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.

Find me on Facebook!
Vote for me on Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Moms 2013

'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? 

Find me on Facebook
Vote for me on Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Moms 2013