I recently read with great interest the findings of a survey into what kids are looking up online.
The results were surprising, to say the least.
“Sex” doesn’t get a look in until after You Tube, Google and Facebook.
And “Boobs” (#28), “Naked girls” (#86), and other X-rated stuff only accounts for 9 of the 100 items on the list. Yep, apparently less than 10% of time spent searching the public arena involves private parts.
Seems kids these days are more interested in the funny stuff than any funny business, if you know what I’m saying.
That’s good to hear, in a world where the F-bomb is dropped a little too easily for my liking, and mainstream television provides an education that was totally taboo when I was a kid. My mum used to turn the TV off altogether if there was even a hint of something ‘rude’. To this day she still does the “tsk” thing if something raunchy is depicted while we’re in the same room. (Doesn’t stop her reading all those romance novels though does it, hmm?)
Perhaps I lived a sheltered childhood, but the most risqué thing we kids did was when the boys of the class punched the numbers 58008 into the calculator and turned it upside down (in my case it was 55378008, but that issue’s well and truly behind me these days...or rather, the proof to the contrary is way out in front).
The wildest we ever got was giggling whenever the word “bloody” appeared in the history books (whilst conspiratorially whispering the accompanying rhyme: “Bloody’s in the Bible, bloody’s in the book, if you don’t believe me go and have a bloody look!” *snigger*).
So it’s somewhat reassuring to see that of all the possible paths a kid could be taking on the information superhighway, there’s still some innocence at play here.
I bet the folk who ran the study had a few raised eyebrows at the results, but in a good way, mind you.
Yes despite the fact that the youth of today have questionable taste in music (something that’s never gonna change), and are also easily amused, judging by the searches for 'Fred’ (‘Figglehorn’, on YouTube, FYI)… it’s nice to know that the children aren’t being exposed to too much adult content, by choice anyway. (Who hasn’t been well and truly surprised by some of the results one gets from supposed innocent enquiries?!)
It’s certainly good news for any parent concerned about what the kids are doing once they sit in front of a computer screen.
Although you may wanna worry if you’re the parent of a child who types “Google.com” into a search site. (Seriously, using a search engine to find a search engine…what’s up with that?)
As it happens, the day I found my stepson had been searching for “pron” (sic) was the day I knew we had nothing to worry about.
That was one time we were happy he’d never won a spelling bee. Lord knows I wasn’t going to be the one to show him where to find www.dictionary.com!
Jx
©2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
How Much can a Yogi Bear?
I’ve heard heaps about what Yoga can do for you.
Since I’ve had a lot of trouble getting moving over the past couple of years, I was happy to join in when a couple of mums from school suggested we give it a go. There’s safety in numbers after all.
The workout started with me wriggling into gym tights that have sat on the shelf a little too long, if you know what I mean. I’d already worked up a small sweat just pulling the leggings up, but at least I got a head start on the warm up routine.
The first inkling that the class itself was going to prove interesting was when the lady alongside us asked that we move our mats over in case anyone got kicked in the head. I thought that was rather ambitious, as the chances of me getting my legs higher than my own knees were a whole lot slimmer than the lady making the request (I didn’t realise I’d signed up for the skinny minny class- my bad).
Unfortunately, the subsequent shift to the left parked me right alongside the abandoned bags and footwear of the other participants; a fact which became painfully obvious as soon as we started the deep breathing exercises. Someone needed some odour eaters, and how!
If my eyes weren’t watering from the very effort of putting myself into the positions being ably demonstrated up the front of the room, they certainly were whenever the instructor said ”Now roll your head over to the left and take a deep breath in.”
By the time we reached the part where we tried breathing through alternate nostrils (to involve the mind and invoke a better intake of oxygen, don’t you know)- I found it easier to only partake of half the exercise, inhaling only on one side…the one farthest from the shoes.
So there was great rejoicing on my part when we moved from the floor to our feet, and even the indignity of being the only one needing to call out “Timber!” whilst in the tree position didn’t worry me nearly as much as the thought of more mat work.
I must admit, I was feeling pretty good about myself as the class progressed- I even managed to touch my toes at one stage which proved highly motivational for someone who has trouble seeing her feet from time to time. It’s reassuring to know they’re still there, at any rate.
But my confidence only went so far, and at one point I felt I was channelling Yoda moreso than doing Yoga: getting everything backwards I was.
While I was leaning to the left everyone else was off to the right. Or I was saluting the sun while the rest of them were doing the downward dog. Worst was when I was bum up while all the others were head down. Not a good look for a beginner, I can tell you, especially in tight tights.
I bravely struggled through, and am proud to say I completed the entire hour and a half without once whimpering out loud.
Even though by the end of class, I was half passed out from the chloroform effect of the joggers beside me, yet barely able to move myself away from the offending odours, as my lower back reminded me of why I was there in the first place- it seized up and I found myself still making like a snake long after everyone else was upright.
I’m happy to report though, that I completed the class and even earned congratulations from the instructor.
I was happier still when the others suggested we hit the closest café for coffee and cake.
So, home I come, feeling better for giving it a go and able to report that I am feeling the effects already- even if it’s pain instead of pleasure at this stage.
Who knows, by this time next year, I might be flexible enough to kick that lady in the head after all. Especially if I find out it was her shoes alongside me.
Jx
©2009
Since I’ve had a lot of trouble getting moving over the past couple of years, I was happy to join in when a couple of mums from school suggested we give it a go. There’s safety in numbers after all.
The workout started with me wriggling into gym tights that have sat on the shelf a little too long, if you know what I mean. I’d already worked up a small sweat just pulling the leggings up, but at least I got a head start on the warm up routine.
The first inkling that the class itself was going to prove interesting was when the lady alongside us asked that we move our mats over in case anyone got kicked in the head. I thought that was rather ambitious, as the chances of me getting my legs higher than my own knees were a whole lot slimmer than the lady making the request (I didn’t realise I’d signed up for the skinny minny class- my bad).
Unfortunately, the subsequent shift to the left parked me right alongside the abandoned bags and footwear of the other participants; a fact which became painfully obvious as soon as we started the deep breathing exercises. Someone needed some odour eaters, and how!
If my eyes weren’t watering from the very effort of putting myself into the positions being ably demonstrated up the front of the room, they certainly were whenever the instructor said ”Now roll your head over to the left and take a deep breath in.”
By the time we reached the part where we tried breathing through alternate nostrils (to involve the mind and invoke a better intake of oxygen, don’t you know)- I found it easier to only partake of half the exercise, inhaling only on one side…the one farthest from the shoes.
So there was great rejoicing on my part when we moved from the floor to our feet, and even the indignity of being the only one needing to call out “Timber!” whilst in the tree position didn’t worry me nearly as much as the thought of more mat work.
I must admit, I was feeling pretty good about myself as the class progressed- I even managed to touch my toes at one stage which proved highly motivational for someone who has trouble seeing her feet from time to time. It’s reassuring to know they’re still there, at any rate.
But my confidence only went so far, and at one point I felt I was channelling Yoda moreso than doing Yoga: getting everything backwards I was.
While I was leaning to the left everyone else was off to the right. Or I was saluting the sun while the rest of them were doing the downward dog. Worst was when I was bum up while all the others were head down. Not a good look for a beginner, I can tell you, especially in tight tights.
I bravely struggled through, and am proud to say I completed the entire hour and a half without once whimpering out loud.
Even though by the end of class, I was half passed out from the chloroform effect of the joggers beside me, yet barely able to move myself away from the offending odours, as my lower back reminded me of why I was there in the first place- it seized up and I found myself still making like a snake long after everyone else was upright.
I’m happy to report though, that I completed the class and even earned congratulations from the instructor.
I was happier still when the others suggested we hit the closest café for coffee and cake.
So, home I come, feeling better for giving it a go and able to report that I am feeling the effects already- even if it’s pain instead of pleasure at this stage.
Who knows, by this time next year, I might be flexible enough to kick that lady in the head after all. Especially if I find out it was her shoes alongside me.
Jx
©2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Handy Man
There’s a lot in this world we take for granted.
Like the fact that there’ll always be milk in the fridge, the TV will turn on when you press the remote, there’s still enough fuel in the car to get you to the service station, and no matter what else, you get to grab life with both hands.
Unfortunately I have learned that that last one isn’t always the case (oh and in our house, the first one also depends on who had the last cuppa).
Take my son for example. Due to the damage done by Juvenile Arthritis, he has had the use of both of his hands for a mere two weeks since March this year.
Yep, just fourteen days out of almost 6 months.
And boy, doesn’t it make a difference to your life.
You expect to lend a helping hand to your children when they are little and haven’t quite grasped the concept of hand-eye coordination. It’s a given that you’ll be the one wiping their bottoms, holding the spoon, and doing up the buttons and bows.
But there comes a time when kids either don’t want or don’t need their parents to be doing those sorts of things for them.
Independence is a big thing to a little person.
So imagine feeling like you can’t get a grip on what’s going on around you, literally.
It’s something that my son has to deal with on a daily basis. By default, so do I.
Instead of the usual and efficient school day routine we have managed to get going: I make the kids’ breakfast then move onto getting lunches together before laying out the school clothes ready for them to get dressed while I do the shower thing myself … for the past 5 months I have had to stop and sit and spoon the cereal for my son, make the swap from pjs to uniform, and wipe anything that needs it along the way. Some days we’re lucky to make it to school before the bell, and then it’s up to me to carry the bag to the classroom.
At the other end of the day, while I can usually have the dinner cooking while the kids take a bath, and have them come to the table ready dressed… I have burnt countless pieces of meat, let numerous saucepans boil dry, and totally forgot the side vegies altogether more often than not, while I move from kitchen to bathroom to bedroom and back, helping my little boy. (And I’m sure the neighbours are used to being serenaded by the sound of our smoke detector.)
But do I begrudge the extra effort I must make to pick up the shortfall of a child without two hands in full working order?
How could I?
Not when I get to sit with my son and daughter for nearly every meal, happily avoid the splashes amidst the laughter of bathtime, and listen to the childish chatter as I get up close and personal yet again doing tasks that most of us simply do for ourselves without another thought.
I have plenty of opportunities to count the freckles on his face, savour the sweet sound of his voice, enjoy the feel of his little hand in mine as we walk to another appointment, and take every chance I get to take some more mental photographs of my darling little man who will be too big too soon.
How many mothers of 7 year old boys get to do that?
And so, on one hand, while it breaks my heart to watch my child struggle with things that we take for granted every day; on the other hand, I get to spend precious time with my son that the average mum misses out on once her offspring decide they don’t need her so much anymore.
And just quietly, that’s a pretty handy thing to get you through the day.
Jx©
2009
Like the fact that there’ll always be milk in the fridge, the TV will turn on when you press the remote, there’s still enough fuel in the car to get you to the service station, and no matter what else, you get to grab life with both hands.
Unfortunately I have learned that that last one isn’t always the case (oh and in our house, the first one also depends on who had the last cuppa).
Take my son for example. Due to the damage done by Juvenile Arthritis, he has had the use of both of his hands for a mere two weeks since March this year.
Yep, just fourteen days out of almost 6 months.
And boy, doesn’t it make a difference to your life.
You expect to lend a helping hand to your children when they are little and haven’t quite grasped the concept of hand-eye coordination. It’s a given that you’ll be the one wiping their bottoms, holding the spoon, and doing up the buttons and bows.
But there comes a time when kids either don’t want or don’t need their parents to be doing those sorts of things for them.
Independence is a big thing to a little person.
So imagine feeling like you can’t get a grip on what’s going on around you, literally.
It’s something that my son has to deal with on a daily basis. By default, so do I.
Instead of the usual and efficient school day routine we have managed to get going: I make the kids’ breakfast then move onto getting lunches together before laying out the school clothes ready for them to get dressed while I do the shower thing myself … for the past 5 months I have had to stop and sit and spoon the cereal for my son, make the swap from pjs to uniform, and wipe anything that needs it along the way. Some days we’re lucky to make it to school before the bell, and then it’s up to me to carry the bag to the classroom.
At the other end of the day, while I can usually have the dinner cooking while the kids take a bath, and have them come to the table ready dressed… I have burnt countless pieces of meat, let numerous saucepans boil dry, and totally forgot the side vegies altogether more often than not, while I move from kitchen to bathroom to bedroom and back, helping my little boy. (And I’m sure the neighbours are used to being serenaded by the sound of our smoke detector.)
But do I begrudge the extra effort I must make to pick up the shortfall of a child without two hands in full working order?
How could I?
Not when I get to sit with my son and daughter for nearly every meal, happily avoid the splashes amidst the laughter of bathtime, and listen to the childish chatter as I get up close and personal yet again doing tasks that most of us simply do for ourselves without another thought.
I have plenty of opportunities to count the freckles on his face, savour the sweet sound of his voice, enjoy the feel of his little hand in mine as we walk to another appointment, and take every chance I get to take some more mental photographs of my darling little man who will be too big too soon.
How many mothers of 7 year old boys get to do that?
And so, on one hand, while it breaks my heart to watch my child struggle with things that we take for granted every day; on the other hand, I get to spend precious time with my son that the average mum misses out on once her offspring decide they don’t need her so much anymore.
And just quietly, that’s a pretty handy thing to get you through the day.
Jx©
2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
My Life as a Lab Rat
I’ve been thinking about donating my body to science when I no longer have a need for it myself.
But as I returned home from my annual boobie-pancake-making session, it occurred to me that I pretty much already have!
See, on top of the regular XX chromosomes and other genetic bequests my parents passed on, I have been blessed with a whole lot of anomalies that have kept numerous medical folk entertained (and in business) over the years.
Here’s the CliffsNotes version:
Let’s start at the very beginning (wow, that brings back memories of playing ‘Maria’, but that’s another story for another time); while most kids are kept cocooned within their mother’s uterus for around 9 months before their official arrival, I was virtually hanging on by my fingernails inside mum’s tum. The doctors told her not to go down the procreational path any more after me either, but I’m thinking she would have come to the same conclusion herself, given the challenges I apparently presented from that point on.
Born with brown eyes instead of the regular blue, seems they haven’t been able to decide on a colour from that point on, and my kids often stand nose-to-nose with me to see what shade my irises have chosen to adopt that day. It’s a cool party trick really... if only I could control it, I could make money!
On top of the confused colouring, seems my eyes belonged to a dominatrix in a former life- each one likes to be in control, which causes no end of confusion with coordination (and makes for very interesting games of tennis, I can tell you). See generally the whole hand-eye thing relies on a clear cut dominance of one eye or the other, so while I am lucky in that I can do some things both left and right handed, there comes a point where neither eye is actually in charge, and that’s not the time you’d want to rely on me to catch anything thrown my way (might also explain why I’ve never walked away with a bridal bouquet). Mind you, it impressed the hell outta the ophthalmologist who discovered it, since he'd not actually seen this phenomenon before. Yay me.
My ears aren’t your average auricles either. I don’t mean I’d give ‘Dumbo’ a run for his money or anything, rather, these tiny little pieces of audible architecture have proven difficult for the ENT doc to do regular checkups which makes it tricky to discover the reason behind my tinnitus or so-called ‘aqua ear’ (don’t you know, with tinnitus, every voice rings a bell?). So instead of the usual advice to not put anything smaller than your elbow in your ear, the doctor is flat out getting his Otoscope in. (But at least I’m not really lying when I tell the kids “I can’t hear you!”)
Moving right along, I’ve long had a love/hate relationship with my dentist since my jaw proved lazy in its efforts of growing teeth. Instead of the standard 32 permanent pearlers the average adult is supposed to have, I stopped 6 short, also with no 'Wisdom Teeth' lurking below the gum line (some would say that says a lot about me). I distinctly recall the day the dentist invited no less than 4 others into the room to check out the xrays of my non-existent teeth. I can only say I’m glad they weren’t all charging me for the pleasure; even the dentist declared his family would starve from the lack of services he was able to provide in my case.
I’ll save you from the intimate details of my women’s bits, suffice to say that there are ‘ladies of the night’ who’ve had less men between their legs…and the whole payment thing is the wrong way round in this case, too. I should mention though, that my ovaries have pretended to be my appendix- but only the once mind you- as the surgeon cut the alleged offender out before he realised it was not the culprit at all. And after baffling so many for so long with infertility, the aforementioned ovaries then surprised the specialists (and shocked the hell outta me, I can tell you) by spontaneously producing the goods in the shape of my second, unexpected (but warmly welcomed) child.
I am also the proud owner of the “world’s smallest kneecaps” if you believe the orthopods and physiotherapists. And even my pulse has proven problematic, with one nurse actually declaring I should be dead, such was her frustration to find a pulse to please her.
Which brings me back to my decision not to assist Science after all when that event eventually occurs.
Left with a medical file of a size to rival all 7 editions of ‘Harry Potter’ (with equally as much magic and mystery therein), I have come to the conclusion that I do not actually need to leave my body for doctors to discover once I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil ... because I have given them more than enough to discuss whilst I’m still upright.
Jx
©2009
But as I returned home from my annual boobie-pancake-making session, it occurred to me that I pretty much already have!
See, on top of the regular XX chromosomes and other genetic bequests my parents passed on, I have been blessed with a whole lot of anomalies that have kept numerous medical folk entertained (and in business) over the years.
Here’s the CliffsNotes version:
Let’s start at the very beginning (wow, that brings back memories of playing ‘Maria’, but that’s another story for another time); while most kids are kept cocooned within their mother’s uterus for around 9 months before their official arrival, I was virtually hanging on by my fingernails inside mum’s tum. The doctors told her not to go down the procreational path any more after me either, but I’m thinking she would have come to the same conclusion herself, given the challenges I apparently presented from that point on.
Born with brown eyes instead of the regular blue, seems they haven’t been able to decide on a colour from that point on, and my kids often stand nose-to-nose with me to see what shade my irises have chosen to adopt that day. It’s a cool party trick really... if only I could control it, I could make money!
On top of the confused colouring, seems my eyes belonged to a dominatrix in a former life- each one likes to be in control, which causes no end of confusion with coordination (and makes for very interesting games of tennis, I can tell you). See generally the whole hand-eye thing relies on a clear cut dominance of one eye or the other, so while I am lucky in that I can do some things both left and right handed, there comes a point where neither eye is actually in charge, and that’s not the time you’d want to rely on me to catch anything thrown my way (might also explain why I’ve never walked away with a bridal bouquet). Mind you, it impressed the hell outta the ophthalmologist who discovered it, since he'd not actually seen this phenomenon before. Yay me.
My ears aren’t your average auricles either. I don’t mean I’d give ‘Dumbo’ a run for his money or anything, rather, these tiny little pieces of audible architecture have proven difficult for the ENT doc to do regular checkups which makes it tricky to discover the reason behind my tinnitus or so-called ‘aqua ear’ (don’t you know, with tinnitus, every voice rings a bell?). So instead of the usual advice to not put anything smaller than your elbow in your ear, the doctor is flat out getting his Otoscope in. (But at least I’m not really lying when I tell the kids “I can’t hear you!”)
Moving right along, I’ve long had a love/hate relationship with my dentist since my jaw proved lazy in its efforts of growing teeth. Instead of the standard 32 permanent pearlers the average adult is supposed to have, I stopped 6 short, also with no 'Wisdom Teeth' lurking below the gum line (some would say that says a lot about me). I distinctly recall the day the dentist invited no less than 4 others into the room to check out the xrays of my non-existent teeth. I can only say I’m glad they weren’t all charging me for the pleasure; even the dentist declared his family would starve from the lack of services he was able to provide in my case.
I’ll save you from the intimate details of my women’s bits, suffice to say that there are ‘ladies of the night’ who’ve had less men between their legs…and the whole payment thing is the wrong way round in this case, too. I should mention though, that my ovaries have pretended to be my appendix- but only the once mind you- as the surgeon cut the alleged offender out before he realised it was not the culprit at all. And after baffling so many for so long with infertility, the aforementioned ovaries then surprised the specialists (and shocked the hell outta me, I can tell you) by spontaneously producing the goods in the shape of my second, unexpected (but warmly welcomed) child.
I am also the proud owner of the “world’s smallest kneecaps” if you believe the orthopods and physiotherapists. And even my pulse has proven problematic, with one nurse actually declaring I should be dead, such was her frustration to find a pulse to please her.
Which brings me back to my decision not to assist Science after all when that event eventually occurs.
Left with a medical file of a size to rival all 7 editions of ‘Harry Potter’ (with equally as much magic and mystery therein), I have come to the conclusion that I do not actually need to leave my body for doctors to discover once I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil ... because I have given them more than enough to discuss whilst I’m still upright.
Jx
©2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Cinderfella
I’d like to refute recent findings that Australian men make the worst husbands when it comes to housework.
I’d like to … but I can’t.
See, my Beloved comes from a long line of folk who expect the woman to do the housework while the man does the breadwinner thing. (But he can never remember to bring bread home though, can he?)
And so he’s of the opinion that he works such long hours he shouldn’t be expected to turn around and do any work once he comes home, not even on weekends. Whereas since I am currently unemployed again (thanks to that car accident), I really have nothing better to do than wander round with a duster, apparently.
According to the British research, Aussie blokes don’t like helping out around the house, and are less likely than any other country in the study to offer to do the chores.
Now not having been married to any man from Norway (the best in the survey), the UK, USA, the Netherlands, Ireland, Sweden, Spain, New Zealand, Japan, Germany, not even Austria (unless you're a little dyslexic), I cannot comment on how domesticated those male creatures might be.
I only know that most men of the Terra Australis variety verily and merrily support the findings.
Now, I’m not complaining really, well ok just a little. But with good reason. In the hours that my Beloved is not out there earning the family income, he is either asleep, or off in some virtual reality of a computer game. And I have to be feeling particularly brave to ask him for some help (even if it’s something I have trouble doing, thanks to a bad back).
So I did a little experiment recently. After I had been accused once too often of “doing nothing around here” … nothing is in fact what I did. Only as far as matters pertaining purely to him, mind you.
I still bought and prepared the food, dutifully packed and unpacked the dishwasher and did the other washing up by hand, and also ran the kids’ school clothes through the washer and dryer as needed. I still wiped down the basins, bath and shower, and scrubbed the yukky bits off the toilet bowls as needed; I also emptied the rubbish and recycling, and picked up and packed up all the detritus that comes with kids; I simply left his clothing to fold itself (I did wash it for him though, couldn’t help myself- there’s nothing quite like the aroma of sweat and diesel fuel to urge one towards the washer).
I also refused to do any extra duties, like yard work, changing lightbulbs, or stuff like that.
Two weeks later, guess whose clothes are still sitting in the laundry baskets where I had dumped them? Or to be more precise, I should say whose clothes are sitting all around said baskets- since someone has been in there foraging for something to wear.
And guess who’s been caught out flicking a light switch with no response too many times to count? Same person who has tripped over the lawnmower sitting in the exact same spot it was left a fortnight before.
Grrrrr.
Seems my little experiment backfired on me, didn’t it. And it’s looking highly likely that the sight of this avalanche of laundry will force me to do something about it after all.
Along with the rest of the stuff I “never do around here”.
All I need now’s a couple of ugly stepsisters and the fairytale’s complete.
Oh well, at least I feel I’ve well and truly proved the story about Aussie men and their lack of enthusiasm about housework. So I can do the “I told you so” dance to my heart’s content, if ever my Prince Charming takes me to the ball.
Hmmm.
Maybe in my next life my Fairy Godmother will send me a nice, single, Norwegian fella instead.
Jx
©2009
I’d like to … but I can’t.
See, my Beloved comes from a long line of folk who expect the woman to do the housework while the man does the breadwinner thing. (But he can never remember to bring bread home though, can he?)
And so he’s of the opinion that he works such long hours he shouldn’t be expected to turn around and do any work once he comes home, not even on weekends. Whereas since I am currently unemployed again (thanks to that car accident), I really have nothing better to do than wander round with a duster, apparently.
According to the British research, Aussie blokes don’t like helping out around the house, and are less likely than any other country in the study to offer to do the chores.
Now not having been married to any man from Norway (the best in the survey), the UK, USA, the Netherlands, Ireland, Sweden, Spain, New Zealand, Japan, Germany, not even Austria (unless you're a little dyslexic), I cannot comment on how domesticated those male creatures might be.
I only know that most men of the Terra Australis variety verily and merrily support the findings.
Now, I’m not complaining really, well ok just a little. But with good reason. In the hours that my Beloved is not out there earning the family income, he is either asleep, or off in some virtual reality of a computer game. And I have to be feeling particularly brave to ask him for some help (even if it’s something I have trouble doing, thanks to a bad back).
So I did a little experiment recently. After I had been accused once too often of “doing nothing around here” … nothing is in fact what I did. Only as far as matters pertaining purely to him, mind you.
I still bought and prepared the food, dutifully packed and unpacked the dishwasher and did the other washing up by hand, and also ran the kids’ school clothes through the washer and dryer as needed. I still wiped down the basins, bath and shower, and scrubbed the yukky bits off the toilet bowls as needed; I also emptied the rubbish and recycling, and picked up and packed up all the detritus that comes with kids; I simply left his clothing to fold itself (I did wash it for him though, couldn’t help myself- there’s nothing quite like the aroma of sweat and diesel fuel to urge one towards the washer).
I also refused to do any extra duties, like yard work, changing lightbulbs, or stuff like that.
Two weeks later, guess whose clothes are still sitting in the laundry baskets where I had dumped them? Or to be more precise, I should say whose clothes are sitting all around said baskets- since someone has been in there foraging for something to wear.
And guess who’s been caught out flicking a light switch with no response too many times to count? Same person who has tripped over the lawnmower sitting in the exact same spot it was left a fortnight before.
Grrrrr.
Seems my little experiment backfired on me, didn’t it. And it’s looking highly likely that the sight of this avalanche of laundry will force me to do something about it after all.
Along with the rest of the stuff I “never do around here”.
All I need now’s a couple of ugly stepsisters and the fairytale’s complete.
Oh well, at least I feel I’ve well and truly proved the story about Aussie men and their lack of enthusiasm about housework. So I can do the “I told you so” dance to my heart’s content, if ever my Prince Charming takes me to the ball.
Hmmm.
Maybe in my next life my Fairy Godmother will send me a nice, single, Norwegian fella instead.
Jx
©2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Sign of the Times
I love signs.
Aside from the hours of enjoyment one can get from reading signposts or those little inserts one gets from non-english speaking countries (go on, when you’ve got some time to kill, try Googling “Engrish”) … I just love wordplay on such a small scale. (What’s that saying, ‘Small thing amuse small minds’?) Plus it gives me something to laugh about sometimes when I really need it.
Take our house, for instance.
As you approach the front door you’re greeted with “Beware of the Kids” (a funky little number I found on eBay), and never a truer word has been written, my friends.
One cannot enter our abode without tripping over the toys and arts and crafts and shoes and sports gear strategically placed in the most inconvenient locations.
I swear our front entry (a converted garage) is like the ‘Tardis’ - the amount of child-oriented items it contains seems to grow with each day that passes, and the mind boggles as to where it all came from, or indeed, where it all goes.
Unfortunately, it is encroaching on the entire interior, as the little darlings forget to put things back from whence they came. Obviously I need to find a sign that says “If it comes out to play, please put it away” that’s actually written in a language 5 and 7 year olds can comprehend.
Moving into the household (and avoiding the minefield of childhood items along the way), there’s quite a nice collection of sayings stuck to the fridge in amongst the family photo’s and children’s art work- two of my favourites are “Housekeeping is an exact science- I’m into art.” and “I’m not going to vacuum until they make one I can ride on!” Hear, hear!
Unfortunately, I have discovered if I don’t do it, it doesn’t get done, and I’m yet to figure out a way around that one*.
In fact the first sign to greet me each day is plastered on the laundry door directly across the hall from our bedroom; it reads “Please Dear Lord, make the laundry go away”. I’m still waiting for the Almighty to deliver on that one, but still it stays, offering up a not-so-silent prayer to put an end to washing days. (See above*.)
That goes with another saying of which I’m quite fond: “Cleaning the house while the kids are still growing is like shoveling the path while the snow is still snowing.” You’ve got to pick your battles. And I surrendered a long time ago.
So I resign myself to simply overseeing the childhood warfare that takes place on a daily basis, helped along with a cuppa or two.
Needless to say my coffee cup collection has a wealth of knowledge printed thereon to provide inspiration, motivation, or mere contemplation as I up my caffeine intake trying to stay awake after another near-sleepless night at the homestead- mind you I have to carefully guard the mug that says “I have children and a sense of humour- what’s your Super Power?”, as too many other mothers can also relate, it seems.
And there’s one sign here that never ceases to amuse one mum in particular whenever she risks life and limb and pays a visit to our humble home. It’s a little pink one that declares: “My Mother was right about everything!”
Every single time my mother reads that one, she turns to me with a chuckle and says “I am so glad you had kids of your own darling.”
Yep, so am I… if nothing else it keeps the signwriters in business.
Jx
©2009
Aside from the hours of enjoyment one can get from reading signposts or those little inserts one gets from non-english speaking countries (go on, when you’ve got some time to kill, try Googling “Engrish”) … I just love wordplay on such a small scale. (What’s that saying, ‘Small thing amuse small minds’?) Plus it gives me something to laugh about sometimes when I really need it.
Take our house, for instance.
As you approach the front door you’re greeted with “Beware of the Kids” (a funky little number I found on eBay), and never a truer word has been written, my friends.
One cannot enter our abode without tripping over the toys and arts and crafts and shoes and sports gear strategically placed in the most inconvenient locations.
I swear our front entry (a converted garage) is like the ‘Tardis’ - the amount of child-oriented items it contains seems to grow with each day that passes, and the mind boggles as to where it all came from, or indeed, where it all goes.
Unfortunately, it is encroaching on the entire interior, as the little darlings forget to put things back from whence they came. Obviously I need to find a sign that says “If it comes out to play, please put it away” that’s actually written in a language 5 and 7 year olds can comprehend.
Moving into the household (and avoiding the minefield of childhood items along the way), there’s quite a nice collection of sayings stuck to the fridge in amongst the family photo’s and children’s art work- two of my favourites are “Housekeeping is an exact science- I’m into art.” and “I’m not going to vacuum until they make one I can ride on!” Hear, hear!
Unfortunately, I have discovered if I don’t do it, it doesn’t get done, and I’m yet to figure out a way around that one*.
In fact the first sign to greet me each day is plastered on the laundry door directly across the hall from our bedroom; it reads “Please Dear Lord, make the laundry go away”. I’m still waiting for the Almighty to deliver on that one, but still it stays, offering up a not-so-silent prayer to put an end to washing days. (See above*.)
That goes with another saying of which I’m quite fond: “Cleaning the house while the kids are still growing is like shoveling the path while the snow is still snowing.” You’ve got to pick your battles. And I surrendered a long time ago.
So I resign myself to simply overseeing the childhood warfare that takes place on a daily basis, helped along with a cuppa or two.
Needless to say my coffee cup collection has a wealth of knowledge printed thereon to provide inspiration, motivation, or mere contemplation as I up my caffeine intake trying to stay awake after another near-sleepless night at the homestead- mind you I have to carefully guard the mug that says “I have children and a sense of humour- what’s your Super Power?”, as too many other mothers can also relate, it seems.
And there’s one sign here that never ceases to amuse one mum in particular whenever she risks life and limb and pays a visit to our humble home. It’s a little pink one that declares: “My Mother was right about everything!”
Every single time my mother reads that one, she turns to me with a chuckle and says “I am so glad you had kids of your own darling.”
Yep, so am I… if nothing else it keeps the signwriters in business.
Jx
©2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The Ghost of Childhood Past
I’ve just had word that another old schoolmate has died.
Well, not that we’re that old, really. I mean, sure I’m staring down the barrel of the big 4.0. but I’m still a few months off yet. I can still claim to be young-ish (even if the face that greets me in the mirror some mornings looks frighteningly tired and old).
No, what I mean is, a friend from long ago when we were carefree- the way kids are meant to be.
Sure, we’ve lost touch- as most mates do once you’re not forced to spend 6 hours in their company, 5 days a week, for up to 13 years.
Life kinda gets in the way.
Until someone you used to know dies.
And then there’s the flurry of phone calls, emails, or SMS…firstly to pass along the sad news to someone who might not know…or the messages madly trying to find out why a “kid” you grew up with, has their name in the Obituaries.
Makes me wonder why we don’t take more time, or spend a little more energy keeping in touch while we’re all still fit and healthy.
But there’s your answer right there, isn’t it?
When you’re in the prime of life, sometimes we get so busy just living that we don’t stop and think until perhaps someone isn’t.
Oh I know we’ve all made an effort here and there- sending the occasional Christmas or birthday card, forwarding an email that says “I’m thinking of you”, or even dropping a note or a smiley on one of the many social networks rolling around.
I know I sent a message for this former chum a good couple of years ago now, on one of those “school friends” sites. Didn’t get a reply so I left it at that. Won’t get one now.
But in the face of this news, I’ve already touched base with two other mates, with whom the contact is sporadic but always as comfortable as ever. I guess it’s different if you can date your friendship way back to wagging preschool together by hiding out in the cubby house.
Still, I don’t see them as often as I’d like. Mind you, we all live in different cities now, occasionally different countries, so it’s a little difficult to kick back with a cuppa or a cold one with a friend when distance is your foe.
And so I sit, wondering why yet another classmate has gone too soon.
Thinking of all those who I really should make contact with.
And being thankful for those who I do get to catch up with for a laugh.
And I offer up a silent prayer for the children that I played with...the teenagers I hung out with... the adults I spent time with… who now get to watch over us all.
Jx
©2009
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