice- the latest lot of aspirations and injections.
And so, having had to leave home a whole day ahead of schedule to catch a train (a load of laughs with a wheelchair) then beg a bed and a ride with a friend because my car is still M.I.A., it was one unhappy little boy that was being prepped for anaesthetic. So I had to hold him while they put the numbing cream on, then hold him down again while they cannulated him, and then I had to hold the gas mask over his face to put him to sleep because he flat out refused to let the doctor or nurse do it. Oh, and then gently hold him down again as he was coming out of it (like a junkie on a bad trip).
In the days after he has been alternating between crying and cranky due to the pain of having needles stuck into his swollen joints (and quite frankly, can you blame him?) and all he wanted for tea was fish fingers and broccoli (it's his favourite vegetable, go figure).
So because My Beloved has taken himself off to bed, I am on dinner duty again (do mums ever really get a day off?) and I pull the vegies out of the fridge. You got it, floppy broccoli.
I pad it out with the frozen veg I keep on hand in case of emergency (like, now!) cross my fingers and hope for the best. With luck, he won't notice, I can put the kids to bed at a reasonable time, and get back to the business of draining the dregs of the red.
Cheers!
Jx
©6 May 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Boobie Trapped
(NOTE: The conference has been and gone, but I'm posting this from another blog of mine, due to requests to repeat in a public arena. I have no shame, apparently.)
I’ve got to go to Melbourne next week for a conference.
Now, I haven’t been in any kind of corporate clothing for years, and that was always part of the appeal of moving from the Copy and Sales department to being on-air in radio: no one really gets to see what you look like. You could be slopping into the studio in your slippers, but sound like a million dollars and that’s the way the listeners picture you (for some reason people always think I'm blonde, too…not sure how to take that, hmmmm)!
Anyway, thanks to a quirk of Mother Nature when I became a mother, most of my “suit” stuff no longer fits me. Aside from the little jelly belly that haunts a lot of us ladies even after we get rid of ‘the bump’, I‘m a far cry from the President of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee that I used to be at school, that’s for sure. Oh yes, I couldn’t be one of those early developers and get the goods when we were trying to attract the boys in high school, could I. Oh no, I had to be a late bloomer didn’t I?
And bloom I did.
My girls darn near require their own postcode these days!
Within minutes it seemed of finally falling pregnant with my firstborn, I went from a respectable and sorely missed C (for Cute/Compact) cup, to DD (a Desirable Double), to an F (Far out), through G (Good God), up to H (Holy Hell), and into a nappy bra once the milk kicked in. Do you know what I mean by that? Two cloth nappies folded into triangles then pinned together as a halter top in an effort to contain the massive milk-making machines. (And you will never see those photos, I can assure you.)
Not only did I set a new record in the maternity wing at our local hospital, I broke it with my next bub!
Through the miracle of weight loss one gets from breastfeeding, I soon shrunk back to a tidy little size 10-12 (ok, I’ll be honest, so it’s more like 12-14 these days). Except for the girls- still an F cup. Friends and family who said that you lose your boobs when you stop feeding, lied to me big time.
How hard is it, I ask, to find a decent dress or matching pieces to fit that sort of figure, that’s not too tight up top or too baggy at bottom?? Very. Bloody. Hard.
After a few years of looking longingly at my lovely clothes in my cupboard, I bit the bullet and gave them all away. Which left me with a fairly unexciting selection of vee neck tees (to draw the eyes upwards and away from the monster cleavage, dontcha know), oversized baseball tops (an all-out camouflage campaign), and just a couple of nice pairs of pants and skirts (bor-ing).
So when my boss says we’re off to Melbourne for a conference, it occurred to me that I needed to seriously rethink and rework my wardrobe. (Sheesh, it’s the “Style Capital of Australia”, for crying out loud! Could we not have held it somewhere called ‘Boganville’ instead?)
I take one of my BFFs with me to help me shop.
Here we pause and I make a comment about the true nature of our friendship, as a couple of days ago I again tried on the two dresses I bought with her approval. One has a nice vee front…….that darn near dips to my belly button thank you very much! The other has a 3 inch wide belt that cinches just below the boosies, and causes me to have flashbacks to the aforementioned nappy bra. *shudder*
Like anyone would pay attention to what I was teaching in the Master Class if I wore that one!!!
What was I thinking picking these dresses?
What was she thinking to let me get them??
So it’s back to the drawing board with just 2 days now to locate the perfect corporate outfit on an itty bitty budget (yes, pity my monetary assets aren't as large as my physical assets). And now I am hyperconscious of my curvaceous booty. To the point where I am positive that if the local TV news crew were out filming generic images of the crowds for a story on say, obesity, getting the sort of shots where they zoom in on the fat butts or rounded tums or generous chests going by…well, that little red light would so be blinking in my direction for sure.
I mean, when I returned the affronting belted number, the nice sales lady insisted I try on another style- also with a belt! Needless to say, even she couldn’t contain her shock, and was ever-so-helpful in refunding my money, ever-so-quickly too.
So now, with about 48 hours remaining, it’s come down to this: if I fail in my mission to camo the mammo’s, I can only hope that my Workshop is sufficiently brilliant to keep the group’s attention on the topic and not on my top.
On the other hand, if my Power Point Presentation is pathetic, at least there’ll be two points that participants will remember!
Jx
©2009
I’ve got to go to Melbourne next week for a conference.
Now, I haven’t been in any kind of corporate clothing for years, and that was always part of the appeal of moving from the Copy and Sales department to being on-air in radio: no one really gets to see what you look like. You could be slopping into the studio in your slippers, but sound like a million dollars and that’s the way the listeners picture you (for some reason people always think I'm blonde, too…not sure how to take that, hmmmm)!
Anyway, thanks to a quirk of Mother Nature when I became a mother, most of my “suit” stuff no longer fits me. Aside from the little jelly belly that haunts a lot of us ladies even after we get rid of ‘the bump’, I‘m a far cry from the President of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee that I used to be at school, that’s for sure. Oh yes, I couldn’t be one of those early developers and get the goods when we were trying to attract the boys in high school, could I. Oh no, I had to be a late bloomer didn’t I?
And bloom I did.
My girls darn near require their own postcode these days!
Within minutes it seemed of finally falling pregnant with my firstborn, I went from a respectable and sorely missed C (for Cute/Compact) cup, to DD (a Desirable Double), to an F (Far out), through G (Good God), up to H (Holy Hell), and into a nappy bra once the milk kicked in. Do you know what I mean by that? Two cloth nappies folded into triangles then pinned together as a halter top in an effort to contain the massive milk-making machines. (And you will never see those photos, I can assure you.)
Not only did I set a new record in the maternity wing at our local hospital, I broke it with my next bub!
Through the miracle of weight loss one gets from breastfeeding, I soon shrunk back to a tidy little size 10-12 (ok, I’ll be honest, so it’s more like 12-14 these days). Except for the girls- still an F cup. Friends and family who said that you lose your boobs when you stop feeding, lied to me big time.
How hard is it, I ask, to find a decent dress or matching pieces to fit that sort of figure, that’s not too tight up top or too baggy at bottom?? Very. Bloody. Hard.
After a few years of looking longingly at my lovely clothes in my cupboard, I bit the bullet and gave them all away. Which left me with a fairly unexciting selection of vee neck tees (to draw the eyes upwards and away from the monster cleavage, dontcha know), oversized baseball tops (an all-out camouflage campaign), and just a couple of nice pairs of pants and skirts (bor-ing).
So when my boss says we’re off to Melbourne for a conference, it occurred to me that I needed to seriously rethink and rework my wardrobe. (Sheesh, it’s the “Style Capital of Australia”, for crying out loud! Could we not have held it somewhere called ‘Boganville’ instead?)
I take one of my BFFs with me to help me shop.
Here we pause and I make a comment about the true nature of our friendship, as a couple of days ago I again tried on the two dresses I bought with her approval. One has a nice vee front…….that darn near dips to my belly button thank you very much! The other has a 3 inch wide belt that cinches just below the boosies, and causes me to have flashbacks to the aforementioned nappy bra. *shudder*
Like anyone would pay attention to what I was teaching in the Master Class if I wore that one!!!
What was I thinking picking these dresses?
What was she thinking to let me get them??
So it’s back to the drawing board with just 2 days now to locate the perfect corporate outfit on an itty bitty budget (yes, pity my monetary assets aren't as large as my physical assets). And now I am hyperconscious of my curvaceous booty. To the point where I am positive that if the local TV news crew were out filming generic images of the crowds for a story on say, obesity, getting the sort of shots where they zoom in on the fat butts or rounded tums or generous chests going by…well, that little red light would so be blinking in my direction for sure.
I mean, when I returned the affronting belted number, the nice sales lady insisted I try on another style- also with a belt! Needless to say, even she couldn’t contain her shock, and was ever-so-helpful in refunding my money, ever-so-quickly too.
So now, with about 48 hours remaining, it’s come down to this: if I fail in my mission to camo the mammo’s, I can only hope that my Workshop is sufficiently brilliant to keep the group’s attention on the topic and not on my top.
On the other hand, if my Power Point Presentation is pathetic, at least there’ll be two points that participants will remember!
Jx
©2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Hi Ho, Hi Ho...
I’ve decided that looking for work is a real chore.
After 20+ years on one career path, I’ve been forced into a change of direction after an altercation at an intersection. It wasn’t the way I had my working life mapped out, but due to another driver checking out her red lips instead of the red lights in front of her, well my life was given a bum steer. Literally.
Doctor’s orders put me on restricted hours so my boss in his generosity said he’d restrict my hours all right, and took me off the roster altogether. What a lovely man. I wish him well, I really do. (Why no, I have no idea why your sarcasm detector is going off right now! Must be faulty.)
So after about a year of being unemployed and injured, with my self-esteem plummeting as low as our bank balance, I found myself starting a whole new career - albeit on minimum wage and minimum hours.
But unfortunately, as things happen, that work isn’t working out, so I’ve been checking out the classifieds for something else to keep the debt collectors off the doorstep.
Today, my daughter wants to help me look, pointing out various vacancies that she thinks I should apply for.
Now, as we all know, there’s a big difference between what you imagine you could do for a living when your whole life is in front of you, and what you really can do, when your working life is half over. (Yes, sadly I had to forgo my dream of being the next female super sleuth of the century! *sigh*) It also helps if you can read fluently.
I look at each of the jobs Miss V selects, all prefaced with a “How ‘bout this one Mama?”
Motor Mechanic. Ah, no, not when my skills with things mechanical are limited to popping the bonnet and checking the oil and water.
Senior Hair Stylist. With the battle I have each school day trying to arrange my daughter’s hair into some semblance of neatness? Are you kidding me?!
Here we go, Waste Management Services…while I manage to deal with enough garbage on a daily basis to make me an expert in the field, I still don’t possess the necessary skill set to get paid for it.
Aquatic Ecologist. You know, I don’t even know what that is, so I’m guessing it counts me out.
Child Care Assistant- Good Lord no! I’d like to go to work to take a break from my fulltime job thankyouverymuch!!
And so it goes… my 5 y.o. points out the different ads, and I make a point of politely declining her choices.
I’m starting to think that I may have to stick with Plan A and just win the $20 million in Lotto tonight and put an end to this endless search for career satisfaction, when my darling little girl gives it one final shot:“Here’s one Mama, can you do that?”
I turn my gaze to where her little finger is hovering above the words ‘In Memoriam’
“Ahhh, no, baby, that’s definitely out!”
While I have no doubt that even I possess the skills capable of undertaking that particular position, it’s not one that I wish to apply for any time soon!
Yep, Plan A’s looking better all the time. Or perhaps I’ll have to go with Plan B- $50 million OzLotto this Tuesday.
So if my next post comes through to you from, oh say, Ireland, well you know Plans A or B have come good for me. Otherwise, I’ll have to go back to hiding behind the curtains when the mailman calls…
Jx
©2009
After 20+ years on one career path, I’ve been forced into a change of direction after an altercation at an intersection. It wasn’t the way I had my working life mapped out, but due to another driver checking out her red lips instead of the red lights in front of her, well my life was given a bum steer. Literally.
Doctor’s orders put me on restricted hours so my boss in his generosity said he’d restrict my hours all right, and took me off the roster altogether. What a lovely man. I wish him well, I really do. (Why no, I have no idea why your sarcasm detector is going off right now! Must be faulty.)
So after about a year of being unemployed and injured, with my self-esteem plummeting as low as our bank balance, I found myself starting a whole new career - albeit on minimum wage and minimum hours.
But unfortunately, as things happen, that work isn’t working out, so I’ve been checking out the classifieds for something else to keep the debt collectors off the doorstep.
Today, my daughter wants to help me look, pointing out various vacancies that she thinks I should apply for.
Now, as we all know, there’s a big difference between what you imagine you could do for a living when your whole life is in front of you, and what you really can do, when your working life is half over. (Yes, sadly I had to forgo my dream of being the next female super sleuth of the century! *sigh*) It also helps if you can read fluently.
I look at each of the jobs Miss V selects, all prefaced with a “How ‘bout this one Mama?”
Motor Mechanic. Ah, no, not when my skills with things mechanical are limited to popping the bonnet and checking the oil and water.
Senior Hair Stylist. With the battle I have each school day trying to arrange my daughter’s hair into some semblance of neatness? Are you kidding me?!
Here we go, Waste Management Services…while I manage to deal with enough garbage on a daily basis to make me an expert in the field, I still don’t possess the necessary skill set to get paid for it.
Aquatic Ecologist. You know, I don’t even know what that is, so I’m guessing it counts me out.
Child Care Assistant- Good Lord no! I’d like to go to work to take a break from my fulltime job thankyouverymuch!!
And so it goes… my 5 y.o. points out the different ads, and I make a point of politely declining her choices.
I’m starting to think that I may have to stick with Plan A and just win the $20 million in Lotto tonight and put an end to this endless search for career satisfaction, when my darling little girl gives it one final shot:“Here’s one Mama, can you do that?”
I turn my gaze to where her little finger is hovering above the words ‘In Memoriam’
“Ahhh, no, baby, that’s definitely out!”
While I have no doubt that even I possess the skills capable of undertaking that particular position, it’s not one that I wish to apply for any time soon!
Yep, Plan A’s looking better all the time. Or perhaps I’ll have to go with Plan B- $50 million OzLotto this Tuesday.
So if my next post comes through to you from, oh say, Ireland, well you know Plans A or B have come good for me. Otherwise, I’ll have to go back to hiding behind the curtains when the mailman calls…
Jx
©2009
Beating the Brain Drain
I’ve been trying to train my brain.
On the precipice of a whole new decade of life, I find myself checking whether my cerebral cortex is ageing more gracefully than its container, and am looking for new ways to keep the grey matter grey (whilst cleverly disguising those that cover it).
I mean, it’s one thing to accidentally call your child the wrong name in moments of duress, or walk into a room and forget why you're there, but it’s another thing entirely when you walk into your kid’s classroom and can’t recall the name of their teacher! Am I right?
And so, not being able to afford a Nintendo Dsi® with the latest electronic editions being spruiked by Olivia Newton-John et al, I’ve had to resort to the old-fashioned way of doing puzzles with pen and paper. (Note how I am being positive about my level of cleverness by using pen not pencil?!)
I’ve always found it pays to enrich your word power as I digest a particular monthly publication for fellow readers (and to avoid any breach of title copyright, I best whack that little © symbol in here somewhere), I’m not totally clueless when it comes to cryptic crosswords, and I love lateral thinking. But as I reach the age my mum was when I realised that just maybe she knew what she was talking about after all...I am not so sure my kids are similarly convinced. So I better hop to it while they’re still young enough to be satisfied with answers like “Rabbits.” (Oh Bob Fulton, you have a lot to answer for!)
Now I don’t know whether to feel supported or insulted (supported, I think) but my Beloved has also been helping me on my quest to give my wits a workout by bringing home those nifty little mini magazines appropriately entitled “Brain Trainer”. You know the ones, pocket sized (but only for those who wear trench coats all year round, I’d say) with the instant gratification of having the answers in the back for you to check your score upon conclusion and keep track of just how well your brain is being trained. (I am sure that the publisher also fully intended one to use them as a launchpad for your logic if one finds oneself stuck indefinitely on 1 Across.)
I love the way that you can just pick it up and pick out a puzzle to do if you have a few minutes to yourself (hiding in the bathroom from the kids), and just move right along to another one if you find that you really don’t have the time right now to do that particular page (Why yes, that is the real reason, Your Honour). And I love how there’s just so many different ways to make you feel like you really are improving your intelligence (especially when you discover how shoddy a job the editor did by allowing so many mistakes to slip through to print- fancy that)!
But most of all, I love it that these mini mags hold absolutely no interest whatsoever for my children, or my Beloved for that matter, and even if I’m having a day where I can’t quite work out which sister earned how much money for doing what job (as if I care- they are all earning more than me at any rate) I can still retreat to the ensuite and perch upon the porcelain, safe in the knowledge that I will find my little papery personal trainer waiting for me.
And at this stage of my cerebral self-improvement program I'm happy to report that I can actually feel my brain cells importing information and performing such superior mental athleticism that I could well give Herr Einstein (and his hair) a run for his money.So like me, even if you don’t own a Nintendo® you can still strap on your intellectual Nikes™ and start training that brain today. You never know, YOU might find even more mistakes in the magazines than I do! ☺
Jx
©2009
On the precipice of a whole new decade of life, I find myself checking whether my cerebral cortex is ageing more gracefully than its container, and am looking for new ways to keep the grey matter grey (whilst cleverly disguising those that cover it).
I mean, it’s one thing to accidentally call your child the wrong name in moments of duress, or walk into a room and forget why you're there, but it’s another thing entirely when you walk into your kid’s classroom and can’t recall the name of their teacher! Am I right?
And so, not being able to afford a Nintendo Dsi® with the latest electronic editions being spruiked by Olivia Newton-John et al, I’ve had to resort to the old-fashioned way of doing puzzles with pen and paper. (Note how I am being positive about my level of cleverness by using pen not pencil?!)
I’ve always found it pays to enrich your word power as I digest a particular monthly publication for fellow readers (and to avoid any breach of title copyright, I best whack that little © symbol in here somewhere), I’m not totally clueless when it comes to cryptic crosswords, and I love lateral thinking. But as I reach the age my mum was when I realised that just maybe she knew what she was talking about after all...I am not so sure my kids are similarly convinced. So I better hop to it while they’re still young enough to be satisfied with answers like “Rabbits.” (Oh Bob Fulton, you have a lot to answer for!)
Now I don’t know whether to feel supported or insulted (supported, I think) but my Beloved has also been helping me on my quest to give my wits a workout by bringing home those nifty little mini magazines appropriately entitled “Brain Trainer”. You know the ones, pocket sized (but only for those who wear trench coats all year round, I’d say) with the instant gratification of having the answers in the back for you to check your score upon conclusion and keep track of just how well your brain is being trained. (I am sure that the publisher also fully intended one to use them as a launchpad for your logic if one finds oneself stuck indefinitely on 1 Across.)
I love the way that you can just pick it up and pick out a puzzle to do if you have a few minutes to yourself (hiding in the bathroom from the kids), and just move right along to another one if you find that you really don’t have the time right now to do that particular page (Why yes, that is the real reason, Your Honour). And I love how there’s just so many different ways to make you feel like you really are improving your intelligence (especially when you discover how shoddy a job the editor did by allowing so many mistakes to slip through to print- fancy that)!
But most of all, I love it that these mini mags hold absolutely no interest whatsoever for my children, or my Beloved for that matter, and even if I’m having a day where I can’t quite work out which sister earned how much money for doing what job (as if I care- they are all earning more than me at any rate) I can still retreat to the ensuite and perch upon the porcelain, safe in the knowledge that I will find my little papery personal trainer waiting for me.
And at this stage of my cerebral self-improvement program I'm happy to report that I can actually feel my brain cells importing information and performing such superior mental athleticism that I could well give Herr Einstein (and his hair) a run for his money.So like me, even if you don’t own a Nintendo® you can still strap on your intellectual Nikes™ and start training that brain today. You never know, YOU might find even more mistakes in the magazines than I do! ☺
Jx
©2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
War of the Words
There’s a cake of soap sitting on our lounge at the moment.
At first I wondered why it was there, but then I realised the implications: our son was playing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles® on the PlayStation®.
Now, I don’t know about you, but I come from a long line of “Mind your Manners” and “We don’t use that kind of language in our house”.
I mean to say, when my mother was a young adult still at home (before my father supposedly swept her off her feet and into the world of motherhood and all it entails) she was learning to use the ol’ Singer® sewing machine (a classic in this day and age, and if you happen to see one in the antique shops grab it for heaven’s sake, they’re worth a fortune…but I digress). She was having some difficulty in getting the bobbin to catch- the cotton kept snapping- so she said: “Oh you bloody thing!” Unfortunately for her my nan was within earshot and promptly took her to task saying “If that machine is going to cause you to use such language, well you can give it away right now!”
Oh we LOL about it these days, but back then even such a mild curse caused chaos in the household…heaven forbid anyone said anything worse than that!
Nowadays the things my kids bring home from school (and the so-called “hilarious” screensavers and ringtones my stepson has on his mobile) could cause my hair to curl even if it weren’t already predisposed to doing so!
We thought we were doing so well for the first few years. Oh I would be lying if I said no swear word ever left my mouth- after all, I’m a media hound from way back, and a mother to boot. But we always try to tone it down in front of the kids.Sadly, as soon as our little boy hit kindergarten, his vocabulary took on a life of its own.
Happily, it seems to be more of a ‘boy-thing’ at the moment as our daughter isn’t exhibiting the same finesse with the F word as our son has demonstrated (also while playing a video game). But he’s only done it once, I can assure you.
Mind you, in view of equal rights for the sexes and all, I should make mention of one time my little girl tried some big bad words on for size.
She and her brother were arguing (about who loved the other the most would you believe?!) when next thing my darling daughter, hands on hips, declared “Oh what a load of bullsh*t!”
Now, how hard is it to reprimand when you’re having trouble keeping a straight face, I ask you?!
Scary thing was, it was a frighteningly accurate impression of her mother. Yes it was mini-me in action!
After the laughter, I reminded Miss V that it was a grown-up turn of phrase, which shouldn’t turn up in the course of her conversations! (I even apologised for being the inspiration for it, trying to set a good example and all.)
As for the silly sayings for body parts, well that’s enough for a blog of its own. Suffice to say that I really wonder about what other parents are thinking using names like “doodle”, wee wee”, “pee pee”, and let’s not forget “willy” for the male appendage. And what is it with “front bottom” for little girls I ask you?? Front bottom!! No, we have always called them by their proper names (much to my Beloved’s embarrassment at first when our daughter was born- harking back to his experiences of childhood, perhaps?) … but once again when our son started mixing with other kids at pre-school, he even started to think that they were rude or dirty words and cause for naughty celebration.
Sitting in the bath with his little sister, all of age 2 himself, my son was merrily saying “Bagina” this, “Bagina” that, until my husband and I were forced to admonish him for the inappropriate use. The cheeky little devil looked his father in the eye and said “B- b- b- b- boat.”
Again, it’s kinda hard to remind them about the right use of language when you’re giggling too much to talk.
Anyway, back to TMNT on the PS2 and that cake of soap on the lounge… apparently replacing the obvious with the word “shell” isn’t enough to distract my son from the fact that there are swear words lurking nearby. It’s even worse if he plays The Simpsons™. *shudder*
So just like my nan whenever mum was using the infamous Singer sewing machine, if our son’s on the PlayStation, my Beloved is hovering nearby- our family’s very own Language Police- in a bid to keep our kids’ mouths as clean as we can. At least until they grow up and move out at any rate. Lord knows he won’t get away with the soap trick then! ;-D
Jx
©2009
PS: On the flipside, I had to laugh the other day when Miss V came home from her school excursion to a local wildlife reserve called 'Blackbutt'. She was telling her aunty on the 'phone all about her trip to 'Blackbottom'! ROFL
At first I wondered why it was there, but then I realised the implications: our son was playing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles® on the PlayStation®.
Now, I don’t know about you, but I come from a long line of “Mind your Manners” and “We don’t use that kind of language in our house”.
I mean to say, when my mother was a young adult still at home (before my father supposedly swept her off her feet and into the world of motherhood and all it entails) she was learning to use the ol’ Singer® sewing machine (a classic in this day and age, and if you happen to see one in the antique shops grab it for heaven’s sake, they’re worth a fortune…but I digress). She was having some difficulty in getting the bobbin to catch- the cotton kept snapping- so she said: “Oh you bloody thing!” Unfortunately for her my nan was within earshot and promptly took her to task saying “If that machine is going to cause you to use such language, well you can give it away right now!”
Oh we LOL about it these days, but back then even such a mild curse caused chaos in the household…heaven forbid anyone said anything worse than that!
Nowadays the things my kids bring home from school (and the so-called “hilarious” screensavers and ringtones my stepson has on his mobile) could cause my hair to curl even if it weren’t already predisposed to doing so!
We thought we were doing so well for the first few years. Oh I would be lying if I said no swear word ever left my mouth- after all, I’m a media hound from way back, and a mother to boot. But we always try to tone it down in front of the kids.Sadly, as soon as our little boy hit kindergarten, his vocabulary took on a life of its own.
Happily, it seems to be more of a ‘boy-thing’ at the moment as our daughter isn’t exhibiting the same finesse with the F word as our son has demonstrated (also while playing a video game). But he’s only done it once, I can assure you.
Mind you, in view of equal rights for the sexes and all, I should make mention of one time my little girl tried some big bad words on for size.
She and her brother were arguing (about who loved the other the most would you believe?!) when next thing my darling daughter, hands on hips, declared “Oh what a load of bullsh*t!”
Now, how hard is it to reprimand when you’re having trouble keeping a straight face, I ask you?!
Scary thing was, it was a frighteningly accurate impression of her mother. Yes it was mini-me in action!
After the laughter, I reminded Miss V that it was a grown-up turn of phrase, which shouldn’t turn up in the course of her conversations! (I even apologised for being the inspiration for it, trying to set a good example and all.)
As for the silly sayings for body parts, well that’s enough for a blog of its own. Suffice to say that I really wonder about what other parents are thinking using names like “doodle”, wee wee”, “pee pee”, and let’s not forget “willy” for the male appendage. And what is it with “front bottom” for little girls I ask you?? Front bottom!! No, we have always called them by their proper names (much to my Beloved’s embarrassment at first when our daughter was born- harking back to his experiences of childhood, perhaps?) … but once again when our son started mixing with other kids at pre-school, he even started to think that they were rude or dirty words and cause for naughty celebration.
Sitting in the bath with his little sister, all of age 2 himself, my son was merrily saying “Bagina” this, “Bagina” that, until my husband and I were forced to admonish him for the inappropriate use. The cheeky little devil looked his father in the eye and said “B- b- b- b- boat.”
Again, it’s kinda hard to remind them about the right use of language when you’re giggling too much to talk.
Anyway, back to TMNT on the PS2 and that cake of soap on the lounge… apparently replacing the obvious with the word “shell” isn’t enough to distract my son from the fact that there are swear words lurking nearby. It’s even worse if he plays The Simpsons™. *shudder*
So just like my nan whenever mum was using the infamous Singer sewing machine, if our son’s on the PlayStation, my Beloved is hovering nearby- our family’s very own Language Police- in a bid to keep our kids’ mouths as clean as we can. At least until they grow up and move out at any rate. Lord knows he won’t get away with the soap trick then! ;-D
Jx
©2009
PS: On the flipside, I had to laugh the other day when Miss V came home from her school excursion to a local wildlife reserve called 'Blackbutt'. She was telling her aunty on the 'phone all about her trip to 'Blackbottom'! ROFL
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Phone Home
So there I was, taking my kids up to see my family for Easter, when next thing you know, a mobile phone flies out of the window of the car in front of me.
Startled by this unexpected traffic phenomenon, I pull over, go back and pick the phone up off the road. Barely a mark on it and working perfectly (whereas if it had been my phone, it would have smashed on impact, then been promptly run over by two roadtrains in quick succession),
with an adorable little baby smiling at me from the welcome screen wallpaper.
I know for starters someone is gonna miss this piece of mobile modern technology, so I'm surprised when two hours into the trip still no one has rung their own number looking to see where it had been misplaced (don't tell me you haven't done that yourself!)
I'm thinking I'll take a look through the address book later for any entry marked "Home" or "Mum" etc, when the thing rings (scaring the hell out of my little daughter whose turn it was to mind it for me, LOL); imagine my dismay when it's a heavily accented lady on the other end who could not be convinced it wasn't her daughter taking her call!
Another hour and a half goes by when the phone goes off again (some annoying doof-doof ringtone that I would have had to change had the phone remained in my guardianship much longer). I send an autotext to say I'll call back and get the reply "Thank you, very important pictures of baby daughter in phone" (see, told you!). So next pit stop I ring and explain how I came to have their phone (they still don't know how it grew wings and escaped) and hope to tee up a catch up to return their property.
Unfortunately, they're travelling a totally different direction from me, and coming back through on a different day. Fabulous. So I ask them to text me their address and I'll send the phone to them. It will have to wait until after all the public holidays though, for me to get to a post office.
Now, at this point I have had people say "Why didn't you just keep it?" or "Did you use it?" and I always pause to ponder what kind of world we're living in, when that's the common reaction.
OK, so after much ado (which is a whole other blog) I finally get it sent back to them C.O.D. 'cause I thought that was the safest way to track it, and even the owner cannot believe that I did so, and didn't use up all their credit making long distance calls to my entire address book, or nor do I want any payment. I mean, all it cost me really, was a bit of time and effort - I recycled a post-pack and they paid the postage! (I didn't even go snooping through their files because it wouldn't have felt right.) Their delight at getting the phone back (complete with unchanged doof-doof ringtone and important pictures of baby daughter) and reassurance that not everyone's out to rip you off, is its own reward.
I simply say: I guess not everyone has the benefit of being raised by my mum.
And I can only hope that I'm a good enough mother that my children also grow up knowing what is the right thing to do...and doing it!
Jx
©2009
Startled by this unexpected traffic phenomenon, I pull over, go back and pick the phone up off the road. Barely a mark on it and working perfectly (whereas if it had been my phone, it would have smashed on impact, then been promptly run over by two roadtrains in quick succession),
with an adorable little baby smiling at me from the welcome screen wallpaper.
I know for starters someone is gonna miss this piece of mobile modern technology, so I'm surprised when two hours into the trip still no one has rung their own number looking to see where it had been misplaced (don't tell me you haven't done that yourself!)
I'm thinking I'll take a look through the address book later for any entry marked "Home" or "Mum" etc, when the thing rings (scaring the hell out of my little daughter whose turn it was to mind it for me, LOL); imagine my dismay when it's a heavily accented lady on the other end who could not be convinced it wasn't her daughter taking her call!
Another hour and a half goes by when the phone goes off again (some annoying doof-doof ringtone that I would have had to change had the phone remained in my guardianship much longer). I send an autotext to say I'll call back and get the reply "Thank you, very important pictures of baby daughter in phone" (see, told you!). So next pit stop I ring and explain how I came to have their phone (they still don't know how it grew wings and escaped) and hope to tee up a catch up to return their property.
Unfortunately, they're travelling a totally different direction from me, and coming back through on a different day. Fabulous. So I ask them to text me their address and I'll send the phone to them. It will have to wait until after all the public holidays though, for me to get to a post office.
Now, at this point I have had people say "Why didn't you just keep it?" or "Did you use it?" and I always pause to ponder what kind of world we're living in, when that's the common reaction.
OK, so after much ado (which is a whole other blog) I finally get it sent back to them C.O.D. 'cause I thought that was the safest way to track it, and even the owner cannot believe that I did so, and didn't use up all their credit making long distance calls to my entire address book, or nor do I want any payment. I mean, all it cost me really, was a bit of time and effort - I recycled a post-pack and they paid the postage! (I didn't even go snooping through their files because it wouldn't have felt right.) Their delight at getting the phone back (complete with unchanged doof-doof ringtone and important pictures of baby daughter) and reassurance that not everyone's out to rip you off, is its own reward.
I simply say: I guess not everyone has the benefit of being raised by my mum.
And I can only hope that I'm a good enough mother that my children also grow up knowing what is the right thing to do...and doing it!
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Life's an adventure...?
Seems I've got a theme going here, and the last couple of days tie in nicely. The difference between being a kid and being an adult, I mean.
As much as I don't like to use those words- my son is sick. He has Juvenile Arthritis, has had since he was but a wee bub. It sure adds a rollercoaster dimension to the whole family life thing.
Long story short-ish: he had to have his tonsils/adenoids out due to repeated infection due to being immunosuppressed due to JIA. He had to go off most of his medications prior to the surgery to reduce post-operative risks. As expected, he flared up in a number of joints. His right wrist has not recovered. But at least he can walk again! Yay!
So, after weeks of being unable to care for himself as best a 6 y.o. can (eating, dressing, even toileting) and after many 'phone calls trying to get someone to look at him again (including a bum-steer by a GP who admitted she didn't know anything about juvenile arthritis and sent him for an x-ray suspecting another fracture) we were called by the Paed Rheumy to get to Sydney as quick as we could. (Normally, just an hour and half's trip south.)
Now the fun part really begins!
I had to leave work (casual, because I can't do fulltime due to the extent of care needed) dash home, get the kids ready, and 'convince' them to go. My Beloved didn't come because he was on night shift and needed sleep. We head down the ol' F3 freeway and en route hear of a fatal truck accident blocking the other side of the road. My son's first words were "I bet he's someone's daddy." (My hubby drives trucks.) Such wisdom in one so young.
Anyway, half an hour ahead of the emergency appointment and just 19.7 km (according to my trusty TomTom) from our destination, my car loses power and I do some precision driving to weave through the traffic to get it to the verge- nowhere near an emergency phone, and barely enough room alongside the rockface to pull over (scary stuff).
The kids are wondering why I've stopped there, but are still content at that stage to watch their DVD player (thank God for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles®).
After waiting nearly an hour for a tow truck, we got the rudest, most chauvinistic (and I'm sorry to say this: the ugliest) driver in the known universe. I won't go into all the details here, but I'm sure ladies would appreciate comments like "Shouldn'a done a trip with no fuel in the car" (that wasn't the problem actually) and "You can wear the ticket if ya get one", and the ever-so-thoughtful "What's wrong with your kid?" I can only say, I'm sure the man's mother loves him.
After being told my son's got to go back into hospital again, :-( we wait another half hour for the roadside assistance guy to get the car started again. Thankfully, he was lovely!
OK, so now it's late, getting dark, starting to rain, the F3 northbound is still blocked for hours, and I have a dodgy car. We arrange emergency accommodation and make the trip home 24 hours after we left, in heavy traffic, in the rain, driving very cautiously in case the car breaks down again.
So for the kids: what an adventure- they got a ride in a tow truck, got plenty of DVD time, got snake lollies from the doctor and funky new toothbrushes from the hospital, slept in 'motel' beds, AND had Maccas not only for dinner but for breakfast too!! Awesome!!!
The grown-up, on the other hand, needed an aspirin and a nice lie down.
Jx
©2009
As much as I don't like to use those words- my son is sick. He has Juvenile Arthritis, has had since he was but a wee bub. It sure adds a rollercoaster dimension to the whole family life thing.
Long story short-ish: he had to have his tonsils/adenoids out due to repeated infection due to being immunosuppressed due to JIA. He had to go off most of his medications prior to the surgery to reduce post-operative risks. As expected, he flared up in a number of joints. His right wrist has not recovered. But at least he can walk again! Yay!
So, after weeks of being unable to care for himself as best a 6 y.o. can (eating, dressing, even toileting) and after many 'phone calls trying to get someone to look at him again (including a bum-steer by a GP who admitted she didn't know anything about juvenile arthritis and sent him for an x-ray suspecting another fracture) we were called by the Paed Rheumy to get to Sydney as quick as we could. (Normally, just an hour and half's trip south.)
Now the fun part really begins!
I had to leave work (casual, because I can't do fulltime due to the extent of care needed) dash home, get the kids ready, and 'convince' them to go. My Beloved didn't come because he was on night shift and needed sleep. We head down the ol' F3 freeway and en route hear of a fatal truck accident blocking the other side of the road. My son's first words were "I bet he's someone's daddy." (My hubby drives trucks.) Such wisdom in one so young.
Anyway, half an hour ahead of the emergency appointment and just 19.7 km (according to my trusty TomTom) from our destination, my car loses power and I do some precision driving to weave through the traffic to get it to the verge- nowhere near an emergency phone, and barely enough room alongside the rockface to pull over (scary stuff).
The kids are wondering why I've stopped there, but are still content at that stage to watch their DVD player (thank God for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles®).
After waiting nearly an hour for a tow truck, we got the rudest, most chauvinistic (and I'm sorry to say this: the ugliest) driver in the known universe. I won't go into all the details here, but I'm sure ladies would appreciate comments like "Shouldn'a done a trip with no fuel in the car" (that wasn't the problem actually) and "You can wear the ticket if ya get one", and the ever-so-thoughtful "What's wrong with your kid?" I can only say, I'm sure the man's mother loves him.
After being told my son's got to go back into hospital again, :-( we wait another half hour for the roadside assistance guy to get the car started again. Thankfully, he was lovely!
OK, so now it's late, getting dark, starting to rain, the F3 northbound is still blocked for hours, and I have a dodgy car. We arrange emergency accommodation and make the trip home 24 hours after we left, in heavy traffic, in the rain, driving very cautiously in case the car breaks down again.
So for the kids: what an adventure- they got a ride in a tow truck, got plenty of DVD time, got snake lollies from the doctor and funky new toothbrushes from the hospital, slept in 'motel' beds, AND had Maccas not only for dinner but for breakfast too!! Awesome!!!
The grown-up, on the other hand, needed an aspirin and a nice lie down.
Jx
©2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Name of the Game
...so, following on from my opening comments about the person inside not reflecting the person I see in the mirror, another friend has now got me thinking about what's changed as I aged. Aside from the obvious, that is.
Now, my first name is spelt in an unusual way, and as a kid I never saw it printed on a bike plate or door sign, and forget about having personalised note pads! They're big things to little kids. *sighs*
But I'm much more mature these days. I recently bought a pen with "Superbitch" written on it instead. See, maturity at its finest. My mother would be so proud! ;-)
I think the best thing about growing older (if not growing up) is that we can do silly things like that, and we don't have to justify it to anyone, least of all ourselves. It's the big issues that cause me little moments of grief about making the right decision.
You may be wondering what sort of decisions I'm talking about...or maybe I don't have to explain. But, since I opened my big, er, keyboard, I'll say this: my son's illness, my daughter's sense of not getting enough attention, people I thought were friends, work, money, and of course that someone special.
These days it's not as easy as packing up the dolls, or joining another group, or deciding to be something else, or buying all the big properties in Monopoly, or getting your best friend to tell him he's 'dropped'. *giggles*
Sometimes the me in the mirror wishes she could crawl away and get to hide like the me inside can, and let the whole world just fend for itself for a while.
If that makes me a Superbitch, so be it.
Jx
©2009
Now, my first name is spelt in an unusual way, and as a kid I never saw it printed on a bike plate or door sign, and forget about having personalised note pads! They're big things to little kids. *sighs*
But I'm much more mature these days. I recently bought a pen with "Superbitch" written on it instead. See, maturity at its finest. My mother would be so proud! ;-)
I think the best thing about growing older (if not growing up) is that we can do silly things like that, and we don't have to justify it to anyone, least of all ourselves. It's the big issues that cause me little moments of grief about making the right decision.
You may be wondering what sort of decisions I'm talking about...or maybe I don't have to explain. But, since I opened my big, er, keyboard, I'll say this: my son's illness, my daughter's sense of not getting enough attention, people I thought were friends, work, money, and of course that someone special.
These days it's not as easy as packing up the dolls, or joining another group, or deciding to be something else, or buying all the big properties in Monopoly, or getting your best friend to tell him he's 'dropped'. *giggles*
Sometimes the me in the mirror wishes she could crawl away and get to hide like the me inside can, and let the whole world just fend for itself for a while.
If that makes me a Superbitch, so be it.
Jx
©2009
Airing One's Dirty Laundry
Well, I'm not sure whether there's a metaphor at play here, but I was invited to start a blog by a friend of mine who was thinking about me while she was hanging out the washing.
What to make of that??
Seems everyone's joining social networking pages on the internet and writing blogs these days, so I may as well get in on the act.
Not that I think my life smells any better than yesterday's socks, but here goes nothing...I'm fast approaching 'the big four-oh' but at times still feel like I'm a bundle of teen angst trapped in a middle-aged bod. And what I see in the mirror doesn't match who's looking out from inside.
Does it ever get any easier? Life, I mean.
Does there come a time when decisions just make themselves without a minor dose of anxiety about whether you've made the right choice? Still trying to figure it out here. And here seems as good a place as any to do so.
So look out world, here comes my smalls on the big screen! (Yeah, I know, it all depends on what size monitor you have, but it sounded good at the time)
*chuckles*
Jx
©2009
What to make of that??
Seems everyone's joining social networking pages on the internet and writing blogs these days, so I may as well get in on the act.
Not that I think my life smells any better than yesterday's socks, but here goes nothing...I'm fast approaching 'the big four-oh' but at times still feel like I'm a bundle of teen angst trapped in a middle-aged bod. And what I see in the mirror doesn't match who's looking out from inside.
Does it ever get any easier? Life, I mean.
Does there come a time when decisions just make themselves without a minor dose of anxiety about whether you've made the right choice? Still trying to figure it out here. And here seems as good a place as any to do so.
So look out world, here comes my smalls on the big screen! (Yeah, I know, it all depends on what size monitor you have, but it sounded good at the time)
*chuckles*
Jx
©2009
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