It took me ten years to become a mum.
But less than one before I was launched into the alien world of adolescence.
Because, even before my first-born was born, I was thrust onto planet parenthood with the arrival in our household of my stepson, then aged 9.
If being a mother is one of the hardest jobs in the world, I can tell you a stepmother’s lot is a whole lot harder.
Aside from the obvious difference between a birth and a ‘blended’ parent, just look at the bad rap stepmothers have been given over the years. She’s invariably cast as the villain in the piece in all the classic fairytales and plays from writers like the Brothers Grimm, Shakespeare…even the ancient Greek playwright Euripides who lived way back in 480-406 BC is quoted as saying: "Better a serpent than a stepmother!" Boo, Hissssssss.
And I’m holding Disney personally responsible for a lot of it: just look at their adaptations of Cinderella, Snow White, even “Enchanted” features the classic ‘Wicked Stepmother’ character. She's usually ugly too, just to add insult to injury (although Susan Sarandon is still gorgeous at age 63, if you ask me)!
Kinda makes it tough on the rest of us in that role.
To make it even harder, my stepson was told he didn’t have to listen to me since I wasn’t his ‘real’ mother (no prizes for guessing who gave him that helpful little piece of advice). So I found myself resorting to the age-old trick of parenthood in any guise: reverse psychology. If I wanted him to do something, I simply said for him not to. You can’t argue with that (even if one does have O.D.D.).
But being a stepmother can also make it simpler to deal with certain conversations and situations that can make a biological parent cringe. Since we’re “the bad guy” anyway, we may as well blunder in where others dare to tread.
Like with the facts of life.
When my stepson came to live with us, he had no clue whatsoever about the differences between men and women, let alone where babies come from. And since I was pregnant at the time, a crash course in sex education was definitely on the cards.
Here I pause and reflect upon my Beloved’s insightful and informative approach. It went something like: girls don’t have the bits boys have and so girls have the babies. And left it at that. Naturally I had to step in and explain a few things, especially since he was in the delivery room with us barely minutes after my son was born. Yes, seeing me in all my glory (complete with Grumpy-the-Dwarf nightshirt and wearing a sick-bowl as a party hat) certainly brought him up to speed. And how.
Fast forward a few years and my 16 y.o. stepson has moved back to his mother. You can imagine my utter delight when he informs me that his also 16 y.o. girlfriend spends nearly every night with him in his caravan, so I straight up asked if they were practicing safe sex. He did the ‘Aw shutup’ thing and denied it, but I pressed ahead anyway: “Just make sure you use protection, because the last thing you need at your age is a baby, ok? Or a disease!” I got the distinct impression that no one else had been game enough to venture forth on the topic, so we chatted about it a bit. When I later related the conversation to my Beloved, he kinda blushed (god love him) and said “I’m glad he’ll talk to you about stuff like that.”
He also says he prefers me to take him for driving lessons over anyone else because apparently I don’t yell at him anywhere near as much as the others do. I told him I’m saving my breath lest I need it for screaming. (He thinks I’m kidding.) Mind you, it’s a little scary when he’s laughing so much he can’t keep the car going in a straight line. (I never realized just how handy those little straps above the window really are, until now.)
Yes it’s certainly a different kind of parenting when there’s a “step” involved. But if you’re lucky you can develop a special kind of relationship, in spite of the odds.
And so, back to my original point about stepmothers and the reputation we’ve been given over the centuries, maybe we’re really not so wicked in the traditional sense, more like “wikkid” in the way that perhaps only a teenager can appreciate.
I’m hanging out for the day Disney makes a movie with that kind of happy ending.
Let’s just hope it comes out well before I become a wicked stepgrandmother…
*cackles*
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
D. I. Why?
There are a lot of professions for which I have the utmost regard: emergency service crews... medical health professionals... teachers... oh and the people who install car window tinting.
Seriously, anyone who’s ever tried to apply any adhesive covering to children’s school books will know the utter frustration of first aligning then affixing the fiddly stuff to the surface without leaving telltale bubbles below. It's a bad enough look on books, so who wants to drive around with the reminder of your incompetence staring you in the face every time you looked out the window (mind you, I have seen many many people who do).
If you have the same pale skin that my children and I do (bordering on albino), it’s not an auto fashion accessory as much as a flesh’s necessity.
And I have no qualms at all about paying someone to do the job for me.
But my Beloved, being a typical male, is positive that he can do it himself (I call it the DIY Chromosome), so off we go to the auto accessory shop and pick up a packet of tint.
Well, as soon as he took the roll out of the box I knew I was in for an afternoon’s entertainment.
So I put the kettle on to fix myself a cuppa tea, grabbed a magazine, and took up a position in the yard with a good view of the carport.
There was my Beloved, trying carefully to unroll the tint in order to cut off enough to cover the first window. “Do you think it would be wise to measure the window first and just cut off what you need?” I ask from my perch on the patio. “This is quicker” says he from somewhere under a metre of coloured plastic.
And it was- if you consider the speed with which the roll slipped from his fingers and disappeared under the car, unravelling as it went.
After a number of comments I couldn’t possibly print here, he managed to gather the tint, cut off a section of approximate length, successfully peeled off the backing paper, then set about applying to the auto glass.
Long story short, it was back to the auto shop to pick up another pack, and home again to try once more.
This time he got the tint off the backing paper and onto the window.
Unfortunately he also managed to capture the entire supply of oxygen in the air surrounding him, leaving enough bubbles under the tinting to give one the distinct impression of looking at the world through a bottle of Coca Cola®.
Determined not to be defeated by a packet of plastic, it was a round trip to the shops once more.
Anyway…
After the third attempt, my Beloved gathered up the wreckage, tossed it all in the garbage can, and leaving the still untinted car windows, stalked past me into the house muttering: “We will never speak of this again.”
And we haven’t.
Until now.
1989 Mazda ... c.$2700.00
3 packets of tint ... $149.97
An afternoon spent watching my Beloved try to apply it ... Priceless!
Jx
©2009
Seriously, anyone who’s ever tried to apply any adhesive covering to children’s school books will know the utter frustration of first aligning then affixing the fiddly stuff to the surface without leaving telltale bubbles below. It's a bad enough look on books, so who wants to drive around with the reminder of your incompetence staring you in the face every time you looked out the window (mind you, I have seen many many people who do).
If you have the same pale skin that my children and I do (bordering on albino), it’s not an auto fashion accessory as much as a flesh’s necessity.
And I have no qualms at all about paying someone to do the job for me.
But my Beloved, being a typical male, is positive that he can do it himself (I call it the DIY Chromosome), so off we go to the auto accessory shop and pick up a packet of tint.
Well, as soon as he took the roll out of the box I knew I was in for an afternoon’s entertainment.
So I put the kettle on to fix myself a cuppa tea, grabbed a magazine, and took up a position in the yard with a good view of the carport.
There was my Beloved, trying carefully to unroll the tint in order to cut off enough to cover the first window. “Do you think it would be wise to measure the window first and just cut off what you need?” I ask from my perch on the patio. “This is quicker” says he from somewhere under a metre of coloured plastic.
And it was- if you consider the speed with which the roll slipped from his fingers and disappeared under the car, unravelling as it went.
After a number of comments I couldn’t possibly print here, he managed to gather the tint, cut off a section of approximate length, successfully peeled off the backing paper, then set about applying to the auto glass.
Long story short, it was back to the auto shop to pick up another pack, and home again to try once more.
This time he got the tint off the backing paper and onto the window.
Unfortunately he also managed to capture the entire supply of oxygen in the air surrounding him, leaving enough bubbles under the tinting to give one the distinct impression of looking at the world through a bottle of Coca Cola®.
Determined not to be defeated by a packet of plastic, it was a round trip to the shops once more.
Anyway…
After the third attempt, my Beloved gathered up the wreckage, tossed it all in the garbage can, and leaving the still untinted car windows, stalked past me into the house muttering: “We will never speak of this again.”
And we haven’t.
Until now.
1989 Mazda ... c.$2700.00
3 packets of tint ... $149.97
An afternoon spent watching my Beloved try to apply it ... Priceless!
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Batteries Not Included
At the risk of sounding old here, things sure have changed since I was a kid.
Give us some chalk, a flat concrete surface, and other minor props, and we could entertain ourselves for hours… hopscotch, handball, even just letting our imagination run riot and create temporary masterpieces on the family carport.
It was humble, but we were happy.
And wasn’t mum happier still when the rain would eventually wash the canvas clean, given some of our artwork.
Yes when I was young, even the girls were content to take toy cars to school and we spent hours in the playground creating roads, housing estates, and entire back-stories for the little pencil-eraser-people we shoved into any cars with opening doors. (The boys, on the other hand, were more intent on seeing how many they could simply smash!)
And now- smack bang in the middle of the school holidays- I am reminded yet again how different life is, and these days almost every kid I know is completely ensconced in some electronic device. To the point where some might just have to have them surgically removed!
Unfortunately, they all seem to need to own said gaming gear, lest they miss out on a vital part of childhood and do irreparable damage to their developing psyches.
Oh and heaven forbid you buy the wrong one- it can instantly ostracise your child in the playground, and potentially lead to years of therapy. That’s despite the fact that the average game console costs the equivalent of a small car, and the price of a single game is more than what we used to get in a whole year of pocket money!
My Beloved and I held off as long as we could in getting a new console, using the excuse that the good ol’ PlayStation® had life in her yet. And she did, but naturally chose the exact period our son had another lengthy stay at hospital and home, to finally expire. (Lucky for us, it coincided with a mighty good ‘runout’ special on a PS2® and we were back in business.)
Now, as much as I hate to admit it (and here I go showing my age again), there are certain games that I just cannot figure out for the life of me - or for even my 5 or 6 'lives' granted to complete the virtual quest. (I am convinced though, that some of the characters are suicidal masochists in the way they insist on launching themselves off every available ledge or into the path of every incoming missile, or at least they always do whenever I’m playing.)
Mind you, it’s not just the little boys who love their toys. My Beloved is every bit as addicted as the younger ones, and just as competitive too. He has even resorted to commandeering the console and practicing his moves while I am busy packing our progeny off to bed, just so he can rub it in next time they meet on the multimedia. Or at least give them a good run for their money.
I must also confess that after one too many humiliations at the hands of my family, I happily if not humbly retreat to my laptop to squeeze in a few rounds of ‘FreeCell’. Sure that little King watches my every move (in our version), but at least he doesn’t laugh uproariously at me when I lose.
*sigh*
Give me a stick of chalk anyday...
Jx
©2009
Give us some chalk, a flat concrete surface, and other minor props, and we could entertain ourselves for hours… hopscotch, handball, even just letting our imagination run riot and create temporary masterpieces on the family carport.
It was humble, but we were happy.
And wasn’t mum happier still when the rain would eventually wash the canvas clean, given some of our artwork.
Yes when I was young, even the girls were content to take toy cars to school and we spent hours in the playground creating roads, housing estates, and entire back-stories for the little pencil-eraser-people we shoved into any cars with opening doors. (The boys, on the other hand, were more intent on seeing how many they could simply smash!)
And now- smack bang in the middle of the school holidays- I am reminded yet again how different life is, and these days almost every kid I know is completely ensconced in some electronic device. To the point where some might just have to have them surgically removed!
Unfortunately, they all seem to need to own said gaming gear, lest they miss out on a vital part of childhood and do irreparable damage to their developing psyches.
Oh and heaven forbid you buy the wrong one- it can instantly ostracise your child in the playground, and potentially lead to years of therapy. That’s despite the fact that the average game console costs the equivalent of a small car, and the price of a single game is more than what we used to get in a whole year of pocket money!
My Beloved and I held off as long as we could in getting a new console, using the excuse that the good ol’ PlayStation® had life in her yet. And she did, but naturally chose the exact period our son had another lengthy stay at hospital and home, to finally expire. (Lucky for us, it coincided with a mighty good ‘runout’ special on a PS2® and we were back in business.)
Now, as much as I hate to admit it (and here I go showing my age again), there are certain games that I just cannot figure out for the life of me - or for even my 5 or 6 'lives' granted to complete the virtual quest. (I am convinced though, that some of the characters are suicidal masochists in the way they insist on launching themselves off every available ledge or into the path of every incoming missile, or at least they always do whenever I’m playing.)
Mind you, it’s not just the little boys who love their toys. My Beloved is every bit as addicted as the younger ones, and just as competitive too. He has even resorted to commandeering the console and practicing his moves while I am busy packing our progeny off to bed, just so he can rub it in next time they meet on the multimedia. Or at least give them a good run for their money.
I must also confess that after one too many humiliations at the hands of my family, I happily if not humbly retreat to my laptop to squeeze in a few rounds of ‘FreeCell’. Sure that little King watches my every move (in our version), but at least he doesn’t laugh uproariously at me when I lose.
*sigh*
Give me a stick of chalk anyday...
Jx
©2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
All White Now
There’s a running joke in the family: if you ever wanted to look like you had a tan, you simply stand next to me. Yes it's true, I could make even Frosty the Snowman take on a healthy glow. And you certainly don’t need any reminder about slipping on the sunnies when I’m around- the glare alone has been known to put dogs and small children into a hypnotic state. (Just ask my daughter’s teacher the day I helped out on an excursion to the lake one sunny day…)
So it was with some trepidation I recently read the weather forecast to see that not only had Spring sprung, but it was bringing advance notice of Summertime with it.
I don’t know about where you live, but here, as soon as there’s even a hint of the temperature hitting 20 degrees (celsius for those not using the same scale, which is roughly 70+ degrees fahrenheit), out come the shorts and sundresses; and by default, so do any body parts that otherwise go undercover in colder climes.
It’s a time of year I dread, because there comes a time when it’s so hot one has run out of excuses and must simply dare to bare. (Either that, or convert to one of those religions that requires complete coverage all year round, and I just don’t know how that’d go down with my mother.)
And so I face the annual dilemma of what not to wear.
My preference is still for longer skirts or those maxi-dresses, they’re cool, comfy, with good coverage. But take it from me, pick the wrong print and you’ll have little kids lining up behind you wondering when tickets go on sale for the circus.
As an alternative, three-quarter pants are also pretty safe, unless you’re somewhere around my height and instead of lengthening the body, they make you look like you’re auditioning for a role as one of the dwarves (I always maintained I could be all seven at the same time, provided their names were: Stumpy, Lumpy, Bumpy, Frumpy, Dumpy, Jumpy, and let’s not forget Grumpy)!
But I still have to ensure that I slather sunscreen on any flesh that may be exposed as a result, ‘cause with my skin tone I only have two shades– blinding white or lobster red. And after a few disastrous attempts at the home self-tan job (seriously, the bathroom vanity got a better tan than I did), I have resigned myself to having the same alabaster complexion as Nicole Kidman (only I don’t share the smooth forehead as she, for some reason).
At my previous place of employment I could always tell when Summer had begun, by the streaks of fake tan on the toilet seat. At least I hope it was fake tan.
Anyway, there we were at school the other morning, doing the drop-off routine with the kids, when we couldn’t help but notice the student-teacher sashay through the playground…followed by the eyes of not only all the mothers, but the fathers too. When she stopped alongside the class she had been assigned that day, the odds of the teacher up front of the assembly keeping the attention of those 6th grade boys were a helluva lot longer than the skirt this other one had chosen to wear.
I’m sure you can imagine the kind of comments that were being passed around the schoolyard; suffice to say that she didn’t get a glowing report card from a large number of onlookers.
So there I was, standing with the usual suspects as we observed the whole thing from the safety of the back row. And with utter glee akin to the kindergartners in the crowd, I noticed that whoever had helped that intern out had done a dodgy job in the fake-tan danger-zone leaving the front of her knees a peculiar shade of orange, and the backs a brilliant white, almost enough to rival what was poking out my trouser legs.
OK so small things amuse small minds, but I’ve gotta say those two little white patches gave us a mighty big laugh. And for once it wasn’t my legs causing the mirth. But with summer coming, I guess the last laugh will most likely be on me.
Jx
©2009
So it was with some trepidation I recently read the weather forecast to see that not only had Spring sprung, but it was bringing advance notice of Summertime with it.
I don’t know about where you live, but here, as soon as there’s even a hint of the temperature hitting 20 degrees (celsius for those not using the same scale, which is roughly 70+ degrees fahrenheit), out come the shorts and sundresses; and by default, so do any body parts that otherwise go undercover in colder climes.
It’s a time of year I dread, because there comes a time when it’s so hot one has run out of excuses and must simply dare to bare. (Either that, or convert to one of those religions that requires complete coverage all year round, and I just don’t know how that’d go down with my mother.)
And so I face the annual dilemma of what not to wear.
My preference is still for longer skirts or those maxi-dresses, they’re cool, comfy, with good coverage. But take it from me, pick the wrong print and you’ll have little kids lining up behind you wondering when tickets go on sale for the circus.
As an alternative, three-quarter pants are also pretty safe, unless you’re somewhere around my height and instead of lengthening the body, they make you look like you’re auditioning for a role as one of the dwarves (I always maintained I could be all seven at the same time, provided their names were: Stumpy, Lumpy, Bumpy, Frumpy, Dumpy, Jumpy, and let’s not forget Grumpy)!
But I still have to ensure that I slather sunscreen on any flesh that may be exposed as a result, ‘cause with my skin tone I only have two shades– blinding white or lobster red. And after a few disastrous attempts at the home self-tan job (seriously, the bathroom vanity got a better tan than I did), I have resigned myself to having the same alabaster complexion as Nicole Kidman (only I don’t share the smooth forehead as she, for some reason).
At my previous place of employment I could always tell when Summer had begun, by the streaks of fake tan on the toilet seat. At least I hope it was fake tan.
Anyway, there we were at school the other morning, doing the drop-off routine with the kids, when we couldn’t help but notice the student-teacher sashay through the playground…followed by the eyes of not only all the mothers, but the fathers too. When she stopped alongside the class she had been assigned that day, the odds of the teacher up front of the assembly keeping the attention of those 6th grade boys were a helluva lot longer than the skirt this other one had chosen to wear.
I’m sure you can imagine the kind of comments that were being passed around the schoolyard; suffice to say that she didn’t get a glowing report card from a large number of onlookers.
So there I was, standing with the usual suspects as we observed the whole thing from the safety of the back row. And with utter glee akin to the kindergartners in the crowd, I noticed that whoever had helped that intern out had done a dodgy job in the fake-tan danger-zone leaving the front of her knees a peculiar shade of orange, and the backs a brilliant white, almost enough to rival what was poking out my trouser legs.
OK so small things amuse small minds, but I’ve gotta say those two little white patches gave us a mighty big laugh. And for once it wasn’t my legs causing the mirth. But with summer coming, I guess the last laugh will most likely be on me.
Jx
©2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Sugar and Spice
…and all things nice…that’s what little girls are made of, right?
We all know the poem.
But anyone who knows a little girl with Type 1 or Juvenile Diabetes, also knows that too much of the sugar part does more than spice up their life…it can actually take it away.
It’s a frightening thought, and one that’s always hovering on the edge of our minds ever since my beautiful niece was diagnosed 6 years ago, at age 9.
Let me put it this way: there was a display recently- 15,000 hypodermic syringes stuck into the ground in the middle of Martin Place in Sydney. It was to demonstrate the number of needles a child with Diabetes will have to use by the time they reached the age of 15.
My niece is 15 and the needles just keep coming.
It’s a truly cruel condition that too many kids are affected by, and too many people know too little about. As I write this, about 140,000 Aussie children have been diagnosed.
When my niece developed the disease my sister was told that "there might be a cure within the next ten years". 6 years and counting and that answer’s still out of reach. But at least they have made some fabulous progress in that time.
There’s the artificial Pancreas, Islet transplantation, and while not an ideal solution, there are now pumps that can be installed, which sends out doses of the vital insulin, and cuts out a lot of the injections. The pump itself is a little box similar in size to a pager; the user wears it and it delivers the dosage needed over 24 hours. The downside is that the amount of finger pricks needed for monitoring blood glucose levels is tripled- yep these kids have to do up to a dozen a day just to make sure everything is working as it should.
Because if that blood sugar gets out of whack the complications can be deadly: blindness, kidney disease, heart disease and stroke, and sometimes nerve damage which can lead to gangrene and amputation. Whether low or high blood glucose, it’s a fair bet that there’s a shortened life expectancy. Thankfully, current info shows that the rate of these serious complications is lower than it used to be. Thank Heavens for small mercies.
But if you have ever seen someone you love go through a “Hypo” you know just how scary this thing is. And how helpless it can make you feel, even as a bystander. (Even Rob Thomas sang about the struggles his wife faces, in his song "Her Diamonds".)
It’s truly terrifying if, like 80% of cases, no one else in your family has it, so there's no one to turn to, to help you understand why your body’s turning against itself. And I cannot even explain how it feels when your child has an autoimmune disease and know you didn’t cause it, but know you can’t cure it either.
And until a cure is found, a child with diabetes will have it into adulthood. While not necessarily a life sentence, it is certainly life limiting.
Imagine having to weigh up every single mouthful. Or counting every carb in every bite you take. Imagine having to sit with your friends at the movies and just watch as they tuck into the requisite popcorn or cola or choc top ice cream.
Imagine having to watch the clock and stop what you’re doing no matter how much fun you’re having, just so you can stab yourself in the finger and squeeze out some blood to test your glucose levels. Then imagine having to measure up the insulin, pinch your skin and stick a syringe in.
My niece is one of those awesome kids who took on the management of her medical condition at quite a young age- within months of being diagnosed she was injecting herself. It makes me smile through the tears at how inspirational these children can be.
So if you’ll forgive me, I’m going to take a little poetic license here and rewrite that rhyme, in honour of my gorgeous god-daughter and niece who makes me proud every single day with her maturity…
What are little girls made of? Spirit & strength, at unbelievable lengths.
That’s what these little girls are made of!
My apologies to Mother Goose, but if her child had diabetes I’m sure she’d understand.
Jx
©2009
NOTE: To find out more about the Federal Government’s Insulin Pump Grant, or to help the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation in their quest for a cure, just follow the links.
We all know the poem.
But anyone who knows a little girl with Type 1 or Juvenile Diabetes, also knows that too much of the sugar part does more than spice up their life…it can actually take it away.
It’s a frightening thought, and one that’s always hovering on the edge of our minds ever since my beautiful niece was diagnosed 6 years ago, at age 9.
Let me put it this way: there was a display recently- 15,000 hypodermic syringes stuck into the ground in the middle of Martin Place in Sydney. It was to demonstrate the number of needles a child with Diabetes will have to use by the time they reached the age of 15.
My niece is 15 and the needles just keep coming.
It’s a truly cruel condition that too many kids are affected by, and too many people know too little about. As I write this, about 140,000 Aussie children have been diagnosed.
When my niece developed the disease my sister was told that "there might be a cure within the next ten years". 6 years and counting and that answer’s still out of reach. But at least they have made some fabulous progress in that time.
There’s the artificial Pancreas, Islet transplantation, and while not an ideal solution, there are now pumps that can be installed, which sends out doses of the vital insulin, and cuts out a lot of the injections. The pump itself is a little box similar in size to a pager; the user wears it and it delivers the dosage needed over 24 hours. The downside is that the amount of finger pricks needed for monitoring blood glucose levels is tripled- yep these kids have to do up to a dozen a day just to make sure everything is working as it should.
Because if that blood sugar gets out of whack the complications can be deadly: blindness, kidney disease, heart disease and stroke, and sometimes nerve damage which can lead to gangrene and amputation. Whether low or high blood glucose, it’s a fair bet that there’s a shortened life expectancy. Thankfully, current info shows that the rate of these serious complications is lower than it used to be. Thank Heavens for small mercies.
But if you have ever seen someone you love go through a “Hypo” you know just how scary this thing is. And how helpless it can make you feel, even as a bystander. (Even Rob Thomas sang about the struggles his wife faces, in his song "Her Diamonds".)
It’s truly terrifying if, like 80% of cases, no one else in your family has it, so there's no one to turn to, to help you understand why your body’s turning against itself. And I cannot even explain how it feels when your child has an autoimmune disease and know you didn’t cause it, but know you can’t cure it either.
And until a cure is found, a child with diabetes will have it into adulthood. While not necessarily a life sentence, it is certainly life limiting.
Imagine having to weigh up every single mouthful. Or counting every carb in every bite you take. Imagine having to sit with your friends at the movies and just watch as they tuck into the requisite popcorn or cola or choc top ice cream.
Imagine having to watch the clock and stop what you’re doing no matter how much fun you’re having, just so you can stab yourself in the finger and squeeze out some blood to test your glucose levels. Then imagine having to measure up the insulin, pinch your skin and stick a syringe in.
My niece is one of those awesome kids who took on the management of her medical condition at quite a young age- within months of being diagnosed she was injecting herself. It makes me smile through the tears at how inspirational these children can be.
So if you’ll forgive me, I’m going to take a little poetic license here and rewrite that rhyme, in honour of my gorgeous god-daughter and niece who makes me proud every single day with her maturity…
What are little girls made of? Spirit & strength, at unbelievable lengths.
That’s what these little girls are made of!
My apologies to Mother Goose, but if her child had diabetes I’m sure she’d understand.
Jx
©2009
NOTE: To find out more about the Federal Government’s Insulin Pump Grant, or to help the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation in their quest for a cure, just follow the links.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Mobile Mania
Some people should not be allowed to get gadgets.
No really, I mean that.
While it is often said that men are more mathematically minded and can therefore grasp technical stuff better than women on average…and let’s face it, the male to female ratio in most IT departments usually falls in favour of the fellas; but when it comes to certain types of technology, often it’s the boys who do not play well together.
Take my Beloved; while not technically a technophobe, he’s more of a technofool.
See, I’ve had the same handset for almost the entire 2 years of our mobile phone contract. Sure it’s a little outdated now, and doesn’t have all the bells and whistles or the full Qwerty keyboard tidily tucked under a flip top lid, but at least it stills works.
In that same 2 years, my Beloved, on the other hand, has managed to kill at least three phones to my one.
We have had death by chocolate (yes take it from me, it is never a good idea to keep chocolate bars in the same pocket as your phone, especially on really hot days); another one fell off the back of a truck (and I’m not talking about a bargain here…); and perhaps my personal favourite- not waving, drowning (always remember to remove phone from the dirty laundry before it goes into the washing machine.) You have no idea what it was like having him remember it after the front loader had started -and the door auto lock kicked in- then simply having to watch it go round and round, clunking and thunking for the full cycle.
We’ve also known males who have tossed the thing clean out the car window while shooing flies as they drove, another lost one in the lake as he tried to snap a picture of a fish (talk about the one that got away!); with bonus points to the mate who was merrily throwing sticks in the creek for the dog to fetch whilst chatting on the ‘phone at the same time, and somehow forgot which hand was holding what… (I’m sure you can figure out what happened next- see Spot run indeed)!
But let me tell you, if the Australian cricket team had seen my Beloved in action the day the phone slipped out of his top pocket while he answered the call of nature, he’d be selected for sure!
With all these mobile moments fresh in my mind, I bit the bullet and forked out for one of those almost indestructible numbers- the Samsung B2700.
I’d heard about these rugged buggers that were the choice of tradies and truckies, I was just a little afraid of the price of them- it seemed an awful lot of money to risk on something so small, especially in the hands of my Beloved.
But now I’m wishing we’d bought one years ago- probably would’ve saved ourselves a lot in the long run.
It says on the box that it is “Robust, Durable, Stylish”; it’s dust and water resistant, with special Anti-shock cover that meets US Military Standards. And the guy at the shop promised me his mate hasn’t been able to kill one yet.
Hey, if it’s good enough for the US Military (not to mention the tech shop’s salesman’s mate), it should be good enough for my Beloved. We can live in hope anyway.
So we buy it and bring it home.
After 4 hours waiting for the battery to charge, and what seemed like another hour for me to programme the thing, my Beloved put down the Guitar Hero® and picked up his new handset to admire his specially customised theme and sound settings. I even Bluetoothed a few of our favourite photos and ringtones across from my phone to his, just so it’d feel familiar.
So you can imagine my reaction when he pressed the wrong button in answer to a request on the screen of his new device, and in one fell swoop restored the factory settings and undid all my hard work. Just like that.
Ah, the wonders of modern technology.
Now if only they could design a foolproof fella to go with it...
Jx
©2009
No really, I mean that.
While it is often said that men are more mathematically minded and can therefore grasp technical stuff better than women on average…and let’s face it, the male to female ratio in most IT departments usually falls in favour of the fellas; but when it comes to certain types of technology, often it’s the boys who do not play well together.
Take my Beloved; while not technically a technophobe, he’s more of a technofool.
See, I’ve had the same handset for almost the entire 2 years of our mobile phone contract. Sure it’s a little outdated now, and doesn’t have all the bells and whistles or the full Qwerty keyboard tidily tucked under a flip top lid, but at least it stills works.
In that same 2 years, my Beloved, on the other hand, has managed to kill at least three phones to my one.
We have had death by chocolate (yes take it from me, it is never a good idea to keep chocolate bars in the same pocket as your phone, especially on really hot days); another one fell off the back of a truck (and I’m not talking about a bargain here…); and perhaps my personal favourite- not waving, drowning (always remember to remove phone from the dirty laundry before it goes into the washing machine.) You have no idea what it was like having him remember it after the front loader had started -and the door auto lock kicked in- then simply having to watch it go round and round, clunking and thunking for the full cycle.
We’ve also known males who have tossed the thing clean out the car window while shooing flies as they drove, another lost one in the lake as he tried to snap a picture of a fish (talk about the one that got away!); with bonus points to the mate who was merrily throwing sticks in the creek for the dog to fetch whilst chatting on the ‘phone at the same time, and somehow forgot which hand was holding what… (I’m sure you can figure out what happened next- see Spot run indeed)!
But let me tell you, if the Australian cricket team had seen my Beloved in action the day the phone slipped out of his top pocket while he answered the call of nature, he’d be selected for sure!
With all these mobile moments fresh in my mind, I bit the bullet and forked out for one of those almost indestructible numbers- the Samsung B2700.
I’d heard about these rugged buggers that were the choice of tradies and truckies, I was just a little afraid of the price of them- it seemed an awful lot of money to risk on something so small, especially in the hands of my Beloved.
But now I’m wishing we’d bought one years ago- probably would’ve saved ourselves a lot in the long run.
It says on the box that it is “Robust, Durable, Stylish”; it’s dust and water resistant, with special Anti-shock cover that meets US Military Standards. And the guy at the shop promised me his mate hasn’t been able to kill one yet.
Hey, if it’s good enough for the US Military (not to mention the tech shop’s salesman’s mate), it should be good enough for my Beloved. We can live in hope anyway.
So we buy it and bring it home.
After 4 hours waiting for the battery to charge, and what seemed like another hour for me to programme the thing, my Beloved put down the Guitar Hero® and picked up his new handset to admire his specially customised theme and sound settings. I even Bluetoothed a few of our favourite photos and ringtones across from my phone to his, just so it’d feel familiar.
So you can imagine my reaction when he pressed the wrong button in answer to a request on the screen of his new device, and in one fell swoop restored the factory settings and undid all my hard work. Just like that.
Ah, the wonders of modern technology.
Now if only they could design a foolproof fella to go with it...
Jx
©2009
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