Random fact: around 25% of women will suffer hirsutism at some stage of their life.
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Friday, March 14, 2014
Pins and Needles
Random fact: around 25% of women will suffer hirsutism at some stage of their life.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Kits in the Kitchen
There's a
drum kit sitting smack bang in the middle of my kitchen at the moment.
We're talking
bass drum, snare, tom-tom, and a hi-hat.
Why is it in
my kitchen?
It seemed
like a good idea at the time.
If you ask my
Beloved, that is.
If you ask me
- well, I actually can't post my reply here, being a PG-rated site and all.
See, our
daughter, aged 8, has joined the school band. And after in-depth testing of
rhythm, tone, and embouchure, the music teachers in their wisdom decided that
the instrument of choice for our girl would be the glockenspiel ... and drums.
Coming from a
fairly musical family, I get that she has some natural aptitude. I mean to say,
you could pretty much set up a band of any sort using members of our family,
across multiple generations. And anyone who knows us will tell you that any
time any number of us are together out comes the guitars and gear and the jam session
begins. It's the Irish in us coming out. To be sure.
But
glockenspiel?
And drums?
Most kids get
given one instrument, however our teacher decided to use Miss V as a guinea pig
and have her learn two at once. Kinda like a one-woman percussion
section.
When our son
joined the band he got the trumpet and followed in my (brief) footsteps as cornet
player in the school band, back in my day.
Happy to say I didn't embarrass myself when he brought the thing home
and could still make a noise, even though it was one that may have had the 'Great
Satchmo' Louis Armstrong turning in his grave (I would say 'Rest In Peace' but
that's not likely with us on the trumpet).
So when our
little girl decided she too would try out for the band, we expected her to get
a similar thing, maybe some 'girly' instrument like the flute.
But no, glockenspiel
and drums it is.
So
glockenspiel and drums are what's taking up residence in our residence. Albeit
in the kitchen.
Thing is, there's not a lot of space at our place. The 3 bedrooms are already filled with bodies and
bits. And the living room is no place to make music that could wake the dead.
Unlike my
father when we were young, we're not about to kick kids out so that there can
be a dedicated 'music room' (sometimes I swear he'd escape in there just to
drown out the arguments of three feisty females crammed in one small room).
So we're
attempting to clear out the old garage, where many a great muso has had their start.
Unfortunately
we didn't do so before we brought the drum kit home. It couldn't stay in the car,
even though the cymbal was playing its own catchy little jazz beat every time I
hit a bump (tcch tch tch tcch tch tch tcch). So my Beloved brought it in
and dumped it in the kitchen.
You try making dinner with a bass drum between you, the
stove, and the cutlery drawer!
I can only
say the beating of the skin was somewhat louder than the curses that came out
each time I booted the bass, or caught myself on the little lugs en route to
the dining table (which incidentally, has a trumpet case sitting on it for some
strange reason).
After a
number of drum solos inadvertently performed by each member of the family in
their turn taking dirty dishes to the sink, I asked my Beloved when he
envisages the kit and kitchen might part ways: "As soon as we get a decent
spot cleared in the front room to set it up," is his not-so-promising
reply.
Looks like I'm
going to have to fine tune my footwork if the family expects to be fed on a regular basis between now and then.
And if you can't
stand the beat, well, stay out of my kitchen!
Jx
©2012
Sunday, January 22, 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
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Pokemon = Aw-mum
I am officially the Best Mum Ever. No really, I am. I have it on good authority. Not only from my son but another mum told me so too.
And I have Pokémon™ to thank for it. Yes those little Pocket Monsters helped me evolve into an Awesome Mum (in the spirit of manga that translates to Aw-mum).
See, my little boy’s been desperate to own a copy of either HeartGold or SoulSilver for his DS® ever since they were released in September 2009, so he’s been a pretty patient lad.
But with the family budget being what it is (or isn’t to be more accurate), I just can’t justify spending $70 on one little game.
They finally went on an unbeatable special in the big toy sale, so I dutifully lined up at the entertainment counter first thing in the morning on opening day, along with all the other parents stocking up on electronic Christmas presents.
Only 37 minutes later I reached the head of the line and enquired whether I was so lucky as to have either version of the game still in store. Both were, and since the price of two was less than half the regular price of one- and since my son had failed to decide which particular game he was most desperate to own- I got one of each.
I was tossing up about whether to hide them until December 25th, or go ahead and make his day when the little bugger beat me to it and just ‘happened’ to find both versions of the game in my bag (I reckon he’d make a pretty good detective, having the uncanny ability to discover things in alleged plain sight).
Anyway, having put him through the agony of deciding which game he wanted most (HeartGold for those playing along at home), I then did the unthinkable and told him he could now wait for it, since he spoiled the surprise.
After a full day’s sulking (him, not me), we managed to come to a compromise once he realized he had almost enough money saved up to buy the thing off me; with a little more negotiating for a pay-as-you-play kind of arrangement whereby I withhold his weekly pocket money until he’d reached the full amount.
Deal done, he settled down to play, and started adding said monsters to said pockets over the course of the weekend.
Come Monday I disappointed him again by banning him taking the toy to school (hey, it’s my job isn’t it). I mean to say, he’d waited so long to get it I wanted it to last a little longer than lunchtime in the playground! We again reached a compromise and I promised to wear the Pokéwalker™ as I went to work.
I took over 3000 steps the first day I took it for a walk.
And 5000 steps the next.
Which apparently translates into a lot of watts, which in turn means more power for the Pokémon to play.
I even inadvertently ‘found’ some soda and other refreshments, and was thrilled (not to mention shocked) to see the message “You got it!” on the little screen during one of my walks. (Translated: I managed to capture another Pokémon, without even trying. Yay me.)
I have the thing duly strapped to me again today. But since I’m spending the day at home doing housework and other exciting adventures I don’t think I’ll beat my record thus far. Then again you’d be surprised just how much ground one can cover just wandering around.
Which brings me to my original claim of being the Best Mum Ever. My son is stoked that his monsters get fed and exercised while he’s hard at work at school, and another mother declared herself most impressed at what I was doing for my child.
But hey, I figure if I can’t afford every electronic marvel that gets put out these days, and have to play mean mum from time to time, the least I can do is pop a Pokémon in my pocket and rack up the brownie points along with the steps I take during the day.
And when your kids think you are the Best Mum Ever, well, that’s priceless isn’t it.
Jx
©2011
Monday, June 14, 2010
Singing in the Car
I think adults have a lot to learn from children.
I also think that if more adults were paying attention, the world would be a lot better place.
My most recent education has come from my young son, who has already taught us so much so far.
He has Juvenile Arthritis (JIA); he was diagnosed as a baby and has known no other way of life.
After years of constant pain, damage and disability, he has been accepted into a new clinical trial for the biologic known as Etanercept (Enbrel). It has been a loooooong time coming, and still cannot come soon enough for our liking. There’s only so much pain a parent can bear seeing their children suffer.
Due to very active and aggressive arthritis in his little neck, Master B has been unable to lift or turn his head for 6 months (he turns his entire body- try it, it's exhausting), both wrists have been swollen and unusable at times for >13 months (makes dressing, feeding, and toileting fun), his hip and shoulder are also giving him grief (but we've been able to keep him out of a wheelchair!), his jaw has made it difficult for him to open his mouth to eat at times (liquid diet when that happens, and not even the one that consoles adults from time to time if you know what I mean), and most recently his elbow has swollen up to the size of a tennis ball- he simply cannot straighten his arm. Oh, and since he stacked his scooter last week he has also flared-up his knee (along with a ripper of a graze). So you can see he has been struggling. As have we all.
He was in hospital three times last year with another visit on the cards if he did not get accepted into this study. He has "officially failed" all the medication he has been taking for the past, gosh, 7 years next week! That's a lot for a little lad to take, considering he’s only just turned 8.
Anyway, late in April our brave boy endured a 12 hour day, including 4+ hours travelling and 4 hours at the Children’s Hospital for blood tests, urine samples, and physical examinations, for the Screening portion of the trial. He could only begin the 2 year study if he tested negative to Tuberculosis (Tb) as biologics have been known to stir that dragon if lying dormant.
In May we did it all again for the Baseline visit, which came with the added bonus of his first round of Enbrel injections- to be administered once a week for 96 weeks. It was another marathon effort - 9.5 hours all told to travel and do even more paperwork to get things going (he is child #21 of 100 worldwide to start the study, the first in NSW and second in Australia).
While he wasn't overly fond of the blood tests he had to have again, at least it was only 2 tubes this time, not 6. And unlike last time where he suffered a little ‘performance anxiety’, he was both keen and capable of 'peeing in a cup' for the urinalysis side of things - giggling like a goblin as I tried to safely remove my hand holding the specimen jar out of the line of, um, fire ("Thanks son, we've got enough now. That's it, you can stop. Hold up, please!!!")
He did hide behind the door while I was preparing the Enbrel but was coaxed out and chose to have the injection in his arm. For those who don't know, this drug comes in 2 separate components- first you have to fit a needle to a syringe of sterile water and inject that into a vial of powder, then swirl it together carefully to mix (not shaken but stirred - James Bond would not be impressed). Then you have to fit another needle to another syringe and draw up the prescribed amount of mixed medication ready to inject subcutaneously or intra-muscularly to be more precise. Since I have been doing Methotrexate (Mtx- a nasty chemo drug) for years now the nurse thought I was totally capable of giving the first shot myself; she even said I flicked the bubbles out like a professional, LOL. Sadly my Beloved is needle-phobic, but does a great job of cuddling the lad.
Well I have to tell you, Master B said he felt the Enbrel was working that very first night! It was obviously kicking into his Temporomandibular joints (TMJs) as his little jaws did not stop flapping the entire next day, LOL. And he was up skipping (would you believe) at 9.30 Wednesday night. He beat his best mate in a running race at school on Thursday. Says he feels like Superboy!
Anyway, when he came sleepwalking into bed with me last night (luckily my Beloved was on night shift or things would've been a tad too cosy for comfort) I thought he may have been suffering a little (has happened before, his subconscious brings him to me right before he pukes or cries some nights. He's also excellent at taking himself to the loo while asleep, yay). But he awoke this morning, and aside from being surprised to find himself in my bed, he said he has NO PAIN AT ALL- for the fourth day in a row!
We can't remember that ever happening before.
While he now faces two injections a week, along with monthly blood tests and all that goes with it, our dearest wish is that this drug does the trick and our brave little boy can finally begin to enjoy a carefree & pain-free childhood, like he deserves. Doesn’t every child?
We’re back to the hospital again this week for the next phase of the trial.
And you know, on top of all this, he just keeps singing in the car on the way home!
How many adults do you know who would do that?
Jx
©2010
I also think that if more adults were paying attention, the world would be a lot better place.
My most recent education has come from my young son, who has already taught us so much so far.
He has Juvenile Arthritis (JIA); he was diagnosed as a baby and has known no other way of life.
After years of constant pain, damage and disability, he has been accepted into a new clinical trial for the biologic known as Etanercept (Enbrel). It has been a loooooong time coming, and still cannot come soon enough for our liking. There’s only so much pain a parent can bear seeing their children suffer.
Due to very active and aggressive arthritis in his little neck, Master B has been unable to lift or turn his head for 6 months (he turns his entire body- try it, it's exhausting), both wrists have been swollen and unusable at times for >13 months (makes dressing, feeding, and toileting fun), his hip and shoulder are also giving him grief (but we've been able to keep him out of a wheelchair!), his jaw has made it difficult for him to open his mouth to eat at times (liquid diet when that happens, and not even the one that consoles adults from time to time if you know what I mean), and most recently his elbow has swollen up to the size of a tennis ball- he simply cannot straighten his arm. Oh, and since he stacked his scooter last week he has also flared-up his knee (along with a ripper of a graze). So you can see he has been struggling. As have we all.
He was in hospital three times last year with another visit on the cards if he did not get accepted into this study. He has "officially failed" all the medication he has been taking for the past, gosh, 7 years next week! That's a lot for a little lad to take, considering he’s only just turned 8.
Anyway, late in April our brave boy endured a 12 hour day, including 4+ hours travelling and 4 hours at the Children’s Hospital for blood tests, urine samples, and physical examinations, for the Screening portion of the trial. He could only begin the 2 year study if he tested negative to Tuberculosis (Tb) as biologics have been known to stir that dragon if lying dormant.
In May we did it all again for the Baseline visit, which came with the added bonus of his first round of Enbrel injections- to be administered once a week for 96 weeks. It was another marathon effort - 9.5 hours all told to travel and do even more paperwork to get things going (he is child #21 of 100 worldwide to start the study, the first in NSW and second in Australia).
While he wasn't overly fond of the blood tests he had to have again, at least it was only 2 tubes this time, not 6. And unlike last time where he suffered a little ‘performance anxiety’, he was both keen and capable of 'peeing in a cup' for the urinalysis side of things - giggling like a goblin as I tried to safely remove my hand holding the specimen jar out of the line of, um, fire ("Thanks son, we've got enough now. That's it, you can stop. Hold up, please!!!")
He did hide behind the door while I was preparing the Enbrel but was coaxed out and chose to have the injection in his arm. For those who don't know, this drug comes in 2 separate components- first you have to fit a needle to a syringe of sterile water and inject that into a vial of powder, then swirl it together carefully to mix (not shaken but stirred - James Bond would not be impressed). Then you have to fit another needle to another syringe and draw up the prescribed amount of mixed medication ready to inject subcutaneously or intra-muscularly to be more precise. Since I have been doing Methotrexate (Mtx- a nasty chemo drug) for years now the nurse thought I was totally capable of giving the first shot myself; she even said I flicked the bubbles out like a professional, LOL. Sadly my Beloved is needle-phobic, but does a great job of cuddling the lad.
Well I have to tell you, Master B said he felt the Enbrel was working that very first night! It was obviously kicking into his Temporomandibular joints (TMJs) as his little jaws did not stop flapping the entire next day, LOL. And he was up skipping (would you believe) at 9.30 Wednesday night. He beat his best mate in a running race at school on Thursday. Says he feels like Superboy!
Anyway, when he came sleepwalking into bed with me last night (luckily my Beloved was on night shift or things would've been a tad too cosy for comfort) I thought he may have been suffering a little (has happened before, his subconscious brings him to me right before he pukes or cries some nights. He's also excellent at taking himself to the loo while asleep, yay). But he awoke this morning, and aside from being surprised to find himself in my bed, he said he has NO PAIN AT ALL- for the fourth day in a row!
We can't remember that ever happening before.
While he now faces two injections a week, along with monthly blood tests and all that goes with it, our dearest wish is that this drug does the trick and our brave little boy can finally begin to enjoy a carefree & pain-free childhood, like he deserves. Doesn’t every child?
We’re back to the hospital again this week for the next phase of the trial.
And you know, on top of all this, he just keeps singing in the car on the way home!
How many adults do you know who would do that?
Jx
©2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Ten Green Bottles
My children have enough drink bottles to slake the thirst of a thousand camels. If camels were to actually require water bottles, that is.
But just as I have lamented before, my kids have a real problem letting go of stuff.
Consequently, we have quite a collection of drink bottles in various shape, size, and shade. Not all of them seem to have a matching lid anymore, which renders the things close to useless in my opinion. Sadly, my opinion differs vastly from theirs.
So do you think they will let me ‘do the right thing’ and pop the bottles in the recycling bin?
I’d have more chance of passing a camel through the eye of a needle, if you’ll forgive the sad plagiarism of a biblical tale in my efforts to extend a metaphor.
See, the medication my son has to take for his juvenile arthritis means he gets mighty thirsty. Being mighty thirsty naturally requires a lot of water (his beverage of choice, God bless him) which requires a lot of containers on call for consumption.
Anyone who has kids knows that no matter how often you remind them, they don’t always remember to grab a drink before you leave the house (ditto using the toilet, but that’s another blog). Likewise, anyone who has kids, and particularly has those close in age, knows that if you then buy one something, the other sorta, kinda, HASTA have a similar sort of something. So the bottle collection grows.
My kids can’t even bear to part with those generic water bottles one can buy everywhere these days- heaven forbid it’s something schmicko with a cartoon character on it- so at least we’re doing our thing for the planet by not chucking too many plastics away. Instead our kitchen cupboards have got this whole landfill-in-a-box thing going on.
And if you’ve ever experience the dreaded Tupperware crash, you’ll know exactly how much I am risking life and limb any time I need to pry open the pantry door. Despite being diagnosed as having very poor hand-eye coordination, I can tell you that I can open/find/remove/shut the cupboard with the best of them (talk about sleight of hand- David Copperfield’s got nothing on me, at this at any rate).
But during one particularly bad day, with the dropsies in full flight, I decided it was time to do the great drink bottle cull of 2010. Having learnt from my mistakes, I decided to do it while the kids were at school.
You can imagine my delight when I managed to dispose of at least a dozen containers that presented without the correct accompanying cap, despite my best efforts at search and retrieval.
You can imagine my despair when I found about half a dozen lids the very next time I opened the cupboard in question….after the weekly recycling collection.
And I am sure you can imagine my children’s faces when they asked me could I “please get out the drink bottle that goes with this cap?”
*sighs*
Oh well, look at it this way. If ever the kids decide to pass the time by singing that old ditty ‘Ten Green Bottles’, we’ll have the right number of props to enact it as we go. And then some.
Jx
©2010
But just as I have lamented before, my kids have a real problem letting go of stuff.
Consequently, we have quite a collection of drink bottles in various shape, size, and shade. Not all of them seem to have a matching lid anymore, which renders the things close to useless in my opinion. Sadly, my opinion differs vastly from theirs.
So do you think they will let me ‘do the right thing’ and pop the bottles in the recycling bin?
I’d have more chance of passing a camel through the eye of a needle, if you’ll forgive the sad plagiarism of a biblical tale in my efforts to extend a metaphor.
See, the medication my son has to take for his juvenile arthritis means he gets mighty thirsty. Being mighty thirsty naturally requires a lot of water (his beverage of choice, God bless him) which requires a lot of containers on call for consumption.
Anyone who has kids knows that no matter how often you remind them, they don’t always remember to grab a drink before you leave the house (ditto using the toilet, but that’s another blog). Likewise, anyone who has kids, and particularly has those close in age, knows that if you then buy one something, the other sorta, kinda, HASTA have a similar sort of something. So the bottle collection grows.
My kids can’t even bear to part with those generic water bottles one can buy everywhere these days- heaven forbid it’s something schmicko with a cartoon character on it- so at least we’re doing our thing for the planet by not chucking too many plastics away. Instead our kitchen cupboards have got this whole landfill-in-a-box thing going on.
And if you’ve ever experience the dreaded Tupperware crash, you’ll know exactly how much I am risking life and limb any time I need to pry open the pantry door. Despite being diagnosed as having very poor hand-eye coordination, I can tell you that I can open/find/remove/shut the cupboard with the best of them (talk about sleight of hand- David Copperfield’s got nothing on me, at this at any rate).
But during one particularly bad day, with the dropsies in full flight, I decided it was time to do the great drink bottle cull of 2010. Having learnt from my mistakes, I decided to do it while the kids were at school.
You can imagine my delight when I managed to dispose of at least a dozen containers that presented without the correct accompanying cap, despite my best efforts at search and retrieval.
You can imagine my despair when I found about half a dozen lids the very next time I opened the cupboard in question….after the weekly recycling collection.
And I am sure you can imagine my children’s faces when they asked me could I “please get out the drink bottle that goes with this cap?”
*sighs*
Oh well, look at it this way. If ever the kids decide to pass the time by singing that old ditty ‘Ten Green Bottles’, we’ll have the right number of props to enact it as we go. And then some.
Jx
©2010
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
All That Glitters
I was a bit of a tomboy growing up.
Hard to believe I know, given my penchant for high heels, jewellery, hair and cosmetic rituals (for those who don’t know me too well, that’s sarcasm right there as it’s a rare event indeed to see me with any of the above, for various reasons).
But I do like bright shiny things.
If it’s a choice between black or colour, I’ll go with the latter (unless I’m trying that old trick of using black to make things look smaller, if you know what I mean), and I do go for glitter. I don’t know if it’s Bowerbird-ism, or a touch of ADD (AKA Attention Deficit Ooh, Shiny!)
Having a 5 year old daughter, it’s a great excuse to pick the pretties- tops, dresses, shoes, and stickers.
My son is really into stickers too, so we have them stuck randomly on doorposts, toilet roll holders, school bags, the dog, not to mention clothing. But it really doesn’t help that when we are standing up it just so happens my bust line is the exact range of my children’s reach…
I’ve lost count of just how many times I’ve trotted off to the shops to do my groceries or banking, and been on the receiving end of a few raised eyebrows. (You can tell the other parents though- they’re the ones who nod and smile when I explain that my kids have been busy decorating me.)
What I don’t like about the shiny/sticky stuff is when it ends up in the washing machine. No matter how many times I remind people to take the stickers off before it hits the laundry basket, I invariably discover it has not happened only after the washer has done its thing (mental note: buy more eucalyptus oil- it works wonders with removing the gunk left behind). Glitter is more of a problem, as it’s usually affixed to the item of clothing, and has to go into the machine as is.
While it’s ok for me to grab a bra or briefs and find them with a little bit of bling they didn’t previously have (I mean to say, they’re not seen by the greater community, and it amuses me knowing it’s there), my Beloved has more trouble accepting the extra accessories. Therefore, with his gear especially, I usually do another run through the rinse cycle if it’s been particularly prettified.
Bowerbird that I am, I recently brought home a darling little nightie for my darling little daughter (couldn’t resist it- brilliant bargain end-of-season markdown that it was). All I can say is: I don’t know how there was any glitter left for anyone else it was sprinkled with so much of the silvery stuff (which is what attracted me, obviously). I’m also sure it came out of the wash barely half the weight it went in since it ditched most of its dazzle during the cycle. Unfortunately I didn’t have the foresight to make sure there was nothing belonging to my Beloved in the same load.
Anyhow, I thought I got it all off again, until he came home from a hard day’s night to inform me he has a new nickname courtesy of our daughter’s inadvertent contribution to his work uniform- the other truck drivers and dockhands apparently think it’s hilarious to call him “Princess”.
Naturally, he doesn’t find it anywhere near as amusing.
“Look on the bright side,” says I (pun fully intended) “your Hi-Vis gear is just more highly visible than the others…think of the OH&S benefits!”
Sad to say, he didn’t think I was too funny either.
Since he knows that he can’t quash our fascination with all that glitters, he has strongly suggested that I triple-check each load of washing before it goes in.
I just as strongly suggested that he could do his own washing from now on.
Personally, I think his preference would be to suck it up and wear his stuff with the occasional sticker or shimmer, over having to sort, wash and fold for himself!
Besides, if it makes people smile to see my strapping-great-truck-driving hubby with some errant sparkles on his shoulders from time to time, then my work here as a fairy godmother is done.
Jx
©2009
Hard to believe I know, given my penchant for high heels, jewellery, hair and cosmetic rituals (for those who don’t know me too well, that’s sarcasm right there as it’s a rare event indeed to see me with any of the above, for various reasons).
But I do like bright shiny things.
If it’s a choice between black or colour, I’ll go with the latter (unless I’m trying that old trick of using black to make things look smaller, if you know what I mean), and I do go for glitter. I don’t know if it’s Bowerbird-ism, or a touch of ADD (AKA Attention Deficit Ooh, Shiny!)
Having a 5 year old daughter, it’s a great excuse to pick the pretties- tops, dresses, shoes, and stickers.
My son is really into stickers too, so we have them stuck randomly on doorposts, toilet roll holders, school bags, the dog, not to mention clothing. But it really doesn’t help that when we are standing up it just so happens my bust line is the exact range of my children’s reach…
I’ve lost count of just how many times I’ve trotted off to the shops to do my groceries or banking, and been on the receiving end of a few raised eyebrows. (You can tell the other parents though- they’re the ones who nod and smile when I explain that my kids have been busy decorating me.)
What I don’t like about the shiny/sticky stuff is when it ends up in the washing machine. No matter how many times I remind people to take the stickers off before it hits the laundry basket, I invariably discover it has not happened only after the washer has done its thing (mental note: buy more eucalyptus oil- it works wonders with removing the gunk left behind). Glitter is more of a problem, as it’s usually affixed to the item of clothing, and has to go into the machine as is.
While it’s ok for me to grab a bra or briefs and find them with a little bit of bling they didn’t previously have (I mean to say, they’re not seen by the greater community, and it amuses me knowing it’s there), my Beloved has more trouble accepting the extra accessories. Therefore, with his gear especially, I usually do another run through the rinse cycle if it’s been particularly prettified.
Bowerbird that I am, I recently brought home a darling little nightie for my darling little daughter (couldn’t resist it- brilliant bargain end-of-season markdown that it was). All I can say is: I don’t know how there was any glitter left for anyone else it was sprinkled with so much of the silvery stuff (which is what attracted me, obviously). I’m also sure it came out of the wash barely half the weight it went in since it ditched most of its dazzle during the cycle. Unfortunately I didn’t have the foresight to make sure there was nothing belonging to my Beloved in the same load.
Anyhow, I thought I got it all off again, until he came home from a hard day’s night to inform me he has a new nickname courtesy of our daughter’s inadvertent contribution to his work uniform- the other truck drivers and dockhands apparently think it’s hilarious to call him “Princess”.
Naturally, he doesn’t find it anywhere near as amusing.
“Look on the bright side,” says I (pun fully intended) “your Hi-Vis gear is just more highly visible than the others…think of the OH&S benefits!”
Sad to say, he didn’t think I was too funny either.
Since he knows that he can’t quash our fascination with all that glitters, he has strongly suggested that I triple-check each load of washing before it goes in.
I just as strongly suggested that he could do his own washing from now on.
Personally, I think his preference would be to suck it up and wear his stuff with the occasional sticker or shimmer, over having to sort, wash and fold for himself!
Besides, if it makes people smile to see my strapping-great-truck-driving hubby with some errant sparkles on his shoulders from time to time, then my work here as a fairy godmother is done.
Jx
©2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Ageing Disgracefully
I really shouldn’t read magazines.
Sure they’re a good time waster on occasion, and provide plenty of fodder for those who like to comment on other people’s lives (let’s face it, who hasn’t enjoyed that particular pastime from time to time?).
Unlike what the man in your life has told you, most members of the feminine gender do read the articles. And that’s what gets me in most trouble.
For example, I recently read a survey about what age is best. Not surprisingly, it was around 25 years. The reasons included: you’re past the teen angst (and hopefully acne as well), school and study is behind you, kids are still ahead, and you’re making fairly decent money - most of which is a disposable income. Life is good.
But another study showed at what point you reach your peak.
27.
Yep, even before your third decade you have officially hit and passed the prime of your life. The ageing process picks up speed, and gravity kicks in.
Moreso than my 30th, and even with 40 fast approaching, I remember really hating turning 27. And now I know why.
As I recall, it was around that time I was finally comfortable with my body, only to discover it was about to start heading south. Fabulous.
It was also the not-so-magical milestone of my first grey hair.
I was so unhappy about it, I wrote a poem, which caused much mirth and merriment to everyone else it hadn’t happened to at the time (not laughing so loudly now though are they, hey). Personally, I blame my maternal DNA- a good number of mum’s family went grey quite early on. (My eldest sister lays the blame on the same ancestry for her dodgy eyes, and my middle sister swears her “slopey shoulders” came from that gene pool too.)
When I found that unfortunate follicle, I went to great pains to style my hair around and over it, and hope that it didn’t peep out of the otherwise brunette bunch at inopportune moments. I kept it pretty quiet too.
At least I didn’t make the same mistake as my sister. One time at work she had to use the bathroom, and decided to give the hair and lippy a quick check before returning to her post. As females are well aware, fluorescent lighting is more our foe than our friend, and there shining brightly in the insulting illumination was a new addition. Now, since my sis is one of those people who likes to share their life story (even at first meeting), she left the ladies’ room and declared to everyone in earshot: “I just found a grey hair!!”
Consider the setting.
She had just left the toilets.
I bet you can draw the same conclusion that her colleagues did in response to her grand announcement…
And so, in addition to her newfound grey hair, she had one very red face.
I have it on very good authority that the day you do find a grey hair down there, Father Time (sadistic so-and-so that he is) is ticking real quick from then on. (Just quietly, that particular moment won’t be marked on my calendar when it rolls around!) Depending on just how fast he ticks, you might even find yourself in the market for a merkin. But I digress.
These days I have to admit I long for the time I had just one little grey.
It’s true what they say, stress and pregnancy (not to mention the kids themselves) can change the pigment and mobilise the grey army marching up on top. Unless I can find room both in the schedule and the family budget for a trip to the hair salon, I now need to be a whole lot more creative in my styling to hide the traitorous tresses (I also own a large number of hats).
I’m happy to report though, I found a little article in ‘New Scientist’ which claims that having that certain hue in your hair might protect you from cancer; since that dreadful disease also runs in our family, that’s gotta be a good thing, right?!
And while we’re on the subject of good news: ‘Health Plus’ magazine surveyed its readership and found that women in their 40s are apparently having the best sex of their lives.
Well now, that’s something to look forward to.
There’s gotta be some ups to go with the downs (pun fully intended).
Yes, we might have to age, but who says it has to be gracefully?
Jx
©2009
Sure they’re a good time waster on occasion, and provide plenty of fodder for those who like to comment on other people’s lives (let’s face it, who hasn’t enjoyed that particular pastime from time to time?).
Unlike what the man in your life has told you, most members of the feminine gender do read the articles. And that’s what gets me in most trouble.
For example, I recently read a survey about what age is best. Not surprisingly, it was around 25 years. The reasons included: you’re past the teen angst (and hopefully acne as well), school and study is behind you, kids are still ahead, and you’re making fairly decent money - most of which is a disposable income. Life is good.
But another study showed at what point you reach your peak.
27.
Yep, even before your third decade you have officially hit and passed the prime of your life. The ageing process picks up speed, and gravity kicks in.
Moreso than my 30th, and even with 40 fast approaching, I remember really hating turning 27. And now I know why.
As I recall, it was around that time I was finally comfortable with my body, only to discover it was about to start heading south. Fabulous.
It was also the not-so-magical milestone of my first grey hair.
I was so unhappy about it, I wrote a poem, which caused much mirth and merriment to everyone else it hadn’t happened to at the time (not laughing so loudly now though are they, hey). Personally, I blame my maternal DNA- a good number of mum’s family went grey quite early on. (My eldest sister lays the blame on the same ancestry for her dodgy eyes, and my middle sister swears her “slopey shoulders” came from that gene pool too.)
When I found that unfortunate follicle, I went to great pains to style my hair around and over it, and hope that it didn’t peep out of the otherwise brunette bunch at inopportune moments. I kept it pretty quiet too.
At least I didn’t make the same mistake as my sister. One time at work she had to use the bathroom, and decided to give the hair and lippy a quick check before returning to her post. As females are well aware, fluorescent lighting is more our foe than our friend, and there shining brightly in the insulting illumination was a new addition. Now, since my sis is one of those people who likes to share their life story (even at first meeting), she left the ladies’ room and declared to everyone in earshot: “I just found a grey hair!!”
Consider the setting.
She had just left the toilets.
I bet you can draw the same conclusion that her colleagues did in response to her grand announcement…
And so, in addition to her newfound grey hair, she had one very red face.
I have it on very good authority that the day you do find a grey hair down there, Father Time (sadistic so-and-so that he is) is ticking real quick from then on. (Just quietly, that particular moment won’t be marked on my calendar when it rolls around!) Depending on just how fast he ticks, you might even find yourself in the market for a merkin. But I digress.
These days I have to admit I long for the time I had just one little grey.
It’s true what they say, stress and pregnancy (not to mention the kids themselves) can change the pigment and mobilise the grey army marching up on top. Unless I can find room both in the schedule and the family budget for a trip to the hair salon, I now need to be a whole lot more creative in my styling to hide the traitorous tresses (I also own a large number of hats).
I’m happy to report though, I found a little article in ‘New Scientist’ which claims that having that certain hue in your hair might protect you from cancer; since that dreadful disease also runs in our family, that’s gotta be a good thing, right?!
And while we’re on the subject of good news: ‘Health Plus’ magazine surveyed its readership and found that women in their 40s are apparently having the best sex of their lives.
Well now, that’s something to look forward to.
There’s gotta be some ups to go with the downs (pun fully intended).
Yes, we might have to age, but who says it has to be gracefully?
Jx
©2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
Sink or Swim
With summer coming on I started thinking it was the right time for a refresher course in swimming.
Oh not for me- I avoid a swimsuit like a cat avoids a bath- no, for the children (who have no qualms about being seen in spandex- or even in their undies if the urge strikes).
Since we happen to live on one mighty big island, with our home nestled between a lake and an ocean, I’m all for teaching water safety from a very early age. I mean, it takes a surprisingly small amount of liquid for a child to drown (as little as one inch of water!) and I know people who’ve had that tragedy happen, so I wasn’t taking any chances with my precious ones.
As soon as they reached the required minimum age (6 months) we were off to swimming lessons at a local centre.
They took to the activity like the proverbial duck to water, and I’ve gotta admit there’s a lot of enjoyment in taking your baby by the hands and floating them about in the warm water. (Not so much fun the mad dash to the change room when the water surrounding your child becomes suddenly and suspiciously warmer still...)
Things were going, um, swimmingly, until a ‘misunderstanding’ between the instructor and ourselves. Sadly, despite being well aware that our son had Juvenile Arthritis (AKA JIA) and that mobility was an issue some days due to disease activity, she still thought it perfectly fine to label him “lazy” during lessons (I since found out she’d told another boy he “swam ok for a fat kid” so maybe she wasn’t the best choice for a child’s instructor).
Swimming is one of the few exercises that doesn't cause a kid with arthritis much pain- the water cushions the joints and keeps impact to a minimum. It's also great for overall fitness, so I can't tell you how disappointing and frustrating that whole scenario really was.
We still let the kids go in the water where possible but I figured they needed a little stroke correction to keep them in the swim of things. And so a few weeks ago I signed the kids up (now aged 7 and 5 respectively) for a refresher course at different centre.
After a quick assessment, both children were put in the same lane for the half-hour lessons.
While I expected our son to have a little trouble getting his arm over his head for the freestyle stroke because of the JIA in his shoulder, he manages to get along quite fine, albeit a little slowly at times. (He does tire easily though and still manages to come out a glowing shade of red, despite the coolness of the pool.)
Our daughter, on the other hand, swims like a flea in a blender.
It’s hilarious to watch: one arm goes up and she darn near does a sideways somersault as she turns to swing the other arm…while the legs are churning up such a wake, you’d swear a 200hp powerboat was passing by. (It’s like having your own Jacuzzi without the motor!)
I swear, if the instructor didn’t keep a helping hand on her as they made their way along the lane, she’d be right back where she started (covering the whole pool in the process).
And don’t think just because you’re sitting on the side of the pool that you’re safe from the spray. No way.
My daughter can send out enough water to saturate the entire row of parents innocently watching their water babies. I try not to make eye contact now, ‘cause there’s only so many times you can say “Sorry”. (And it's really hard to sound sincere when you're laughing.)
In fact I’m almost inclined to pretend that particular child belongs to someone else entirely and just join the chorus of “tsk”ing (in shades of amusement and bemusement) that seems to follow my daughter’s progress across the pool. But where's the fun in that?
Besides, it sure is refreshing on a hot day!
So with only 7 more lessons ‘til the term is over, I’m banking on it that this instructor is making as big an impression on my children and there’ll be no need for any more of this learn-to-swim stuff, at least until this current crop of participants and their parents has moved into the bigger pool.
Either that or hope the budget stretches to a private session instead. Oh and bring the wet weather gear with me just in case.
Jx
©2009
NOTE: To download a whole lot of free Fact Sheets about water safety (in a number of languages), visit The Royal Life Saving Society - Australia website here. And to find an AUSTSWIM course near you, start here.
Oh not for me- I avoid a swimsuit like a cat avoids a bath- no, for the children (who have no qualms about being seen in spandex- or even in their undies if the urge strikes).
Since we happen to live on one mighty big island, with our home nestled between a lake and an ocean, I’m all for teaching water safety from a very early age. I mean, it takes a surprisingly small amount of liquid for a child to drown (as little as one inch of water!) and I know people who’ve had that tragedy happen, so I wasn’t taking any chances with my precious ones.
As soon as they reached the required minimum age (6 months) we were off to swimming lessons at a local centre.
They took to the activity like the proverbial duck to water, and I’ve gotta admit there’s a lot of enjoyment in taking your baby by the hands and floating them about in the warm water. (Not so much fun the mad dash to the change room when the water surrounding your child becomes suddenly and suspiciously warmer still...)
Things were going, um, swimmingly, until a ‘misunderstanding’ between the instructor and ourselves. Sadly, despite being well aware that our son had Juvenile Arthritis (AKA JIA) and that mobility was an issue some days due to disease activity, she still thought it perfectly fine to label him “lazy” during lessons (I since found out she’d told another boy he “swam ok for a fat kid” so maybe she wasn’t the best choice for a child’s instructor).
Swimming is one of the few exercises that doesn't cause a kid with arthritis much pain- the water cushions the joints and keeps impact to a minimum. It's also great for overall fitness, so I can't tell you how disappointing and frustrating that whole scenario really was.
We still let the kids go in the water where possible but I figured they needed a little stroke correction to keep them in the swim of things. And so a few weeks ago I signed the kids up (now aged 7 and 5 respectively) for a refresher course at different centre.
After a quick assessment, both children were put in the same lane for the half-hour lessons.
While I expected our son to have a little trouble getting his arm over his head for the freestyle stroke because of the JIA in his shoulder, he manages to get along quite fine, albeit a little slowly at times. (He does tire easily though and still manages to come out a glowing shade of red, despite the coolness of the pool.)
Our daughter, on the other hand, swims like a flea in a blender.
It’s hilarious to watch: one arm goes up and she darn near does a sideways somersault as she turns to swing the other arm…while the legs are churning up such a wake, you’d swear a 200hp powerboat was passing by. (It’s like having your own Jacuzzi without the motor!)
I swear, if the instructor didn’t keep a helping hand on her as they made their way along the lane, she’d be right back where she started (covering the whole pool in the process).
And don’t think just because you’re sitting on the side of the pool that you’re safe from the spray. No way.
My daughter can send out enough water to saturate the entire row of parents innocently watching their water babies. I try not to make eye contact now, ‘cause there’s only so many times you can say “Sorry”. (And it's really hard to sound sincere when you're laughing.)
In fact I’m almost inclined to pretend that particular child belongs to someone else entirely and just join the chorus of “tsk”ing (in shades of amusement and bemusement) that seems to follow my daughter’s progress across the pool. But where's the fun in that?
Besides, it sure is refreshing on a hot day!
So with only 7 more lessons ‘til the term is over, I’m banking on it that this instructor is making as big an impression on my children and there’ll be no need for any more of this learn-to-swim stuff, at least until this current crop of participants and their parents has moved into the bigger pool.
Either that or hope the budget stretches to a private session instead. Oh and bring the wet weather gear with me just in case.
Jx
©2009
NOTE: To download a whole lot of free Fact Sheets about water safety (in a number of languages), visit The Royal Life Saving Society - Australia website here. And to find an AUSTSWIM course near you, start here.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The Not-So-Wicked Stepmother
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
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
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