Archive for school holidays
Product Experience: The Trash Pack – absolute garbage that’s absolutely awesome
Posted by: | CommentsA couple of months back, I was invited to attend a Toy Fair at an exhibition centre in Melbourne, courtesy of Moose Enterprise, who are responsible for such things as Angry Birds, Talking Tom, Annoying Orange and various other plush toys, AquaSand, Sea Monkies (I always wanted some of these as a kid! And last week!), Bakugan, AquaDoodle, Smubbles and … sooooo much more.
Anyhoo, after experiencing a guided tour of their stand (impressive) I was sent on my merry way with a bag containing an assortment of their products.
The children, all too aware that I’d been invited to a Toy Fair and hated me because I wouldn’t let them take the day off school to accompany me, and I farewelled them at the school gate with a “You weren’t invited, so ner!”, harassed me from the moment they returned home from school, until I handed over the goods.
I let them choose one item each from the bag.
Godzilla chose The Trash Pack, much to my amazement and disgust.
More shit to lie around the house and to be told to pick up, repeatedly, in a very loud voice, I had thought at the time.
What transpired has left me astounded, yet delighted at the same time.
He immediately opened the pack, and disappeared into his room and played. For hours!
Over the next few days he proceeded to nag me about getting some more. As he had some pocket money owing, I buckled. At this point, I was still a bit “hmmm, not sure about this” as they are, quite literally garbage. They are small, cheap and are “collectable”, which basically means there are a shit load of them for you to buy.
I was dubious about their longevity and I am vehemently against buying useless crap that will lie around and annoy me.
We returned home, his new packs under his arm, and proceeded to play … again for hours!
Let me sum up a few things before I proceed, things that have made me happy:
- he got off his iPod and played with stuff
- he created stories, themes, scenes and all kinds of imaginative play stuff. And things.
- he played with his younger brother, whom had intercepted the Trash Pack party with this Thomas the Tank Engine trains and they had a great little game together
- he played with his older brother, and they created a great story involving The Trash Pack newsreaders, a Zeppelin and a tragedy that befell the town of Trashpackia
- he made a series of videos, telling this story and various others, using his extremely vivid imagination .. and not just one of him dancing naked to Sexy & I know it, either, but stories involving The Trash Pack.
To put this into context, this stuff doesn’t happen very often off the iPod. You may get bouts of it, with his stuffed toys, or various other toy-like paraphernalia, but it rarely, if ever, lasts days, let alone weeks as The Trash Packs have been doing.
It hasn’t been all rosy. He had a near meltdown when Chippie took a liking to Moo Cow Disease and ran off with it.
Monkey Boy has, at times, attempted to control the situation and stories, and it has resulted in skull-bashing repercussions.
Three Trashies have gone missing. It has been devastating.
There are fucking Trashies scattered all around his room at times. Thankfully, they are nowhere near as painful to stand on as LEGO bricks are. Phew.
He is learning responsibility and to take care of his things. He has them mostly (now) contained to one area.
He has not let up on nagging me until I completely lose my ‘nana about getting more Trashies. It is his birthday next week and his only requests have been ‘more Trashies’ and has stepped out of his comfort zone to tell family members and friends exactly what he’d like for his birthday.
We gave a couple of Trash Pack sets to a friend for his birthday earlier this year. His mum, a few weeks later, rang me to say “Thanks for that”. It may or may not have been loaded with sarcasm, but when this friend comes over to play, with his rapidly growing Trash Pack collection, they play nicely and stay out of my way for the entire time. Win-win, really.
Moose were kind enough to donate some Trash Pack sets to the goody bags for Mums Night Out! on the 13th of April. I have received – particularly from those attendees with boys as children – another few “Hmm, thanks for the Trash Packs”.
It seems they are loved by many … personally, I don’t get it, but if they kids are playing and not annoying me, then great. I’m happy.
It’s a bonus that they are using their imaginations and fingers and playing nicely together. The school holidays were also relativley pleasant, thanks to this utter garbage (I say that because they are, literally, garbage, not in any derogatory way at all).
The Trash Pack, in various sized sets, are available from K-mart and no doubt various other establishments like that. I only say K-mart as that’s where we go to collect ours, I haven’t seen them elsewhere, because I haven’t looked elsewhere. Oh, and my local Coles, but they have a limited selection.
Disclaimer: I was not paid to conduct this review. In fact, I wasn’t even asked to conduct it, but I was so impressed by my eight-year-old and his interaction with them that I was compelled to speak up about it. Aside from the pack of 5 Trashies in the Moose Enterprise bag from the toy fair, all other Trash Pack stuff we have has come out of Godzilla’s pocket money, present money, or bribery (i.e. my money). We now own in excess of 55 Trashies … *sigh* No doubt we’ll have more after the weekend.
I am also considering suing Moose for stress, given I have had to endure “can we get more Trash Packs today?” every single day for the last few months. So much so that on Saturday, by 9.43am, I had to put a ban on the words “trash” and “pack” .
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?
Stormy Weather
Posted by: | CommentsIt’s day five of the school holidays. The three year old’s vocab has now expanded to making such statements as “you bitch” when his brothers do something he doensn’t like. And the odd “shit”. I mean verbally, not bumly. Although that as well. It’s been raining for two days. Cabin fever setting in.
Mount PileOfWashing has erupted. It bred first, leaving massive piles of itself in various rooms of the house. It has now, quite literally erupted, spewing more and more filthy, smelly, pissy items of clothing, bed sheets, towels and rice all over the house. There is little to no floor space in any of the rooms. I located the three year old, after he’d been missing for some hours and I thought he’d just gone to sleep, under a pile of fetid underpants and pyjamas.
The trickling PissNShit Creek has broken it’s banks and is now a raging torrent, leaving puddles of itself in hallways, beds and the size 2 Bob the Builder underpants of a small child. The force of its currents has resulted, on more than one occasion, to splash poo-tainted water into the face and up the arms of the tribal leader, Going FuckingNuts, evoking a random, exuberant dance complete with flailing arms and screaching.
Perhaps to ward off any further bad vibes? Or scare away … well, the entire neighbourhood, really.
It is believed broken banks of PissNShit Creek and the subsequent deluge of, well, piss and shit, have significantly undermined the integrity of the vast mountain that is Mount PileOfWashing and is being blamed for its seemingly inevitable explosion.
The rain has stopped, the sun has come out, the washing machine is in full working order. Going FuckingNuts has been out, hanging washing and performing such dances so as to bring on the Flood Of Wine and ShutTheFuckUpAboutPlayingTheWii Curse.
So far, it is concluded she is perfoming it incorrectly, given the flood of PissNShit.
Also, it’s beginning to upset the neighbours.
The School Holidays are Not ALL Bad
Posted by: | CommentsIt appears I completely overlooked the school holidays when planning big changes to my business.
Mostly techcnical changes, but big at any rate.
Although, really, I suspect it was because Grumpy advised me he would be around, and maybe we could go away for “these days” and we had it all planned, of sorts and I did that thing where I got my head around it all and … settled.
Then he was working and I had looooong days ahead of me, surrounded by children and a severe aversion to ringing the parents of my children’s friends and inviting my children over for a play at their house. I just can’t do it.
Which is often why I let Godzilla nag me to bits about going to someone’s house for a play and/or sleepover, until I can’t take it any more and I say “Fine then! Ring his mum yourself!” and hand my phone over. Then feel disgustlingly guilty and bad about my kid inviting himself for a sleepover.
I don’t actually mind Other People’s Children coming over; except most of them don’t eat and it drives me nuts. I have real issues feeding children bags of chips and the cheap-arse Easter Eggs from last April because they refuse a Vegemite sandwich. And they’re not just playing me, either, they really just eat crap. Does my head in. Other than that, they keep my kids entertained and away from me for a bit, and the hours in which I am forced to endure the ”I’m bored” and whingey complaints, all done, mind, just because they can, and not because they know the day we have planned is gonna be crap, are significantly reduced.
But they’re not all bad. The really great thing about the school holidays is that Other Mothers are enduring the same. AND they also seem to have the same utter dislike of calling Other Mothers and organising to offload their kids onto someone else!
Hurrah!
Beacause … well, this is how Monkey Boy ended up going for a sleepover for two nights in a row! and Godzilla was invite for one last night. Meaning we had the house to ourselves – Grumpy, Chippie and I – last night.
I got some work done, Grumpy got to watch a DVD and Chippie went to bed. Easily. Possibly because he spent most of yesterday destroying the Never Ending game of Monopoly Junior Godzilla and I were playing, so we had to start yet another game, dragging me off my chair any time I attempted to do something – anything - and making me “couple up”, calling me a truck and dragging me around the house for hours.
He then did the unexpected … he stayed in his own bed, sleeping, for the whole night!
I did that thing this morning, after at least 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep, where the first thought was “oh, god, he’s dead!” and badly wanted to get up and check that he was still breathing.
Yet, at the same time, I didn’t want to enter his bedroom, paralysed with fear at the very idea that he may wake up …
Family Holiday Fun Highlights
Posted by: | CommentsThe four days of our holiday were filled with so much fun, I feel the best way to present them is in pictoral/’slideshow’ form with some narrative text along the way so you know what is going on.
If you have any questiones pertaining to the footage such as “what the hell is a “robotic duck?” and “what were those two koala doing?” please leave them in the comments section below and I will endeavour to answer them as well as humanly possible.
Also, and I share this tip in the hope that other Mums don’t make the same mistake I did, when a 9 year old boy called “Monkey Boy” says “climb up here, it’s easy”, don’t believe him. We are, in fact, above the level we started at on the other side. Not only did I have to get back down from where I ended up, but I still had to endure the climb back up to our starting position.
He is not called “Monkey Boy” for nothing … *sigh*
Are we having fun yet?
Posted by: | CommentsAh, a much needed break, teamed with school holidays for kids and Grumpy Pants coinciding, and some much needed family time together, in a tranquil and out of the way place, far away from internet connections and the Wii.
The DSes were, however, packed.
Packing ensued, which involved Monkey Boy refusing to share a suitcase with Godzilla because “Urgh!” and “I just don’t want to, ok!” Both of which where extremely well thought out, comprehensive and coherent arguments. Relented. The other option was stab someone.
Deal with a Chippie Poo that had managed to work its way down the entire length of one of his legs and required both of us hopping in the shower, him fully clothed. Subsequently deal with toddler tantrum pertaining to being clothed in the shower, as this is not the done thing and the only way to deal with it is to scream. Loudly. In a confined space. It also required thrashing about so that Mummy was unable to remove soaking wet and poo covered clothing with any semblance of control.
Chippie cleaned, showered and dressed.
Bags – all three of them – packed. Godzilla repeatedly requested to retreive more than just two pair of socks, three pair of shorts and a t-shirt for the three night – four day stay. Two pair of tracksuit pants and another set of socks eventually stuffed in bags. Jackets are then tossed on top at last minute, post bags being jammed into boot of car.
Our plan to leave at 10am was looking good and we pulled out of the garage, car fully laden, bikes attached to the bike holder thingy on the back at exactly 11.13am.
Godzilla informs us he is “starving” three minutes into the trip. Grumpy solves this issue by informing him we’ll “stop for lunch soon” and close on two hours later we do. The upside of the repeatitiveness of the “I’m hungry” is that it prevented the inevitable game of “I Spy” that usually accompanies us on these journeys.
Rain, BIG rain, kicks in just before we hit our Lunch Stop, stock up on provisions for having leftover chicken sandwiches at a rotunda or park somewhere, when Godzilla notices a “kids eat free” sign on a windown.
Hmmm … eat in BIG rain in rotunda in a park that could be lots more minutes away, or eat in warm restaurant with wine that has BIG sign out front saying “kids eat free”.
In we go.
And out we go a little over an hour later.
Chippie proceeds to scream for a bit, produce face-pulling that indicates massive poo imminent, emits noxious smelling odour from bottomly region in an area in which we are unable to pull over and do anything about it, safely (would prefer noxious smelling bum to being run over by truck, thank you very much) and promptly falls asleep.
Continue on journey to tune of “Oh my god he stinks!” from nine year old and “I’m a crazy chicken” from seven yaer old.
Arrive at destination where we discover a repeat of this morning’s Chippie poo, only smaller. Which causes me great confusion and annoyance. Into postage stamp sized shower he goes, again partially clothed and, again, resistant to this scenario, ensuring I and the other residents of caravan park are fully informed of his disgust.
We all head off for a bike ride, where my Unridden For Ten Years bike is putting up a little bit of squeaky resistance and the tires haven’t been adequately pumped up, making it difficult to ride. I suspect Grumpy Pants did this with tires as payback for having to chauffeur Chippie around on his.
There was much of him saying “come on, what are you doing?” and me responding with “I can’t go faster, my tires are flat” and him hilariously responding with “it’s only flat on the bottom”.
I swear he said “you’re only fat in the bottom” but he vehemently denies this.
Back to the cabin where we empbark on preparing a scrumptious meal of spag bol and Godzilla sits on the only toilet for approximately 3 days, yelling “I’m DOING A POO!’ whenever someone says “hurry up” and entertains himself with “balls go up, balls go down, balls go up, balls go down”. Thus sending Monkey Boy into hysterics and exclaiming, also loudly, “He has control over his BALLS!!!!”
Who say’s my kids aren’t talented?
Or, you now, annoying?
After eating and showering and much nagging about wanting to go for a swim in the caravan park pool at sunset in 5 degree ‘heat’ and much tantrumming over being told “no” and “are you insane?” Chippie takes himself off to bed, which is not the porta-cott that took up half the boot and is now stuffed in a corner of the teensy cabin somewhere, but one of the bottom bunks. By “took himself to bed” I mean he clambered on without sustaining serious injury to himself, lay down, eyes open and “snoring” loudly, then sticking his head out, looking through the door and yelling “GO ‘WAY! SHUL UP!” at everyone who was sitting quietly and not going anywhere near him on the other side of the door.
Also discovered that there was an error in the booking and that we were, in fact, booked for an extra night that we didn’t actually book. A credit note for the same venue was offered should we wish to leave the day we said we were. Or we could just stay. Do we want to return? Or do we just endure it now?
Hmm. Are we having fun yet ….? Because this will determine my level insanity by the time we do leave …
Back into the routine
Posted by: | CommentsOh, how I love routine.
It makes the morning go more smoothly, and just that sense of familarity makes me feel calm and secure.
School is back this morning, my brain is no longer required to think of a heap of fun things to do that the kids will find boring on principle and I can get back to doing my usual; one thing after another, one foot in front of the other, without having to think.
MUG poured, emails checked, commence making school lunches, swear under breath and enquire of entire family why it is they all need to make their breakfast right now and right in the spot I am using to make school lunches, ask Monkey Boy to stop saying “I don’t want to go to school today” in approximatley 18 different ways, throw out random Get Ready For School type requests and demands and end up in screaming rage about hearing the words “I don’t want to go to school today” for the bazillionth time that morning, the last 7 of which were after I had specifically, firmly and, or so I thought, adequately requested he desist.
Then we were late leaving the house.
Glad we’re all back to “normal”.
The school holiday lazy start to the day …
Posted by: | CommentsAfter several nights of terrible sleep, a day yesterday that resulted in a tantrum by 8.23am and me screaming “how many more sleeps till the holidays are over?!” a relatively good rest of the day with two kids behaving themselves and playing nicely together and the toddler at childcare, an early night, a seriously crap sleep, courtesy of Chippie how felt 3.03am was a perfect time to wake and scream, as was 3.47 and 4.06am till Grumpy lost it and wandered down to the kitchen and back again, shoving a dummy that I’ve worked extremely hard on weaning / cold turkeying him off for the last week, in Chippie’s gob.
A slept fitfully for a bit longer, crashing in a heap after Grumpy left for work. Only to be woken to the dulcit tones of a 7 year old embarking on some 7 year old version of boom boxing rap thing.
From the bathroom, which, as all bathrooms do, has the capacity to not only magnify sound 806 times, but also to distribute it throught the house and into the bedroom of the desperate for sleep mum.
Figured he’d be done in a few seconds, then came to the realisation that he was doing a poo and was “singing” becuase he was bored and that it could be some time.
I ask again, how long do kids need to poo for?!
After 7 minutes of it I was forced to either put up with it or yell out for him to stop, risking the waking of the now peacefully sleeping toddler, whom I really didn’t want to have to deal with right at that moment. You know, tired, sleep deprived and having listened to 7 minutes of crap pouring out of other kid’s mouth.
After 13 minutes I yelled out, again, trying to find breaks in which to yell “SHUT UP”. Something which requires a great deal of skill.
Approximately 37 minutes after that, I finally timed it perfectly, he yells back “WHAT?” keeps singing and I’m now forced with deciding whether I want to get up in order to beat him with my slipper or shoot myself.
Faced with horrible realisation that I may have to get up, I struggle out of bed, find Chippie standing up in his cot, get him out and endure a tantrum of epic proportions due to his apparent wanting to stay in his cot. I put him back in, endure more screaming, get him out, dump him on floor, stumble to kitchn, pour coffee and hide at back of Tuppware cupboard. Sadly, can still hear screaming.
Shove bread in toaster, then toast in eats until I can determine exactly what it is Chippie actually wants, feed him and set about organising day.
Have shower, book movie tickets, attempt to do some writing in between having trains shoved down my top, up my nose and in my mouth, referree several disputes between older two, start several projects in attempt to see which one will inspiare me and can be done in the .3 seconds I have before I’m annoyed agian. Contemplate doing a load of washing as it begins to bucket down. Now have to find several activities to fill time before heading off to the movies with a friend and her kids, which I’m now considering to be a really stupid idea, given Chippie hasn’t had a sleep, the other two are being obnoxious and I’m so tired I can’t find my MUG.
Finally psych self up to pass work off as a bad idea, just wanting to finish a teensy job as toddler screams at me and climbs up onto lap. It’s bad enough that he’s up there, screaming – screaming – for no apparent reason. When he wees and it leaks through his nappy, that’s the last straw.
And my last pair of clean jeans.
It’s just gone lunchtime, I’m in pyjamas and supposed to be taking the kids to a movie that I now no longer want to take them to, and have nothing but pyjama pants to wear.
Hrm. I just love the school holidays.
If only chocolate could fix it …
Posted by: | CommentsAh, Easter Sunday, where I am up at some stupid hour starting with the figure 4, getting caught by the six year old as I’m trying excruciatingly hard not to make any noise (damn floorboards!) and attempting to hide behind a door.
Wander out into dark, as even the sun is not stupid enough to have made an appearance at such a stupid hour, only to have the sensor light, the one that only senses you if you’re a cat and not a human being attempting to hang washing out at 11.13pm or play Easter Bunny at Stupid O’Clock, chooses this moment to brighten the entire planet.
Still, I manage to perform the intricate task of hiding smallish chocolate eggs around the backyard so they’re not too easy to find, but also not too hard as to result in tantrummy meltdowns due to inadequate chocolate egg supply.
Lament the fact that this particular job is relegated to me, recall incidents of years past where Grumpy Pants took on the task and just piled them up in the middle of the decking, then lament fact that I have a congenital defect that requires I do ‘fun’ things for the kids. I.e. Easter Egg hunts.
Hide the first pack. Spread the second pack over back lawn and stumble way back to bed. Am extremely disheartened when discover six year old has wandered outside, then climbed into bed with us, cold, and my coffee machine didn’t go off as scheduled.
Eventually allow for hunting, Chippie eating an entire egg, including wrapper, pre 6.20am, poking the beanies that kept falling out back in the partially consumed egg them wiping his filthy face on the crotch of my pyjamas.
Godzilla, the sweet tooth, managed to consume approximately 8 kilo of chocoalte prior to breakfast and without anyone seeing. Considered sending in application on his behalf for role of Easter Bunny due to convincingness of his bounce and apparent endless hyperactivity.
Realise with great dismay we have guests coming over, I have neglected to purchase any Eastery type gifts for them. Nor do I have anything edible to serve them. After touring neighbourhood and web for openness of supermarkets, discover am forced to endure the exorbident prices of local “supermarket” for provisions.
Also purchase essential items for production of rocky road to package nicely and present as gifts to guests. The only Easter “eggs” they had remaining were a) rabbits and b) crap. And cost somewhere in the vicinity of $600.
Take kids with me in hope it will burn off some energy.
Clearly am an idiot.
Utilise a somehow forgotten, but very good quality chocolate, rabbit from a previous Easter in rocky road preparation, convincing self it will make it more Eastery. And that the ‘best before’ date couldn’t be seen.
Forced to stuff a third of a packet of marshmallows in mouth in the process as the kids were being somewhat overactive and obnoxious, so refused to allow them any and had to make a decent point. Also, there were that many left over that wouldn’t fit in the container, and it is a well known fact that any bits of anything that don’t fit in must be eaten.
Also couldn’t find another suitable container as it appears remainder of household incapable of putting things away where they belong.
Managed to muck up the rocky road, which I feel is a feat in itself as it already looks like mish mash and fairly hard to fuck up. Still, I managed it and blame it on early morning, lack of effective coffee machine operation in time of great need and near choking on marshmallows. That, however, did get me some minutes of peace and acceptable behaviour.
Fucked up rocky road in fridge to set so I could chop it up and wrap it beautifully in cellophane when guests arrive and hide yet more chocolate in the back yard and Chippie eats more red foil and chocolate, then attempts to dehair cat by grabbing it with choc-coated hands and comes up resembling a miniature yeti, having literally dehaired the cat and successfully sticking fur to self.
Guests depart, I unsuccessfully rummage in fridge to find wine and discover fucked up rocky road.
Then there were three … and four
Posted by: | CommentsMonkey Boy crashed out on bed and not dealing with sickness well.
Chippie got temp, thankfully no vomiting, but not sick enough to be listless. Can, however, now climb onto change table. Fabulous.
I missed the temp, but got a terribly sore chest, disgusting cough and, in typical fashion, the motivation to keep working and an extremely fatigued body and fuddled mind.
I hate that.
Oh, and desperate for a nice, relaxing bath, Grumpy has decided today would be a great day to remove the waterproofy stuff from around the edge of the bath (it was a dodgy job, looks horrible and starting to look manky - it did need removing and redoing), but only able to do it in bits due to, you know, family and stuff.
Chippie did entertain himself for a bit, tossing rolls of toilet paper down the toilet, but Grumpy did have to tend to it eventually.
It also meant Monkey Boy was unable to have baths he wanted to bring his temp down, and wash himself. I preferred a hot bath, I just feel like it shifts the gunk in your chest, so it hurts less when you cough.
You rock, Doll.....thanks for such awe inspiring honesty and brilliant laughs.