MY SECOND HOME

I literally drive around in a rubbish dump.

My car is my vessel.  No really.  It’s the tiny shuttle that takes me and my three children around the joint seven days of a week.

And it’s a pit.

I seem to get in said pit, at say, 8am in the morning, do 3 separate drop offs and then drop myself to work.  At about 2:30pm, I get back in and repeat that same process, in reverse.  When I return home, I get all three school bags out again, along with my handbag and other paraphernalia which has accumulated during the day and go back inside my house.  And that’s it.  Everything else I’ve taken in, everything the children have taken in to that car, have remained there. For oh, going on 6 months now.

And that my friends, is why I have a French fry blocking my air conditioning vent right now.

OK, I’m not going to make excuses, but excuse me while I do.

I work 4 days, I am studying.  I have three children. We are renovating the unrenovatable house.  I have a child with a disability. I have a child who is akin to a natural disaster on legs and I have a daughter on the precipice of premature womanhood.  Add to that a husband who also works a lot, a serious case of too much shit do to and you get the idea.
 

Blah blah blah. Who doesn’t have a heap of shit going on in their lives? No one. Ask anyone how they are. Their standard response?  "Yeah good thanks".  But generally, no one is really “good”.  There is always something we have the shits with. There is always something we are struggling with. There is always something we would really like to change.    There is always something we wish would happen to us. 

 
So all in all, I have no excuse as to why the following reside in my car right this minute:


Inside the car:

•   What I’m fairly sure is a Jar Jar Binks Lego Mini Figurine
•     Last Mondays Coffee mug.  I say mug and not travel cup because all hopes of using a travel mug have been abandoned after I’ve left them to fester one too many times in the cup holder.  So now I use a porcelain mug that is fraught with danger as I could spill coffee upon myself and the surrounds during a commute.  I wear a lot of black for this very reason.
•     An award for “Being a Delight in music class” my daughter received at school, last November.
•     At least 18 different types of items that could be used for writing.
•     Eight Library books (more than likely that explains our temporary ban on loaning shit out)
•     4 Chapsticks in various states of use.
•     Four different shoes. None of which have mates. None of which fit my childrens feet anymore.
•     7 Lego Men. None of which look like they anatomically belong together.
•    5 KFC cricketing mini men.  If you have never had a KFC happy meal, this will make absolutely no sense, but we have 5 of these, in their original plastic and they are all fucking useless.

In the Glove box:

•     Standard car records.  Give me SOME credit.
•     A nappy.  My child hasn’t been in a nappy for oh, over 12 months now.
•     A business card for a DJ.   I have no explanation for this.
•     A stubby holder.
•     A packet of BBQ sauce.  Again, no explanation.

In the Boot:   

•     A bag with two hundred bucks worth of Tupperware.  This is my girlfriends whom I have met up with twice since it has resided in my car and twice I have forgotten to pass it on to her.  By rights though, she did avoid the actual party and therefore should suffer.
•     A dodgy stroller. This contains the three year old on any shopping expedition.  Even though now, it has a wad of hair wrapped around its front left wheel and I can barely steer it anymore, I will not let this be tossed out as it is the only thing between me and shopping in relative peace and quiet anymore.

On the windscreen.

•     A flyer for Brazilian waxing.  Has been there for 3 days now so far.  I especially notice this whilst honking down the highway at about 120 kms an hour and think to myself “Mmmm, must remove that when I stop”. 
•     A whole heap of dirt that can’t be removed because I haven’t refilled the appropriate hole in the bonnet with water and detergent.

Ok, I think you get the picture, my car is a cesspit.  This of course was exacerbated by the fact that the other day when I lost a list of stuff my daughter needed for camp on my way from a friends front door to my car, she insisted on helping me search my car to find it, I was hideously embarrassed, I think it’s time to get my shit together.

Imagine if she had of found the spare pair of undies I keep in the glove box.  I’ll leave it to your discretion who you think these may be for.

DIABOLICAL

So, I’ve talked about Hurricane Jack before.

 
For those not familiar, Jack is my three year old.  Whom I adore and love and wish I could bottle.

But he’s a fucking nightmare on legs.

 
Right now, this very minute, there is what appears to be, a portion of crime scene police tape at the bottom of my toilet bowl.  And from what I can recall, there have been no mass murders in our street of late.   This of course, has only been placed there by Jack.  We are all on that toilet at some point during the day, yet the other four people in this family, to date, seem to have avoided collecting and thus, flushing, state evidence down the toilet.

 
Of late, my husband and I have been particularly challenged by Jacks behaviour.

 
I’m not sure if it started when he decided to pull a used tampon out of the toilet bowl (Note: not flushed so as not to disturb the sleeping family) and proceeded to fling it about the toilet walls, thus creating a scene Van Gogh would have happily cut off his own ear lobe to be remembered for. 


Perhaps it’s because he’s been in trouble 3 times now (big trouble) for attempting to clean the toilet himself with toilet gel and toilet duck whilst jamming entire toilet rolls down the S bend for good measure.  What kid doesn’t learn after the second time?

 
Or maybe it’s just because he let the kitten out of her room this morning because she was “prying” before anyone rose and then proceeded to scale the kitchen cupboards and get his “biatmins” (vitamins) out of the cupboard and down them. Then just to make sure there was no question he’d been out there, he drew on the chocolate leather lounge with a white oil pastel on his way back to bed.

 
It could be because he got into trouble at kindy for both cutting up his chair with his scissors and/or throwing a ball at the “babies”.

 
Or just because he’s a shit of a kid.  Or is he?


Lately I’ve been told more than twice, that Jack is simply an Indigo child.  What is an Indigo Child you ask?  It’s a bit new agey which hey, I kind of  immediately dismissed but I would certainly like a simple explanation as to why my three year old is so obviously different to my previous two children.  I am still sceptical.  But here goes:
 

"The Indigo Child is a boy or girl who displays a new and unusual set of psychological attributes, revealing a pattern of behaviour generally undocumented before. This pattern has singularly unique factors that call for parents and teachers to change their treatment and upbringing of these kids to assist them in achieving balance and harmony in their lives, and to help them avoid frustration”

 
Ok, so what behaviour are they talking about exactly?
 

~ Determined
~ Detect dishonesty from a mile away
~ Absolute confidence
~ They rarely need others to tell them who they are
~ Are easily frustrated with routine or ritual
~ Based activities that require no creative thought
~ They do not accept authority without explanation or choice
~ Non conformist
~ They have no trouble telling you what they need
~ May seem anti social if they are not around children like them 
~ Sensitive
~ Intuitive
~ Technologically orientated
~ Intelligent
~ Empathy for others yet not for stupidity
~ Amazing memory
 
 
Fucking tick.
 

Although they did forget to mention how he can screw up a perfectly cracking family day, with an unscheduled meltdown in the middle of a nice meal for no particular reason.

 
And I have to believe that this behaviour he displays, and look, you need to spend a day with him to believe how full on this child can be, is due to an ingrained trait ingrained at birth.  Because we have done nothing different than we did with his sister and his brother.  And before you write and tell me “hey, he’s only three”.  I know, OK.  He has some amazing and beautiful qualities, but when he slapping his older brother in the face for kicks, not one hour after getting into major trouble for the exact same thing, I think I’m qualified to make the call.

 
Right now though, I have a crime scene to hunt down.

TAKE THE HIGH ROAD

I’m getting sick of shopping.

Five words I never thought I would put down on paper.  Or type on the computer, oh you know what I mean.  


I am pretty much, a shopaholic.  Don't worry, I'm fully aware of my situation, I just really, really enjoy wandering around and buying shit.  Even more so when I have a mission.  Like, oh, say for instance, a new doona for our bed.  A man, or most men, would walk into the nearest shop that sells doonas, preferably one that had easy parking access, pick one out, pay a bazillion dollars for it, walk out and go directly home. 

And that brings a tear to my eye.

See, how does he know whether, if he had bothered to canvas at least 4 other stores, that he may not have got a) something better, b) something cheaper and c) found something else like a lovely pair of winter boots inadvertently whilst casually strolling past Novo.   He wouldn’t.  And that is a total shame.

I of course have regressed as per usual because the above has absolutely nothing to do with why I am beginning to loathe walking into a shopping centre. 

I blame the Dead Sea Minerals.  Without them, there would be little reason for a hairy Brazilian Lothario to approach me whilst I walk innocently through the shopping centre.  Nor would there be reason for him to be calling me Beautiful  and/or gorgeous over the din of the shopping centre crowd and trying to convince me my skin would look ten years younger with a dab of his miracle dead sea crap.  Hey dude, you just insinuated I look a bit rough and basically said I look like an old hag.  Impressing your target market - Fail.


I have these guys sussed now though.  Funnily enough, I find I just can’t get enough of whatever is the shop window directly opposite their stand.    Wow!  A bidet shop.  How interesting, are those arse squirting toilet seats in that window?  Or else I will suddenly engage my three year old in a conversation about his kindy girlfriend.  Or whip out the mobile phone and have a fake conversation. 

What about the Citibank people trying to catch my eye so they can try and flog me a new credit card with an introductory rate of 1%, to be increased to a bazillion percent in 6 months.    I often just try and give these people a wide berth, but when that is not possible and I get too close, why do I feel the need to make them feel better and not be too rude?
 

“Excuse me madam, are you satisfied with your current cred” I cut her off  with a tight, frosty smile and speed walk past with a “No thanks, I’m fine”.  Why don’t I just stop and say what I really want which is this: “Look lady, I know you’ve got a job, but I just want to walk through this shopping centre and not be harassed every five fucking metres.  If I want a god damn credit card, I will seek out a god damn credit card.  And by the way, I’m only 35, certainly too young to be called Madam, now please politely fuck off and LEAVE ME ALONE!”  

 
What about the ones who want to lock you into a yearly contract to donate to the Heart Research Institute or WWF, World Wildlife Fund.  Do you reckon these good looking hippies are doing this out of the goodness of their hearts?  No freaking way.  Commission.   My boss told me once she got accused of “not loving the animals enough” because she walked on by.  A heads up, insults and shame-outs will get you nowhere.   

Then there’s the stalls selling teddy bears for cancer research or raffle tickets for Rotary.  Whilst I do partake in buying something probably 5 times out of ten, I do for some reason, find it necessary, to say to no one in particular whilst walking past them.  “Oh I’ll get some on my way out”.  Like they give a shit.   They're probably muttering “either pay up or walk past crazy lady”.  And I really don’t have a problem with these guys.  Except the guilt factor I find I associate with it.

It just shits me to no end the amount of these mid corridor hawkers that have cropped up of late.   Everywhere you look; there they are, waiting for you with nail decorations or an ugly monkey jumper.    They are inescapable.
 

Take probably in my opinion, the best shopping Centre on the Gold Coast, Robina Town Centre.  This shopping centre is so full of win, I can barely articulate.  It has everything in one spot.  All three major department stores, David Jones, (it is about to get a Myer), all the big grocery stores, Max Brenner, (a grown ups Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) every specialty store you can imagine and even a V-Max movie theatre and restaurants.  It has it all.  Yet, it is populated by the largest amount of mid centre “salespeople” on the Gold Coast. For this reason alone, it makes me want to stay away.
 

So to all those people out there, trying to sell this stuff, realise this: We will not be pleased to see you, nor will be overjoyed when you select one of us out of the masses and insinuate we are massive fatties and in desperate need of a session on your Vibro board.  I have a message from us to you: LEAVE US THE HELL ALONE TO SHOP IN PEACE!    If we want what you got, we’ll come over.  Okay?  

I’m not alone right?

OPEN WIDE, COME INSIDE.

So at what point, after having horrendously had your tooth pulled out of head, do you stop the world and tell anyone who’ll listen, that you want to get off?  Just for a bit?

 
It started with a tooth ache. Scratch that, it started with a broken tooth. Over 4 years ago.  I was pregnant with Jack.  And get this, I broke my back tooth by eating a freaking soft snake lolly.  See kids, lollies DO rot your teeth.  One minute I was enjoying my sunshiny orange snake, the next I was hoeing down on my own tooth particles.   Ewwww.

 
To be honest, I have always been shite at going to the Dentist.  This is not through fear or money worries particularly, just pure, unadulterated, laziness.  My mother made me go religiously to the dentist while I was under her direction.   But like any good teenager, I promptly stopped doing anything I was “made to do” the minute I left home.  And then, well, I only went when I had a problem.  BIG MISTAKE.

 
I write this today as a cautionary tale, because if I can save one person from going through what I did on the weekend, someone should award me an Order of Australia Medal, for I have helped my nation.

 
So, after chewing my own bone, I made an emergency appointment with a dentist around the corner.  He was reluctant, with me being pregnant and all, to do much at all.  Half my tooth had disintegrated, yet I was stoked he wanted me to get out of his face for 6 more months.  Ideally, I was meant to return within 1 month of giving birth.  Jack is now 3 and a half.

 
Last year I had a little trouble with my half in, half out wisdom teeth.  To be precise, one got infected.  Ah, the memories.  A Russian dentist  telling me I was basically fucked and would have to visit a specialist who wouldn’t be available for over 7 months and oh, whilst you’re here, how about I make you feel like a complete  and utter rabid human being for getting yourself into this predicament in the first place. 

Hey look man, I work in a job where we see people sometimes fob off doing their tax returns for 20 years. You know what?  We just do them and lodge them.  Because it is not our job to judge them.  Who knows what the hell  has gone in their lives to get them to this point.  So Hey, Mr Stalin the dentist, lay off,  I’m the only one in pain here buddy, no need to get all shouty.

 
So, back to the original story, oh yes, the broken back tooth.  Last week, I started to get a tooth ache.  OK, no need to panic I thought, perhaps it’s just a fleeting problem. Fixed with a good dose of barley, wheat, hops and a long lie down.  Nope.   I would drink a coffee and it would feel like I had sucked a pin directly into the core of my teeth.  Equally as painful were cold drinks.  Oh shit.

 
So luckily I got into a dentist on a Saturday.  I trotted off, without any children in tow and told my husband I would go do the grocery shopping after my dentist appointment.  Little did I know I was about to feature in my own version of Saw 3. 

 
Immediately my lovely, young dentist started making what can only be described as clucking noises.  Then he said, “Hmm, we will need an x-ray to see how bad this hole is.  If it’s not fillable, then, well a root canal is an option or we might have to pull it”.  Me, full of bravado, “Just pull it out, no one can see it”.  Stupid, stupid me.
 

To be totally honest, I would be open to going through childbirth again before having another tooth pulled.   It took just over 20 minutes.  That’s twenty minutes, even with anaesthetic where I could feel every nerve tear, hear every bone crack and taste every drop of blood entering my throat.  And he just could. not. get. the. fucker. out.  Oh and apparently according to the dentist, it wanted to come out backwards.  No Mr Dentist, it is an inanimate object, don’t tell me what it’s thinking, just get it the feck out of my mouth.

 
He ran out of options.  My wisdom tooth was blocking it’s way apparently. That would be right.  So he told me he was leaving to go and get the big guns.  Some more tools.   I had my eyes shut and arms in standard brace position, so I didn’t see these extra special tools, but  I reckon it was just a pair of pliers. 

Suddenly, he was done.  He asked if I wanted to see the offending tooth.  Me:  “No thanks” He showed me anyway, quite chuffed he got such a gnarly tooth out of my head.  I paid the squillion dollars, they loaded me up with 4 packs of gauzes and some advice to get some “hardcore pain relief” stat.

Still undeterred and I’m pretty sure, in shock, I went and did my grocery shopping.  Starting to feel a bit woozy, I secured some Panadeine fort and got moving.  About half an hour from home, I realised my final guaze was soaked through.  Blood ahoy so to speak.

With no chemist in sight, I rifled through my handbag , praying for some tissues or baby wipes, anything to get me home.  Zilch.  What, I can somehow house an electric pencil sharpener and a Kinder Surprise in my handbag, but no fucking tissues?  Then I spotted it.  A tampon.  Look, I fully accept responsibility if you choose to turn away now.  I would.  But I had no choice.  My mouth was like a blood geyser .  I opened one up and shoved it in and bit down.  Hard.   The only thing that could be worse right now would be if I was pulled over by a policeman.   I can just imagine him on his radio back to the station.   “Yep, bringing in a tampon munching, Panadiene Forte popping lunatic, have the shrink on standby”.

Clearly I didn’t think this through.  Tampons expand with liquid.  You get the visual.

Right.   I think I’ve sufficiently humiliated myself. 

If you never want end up like me, go to the Dentist – REGULARLY.

SCRATCH THAT

Nits. Lice. Louse. Fecking crawling bloodsucking mites. Call them what you want, but I can guarantee, if you have children that attend day care or school, they will be coming to a familiar scalp nearest you.


The note came home today from Sams school. He’s in grade 2. “Please check your childs head, there’s been an outbreak of nits, blah blah blah, sign and return this to say you’ve checked and treated. Sure. I’ll check, treat, sign and return. But the mothers of the kids who heads are freaking well infested won’t, so it’s kinda pointless. I'm pretty sure this isn't what Elton John had in mind when he sang The Circle of Life.


Nits or lice are simply very small insects that live on the scalp of human beings. Oh and they feed and stay alive by SUCKING BLOOD FROM YOUR SCALP. Did I mention their sole purpose in life is to suck blood from your SKULL?


And when these creatures are having a little nibble, more often than not, preferring young, nubile heads to do so, they make that area incredibly itchy. Hence, the classroom full of head scratching children strikes fear into even the most hardened teacher.


I remember meeting my best friend, in her first year as a teacher for lunch. She was relaying the story of the nit infestation that had taken over her classroom. We were laughing and joking in only the way the unaffected and uninitiated can. Then, from seemingly nowhere, across her forehead, scurried an undeniable nit. My other friend and I both stared and like the children that we were, pointed and taunted. Hideous. Our punishment, it seemed, was due to be doled out some years later in the form of many, many lice infestations of our own.


Nits are nothing new. My mother swore by Pyrenol. I remember sitting as a seven year old, crying in our bathroom with the chemical foam on my head, burning my scalp and stinging my eyes. The only difference now is that we have so many options for treatment available to us.


Here are some of solutions I have tried:


KP24 - The most lethal chemical shit on the planet. I actually thought I had gone blind in one eye once, when using this stuff. Yes, that does mean that the dirty little mites have taken over my head from time to time. Imagine my joy when this happens. Trying to eliminate a thousand of the revolting little fucks from the most curly, knotty and wiry long hair on the planet.

Conditioner and Comb – To be honest, this appears to be the most effective way. Put mountains of generic conditioner into the hair which stuns the little buggers, brush and then get a good nit comb and section by section, comb and wipe on a tissue. When you get a live one, squish it between your fingernails. It may be just me, but that “pop” when you squash them is oddly satisfying. As is the hunt. When things were really bad, this was my daughter and I’s only time together.


Vegetable Oil through hair - I’ve never actually tried this as I am a bit dubious. Sure, it may well work, but being a walking greaseball is about as preferable as being a walking lice hatchery.

Electronic Nit comb – So, in absolute desperation, I decided something that is seventy bucks has GOT to work right? Wrong. All it did was give the kids electric shocks and kill a handful of nits.

Variety of “natural” non chemical solutions. – These are obviously genetically modified nits, the natural stuff was freaking useless.


Teatree oil/Lavender/Eucalyptus and Conditioner spray – I made this concoction myself. Crafty hey? And you know what, it works. I just have to be super vigilant about using it on my kids heads every single day. And it’s kind of like a beacon screaming “Hey look at me classmates, Nits hate my guts, not that I’ve ever had them or anything!” Maddie seriously hates it. UPDATE: I have been alerted to the fact that "Lavender oil has recently been implicated in gynecomastia, the abnormal development of breasts in young boys" So I suggest you don't use this method. I won't be now :(


And to be honest, she was the worst. I swear to god, late last year I reckon I could count the empty sacks at the base of her skull in the hundreds. Empty, meaning the rampant fuckers had at some stage walked her head and sucked her young blood. Twilight has nothing on my kid.


But this year, since Christmas 2009, she hasn’t had any. So that is nearly 6 months of being given the all clear. Too good to be true or just the age where it they miraculously disappear?


After finding only a few empty sacks on Sams head, I can only conclude, he’s a breeder. He simply incubates, hatches and then passes the special gifts onto his classmates. He’s such a giver.


Best go mix a batch of my special potion methinks.


I’ll leave you with this lovely quote from @thinkthinkers on Twitter “Often if I find the nursery is in one child's hair, the nightclub is in the others. #nits"

BLOGGERS WITHOUT MAKEUP

Over at Mummy Mayhem you can see why Jodie declared Friday, the 14th of May, Bloggers without makeup day.


Basically, we all love a magazine that shows us stars without their makeup and feel vindcated that those actors, singers and models, don't always look like goddesses 100% of the time.


So in the spirit of my blogging community, I present my picture of me - sans makeup. But to be fair, I probably won't look very different. I don't wear much makeup. Never grew up with it, Mum didn't really allow it. Plus I am really slack at applying it. Or learning how to properly apply it. Ask anyone who knows me.

But I fully back Jodie. We all see pics of say, Angelina Jolie who looks freaking amazing day or night and think, faark, a)that's why she has Brad Pitt co-parenting 6 children with her, b) where is her donut gut after popping out three children and c) where the hell are her crows feet.


Without further adieu:

COME ON OVER

Sometimes, for kicks, I go to friends houses where a thinly veiled invitation to a “party” has been issued. These parties usually involve passive aggressive women trying to flog overpriced plastic kitchen wares to me.


The thing is, I always feel like the third wheel at these things. Often times, it is a good friend hosting the party and I have that whole obligation thing going on and often I go with the resolution I will not be buying. I have all the kitchen or cleaning, or beauty stuff I need. Plus, as this stuff costs a fricken fortune, it goes against my bargain hunting, grain.


But, like any good red blooded woman, the pressure, and the hype, get to me and I buy something I really don’t fecking well need. As displayed on Friday night. Not only am I victim of peer pressure, clearly I am a gambler because I bought 2 lucky dip, Mystery Boxes for $25 each, guaranteed to be full of stuff worth $75. Now I’m home, I predict a lot of melon ballers and avocado keepers in my booty. Why didn’t I just go with the ice cube trays as per my original plan. Oh, that’s right, because they were 30 fricken dollars each.


My very first experience with a muli-level marketing party was when I was about eight. All I remember was that I was super excited about seeing my cousins. I distinctly remember Mum on the telephone asking my Aunty “This isn’t Amway is it?” I could hear my Aunty screeching down the line “nooooo, of course not Betty, just a new opportunity. Gullible Mum, gullible. So we get to their house, I nick off to play with my cousins Barbie Townhouse which I coveted, and left mum to it. About 10 minutes in, just when I had Barbie and Ken chowing down on their delicious dinner, Mum came in and reefed me out of the house. “C’mon, we are going home”. Above my protests, were my Auntys ones. “Betty – just wait and see, it’s so easy, it’s a goldmine!!”. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother so angry. Oh, except for the time she caught my brother lighting matches near the mango tree. Whole other story.


I do believe it is a certain type of woman who gets into the mult-level-marketing gig and make it their career. I mean, it doesn’t come without being a very social being. You would have to know people. Your business depends on it. And it also depends on you hitting up the new girl you just met at the park or Vera at the local shop to host a party at their own home.


And then, then, when you actually attend a party, the pressure is on the party host and her guests, to secure 2 more future party bookings then and there. If not, her first born is sold off to Craig McLaughlin and Check 1-2. Well, perhaps not that drastic, but she will definitely miss out on a delectable freezer container at the very least.


And look, don’t get me wrong, I’ve been to a few of these parties where “Enjo” was actually code for piss up, just not this one. I knew practically no-one which doesn’t bother me, but I guess, coming up against the pre-ordained masters of the Tupperware Party squad, caught me off guard.


There were two ladies in particular, who were referred to often by the presenter about how good the rice cooker/clear plastic container/roasting dish was. Look, by the sounds of it, they had all the plastic crap they could handle so clearly they were just there for the free organic coconut bread and Tim Tams.


At one stage, my friend showed all the women her incredibly organised, yet Tupperwareless cupboards. One of the chicks piped up with “Now, imagine how much better your cupboard would look if you had all of that in Modular Mates”. Standing off to the side, I replied, “Yeah but that would mean she’d have to marry a Packer”. Crickets. I got nothing. They had a mole in their midst, in more ways than one.


And what about the “fun” games they play? We played a very fun game called Indian Giver. Well not, but may as well have been. We all had our names put twice into a bowl and then the host picks out a whole heap of random shit she can’t offload and puts it on the prize table. If your name gets called out, you pick a prize. The next person who gets called out, can either take something off the prize table, or, alternatively, take the item you just chose, off you. And so it goes, until everyone’s names has been called twice and items have been stolen off one another. So, aim of the game, be called last. Anyhoo, one chick, who was a neighbour, had to leave half way through the game as her child got upset. At this stage she had a container in her possession. By the end of the game, it was gone. She came back and was spewing. “So what happened when my second name got called out? How did you make a decision on my behalf on what I would have wanted?” Um. Fuck. Off. It’s a game. Of Tupperware.


And all I could think when playing was, thank god they don’t play this game with a bunch of toddlers. Imagine the apocalyptic style meltdowns those kids would have when little Billy nicked Katies newly claimed Polly Pocket. Actually, come to think of it, that would be more tolerable. At least two year olds are meant to be immature.


So I stayed for the obligatory hour or so and to the chorus of talk about school cupcake decorating and debates over the merits of Baby monitors, I slunk off home. Next time, if there is a next time, I hope at least they get a decent game of Duck, Duck Goose going.

MOTHERS DAY

Shorncliffe Pier

Yesterday was Mothers Day and as planned, we took Mum's ashes up to Shorncliffe Pier and released her ashes.


We also sent her fathers ashes with her, which have sat in her wardrobe for more than 25 years.
Mum with us not so long ago

So, Jack dressed as a self proclaimed "Bad Batman", and we all hopped in the car for the two hour drive.


Jack in Bad Batman mode.

Then, as a family we all walked out to the pier and found a spot on the very busy pier that we could release the ashes without the fear of some poor fisherman, minding his own business, copping a lashing of Mum dust.



Yesterday was a picture perfect day. And was exactly what we wanted for Mum.

Happy Mothers Day and Love you Mum x




My brother, Les & I

I should also mention, I got spoilt rotten by my husband who was slave for a day (his words not mine) and Maddie, Sam and Jack who gave me the best give of all, kisses and cuddles.

FLY, BE FREE

Mum dying last year happened so fast. To this day, I still don’t think I have digested it. If that’s the right word.


I eventually got off my procrastinating arse, and actually went and picked up her ashes from the crematorium. I put this off and missed at least two appointments to collect her. This is not like me. At. All. I turn up to appointments. I make sure I’m on time. And if, for some unforseen reason I can’t, I call. But twice, I put the appointment totally out of my mind. Not even realising until days later that I failed to show.


And poor Mum. Sitting there, alongside Bob or Margaret or June. Waiting for me to come and get her off the shelf. And look, I know that’s not her. I watched her die. I know she was no longer with her body. I get that, but we’ve got stuff in store for Mum. Stuff she will like.


So, on a sunny day in April, on my way to a gym class, I kept my appointment, and Maddie and I went in and picked up the plastic container with the engraved "Betty Joan Clarke" silver plate on the front, packed in what seemed like an inappropriate gift bag, and put it on the front seat and drove away.


I saw another psychic yesterday. Granted, the second one I’ve seen in 6 months, but this one, this one was different. Everything she said was 100 percent SPOT. FUCKING. ON. Like the fact:


Jack is a firecracker and will need major boundaries – Check.

Sam is very sensitive, yet can be distant and is smart in the areas he is interested in. Check.

We want to and will sell our house soon. Check.

I like to write. Check.

My mother passed on recently. Check.


All this without one ounce of pre-admission from me. You just can’t pluck this shit out of the air.


So, with that, she told me that mum was very close to me. With me, so to speak. And that Mum was frustrated. Frustrated it was all taken away from her so quickly and she wasn’t ready. This of course panicked me. I mean, the afterlife is like, forever, I don’t want her upset over there. The psychic assured me, she’s fine, she’s with her dad, my grandfather, who she missed and adored immensely. I wondered where her Mum was, who died when she was a young child, but I never asked.


But she told me, and hey, look, I am one of the worlds biggest sceptics, so please don’t think I’ve become a hippy freak over night, that whilst I held back my tears, she couldn’t move on. Not just yet.


And believe me, I’m not deliberately not grieving mum. I’m not deliberately, not losing my shit and sitting in a corner for a week, wailing. I just haven’t had the urge, or is it the time, yet.


By my very nature, I’m not an emotional person. Or a crier. I’m the strong one. I make sure everyone else is OK. And I recognise the fact that this is not always healthy for the body or mind. But it’s me and you can’t change the way you react or act, overnight.


So, this Sunday, Mothers Day, we, my family and my brothers, are going to meet in Shorncliffe, my Mum’s most loved town. This is where she was married. This is where we returned to some years ago and she pointed out her past to us and gave us a glimpse into her life before her life with us. A life before it got complicated I guess.


This is where we will take her ashes and walk to the end of the pier. And we will release them out to sea. Her best friend and sister-in-law tell me she loved the sea there. Not here so much, but there, yes .


Consequently, I reckon, this week, I may just take a little break from blogging.


Every day, we should be kind to one another, but on Sunday, the designated “mothers day”, if you’re mum is close, give her a squeeze, she’s pretty special.

DISAPPOINTMENT IS FOUR LETTER WORD

I am finding it increasingly difficult to get quality shit-scardness out of my 3yo. Bear with me while I explain.


See, Jacks’s one of these kids who was basically born standing up and drinking coffee. He can do most everything himself and usually does so, with a fair bit of skill. He can kick a ball, he can throw a punch (ask his eight year old brother) and he can dress (more often undress) himself with relative ease. And what he can’t do himself, he will attempt and crack the mother of all tantrums if it all proves too hard. At this stage, and only at this stage, will he begrudgingly ask for help. This is not without a fair bit of crying, whinging and moments when I think his head might spin 360 degrees.


Usually though, he needs little assistance from me. I guess what I’m trying to say, without sounding like I making out my kid is ready for Mensa, is that Jack is pretty switched on. Granted, way more street smart than book smart, but then again, I don’t flash card the shit out him either.


So that being said, discipline is hard because not a lot phases him. I’ve tried the smack, it’s all a bit meh, with me feeling like a child beater and it getting us nowhere, so that’s been nixed. I’ve tried the time out. He’ll just go back and do it again, the minute he’s out of toddler-jail. I’ve threatened to take stuff off him; he’s walked in and handed it to me. I’ve told him I’m going to pull the car over and he’ll have to walk home, he’s told me to pull over at the next red light we stop at. I am trying to outwit a 3 year old and I am failing. And I shouldn’t be, I mean I’ve had two before him who, whilst not angels, I could always control to a certain degree.


Perhaps this is just me getting my own back.


I was pretty straight at school. Until about year 10 that is. That’s when I got suspended. For taking drugs on a school trip. Then I was Bernie Drug. And the thing is, I hadn’t even smoked pot. I took a bucketload of travel sickness tablets and got faceless. Of course I wasn’t alone, we all did it, but I’m the only stupid one, who went running through the bushes in Canberra in Winter with no shoes on. And so, I got busted, and suspended.


I went home and lied through my teeth. I told Mum I had taken panadol with coca-cola. She of course, believed her previous to this, always straight-laced daughter. The fact I let her go to the school and meet with the principal and unwittingly defend me and be made a fool, still haunts me to this day. What kind of little bitch was I? A big one that’s what. So Mum found out the truth, could barely speak to me for weeks and was terrified I was now a drug addict. To be honest, drug wise, it may be the best thing that ever happened to me. I haven’t touched anything worse in my life. That’s because I had remorse and I was scared of disappointing my mother. My teachers, by boss at the times, my friends’ parents.


And I think as kids get older, that’s where the discipline will come from. Not wanting to disappoint the person or people they admire.


In fact, at kindy, they use this a lot. “When you just kicked Tyler in the back of the leg then Jack, that really disappointed Miss Jo” Cue lip drop and lots of tears. See, at Child care Centres they are not allowed to say “No” or negative words. Or Smack. Or yell. Holy hell, those kindy teachers deserve a pay rise and a trip to Mauritius.


So I tried this on Jack today. I told him “how disappointed I was in him”. He immediately looked distraught and his lip quivered.

“No you’re not Mummy, don’t say that!”. He was trying to hush my mouth up.

“Oh but I am Jack, you have let me down today slamming doors after I told you to stop”.

“No, mummy, I haven’t let you dooooowwwwnnn” and he lost it. Mission accomplished. Seems those kindy teachers are onto something.



So now, with my new plan of attack and my words of discontent, I will try a new way of discipline. Looks like I'll be needing those flash cards after all.