Leaking

Recent episodes of Home and Away were very sad for Junior Accountant and me when a main character we really liked died.

After watching the funeral, Junior Accountant said, ‘I did well, I only had one tear escape.’

Still sobbing, I turned to her and said, ‘Wait until you get older, it’s harder to keep them in.’

To which she replied, ‘What, like your wee?’

I had a few more tears after that, but at least they were from laughing so hard.

And no, I didn’t wet myself from laughing too hard!

Why Do I Have White Hair?

I was sitting on the steps, watching Boywonder at Auskick while Tomboy stood on the step behind me, playing with my hair.

It was very relaxing until Tomboy said, ‘Why have you got white in your hair?’

I ignored her question, hoping she’d find something else back there – nits, fleas, ticks…

But it wasn’t to be.

Slightly louder this time: ‘Mummy, why is there white hair on your head?’

I was still hoping something – anything – would distract her when she asked with a shout, ‘Mummy, why do you have white hair?!’

Tomboy’s loud vocalisation about my grey roots in desperate need of some hair dye, not only confirmed I was going grey (not to mention deaf), but brought it to the attention of everyone within a ten-metre radius.

My reply: ‘Because I have too many kids!’

A couple of weeks later while seated at the computer waiting for the hair dye on my head to do its job, Tomboy asked me why I was dying my hair.

‘To get rid of the white hair,’ I replied.

‘Oh, you didn’t tell me you had white hair,’ she said before trotting off to play.

At least I’m not suffering memory problems!

Whose Shoes?

Getting anything done with three children, five years old and under can be a challenge, so we usually do things like bath time or getting out the door punctually as a production line. Unfortunately, even the most efficient production lines have their glitches.

To save time when going out, I change Miss Flora’s nappy while Tomboy and Boywonder go to the toilet. I then help put eight feet into four pairs of shoes (including mine).

All was going well one morning until Boywonder brought me the last pair of shoes. I undid the laces, placed them on the desk and waited for the right pair of feet to come to me. After a minute I looked at the shoes and realised that no one was coming to get their shoes on – because they were my shoes.

Everyone else was already shod and waiting for me.

I suppose it’s not as bad as the time I dressed Boywonder in Tomboy’s pyjamas after their bath one night. If you think my not noticing that I was putting bright pink pyjamas on my five-year-old son is bad – he didn’t notice until after I’d pointed out my mistake!

My Age – According to Tomboy!

Tomboy was standing on the other side of the backyard when she held up a piece of blue string that she’d found in the garden. ‘What’s this, Mummy?’ she asked me.

I am short-sighted, and thus, need glasses to see things clearly when they are far away.

‘I can’t see it properly, bring it here,’ I replied.

‘Can’t you see it because you’re old?’  asked Tomboy.

‘No,’ I replied, ‘it’s because I don’t have my glasses on!’

A few days later, The Apprentice informed me that Tomboy asked her if I had a boyfriend when I was younger. (They'd been discussing boyfriends.) To ensure The Apprentice understood what she meant by ‘when Mummy was younger’, Tomboy added, ‘When there was dinosaurs!’

Depressed Man Eats His Own Finger and it's Mr T's 40th Birthday!

Did you hear about the depressed man that ate his own finger? (Depressed Man Eats His Own Finger) 

I’d read the story a couple of days ago and had forgotten about it until Mr T’s 40th birthday arrived. I thought it was an interesting way to deal with depression and certainly guaranteed him the attention he needed, but what I really want to know is if anyone asked him what it tasted like and how he ate it. Did he slow-cook it, so the meat fell from the bone, or does he prefer his meat medium-rare?

Thankfully, Mr T isn’t about to start eating himself, but after an operation to remove a salivary gland followed by a bout of gastro, almost two weeks of inactivity, school holidays and now a 40 year milestone, he’s not feeling like the perkiest boob in the strip club.

I tried pointing out some positives: he’s married to a younger woman – he’s in his forties and I’m in my thirties; he may feel old, but a particular part of his anatomy has at least another 40 years left in it. In fact, when he woke and said he was surprised he hadn't passed away in his sleep, I pointed out to him that a part of him was awake and rearing to go a good 5–10 minutes before he was, and if he had passed away it would be waving about screaming, ‘Resuscitate him! I’m not done with this world yet!’

At least he isn’t insisting on buying a sports car, getting hair implants or swapping his wife for a younger model. The latter is certainly not an option; he can’t keep up with the one he has now (that may change when she reaches her forties in six months time).

So, how does Mr T cope with today’s depressing milestone?  He offers to shout everyone (who’s at home) McDonald’s for breakfast.

Some may see this as a typical act of depression – eating unhealthy food. At least it’s not his finger! But I see it as Mr T challenging himself. He’s challenging his cholesterol levels, challenging the kilos he lost over the last couple of weeks and he’s challenging his mouth to withstand the pain of chewing a bacon and egg mcmuffin. (I ordered hotcakes as well, just in case the last challenge was too difficult, but I forgot he had to eat excruciatingly slow and ate them for him.)

We all handle life’s events, good and bad, differently. Lucky for Mr T, he has me to hold him hostage, torture him with woeful jokes and force him to smile through gritted teeth.

Please note: Due to the momentous event of Mr T’s 40th birthday, a recount of the vomit battle has been postponed until next week.

Who has big boobies?

From the moment we have children we’re reminded of how old we are. Despite the tubby belly that sticks out above the top of the nappy and the baby fat that cushions their limbs, we see perfection. From the velvety hair on their heads, to the silken skin that covers their bodies, they’re everything we’re not.

It’s not cute when Mr T’s belly sticks out above the top of his pants and the small amount of fat I used to love sitting high on my chest has started heading south. Some of it may have even migrated to my thighs. Why it would want to move from the chest to the thigh is beyond me, but that was the last place I saw it. That's still gotta be better than remaining attached to my chest, but sitting on my belly…hasn't it?

Even if we manage to keep the bulges in check and where they should be, we can’t escape the ravages of time and circumstance as the wrinkles move in, and, as in Mr T’s case, the hair moves out. We all experience the signs of aging. Some of us openly work hard to fight it, throwing diet, exercise and cosmetic surgery at it, others ignore it in the hope it will slow down faster than what we do, and the rest of us alternate between ignorance and short spurts of dieting and exercise.

Regardless of whether we’re comfortable with it and how we deal with it, there is always an innocent child waiting in the wings to remind us of our true physical appearance. Mr T was helping Tomboy dress herself after her bath when he joked that she’d better cover up her big boobies.

‘I don’t have big boobies!’ she replied indignantly, as any four year old still sporting some leftover baby fat would.

‘Sorry, small boobies,’ replied Mr T. ‘Who has big boobies?’ he asked her.

‘Mummy – and you, Daddy.’

Being small busted I felt quite chuffed; Mr T didn’t, but I believe he’s about to enter into one of those short spurts of dieting and exercise.