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

104 Needles

That's how many, on average, my son has in any given year.

104 times each and every year I must prepare medication, draw it up into a syringe, before sticking the sharp end into my little boy.

More, if you count the extra shots for blood tests he needs to monitor the effect of what we inject.

You better believe both he and I hate it every single time.

See, despite being diagnosed with supposedly the 'best' type of Juvenile Arthritis there is (if there is any such thing as 'good' JIA), with traditionally the best prognosis for remission- medicated or spontaneous- by the time a child hits adolescence; my child isn't following the textbooks and instead of stopping the meds, we've had to increase instead.

9 years into this JIA journey, he and I are still finding a way to making medicine more fun.

When your child is first diagnosed with a disease like Juvenile Arthritis, a parent- usually the mother (nothing against dads, it's just the way it is) gets a fast track to a medical degree, without the fancy certificate to whack on your wall.

You pick up the lingo almost by osmosis to understand the parade of practitioners you pass on the path to a pain-free childhood. I can discuss ANA, CRP, ESR, FBC, and LFTs with the best of them (my Beloved however has missed a few lessons and doesn't yet know his RFs from his ABCs).

You also get a few tips on how to administer medication at home that is more at home in a hospital. If you're lucky, it comes as a liquid that's fairly well received. Tablet form's a little harder to swallow. If you've ever given a pet a pill, you'll know just how hard it can be. One of the tricks is hiding crushed tablets in foodstuffs of similar colour until they catch on - despite our best intentions our son still has an aversion to yellow food (Methotrexate is yellow). He's not alone, studies have shown kids all over the world have had the same reaction to cheese, custard, bananas, even egg yolks.

When all else fails, it's needle time.

For someone who's never given an injection before, it's a pretty daunting task.  Tougher still if you're among the many who have needle phobia and faint at the sight of blood (my Beloved again).

They tell you to practice on an orange, or any citrus fruit with a skin similar to that of a human body - just take an empty syringe and practise poking the needle through. A little deeper for intramuscular injections, a little less for subcutaneous (see, told I could do medico-speak).

Braver folk take the next step and stick it into themselves, to find the spot that's as painless as possible.  I've only ever done so by accident (it wasn't that painless, incidentally), and over the years I've become much better at avoiding needlestick injuries.

There are also ways to numb the site so it'll be alright on the night. But EMLA® and AnGEL® both take time to work...time for fretting about what's to come.  Ice can numb the skin, but also makes it tougher to pierce and it's more like poking through a watermelon than an orange. After a few years of tears, the doctors told us as long as the skin itself is clean, you can go without, which reduces the pre-emptive fear somewhat, if not the sting itself.

We've come through it about 364 times so far. That's like a needle every day for a year, with a day's grace for Christmas.

And so twice a week for the next year or so we will do it again, and my little boy and I will share the pain with the purpose of one of these drugs working one day.

104 more chances to stop a disease in its tracks, and bring an end to using my son as a human pincushion for the rest of his life.

I don't want to think about how many needles we'll be up to, if we don't.

Jx

©2012

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

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 25^th, 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