I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles

There's something about bubbles.

Think a sweet sip of chilled champagne, the frothy foam in a steaming bath, the ubiquitous bottles of bubbles that show up in every child's party bag or wedding reception. And at least one chocolate company has marketed the fact that "it's the bubbles of nothing that make it really something".

And who hasn't succumbed to the pleasure of popping bubble wrap?

So you can appreciate the temptation that presents itself when a child's shiny new school book also comes with a bonus little bubble.

If you've ever had the parental pleasure of covering text books you'll know how hard it is to get the plastic wrap off the backing and onto the front and back of the book without crinkling, creasing, inadvertently sticking the stuff onto itself...or an air bubble. It's kinda like tinting your own windows, on a smaller, not-so-dark scale. And we all know how easily that little project can go pear-shaped.

So I cannot possibly tell you what possessed me to stick my hand up when the school asked for help covering a new batch of texts. Silly me thought maybe half a dozen books would come home with the kids, but somehow forgot that the vast majority of students at our school are orphans, apparently. The same few mothers (and some fathers I must acknowledge) always end up doing the bulk of the work when parental help is needed.  My designated pile of books wouldn't fit in the backpacks of both my kids combined. It took a couple of trips to the car with the backside falling out of the flimsy plastic bags they were packed in, before I could head home and get started on my latest volunteer work.

While the kids wound down from the pressures of learnin' (read: in front of television, snack in hand), I set to work measuring, cutting, and cracking the backs of a small mountain of materials designed to expand young minds. While my own went quietly crazy with the task.

Anyway, only a few hours after I started this insanity I sat back, exhausted, yet safe in the knowledge that no less than 22 new text books are protected from the pending onslaught of students.

And what do I see? About halfway down the pile, a brand new book covered front and back with glossy plastic coating.

And a damn bubble.

Now anyone who's ever sat down with a child to do homework knows how little it takes to distract said child from said homework. A sibling sitting too close. A catchy tune drifting in on the breeze from a stereo somewhere. The smell of dinner cooking. A bright shiny light. Now add the temptation of a little pocket of air and it's like bubble wrap personified. Many hours will be wasted by flicking, clicking, chasing it 'round the cover and trying to squeeze the air out. If we're lucky the bubble will burst first go, and there'll just be a little flaw in the plastic.

So now I have three choices. Try to tear the covering off and start again (but there's no guarantee same thing won't happen again next time). Simply not return that book and tell the school they miscounted (yeah right, 'cause they don't cover the 3 Rs at our school). Or send it back and hope that it's not the one issued to my child.  Maybe we'll get lucky and one of the alleged orphans will get it instead, let their parents keep them on task. Think of it as a small contribution to the school community.

I go with the last option, and realise that even though I completed my own schooling some 20-odd years ago now, I can still learn something.  Next time they ask for volunteers to cover the new books...I'll put my hand up for canteen duty instead.

Jx

©2012

The Worm Has Turned

My kids made some new friends during these summer school holidays.

I'm not sure I like them very much.

Now I want to make it clear here that I am not one of those 'Helicopter Parents' always hovering over their kids watching every little thing they do.  I like to think I give my children enough space to make their own decisions, which are hopefully the right ones.

Nor do I have to "approve" their choice of playmates- suffice to say I trust my kids to choose wisely, lest they get led astray and suffer the consequences.

No, no, I parent from the periphery most of the time, with a gentle reminder every now and then as needed.

But this time I really had to step in and have an intervention. This was one relationship I did not want to see become long term.

At the risk of grossing anyone out, especially those who might be in the midst of a meal right about now...I'm talking worms.

I suspected something was afoot, er, abutt, when I noticed a spike in appetites of both my children, along with a general increase in irritability, but it was that telltale scratching that gave the game away. I now knew who was hanging out with my kids.

According to the Royal Children's Hospital in Melbourne, threadworm is a common childhood infestation, and it's almost a rite of passage for Aussie schoolkids to bring them home. Mine were simply smack bang in the middle of normalcy. I should be so proud.

After this delightful discovery, it was off to the pharmacy for the latest worming treatment.

How proud was I, when after wandering up one aisle and down the next one, with two itchy kids in tow, boychild spotted an assistant and helpfully called out (in his biggest bestest voice no less): "Can you tell us where the worm treatment is please?"  Another Kodak moment in motherhood right there folks.  Thankfully, 'tis the season, and we were but one family making that same enquiry that day.

We were then faced with a big decision: to go with the one-size-fits-all suspension, or the ever-so-attractive chocolate squares that promised to take threadworm, roundworm and hookworm out of the family equation.

Happily, the kids wanted to try the special chocolate, and only my Beloved proved a problem in taking his medicine like a big boy (apparently I should have offered him the kid-friendly choc squares too, rather than the adult option I went with for us). But I was determined to follow the recommended advice and treat the whole family at once. All for one, and one for all, and all that.

Of course the real fun begins once the treatment is taken... you gotta make sure that every single family member has clean clothes and bedding every morning and night for at least the next three. Bath towels and hand towels too. Oh and don't forget to vacuum thoroughly around all the beds each day, just in case any eggs are left lying around. Those hardy little devils can lay in wait for up to two weeks for their next host. Evil eggs.

With this in mind, I pretty much took up residence in the laundry, Dyson in hand. (We had a lot of sandwiches over that time. With PLENTY of handwashing done in between.)

Happy to report that all the attention and treatment seemed to do the trick, and the budding relationship my children had formed was budding no more.  We're now at week three and worm-free.

So imagine my dismay when I turned up at vacation care yesterday to collect my kids only to be informed that a suspicious little bug had hopped off girlchild's head.

Ah headlice, my old foe.

I feel another intervention coming on...

Jx

©2012

Clean Machine

Whose bright idea was it to put white cupboard doors in the kitchen?

I asked myself this very question for the umpteenth time as I crouched down on the linoleum to attack the marks that were all too apparent against the creamy background, if you looked closely enough.

Like so many endeavours, it seemed like a good idea at the time- the light laminate would brighten the previously cacky khaki that graced the room, and give the impression of more space in the tiny little galley style kitchen.

But I didn’t think it through, obviously, and forgot an often-used ingredient in food preparation at our house: my family.

Anyone else who’s the proud owner of a husband and/or small children will know only too well the amount of mess they can make. For those who don’t, take a quick read of Dr Seuss’s ‘The Cat In the Hat Comes Back’ to see how one seemingly small spot can spread to alarming proportions by someone trying to be ‘helpful’.

With the imminent arrival of the mother-in-law (M-I-L) on the weekend I cast a critical eye across the workspace and in lieu of little cats A through Z, I thought I’d best get going on a quick clean-up myself. Easier said than done. Especially with creamy cupboards in the mix.

As soon as I was satisfied that one door wasn’t dirty, I noticed with chagrin that its neighbour now needed attention and made my way around the kitchen scrubbing one then the next.  Since it’s better for bad backs to actually sit on the floor to complete this feat, I found myself unfortunately (or conveniently- the jury’s still out on that one) placed at eye level with the kickboards below.  And my eyes did not like what they saw.  After I’d given those a wipe down I was drawn to the stainless steel appliances in the room (another bright idea that in hindsight isn’t so shiny).  Sure they look nice and tidy, but the professed finger-mark-free finish sure isn’t living up to its promise and I spent a good few minutes polishing the prints off, before dragging out the glass cleaner to ensure the oven door was also spot-free.

It was only then when I looked at our shiny new splashback that I realized our folly was greater than I had even imagined.

Sure it all looks spick and span in the showroom where it’s someone’s job to keep it squeaky clean for the customers, but give it a decent dinnertime or two and you’ll be lucky to see your reflection peering back at you from its once-glossy surface.

And on it went.  Me moving ‘round the room with my environmentally-friendly cleaning products, while the clocks on the oven and the microwave teased me with their ticking, bringing the inspector ever closer (OK so she doesn’t come with a white glove, but then again she doesn’t need to!). Meanwhile the kids were causing chaos in another part of the house, while My Beloved was outside playing handyman with the drains that never fail to fill to overflowing this time of year.

You can imagine my reaction when a mud-speckled man came into my kitchen looking for a well-earned drink.

“Out, out damn spot” I cried while flapping the now tattered dish cloth at him, and

chased him from the house to scrape off another layer of dirt before being allowed back in.

So now I am once again the proud if not anxious owner of a sparkling clean kitchen, with every white door, glossy splashback, and stainless steel appliance accounted for.

And I am determined it will remain that way for the duration of M-I-L’s visit.

Or until dinnertime anyway.

Jx

©2010