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

Daddy's Girl

So the circle of life continues.

The man partly responsible for bringing me into this world, is by all accounts about to leave it.

I don’t know this for a fact, as he left my world some 30-odd years ago, when I was about the same age my daughter is.

But I’m told that the same disease my mother was battling at the time he left, is attacking my father now.

See, another circle.

To be honest, I’m not sure what I’m expected to feel about it.

Sure, I feel bad that Cancer has reared its ugly head again- I don’t wish it on anyone.

Yes I am sorry that someone is suffering, with no brilliant prognosis this time.

True, there is concern that people dear to me are upset about it.

Of course I should be sad that someone I know is in pain.

But the whole what-am-I-going-to-do-my-dad-is-dying thing, well I just can’t come at.

Because - truth be told - I lost my father a long time ago; I’ve done my grieving already, aged 8.

A lady I know recently buried her dad with whom she had a…shall we say challenging relationship. Without breaching her privacy or her pain, it was a similar story: he left, didn’t have a lot to do with them, and time ran out before the break was properly healed.

Yet she had the bravery, and inner beauty, to speak a Eulogy for him. She revisited the good times and the bad, and bid him farewell the best way she could: with honesty and humour.

I wish I could say the same thing for the man I know as father.

If I do get to talk with him before he goes, I might say thank you for having me. After all, without his input I wouldn’t be here now.  And I might smile at a cherished memory or two that survived the fallout that befell our family. I would even wish him well for the next part of his journey.  But I cannot tell him I love him. (Nor do I loathe him, just for the record.)

And hopefully one day I can find the words to explain to my children why they never met their grandfather, for all his faults.

So all I can do is this: support my family as they support him, and pray that when the circle of life rolls around again, there is no break in the bond between my own offspring and me.

Daddy’s Little Girl (©1986)

daddy, aren’t i your little girl? aren’t i your ‘supa-kid’?

well, then, why did you leave me here, wondering what i did?

your clothes are gone, your cupboard’s bare, not much is left behind.

your crucifix stays on our wall, one thing left to remind.

please daddy, won’t you come back home? we all miss you so much.

my friends still have their daddies here- a real daddy to touch.

but daddy’s gone, he left me here, he didn’t want his child.

so now it’s just the 4 of us, one less reason to smile.

my daddy’s gone away, you see, he doesn’t really care.

‘cause when i cry his name at night i know he’s never there.

but daddy, i’ll grow up someday, i hope with no regrets-

but when you leave your little girl

the pain’s hard to forget.

Jx

©2011

The Birds & The Bees

It’s about that time that my daughter and I had a little talk.

Yep charity’s not the only thing that should begin at home. 

So does sex education.

I’ve learnt that the hard way.

Oh it was innocent enough- My Beloved decided we deserved a break from the constant bickering that had punctuated our Saturday morning up to that point, so he shut the bedroom door on the kids saying he wanted 5 minutes alone with mummy to give her a quiet cuddle. For a change that’s what he actually meant! 

Didn’t quite realize how it sounded to another’s ears until our 6 year old told a caller that “Mummy can’t come to the phone right now, she’s busy in the bedroom having a hug with daddy.”

Well, didn’t my friend give me grief when I got hold of the handset?!

I really don’t know who was more embarrassed or amused when Miss V knocked on the bedroom door to pass the telephone over and I was greeted with giggles from my friend, followed finally by an explanation of the mirth (also the background comments from said friend’s husband that Fathers’ Day was still weeks away and was he getting an early gift). It wasn’t like that at all. (Heaven knows we have learnt to schedule those sessions for when we’re least likely to get interrupted i.e. when kids aren’t home!)

But with our son now approaching the age where school sessions are scheduled to ensure the information is delivered in a factual and fun way (whatever that means), it means that the adults in the house are having “that” discussion about whether the children are really ready for it.

Here’s the thing. We’ve never used euphemisms or silly nicknames for body parts- we’re both big on calling a spade a spade (or whatever’s the relevant term for the item in question)- and have discovered real issues when our offspring bring home titles like “willy”, weener”, “doodle”, “family jewels”, and “front bottom”. (Front bottom? Seriously, what is up with that??)  And I’ve even had to have a quiet chat with my son at the request of another mother that terms like “balls” are really not appropriate to use in conversation with girls in the classroom.Unless it's in the context of sport.   

♫Awwk-waaard. ♫

I have to say though, that the very thought of having to sit down and have “The Talk” with my daughter immediately brings up memories of my mother attempting to do the same with me as a child. Being the youngest of three girls in an all-female household, there wasn’t a lot left to the imagination (think nudie runs from bathroom to bedroom simply to keep the schedule of all those women in a one-bathroom house), and of course we were exposed to the schoolyard discussions of what’s under other’s clothes or the private stuff that goes on in two-parent families. Ours didn’t exactly fit the perfect model of mum-dad- and-the-kids, my sisters and I never had the opportunity to accidentally expose what really goes on in the marital bed (and both my therapist and I thank our lucky stars every day for that, just quietly) so mum had some explaining to do.

I distinctly remember the extreme embarrassment mum and I felt when she took me into her room, brought out the tried and trusty copy of the puberty book (you know, I can’t for the life of me remember the name of it, only that it had a garish yellow cover– must have blocked that one out as a painful memory!) and sat me down and started to read. I still shudder at the thought of my mother nodding wisely at the advice that relations between a man and a woman are a special thing given by God, or words to that effect. I was so innocent and embarrassed that I couldn’t even come up with a clever comment like “So that’s why people call out His name?!” at the time.

But we both survived it relatively intact.  And now it’s my turn. With my little girl who has yet to embrace the fashion and makeup and all the bling things that others her age are well and truly into.

My turn to find the appropriate text to take into the bedroom and sit her down for that chat.

One can only hope that no one rings at the time or else my son might just tell them I’m unavailable because of something to do with sex!

Jx

©2010/11

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.

The Whole Tooth

What’s the going rate for the tooth fairy these days, I wonder?

I only ask because while helping my son clean his teeth tonight, I discovered he has not one, not two, but five baby teeth about to drop!

He’s only lost the bottom front two (central incisors) so far and has been eagerly watching all his friends reap the rewards of placing their little pearly whites under their pillows. And now he’s got the wobbles up in all four incisors along the top, along with the little left lateral incisor down the bottom, all at the same time.

If that’s not enough to worry about, there’s great confusion as to what a tooth is worth.

When I was a kid (doing my best impression of a granny here) it was around 10 cents a pop, but the deal was we had to put it in a glass of water by the bed and promise not to peek during the night, for fear of scaring the fairy away before payday. Plus we only got paid if our teeth were in good condition- a good way of making sure we brushed right, day and night; something we also try to impress upon our kids.

Now, I know in other parts of the world the tooth fairy doesn’t do cash, but leaves a toy or a gift of some sort instead (smart fairies those- ‘cause who knows how much those things cost?). But I overheard a kid at school the other day telling his friends how he got a note for his last toothy transaction, and a blue one at that (that’s $AU10.00 for our friends overseas)!

Sheesh, if the tooth fairy in this family had to fork out even $5 a time for the 20 baby teeth the average kid possesses, that’s (uses fingers and toes) $100 per child! Sure beats the hell outta the 2 bucks my mouth earnt me all those years ago!! Talk about inflation.

And to be honest, I don’t know if our local friendly fairy has a quick $25 on her if all five fell out at the same time…which is looking likely.

I mean, hasn’t the Global Financial Crisis affected the fairy folk at all?

With the economic downturn and the way values have fallen worldwide, I would’ve thought the going rate would’ve gone the way of a lot of things- and that’s down, not up.

But my son has put a lot of time and effort into all the toothy talk, especially since at all of age 7 he feels hard done by that a lot of the kids in his class are already busy growing all their permanent pearlers (our daughter is mega cranky because at 5, she hasn’t even started to get any wobbly ones, no matter how hard she tries); he’s managed to lose only two so far.

And lose them, he did.

After days and days of playing with the first wobbly one, it came out while he was munching a packet of potato chips. He thought it was a hard bit of chip so he spat it out on the ground. In the living room, for goodness sake! (Oh don’t worry, we had a chat about that, too.)

I just happened to look at him and said: “Where’s your tooth gone?” before he realized the error of his ways. So there we were, all four on the floor looking for a tiny little tooth in the beige carpet, for crying out loud. I found it and balanced it on the tip of my little finger to show the others when our daughter hopped up to see and accidentally smacked my hand in the process…sending the tooth flying once more.

The second tooth came out in the next-door neighbour’s swimming pool. Same deal- I looked at him and asked: “When did you lose your tooth?” which sent all the kids into a frenzy trying to find the thing. Yeah, good luck on a pebbled pool base! After tearfully begging the neighbours to let him know if it showed up in their filter (it didn’t), he came home to write an epic letter to the tooth fairy explaining what had happened. Luckily she’s just about heard it all, and still came good with the cash, despite receiving nothing in return. (Don’t know that I’d be so generous. Oh, wait…)

And now with 5 little wobblers at once, I’d best be keeping my eye on them. I’ll also keep the camera charged and ready, because if they do all come out at the same time, it’ll make for a great photo opportunity (perfect for, say, a 21st birthday party, don’t you think). Best stock up on soup and straws too, because I don’t think he’ll be doing much chewing ‘til the new ones grow in.

In the meantime, I’ll try and come up with a reasonable payment plan for just how much a baby tooth is worth (hopefully before the tooth fairy’s services are again required in our residence), and I’ll leave you with this little bit of wisdom to do with what you will:

Remember, always be true to your teeth or they’ll be false to you!

Jx
©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