The Whole Tooth

What’s the going rate for the tooth fairy these days, I wonder?

I only ask because while helping my son clean his teeth tonight, I discovered he has not one, not two, but five baby teeth about to drop!

He’s only lost the bottom front two (central incisors) so far and has been eagerly watching all his friends reap the rewards of placing their little pearly whites under their pillows. And now he’s got the wobbles up in all four incisors along the top, along with the little left lateral incisor down the bottom, all at the same time.

If that’s not enough to worry about, there’s great confusion as to what a tooth is worth.

When I was a kid (doing my best impression of a granny here) it was around 10 cents a pop, but the deal was we had to put it in a glass of water by the bed and promise not to peek during the night, for fear of scaring the fairy away before payday. Plus we only got paid if our teeth were in good condition- a good way of making sure we brushed right, day and night; something we also try to impress upon our kids.

Now, I know in other parts of the world the tooth fairy doesn’t do cash, but leaves a toy or a gift of some sort instead (smart fairies those- ‘cause who knows how much those things cost?). But I overheard a kid at school the other day telling his friends how he got a note for his last toothy transaction, and a blue one at that (that’s $AU10.00 for our friends overseas)!

Sheesh, if the tooth fairy in this family had to fork out even $5 a time for the 20 baby teeth the average kid possesses, that’s (uses fingers and toes) $100 per child! Sure beats the hell outta the 2 bucks my mouth earnt me all those years ago!! Talk about inflation.

And to be honest, I don’t know if our local friendly fairy has a quick $25 on her if all five fell out at the same time…which is looking likely.

I mean, hasn’t the Global Financial Crisis affected the fairy folk at all?

With the economic downturn and the way values have fallen worldwide, I would’ve thought the going rate would’ve gone the way of a lot of things- and that’s down, not up.

But my son has put a lot of time and effort into all the toothy talk, especially since at all of age 7 he feels hard done by that a lot of the kids in his class are already busy growing all their permanent pearlers (our daughter is mega cranky because at 5, she hasn’t even started to get any wobbly ones, no matter how hard she tries); he’s managed to lose only two so far.

And lose them, he did.

After days and days of playing with the first wobbly one, it came out while he was munching a packet of potato chips. He thought it was a hard bit of chip so he spat it out on the ground. In the living room, for goodness sake! (Oh don’t worry, we had a chat about that, too.)

I just happened to look at him and said: “Where’s your tooth gone?” before he realized the error of his ways. So there we were, all four on the floor looking for a tiny little tooth in the beige carpet, for crying out loud. I found it and balanced it on the tip of my little finger to show the others when our daughter hopped up to see and accidentally smacked my hand in the process…sending the tooth flying once more.

The second tooth came out in the next-door neighbour’s swimming pool. Same deal- I looked at him and asked: “When did you lose your tooth?” which sent all the kids into a frenzy trying to find the thing. Yeah, good luck on a pebbled pool base! After tearfully begging the neighbours to let him know if it showed up in their filter (it didn’t), he came home to write an epic letter to the tooth fairy explaining what had happened. Luckily she’s just about heard it all, and still came good with the cash, despite receiving nothing in return. (Don’t know that I’d be so generous. Oh, wait…)

And now with 5 little wobblers at once, I’d best be keeping my eye on them. I’ll also keep the camera charged and ready, because if they do all come out at the same time, it’ll make for a great photo opportunity (perfect for, say, a 21st birthday party, don’t you think). Best stock up on soup and straws too, because I don’t think he’ll be doing much chewing ‘til the new ones grow in.

In the meantime, I’ll try and come up with a reasonable payment plan for just how much a baby tooth is worth (hopefully before the tooth fairy’s services are again required in our residence), and I’ll leave you with this little bit of wisdom to do with what you will:

Remember, always be true to your teeth or they’ll be false to you!

Jx
©2009

Snakes & Adders

I have a confession to make. I am Ophidiophobic.

Even the word slithers off your tongue. In plain English it means scared of snakes. In anyone’s language, it’s a fairly understandable fear.

I don’t remember when I first became aware that snakes and I did not get along, but I do recall being a kid and doing a pretty mean rendition of Jesus during his whole walking-on-water routine the time the SES fellas suggested we hop out of the flood waters due to some King Browns seen floating by.

There’s even proof of my phobia in full living colour, from when a bunch of us stopped for a scenic shot at a local lookout a few years ago, to test out a friend’s whizz-bang new camera with self-portrait feature.

She set the timer to take a series of shots, and when she got the film developed a little later, here’s how the sequence panned out (much to everyone’s amusement).

1st picture: all subjects happy and accounted for, standing by a rock in the sunshine.
2nd picture: there’s me, looking off to one side while the rest are still smiling inanely at the camera.
Picture number 3: here I am making my move, in the opposite direction from where I was last looking.
And the 4th picture in the sequence: well, if you look closely you can just make out that blurry bit at the bottom of the shot is actually my foot as I run away.
As for picture number 5, all I can say is at least the scenery was nice.

Talk about a Kodak moment!

So you can imagine my utter glee when my darling daughter was invited to a friend’s birthday party where the special guest was the Reptile Man.

Obviously this phobia isn't inherited because every time he came round our side of the circle for the kids to pat the ‘pets’, I found myself “just popping over to check out the refreshment table” while my little girl was front and centre with the creatures. (I’m only hoping that my trembling burnt off some of the extra calories I consumed in the process.)

And if I didn’t think it would have done irreparable damage to my child’s standing amongst her peers, I would’ve happily left before the official opening of the presents, since Mr Reptile decided he would allow photo opportunities for the little partygoers at the same time.

Oh yes, there was Miss 3 with a dirty great python wrapped around her shoulders like the feather boa that claimed its name, and there was me trying to stop my hand from shaking enough to snap the photo. Of course I had to politely decline the man’s kind offer for me to hold the thing as well. (I mean, kids don’t need to hear that kind of language.)

My ophidiophobia even sneaks up on me while I sleep. Now, I’ve heard that some dream interpreters say that seeing snakes in your own private picture show is actually a phallic symbol. Well, let me tell you, even if I met the man* who was represented by those serpents of indeterminate length, I would still run the other way!

Yes, to paraphrase Freud: sometimes a snake is just a snake. And I’m afraid of them all.

Unless of course we’re talking snakeskin shoes and handbags…maybe then I might be open for discussion. ;-)

Jx
©2009

(NB: my Beloved wanted me to include a note that the above passage* casts no aspersion whatsoever on his snake-handling ability, if you know what I mean.)

The Idiot Box

Anyone with children has at one time or another employed an electronic babysitter.

I know I’m not the only one who has sat their offspring down in front of the TV or DVD and prayed that there was enough interesting stuff to keep them quiet for an hour or so. Bonus points if they can actually learn something as they sit.

The word ‘Television’ is derived from both Greek and Latin words, and literally means ‘far sight’. (And some days as far as some kids are concerned, the farther out of sight, the better. Am I right?)

But there’s a reason why the good ol’ Telly is also known as the boob tube, goggle box, and the idiot box.

See, while my Beloved and I are comfortable enough with our kids watching re-runs or refreshed versions of series that were around when we were younger: e.g. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Scooby Doo, Tom & Jerry- even Transformers and The Simpsons are passable- but some of that new stuff is scary!

So in the interests of at least trying to understand what our small ones were watching on the small screen, I recently took another look.

I'm still not convinced the nicknames are wrong.

Exhibit A: Yo Gabba Gabba! Why do they have to YELL all the time? I get that they’re excited about life and all, but those bright colours, crazy songs, freaky characters, and all that YELLING does my head in some days. But at least it seems to be one of the shows that teaches children something, unlike many other questionable concepts aimed at the young. (Even if my Beloved thinks that ‘Moono’ was modeled on a marital aid...and can I just say, not anything I own!)

Exhibit B: Dora the Explorer and her ‘cousin’ Diego. Sure it introduces kids to another language, and demonstrates basic problem solving, but what about child safety? Seriously, where are their parents? Letting them wander off all over the world on their quests! I’ve also gotta say, ever since someone else pointed out their unnaturally close relationship, I look at these two Spanish mini adventurers in quite a different way. Kissing cousins perhaps? Hmm. Let’s not ruin it for the children.

Exhibit C: In The Night Garden. Case in point: Makka Pakka, Igglepiggle, Upsy Daisy, the Tombliboos and the Ninky Nonk. While I have never imbibed anything illegal, I can only imagine that they’re the kind of creations one could come up with after the drugs kick in and before the munchies begin. Perhaps one needs to take a drag from a little green bag to fully appreciate the complexity of the characters.

Exhibit D: Lazytown. Just watching it wears me out. And isn’t anyone else at all worried that an entire town relies on a bloke living in a blimp up above? Have they not heard about what happened to the Hindenburg? Oh, the humanity!

As for Chowder, Spongebob, Flapjack, I’m not even going to go there lest I start that twitching again. (And we can’t really afford the therapy anymore since we got Pay TV connected.)

All I can say is thank goodness my kids are too old for Teletubbies and Boohbah- they always made me feel like doing something awful to their soft toy incarnations. (Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, thinking calm thoughts…)

Anyway, the latest research supposedly suggests that children should not be exposed to any television at all until they are 2 years old or more…to give them a chance to develop all their senses without any extra artificial and superficial influences.

I couldn’t agree more.

At least, by the time a child turns 2 they should be talking well enough to be able to explain it to their parents.

Jx
©2009

Are We There Yet?

I’ve just come home from a weekend away. And now I need a holiday.

There’s nothing quite like packing two small children in the car for a trip to your home town, to make one contemplate the differences between the life you’re living & the one you left behind, and the journey in between.

And whoever said “Time flies when you’re having fun” obviously hasn’t taken a trip down memory lane with my lot on board.

Since we finally bought a car that wouldn’t break down 5 minutes out of town, I decided it was time to head north for only the second time this year to see the family; my Beloved chose to spend some quality time at home alone.

I set the alarm for 5am to get an early start on our 3.5 hour journey. It was after 1pm when I finally pulled into my mother’s driveway. (I'll let you do the math.)

In that time, I had to re-pack the car twice to allow my sister to fit in, hand over the entire weekend supply of ‘travelling lollies’ to the kids, stop to refill drink bottles a couple of times, sought out toilets of acceptable sanitation quality at least twice, referee countless arguments, try to deduce the reason behind my daughter's feet feeling "fizzy", and pull over for an impromptu play in the park in a bid to wear the kids out enough to sleep the rest of the way.

But on the upside, I only had to stop twice to attend to a vomiting child. (Loving those V-Bags I buy in bulk- they catch it all nicely!)

We all agree the best thing about this car is the DVD player in the back. The kids get to watch a movie with their headphones on while up front I get to listen to the CDs of my choice. I didn’t realize just how much I was enjoying the latter until my son pipes up from the back seat: “Great singing there mum.” No wonder the people in the car next to us at the traffic lights were looking at me that way.

Not to worry. I continue to cruise on down the road, with “Nineteen Somethin’” at (almost) full boar (love that 9 speaker stereo system!), and marvel that Mark Wills is obviously of a similar age to me, he describes it all so well. (Except for the Daisy Duke bit- I preferred Luke Duke myself…mind you, John Schneider seems to be ageing rather nicely…but I digress…)

Due to a bed shortage in the ol’ 3 bedroom house I grew up in, I had to share with my 7 y.o. son. (He was cranky because his 5 y.o. sister was quicker than he at “bagsing” sleeping with Nanny instead, and he drew the short straw as far as he was concerned. He neglected to ask me what I thought of the sleeping arrangements, mind you.) After a late night at my eldest sister’s place celebrating my niece’s birthday, we all fell into bed well after the regular bedtime.

Then, after being kicked 15 times, head-butted 4, and used as a footstool once or twice, I decided to use the body-pillow as a barrier between us, curled up into the foetal position, and finally managed, ooh, 4 hours sleep.

Then guess who had to answer the call of nature around 5.45am and decided the quickest route to the bathroom was to crawl directly over the top of me…?

That aside, we passed another pleasant day with the family before we waved goodbye and promised not to leave as long between visits next time. We hit the highway and head home…along with what seemed to be every single ‘L’ and ‘P’ plate driver in the known universe, who all had the same reaction- sheer panic- every time their speedometer hit 80kph and had to hit the brakes. (I'm sure you can guess the subsequent response from the line of traffic following.)

But at least it was only a 5 hour trip home.

We walk in the front door: there’s dirty washing in the sink while the dishwasher stands empty. The clothes are still waiting in the washing machine, right where I left them. We’re low on milk and we’re almost out of bread. My Beloved is in bed trying to stock up on sleep before a night-shift at work. The dog, on the other hand, is wide awake and going crazy in the driveway causing me to trip over while I’m carrying the bags in from the car. Which gives me reason to pause and ponder why we always manage to come home with more than we take, it’s not like we had any time (or indeed inclination) to go shopping! (I come to the conclusion that Mum must’ve found more of the flotsam and jetsam of our childhood and decided it was time we got to keep it at our place. Thanks Ma.)

Now the kids are fighting in the bathtub. My Beloved is up and about and muttering something about the end of his peace and quiet. And the dog is sitting on my feet while I sip a hot cup of tea and type.

Yep. There’s no place like home. And don’t we just love it!

Jx
©2009

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

I’m an insomniac from way back.

Oh as a kid I was a dream- took myself off to bed before the rest of the family had even finished dinner, on more than one occasion.

But only because I knew I’d be awake in the night long after everyone else had headed for the land of nod, or up before the sun.

It’s a condition that’s plagued me into adulthood, and is especially bad during periods of high stress (which pretty much sums up my life at times).

And there are reasons that sleep deprivation is used as a form of torture. Just ask any parent of a newborn. Or a long-term insomniac.

It’s also a booming industry…just ask your friendly pharmacist.

I’ve tried counting sheep (but must be allergic to wool or something), I’ve tried whole-body relaxation techniques (by the time I reach my head, my feet are wide awake again), I’ve tried every kind of ‘natural’ and medicated sleep aids (most with the unnatural reaction of making me more alert), attempted to master the ‘Mindfulness’ thing (but keep getting distracted by the very thoughts meant to relax me), I’ve also tried reading to make myself nod off. Non-fiction books are best.

My Beloved couldn’t believe it the night he woke to find me sitting up alongside him thoroughly ensconced in the pages of ‘Hamlet’. “No one reads that by choice” says he, “I haven’t picked it up since high school, and even then I’m sure I didn’t finish it!“ I, on the other hand, have now discovered that I had a fairly decent grasp of the plot after all, according to the notes scribbled down the margins of my copy from senior school (see Mrs V, I was paying attention!); I have also found that the Bard is almost unequalled in his ability to lull one into slumber by his scribing.

So I have managed to finish the sad story of the prince of Denmark, along with the tragic tale of the Montagues and Capulets, the nocturnal musings of Midsummer, and even got something out of “Much Ado About Nothing” before I begin to doze.

But even then there’s a big gap between getting to sleep and staying asleep.

On the nights where I do manage to get a solid stretch of shut-eye, odds are it’ll be broken by either a family emergency with one of the children allegedly finding crocodiles in their bed, or dreaming they’ve trotted into the bathroom while are in reality still soundly between the sheets (you know the joy I’m talking about)… or the dog decides it’s his night to play alpha male of the neighbourhood. Like last night.

Yes I was rudely awakened from a most scintillating subconscious state where I was the first (and may I say hilarious) female presenter on 'Top Gear' (What the? Must be all that car research I'm doing!) when the silly little critter joined in the canine chorus of the wee small hours, strutting all along the fence line with his pathetic little bark.

I am ashamed to say that where my previous dog- a rather large Labrador- could shake the surrounding streets with his booming “WOOF!” echoing throughout the night air, this fluffy little mutt we rescued from the RSCPA can’t even manage to startle the possums perched on the porch.

After an hour and a half of “ruff, ruffruffruff, ruffruff, ruff”, I had to go shut him up for his own sake- it was such an embarrassing display, I certainly didn’t want anyone knowing that dog belonged to us (even though it seemed to disturb no one else but me).

But then another hour later, after he had finally slipped into doggy dreams himself, I was still wide awake and prowling the bookcases for something to help switch my mind off again.

“’The History of the English Language’ looks good”, I thought, as I propped up the pillows behind me and settled in to read.

A mere twenty pages into the story of how first the Celts, then the Romans, and then the Normans claimed Britain and changed the local lingo I felt my chin hit my chest and took the cue to kill the lights.

Before I knew it, the kids were bouncing into the room for their Morning Hug, and I was shuffling out to the kitchen to greet the coffee maker with a similar level of enthusiasm.

Hopefully I’ll manage to inject enough caffeine into my system to get me through the hours until I can chase the kids to bed and start the game of cat-and-mouse with Mr Sandman once more.

I better keep a copy of “the Scottish play” beside the bed just in case…

Jx
©2009

Driving Myself Crazy

I have decided that there is no such thing as the perfect car.

At least, I haven’t found it yet and I’ve been searching for the past four months. Perhaps it’s just not in our budget.

What I have found is a bunch of lemons that could never make lemonade even with all the sugar in the world.

I have also found some of the dodgiest car dealers that ever prowled the planet.

Sad to say, there’s a good reason that used car salesmen keep turning up in lists of professions we trust the least.

Aside from the misguided males who seem to think that a female isn’t interested in anything aside from the colour when it comes to choosing a car, I have also come across the fellas who actually believe that you’ll fall for their charms and buy the first vehicle they show you, even though it’s the wrong size, wrong shape, and definitely the wrong price.

And just quietly, I’ve found that if you know more about the car than the ones trying to sell it to you, it’s time to take the exit ramp.

So there’s been a lot of desktop research going on, not only to narrow the selection for the next family bandwagon, but also what to look out for once you take the next step and set foot on the lot.

Oh and there’s nothing like taking a car for a test drive to strengthen the bonds of the family ties.

Yes, the times I have managed to drag my Beloved and offspring along to check out a likely contender, it’s taken twice as long to get the specs on the car, let alone start talking turkey about buying the thing. If it’s not the kids dashing off in different directions exploring every open door in the showroom, it’s my Beloved spotting something else entirely across the lot and throwing that one into the mix, just to add to the confusion.

Mind you, I have discovered that having the kids tag along can work wonders with any less-than-up-front salesmen…they’re usually so keen to see the back of you all that the usual sales-talk game-playing is kept to a minimum and they’ll tell you what you need to know pretty quickly.

On the flipside, it’s hard to haggle over the trade-in when your children blow your bluff about how good your car really is. No good telling the dealer it runs like a dream when the kids in their inherent honesty remind you about that clunking sound it makes.

After all that, even if you find something that suits, ya gotta go with the to-ing and fro-ing of the figures as both sides try to get the most out of their money. And can I tell you how frustrating it is to get “this close” to driving home the deal, only to reach a roadblock where neither side will move any more.

It’s almost as bad as finding your dream car described on one of those car sales sites, and then finding out it’s sold before you even picked up the phone.

Oh yeah, 4 months is a long time in the search for the perfect car.

But I’ll keep walking the walk and talking the talk and we will hopefully reach a satisfactory conclusion before one or both of our current modes of transportation break down once and for all and leave us stranded somewhere even the roadside assistance won’t wanna come (my Beloved and I are placing bets whose car will go first).

Best case scenario, I will finally win that elusive lottery and be able to simply cruise into the caryard of choice and take two, thanks, in matching colours, if you don’t mind.

Which reminds me, research on that has shown that I might have better luck if I actually bought a ticket once in a while…I only hope the car makes it to the newsagent to do so!

Jx
©2009

Art for Art's Sake

Today I went tattoo shopping with my friend.

I’m not talking about those water-based jobs you get with a stick of bubble gum; I mean the real deal: getting a tattoo artist to insert ink under the skin using an electric needle.

The only thing was my friend didn’t know who to do it, where to do it, or what she even wanted to do.

I’ve long considered getting a tattoo myself, but as I haven’t found a design that I’d be content to take to my grave, I am yet to allow someone else use my body as a canvas. (Mind you, I have 4 tatts already, if you count eyeliner, so I'm not that scared of the process.)

The other big decision is where exactly to put the thing. There’s a lot of talk about which part of the body looks best, hurts worst, and what sort of image will stand the test of time. (Last thing you wanna do is turn up at your nursing home with “we’re here for a good time not a long time” plastered across your wrinkled old hide.)

I would never put one anywhere near the buttock region. Aside from the indignity of having to drop one’s pants in a public place, the thought of having a stranger’s face that near my rear just doesn’t sit well with me.

I’ve heard that the stomach and inner hip are popular, but I’ve also heard the tale about the lass who got a dolphin done, gained a little weight and ended up with a whale.

I simply fail to see the point of getting your favourite image etched on your shoulder or down the bottom of your back. Despite the fact that they’re colloquially called ‘tramp stamps’, you’d need to be a contortionist to see it yourself, and isn’t that the reason you pick a picture- because you like it?!

Necks and arms might be hard to hide in certain social circumstances. I can just imagine my mother going every shade of red if I rocked up to a family function with the full sleeve job (one of my aunts discovered a little pink pig strategically placed upon her daughter when they were getting ready for a wedding and it was pretty much “wah wah wah” all the way home).

The best value tattoo I think would be one in the vicinity of the chest, at least for females anyway. My theory is, it starts up here, give it a few years and it ends up down around your hip. Et voilà- two for the price of one!

But I’d never go there, for the reasons outlined above, about the bottom.

So you can see why I’m still only thinking about inking at this stage of the game.

But my friend is ready and raring to go, and so we hit the trail of the local tattoo parlours to see what they offered, and how.

First place we went into gave me an instant headache. While signs everywhere declared that drugs and alcohol were not permitted on the premises, their standards weren’t obviously as strict when it came to bodily odours and death-metal music.

Trying to stand upwind of the crew alongside us checking out the portfolios of pictures, I came to the conclusion that even if the perfect pic did jump out at me, I couldn’t possibly stand the sounds screaming out of the speakers for the time it would take to do the tattoo. So I for one wouldn’t be lining up for any artwork there. My friend came to the same conclusion, with the bonus of being more than a little concerned about the choice between baring her butt to some fairly large fairly hairy gentlemen, or a lady of questionable sexual preferences. She chose to go with none of the above.

The next place was cleaner and quieter, but the artists seemed to be computer geeks taking a plunge into grunge- only with an ‘80s backing track- so the atmosphere was a little odd to say the least.

It was third time lucky at the next tattoo studio. Not only was it clean and bright and smelt like it met all the OH&S criteria, but my friend finally found the piece of art that said it all (and worked out where to say it too). In spite of the manager’s warning that screaming was not allowed during the procedure, she booked an appointment, and then booked me to come along for moral support. How well she handles it may be the deciding factor whether I continue my search for an image to grace my skin. Or not.

And despite my Beloved not being overly fond of the idea of me getting a tattoo too, he did come up with a suggestion…

He said that if I truly wanted to do something about global warming, I could get a little sapling scrawled across my butt. His exact words were: “as you get older and fatter, the tree will grow and that’s gotta be good for the environment.”

If he’s not careful, he’ll find himself with a permanent mark of his own- the imprint of my boot on his backside. I wouldn’t even charge him for the privilege.

Jx
©2009