Being away from the children for nine days broke something. In a good way. It opened a door and gave us a glimpse on a life, a life of a couple that we used to know, a life that is coming back as they get older, grow up and one day fly the nest.
I feel like we have packed up that part of our lives that contained baby buggies and nappies and sleepless nights and cracked nipples. Mushy food and 24/7 on call. LIke childbirth, the memory fadesm and I'm left with I know I have even mostly fotgot what it was actually like in the Breeding years, because I look back on those days so fondly. A tropical holiday reminded me how quiet and peaceful the house will be one day. And it reminded me to enjoy the chaos while it lasts. For although we have packed away the baby paraphernalia, we are by no means out of the kids at home zone, and as they grow a new set of challenges emerge.
Challenges like, managing the addiction behaviour of a 6year old to computer games? Encouraging creativity and independent thought? Keeping them safe as they gradually spend less time under my wing and gaze, and more time in the public arena. (Luckily on holiday i could temper these tricky questions with a few mai-tais from the poolside bar)
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the team of super-nannies (grandmother, nieces, aunts uncles and 1 dog) all played tag team to keep the wheels turning. I felt a little impressed by the size of the instruction booklet I left - wow, when you write it all down I do have a busy job.
Big Brother had let his sister come into bed with him if she got sad at night.
They had drawn a beautiful and detailed Welcome Home poster.
The reunion was epic, loud and emotional.
I thanked Big Brother for his prayers, praying I didn't get eaten by a shark over there (and reassured him it is more likely to be donked by a falling coconut than chomped by a shark)
We are back in the zone, and the break seems like a fabulous dream. Back in daily life I am trying not to grump, but go with it, gladly giving away my peace and personal space for just a few more years.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
The Hungry-kini Dilemma
I obviously have not had anything interesting to say, or think lately because the last time I blogged was March ! MARCH? My picolini's have spouted a-plenty of cute and world changing intelligent pithy commentaries during that time but I have been missing documenting them. Gone, they have - (I'm practicing talking like Yoda because I find the boys listen to me more when I talk like him, "Shoes, put on your", or Your teeth, you must clean").
Well, now it's the end of May, and here's a thought - I have recently been contemplating the cultural and social implications of whether or not I can pour this body that has given birth to 3 children and knows it, into a hungry-kini. And then go out in public. Well, at least, into the surf at the beach.
Being in a climate where it is possible to just wear a hungry-kini and be warm as toast leads itself to the question - just because you can, should you?
Am I really OK with the thought of the citizens of this beach seeing my barely covered birthday suit?
No matter how cute the suit, how flowery the kini, are people looking at the expansive pasty skin or do they only see the strategically placed bits of material? I mean, is there anyone even looking?
Do I need to look like the bombshell surf board toting bleached babes to feel happy with my body, flomps and all?
And now I have had a few days to think about it , the answer is well, why not? I worked hard for this stretched and sucked on body, I have devoted nearly eight years of my life to the production, extradition and nutritional support my three children, and yes that has taken a toll on my collagen, my ability to jump up and down with confidence, my self awareness. Gone, the perkiness has.
However, as I man my hungry-kini and head down onto the beach, I find it is proudly done.
And it helps we are thousands of miles away from anyone we know.
(Other interesting discoveries this climate have lead to include the fact that the way that my belly flomps over the top of said hungry-kini when I sit down makes it possible to belly type on an Ipad.)
"Hungry-kini " - describes the phenomenon which occurs when wearing a bikini while surfing, wherein a significant portion of the material gets eaten by the space between your buttocks.
Well, now it's the end of May, and here's a thought - I have recently been contemplating the cultural and social implications of whether or not I can pour this body that has given birth to 3 children and knows it, into a hungry-kini. And then go out in public. Well, at least, into the surf at the beach.
Being in a climate where it is possible to just wear a hungry-kini and be warm as toast leads itself to the question - just because you can, should you?
Am I really OK with the thought of the citizens of this beach seeing my barely covered birthday suit?
No matter how cute the suit, how flowery the kini, are people looking at the expansive pasty skin or do they only see the strategically placed bits of material? I mean, is there anyone even looking?
Do I need to look like the bombshell surf board toting bleached babes to feel happy with my body, flomps and all?
And now I have had a few days to think about it , the answer is well, why not? I worked hard for this stretched and sucked on body, I have devoted nearly eight years of my life to the production, extradition and nutritional support my three children, and yes that has taken a toll on my collagen, my ability to jump up and down with confidence, my self awareness. Gone, the perkiness has.
However, as I man my hungry-kini and head down onto the beach, I find it is proudly done.
And it helps we are thousands of miles away from anyone we know.
(Other interesting discoveries this climate have lead to include the fact that the way that my belly flomps over the top of said hungry-kini when I sit down makes it possible to belly type on an Ipad.)
"Hungry-kini " - describes the phenomenon which occurs when wearing a bikini while surfing, wherein a significant portion of the material gets eaten by the space between your buttocks.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Observant males
Driving through town Big Brother spotted the familiar yellow-green brick of his school bus.
'There's my bus' he cried,' and look it is my bus driver,'
'She's very nice.' I said, thinking of all the times she lets me IOU the bus fare. 'But I don't know her name. Do you know what her name is?'
'Paul' he says after a pause.
Another pause. 'I didn't know she was a girl'.
Sitting at the dinner table. I smiled at Big Brother who was looking so angelic with his blue eyes. He's been very sweet lately, telling me every hour or so that he loves me. And will always love me, he assures me, even when he's naughty.
'Mum !' He exclaimed, 'you have gills! On your cheeks, when you smile! You're like a fish ! You can breathe under water! Look everyone - Mum has gills on her face - Here (he points to his cheeks)..... and there (he traces lines radiating out from both his eyes) and...there!" (He traces line after line across his forehead).
That's what they're from, alright, breathing while under water , isn't that what stress is? Keep calm and grow more gills.
Little Brother is more abstract in his observations. 'Do you know, mum ' he begins, ' do you know that when you jump off a cliff you should always wear a t-shirt.'
'Really?' I asked
'Especially, he continued slowly, sifting the thoughts in his head, 'if you are jump off a cliff and you don't have a parachute. Then, you always need a t-shirt. Because, you can always take your t-shirt up over your head like this (he demonstrates) and with one hand hold onto the sleeve and with the other hand, reach through and hold the other bit. And that will make a parachute.'
'Wow' was all I could think of.
'I've known that for a long time' he says.
'There's my bus' he cried,' and look it is my bus driver,'
'She's very nice.' I said, thinking of all the times she lets me IOU the bus fare. 'But I don't know her name. Do you know what her name is?'
'Paul' he says after a pause.
Another pause. 'I didn't know she was a girl'.
Sitting at the dinner table. I smiled at Big Brother who was looking so angelic with his blue eyes. He's been very sweet lately, telling me every hour or so that he loves me. And will always love me, he assures me, even when he's naughty.
'Mum !' He exclaimed, 'you have gills! On your cheeks, when you smile! You're like a fish ! You can breathe under water! Look everyone - Mum has gills on her face - Here (he points to his cheeks)..... and there (he traces lines radiating out from both his eyes) and...there!" (He traces line after line across his forehead).
That's what they're from, alright, breathing while under water , isn't that what stress is? Keep calm and grow more gills.
Little Brother is more abstract in his observations. 'Do you know, mum ' he begins, ' do you know that when you jump off a cliff you should always wear a t-shirt.'
'Really?' I asked
'Especially, he continued slowly, sifting the thoughts in his head, 'if you are jump off a cliff and you don't have a parachute. Then, you always need a t-shirt. Because, you can always take your t-shirt up over your head like this (he demonstrates) and with one hand hold onto the sleeve and with the other hand, reach through and hold the other bit. And that will make a parachute.'
'Wow' was all I could think of.
'I've known that for a long time' he says.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Good mum,bad mum
Sometimes it just all goes pear shaped. I think I've been a better mother since I have come to realise that there are highs and lows to be expected in everyday. Even as we enjoy the moment of a loving cuddle or caring sharing chat, we are aware of the icebergs big enough to sink the titanic that we navigate around. We avoid them as much as we can but sometimes we scrape past them and end in deep cold water, or languishing in a life raft. The shit hits the fan, the wheels fall off, the yelling voices come out, the tears fly and we beat ourselves up for bring less than Mother Theresa.
The patience of a saint, or as my friend describes it, it's scraping the bottom of your boots for a sliver more patience.
Just because I never write about my shipwrecks doesn't mean they don't happen. I am so awful to them sometimes. I yell. I stamp my feet. I slam doors. And then I put them in time out for doing exactly those things. I lie to them - 'maybe Santa will get you one for Christmas!', and I stretch time - 3 mins in timeout becomes 10 when I forget them. Or 10 mins on the computer becomes 2 because I'm desperate to get them to bed. I lose my cool. I hide in the toilet reading my book. I send them on errands to distract them when I know they won't find what they're looking for. I forget to brush their teeth, then blame my husband when my son develops 4 cavities. One day recently I had man flu and couldn't bring myself to get out of bed and make school lunches so I let them stay at home and play free on-line games. Another day my son had a bleeding nose in the car and I threw him back a spare nappy to stop the flow not realising until later that it had already been used, for number 2's.
But I love them and they love me. I never hit them, because I know I am their role model and they copy my behaviour, and it's absolutely not ok. I repeat to myself 'who's the adult? - I'm the adult' over and over again. I try not to hold grudges because they never do. I let the clouds pass then pick myself up and learn more about myself and them everyday. I have a glass of wine (after 4pm if i'm alone) and find an adult to have a laugh with.
I try not to be offended when Little Brother tells me he had a dream where I was a giant green gollum. Or when Big Brother announces loudly at school swimming sports in front of the kids and parents - 'look, mum, your moustache is getting longer! Look, Gus, my mum is growing a moustache!'
I hold onto the buzz I feel when Little Miss looks me up and down across her weetbix bowl and nods approvingly 'beautiful girt (skirt), mama' and I remember that tomorrow is another chance to sail the Titanic safely, happily into shore.
The patience of a saint, or as my friend describes it, it's scraping the bottom of your boots for a sliver more patience.
Just because I never write about my shipwrecks doesn't mean they don't happen. I am so awful to them sometimes. I yell. I stamp my feet. I slam doors. And then I put them in time out for doing exactly those things. I lie to them - 'maybe Santa will get you one for Christmas!', and I stretch time - 3 mins in timeout becomes 10 when I forget them. Or 10 mins on the computer becomes 2 because I'm desperate to get them to bed. I lose my cool. I hide in the toilet reading my book. I send them on errands to distract them when I know they won't find what they're looking for. I forget to brush their teeth, then blame my husband when my son develops 4 cavities. One day recently I had man flu and couldn't bring myself to get out of bed and make school lunches so I let them stay at home and play free on-line games. Another day my son had a bleeding nose in the car and I threw him back a spare nappy to stop the flow not realising until later that it had already been used, for number 2's.
But I love them and they love me. I never hit them, because I know I am their role model and they copy my behaviour, and it's absolutely not ok. I repeat to myself 'who's the adult? - I'm the adult' over and over again. I try not to hold grudges because they never do. I let the clouds pass then pick myself up and learn more about myself and them everyday. I have a glass of wine (after 4pm if i'm alone) and find an adult to have a laugh with.
I try not to be offended when Little Brother tells me he had a dream where I was a giant green gollum. Or when Big Brother announces loudly at school swimming sports in front of the kids and parents - 'look, mum, your moustache is getting longer! Look, Gus, my mum is growing a moustache!'
I hold onto the buzz I feel when Little Miss looks me up and down across her weetbix bowl and nods approvingly 'beautiful girt (skirt), mama' and I remember that tomorrow is another chance to sail the Titanic safely, happily into shore.
The best medicine
My dad has an amazing sense of humour. I have recently come to appreciate how much he uses it to carry on in the face of insurmountable challenges. It is the way he connects to people (and assesses how seriously they take themselves), instantly creating a bond through laughter, and quietly reminding them that he is so much more than a man with a bunch of broken ribs, pneumonia and a blocked bowel lying in a hospital bed after an accident.
He's covered in bruises and circumnavigated by tubes. "I'll know I've got the full set when they shove something up my bum," he jokes.
The nurse reaches down his shirt and attaches the ECG machine to assess why his heart is working too fast. 'Watch out what you grab down there' he warns. 'I'm not reaching that far,' she replies. He feigns shock 'I was talking about my nipples, what were you meaning?'
He laughs, and that sets off a round of hacking and coughing as his lungs work to bring together all the distant flecks of infection for the great expectoration. He's disappointed by his spitting range, as it gets lodged on either his nasal tube thats draining his stomach contents, or gets stuck in the oxygen mask. 'I can usually hit the arse of a fly at ten yards' he says by way of explanation of poor form.
The Physio helps him to sit in the chair as he explains his multiple medical problems. 'aren't you a work of art' she pronounces kindly, although he thinks she says 'arent you a right arse'. He tells her he is a spy for the medical association undercover checking out the treatment of patients by staff, and that he is going to report her. I tell him staging a motor bike accident to get into work was taking his pretend job too seriously.
We discover he coughs the most effectively after a laugh so the ICU nurses are encouraged to deliver their best line in the spirit of healing. I feel sorry for the consultant who doesn't take the time to listen to his patient, in this case to hear the joke he's got to tell. Every else who comes and looks after my Dad feels so much better afterwards.
He's covered in bruises and circumnavigated by tubes. "I'll know I've got the full set when they shove something up my bum," he jokes.
The nurse reaches down his shirt and attaches the ECG machine to assess why his heart is working too fast. 'Watch out what you grab down there' he warns. 'I'm not reaching that far,' she replies. He feigns shock 'I was talking about my nipples, what were you meaning?'
He laughs, and that sets off a round of hacking and coughing as his lungs work to bring together all the distant flecks of infection for the great expectoration. He's disappointed by his spitting range, as it gets lodged on either his nasal tube thats draining his stomach contents, or gets stuck in the oxygen mask. 'I can usually hit the arse of a fly at ten yards' he says by way of explanation of poor form.
The Physio helps him to sit in the chair as he explains his multiple medical problems. 'aren't you a work of art' she pronounces kindly, although he thinks she says 'arent you a right arse'. He tells her he is a spy for the medical association undercover checking out the treatment of patients by staff, and that he is going to report her. I tell him staging a motor bike accident to get into work was taking his pretend job too seriously.
We discover he coughs the most effectively after a laugh so the ICU nurses are encouraged to deliver their best line in the spirit of healing. I feel sorry for the consultant who doesn't take the time to listen to his patient, in this case to hear the joke he's got to tell. Every else who comes and looks after my Dad feels so much better afterwards.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Back from Holidays
After 7 weeks of routine free fun in the sun, I felt especially obliged to be really rant-y tonight when putting the three kiddies to bed.
"It's a school night!' I blazed. "NO, you can't listen to that story until midnight".
You see, I needed to prove to myself that I've still got it.
After weeks of 'Sure, eat another bowl of cereal, you've only had three meals of weetbix today!', or "Sure, you don't need to wear undies", or "Yes, sleep in your clothes", or "Yes, lets go back to the beach" or "Yes, stay up and play spotlight in the dark", or "Yes, lets play cards all morning and make ray guns all afternoon", I just needed to check I can make the rules, that I'm the adult again, (rather than the leader of the gang who happens to have a visa card and a driver's liscence.)
We have had fun with these cool little people that we are so priviledged to drive around, spend money on, beat at cards, and during term time, parent.
They have all handled the long break in their own way.
Big Brother has been reading up on war. Following a christmas present of "War stories for young boys" - he has read it cover to cover a few times, and filled me in on tank warfare, aircraft firing, how to escape from prisoner of war camps, and how to get across a field littered with land mines (they started to demonstrate this by mining the front lawn of the bach, but someone was going to break an ankle, let alone be blown to bits by the hand crafted lego mines).
He also spent hours drawing. We compiled a 2cm thick book of compiled artistic creations by the end of the holidays and stapled them together for future wet weather reading on holiday.
Little Brother still inhabits the superhero Ninja world, where a beach full of pumice and sticks provides a weapons cache that would put General Gentry (aka older brother ) to shame.
"Can I get some weights, Mum?"he asked
"ah, why? " I asked
"Because I want to get muscles. When I grow up I want to be a Fat Ninja"
One day he spent hours drawing a picture and dictated to me a 7 page book describing his superhero powers (blue lightning, ice), his team of superhero warriors, and of course the enemies.
Another day I was helping him into his togs and commented on the 2 pairs of undies he was wearing (more than sum total of whole holiday that far). "Well, ' he says, " every time I lose a pair of undies I lose a life. Look, over there" - he indicated the discarded pair by the toilet - " I died over there, today".
(He's saving his pocket money to buy himself an Iphone. At the current rate he'll be 27 when he can afford it.)
Little Miss attacked her holidays with typical cheerfulness, expanding vocabulary, and multiple costume changes a day while still managing to spend most of her time naked.
"When I an adult", she confided in me one day while I was making a cup of tea, " I GOING to drink tea. " Then she lent forward and whispered ' "and, wine!"
Another day she was moaning after a walk across the long grass.
"I have scratchy ball-ies!" She said
"What's that?" I asked not quite sure I heard her correctly.
"I have scratchy balls-ies! " She yelled
"Which part exactly is scratchy? "
She pointed at her bitten ankles -
"You mean you have scratchy ankles," I corrected.
"No, they look like little balls! "
"It's a school night!' I blazed. "NO, you can't listen to that story until midnight".
You see, I needed to prove to myself that I've still got it.
After weeks of 'Sure, eat another bowl of cereal, you've only had three meals of weetbix today!', or "Sure, you don't need to wear undies", or "Yes, sleep in your clothes", or "Yes, lets go back to the beach" or "Yes, stay up and play spotlight in the dark", or "Yes, lets play cards all morning and make ray guns all afternoon", I just needed to check I can make the rules, that I'm the adult again, (rather than the leader of the gang who happens to have a visa card and a driver's liscence.)
We have had fun with these cool little people that we are so priviledged to drive around, spend money on, beat at cards, and during term time, parent.
They have all handled the long break in their own way.
Big Brother has been reading up on war. Following a christmas present of "War stories for young boys" - he has read it cover to cover a few times, and filled me in on tank warfare, aircraft firing, how to escape from prisoner of war camps, and how to get across a field littered with land mines (they started to demonstrate this by mining the front lawn of the bach, but someone was going to break an ankle, let alone be blown to bits by the hand crafted lego mines).
He also spent hours drawing. We compiled a 2cm thick book of compiled artistic creations by the end of the holidays and stapled them together for future wet weather reading on holiday.
Little Brother still inhabits the superhero Ninja world, where a beach full of pumice and sticks provides a weapons cache that would put General Gentry (aka older brother ) to shame.
"Can I get some weights, Mum?"he asked
"ah, why? " I asked
"Because I want to get muscles. When I grow up I want to be a Fat Ninja"
One day he spent hours drawing a picture and dictated to me a 7 page book describing his superhero powers (blue lightning, ice), his team of superhero warriors, and of course the enemies.
Another day I was helping him into his togs and commented on the 2 pairs of undies he was wearing (more than sum total of whole holiday that far). "Well, ' he says, " every time I lose a pair of undies I lose a life. Look, over there" - he indicated the discarded pair by the toilet - " I died over there, today".
(He's saving his pocket money to buy himself an Iphone. At the current rate he'll be 27 when he can afford it.)
Little Miss attacked her holidays with typical cheerfulness, expanding vocabulary, and multiple costume changes a day while still managing to spend most of her time naked.
"When I an adult", she confided in me one day while I was making a cup of tea, " I GOING to drink tea. " Then she lent forward and whispered ' "and, wine!"
Another day she was moaning after a walk across the long grass.
"I have scratchy ball-ies!" She said
"What's that?" I asked not quite sure I heard her correctly.
"I have scratchy balls-ies! " She yelled
"Which part exactly is scratchy? "
She pointed at her bitten ankles -
"You mean you have scratchy ankles," I corrected.
"No, they look like little balls! "
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Let the games begin
After a week of shoe horsing tired boys into uniforms, patching up shoes with duct tape and bribing them with sugary snacks in their lunch boxes, finally the final bell came. The teachers looked as relieved as the children. The parents were slightly less excited at the prospect of 6 weeks full time childcare, but at least the lunch boxes can be retired, and food simply laid about the house in opportune piles for casual grazing.
We got home at 2pm after a celebratory pizza and chip lunch with half the school at the long suffering local pizzeria. The boys first mission was to voluntarily clean the car so buckets of soppy water, hoses, spray bottles, clothes and water guns were hastily provided. It was a good reminder of holiday lesson number 1. Go with the chaos. Especially if something might be cleaned in the process.
Next, all the toy animals and McDonald's pre-landfill plastic collection of 2012 were collected, and lined up on the bedroom floor in preparation for a epic battle. This was a good reminder of No. 2. Go with the mess. And watch where you step.
The trampoline began it's transformation into a pirate ship. 'I need a stick to put the sail on' Little Brother said. 'And tomorrow, I'm going to work on the stuff that's inside the pirate ship, like a TV. It's going to be awesomely rocket.'
He ran off to get out of his uniform and into his casual look du jour - a T-shirt for a T-shirt, a T-shirt for shorts (legs through armholes and voila - instant tail!) and undies for a beard.
Reminder No.3. Go with the increase in washing. And pick up all used undies before they are recycled into props.
We had two swims in the sea over the afternoon and evening. Big Brother and Little Brother swam out in their life jackets as hubby and I watched and enjoyed a beer and chat in the setting sun. 'He was slipping out of his life jacket and I saved his life' was the report from Big Brother when they arrived back. He's prone to exaggeration, but still, Reminder No.4. Keep up the head count. 1.2.3. Children. How many? 1.2.3. Very precious and quite independent but still needing close supervision.
It got later and later in the day as Little Brother tried to find the perfect body cover that wouldn't attract bees, and Big Brother continued writing his lengthy tome that is entitled 'My Christmas list'.
Reminder no.5. What's bed time? We're having too much fun.
.
We got home at 2pm after a celebratory pizza and chip lunch with half the school at the long suffering local pizzeria. The boys first mission was to voluntarily clean the car so buckets of soppy water, hoses, spray bottles, clothes and water guns were hastily provided. It was a good reminder of holiday lesson number 1. Go with the chaos. Especially if something might be cleaned in the process.
Next, all the toy animals and McDonald's pre-landfill plastic collection of 2012 were collected, and lined up on the bedroom floor in preparation for a epic battle. This was a good reminder of No. 2. Go with the mess. And watch where you step.
The trampoline began it's transformation into a pirate ship. 'I need a stick to put the sail on' Little Brother said. 'And tomorrow, I'm going to work on the stuff that's inside the pirate ship, like a TV. It's going to be awesomely rocket.'
He ran off to get out of his uniform and into his casual look du jour - a T-shirt for a T-shirt, a T-shirt for shorts (legs through armholes and voila - instant tail!) and undies for a beard.
Reminder No.3. Go with the increase in washing. And pick up all used undies before they are recycled into props.
We had two swims in the sea over the afternoon and evening. Big Brother and Little Brother swam out in their life jackets as hubby and I watched and enjoyed a beer and chat in the setting sun. 'He was slipping out of his life jacket and I saved his life' was the report from Big Brother when they arrived back. He's prone to exaggeration, but still, Reminder No.4. Keep up the head count. 1.2.3. Children. How many? 1.2.3. Very precious and quite independent but still needing close supervision.
It got later and later in the day as Little Brother tried to find the perfect body cover that wouldn't attract bees, and Big Brother continued writing his lengthy tome that is entitled 'My Christmas list'.
Reminder no.5. What's bed time? We're having too much fun.
.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)