Children often come out with random statements that make us laugh. A little less often is a random statement that melts your heart, even more so when spoken by a two-year-old child soon after I’d had a battle of wills with her.
As is the usual at the moment, Miss Flora told me which cereal she’d like for breakfast, I made it, she then refused to eat it, and I told her she’s getting nothing more to eat until after she’s eaten her breakfast.
Realising she wasn’t going to win this battle Miss Flora proceeded to eat her (now soggy) breakfast. So she didn’t have loneliness as an excuse to leave her breakfast, I hung about in the laundry (next to the dining room) and loaded the washing machine.
Miss Flora asked me what I was doing.
‘Getting the next load of washing ready,’ I replied.
‘You’re a good mum,’ said Miss Flora.
Wow! I was expecting another question or the exasperating ‘why’. After overcoming the initial shock, I felt really appreciated. I stopped what I was doing and gave her a cuddle. ‘Thank you’, I said.
Miss Flora then pointed at the bookcase. ‘Are they your books?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘Have you read them all?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I replied, realising that my exalted moment was over and Miss Flora had moved on to the next topic of conversation. It seems precocious two-year-olds are too busy to allow tender moments to slow the momentum of their thoughts.
A resurgence of the tummy bug in our home has reminded us that words are not the only way to say ‘I love you’.
This time The Apprentice was one of the hardest hit by the bug, experiencing projectile expulsion of noxious matter from both ends. Her insides were so twisted in pain and her woeful moaning so loud during the night that Mr T wasn’t sure if she was in pain or the throws of passion. Unfortunately for TAB (The Apprentice’s Boyfriend), he was staying at our place, so he became The Apprentice’s nurse for the night.
While Mr T and I spent the night changing Tomboy’s bed sheets and holding her hair back while she vomited, TAB did the same for The Apprentice. When The Apprentice was stuck on the toilet and a bucket didn’t arrive in time, TAB didn’t hesitate to mop up the resultant mess. He helped her to the shower, cleaned her up and then sought new sheets for their bed. Not once did I hear him complain.
He was even chivalrous about The Apprentice’s mishaps. When I saw him changing the bed sheets, I said, ‘Oh no, did she get the bed too?’
TAB said nothing. He just gave me a sad, but knowing look. Then The Apprentice said, ‘It just shot out my bum before I knew it was even coming.’
‘You shit the bed?!’ I exclaimed.
TAB continued to change the sheets, and then helped The Apprentice back into bed before climbing in next to her. If getting back into bed with someone after they’ve shit in it doesn’t say ‘I love you’, I don’t know what does.
My Mother’s Day started on Thursday with a special visit to the kindergarten with the other mums. We spent an hour being pampered and making princess things with our children. The mums got to be the princesses!
After Tomboy and I enjoyed decorating a portrait of myself as a princess, making a princess crown and reading a book together, we moved to the table that had fairy pillows on it. They were for me to rest my hands on while Tomboy gave me a hand massage with some hand moisturiser.
I asked Tomboy if she wanted my hands palms up or down and she turned them so they were palms up. She then stuck her finger in the tub of moisturising cream and dropped a big dollop in my right palm. She then got another rather large dollop and dropped it into my left palm.
Tomboy wasted no time spreading the cream about on my hands. Realising that she had quite a bit of cream on her own hands, she stopped spreading it about on mine and proceeded to rub her hands together.
Still sitting there with slathers of cream on each palm (there was enough to do my legs too), I reminded her about my hands.
‘Rub them together like this!’ she said as she continued to rub her hands together in a vain attempt to get rid of it.
And that was the end of my hand massage.
The rest of our activities were a little hampered after that. Pulling tiny heart stickers off of a sticker sheet to stick on a plastic pot or threading small beads to make a princess bracelet is extremely challenging when performed with slippery hands. (The teacher had to tie my bracelet together!)
At least I have my wonderful portrait, drawn by Tomboy to remind me of how much fun we had together.
Her talents are exceptional. See how well she’s captured my double chin. And that isn’t a line of pimples, it’s my diamond necklace and, no, she didn’t make me a ‘ranga’ with a mohawk, that’s an orange tiara. The blue eyeshadow was my idea, reminiscent of the eighties.
I’d love to say that Mother’s Day on Sunday was filled with self-indulgence, but I worked all day, while Mr T cleaned the house and kept the kids busy so I could get on with the job. I did, however, spend the day in my pyjamas (the benefits of working from home) and received some wonderful presents.
At least Boywonder didn’t declare the day his five minutes after I opened my presents – like he did last year.
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!’
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.
Every now and then kindergarten children produce something a little more interesting than the standard odd-shaped circle containing three dots and a line to represent a face. After completing the picture with four longer lines pointing in random directions to represent the arms and legs, they incorporate their imagination into the drawings, but the results aren’t always what we expect.
Here’s a picture that Tomboy painted at kindergarten this week. I’m sure that, like me, you’re wondering what the short middle leg is and I have no doubt that, like me, you guessed right – it’s a willeh!
Just to be sure, I asked Tomboy and she confirmed it. She called the strange looking creature a willeh monster.
‘So it’s a boy monster,’ I said.
‘No, it’s a mummy monster,’ she replied.
‘But it has a willeh!’
‘Yes, it’s a mummy willeh monster,’ replied Tomboy matter of factly.
I reminded her, ‘I don’t have a willeh.’
‘I know, I was just pretending.’
So last week she told Mr T he had big boobs and this week she’s painting mummy as a monster with a willeh. (Mr T thought he had problems!)
There are many theories that can be tossed about on this one. Maybe she sees me as a monster when I’m angry (and rightly so), but that doesn’t explain the willeh.
She’s always been a bit put out that Mr T and Boywonder have willehs and we don’t. (It doesn’t help that Boywonder says they’re awesome because they have willehs.) Maybe she thinks she’s doing me a favour by giving me a willeh.
My favourite theory is that Mummy wears the pants!
So, Mummy looks like a monster when she’s angry, but she’s an awesome monster because she has a willeh.
Yep, that definitely says that I wear the pants…especially when I’m angry!
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.
Mr T took a few weeks off work to give me a chance to rest and then work out which activities fatigued me. It was imperative to create a new routine that enabled me to manage my CFS when home alone with three children under five. Having a laptop and desktop computer meant Mr T could check his emails without interrupting me, but having his email arriving in the inbox on the desktop and laptop computers caused a bit of confusion.
Both of us were busy tapping away on our computers, I at the desk and he on the lounge with the laptop, when I had a sudden urge to send him a loving email. I sent a red ‘I LOVE YOU’ in the largest font possible to him. As soon as he received it, he sent back, ‘I love you more’ in the normal size font with extra large ‘XXXX’ after it; his way of trumping my large letters.
I couldn’t top this so I sent back, ‘I’m pretending I didn’t see that!’
Our loving email exchange should have finished there, but I forgot that all emails that I sent to Mr T, were also received in the inbox on the computer I was using. As soon as I saw, ‘I’m pretending I didn’t see that!’ I thought he was mocking me, so I replied, ‘Go away, I’m trying to work! I love you.’
Yep, I’d just answered my own email. And if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, I also replied to my ‘Go away…’ email with ‘You are so getting smacked when I’ve finished.’
Mr T found this highly amusing when he discovered I was answering my own emails!
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 mentioned in a previous post that Boywonder wanted a day for himself, but since he hadn’t set a date we didn’t take it too seriously. We discovered today that he had set a date - Mothers Day!
At 9 am, after we finished eating breakfast and unwrapping my presents, Boywonder said, 'Well, that was a good Mothers Day.'
He then put on the badge he'd received on a birthday card last October and declared the day his. He called it ‘Boys Day’.
Cheeky sod!
I spent Mothers Day doing what I do best, being a mother.
I did the ironing and then I washed Apprentice’s clothes, because she doesn't have a washing machine and ran out of time to wash them yesterday. She was coming back to do it today, but I knew she wouldn't get it dry in time. Then I helped Uni Student with research for an essay she was having trouble with about the changes to the workplace acts.
Five minutes after posting this I will begin some ‘me’ time; I will have access to a timed assignment that I must complete before 10pm tomorrow night.Some may gasp and splutter, 'that's not 'me' time', but to me it's very much about 'me'.
Some might think my day sounded as bad if not worse than any other day, but I don’t have to cook any meals today, and that is a big help. Helping my children always makes me feel good.
Happy Mothers Day to all those hard working mothers out there.I think this rose is symbolic of the love, blood, sweat and tears that comes with the job.
As Mr T finalised the Mother’s Day shopping on behalf of Boywonder, Tomboy and Miss Flora, Boywonder asked a very valid question. ‘What about my day?’
It made perfect sense to Boywonder; he’d just watched Daddy open birthday presents last month, he’d be watching Miss Flora open her birthday presents in a couple of days, and he’d just finished helping Daddy buy presents for Mummy to open on Mother’s Day.
We explained to Boywonder that he already has a day each year; it’s called his birthday. Despite explaining this several different ways and using examples he’d understand, Boywonder was still determined to have ‘his day’. Each time he heard Mother’s Day mentioned he’d remind us about ‘his day’, and since he hadn’t set a date we let him prattle on about it.
By the time Mother’s Day arrived Boywonder had forgotten about ‘his day’ – or so we thought. At 9.00 am we’d finished eating breakfast and I’d unwrapped all of my presents.
Mr T was asking me what I’d like to do next when Boywonder interrupted with, 'Well, that was a good Mother’s Day.'
He then put on a badge he'd received on a birthday card the previous year and declared the day his. He called it ‘Boys’ Day’.
Boywonder strutted around the house wearing his badge and reminding everyone that it was ‘his day’. He was so proud of his ingenuity at turning Mother’s Day into ‘his day’ that we let him have his moment of glory. Besides, once he realised he wasn’t getting any presents, the novelty soon wore off (just in time for my Mother’s Day dinner).
We celebrate Miss Flora’s first birthday in a couple of weeks. Due to her food intolerances, we’ve had to find a cake that is free from dairy, wheat and cocoa. Basco do a nice tea cake, cake mix, which still contains a small amount of dairy, but we’re hoping there’s not enough to upset Miss Flora’s belly on her big day. We’ll put a little bit of icing on it so she can make a right mess when she tries to wear it. A first birthday isn’t a first birthday without cake on your face, head, arms, fingers, table, Mummy, and Daddy. I’ll let you know how we go.
Every year Mr T insists that he doesn’t need a cake on his birthday and every year I buy one, but in 2008 we were pretty busy on his birthday, so when he insisted he didn’t want one, I foolishly relented. As soon as I said, ‘Okay, we won’t get one,’ it felt wrong. I believe a birthday should be celebrated with cake and presents, the more, the merrier (cake, presents and people), but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’d ruined Mr T’s birthday by not including a cake in the celebrations.
It wasn’t long until that feeling became fact. Boywonder and Tomboy were tucked in their beds for their afternoon nap while Mr T and I settled on the couch to enjoy a cuppa and one of the videos Mr T had received as a birthday present. Boywonder was the first to wake and at first we didn’t think anything of the fact he had woken much earlier than he usually did. He walked into the lounge room with his cheeks flushed and his eyes looking very glassy. As soon as I felt his forehead I knew his temperature was well above normal. I left him standing where I’d felt his forehead while I retrieved the thermometer from the kitchen. As I re-entered the lounge room Boywonder placed his hand over his mouth, his eyes bulged and his cheeks blew up like a blowfish. The next few seconds played out in slow motion; I knew what was going to happen next, but also knew there was no way I could stop it happening. All of my brainpower was focused on trying to prevent what was about to unfold, so my mouth was unable to communicate to Mr T or Tomboy. I looked back through the doorway to the kitchen for a suitable container, but there were none. I looked at where Boywonder stood in the middle of the lounge room carpet. As I started to cross the few steps that felt like ten metres, vomit began pouring out of Tomboy’s mouth and onto the carpet.
This stirred Mr T into action, but it seemed all of his brainpower was focused on communication, because apart from sitting up in shock, he was unable to move from the couch as his mouth started uttering incoherently, ‘What the …? Oh, man! What …? How …? Aargh …’
I grabbed Boywonder’s arm and coaxed him to the kitchen as fast as I could, but we still seemed to be stuck in slow motion. By the time I had him standing on the kitchen tiles, he’d finished coating the lounge room carpet in something that looked like chicken and vegetable soup, but smelt like sour milk mixed with rotten oranges.
Now that the emergency was over, we were moving at normal speed and the parts of our bodies that were left without power were once again functioning.
‘This is what happens when you don’t have cake on your birthday,’ I told Mr T as he surveyed the carpet in disgust. I knew from past experience that I’d be the one cleaning it up. If Mr T attempted to clean it, I’d end up having to clean up two lots of vomit.
As fast as Boywonder’s tummy bug appeared, it disappeared. The vomitous explosion was just what Boywonder needed to reduce his temperature and make him feel good again. Despite the afternoon’s disastrous turn Mr T was still in the ‘birthday’ mood that evening and enjoyed crawling about on the floor (upstairs away from the earlier disaster scene), acting the fool with Boywonder and Tomboy.
While they played I ran the bath. The sound of the water thundering from the tap into the bath makes it difficult for me to hear anything more than 30 cm from my ears, so when I heard a loud thud in the hallway, instinct insisted I investigate. I found Mr T lying on the floor, holding his head in his hands.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
Apart from a quiet groan, he was silent.
I moved closer, bent over him and asked again. I was starting to worry until he finally answered me.
‘I spun around on my knees and smacked my head on the stair railing. I think I nearly knocked myself out,’ he explained, still holding his head in his hands.
After a few more moments of silent cursing (the children were also watching and waiting) Mr T got to his feet.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘We should have bought a birthday cake,’ I replied with raised eyebrows and an ‘I told you so’ smile on my lips.
As usual, I forgot to check the weather for that night and the next day, so Mr T volunteered to go downstairs and find out. Halfway down the stairs Mr T slipped and landed very hard on his behind.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked as I looked down on him, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
‘We should’ve bought a birthday cake,’ was his sad reply.
So from that day forth a new birthday law was passed in our house and it is ‘no birthday shall pass without having cake’. The good thing is that now we sometimes buy two cakes; you can never be too cautious.
Mr T has come a long way in the last two years. He not only agrees to have a birthday cake, but participates in choosing which one he wants. And this year he even went as far as complaining when the rest of us ate the leftover cake the following day while he was at work. Did he really think he’d be able to have his cake and eat it too?
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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