Boring
By · CommentsI don’t like to discuss, in any way, shape or form, the toileting habits of my 3 year old.
I don’t status update (oooh, he did a poo today – I’m so proud of him!), I don’t blog about it (he’s doing so well with his toilet training, he’s done 3 wees today, and no accidents) and I don’t bring it up with conversations with my friends. Or anyone else, either.
It’s boring and, honestly, I really don’t want to hear about your children’s shit. I have enough at home to deal with. I get you’re excited – and know exactly why you are, but I don’t need or want a blow by blow account of bodily excretions. I certainly don’t want a number applied to it.
It. Is. Boring.
I’m going to break that rule, ever so slightly, to ask something.
How fucking boring is it being forced to stand around beside a frigging toilet waiting for your pre-schooler to finish a poo?
It’s not even like he needs me there. I think I’m going to have to redo our bathroom so it’s more entertaining for me. At the very least, install a PC or laptop stand so I can continue working.
On the right Tooth Fairy Track
By · CommentsI’ve just been reminded, yet again, that the Tooth Fairy has neglected to visit.
I’d like to be able to use the “we were away and maybe the Tooth Fairy doesn’t come when you’re away” excuse.
Well, technically, I did use that excuse. I received an eye rolling and frowny look in response.
It would be a good excuse if, say, the tooth came out just before we went away for the weekend.
But it didn’t. Nor did it come out whilst we were away. Or even the night before we left.
No, it came out last Tuesday evening. It is also possible it was actually Monday evening.
That makes it a whole week ago now.
No, the “we were away” excuse is not cutting it.
And Grumpy did mention something a few days ago. Something like “You forgot the Tooth Fairy again.”
To which I replied with all I had.
“Oh, so you did it then? Thank you.”
Or course, he didn’t. It’s not his job, apparently. It is merely his job to remind me of my incompetence at times.
The very same incompetence my 11 year old has threatened to sue the Tooth Fairy over if the very job they are required to do is not performed in a reasonable time frame.
Escape 2
By · CommentsAfter a relatively restful overnight sleep, it was up and about for another day of fun and adventure.
I need an adrenaline rush every now and again. I need to do something active, and heart pumping and preferably slightly dangerous. I need fun and excitement of a physical kind.
Grumpy is a bit reluctant to agree to me jumping out of a plane again (in my defence, I don’t like heights … work with me here, it makes sense, really) and I just haven’t made the time. Been there, done that, wanna try other stuff.
Breakfast was had, and we set off for a model train exhibition. I really did make the attempt to not do anything train related, but we are being followed.
Chippie insisted on wearing his tail the entire day.
And on having screaming tanties and freaking out if he lost it.
Trains done – finally – we head back to the playground of last night, ran around like crazy, ate, drove boats, including a crash with another boat (Grumpy, again – he’s good at that) and off to the beach for some beachy type stuff.
Being far too cold for such activities, the older kids rolled up their pants and wandered into a creek-like body of water to explore some “caves” over the other side. Chippie, determined to follow, but freaking out about water, removed his shoes and stepped in.
He immediately screamed “Is cold! I don’t want dis!” and continued to walk through and out the other side. Of course. Crying the whole way.
I’m sure it made perfect sense in his own head.
Attempts to change his wet pants resulted in loss of the only plastic bag I had available in which to place wet clothing – love when I’m organised and the Universe mocks me. Bastard!
Warm clothes and shoes donned, we wander around a cliff-top path and find the opportunity to climb up, over and around rocks, and freak out other parents, causing them to tut loudly and comment over our allowing our kids (and ourselves) to climb up, over and around rocks.
Windswept, wind burnt and physically tired, we head home.
Not, of course, without first having to referee some more “he touched me”, “well he looked at me first”, “well he was in my way, even though he was there first and walked up behind him and told him to move and he didn’t” fun and excitement.
It wouldn’t be a family day without it, would it?
Escape!
By · CommentsAfter this morning’s dangerous trip to the shops, fraught with iPods and bizarrely brained children and zombies I was in need of an escape.
“Let’s go away for the night,” I suggest.
Because there’s nothing quite like spontaneity to add some fun to your life.
So we pack some lunch to have along the way, despite it being lunchtime as we do so, pack overnight bags and pack the car. We even remember jackets this time.
Then we pack ourselves in and off we go.
The children entertain themselves by doing such fun things as touching each other and looking at each other, working Chippie up into a state so that he hits them, pulls their hair and yells and screams very loudly.
“Stop!” I say.
“Use your Inside The Car voice!” I continue.
“ARGH! HE TOUCH MY CHAIR!” Chippie screams at me.
“I meant the other Inside The Car voice,” I tell him. “Not the one you usually use. The one that is appropriate to use inside the confines of a car and doesn’t deafen everyone. That Inside The Car voice.”
“ARGH!” he replies. ‘HE LOOK AT ME!”
And I contemplate tossing them all out. Then decide I think I’d prefer to hop out myself and go and have some nice quiet time by myself. I open the packet of lollies instead.
We make it as far as Colac where we stop and check out a car show (*shudder* but that’s a long story about my previous life that I may or may not discuss, depending on whether anyone is interested or not), eat a very belated lunch and set off again.
Next stop: Warrnambool, where we have booked some last minute accommodation which is not, as Grumpy thought, a motel, but a series of cabins. No matter. We’re only using it to sleep in. And, you know, run around screaming, jumping on beds and fighting with our siblings etc.
A walk is in order, partly to get some blood flow back into our legs after sitting for hours, and in order to hunt for food for the evening meal.
Chippie turns on his feral and starts screaming and crying and wanting to be carried and Grumpy tries to distract him by collect what we think is Norfolk Island pine tree “fruit” and telling him it is a penis.
And so commences the tone of discussion for our walk.
They all collect some of the fronds from the trees, Chippie insisting he utilise his for a tail, Monkey Boy went for light sabre and Godzilla just collected a heap. Grumpy whipped everyone with his, because, clearly, everyone was far too happy and content and some disgruntlement was required.
We wandered to the train station, where Chippie performed an “I wanna see-a train!” tantrum and was most pissed off we did not produce one for him.
We wandered up and down streets, located dinner, returned back to our cabin, ate, the discussion turned to the topic of farts, and included a challenge. Basically, they each had to create a fart-like noise with their mouth and each one had to be different.
There was no prize. Nor even a winner. Just the fun of doing it.
I wondered what the appeal was – or which lunatic came up with the suggestion – of having the TV off during evening meal time? I was tempted to turn The Simpsons on for a bit of subdued discussion. It is WAY more appropriate that some of the content of the topics in our household.
Instead, Grumpy suggested another walk. I was all for it, until I recalled the talk during out walk only hours earlier.
Thankfully, we located a playground, complete with awesome flying fox and a maze and everyone was otherwise distracted
Still, I did learn a few things during our walks, and spending time with my kids:
- it is entirely possibly to talk about penises for two hours straight
- if you feed Chippie he is less likely to throw tantrums … don’t you hate that? He’s being revolting, you feed and then you think “oh, yeah – duh!” Idiot
- “Mendies” are ladies with penises
- There is along and convoluted process that goes on in your brain to come up with this and, as a mother, it can break your mind trying to work it out
- “mendies” is “men” and “ladies” combined … obviously!
- despite my sometimes thinking otherwise, there are children who are far worse and way more rude, obnoxious and revolting than my own … the one at the playground who kicked and pushed my 3 year old for no reason other than to be a little C***, you are one of them
- despite my sometimes thinking otherwise, I’m not such bad a mother
- despite already have spoken about penises for two hours straight, it is actually possible to come up with more things to discuss about penises …
The Dangers of iPods and Zombies
By · CommentsA walk up the street was in order.
For two reasons. We were out of coffee and milk, and the kids needed to do something that required more than just their thumb muscles. The standard nagging and persistent requesting and telling ensued and they became clothed and shod. Miraculously. And only after a series of words, placed appropriately in a well structured sentence that included such things as “Lego shop” and “not going” and “unless you get dressed now”.
Ta da!
They have both requested their iPods come along so they can “listen to music”. I can’t see why not. Well, not until we are approximately a metre and a half from the front gate. It is at this point I can see what a terrible idea iPods, children and a 1.5km walk (3 k round trip) is going to be.
Monkey Boy is listening to one song on his, and this, because of the location of the song (located inside a game) requires him to be pulling it out of his pocket and fiddling with the screen to replay it. I put a stop to that.
Godzilla appears to be afflicted by that horrible disorder whereby he is unable to walk and listen to music at the same time. Tragic. He is also intently holding the pocket in which his iPod is located very tightly. This is not helping his ability to coordinate.
We make it to our destination, purchase what we need, send Godzilla back to get another can of cat food, which takes all of ten minutes due to the slow walk; a result of intense listenting and concern for this pocket contents. I complete that task.
The whole concept is starting to freak me out when I had to resort to my behaviour of some six years ago where I was yelling “STOP!” every time they went near a road.
A take a deep, calming breath and, with a shaky-from-stress voice I say “I don’t think bringing your iPods is a good idea. It’s not happening again. This is how people get dead.”
I go on to list the reasons, because “this is how people get dead” is not explanatory enough, apparently.
- It’s dangerous
- You’re not watching where you’re going
- You’re walking into people
- You’re not concentrating
- You’ve nearly stepped onto the road several times withouth looking
- You’re crossing roads without looking or paying attention
Godzilla clearly, immediately grasps exactly what I’m saying.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Especially when you’re singing the song on Plants vs Zombies, that bit that says “there’re zombies on your la-awn” and people think there are zombies on their lawn and they go home and there aren’t any zombies! That’s really annoying.”
Um … yes.
“It would be really funny if people got sucked into their iPods.”
And we went home.
Appropriate Dinner Conversation
By · CommentsAfter a highly productive day, having been left to my own devices, aside from a much needed walk in the morning to devoid self and house of 3 year old, I was ready to “celebrate my successes”. This is one of my “things” for 2012; to acknowledge and celebrate when I do good stuff.
It is, of course, an area I am not familiar with, what with having neglected it for so long, and I wasn’t keen on filling it with wine or chocolate. I mean, they’re just both a Thing I Do Almost Daily, so the really hold little to no celebratory appeal. No, not even the “good” chocolate, because I only ever eat good chocolate so, you know.
I summoned up the enthusiasm to celebrate, only to discover three year old (now home from childcare) ensconced in Thomas, the older two incapable of coherent anything, eyes glued to their iPods, and Grumpy Pants in a similar state of awareness – or lack thereof – of anything going on around him thanks to the Cricket.
After faffing for a bit to kill some time and eventually concluded that if celebratory behaviours were to commence they sure as hell were going to rely solely on me and probably – seemingly – not involve any other living being in this house. Except maybe the goldfish. Instead, I figured I’d better cook something and feed offspring and the like. Let’s face it, no one else was going to.
Also, I like cooking.
Tonight’s fare: Roast chicken and pumpkin risotto that I plan to fuck up. Again.
I’m good at this particular dish. Especially the “fucking it up” part. I do that well.
I entered the kitchen, performed my pre-cooking ritual, a la “Where’s my fucking wine?!” and commence the preparation. Meanwhile, the conversation behind me went like this:
Grumpy: “Cricket”
Chippie: “NO! Thomas!”
Grumpy: “Cricket”
Chippie: “Thomas!”
Et cetera. Et cetera. Until I put in my Christmas iCan’tHearYou and sung some Lady Gaga very loudly, and very badly. Deliberately badly, not just my usual badly.
That shut them up. Or, at least, I think it did. I couldn’t hear them, anyway.
I was disrupted by my recalling I had suggested we have garlic bread with dinner. I was going to make it. Or, rather, I had successfully delegated this task to Monkey Boy, who was most keen to undertake it. I yelled for him. A lot. He yelled back, but funnily enough I couldn’t hear him.
He eventually wanders out and into a discussion between Godzilla and I, whereby Godzilla is trying to inform me that garlic bread can not possibly be eaten with risotto as you do not eat garlic bread with risotto and that risotto is not Italian and he thought we were having Italian.
I was attempting to explain otherwise, but once he has an idea in his head, that is it. So I resorted to some sensible and rational explaining of foods and cultures and such things to him, which foods go with what, how foods work together and the rest; all summed up, of course, with a succinct “Well, I’m cooking and this is what we’re having, so ner!”
He stomped off, crying.
Monkey Boy took on the role of Garlic Bread Maker, following my instructions and eating the garlic chives I have accidentally grown in the back yard.
(I have, on many occasion, attempted to grow various herbs and vegetables. They have all died. Except for the ones that I had nothing to do with , and have never tended to. In fact, I didn’t even know we had them … )
He them did a bit of Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle – yeah! action whilst I’m attempting to crush garlic, stir aborio rice and drink my wine. Which wasn’t terribly helpful. Nor was it getting the garlic butter made, or the bread buttered and put in the oven ten minutes ago, fucking hurry up!
He busies himself with getting more garlic butter on his fingers than on the bread, and I see if I’m close to getting this risotto business to some version of edible. For a change.
I taste.
“Hmmm,” I say to myself. Assuming “hmmmm” is a word and can be said.
“Bit more, bit more, bit more,” I mutter. Because, you know, wandering around the kitchen, carrying a big knife (unnecessarily) and muttering to yourself makes you look a lot more like a Mum Who Knows How To Care For Her Family and Cook Well than a Crazy Lady.
Just saying.
“You’re a bit more!” Monkey Boy says to me, firmly.
I have no idea what this means, so reply “Well, you’re a lot less!” and confuse the hell out of him.
My work here is done. Well, nearly. I still have to get this ricey stuff not so crunchy.
Garlic bread in the oven, I delegate the task of grating parmesan cheese to Monkey Boy, have Godzilla set the outside table, and ask Grumpy to organise Chippie.
Happy families.
Till Chippie starts screaming like his leg has been ripped off by a feral pigeon because Grumpy has turned Thomas off and Monkey Boy starts tactlessly suggesting he thought we were having a “nice dinner, you know, like a fancy one, not just your risotto” … he failed miserably at “tactless”.
The risotto is perfect- first time ever!
I’m most pleased and proudly present the dish to the family; it is a picture perfect family meal. I tell Godzilla that “it’s not pumpkin, it’s sweet potato” and sit to eat.
I reach for the plate, loaded with freshly grated parmesan, to spoon some atop my meal. A gust of wind picks up the cheese and scatters it across the table.
“Huh, wind blown cheese,” says Grumpy.
“It’s a bit like fart dried tomatoes.”
I wish I could say that last was from, oh, I don’t know. An uncouth neighbour? Even one of my kids.
Sadly, it was Grumpy, clearly having an hilarious conversation with himself. And setting the mood for the Family Meal Discussion. It could only go downhill from there, and it did, peppered at random intervals with Chippie suddenly screaming, leading us to think he’d burnt himself, or bitten his tongue, or been bitten by something.
No. We could just make out the word Thomas in his tearful tirades, between which he would stop, shovel more food in his mouth, contribute to the gutter-like conversation and otherwise be generally content.
In a vain attempt to … kid myself into gaining some form of control, I wander inside to grab the “menu” of a local day spa for which I have a voucher.
I drag Grumpy’s attention away from the filth-talk, mostly so he cannot contribute and corrupt any further, and show him what I’d like to spend my voucher on. All of which are of a cost considerably more than the value of the voucher I have.
“… or,” I say. “I could have this massage here, but I’d really like this package here.”
“This package looks awesome,” I continue.
“But it costs much more,” I say and accompany this with a very sad face.
As I work down the menu of treatments the cost is getting dearer. The packages, however, are becoming more appealing.
“I could really go this package. And this package would just be fantastic! Oooh, look at this package,” I say, imagining, in my current deluded state that he a) cares and b) knows what the hell I’m talking about.
“You could try the Government Stimulus Package,” Monkey Boy suggests.
And causes me to lose wine. Out my nose.
All possible bodily orifices covered in conversation during the evening meal, and a couple of vital and non-vital organs of the body, I declared the evening over.
Or would have, had Monkey Boy not followed us around asking “What’s the Government Stimulus Package” every five minutes …
Changing Rooms
By · CommentsAfter much consideration, listing pros and cons, discussing it, discussing best options, and finally, actually making the time for it, we moved the kids around.
This required much thought on placing three kids, spread over 8 years, into two bedrooms, taking into account developmental stages, upcoming developmental stages, personalities and where the fuck we were going to put everything.
We do have a “fourth” bedroom, which is officially a “formal dining or living area” and currently posing as the “toy room” (or as the younger two of my offspring refer to it “Monkey Boy’s Other Room” as no one else is allowed to put foot in there). It also houses the sofa bed for when we have guests, so they may have a room of their own when they choose to stay.
Godzilla is happy on his own, and most often prefers to be on his own. Monkey Boy and Chippie like company. Anyone’s. So it was a done deal really, and we switched Godzilla’s and Chippie’s beds, and just moved clothes around. We didn’t bother with other furniture. Or most of the clothes, really. I will get around to that … one day ….
Two days after having performed this manoeuvre, I was treated to the 6am screamings of the 3 year old. He had lost one of the three elephants he sleeps with and was traumatised. My concern that his excessively grumpy wakings may affect Monkey Boy, but he appears to have retained the ability to sleep through just about anything, and anywhere, that he was born with. Phew. Tick that niggling concern off my list.
The other upside was the traumatic screechings weren’t quite so screechy from the room further away. The downside was I had to walk – read: stumble in sleep deprived state – further to locate missing elephant.
Chippie seems to be sleeping better, Monkey Boy isn’t phased, Godzilla is happy and it all seemed to be working well.
Except I hadn’t accounted for the main reason we “separated” Monkey Boy and Godzilla. No, nothing to do with sibling rivalry. More Monkey Boys severe aversion to being woken before he likes to (there is a limit to his “sleeping through anything”) and Godzilla’s severe lack of ability to appreciate that some of his actions affect others.
Aside from him being genuinely happy and cheery pre-7am (weird, I know!) he also leaps out of bed, flicks on the overhead light, dances across the floor-boarded hall (thump, thump, thump), often accompanied by loud singing, flicks the bathroom light on, still dancing and singing, wees, washes his hands, still singing, dances back and jumps on the bed.
Then says “What?” quite innocently when you yell his name 36 times (he can’t hear over the thumping and singing) and tell him to SHUT UP!
We figured, being in his own room, he could turn his light on and not bother anyone. He could thump down the hall, and do his bathroom business, thump back and jump on his bed, the room still in full lumination, and not bother anyone. Ish.
*sigh*
No. Apparently, our bathroom is closer. So he makes his way into our room from across the hall, dances past our bed, bangs the ensuite door open, flicks the light on before banging the door closed, sings while he piddles, and dances back to his own room, leaving the light on and door open.
Personally, I think I prefer the devastated screaming and crying of the pre-schooler with a nocturnally wandering pachyderm than a far-too-happy pre-tween abluting himself metres from my sleepy head.
Disclaimer: I sincerely apologise for my children’s behaviour and the video in this post. If you choose to watch it, be it on your own head. Although I’m fairly certain many of you will thing “meh, been there” and all will be well.
I decided, what with it being Sunday and all, a day off was in order. I told the family we were having a Family Day whether they liked it or not, and obviously fashioned some kind of Shut Up And Don’t Even Think About Bitching look on my face, as that is exactly what happened. I needed a long, slow walk, perferably outdoors. The weather had other ideas, so the Melbourne Museum was the result.
(For which I am sincerely apologetic)
I got organised by asking Grumpy to get various children dressed, which involves, on two counts, him sitting at the table reading the paper and yelling “HURRY UP, GET DRESSED!!” and on the third and final count, reading the paper and saying to me “Yeah, ok, I am. Did you get his clothes for me?” as I am up to my elbows in peanut butter sandwiches.
That done, I am attached by a wild roast turkey, as it leaps out off the top shelf of the fridge, taking with it the plate it resting on with it. The turkey smears its deliciousness down the leg of my pants, leaving me wondering why I bothered dressing myself so long before we were to leave. The plate, which had only moments earlier been precariously balanced on an array of fridge Tupperware shattered itself all over the floor. What followed was that conversation I have where I rant at the kids about How Dad can’t frigging use the frigging Tupperware to put shit in and this is the very reason I am so adamant about shit being put in Tupperware before it is placed in the fridge, because I’m sick of cleaning up un-Tupperwared shit when it spills … etc … and wander off, muttering (loudly) the very same conversation to myself as I change into something less poultry flavoured.
Grumpy, to his credit, shuts up and cleans up.
I return to lunch making for the Day Out as Grumpy tries in vain to keep Chippie away from shattered plate bits.
“Daddy break that!” he informs me.
“Yes, I know,” I reply and attempt to shuffle him along. Move along people, nothing to see …
“Daddy is anoxious,” he tells me, in his cutesy little way of informing people they are obnoxious.
“Yes, I know,” I respond, and finally get it all finished and packed. We leave.
The dinosaurs is our first stop, accompanied by “can we eat now, I’m hungry”, followed by some animal spotting, some “You lot stay right here and I’ll go off and look for him, ring me if he turns up”, a bout of wandering around various exhibits on my own muttering “fuck me, how the hell am I gonna find him in this” and thinking of the best way to have Godzilla returned to us, knowing he is highly unlikely to hear any “Godzilla, please come to the animals exhibit” announcement, return, find him wandering around looking for us, discover the other three have disappeared, find them, head to tables for lunch, have the table we’re standing beside as it is vacated taken by another family with older, non-whinging children and wander down the other end towards the playground, eat, reprimand two older kids over fighting and being arseheads, have coffee, and wander back in.
I want to check out my favourite bits; the human body and the human mind.
This is the bit where I figure it is my time to stop and read every word, as I have to do in all the war bits and history bits everywhere else we go, and my family have wandered off and vanished by the time I’ve read the first ten words on the first Accompanying Information Sign.
Godzilla vanished again in the Mind section, and I lose my mind.
Off to the Human Body, where a Couch For Sitting is discovered and is utilised for jumping over and rolling under. Edges are starting to fray and I suggest it may be time to think about going.
This was the plan, until they discovered the bit on The Digestive System. They overlook all of it, the information, the graphics and the tactile and working bits … that is, until they reach the end of the digestive system and the Little Yellow Button that goes with it.
Such was their enjoyment, I had to shoot some video … this is taken after about 7 minutes of the same, during which time Chippie loudly informed all two floors of the Museum that “Euwww, Daddy FARTED!” … it is a minute and a half (long) (yes, after seven minutes of doing the same) and continued for another several minutes before they were physically dragged away.
(If you keep a close ear out, you will hear, behind me, a woman reading every single word of the digestive system and processes to her similarly aged child, whom I’m fairly sure had a got at chewing his own arm off so he could get away and wrestle my 3 year old to The Yellow Button … I also suspect her slightly raised, yet officious and “passing on vital information” voice was a pointed judgement on my alleged parenting abilities.)
And as said earlier – some of you will likely find this incredibly normal, boring and seen-it-done-in-my-own-house-too-often … 
That done, and the kids dragged far enough away that there was no incentive to run back, we head off to the Melbourne section of the museum, where they had a “ride” in the very early Luna Park scenic railway cars, Chippie got terribly excited about the model trains and insisted that we make them move, and refusing to accept that they wouldn’t, took some photos of the kids sititng with the Moon outside the old cinema, including the obligatory “pretending to pick the Moon’s nose” photo (which I swear I did not put them up to at all … it must have been someone else’s mum!), the other obligatory photo of Chippie sitting on the old style toilet, but missing the one where he sticks his head down it to see what it is (*sigh*) and then … ten minutes after we should probably have gone … them vanishing and being found in the beds located in the old house that is on display.
I blame the Japanese tourists. My kids have never touched the stuff on display, until today, after witnessing several tourists sitting and laying on the beds in order to get some holiday snaps.
At this point, I mentioned to Grumpy Pants the “We’re leaving ten minutes after we should have” conundrum, and he agreed. We should be out of here. And not just becuase we were worried security were going to show and ask us to leave, anyway.
He pretends to give a big smoochy kiss to an oversized bust of someone very important to Melbourne, I walk off loudly proclaiming things like “I’m telling your Mum when we get home” and the kids, this time, pretending not to know who I am at all.
They hyperactivity of all in the moments before we leave dwindles – thank fuck – before we get home, and our evening is somewhat subdued and restful.
Nice.
Sexy and they know it
By · CommentsAfter reading several of my posts last year, many of which involved me either being required to talk to a child’s penis as he stood naked in front of me, asking futile or non-seniscle (but funny) questions or bitchig about not being able to do soemthing he wanted and/or his older brother, all whilst I was trying to have a relaxing bath, or just subject to his otherwise nakedness around the house, a good friend shared this with me on my Facebook page.
She suggested I share it with my children, with the aim being it might actually encourage them to, at the very least, desist with the nakedness and wear underpants.
Give the 8 year old never has, I wasn’t holding out much hope for this to happen.
It didn’t.
Aside from causing Grumpy and I to cry laughing, and turn it up whenever it came on the radio, it had little other positive effect.
Unless, of course, you count us encouraging the 3 year old to learn the words to it. Which he refused to do. For a while at least.
The only major effect it did have was to provide our older children with ideas, to wit they would put their hands behind their heads, thrust their pelvises (pelvi? Whatever the plural of pelvis is) in our direction and say “wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle – yeah!” whenever we told them off.
In so far as the video itself impressing me … my first thought was “meh, seen way more than that in my own house on a daily basis” and it wasn’t overly anything new really.
*sigh*
Still, Grumpy and I have learnt the words to it now, and give the kid back a bit of their own.
And, yes, we keep our underpants on.
That is not a sight you can undo … please stop thinking now!
The 12th day of Christmas
By · CommentsThe Christmas decorations had to come down.
Which was easy. Because we don’t put them up. There is, however, the tree and the lights along the front of the house to contend with.
A late night and much alcohol consumed last night, albeit with great friends, does not bode well for doing much, really. I managed some work, but the flashing lights of the Christmas tree in the room opposite me were annoying. They were saying “take us down, take us down”.
I dragged Grumpy off the couch, and enlisted the help of the two kids. Within seconds, Grumpy was delegated to the front of the house to remove lights, and be as far as possible away from me.
The two big kids spent the time it took me to remove all the ornaments, tinsel and most of the lights complaining about stuff, then offering to “help” when I was up to the Neatly Folding Lights And Placing Them Back In Their Boxes. A task that I take much care with after spending five hours one Christmas Take Down untangling lights.
I just wasn’t in the mood for it however; just didn’t have the energy or inclination. Nor the ability to neatly place lights in their box whilst preventing (unsuccessfully) then removing Chippie from the Christmas Decorations Box, into which he had climbed and possibly killed yet another set of lights.
Whist I’m here, how many sets of Christmas tree lights does one family actually need for a 6 foot tree? Surely seven sets is excessive?
Being in a somewhat relaxed mood, I had donned my pyjamas, and spend the majority of the time removing items from the tree being subject to some form of Nordic acupuncture of the breasts. The tree appears to have been neglected in the Remember To Water department, and the pine needles were dry, stiff and very sharp and pointy.
I also imagine – and prefer to believe – that all live Christmas trees hail from some Nordic region, and not East Keilor.
My boobs adequately jabbed repeatedly by something sharper than my 8 year old’s elbows, I resorted to wrapping the lights around my arms, and spending five minutes shoving in perpetually escaping bulbs with their fancy-schmancy plastic flowery looking covers into the box. It was like trying to stuff the lid on an overfull box of snakes. Only worse, as now Chippie was climbing onto the Decorations Box, now full and closed, and getting his bum stuck in the folds of cardboard as they gave way under his titchy weight.
I was reminded as to why I spent the time placing them in their boxes, properly. I am not looking forward to removing them at the end of this year.
The tree, as is tradition, was unceremoniously dragged through the house, shedding needles, and even more unceremoniously dumped in the green bin until Green Bin Collection Day.
Aside from the large yellow trucks adorning the hallway, providing a tripping hazard despite their size and brightness of colour, and the two big kids being devoid of acknowledgement of an actual world around them due to their new electronic devices, our house is now de-Christmasified.
I’m sad at the lack of visual festivity. But at least the house now “fits” with everything else going on.
To be perfectly honest, I was getting a little annoyed at it being so damned cheery all the time.
