Suburban Housewife

Sitting here on the computer, slowly getting slushy from the cheap Moscato I bought earlier when the kids were doing my head in, I'm thinking I've got all this stay-at-home-housewify thingy worked out. I figure Step One in this revelation is to drink more. How good do kids look when you've had a glass or three? Their cheeks are so mooshy, their smells are less offensive and their bickering suddenly dissolves into a light, crisp and fruity palate state of mind.

Lately (and I mean in the last 24 hours) I've come to the conclusion that there must be five types of housewife - The Liar, The Illusionist, The Magician, The Naturalist and The Beyond Care.

The Liar

These women have the perfect house, husband, kids and menus. Their houses are immaculate - not a speck of dust, dirt or urine to be found. Or so they say. Many of these model mums can be found hiding behind a keyboard updating their Facebook statuses or blogs with how wonderful their lives are. And we fall for it. And we rate our own lives on it. Their husbands cook them delicious breakfasts in bed without needing a reason, they know how to use a washing machine and a potato peeler and don't fart in their presence. Their children are clean, respectful, complete their homework the day they receive it and also don't fart in their presence. Their menus are planned a month in advance, are all natural and well presented. I have no doubt that many of these perfect mums are lying liars who are lying through their lie holes and are as reliable as a sleazy adult phone chat chick at $4.95 per minute. You believe she's a sexy blonde with big chumbawumbas because she said so. Why would she lie?

I would be The Liar in a heartbeat, if I knew none of you knew me.

The Illusionist

The Illusionist often talks about how she busted her arse at home this morning, putting things away and in their place. Yes, she has avoided telling a lie. She has been putting a packet of Tim Tams away while watching Ellen, and has put the hired cleaner in her place for not scrubbing the toilet hard enough. There are two types of Illusionist. One is embarrassed to have a cleaner and the other will proudly say it's worth every cent. You will often be asked to a Illusionist's house just after the cleaner has left. I couldn't have a cleaner. I would be manic (see the next category) and clean my shit-hole to an inch of its life so the cleaner wouldn't think I was the filthy slob with feral children that I really am. In reality though, I would really, really love a cleaner. But I feel the money I save in not having one can be spent more wisely on medication and wine. And wine makes the house sparkle.

I could happily be The Illusionist.

The Magician

The phone rings, the heart pumps, the I'm-in-the-area/coffee morning/playgroup visit will be at The Magician's house in an hour. Pacing the kitchen floor chanting fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck will not help The Magician in the long run. She needs to think quickly and creatively. What rooms will they not need to see? What crap can be stuffed in the dryer? I won't need the oven, will I? Does the toilet reveal the stains and strains of last night's Mexican meal?Strategically placed toys, ornaments and books can instantly conceal the layer of dust and crumbs from view, leaving you time to sweep the floor and push it deeper under the couch just out of sight. The Magician is sweating and racing around like a teen on speed at a music festival. A quick spritz of lavender air freshener to hide the decomposing rubbish in the bin and the recently changed nappy containing a horrendous number three from your teething baby, and you're ready to go. Then they're fucking late.

Sounds like I know what I'm talking about? Yep. I am The Magician.

The Naturalist

I met a Naturalist once. This type of housewife is organic, calm and centred. Her children could throw poo on the ceiling and she would call it self-expression. Her house is chaotic, borderline hygienic and almost odour free, as her children roam naked from the waist down and use her garden as their toilet. Her calming and welcoming approach to everything makes you not even realise you are sitting in an over-cluttered, mud-smudged, compost bin of a home. And that's strangely comforting. It is a home. You'll need to step over the toys and plates of unfinished food, and move the pile of washing to one side of the couch to sit down, but because The Naturalist isn't terribly bothered by the sight of life happening before her eyes, you're not bothered either. And you feel content knowing that your home is not much different, with or without the semi naked kids using your azaleas as a urinal. Most of us are innate Naturalists. But we impose such pressure on ourselves by reading about The Liars and knowing some Illusionists, that we become the Magicians. We need to embrace our inner Naturalist and go with the flow of raising children and running a house. 

I would like to feel the serenity of The Naturalist.

The Beyond Care

These housewives couldn't give a shit about the three month old opened milk carton on the lounge room floor, the pile of cat poo behind the TV or that you need to cover your mouth and nose when you walk in the door. If this is the impression you get from the entrance, you'd better be able to hold your bladder. The stack of old newspapers and bags of used nappies as you walk up to the front door should've been warning enough. Gee, is that the time? I just remembered something I forgot. Let's do this again real soon. At my house this time.

I sometimes feel I am heading down this path, and then my self-respect kicks in and I'm happy being The Magician.

Of course, there are just well organised people who can keep on top of the daily maintenance of a house. Their homes are tidy and sanitary. Some are sterile. But it all fits together for them. No need to be The Liar. They don't need to be The Illusionist or even The Magician. But they can simply get their shiz together in small steps everyday. Yes, I am jealous. 

What housewife are you?

A day in the life...

In this weeks episode of Listmania, see what I saw on Thursday 14th February 2013. This is a day in my life...

7:15am (I feel like it needs a dramatic Law and Order introduction for each time)

Scarlett wakes me up by trying to force her dummy into my mouth. I haven't got a photo of this, so I drew it for you.

7:30am 

Time to get up Campbell. Grunt. 

Time to get up Ella. Grunt.

7:45am

Campbell, get up. Grunt.

How pretty is Campbell's pink wall? We will get  around to painting
it one day. Until then, Cam's friends will think it's adorable.

7:55am

Campbell! Get the hell up! What? Wha..? Why didn't you wake me? Now I'll be late.

8:00am

Morning chaos begins. Same 'ol same 'ol.

The photo looks so innocent. If only still photography had
volume. The fight between the older 2 behind me & the 
squeals from a baby just don't do this picture justice

8:30am

Can you drive me? I'm late coz you didn't wake me.

Ella strapping the ferals down

The drop off 

9:00am

Dora the Explorer for the Wondertwins, fridge magnets for Baby Scarlett, last night's dishes for me. Yay.

9:40am

The first of three loads of washing. The fun never ends.

10:10am

The first pooey nappy for the day. The first of many. That'll teach me to have three kids in nappies. Down you go for a nap Essie.

11:10am

Pancakes for an early lunch. Nutella sandwiches are not good enough today apparently.

11:45am

After a frantic last minute search for bathers, goggles and swim caps, we head off to Grace and Lily's swimming lessons. Forgot the towels. Bugger. And the change of clothes. Fffffff...

Grace & Lily

1:15pm

Home from swimming, dried, changed. Now to make new playdough. The other batch was mashed and dried on the rug and other miscellaneous objects.

This brilliant literally 5 minute play dough
recipe is the closest I get to actual 'baking'.

2:50pm

I'm desperate for Double Trouble to have a nap. They won't. They grizzle. They fight. Soon it will be too late for a nap if I want them to go to bed before 11pm tonight.

4:30pm

Load the Grand Carnival up with twins, toys for twins, snacks for twins, a 9 month old and an 11 year old, to go pick up 11 year old's 11 year old BFF and drive them to said 11 year olds' dance class at 5.

5:35pm

Damn it.

It took me ages to find Grace. This toy box is in her wardrobe

 Damn it.

I said I not tired

6:00pm
Better start thinking about what to feed the little bastar... darlings. What crap can I serve up and call a meal tonight?

7:20pm

Dad's home. Finally. Dinner. Finally.

7:55pm

A relaxing bath to calm the savage beasts before bed. God I'm funny.

8:15pm

I have to lie with Scarlett until she finally drops off, usually in an hour.

9:15pm

Tim's asleep on the couch. As usual. I'll pick this crap up & fold the washing while he snores. Who am I kidding? It'll still be there tomorrow.

Does this photo of my lounge room make you feel good?
You're welcome.

10:35pm

The last kid takes their final curtain call.

11:00pm

I get my blog on and stalk people on Facebook.

Unfortunately, I was not able to photograph the many tantrums and stupid arguments the kids had during the day, as I was busy ignoring them. I want to make this visual diary every week and turn it into a coffee table book called Ask Me Again What I Do All Day. I Dare You.

See more of the daily crap I put up with on my Facebook page.

29 Days & Counting

It is Day 11 of school holidays and I'm ready to return to full time work in another country, another time zone with no phone/email/smoke signal distance from the hatchlings. Not that I'm counting the days. But I am.

School finished four days before Christmas, and from the moment the school bell rang and Ella exited the school, I was faced with an 11 year old saying she would be soooooo bored if she didn't have anyone to be with. "I'm someone to be with," I had said. "Nooooo. I mean a real person. Someone fun. Someone interesting."

Oh.

Being the imaginary, boring and dull parent that I am, and remembering the state of my house that resembled a hard-rubbish collection that was not fit for human or rodent, I had said 'No' to entertaining extras that day. Ella explained to her friend standing with her that I 'don't try' to keep the house clean (Hello - in earshot) and that it makes me 'feel uncomfortable' (still here, listening) when people come over and I haven't tidied. Her friend turned to me and said, "That's ok, really. I don't mind if you have a dirty house. You have too many children to keep it clean." 

Ok, 1: It's not dirty, per se, it's untidy. Distinct difference.
      2: I don't have too many children, per se, I have five
          overindulged children who need to pull their heads 
          from their bums and help out more.
and c: I don't care. You're not coming over. Period. 

I know of families with one child who have a housekeeper or a cleaner who comes in once a week. I'd love that, but I'd be more stressed the day before he or she came, desperately cleaning the house from top to bottom so he or she wouldn't thinking we're pigs. Yesterday, a good friend came over and caught me by surprise when he walked in, stepping carefully over the toys, dress-ups, bits of toast, pencils and playdough to get to my kitchen. I accept full responsibility for my kitchen's condition. All I could do was hold my hands to my head, anxiety fluttering in my chest, and hope - no prayed - that he wouldn't need the bathroom. My husband, Tim, recognised the panic in me, and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. This will take me weeks to get over. Pathetic - I know, but that's me.

Being the imaginary, boring and dull parent that I am, I was told again today that it was soooo boring here, with nothing to do and nobody to do something with. Ella slumped over the table and sighed, "You don't know how boring the school holidays can be, Mum." 

Holy shit. This is going to be a very long five weeks. 

29 days to go...


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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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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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