Archive for bad mother
That’ll do it
Posted by: | Comments“Fuckit.”
I heard it coming from the kitchen.
Well, not technically “the kitchen”, but from the mouth of the three year old who happened to be standing in the kitchen.
“Fuckit.”
“Fuckit.”
This time, it was followed by the almost-girly hysterical giggling of the 11 year old, home from school as he was sick. Oh, I mean “sick”.
At least he had the decency to be helpful and had stopped the littlest one from disturbing my writing time by making him a Milo.
Making a Milo for the littlest one consists of the biggest one dumping far too much Milo into a cup (“I said ONE teaspoon! That is technically a tablespoon!”) which he then takes away, eats with a teaspoon, comes back, requests more be added, then allows you to add milk.
The result? Milo all over face. Which is the instigator of the “Fuckits”.
“Oh,” says Monkey Boy to his baby brother. “You look so cute. You have Milo all over your face.”
“Fuckit,” replies Chippie.
Monkey Boy attempts to wipe it off.
“Fuckit,” says Chippie.
Monkey Boy collapses into giggles and comes in to inform me that Chippie is saying “fuckit”.
*sigh*
An hour later, Chippie wanders in. His shoes appear to be sticking, just slightly, with every step he takes. I can hear it.
“Why are you feet sticking?” I ask him.
“Come and build me a track!” he yells at me.
“Gimme a look at your feet,” I say.
“I. Want. A. Track!” he tells me again.
I lift his foot to see what could be causing his feet to stick, and try not to think about what may or may not be on the floor, or just how much of whatever it is may be on the floor, or tracked through the house.
I take a look.
Milo.
Fuckit.
I am not immune
Posted by: | CommentsI had hand, foot and mouth disease once.
Like, two years ago and not when I was three or six or some acceptable age for contracting Coxsackie Virus.
I got most of other childhood diseases out of the way when I was an actual child, so that was nice. However, I am still not immune to the odd cold or sore throat virus that enters my home via my various offspring, or my spouse. Most times, I managed just a small does that’s easily tended to with Panadienne and some sleep.
One thing I’m, sadly, not that immune to is anything remotely Gag Inducing. Sadly, I passed on my weak gag reflex to my eldest son, who, in turn has caused mine to weaken even further. The thought of cat food makes me want to vomit. I won’t tell you what my body does when I actually smell cat food.
I can’t physically touch food that has a teensy bit that’s gone mushy or mouldy; I have to turn my head and tip the whole thing into the bin. Or stand at the door and yell for Grumpy to come and deal with it and scream like it’s a whopping great, bird eating spider that has come to devour me. Seriously. He then rolls his eyes and leaves it for another few days because I’m being all “dramatic” and tells me to “get over it, it’s just food”.
He doesn’t understand!
Also, he thinks he’s funny.
So, after dinner tonight, where Monkey Boy’s sore throat of earlier today – the one that was easily fixed with panadol (but not tablets, capsules or the dissolvable ones – they make him gag) and running around and shooting his brothers – got worse whilst we were out at a restaurant for dinner. He didn’t eat much, which is always of concern to me, as he usually eats copious amounts, then picks at leftovers.
He was near tears when we head home, and, in typical Family Fashion, he informs us he needs to vomit. There are, of course, no plastic bags in the car that we keep for such purpose. That would be insane. Why, only last week there were at least three, because we didn’t need them last week. We needed them NOW and there are none.
We are, as is also inevitable, stopped at a set of traffic lights at a considerably sized intersection. We tell him to stick his head out the window. It is the best we can do under the circumstances, until Grumpy can drive forward and we can pull over to a safe place for him to expel his stomach contents.
I tie his hair back, rub his back and speak calmly to him, whilst giving myself a good talking to about not throwing up on the back of the head I’m trying to sooth. I do well. I am becoming immune to this – hurrah!
We arrive home, and he hops into the bath – a hot one as now he is “really cold”. Grumpy deals with the car. I do pretend it is because I am all nurturing and caring and “want to be there for my son”, but really, the thought of hosing down the car will, well, let’s just say going out for dinner would have been a complete waste of money.
I managed to get some more panadol down his throat and encourage him to gargle some sore throat gargle.
This is the bit I couldn’t do. It set him off gagging and retching, which only had the effect of causing me to gag and retch along with him.
The poor little sausage did the best he could before it all got too much and he spewed into the toilet. I near on pushed him aside … but managed a deep breath and to walk out of the room.
The best I could do from there was put him safely in his bed, place a towel under his head and silently wish as hard as I could that there was to be no more spew from anyone this evening. Can we make that “year”?
What I do know
Posted by: | CommentsI like to think I’m pretty ok as a mother.
I get some stuff “right” and some stuff “wrong” and I do yell and swear, and cuddle my kids and watch The Simpsons at the same time, and read books to them and take them to fun places.
I make them lunch every day and cook them dinner every night. Except those times Grumpy Pants does, or my 11 year old does.
I like to think that I’m teaching him good, life skills be letting him cook dinner, and not placing him into some hideous, dangerous position that has people shaking their heads in disbelief at my despicability.
Truth is, I really have no idea how this whole thing will pan out, what my kids will grow up to be like. I have no idea what the final outcome will be. I won’t even know what they will tell their therapists. Thank you Client Confidentiality.
What I do know, however, is that I suck at making rainbow jelly.
Today is my third attempt in the last 12 or 18 months of making rainbow jelly and I have fucked it up. Again.
Appropriate Dinner Conversation
Posted 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 …
If you ask … do you always get
Posted by: | CommentsToday, Grumpy was working.
I got gymnastics with Chippie duty. This is new. Only started last week, after they rang me at 10.05am for a 10.30am class (he was on the waiting list), I dragged him off in a hurry and carried him through the gate into the big area with all the cool stuff where he watches his big brother twice a week by standing at the gate and sayign “I wanna go in there”. He spent the first 10 minutes of last week intermittently crying and lying face down on the springy floor.
Today he cooperated, starting with sitting firmly on my lap, watching intently, then forcing me to do the warmup whilst he watched, then by doing all the stuff he wanted to do. Then copying me as I demostrated some of the other bits he wasn’t so keen on giving a go.
I now know why I’m not a gymnast. And never, ever will be.
He was great. Then we went to pay his fees and, after advising me quite firmly he did not want his shoes on, he determined he did need them on. But not sitting on a chair. On the floor. Like I cared.
So we sat.
On the floor.
And his socks were wrong and he didn’t want them on.
So I stopped.
But that was wrong, too.
And I tried to put his shoes on. Because, he said “I want my shoes on”.
That was, however, not what he wanted, which he indicated, quite strongly, by advising me “I don’ want my shoes on!”
So, I went and finished my conversation with the manager about stuff and things, whilst sitting on the floor, as Chippie cried and pulled my hand.
And slipped and banged his head on the door frame.
And cried more, and told me to “go away” when I tried to comfort him.
And cried some more, when I stopped, because, quite frankly, if you kick me in the tits and scream “go away” when I try to see if you’re ok, you can go and get fucked.
Collect bag, shoes, socks, drink bottles, two elephants and kicking screaming toddler and head to the car.
There is a special method of holding a kicking, screaming toddler to avoid damage to yourself. They must be held facing outward, resting on your hip, horizontally. Their titchy legs can’t quite extend back far enough to kick you, and their movement is restrained, so you don’t drop all the uncecessary child related paraphernalia and other shit you need to bring along.
He proceeded to scream about wanting his shoes on All The Way Home, then decided he wanted to get out of the car as we drove in the direction of home. Managed to extract his arms from the seatbelt as we drove along the freeway – of course – and demanded in no uncertain terms he be let out.
And I wanted to let him out.
Sadly, its not the little fucker who kicked, screamed, threw a shoe at me, told me he wanted his shoes on, then screamed some more when I attempted to put them on, then got seriously pissed off when I didn’t that would get into trouble if I did what he asked. Yes, he did eventually start with the “please” word. In screaming, crying voice, but still, he used his manners.
Nope, its the fucker whose on the end of all the shit that would be in serious trouble, and judged to within an inch of her life, should she do his bidding.
And I told him so.
Then I turned the music up very loud so I could make it home without actually leaving him beside someone’s rubbish bin.
Arrive home, where he asks, nicely, for a cuddle. And I oblige. Because that is what you do. Realise I haven’t had a shower for two days, and had intended to after school dropoff. Then after gymnastics. Here I am sitting on the couch with a sad and sobbing pre-schooler. I might just as well wait until after school pickup now.
The phone rings. The doorbell rings. I feel crappish.
I answer the door, still on the phone, to the photographer from the local paper whom has been in my diary for nearly a week.
Oh. Yeah.
Ask him to look around the house to see where he wants to take shots as I run into my bedroom, attempt to do soemthing with my filthy hair, and grab yesterday’s clothes off the floor and toss them on.
I sit Chippie on my lap for the shots and notice a large, blue mark on his cheek. It looks like a bruise. It isn’t. It is ink, from the stamp he got on his hand after a great effort at gymnastics. Before he put on his Little Fucker Act. He’d fallen asleep on it whilst I gave him a cuddle.
Thankfully, when we were almost done taking photos, I also noted he had traces of food around his mouth. Oh, goody. Hopefully they will detract from the bruised-looking face.
Walk to school pickup, in yesterday’s clothes, still unshowered.
Start the dinner, poor a wine … and suddenly the feeling of Feeling Crap hits me. I can’t figure out why. I have wine. I’m wearing my pyjamas.
I survey the evening meal and it’s progress. I drop my implements and declare, loudly, “I’m going for a shower!”
The significance of this event was lost on everyone else. But at least I didn’t have to cook throughStar Wars.
In My Lion of Work – an experience
Posted by: | CommentsIn my role as a mother who rambles about the mundane crap in her life in a desperate bid to keep a dubious grasp on her sanity blogger, I am occasionally asked to partake in some stuff; cooking of meals, checking out products and being invited to do some cool stuff. And some not so cool stuff.
This was a “cool stuff” thing. I was invited by one of my PR contacts – PorterNovelli – to join them in the re-release of one of my fave movies, The Lion King. Kids and husbands invited.
They made it slightly more appealing than “hey, why not go to the movies with your kids and husband – that’ll be fun, won’t it! Hurrah!” (ahem, um, no) they tossed in the Director’s Suite at Hoyts, and a sleepover at the Melbourne Zoo. Mostly, I was just wrapt that someone threw me a lifeline in school holiday, week 2 and it was two days of stuff I didn’t have to fill by thinking up something to do myself.
It wasn’t just my family and I, either. A couple of other blogger chicks I know were also coming along: Kate from Picklebums, Nicole of Planning With Kids, Marita from Stuff With Thing, Joni and her The Diary of Joni and Anya, Toushka of Touska Lee,and Shae from Yay For Home - all adequate wine drinkers, so I was in good company.
After convincing my somewhat concerned 8 year old that we would, indeed be fine, and not be eaten by lions, again (that’s telling him again, not a repeat of being lion fodder) we set off for Melbourne Central and Hoyts and the Director’s Suite area.
Godzilla, despite being one of the last children to arrive, managed to secure a a controller for the game they had set up, and Monkey Boy went to have his face painted. Amongst the gorgeous pink lions and purple butterflies, he opted for a Vampire. She didn’t “do” vampire but did a somewhat convincing skull.
We were advised to head to the bar to order drinks and popcorn, where my kids did determine I was, indeed, the Worst Mother In The World, as, this time, they were allowed a drink and popcorn each and didn’t have to share. Like I make them do every other time. Because I’m so horrible and all.
They settled in to their seats well. After a considerable amount of “Ooooh – this is SO COOL!”
The Lion King is still a fantastic movie. I love it. I also love that Chippie is now old enough to get it, just as the other two are kinda growing out of it.
(Not enough people getting shot or cut up withight sabres or some such rubbish.)
Then we went to the zoo, which, despite being about 7 minutes from our house and somewhere we either visit or drive past quite a bit, Grumpy managed a wrong turn and we got stuck in traffic.
Still, we made it … and we were directed to the old elephant area, including the teensy (for an elephant) historic site of the elephant hut. Bong Su, of Melbourne Zoo Bong Su fame, was a former resident.
The grassy “play area” was set up with tents, and we were asked to choose our own. I let the kids choose, because I can be nice like that sometimes:
But then I made them change, becuase this one was too far from where they’d set up the wine table.
(I told them we were moving closer to the toilets. Cos I’m nice like that. Sometimes.)
Wine and deliciously scrumptious food was served before we were ushered into the former-elephant sleeping area/human dining area and fed a very nice dinner, indeed.
After which we walked it off with a nightime wander around the zoo, led by our two Keepers (am not sure if they were Animal Keepers or Bloggers & Their Families Sleeping Overnight Keepers????) Michelle and Jackie.
It was pretty spesh. Not only did we get to see the tigers and Bong Su the elephant by night. we were taken into behind the scenes and restricted areas, where we were introduced to animals not exhibited at the zoo, from a slow loris called Spook, an albino carpet snake and a plethora of children making totally innane and irrelevant comments at inexplicable times.
We learnt that elephants sleep only about 4 hours a day and can eat 80-100kg of food per day.
This may explain my levels of fatigue and body fat … just saying.
My Chippie included, as we were being told of the various species of possums around the zoo, he informed us “I .. I … I got some rocks!” Indeed he did. And carried them around the whole night.
We were walked around to the Tapir, an animal that is kept indoors during the day as the Melbourne sun can be far too harsh for it (don’t laugh … Melbourne really can have some bitey sun!) and it can burn very easily. This one had, sadly, lost an eye due to exposure to the sun.
(Technically not “lost”. It was removed by a vet. It didn’t just pop out and roll under the couch, never to be seen again)
I was the one to guess what they were called … because they were featured on an episode of Futurama a few nights back! Clever, huh?
(Also, I read the signs at the zoo. Sometimes. It wasn’t just Futurama. Ok??)
Then they got the kids to crouch down and run past the snow lepoard saying “ni, ni, ni, ni, ni” to draw it out of hiding. Apparently, snow leopards like to eat small things that run and say “ni, ni, ni”. Who knew?
Our final stop was the lion cage, where they did, and do, bugger all but lie around. Apparently, the sleep for about 20 hours a day. Nice.
Sadly, I missed out on participating in this activity 
It was time for supper – yes, SUPPER! – and bed. Which was a mattress and sleeping bag in a tent. And yet another conversation about the likelihood of being consumed by a lion.
*sigh*
Chippie and Grumpy went home at bedtime as kids under 5 are unable to sleep over. I was not too put off by this arrangement 
I was woken at 5am by a child needing a wee, and were treated to the sounds of crazed penquins, a variety of birds and some monkeys going off!
A breakky of bacon and egg pizza and coffee was had, before we set off again for another expedition.
We got to feed the giraffe. Or is that “giraffes”? Which was also pretty special. And just amazing. They’re incredible creatures up close.
Then to see Timmy the endangered tree kangaroo (another behind the scenes thingy). We were let into the cage, and there was a brief moment where a telepathic thought ran through the minds of all we mums in attendance … “should we put them all in and lock the door?????” But we didn’t.
Here we learnt about an incredible conservation program initiated by the zoo in a bid to save him and his kind. It was quite fascinating, really.
Also, Monkey Boy just looks like Alice Cooper because we had a bit of trouble removing his face paint from yesterday.
Last stop was the penguins – who are so cute! – and feeding time. Unlike my children, they rejected any fish that had fallen to the ground and just refused to eat them. I asked the penguin keeper if she could train my kids to do the same. They only work with animals that can be even remotely trained, she informed me.
Then it was time to go
We were a little exhausted after much excitement, and all the kids were given a goody bag stuffed full of Lion King by Porter Novelli (thank you Mandy and girls for your awesome hard work!) … and I will be doign a giveaway shortly for a similar bag!
Waited around for Grumpy to come and collect us …
… and had a chat about the fun of the night before, and this morning.
The Zoo’s Roar ‘N’ Snore is something that I’ve said “I’d like to do that one day”, so, obviously, I jumped at the chance when someone else was organising it.
I have to add – it was an experience that was so much more than I anticipated and I was highly impressed. By all of it.
The tour guides/zoo keepers (Michelle & Jackie) who looked after us were professional, yet fun, were so great with the kids AND the adults, were clearly passionate about the animals and FULL of information. They made us feel comfortable and did an incredible job of putting up with us.
Full credit to them!
Food was plentiful and very nice! Most important as far as I’m concerned.
It was an amazing experience. It was also very well organised and coordinated and I’m really impressed (as were the kids) with just how much other STUFF we got to do whilst there. It wasn’t just a sleepover and a bit of a look around the zoo at night.
We really were treated to some very special experiences.
The whole “thing” – the movie and the zoo was beautifully done by Mandy and the team at Porter Novelli – thank you.
The release of The Lion King on DVD, Blu-Ray and 3D Blu-Rayis on October 12 -when it will be available in shops.
And if you’d like more info on the Zoo’s Roar ‘N’ Snore, the link is http://www.zoo.org.au/Melbourne/Roar_n_Snore
(I’ll be doing a The Lion King giveaway shortly … I’ve rambled far to long on this post … )
Disclaimer: I was not paid to write any part of this post nor to review it. The review was completely “optional”. I was invited, as a guest, of Porter Novelli and Disney to attend both the movie and Roar N Snore, as were my children and husband. It was just so much fun, I couldn’t not write about it
Parenting 101: How to handle sibling disputes
Posted by: | CommentsWe are well into the school holidays and things are going as well as can be expected.
Chippie at childcare today and the other two well and truly ensconced in school holidayness. This involves time spent playing beautifully with each other, imaginative play, sharing, laughing, but not “we’re up to mischief” laughing, having fun and at the mere flip of an unidentifiable and invisible switch, screaming, yelling, fighting and arguing over whose turn it is to play what game on the Wii.
I, rather than become sucked into the cyclone that is Children Home From School Holidays that they try to suck me into, set myself up in my office. So long as I could hear any potential, seriously hurt screaming, all was well.
Monkey Boy, after a traumatic rift, set himself up playing Lego – and not sorting out the 847 gajillion Lego boxes he has, as requested, and Godzilla went outside to play on the cubby – and not pick up the clothes he has had lying on his bedroom floor since approximately 1984.
All. Was. Well.
Unbeknownst to me, Monkey Boy had obviously bored of playing Lego. I put his action down to the possibility that his younger sibling was, indeed, happily playing his one game, to his own rules, without disturbance or arse head older brother telling him what to do. He wandered outside and into Godzilla’s game.
I’m willing to bet Godzilla was playing his imaginative game “wrong”.
I could hear words. For a moment. Then I entered Meh Mode and switched off. It didn’t take long before Monkey Boy ran inside.
“He just called me a ‘C’!”
“What? What .. what?” I muttered, confused. “Look, I’m right in the middle of something. Leave me alone. You know the rules.”
“But he called me a ‘C’ – you know, a …” (clearly, he wanted my attention at this point) “… C**T!”
“Well?” I asked. “Were you being one?”
The look said it all.
I mean, if you’re being one and you’re called on it, there’s not a lot I can do about it, is there?
Trains, Trams and Special Previews: Skylanders
Posted by: | CommentsHad a pretty spesh day today.
I was one of a select few who were invited (oh, ok then, were available) to check out a new video game that is to be launched next month, Skylanders Spyro’s Adventure.
Also, I met the criteria of having children of the appropriate age for the game. So that helped.
Also, I asked that vodka be present, as Chippie was accompanying me to the event, and there wasn’t. But that’s my only real complaint. They did have teensy little smoked salmon bagel thingies, so that almost made up for lack of vodka.
Anyhoo, I made the day an adventure for us, and bribed encouraged Chippie to come along by telling him we were catching the train. This was enough to spark his enthusiasm, and to walk up the big hill to the train station. Where he promptly unpacked my bag of the wooden Thomas tracks and train he had stashed in there and set them up along a bench and entertained some nearby commuters. And had to repack them when the train came.
He sat on my lap the whole way, and entertained all six carriages of passengers by yelling “LOOK A TRAIN!” and “LOOK! A DIESEL!” etc whenever we passed another train. Which was a lot.
Arrived at desination, where he not only ignored the child carer they had organised so I may participate in today’s demonstration with no interruptions, but ran away. So all good. He spent this time sitting on my lap, forcing me to feed him, before he got bored with that and went and played nicely with child carer person. Who was very lovely. And didn’t appear to flinch when he climbed onto the chairs, boy style. That is, any way but the way you would normally get on or off a chair.
Skylanders. It is an interactive video game, suitable for various platforms; Wii, Playstation, X-box, don’t ask me to name any more as I am World’s Most Even Mother Who Never EVER Gets Her Kids What They Want etc, so have no idea what all the others are. But there were a few. We have a Wii, I paid attention to that bit of the conversation.
It is one of those games where you have lots of little creatures and characters and you go and collect points and treasures and kill destory evade the bad guys and go up in levels until there are no more levels to go. Aslo, you don’t “die” you have a rest. At which all the mums in the room laughed and laughed until we all had to run out of the room to tend to our Tena. When you avhe 8 year old boys, there is always killing and dying. That’s just the way things are.
The cool thing about this game is that you get these cute little characters, in your hand (up to 30 of them) that you place on the “portal” and, voila, they are in the game. No going to that screen on the Wii where you have to select the character and there’s fighting over who wants who and someone gets hit on the head with a Wii remote. Nope, you place your character on the portal, and if there is any fighting over who gets who, you can toss one at your sibling’s head. Apparently. Or not. Whatever. Guess it depends on how you solve such things.
Oooooh, just had a thought, from a Mothery Perspective. The littleness of said characters means they are much more easily confiscated and placed on top of the fridges, so unlike other games where they can get on when you think you don’t know, you can actually prevent them from playing when they’ve been up to mischief by removing all the characters. Brilliant!
Anyway … each of the characters has different powers and strengths. The other benefit I could see in this game is that if a particular character you are playing with is inadequate in some area, and unable to get you to the next level, you simply remove him/her from the portal and replace them. No points gained are lost, and you continue with a character who is up to the task.
Hurrah!
The other bit I particularly liked, and again due to my Evil Motherness, is that we only have a Wii. Other friends have, say, a Playstation or X-box, or combinations of a few. The super cool thing about this game is you can take a character or two with you to a friend’s house and, providing they also have Skylanders and the portal and the rest, you can place your characher, complete wtih all its points and treasures and strengths gained up to this point, and play with it on your friend’s portal, regardless of the platform!
So, our Wii playing characters can be easily and readily be played on an X-Box 360. Just. Like. That.
Oh, and … the game can be stopped at any point, thereby cancelling out the “But I just need to finish this level” dilemma we are all too well aware of and sick of experiencing! That, in my opinion, is the best bit.
I was also impressed with the graphics etc. I’m not an expert and don’t play these games much, but I do like a game that respects that children are people too, and doesn’t treat them like second class citizens, where dodgy, half arsed graphics, and non-lip syncing beings are present. This game, was in fact, created by those involved in the making of Toy Story and Shrek. Not bad at all.
I dunno, it was just a nice finishing touch that I noticed.
Did I mention what a Horrible Mother I am? And how I don’t buy them everything? Well, I don’t. And we don’t have all the latest games, and I don’t buy them something cos they ask for it and so-and-so at school has it.
This one … I would get!
It also makes the birthday and Christmas present buying for others easy, cos there are 30 characters to collect, which can be purchased individually or in packs of 3 .. ta da. Sorted. I think like that.
Chippie then ate the equivalent of one and a half watermelons, we got on the wrong tram, which I think was actually one we could have stayed on, I realised, as it trundled off.
Neverming. This led to another tram where a bunch of people got on the stop after we did, and a man standing beside us kept turning and fidgeting. I gazed out the window.
Until I discovered Chippie was running his foot up the inside of this man’s leg and it appeared that I was feigning innnocence by gazing out the window. The lovely man did explain he thought all his Christmases had come at once, and I’m not really sure if he belived the “the kid did it!” story.
Now, I can’t wait till the kids come home so I can ramble and talk at them about all the cool stuff that I got to play with today and they didn’t!
Mwahahahahahahahaha!
Oh, Skylanders Spyro’s Adventure is due for release in Australia on October 12th
(Also, I wasn’t paid for today, not even in vodka, but they did feed me and I had fun. Just telling you of my experience with the game …. and my day. Which was, as always, so much fun. I think ….)
Shall I call an ambulance?
Posted by: | CommentsGodzilla, after consuming a sizeable meal, watching some TV and running around like an idiot for a bit (a standard, post school routine) informed me at bedtime that he was “a bit sick” and his “head was hot”.
The tried and true, generations old, infallable Mum’s Hand On Forehead told me he was perfectly ok.
Also, the fact he was being a bit dramatic gave me a clue.
I sent him to bed … because, um, when you’re sick and it’s bedtime, would that not be the place to go? I know it’s where I like to be.
He was clearly worse this morning. Poor little thing.
I think he was near death. Well, at least that’s what he was telling me. That he could eat a huge bowl of breakfast and only occasionally remember to shudder and shivver when I came near him and could run around he house like a lunatic, but only intermittently and only when I was in eye-shot. He is totally oblivious to the whole “within ear-shot” thing, however, nor is he able to, most mornings, keep his voice to a socially acceptable level.
He was also fully capable of repeatedly advising me of his near-death-like state, followed by a rather loud, vehement and verging-on-tantrummy “I’ll just come straight home from school if you take me there!” after I merely suggested he go to school and see how he goes and if he’s really feeling crap then I’ll come get him.
Ultimately, he forced me to say “Sick children do not annoy their parents!” and suggeted he put his shoes on and grab his bag.
As it turns out, dying sick child did not inform teachers he was extremely ill and needed to come home from school. Asked teacher when I went to collect him if he’d been ok, and she had no recollection of any contagious infection that required he be quarantined, nor did he faint, seize or die in class.
Returned outside to where the children were “supposed” to be waiting for me, only to be advised that he had opted to participate in the Zumba class that was happening in the Learning Studio on Tuesdays after school, thereby delaying our departure time by 45 minutes.
Still, this did not prevent him from informing me of how ill he was all day …
I’ll have something to be proud of … one day
Posted by: | CommentsYesterday, at school pickup, I was chatting to one of the other mums.
Again, I got the “So, did you hear about the award Godzilla got?”
Um. No. No, again, I have been told nothing.
*sigh*
And I had to be all “Oh, wow, really? Tell me more!” and all excited and everything. A fabulous cover for feeling like Crap Mum for not having a clue what is going on in my kids life.
“Yes!” she says, just as excited as I was pretending to be. “He was awarded the ‘Well Done’ Award by the vice principal in PE class today!”
This is not necessarily a new thing. This is something like his 5th PE award. Or more. I lost count. Mostly because I”m never told of these awards and I find random “well done” ribbons, proffering no further information, lying around the house. This could very well be his 5th one this year. I don’t know.
She’s smiling a lot. She is, after all, a Zumba instructor. Which is exactly why she happened to be at the school when Godzilla received this particular award. Yes, he received the Well Done PE Award for Zumba.
I am impressed.
He received it last Tuesday. I think. I did ask him to show me said award (aka a flouro yellow ribbon with the worlds:
W
E
L
L
D
O
N
E
emblazoned on it. I believe the flourescentness of the aforementioned ribbon was in honour of Zumba itself, but am not sure. I was handed the ribbon and told “guinea pigs can scream”. A fact I’m not willing to explore any further than that.
So, yes, a little proud that my middle child received yet another PE award. More than a little miffed that it is only know I find out about it and my “well done! I’m very proud of you!” is now far too belated to have any impact whatsoever, and is, currently, way out of context. We’re now onto how guinea pigs can hang onto the side of the cage, for dear life, with thier “cute little claws” (his words, not mine).
Still, there’s always the other child. I can’t wait till he actually shows me those two certificates he got for doing really well in surfing lessons and standing up on the board and other stuff, when he went on school camp.
In week four of term 1.
These particular certificates obviously missed the End Of Term Bag Emptying Ritual … which pretty much consists of me mummbling “empty your bags completely” when we arrive home on the last day of each term, followed by random “Have you emptied your bags yet?!” requests, commands and demands, over the subsequent school holidays.
One day … one day they will give me something to be proud of. Rather than me accidentally finding out about it on my own …
You rock, Doll.....thanks for such awe inspiring honesty and brilliant laughs.
Delivering hope to those of us on the frontline of the parenting battlefield, the MadCow Diaries have helped mums like me realise that there are no perfect parents (and if there are they are incredibly stressed strange people) - it's okay to do it your way without the guilt ;) And you are not alone.