Showing posts with label Hurricane Jack. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hurricane Jack. Show all posts

Thursday, December 9, 2010


It’s the end of a very big year for teachers.  They’ve no doubt been ripped a new one by either Principal or parent at some point during the year for some ridiculous reason. Without doubt they are over algebra, spelling tests and Frosty the fucking snow man and just want to go the hell home.

And we, as parents need to recognise, the fact that they have had our children for 6 hours a day, 5 days a week for roughly 44 weeks of a year.  Probably more waking hours than you and I when you think about it.    Of course, it is our God given right as parents to whinge profusely about the amount of holidays our kids and their teachers receive but let’s be honest, we’re all just pissed we weren’t more onto it when carving out our own career paths.

But seriously, I prepare enough teachers Tax returns to see that they, like so, so many of our undervalued public servants, need to be paid more.  I mean, they hold the most important job in their hands.  Whether you have children or not, surely it is obvious that these guys have one of the most significant jobs in the land?  A good teacher is worth more than any FIFA world cup bid or footbridge, yet the government still seem oblivious to this.  To keep good people, you must reward.    Anyhoo, I will just stand down from my red soapbox now because this is not what this post is supposed about.

It’s about alcohol.  And the gifting of said alcohol.  Well teacher gifts anyway.

Sam has 4 teachers.  Unusual yes, but he has 3 teachers who jobshare his class and one main SEU (Special Education Unit) Teacher.  Hence, they received two massive boxes of Cadbury Favourites between them.  Maddison had a top teacher this year who also was a chocolate fiend.  Jacks, well I know what Jack is like.  I knew she’d need medicating.  So I asked around and apparently her drink of choice is Vodka. 

We've rolled up to the drive-thru BWS with the kids fully freaking out.  “Why are we here?”  “You said we were getting Miss Jo a present!”  “All they sell in this place is ALCOHOL!!”  Yes kids, natures remedy for a god awful day.  Something with which I think Miss Jo is all too familiar with.

This morning, Jack ran in, all fresh faced, happy as Larry, excited to find his teacher in the playground and present her with a bottle of very nice “Bodka”  He practically screamed across to her “Miss Jo!!!, we have some alkyhole for you!!!!  But I don’t want you to have a hangover!"  Cue wailing.   Oh. Dear.  Note well, there is no way he learned about hangovers from his mother.  None at all.

What do you do for the teachers?

Monday, August 23, 2010


Whatchoo Talkin Bout Willis?

I have a three year old.  Therefore I am fairly used to monumental scale meltdowns in public places.    I wouldn’t say that they embarrass me anymore, they just gives me the shits.  And actually, after three children, I think I'm pretty used to situations where large scale humiliation is the norm.  But every now and again, I get a lovely surprise and it becomes obvious that these children aren't quite finished with me yet. 

First up, it needs to be said that Jack is a very loud child.  I know, I know, all kids are loud, but do they all nearly make your ears bleed when they talk at you?  I start to feel uncomfortable these days if a perfectly good conversation isn't interrupted by Jack at a thousand decibels.  And before you ask, his hearing is fine, he just wants to be heard.   And heard he is.

He was certainly heard when, at a recent visit to the Ekka, in a crowd of thousands, he yelled in his best big boy voice “Mum, you don’t hurt my doodle anymore!” {Clarification: When he sits on my hip, it must squash his nuts, apparently this stopped happening at the Ekka}

Only just the other day he told his kindy teacher that “Mum makes me bend over and touches my bum” {Clarification: I ask him to turn around so I can wipe his bottom after he does a poo, nothing as incriminating as he’d have his teachers believe}

Kindy is certainly fertile ground for embarrassing a parent.    I ask Jack every afternoon he attends, what he did that day at kindy.  Without fail his response is "I didn't play pull your pants down"  {Translation: it probably means he did play pull your pants down and like you, I assume this  involves pulling pants down - MORTIFIED}

And of course there was last week when, happily perusing the jam packed DVD section at our local Big W, he came out with this pearler directed at me: "Who are You?"  I vaguely replied with "Your mummy silly".  He then used his usual deafening tone to exclaim "You're not my Mummy, I don't have a Mummy, leave me alone, Lady, Man. Helllllp!!"  and leaned out and latched onto a young couple who were mortified.  They weren't the only ones.  Hello Store security.

But the most unenviable position that I imagine every parent, no, actually scrap that, every adult has found themselves in, is the public toilet shaming.

You know how it goes.  It's a toilet, you've got business to do and let's be honest, if it could wait until you could get home, you wouldn't be there. But there you are minding your own business when you hear this from the adjacent cubicle from a booming 3 year old: 

"What’s that smell?"

Me: "Nothing, we are in a toilet Jack!"

"No it’s your bum mum, it stinks, is that a snake between your legs?".  Kill me now.

But at least they come in handy from time to time.  Just yesterday I had one of those shirtless, punkified  windscreen washers approach me to wash my car windscreen.  I motioned with a very fierce NO!  He still continued over to my car with his squeegee raised.  He should add lip reading to his cleaning resume, because he got the message and walked on by.  That's when Jack thought he might just clarify the situation, put his window down and say to the guy walking past  "Keep on walking dickhead". Ot Oh.  My bad.

How about you?  Have your kids dropped you in it?

Tuesday, July 20, 2010


So this isn't original.  In fact I swiped it off Jodie at Mummy-Mayhem who I think may have in turn, borrowed it from another great blogger.  It's an interview with my children.  Maddie 10, Sam 8 and Jack 3.

Can I urge you to do the same.  Even if you don't write or blog.  Ask the questions, write them down and update them when you remember. Then give them to your children when they grow up.

I wish I had an insight into my own ten year old mind.  Although it probably would have been all about my anguish over my shameful decision to cut my hair like a boy and desperate desire to read Dolly magazine. 

1. What do you want to do when you grow up?

  • 10yo: A teacher.  (Good choice, heaps of holidays and job security)
  • 8yo:  A Train Driver.  (Nice, just be weary of that bastard fat controller)
  • 3yo: A grownup.  (Probably the longest shot of all. Who want's to be a grownup when you actually have to be?)
2. How old are you?

  • 10yo: Ten turning eleven (most important to clarify at this age)
  • 8yo: 8
  • 3yo: 3

3. How old am I? 

  • 10yo: 35 (Correct)
  • 8yo: 10 (Sucking up. I like it)
  • 3yo:  4 (Going too far, I can spot a teachers pet a mile away)

4. How old is Dad?

  • 10yo: 38 (Also true.)
  • 8yo: 81 (Bwahahhaha)
  • 3yo: 4 (At least he's not my sugar daddy)

5. What do you like most about school/daycare?

  • 10yo: English (Good girl.  Now just write another Twilight saga and we can retire on the beach)
  • 8yo: Integrated Studies (This could be a made up subject)
  • 3yo: Chocolate.  (Hmmm, that's the reason he's off tap when I pick him up)

6. What do you like to do outside?

  • 10yo: Talk to friends (And recreate Bold & the Beautiful Style dramas I believe)
  • 8yo: Play on the playground (I'm guessing this doesn't include the the time he broke his arm into two separate pieces)
  • 3yo: Playing Tennis/Raking Dirt (I can see why these two would be a close call)

7. What do you like to do inside? 

  • 10yo: Watch TV (True Dat)
  • 8yo: Work (The Nike Sweatshop has nothing on us apparently)
  • 3yo: Hanging out in my room (Stockholm syndrome, he's often relegated there for being a turd)

8. What is your favourite toy? 

  • 10yo: My DS.
  • 8yo: My Lego
  • 3yo: Batman

9. What is your favourite game?

  • 10yo: Monopoly (Until she starts to lose that is, then it sucks the big one)
  • 8yo: Lego
  • 3yo: Batman

10. Do you have a favourite TV show? 

  • 10yo: Modern Family (Mine too)
  • 8yo: Tom & Jerry (Sam is a T & J freak)
  • 3yo: Batman (Hmm, recurring theme?)

11. Do you have a favourite movie?

  • 10yo: Eclipse (Twilight) 
  • 8yo: Transformers (Because ultimately, Sam Morley would like to be Sam Witwicky)
  • 3yo: Batman (I think he thinks he's Robin)

12. Do you have a favourite book?

  • 10yo: Eclipse (Pasty vampires & love triangles, perhaps I should start censoring)
  • 8yo: Tornadoes (Infatuated with natural disasters)
  • 3yo: Batman  (Enough with the batman)

13. What's your favourite colour?

  • 10yo: Purple
  • 8yo: Red
  • 3yo: Green, Black and White (Why not?)

14. What's your favourite number?

  • 10yo: 100
  • 8yo: 1
  • 3yo: 3 - that's my birfday Mum. 

15. What's your favourite food?

  • 10yo: Pasta Bake (Which we NEVER have)
  • 8yo: Apples
  • 3yo: Batman Food

16. What is something that is really good for you?

  • 10yo: Bananas
  • 8yo: A haircut. (Let's face it, a bloody good one can lift your spirits)
  • 3yo: Not hitting (Yes son, good because you spend less time incarcerated in your room)

17. Do you have a favourite friend?

  • 10yo: Alissa
  • 8yo: Zack
  • 3yo: Georgia (Also can be classified as his girlfriend)

18. What time do you usually go to bed? 

  • 10yo: 9pm (On a slack night, true)
  • 8yo: 9:30pm (Um, maybe in fantasy land)
  • 3yo: 54 (Still working on the whole time concept)

19. What time do you wake up? 

  • 10yo: 7am (Unless of course no one wrestles her out of bed, then anywhere up until midday)
  • 8yo: When Jack wakes me up (Correctamundo.  Ditto for the rest of the family)
  • 3yo: When Mum & Dad wake up (deluded)

20. Anything else you’d like to add?

  • 10yo: No
  • 8yo: My favourite science is Hurricane  (Well hop to it and learn to read Storm Chaser)
  • 3yo: I like playing in the playground. (I wonder why he forgot to mention how much he loves to block the toilet with unidentified objects?)

Thanks for reading, direct me to yours if you do something similar :)

Monday, May 24, 2010


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.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010


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.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

The Hard Knock Life.

So the kids go back to school on Wednesday. And you know what? They still aren’t particularly keen to get on board that particular groove train.

Oh I’m sorry. 8 weeks holiday not long enough for you sunshine?

This time of year always catches me by surprise, even though I get plenty of warning. I mean how do prepare for a six - eight week period every year where the kids are in freefall. No more routine, no more hot devon lunches (my child requests these, please do not think I would enforce Devon on ANYBODY) and no homework.

And it should be a time to get loose I guess. They’ve worked hard now haven’t they? They’ve had to endure countless stolen HB pencil incidents, fights in the schoolyard over whose handball they should use and let’s not forget the tough and gruelling fun run on the beach where my daughter consumed 5 sausage sandwiches. Ahh the hard knock life.

But now it’s all over, I returned to work on Monday which as always was a nice change after having absolutely no structure or point to my days for four weeks. On the downside, it put a stop to wine o’clock each arvo.

My office shuts down for four weeks over Christmas/New Year. My husbands’ work for two. We used to take the entire four weeks off together. This year that idea was sidelined due to two major problems. Number one, we were eating air sandwiches come Australia Day due to lack of funds and number two, my husband and I were ready to stage a WWF Smackdown versing each other by week 3. To Mr and Mrs Morley being together 24 hours a day /7 days a week – Computer Says No.

On the brightside, the hot x buns are already a daily special at Woolworths and the chocolate eggs on the shelves. Won't be long until the kids will be downing tools again. When I grow up, I want to be a kid....

Oh on a sidenote, today, after 3 weeks of the most prime swimming weather ever, Jack got his casts off his broken arms, and finally, got to have a glorious swim, carefree down the Broadwater.

Sunday, January 3, 2010


Is this it? Please tell me it is? So, I last left you on New Years day, safe in the knowledge that the world is still turning yet still slowing down to throw the Morleys off at the 1st FUCK YOU stop on the itinerary.

Last night, I was having the best sleep I’d had in a long time. So deep in sleep was I that I didn’t realise the deep base coming from Kid Rocks Sweet Home Alabama rip-off was actually coming from down the street and not from a bogan nightmare. See the fuckstick neighbours who I have blogged about before, didn’t actually move. Well they did, but just one house further down the street and merged with another group of dipshits. So now they have just become one gigantic home of dumb arses living in the one house. I honestly didn’t think they could cohabitate and not blow themselves up, but 6 months on it’s all still standing, so there you go.

Anyway, back to last night. I had spent a good part of yesterday, back at the Emergency department of the Hospital getting our 3yo’s second hand put in a cast. Oh yeah. Apparently it is a good idea to check the ENTIRE kid out when he falls from his fathers 6ft shoulders. Hey, I know I’m not a doctor by profession but seriously, how hard is it? So the little man is home, seriously zonked after some painkillers, two arms in casts, looking like he’s done a few rounds with the ear biter Tyson and he is finally having a serious nights sleep only to be woken by these tossers who turn on the shittiest song in the world on their sub-woofers in their van, at 2am in the morning.

Obviously I just lost it. I have seen the stupid girl who lives there get out of a taxi and I have screamed at her “Tell you’re stupid fucking friends to turn off that music before I called the cops you dumbshit”. She ran. Fast. And the music was off within about 30 seconds. Apparently a 34 year old woman screaming like a banshee and clearly on the edge is enough to scare stupid people. Take note.

3yo woke up this morning and hurled. Not a big one. Just enough to let us know “hey guys, just because I’ve got two casts on my arms doesn’t mean I’ve finished with you yet” A few high temps, a failed attempt to take him to the “after hours” doctor and we are here. Home, on high alert.

So I know, in the scheme of the world, the above is not the worst that could befall us this new year. I get that, but I just want a little break from the roller coaster ride. Just for a little bit.

Sunday, December 20, 2009


I attempted to shop like a man. I really did. I had a list, I had a purpose and I had a time limit. I tried and I failed.

I am a woman and like any good one, I shop spectacularly. Meaning I browse, I compare prices and I will walk the concourse of the biggest shopping centre in Australia, only to double back if the item I want is $5 cheaper at Point A.

This Christmas is a little different. Usually I am fairly organised. I, by this time of the year, would normally have stashed an amazing amount of presents in the shed, had a food list ready, purchased and refrigerated and be sitting around just waiting for the day to roll around. Wait, no I wouldn’t. I’m crap at that stuff.

I wish I was a person who could say that. “Oh I hit the midyear Target toy sale hard and got everything for an absolute bargain and now just have to perfect my signature Brandy Eggnog Snap Rocket Juice and I’ll be good to go”. But I’m not. Now’s a good time to recognise this goal will never be realised.

So once again, I find myself in the position, 5 days out from Christmas with feck all food in the house, 10% of presents secured and limited time up my sleeve.

When I’m not working, I have three kids with me. One in a perpetual sulk mode, one who will not stop talking about the word manoeuvre and one who is just working on a plan to firebomb the local shopping centre so he never has to return. Needless to say, shopping with kids this close to the big day is outski.

All I can say is thank Jebus for late night shopping. It is my saviour. So if you a spot a curly haired, dishevelled woman, possibly talking to herself and wearing inappropriate shopping shoes wandering around on Christmas Eve, don’t be alarmed, it’s just me.

This time next week, it will all be over for another year. The kids will be as wrecked as the new remote control monster truck on the bedroom floor and we, the parents, will be putting the last dregs of prawns and beer into the wheelie bin.

And then someone will crack a joke about there being 364 days until we have to do it all again. And whilst no one will find this remotely funny, we will all laugh and quietly wish a particularly harsh gastro bug upon that person.

Happy Shopping! Oh and Merry Christmas.