Well That Was Restful

Looking back over my teenage years I can see that I had quite the alternative upbringing.  Dad was constantly banging on about the greenhouse effect and the half life of cling wrap long before the term "carbon footprint" was coined.  My step-mother, on the other hand, was the less practical more stereotypical type of hippy - she was all about the healing effects of positive thinking, the power of natural energy and our connection to other "beings" sharing our space on the planet (not just other people and not even other animals.  Trees and plants were "beings" too because they were full of life energy).

It was an interesting way to grow up, and I'm sure I'll talk more about them in my future blog posts (especially since neither of them are likely to see it - Dad is a techno-phobic who doesn't understand why I can't just print out my blog posts and send him a "real" copy and who knows where the stepmother is.  Last seen communing it up on a compound out near Bredbo I think.)

But one of their quirks which has rubbed off is a deep suspicion of any sort of medication.  Got a headache? Drink some water and go lie down.  Got a cold?  Rug up and start chugging some honey and lemon tea.  Sore throat?  Gargle salt water.  Oh yes, and garlic cures everything.  The philosophy being that if you're in pain or not feeling well your body is trying to tell you something and you might consider addressing what the problem is before you decide to medicate yourself to hide the symptoms.

In some respects this is a really good approach.  I nagged Charles incessantly for two years to go see a doctor or try an elimination diet to find out why he was going to the bathroom seven times a day for 20 minute intervals at a trot. In the end he finally realised he was lactose intolerant because a web comic depicted a character with his issues.  The only way that whole incident could have been any dumber is if he'd been forking out for Gastro-Stop or Imodium the whole time to try and calm things down.

I digress.  The upshot of the medication free upbringing is that my body has failed to develop any sort of tolerance for medications of almost any kind and I hate the way they make me feel when I take them.  One Panadol is the most I'll ever take and even then it will be out of sheer desperation when all else has failed.  Charles, on the other hand, feels that the more support we give the pharmaceutical industry by taking their products, the faster they'll get to the point where they can cure cancer.  Four Panadol.  Minimum.

Toothaches are my exception.  You know what the problem is, you just can't always make it to the dentist straight away so you gotta take the pain killers until you manage to treat the problem.  Even so I restrict myself to one pain killer just before bed so I can sleep.  I've had a toothache for about a week now - a byproduct of a way-overdue crown.  So over the past few days I've been downing a Panafen right before bed.  Panafen is a delightful little mix of Ibuprofen and Codeine - takes the pain away and doesn't leave me feeling too out of it the next day. It's good stuff.  Then I ran out.  With nothing stronger than Panadol I turned to Charles' stash and discovered Mersyndol.  Pharmacist only medicine, not prescribed.  Should be right with one of these, right?

The first hour I was hyperactive.  I'm not sure if this was the drug or the lack of sleep I've been experiencing of late thanks to some wicked nightmares.  Then, just as I was climbing into the shower to try and calm down so I could go to bed, the Mersyndol which "may cause drowsiness" crashed into my neural network.  Everything after that moment is blank.  I did not dream.  I did not toss and turn.  I don't remember anything.  At some point I got up and I remember being very determined to go to work.  I think I helped Charles get the kids ready and out the door but in all honesty the only thing I can remember is thinking quite repetitively "I've got to go to work" although the reasons for why I should were not entirely clear.

What is clear is that I went straight back to bed after they left and I did not wake up until two o'clock this afternoon.  My throat was sore and my head ached with dehydration.  Things still felt a bit weird.  And just like that Mersyndol joined the list of things I won't take unless I'm desperate.

Kitchen Voodoo

Tonight I made butterscotch self-saucing pudding for dessert because Chris was coming over for weights with Charles and that means dinner afterwards with him, Jen and the babies.  I'm a bit dubious about self-saucing puddings and I always hold my breath while I make one.  First of all you make a runny batter and pop it in an oven-proof dish.  Then you pour a bunch of boiling water on top, throw it in the oven and when it comes out the top is crisp and delicious and underneath is a thick layer of molten butterscotch.

Don't get me wrong, this particular pudding is a great choice because it costs almost nothing to make and it's dead simple.  But it seems so...wrong...  To me the whole transformation from slop to tasty dessert of win is not so much culinary science as kitchen voodoo.  Makes me feel like I need a shrine to the Kitchen Goddess.

Where Did You Learn to Dance Like That???

Lately I've been taking every opportunity I can to throw my music on our awesome sound system - especially when I'm cooking or cleaning.  I mainly wait until my man isn't around because he likes the sort of music where loud angry men scream things in German while torturing their instruments and my tastes are far more hippy-like and I like to dance without an audience.

When the kids are around I'll bust out the daggy 90s stuff or the more boppy top 40 stuff.  Madam's a big fan of Katy Perry and James is thoroughly obsessed with Lady Gaga.  I personally nurse a Roxette fetish.

A few days ago I was making dinner while the kids danced up a storm.  James just jumps around, stamping his feet, waving his arms and lolling his head back and forth to the music.  Charlotte...well Charlotte is much better at coordinated dance moves but there was really only one way to describe it.  Bootylicious.  The girl is not yet six but it was like she was channeling Beyoncé.  I was thoroughly shocked - it's not like we even let them watch the music channels so I had no clue where she would have seen dancing like that.  But I was going to get to the bottom of it.

"Charlotte!  Where on earth did you learn to dance like that?"
She looked up at me in confusion, pausing mid-gyration.
"Mama, this is how you dance when you think no one's watching.  Do you like it?  I've been practicing."

Huh.  I will have to pay more attention to how I dance with the kids around.  Still, at least the burlesque appears to have paid off.

Thank God That's Over

Our family has come through a hard time recently.  There has been trouble and turmoil, stress and strife.  Can you guess what this post is about?  I'll give you a hint;

That's Charlotte aged 13 weeks old sucking her newly discovered thumb.  I know there's a wealth of advice out there for parents regarding comforters for babies.  Dummy vs Thumb vs Let 'em cry.  But thumb sucking came naturally to our daughter and she was a pretty calm, relaxed little thing who slept well so we figured, why rock the boat?  She's made the decision for us.  Charles and I are also the sort of parents who just wing it without too much agonising or philosophizing.  We figured it served a purpose and she'd give it up when she was good and ready.  As long as that was before her adult teeth came in, who cares?

Unfortunately life doesn't always go the way you think it will.  Our daughter who self-weaned, toilet trained in essentially one day and who has always sort of grown organically into the next stage without much prompting never did abandon that thumb.  In fact over time it went from something she did when she was stressed or tired to something she'd do 24/7 without a second thought.  As she turned five, with no end in sight, Charles and I were forced to accept that parental will, control and discipline might have to intervene.  Yikes.

Autocratic parenting does not sit well on me.  I believe that with enough information and support kids will choose the right path if they're given the opportunity.  Trying to tell them what to do without sense or reason to back you up and not giving them choices just fosters rebellion.  I also knew that since thumb sucking is her stress relief, it would be criminal to stress her out by forcing her to give it up and punishing her if she failed.  Talk about sowing the seeds therapy will have to reap.

So one day I told her I wanted to show her something and we sat down together and looked at photos on Google of adult teeth corrupted by thumb sucking.  I explained that she would eventually have to give the thumb up and that if she didn't do it before her adult teeth came in then they would grow into a strange shape and she would need braces to fix them when she was older.  I explained that I couldn't make her give up her thumb because then she would just sneak it when I wasn't looking.  I told her that I wanted her to consider giving up her thumb and decide when she would like to give it up.  I promised her that if she made that choice I would do everything in my power to help her.  And I left it at that.

A week later she told me it was time and we went looking for a solution.  We talked through some of the options and in the end she asked me to buy her a Thumb Busters glove in pink*.

When it arrived she was very excited.  I explained that for two weeks she would wear it in the daytime only (we wanted to ease her into it as much as possible).  After that we would introduce it at night too.  For every day that she didn't suck her thumb I would give her a small gift and $1.  When she had $50 we would take her down to Opa's and she could go to the Magic Shop (The Trading Post in Mogo) and buy whatever she wanted with her money.  She was very excited.

Unfortunately I did not comprehend the depth of her obsession or her reaction to giving up her thumb.  It was worse than the 24 hours my Dad had to do without smokes when he got his dentures.  It was worse than Charles with low blood sugar (although not by much).  By sundown I was ready to rip her head off and both Charles and I were pleading with her to take it off early and just suck the damn thing.  She was in tears with the stress of it and because she had broken down twice and snuck the glove off for a quick suck she was heart-breakingly angry at herself.  She was so disappointed in herself that she refused the dollar and the present because she hadn't earned them.  Nothing we could say or do made it better - she was totally convinced that she had failed herself.

The next three days were harrowing.  I thought I'd made a huge mistake and constantly questioned myself but Charlotte remained absolutely determined.  After those three days she improved slightly.  A week later and she spontaneously stopped wearing it during the day altogether, announcing that she didn't suck her thumb during the day anymore.  There wasn't a single relapse.  Two weeks to the day after the glove first went on we started putting it on at night.  That first night it was eleven before she fell asleep and then it was from pure exhaustion.  Again a week later she just stopped wearing it and she never once relapsed.

The advantage of this approach is that she chose the timing and she was determined to do it - we didn't have to force her.  She told me at one stage that giving up her thumb had convinced her that she could do anything in the world she wants because nothing will ever be as hard as giving up the thumb.  I was fit to burst that she made that connection and I'm thrilled that it made her feel so powerful.

The downside is that she's been like a chocolate-deprived PMSing teenager for a month.  Her thumb has been her method for coping with stress since she was 13 weeks old.  It's a hard habit to break.  She's been bursting into tears and storming off three minutes after we've managed to calm her down from the last hissy fit.  She's been slamming doors.  Leaving me notes telling me I'm the worst mother in the world and accusing me of favouring her baby brother.  I despaired that she would ever go back to being the sunny little angel we've always been blessed with.

And then, two days ago and nearly five weeks after we first started this whole saga, it was like a switch got flicked.  She's back.  Spontaneous cuddles.  Notes telling me I'm wonderful.  Foot massages.  Cleaning her room and her brother's room too.  I wept in the shower the first night she wanted me to read her to sleep instead of Daddy.  And then tonight there was this;

It was stuck to our bedroom door and it says "Please accept what I have done for you".  Opening the bedroom door revealed our bed has been made and she has stacked up all of my books for me on my bedside table.

It appears that the crisis has passed and no one was killed.  Thank goodness.  And now you know why we call her our little rod of solid will.

*  Please note this is not my photo - it belongs to the person I bought the glove off.  You can find their store on Ebay here.

Make it Double Snappy

This afternoon I had a surprise for my little princess when I picked her up...Nanny had asked for a visit.  I'd brought clothes for her to change into and we managed it in record time - then I hustled her quickly into the car.  Once seat belts were on I twisted around to look at her.
"You know what we say now?"
"No."
"We say 'Nanny's house stat Mama!'"
"Nanny's house Mama!"
"No, no, no, you forgot the 'stat.'"
"What does 'stat' mean?"
"It means "right now".  So when you say "Nanny's house stat" you're really saying "let's go to Nanny's house right now Mama, as quickly as we can!"  Want to give it a try?"
"Sure!  Nanny's stat right now Mama!  Make it double snappy!"

The girl's comedic genius.

A Long Time Coming

It seems like a long time ago now that I wrote about depression and how it had touched our lives.  At the time I wrote about how much better Charles was doing and how he seemed to be returning to himself.  I can see now that those thoughts were like those first few weeks when you start to shake off a serious sickness.  You think you're better.  You tell people you're better.  And somewhere weeks later when you're actually better you realise that in those first few weeks when you thought you were better it was simply that you were a little bit better and you'd forgotten what truly healthy felt like.

That's how I feel now about Charles' depression.  I was so happy with the progress he'd made last November.  I thought he was better.  But it was only the start.  In all that time I'd forgotten what sort of couple we used to be.  I'd forgotten what it's like to have a partner that does their share without asking.  What it's like to be married to a man who cuddles you spontaneously all the time and can't keep his hands off you.  I'd forgotten what it's like to be crazy in love.

We talked recently about how things are going, whether there's anything we want to work on*.  Charles mentioned that he really likes me to wear lipstick and nail polish - something I haven't had time for in years.  It's such a small thing and now that he's back on board I've got time for optional extras.  So I let him choose the colour and I painted my nails a vibrant red.  It felt amazing...it tasted like victory.  We're back.

In the past week heaps of people commented on how I was looking.  Wow you look different, I love that colour on you, have you done something to your hair?  It might simply be lipstick and nail polish or it might be that I'm falling in love all over again.

*  We call these "status updates" and they're designed to address even the tiniest of things.

How to Summon Sheep - and Sisters

Charlotte and James' Opa lives on a small holding near Bega where he grows veggies, a huge range of fruit trees and runs a small flock of Dorpers.  Recently one of his ewes died a few days after giving birth and he suddenly found himself the surrogate mother of a small black lamb affectionately called Rambo*.  I could hardly contain Charlotte's excitement at the prospect of hand feeding a little black lamb so we duly loaded up and headed down the coast for the weekend.

Rambo was indeed adorable and the kids loved him.  He has a small pen under my Dad's pergola where he can sleep, safe from foxes and close to "Mum".  He's quite tame which is a good thing because Charlotte was determined to force her affection on the bewildered little thing at every opportunity.

The kids had a blast.  Doing farm chores with Opa is always a big hit.  Their favorite part is loading up with sheep nuts and going down to feed the sheep and the two alpacas charged with their care.

See little Rambo there?  Very cute and almost all black.  Rambo also gets dropped off for the day - a sort of ovine day care to make his transition from pet to sheep easier later.

Charlotte spent all weekend fizzing like a Coke Mentos bomb with excitement and alternating between zooming around the farm getting into everything and sleeping with gusto.

The End of a Long Day at Opa's

James was more sedate but the farm visit made a much deeper impression on him than we realised.  Since we've been back James has been demanding "Opa breakfast" almost every day - a bowl of muesli with fresh fruit and yoghurt stirred through.  But he's also adopted Opa's method of summoning the sheep - dropping his voice and bellowing "C'MORRRRRN" at the top of his tiny lungs.  Only thing is he's using it to summon his wayward sister, not sheep. Opa is extremely pleased.

Farmer James

*  My Dad's little joke - when they castrate him he'll lose the ram and just be Beau.

The Fat Face of Tragedy

Recently while I was tapping away on the computer my small daughter came and tugged on my sleeve.
"Mama?"
"Mmm?"
"Mama I've been thinking about something for a while and I'm very, very sad."
"What's wrong sweetie?"
"I've been looking at my face in the mirror and it's really, really faaaaaat!"
The last word was a wail of despair.  Charlotte's never been remotely concerned about her weight or appearance before but she was clearly distraught and needed my full attention.  I turned to look fully at her and immediately started to laugh.

"It's not funny!" she shrieked, "It's a tragedy!"
"Honey," I soothed, "Honey Mama's laughing because you're looking at yourself in Mama's beauty mirror.  It's meant to make your face bigger.  Try this..."
And I flipped it over to the normal side.
She stared in disbelief for a moment and then her breath came out in a ha!
"Phew," she breathed, "It's still only a little bit fat.  That's okay!"

Do I look fat to you?

Daddy's Friends

Charlotte's pretty out there socially.  She's an extroverted little kid and she's not at all afraid of addressing adults.  Recently we had a visit from Charles' cousin James who is tall and solid like Charles.  He has dark hair like Charles.  He also wears glasses and has a beard.  Charlotte told him he looked a lot like her Daddy (despite the beard).

A few days later Big Jim came over to do weights and was greeted by our fearless little rod of solid will.  Big Jim is a lot like Charles too - same height, solid build, dark hair.  And like James, Big Jim has glasses and a  beard cropped in a similar way.  I came in at the tail end of that particular greeting to find Charlotte regarding Big Jim thoughtfully as he talked to her.
"I'm one of your Daddy's friends," he was explaining.
"Oh I know," she nodded, "You all look the same."

The kid's kind of right.  Charles seems to have a lot of friends who are tall, solid and have dark hair.  A number of them also come with glasses and facial hair.  To Charlotte they're all just slightly different versions of her Dad.  The real insult though came tonight when Daddy was hosting two friends (one who kinda looks like him and one not so much) to play Dystopian Wars.  As they set up Charlotte came out and took in the sight of them.

"Daddy, you have two friends?" she asked in disbelief.

Spot Training Doesn't Work. Apparently.

So today is day nine of the thirty sit-ups for thirty days challenge - except that so far there's only been one day where I only did 30 and that was because the Ridiculously Dominant Husband chose to bark at me while I did weights instead of sit-ups.  In fact, I've mostly been doing 35 or 40 and yesterday I even made it to 45.  The number of reps in a set are also getting higher and the time I need between sets is shorter.  60 seconds tops now.

Anyway, as a curious side note, I had no idea how important it is to have an intact core before you do weights but two things were blindingly obvious the moment I took the weights off the rack;

1.)  The sit-ups have been taking their toll; and
2.)  Trying to do a full weights workout with sore abs is up there with being drenched in honey and left on an anthill in the Texas sun*.

All that work must surely be doing something.  Luckily before I started the challenge I jumped onto the Calorie King website and signed up to keep track of everything (brillo suggestion from the sister-in-law Jen, more on that later).  Halfway through the week I noted that my pants were a little loose and starting to fall down a bit.  RDH scoffed and said spot training doesn't work, no way have I lost weight around the middle purely from doing sit-ups (and eating properly you bully).  Okey doke.  Let's see how we go at weigh in.  Which was today.  Two kilos down, very nice.  But the big surprise?  Seven centimetres off the hips and five off the waist.

Holy moly.  I knew my core was a bit sad after giving birth to the little Viking but I had no idea how badly it needed some whipping into shape.  I don't for a second think that I've lost a bunch of fat from around my middle - that will take longer, I'm sure.  But I do think that the sit-ups have been quite effective at tightening the muscles back up and pulling them back into place.  Might have to add in some push-ups and see if we can correct the T-rex situation.

*Seriously, I've got no idea where these analogies come from.  But reading them back they always  fit with how I felt at the time.

Uncle Chris gets Complimented

I've mentioned previously how Charlotte's Uncle Chris comes over once a week to do weights with Charles.  He comes straight from work and has to change into his workout clothes in the spare room.  We're a fairly open family so yesterday when Uncle Chris closed the door to get changed, Madam immediately tried to open it and go in.  Uncle Chris told her that he had to change and she should wait outside because he'd only be a minute.

"Don't worry," she smiled reassuringly, "I won't laugh."

Apparently The Apocalypse is here

Yesterday we came home to this;

Not sure what it is?  Want a closer look?  Okey doke;

Yup - we've been swarmed.  And then this morning we woke to this;

We're inside the "stay inside and don't even think about sending your kids to school" zone.  Clearly The Apocalyspe has begun.  Prepare for the rapture!

More seriously, my darling husband happens to be a bee enthusiast.  So before I could get my skates on and hit Bunnings for my own domestically-sized chemical flame thrower I was ordered to ring the ACT Beekeepers Association.  Admittedly it's costing us $50 to have the swarm removed but if I'd nuked them I probably would have been made to sleep on the couch (such is the love of our little apidaetian friends) for a month so it's kind of money well spent and it's way cheaper than calling a pest inspector.

For your information though;

1.)  Swarms are quite docile (the practice of wearing a "Bee Beard" relies on this) but they will act to protect the queen so no hosing them with water, chemicals, etc.

2.)  Most bees are not aggressive unless threatened so if they come near you or land on you, don't commence the slap dance, just hold still and wait for them to push off.  Remember - a sting might be painful for you but it's fatal to the bee.  It's a last resort type tactic.

Daddy's Just Better

Charlotte was pretty adamant tonight that Daddy should be the one to read her Fantastic Mr Fox.  Frustrated at the ongoing preference for Daddy's reading, I asked her why she wanted Daddy to do her night time reading all the time and not Mama.  She screwed her little face up and regarded me solemnly.

"Well Mama...don't take this the wrong way...it's just that Daddy's heaps fatter than you and that means he's heaps more comfy to cuddle."
Thanks kid.

Weight Training with the Ridiculously Dominant Husband

I recently wrote about my 30 a day for 30 days challenge and my husband’s insane assumption of the role of my very own Biggest Loser-style trainer.  What I neglected to mention is that he’s also been doing weight training with me*.  Charles is scary big and when he does weights he bulks up and gains strength fast.  I, on the other hand, apart from being lacking in the testosterone department which fuels such incredible muscle growth, have always been known as “T-Rex” because of my arms and not because they’re insanely cool or killer-like in nature.

I like to politely refer to them as “farm-grown”.  I can’t do a bunch of reps but I can swing 20 kilos of cement or dog food up onto my shoulder and walk it to wherever it needs to go and so far that’s worked for me.  Having kids was a bonus that improved my arm strength too.  You can’t have a mama-addicted toddler and not build arm strength.  But that’s a whole other kettle of fish compared to doing proper weights.

So apparently my weight training program is geared towards strength and not bulking.  Which means low reps with heavier weights.  Sucks to be me.  Charles informs me that the idea is to do a maximum of eight with enough weight that I can’t possibly do nine.  I’ll bet you can guess which side of the line he errs on for the sake of caution.

To give you some perspective, our weights bar weighs ten kilos.  Before kids I used to just bench press this.  When I started weights training recently, I started on 25 kilos which I could barely do.  Since I seem to have achieved a level we’ll call “coping”** with the 25 kilos weights, tonight Charles decided that it should be 30.  The unfairness of it made me want to throw a tantrum.  Realising that strength training will probably involve upping the weights almost every time I manage to “cope” made me want to go cry in the shower and go to bed.

So tonight as I approached number five I realised I was not just struggling for dignity – it was all out for survival because I could barely keep the wretched thing off my neck.  I nearly cried when I got to seven and there was no way I could do another.  I wasn’t even sure I could get the bar back on the rack.

Ridiculously Dominant Husband (RDH) barked at me and demanded that I finish the set.  He even offered to help me, slipping his hand under the middle of the bar.  I did not believe he was going to help me for one second and he didn’t.  It wobbled its way all the way down and back up to crash into place on the rack.  RDH informed me I had another set to go.

Twenty minutes later and it was all over.  RDH perused my record and pondered the possibility of further increases.  I would have brained him with one of the dumbbells if I’d been able to lift it. 

I then went inside to make dinner and brag on Facebook and discovered that I couldn’t wield enough strength to peel the carrots.  Nor could I type.  Not to worry, apparently I’m getting much stronger.

* "With me" implies that he does them too but I’m too weak, which means changing the weights over all the time, so he does his training with far tougher customers who are closer to his level like my brother-in-law Chris and our friend Big Jim.  Perhaps a more accurate way of describing it is that he does weight training at me.

** Not crying and pleading for mercy.

What Your Garage Says About You

This morning I bit the bullet and decided it was time to clean the garage out and turn it into something more useful than our own personal tip.  This is what greeted me when I rolled the door up;

Want a closer look?  Try this one;

 Now you know why I have a phobia about someone calling Hoarders on us.  But there is a legitimate reason for it, I swear!  The (very abbreviated) story goes like this.  We moved house and we moved house quickly so we could focus on selling our old house.  We shoved a lot of stuff into the garage as a temporary measure intending to deal with it as soon as the other house sold.  But, the very first week we moved, there was an epic rainstorm.  After three years of drought, that first week is when it came bucketing down like Old Faithful in reverse for two days straight. That would not have been a big problem except that the chick we bought the house from left out that the roof of the garage leaked like a sieve.

Everything was in two clear inches of water for a week before we realised what had happened.  And by then the water had crept up the cardboard boxes and eaten into our belongings.  We had to madly sort through and turf everything that was ruined and try to plastic bag or crate anything that wasn't.  Then it had to be stacked up where the water wouldn't get it.  And for the year it took to save the money needed to fix the roof situation (our house was shot too), it all just sat there.  Until last week when the roof got fixed.  Ergo, time to address the garage situation.

So this morning I borrowed a trailer from our obliging fam and we hooked in like champions - working for three hours.  This is what we took to the tip at the end of it;

And this is what was left behind;

We still have a long way to go.  But as I worked, I realised a few things.

1.)  I have got to stop buying liquid nails and gap seal;  Every five minutes I'd find another tube of the stuff.  Clearly I buy for small projects and then realise I already have some viable stuff in my caulking gun, handily sealed with a screw.  My grand total was seven tubes and they're now all in the one place so I don't forget and buy any more.  

2.)  My husband would be a lot richer if he hadn't gone nuts on the miniatures and collectible cards when he got his first job;  When I add up how much he's spent on that stuff I weep.  We'd probably have no mortgage if he'd just popped it into a savings account.

3.)  I am not good at returning things to people;  There are a number of examples I could provide here but the most epic is Julia's mug.  Ten years ago when my sorry excuse for an ex gave me the heave-ho I wound up sharing a lovely little mobile home with a great friend called Jules.  Jules moved in and didn't ever ask for any sort of consideration really except that I add her little orange cow mug to the collection over the sink because it had meaning for her.  Which I happily did.  Then at some point Jules moved out.  But the mug didn't.  

For ten years I've carted this thing around, through three house moves, with every intention of returning it to her even though I still don't know why it has special meaning.  I don't ever let anyone use it and it's always in a 'safe' place.  And now that I've written about it on here and she knows where it is it will somehow be destroyed in the next 48 hours.  This happy little cow has been eating my soul for ten years.  Jules, please give us all the happy ending we deserve and come and get your mug.

4.)  Whatever I'm looking for, it's going to be in my husband's car;  Two weeks ago we went down to visit my Dad.  In his rush to pack Charles took everything out of his car and left it in a pile right inside the garage.  First up, we will not speak of the food debris that was discovered.  Just...yuck.  But this pile was like a domestic gold mine.  All the drink bottles I'd blamed the school/daycare for losing, James' socks, Charlotte's jumpers - the spare DOLLY I really could have used last weekend.  The letter containing his bank card that was replaced six months ago.  I wish he'd left it all in situ I could have called Time Team to examine the different stratas.  

5.)  I need to be tougher with people inheriting our baby stuff;  I don't care whether you people have space, you either take it or it goes on Ebay.  We had a high chair, stroller, cot, cot mattress, crib, four crates of clothing and a baby carrier.  

6.)  The people who owned the place before us were stock piling building supplies for the apocalypse;  I've heard of keeping a spare tile or two in case one cracks but honestly there are only a dozen tiles on our bathroom floor.  So why did they keep another dozen in the garage?  And where did the spare kitchen door come from?  None of our kitchen cabinets is missing a door...  Also?  There was a whole other box of tiles that don't appear anywhere in our house and it's sealed.  What on earth were they for?

7.)  Whoever it is in our family/circle of friends that drinks Carlsberg is a pig;  Seriously there were three empty Carlsberg six pack cartons tossed down around the party fridge.  Granted the garage was a bomb site but really, you're a guest and you couldn't walk your rubbish to the bin?

8.)  Mould is a scary, scary thing;  I happened to open a garbage bag that had clearly gotten wet and gone undetected.  I still have no idea what the original contents were but the current contents were menacing and looked like they were going to eat me.

9.)  My husband might be the one responsible for the Carlsberg because it would fit with his total failure to ever clean up after any of his little projects.  Foam and MDF remnants, sawdust, come on man, wield the broom occasionally.

Stay tuned kittens.  Next weekend we're going to wrap it up in the garage and turn it into a fully functioning gym.  In the meantime, have a think - what does your garage say about you?

I Don't Want To Play Anymore

Over the past three months Charles has been doing weights with his brother-in-law Chris on Friday nights.  Just to make it a real family event, Charles' sister (Chris' wife) Jen comes too and brings her two little girls.  Jen and I gossip and chat in the kitchen while the kids go nuts and the men do their thing in the garage and then it's a massive chaotic dinner before they go home.  It's the highlight of my week and I love every aspect of it, from having another mother with small children to soothe me that I'm not the only one losing sleep, to the havoc the kids wreak and the after-glow from exercise I get to see in my man.  Not to mention getting to watch them do push-ups and sit-ups in the living room. I digress.

Friday Nights:  Kids Gone Wild

This weekly ritual has come at the right time for us.  The kids are now old enough to entertain each other and be trusted in the backyard alone.  It's the first time since Charlotte was born that we've been able to dedicate a decent amount of time to exercising and it's starting to snowball.  Charles has been training with Chris and another friend of ours, Big Jim.  On his off days he's been training me in weights and boxfit too.  Things have been gradually coming together and I can feel my mojo coming back.

This week over dinner Chris and Jen mentioned that they've challenged themselves to 30 sit-ups a day for the thirty days of September.  My abs and core have been okay since I had James, but I've only been doing mild, sporadic exercises to keep them alive - nothing serious or dedicated.  So I decided to join them and start my own thirty day challenge.  Charles declined to join us, citing his bad back.

Day one went really well.  I had to do ten at a time with a few minutes rest in between but it was good.  Charles helped me along - standing on my feet for me and giving helpful encouragement*.  I got to the end of my thirty and he demanded five more.  What?  Don't think, just do it!  Um...okay...  I was tired, but I did them.  No explanation for why.  Oh well. 35 it is, a cracking start.

The following day my abs were a bit twingy but not really sore.  I did thirty again while Charles again stood on my toes and barked at me.  Again he demanded five more.  It was much harder this time.  Still no explanation for the five extra.

And then I woke this morning - day 3.  Serious pain and I know exactly which muscles I've been using.  I tried to beg off on doing my 30 but Charles implied that I'd be a loser if I didn't, told me it was all in my head and then squished my toes because I took too long trying to psyche myself into it.

I growled the whole time I did it, feeling like I couldn't do the next one.  When I made it to thirty I nearly cried and I told him no way would I do any extra.
"Sure you will," he grinned evilly, "Come on, five more.  Go!  Now!"

Sometimes I really hate that man.

*  Barking orders.

Compliments

This morning when I woke my daughter she blinked slowly up at me, her small brow knitting in consternation.
"Mama?"
"Yes baby?"
"Your hair is going in all different directions this morning.  It looks a little bit mad."
"A little bit mad, huh?  Is that bad?"
"Well...you're a little bit mad too so I guess it suits you."
Thanks honey.

Life Imitates Dilbert

This week at work was a shocker.  It culminated with my boss demanding, without a trace of irony, that we have a half hour meeting every two days to discuss why we don't have time to do all the work that needs to be done.  She couldn't understand why I laughed until I cried.

The Science of Sleep Bankability and the Art of Sleep Deprivation

I recently read an article about a study into the bankability of sleep*.  You know.  Can you go five hours a day for a whole week and then catch up on the weekend?  Yes.  Yes, you can.  Unfortunately what this study also showed was that most of us in these modern times are carrying a sleep debt that we have no hope of ever repaying and that, eventually, it will shorten our lives.

My own personal sleep bank had quite a bit of credit before we had kids.  Never one to shy away from an early night during the week I also used to indulge in weekend sleep-ins to the point where the question was not necessarily “what’s for breakfast” so much as, “how much afternoon tea should I eat before I spoil my dinner?”

Nevertheless I think all that saved up sleep did was get me through the first month of Charlotte’s life.  After that it was a dramatic slide to this current point where my personal sleep debt could crash the global sleep economy and I’ve become one of those annoying people that call you on a Saturday morning at eight and act surprised that you’re still in bed because “I’ve been up for two hours”.  I digress.

Luckily for me these days James sleeps through the night.  There are no longer feedings at three in the morning and all bowel movements seem to happen during business hours, as it were.  You’d think I’d be well on my way to recovery of my sleep-ins and my sanity.  Alas, it is not to be.

Here’s a snapshot of just one night last week.  Admittedly, Charles was away so instead of tag teaming it was me on my own, but you get the idea.

7.30pm;  Bedtime ritual starts.

8pm; Lights out.

8.32pm;  Small son deposited into bed for sixth time.  Explode.  Yell.  Small son grins cheekily and finally goes to sleep.  Daughter told for seventh time to stop playing and go to sleep.

8.56pm;  All Barbies confiscated.  Torch, confiscated.  Threats deployed.  Small daughter finally decides to sleep.  Time to do the dishes.

9.23pm;  Dishes done, washing initiated.  Clothes, books, etc laid out for tomorrow.

10.06pm;  Shower, teeth, etc.

10.32pm;  Bed for me.

10.47pm;  Summoned by small son for dolly relocation purposes.  Bed again.  Finally drift away after noting clock says 11.07.

2.09am;  Cat decides must be inside immediately.  Sounds like Freddy Krueger vs the flyscreen.  Open front door in fury, tell cat she has to the count of three or I’ll wring her furry neck.  Cat seems to recognise absence of big jolly man willing to accommodate cat faffage and for once abandons the wary stare and slink routine that takes 40 seconds before she will deign to enter the house.  The presence of wild, angry redheaded woman prompts her to move before I’ve even drawn breath to say “one.”

2.23am;  Cat has finished her dinner and decides to show her appreciation for me getting up to let her in by climbing onto my chest, clawing me in happiness and drooling tuna by-product flavoured saliva onto my chin.  Toss cat.

3.17am;  Charlotte in floods of tears.  “I miss Daddddy and I had a bad dream that he was never going to come home!”  Honestly, who would blame him if he didn’t?  She detects my frustration at having to get up and screams at me to just get out if I’m not having any fun.

“Charlotte,” I sigh in exasperation, “It’s three thirty in the morning.  I’ve got bad news for you kid but no one has fun when they’re woken up at 3.30 in the bloody morning.”

She blinks in shock.

“Is it really 3.30 in the morning Mama?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.  Sorry about that.”

And amazingly all tears stop and she rolls over and goes back to sleep.

3.42am;  I leave a snoring pinky and go back to my own bed.

6.07am; Woken with a crash when James cracks me over the face with his favourite book of the moment, “There’s a Hippopotamus On Our Roof Eating Cake” and yells, “HIPPOT!  CAKE!  NOW  MAMA!”

*This is not the article I actually read, but you get the idea.

Occasionally Ignorant People Are Inspiring

Our childcare centre has a U-shaped driveway that runs past the front door – an ideal place to pick up and drop your kids off.  Unfortunately it’s been the source of disputes in the past leading them to put up a sign that said “Please be mindful of others when you park in the driveway and do not park for extended periods.”  I never got this sign because it’s pretty simple – you pull up, drop off or pick up your kids and leave.  Staying for awhile?  No problem, use the car park.  Where’s the problem?

Well today I experienced first-hand why we need signs to explain common sense to people.  As I pulled up behind a black car to pick James up this afternoon, a third car pulled in behind me.  I didn’t say anything because I figured okay, she’s seen that I’m boxed in – she’s obviously here for a fast pickup and even if I’m faster I don’t mind waiting a few minutes.  This was at ten past five.

I go in, collect my excited son and strap him into his car seat.  And wait.  And wait.  And wait.  It’s now twenty past five.  I’ve got two antsy kids and a boot full of shopping.  Just as the third song is starting on the stereo and Charlotte has asked for the fourth time why we’re just sitting there, I give up and go in search of the owner of either of these two cars to ask them to please move so we can leave.  We’ve been in the car for over five minutes now and three families have both arrived and left in the time we’ve been waiting.

As soon as I get inside I spot the very woman who’s boxed me in, chatting away with the childcare workers.  Now admittedly, it’s been a long day full lots of horrendous legal muck to wade through.  I was not exactly in my best frame of mind – in fact I was exasperated beyond belief.  But still I just caught her attention and said, “Hey could you please move your car?”

“Oh!  Sorry!  I thought the car in front would have gone by now.”

“Well no, actually he hasn’t,” I tell her, “So if you wouldn’t mind…”

And then I head back out to the kids.

She takes another two minutes to come out and a quick check of the clock shows we’ve all been there waiting eight minutes, fifteen in total since I first parked.  Ms Boxer has one child trailing her, so no reason for the epic pick-up other than a chance to gossip.  As she comes out the door Charlotte asks me if this is the lady parked behind and can we please leave now and I say yup, that’s her and yes, we’re going. 

Instantly Ms Boxer pauses, bends down to my (closed) passenger window and lips pulled back in an aggressive sneer says rather loudly, “Did you just say something to me?”

“No,” I shake my head and jerk my thumb back at Charlotte to indicate I was talking to her.  But that doesn’t stop Boxer.  Clearly me failing to rise to the bait has been a sign of weakness and it’s taken as a signal to ramp it up further.  Boxer gets louder, gesturing with her hands to make her point.  I can’t really hear her through the window though so I hop out and she’s in full on rant about how I’ve behaved and telling me a word of advice, try to be nicer. 

Here is where I begin to lose my temper.

“I think that might cut both ways,” I tell her, “Given that you’ve boxed me in and taken your time getting back to leave.  That’s not exactly nice, or even courteous, is it?”

She’s kind of retreated since I got out of the car and she’s on the back foot now.  I assume she was expecting me to humble myself, apologise and backtrack, not get out of the car to address her rant.  But she still goes in for the parting shot.

“Hey even THEY commented on your attitude,” she snaps, jerking her head at the childcare centre, “I’ve been boxed in lots of times and I don’t make a big deal out of it!”

“How is asking you to please move your car making a big deal out of it?”

“It was the look you gave me when you said it,” she shoots back, “But don’t worry I’m leaving now.”

“Well I’m truly sorry you feel so imposed upon,” I shrug, “But thanks for moving.”

The disgusted snort I got as she threw herself into the car does not encourage me to believe this is over or that Ms Boxer is going to let it go.  

Never one to miss a chance for self-evaluation* I’ve been sitting here for the last hour-and-a-half wondering how I could have handled the situation to achieve a different outcome.  All I can come up with is I should have either faked elation at the chance to ask her to pretty please, sugar on top move your car or sat there and awaited her gossipy pleasure without a murmur. 

Obviously Ms Boxer feels that an apology is in order and after a long time contemplating exactly what I should apologise for, I think I’ve finally come up with the answer.  Introducing Tool Chick’s first commercial product – a line of “I’m Not Really Sorry” greeting cards!

I apologise for your lack of consideration by TCGuide2Life
Make a note card at zazzle.com.au

Or perhaps this is more your style...

You're Still Wrong by TCGuide2Life
Browse other Humour Cards

And for our American friends...

I Apologize For Your Lack Of Consideration (USA) by TCGuide2Life
Create a notecard with zazzle.com.au

*Agonising.