Every now and then I hear a word that sounds and/or evokes feeling in tune with its meaning. I thought I'd share these words with everyone by introducing a word of the month, if for nothing more than to provide a short post when I'm lost for words or busy fighting CFS symptoms.
Tomboy brought 'wobble' to my attention last week.
She bit into a sour orange and said, 'This orange makes me wobble!'
We bought new underwear for Tomboy and Boywonder last week. Tomboy was thrilled with her ‘seven days of the week’ underwear. Unfortunately, they didn’t have ‘days of the week’ underwear for boys, so Boywonder had to settle for pirates.
The new underwear instantly added a new routine to our morning; Tomboy always asked what day was written on her underwear as she dressed. After checking her underwear (because that’s the only way I know what day it is) I confirmed it was Monday. Not content with ‘Ahoy there!’ plastered on the front of his underwear, Boywonder announced that he wanted underwear that told him the weather.
‘You want weather predicting underwear?’ I asked with eyebrows raised. I immediately imagined a huge satellite dish hanging off the side of his underwear and a digital panel at the front that displayed the temperature with a picture of the sun, clouds or rain. I laughed to myself when I further imagined the underwear giving him a taste of the weather; he’d soon change his mind if it were snowing!
We won’t be rushing to the patent office with weather predicting underwear, but I will keep an eye out for something that displays the sun, clouds or rain next time we’re in the underwear section when shopping…or is that the meteorology section?
Being the only two males in our house, Mr T and Boywonder have to stick together. They suffer through histrionics if they leave the toilet seat up, both bathrooms looking like torture chambers with hair straighteners, leg wax and manicure kits littering the benches, and so many varieties of perfume in the air that they’d be forgiven for thinking they lived in a bordello. (Although many males would think a bordello a fine place to live.)
It’s not easy finding your place in such a large household, especially one full of females, so when Boywonder discovered that he and Mr T were the only ones in the house with willehs, he told Mr T, ‘We’re awesome! We have willehs!’
This didn’t bode well with Tomboy who was determined to be awesome as well. Her response to Boywonder’s announcement was, ‘I want a willeh too!’
I could’ve explained to Tomboy that this was an impossibility, but I thought it would be nicer (and funnier) to leave her with a little hope that she may one day have a willeh, so I said, ‘Don’t worry, dear. You have something that will get you lots of willehs when you’re older.’
Tomboy had no idea what I meant, but she was happy in the knowledge that the males in the house wouldn’t always be the only ones with a willeh, and for her, that’s awesome!
Boywonder (4 years old) – When asked when and how he got the large bruise on his shin, Boywonder replied, ‘That happened when I was young.’
Me – Wheat and concentrated tomato are just two of the many things that upset Miss Flora’s tummy. After finding a wheat-free pasta in the health food aisle of the supermarket, I turned to Uni Student and asked, ‘Do you think anyone makes a tomato-free pasta sauce?’
My intuition is working well at the moment... even when I'm asleep.
I woke at 5 am to tend to Miss Flora's high temperature. Mr T was woken as well, so I told him that I'd dreamt the Socceroos beat Germany 4–0. Mr T went downstairs to check and returned with the current score of Germany 2, Socceroos 0, so my dream wasn't going to come true.
Imagine my surprise when we finally got out of bed later in the morning to discover the score was 4–0, except in Germany's favour. I'm now working on the lotto numbers. I expect I'll get the right numbers on the wrong night.
As Mr T and I washed and dried the breakfast dishes, I wondered what I should cook for dinner. Not feeling the best, I wanted something simple. It only took thirty seconds of thought before I decided I’d throw a frozen, family-size meat pie in the oven and cook some vegetables to go with it.
‘Don’t we have a meat pie in the freezer that we could have for dinner?’ asked Mr T.
There’s nothing unusual about Mr T suggesting what to cook for dinner, except I hadn’t mentioned dinner. All of my thoughts and decisions about dinner had been in my head. We bought the meat pie at least a month ago, and he never had a need to look in the freezer, so it’s not like Mr T had recently seen the pie.
This wasn’t the first time one of us had spoken aloud the thoughts of the other, or finished a sentence for each other. There’s a certain amount of comfort knowing that you’re so connected to your partner; there’s also a certain amount of spookiness.
Reading a news item (Buzzard Attacks Slow Cyclist) about a cyclist being attacked by a buzzard, I couldn’t help but be reminded of my own buzzard-like children.
As Miss Flora grows, her food intolerances continue to persist. Unfortunately, her ability to recognise when others are eating has created a new challenge in managing her intolerances; she wants to eat what she sees everyone else eating. She can still be bought off with one of her rice biscuits or wheat and dairy-free fruit bars, but Boywonder and Tomboy can’t. They’re ability to spot the slightest movement of a jaw trying to chew a lolly or chocolate inconspicuously is inhuman. This has made it extremely hard for me to have a sneaky Cornetto during the day.
Imagine a quiet afternoon, where I’ve miraculously managed to get Miss Flora down for a nap. It’s one of those cold and wet winter days, so Boywonder and Tomboy are snuggled under their blankets on the couch engrossed in a DVD. I look over at them and am hit with an overwhelming craving for a Cornetto. Okay, it’s not really a craving; it’s probably procrastination prolonging the distraction from writing by throwing me a challenge. Regardless, the more I think about not being able to have that Cornetto, or how hard it will be to eat it without Boywonder or Tomboy noticing, the more I want it.
If I move too quickly in the direction of the kitchen they’ll sense the urgency and follow out of curiosity. If I move to slowly and either of them notices they’ll be on to me like buzzards on a slow cyclist.
*Cue Mission Impossible Music* I move slowly towards the kitchen. Once in there I know the chances of them hearing me open the freezer and Cornetto box are great, so I get out a couple of sweet biscuits for them first. I place the biscuits on the bench where they will see them as soon as they enter the kitchen. So far, so good. Neither of them have followed me or noticed any of the noise I’m making. (Why is everything channelled through an amplifier when you’re trying to be quiet?) I sneak the Cornetto out of the box and secret it between my shirt and jacket. Time is of the essence now; the Cornetto feels painfully cold through my thin shirt and my body heat is going to make it melt even faster. My ability to mix stealth and speed is so amazing that I stop for a second to consider a future in action movies. A shuffling sound from the lounge room reminds me of my mission and that I’m really only a little bit faster than a slow cyclist about to be attacked by a buzzard. I reach my bedroom and rip the wrapper from the Cornetto.
I try to enjoy my moment of secret indulgence as the caramel ice-cream melts in my mouth and my teeth crunch the tiny pieces of toffee, but as much as my mouth revels in the sensation, my ears and mind are elsewhere. The act of hiding in my bedroom, indulging in a guilty pleasure with my ears straining to here anyone that might catch me is disturbingly similar to a teenage boy experimenting in masturbation. I try to focus on enjoying the Cornetto, but with every bite of the ice-cream filled waffle cone, of which milk and wheat are two main ingredients, my mind is busy rationalising that one Cornetto filtered through my breast milk won’t upset Miss Flora’s tummy.
Unable to truly enjoy the moment at a slow and indulgent pace, the Cornetto is gone and I’m left with sticky hands. I bury the wrapper in the bathroom bin, wash my hands and tiptoe downstairs. Passing through the kitchen I pick up the sweet biscuits I’d left as a distraction for the buzzards and enter the lounge room.
‘You’ve been so good quietly watching your movie, here’s a couple of bikkies for you,’ I say to Boywonder and Tomboy as I hand them the biscuits.
I sit back down at my desk and start typing while I convince myself I’m more akin to a slow cyclist than a teenage boy.
I'm Mrs T – gluten and wheat intolerant, and allergic to plantain weed and dust mites, a wife, mother, student, writer and editor. I'm married to Mr T, a hard-working and supportive husband and father. I've created five human beings – Junior Accountant, who lives at home with us; The Apprentice, who lives with her boyfriend, TAB (The Apprentice's boyfriend), on the other side of town; and Boywonder, Tomboy, and Miss Flora, who all still wet the bed. JAB (Junior Accountant's boyfriend) is a regular visitor. With my food intolerances and allergies, Junior Accountant's allergies to housework, two school children and a preschooler that makes the most of being the baby of the family, drama is a regular occurrence in our household.
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