Done & Dusted

Woo hoo! Only 362 days, 9 hours and 18 minutes until Christmas!

And it will be here in no time at all. Did anyone else feel as though Christmas came around quickly this time around? It sure as hell did for me. It doesn't feel like it has been 7 months since having Baby Scarlett, either. But here she is, old enough now to gum to death a wedge of turkey, sitting with us at our Christmas feast. She only gagged 4 times. 

Seriously - look at this
crap. We need a toy cull
or a bigger house. With
a cleaner. And a nanny.
And a wine cellar.

Tim and I successfully completed a massive clean up of all the crap from downstairs. It wasn't going well in the beginning. But by 1:30am I had given up my find-the-proper-home-for-this-toy/bag/playdough/sock efforts and ended up filling the room upstairs with everything and giving the toilet a quick wipe. I hate the downstairs toilet and refuse to use it. It is the kids' toilet and the guest's toilet and I often forget how funky it can get until the dreaded pop-in happens and I'm left wondering if the last poo was a flusher or a floater, and if my soon to be teenager has aimed accurately during the night. Usually not.

By 2:15am, the presents were finally wrapped, sacks were filled, reindeer were fed and Santa was well and truly soused.

By 2:50am, Baby Scarlett was politely requesting a bottle of milk, something she hasn't done since she was about a month old, but must have known I was going to be up again in an hour or two when the over-excited Wondertwins would wake with squeals of Christmassy delight. Bless her little cotton socks.

Scarlett cuddling her Great-Grandpa.
93 year age gap!

Christmas Day here has recently been a... well...umm... a challenging day here. Both Tim and I have very small families. Tim's Mum, Dad and sister come, as well as my gorgeous grandpa 'Great', my Dad and his girlfriend of 22 years (Mum died 10 years ago - you can do the math), and sometimes my brother, his wife and my sister. So not too big. However, some don't talk to others, some won't come because of others, some are deaf now and can't hear others. I try to stay in the kitchen as often and as long as possible.

This year, I decided not to drink too much wine. Fortunately, I was given a bottle of Peach Schnapps, so I could slowly get marinated in that instead. I broke 3 wine glasses in under 12 hours in separate incidents - a good effort even for me.

We ate outside to enjoy the not-too-hot-not-too-cold day. Unfortunately, it was too hot for some and too cold for another. But we stayed out there, dammit. Our first Australian Christmas outside.

But the day went quickly and no blood was spilled - metaphorically and literally. In the spirit of good-will and family togetherness we ate, drank and were merry.

And after all that, no one could even tell that we had madly cleaned for them. It was hidden under the mountains of wrapping paper, boxes and plastic.

I can't wait until next Christmas, so I can do it all again.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you and yours...

Lis

Big Ted sleeping off the Margarita mix

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Very Superstitious

I have never thought of myself as overly superstitious. Sure, I don't walk under ladders and hate the thought of breaking a mirror, but that's mainly because I don't want to clean that shit up. But recently I've noticed how many other little superstitious hogs wallop treats my kids have picked up by none other than me.

Lily and Grace like to jump hard on cracks in the pavement because they want to see if my back will break - "Is it broken yet Mummy? No? Jump harder Gracie. Harder."

Ella wants to know over which shoulder to throw salt if she knocks the shaker over on the table (it's the left shoulder, by the way, because the devil will only attack from the rear coz he's a coward and the left side of a person is known as the sinister side). Huh? My Mum taught me that one.

And did you know that if you do find yourself walking under a ladder, there a couple of things you can do to avoid disastrous consequences. You could say "bread and butter" (WTF?) or cross your fingers until you see a dog, or if you have a bit of time on your hands like I do, walk backwards under the ladder and continue walking backwards until you reach the place you started your walk. That sounds like fun with 3 year old twins.

As you know, I have plenty of time to lie around and read, so I bought a book on the subject - just to see how I could possibly improve my life by following some very bizarre beliefs and found out just how many of them I already follow.

In the spirit of Christmas, and courtesy of Richard Webster's Encyclopedia of Superstitions (2008), here are some Silly Season Superstitions:

Christmas Eve - good time to die, apparently. The Irish, many years ago believed that you could avoid purgatory if you pass away on Christmas Eve. Coincidentally, many people did happen to die on that day - some with a little help from family and friends. In the Dark Ages, only oxen and asses were allowed to remain outside on Christmas Eve. I know a few asses that should stay outside for more than just one day a year.

Christmas Day - good time to be born and is considered very lucky.

This is what my pudding looks like!

Christmas Food - everyone in the family should stir the Christmas pudding. Interestingly, this is one that we do in our house. Anyone who stirs the pudding mixture will have good luck and can make a wish. You will gain a month of luck for every mince pie you eat between December 25 and January 6, guaranteeing you a year of good luck. THIS DOES NOT WORK, FRIENDS. It just guarantees a year of hard-to-shift kilos.

Christmas Decorations - put them away only on January 6. I shudder to think what might happen if you don't. The shops have that worked out, as Valentine's Day decorations are thrust upon us from then.

Christmas Stocking - This is more of a tradition than a superstition. St Nicholas heard of three poor sisters who were prostitutes. He went to visit them one night and threw three pieces of gold down their chimney. The gold landed in their stockings that were drying by the hearth. Bit sus if you ask me.

My older kids, at 12 and 11, are on the edge of believing in Santa and believing that their parents are habitual and annual liars. I think that most of Campbell's friends know what's going on. Campbell and Ella have been interrogating me, searching for the glitch in my tales. I'm a pretty convincing storyteller when it comes to Santa, the Toothfairy, the Easter Bunny and Elmo. What I hope to achieve from my festive lying is to develop an even better lying parent in Campbell - to keep the magic going.

Of course they're not the real Santa. That's one of Santa's helpers who are hand picked by Santa himself to work in shopping centres. Der.

The only thing I don't have answers for is when my child asks "Why can't the poor children get presents, even if they've been so good the whole year?" and "Why did Johnny* get an xBox, a bike and an iPad when he's a bully?" Sometimes not even my skill as Supermum can find all the answers.

Merry Christmas to you all. Touch wood that we all have a safe and healthy one, too.  

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Sweating the Small Stuff

I am in the middle of re-rereading "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff" by Richard Carlson and trying oh so very hard to not let things get the better of me at the moment. I've been feeling a bit overwhelmed by the fast-paced period of long queues, end of the school year, perfect present buying, socialising, extra expenses and cooking for break-up and Christmas parties. I know I'm not alone. Of course I'm not. But somedays Zoloft can only do so much.

Today was one of those days when you wish your kids could live at the North Pole - the furthest place I can think of that has a guaranteed return date of December 25. I don't wish them away for ever. Just long enough to let my heart beat return to it's normal rate, and allow me to think without the constant stereo of screaming twins, the demands and bickering of the older two who should know better and the ever-present velcro koala attached to my left hip.

Today, I ditched the idea of a shopping centre and battling it out with the masses, and headed to a nearby suburban shopping strip. I'd like to say that with all my education I'm a pretty smart person, but today proved that I am far from it. A simple exercise of pushing a pram with a 3 year old twin on each side was not as simple as I would have thought. And Lily was not in a good mood from the time she woke up. I should have taken that as a big warning sign that the day was not going to get any better than it was at half past 7. Still, I had things that I needed to achieve today to avoid a snowball effect of Christmas catastrophes. 

Don't be fooled by her cute exterior.

The greatest warning sign that it wasn't going to be an easy shopping trip was Lily crying in the car that her right knee was cold. Turning the air vent to face the window, her hair was now too cold and her knee was now too hot. 

"Don't look at me!" she growled at me. "Every day I tell you you not look at me!" 

5, 4, 3, 2, 1, exhale. "Ok, Lil."

"You not talk a me, too."

At the carpark, I turned to the girls and gave them the run-down. "Will we run around and scream in the shop?"

"No."

"Will we play hide and seek under the fruit and vegie tables in the supermarket?"

"No."

"Will you smack each other on the head and say rude words?"

"No."

Lily sighed. "Then what can we do?"

"We can walk nicely and safely and use our lovely manners and listen to Mummy."

"Yes," says Gracie.

"Lily?"

"I told you not you look and not you talk a me. Dickhead."

And, breathe...

This is where I should have known better than to take them out of the car. But I did.

Crossing the road at a very difficult intersection, Lily refused to hold the pram. Finally, an opportunity to safely cross arose and I headed out, Lily next to us. I looked at her and praised her. "Good girl! Keep going."

Down she dropped, in the middle of the road, her pink princess dress fluffing out around her. "You look at me! Don't look at me!" and lay with her head in her hands on the asphalt. Pulling at her arm to get up, she lashed out kicking and flinging her arms around wildly, as I tried desperately to drag her possessed body from the centre of what was now a very crowded street.

This isn't the first time this sort of thing has happened to me with one of my errant children. When Ella was the same age, she refused to hold my hand as we crossed a busy road, and as I held on tightly to her little wrist Ella dropped - her body a dead weight under my grip, and I felt it click (or was it crack?) from somewhere in that tiny 3 year old arm. Several hours later in the hospital, after xrays and extensive questioning from the triage nurses ("Mummy hurt my arm coz I was naughty on the road") it was deemed to be an unfortunate dislocation of the elbow due to chronic naughtiness.

And here I am. I survived to blog another day. I'm hanging onto a thread of tranquillity though. But I will try very very hard to remind myself not to sweat the small stuff, because it is all small stuff, no matter how obnoxious my small stuff can be.

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'Tis the Season

I love Christmas! No, seriously I really do. I love the smell of Christmas, the excitement of children, and the sparkly glitteriness of decorations that would make a Gypsy Wedding seem modest.

As November comes to an end, I feel it may be time to hit the shopping centres in search of perfect presents for everyone. I've left internet shopping a little too late for timely delivery, so I will inevitably have to drag the Wondertwins and beautiful Scarlett into the frantic world of last-minute shopping.

This will be an exciting Christmas for 

Grace and Lily. This is the first Christmas the girls understand that a big dude dressed in red with a great fluffy white beard will visit them and leave gifts if he thinks they have been good girls. Ha! This is also the first Christmas I can effectively use Santa as a motivational carrot. I can dangle that big bad boy in front of them every time I need/want socially acceptable behaviour, particularly in public. 


Grace, please stop hitting Lily. Do you want Santa's elves to see you? They'll tell Santa you're being naughty.

Lily, if you don't stop that tantrum and get up off the floor I will call Santa. Here I go. I'm doing it. I have Santa's number in my phone. Dialling him now...

A few years ago, when I told Ella that I would call Santa to dob on her for bad behaviour, she said "I know you won't call him because I looked for his number in your phone and it wasn't there." "Well, for your information, Miss Smarty-Pants," I said, "It is in there, but why would I keep it listed under 'Santa'? I've got to keep it top secret. It's the rules." BOOM. That shut her up.

I also feel a little nostalgic around Christmas time. This is a time when my mum would be busily making the Christmas pudding to be hung wrapped in it's canvas to 'set'. She would also be preparing for the massive wintery feast of roast beef, turkey, pork and crackling, and gluten-free Christmas cake - all to be served hot from the oven on what could possibly be a 30 - 40 degree Melbourne summer's day. She would do all this without air-conditioning, while everyone else sat lazily in the lounge room or played with their new toys outside. Bless her.

Now that she has passed, I have taken on the role of Christmas chef and hostess with the help of my younger sister, Debra. It was assumed when Mum died that the Christmas dinner died with her. I felt as the eldest in the family, married with kids, I should take over this annual feast. That and the fact that I am bossy and like to take charge. I actually love keeping the family's tradition of making a huge hanging pud - a recipe passed down the ranks - and stressing and sweating it out in the kitchen. It's not without it's challenges. Last year the microwave karked it and the year before that the oven did, and I spent Christmas Eve at my sister's house cooking three types of animal over 8 hours and travelled the 15 kilometres home with the most delicious smells in my car. 

This year, Tim suggested I cook a turducken. It's a large turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken with stuffing in-between each bird. Sounds delish.

Mmmm...turducken lickin' good.

But as Campbell is now a vegetarian, I will have to give him a tofucken. How wrong does that sound? It's tofu and other miscellaneous meat substitutes. Mmm, mm. I think I'll stick to the normal meal plan.

What's Christmas like in your neck of the woods? 

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Clean this

I'm still high on the fumes.

As the temperature here in Melbourne reached a steamy 39 degrees (that's 102 degrees for you non-metric fahrenheiters) I decided to clean. Of course.

The inside of my house is cool enough - not yet Fonzie cool - but refrigerated cool enough to do so. And, I'm feeling a bit electric and buzzy like a 3 year old on a double espresso. I get like that sometimes. Not often, thank God, but sometimes. But it makes me do stupid things like clean my house.

I've been busting my arse fruitlessly cleaning it. I started with my shower. We'd forgotten it was white. Now when people pop in (I soooo love the pop ins) I want to now steer them away from the dog's breakfast that is the rest of my house and lead them to my bathroom for a coffee as proof that I do actually clean now and then.

My goal is that the house will be clean by Christmas Day, when the relatives descend. Christmas Day here...well...that's another blog. I'll need a few drinks first before I write that one. 

Spring cleaning for me means to prepare the house for festivities, when on Christmas Day, after the kids have shredded the wrapping paper and packaging from their little-deserved presents, strewn ribbon, cardboard and those tiny plastic ties that hold the heads of dolls that will instil a body image complex in the twins in a few years time, the house will be back in it's late November stage of disarray and the whole cleaning exercise will been deemed pointless and a waste of fecking time.

Ordinarily, when I clean the house for Christmas, it is a last minute affair. Basically, that means we gather up all the crap on Christmas Eve and throw it in a wardrobe or two, or banish it to my bedroom upstairs and out of sight. The problem with that method is that all that crap is still there tucked in their hiding places from Christmasses past.

Lily (above) & Grace were very
lucky to have made it to their
2nd birthday. A year & a half later
& I'm still finding Coco Pops behind the
TV, along with pizza, spoons, etc.

Cleaning my house is no different to painting the Sydney Harbour Bridge. It is continuous and monotonous. There's no chance to sit back and enjoy my hard work. All I do is create a blank canvas for the tornado twins.

I find myself apologising to friends who, bless them, arrive unannounced. "Sorry about the mess. You should have popped in yesterday. It was clean then". 

I've come a long way with cleaning. Or lack of it. When Ella was born, we had just moved into a brand spanking new house. When someone came over they were greeted with a display home. This was a dead give away to the Maternal and Child Health nurse who checked on me to see if I was coping ok, and saw that I wasn't, in fact, ok. That and the fact that the toaster was sparkling clean on the inside. And that I had stayed up the night before frantically cleaning the tooth brushes and the grout around the toilet tiles just in case I was found to be a bad parent if they showed signs of germs. You never know who could scrutinise your toothbrush at any time. You have to be ready for that. 

Look around my house now and you'll see how well I have recovered from that kind of manic behaviour.

Yep, this is pretty much a normal day.
Lily said Campbell did it. Gracie said Ella did it.
Campbell & Ella were at school.
It seems my kids learn to fib through their back teeth early.
You feel my pain? Do ya?

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