To all the mums

I was reading a parenting magazine recently and an article in there made me feel like a rotten mum. It was about how television might not actually be that bad for your kids. It suggested that by the time 4pm rolls around and your four year old's micro-nap is over, a program or two is certainly ok, providing it is an educationally based program with the learning objectives clearly described. I've always thought my children's education through TV has been quite thorough and well rounded. From about 7:30am, the girls have their lessons in Spanish (Dora, The Explorer), mathematics (Team Umizoomi), social skills and listening (Max and Ruby), time management (Tickety Toc), social studies (Bubble Guppies), animal welfare and environmental studies (Go Diego, Go), music (Hi5) and patience and tolerance (having to watch Teletubbies because Baby Scarlett likes it). Then it's bed time. Meals are somewhere in between. But I can tell you they're not organic. Or should even be called 'meals'. They get exercise going to the cupboard for snacks and through fighting each other.

Actually, it wasn't just one article. Everywhere I turn, I feel as though I have, or am in the process of, letting my kids down in the parenting stakes. Too much sugar, not enough water, too much television, not enough exploration of nature. Not fully toilet trained at 3 and a half? What the? Still has a dummy? Are you kidding me? Bad. Bad Mummy.

I know I'm not the only mum, or dad for that matter, who often feels quite inadequate as a parent. Unrealistic expectations are placed on all of us at some point during our parenting journey. Those who are doing it alone, those who put their kids in full-time childcare, those who put their kids in too many extracurricular activities. Hell - even those without kids are being judged about why they don't/won't/can't go down the parenting path. No one can win and there will always be someone who will question what you do as a parent. However, we can only do what we can do. It's time we stopped judging and rating each other on our ability to raise our kids. Are you with me??

I would have loved this piece back when I became a first time mum. And a second time mum. Even a third and fourth time mum. I'm glad I have come across this gem now though, with my fifth child, to reassure me that I am, in fact, a good mum after all.

I wish I knew who wrote this. I would love to give him or her the recognition they deserve. 

I am a good mum.

Playing happy family

I have a 13 year old:

an 11 year old:

2 of these: 

and one of these:

I have lots of photos of each, but none of all. So when the opportunity came my way to get all of them in a photo together and incredibly cheaply, I grabbed it with both hands and strangled the life out of it. The catch? The photo op was in Euroa, 200 kilometres away. The problem? Getting a photo with all of my adoraferals in it. At the same time. Together. After driving for 3 hours to get to the photographer. Together. Did I mention for 3 hours, in travelling time, each way, together? As much as I was looking forward to finally getting a picture of all my shitlings looking like they actually like each other, I was browning my knickers thinking what I would be like emotionally and psychologically after the event. I had promised my husband I would bring all of them home from our day trip, and preferably in one piece. He didn't specify what one piece he wanted returned. A little bit of my mind was left in the next suburb, only minutes after we set off from home.

With ten minutes to go before we were to leave home, Campbell was still in bed. Ella was still complaining she had nothing to wear, even on her fifth change of clothes. Scarlett had delivered her morning mud bath in her nappy. Grace had chocolate eyebrows and Lily had changed from pretty to prostitute.

I had asked for something simple - everyone could wear a plain t-shirt with denim jeans or jeggings, and add to it their favourite colour ribbon or headband or shoes (providing it was what I picked). Everyone would match. Or close enough.

Campbell eventually surfaced wearing a dirty black and brown Metallica t-shirt that smelled as bad as it looked. Ella picked a maroon tee with a great oily stain in the middle of her stomach and a tear down the side. Grace wore a pink striped top with a bright swirly floral patterned skirt. Lily put on a thick pink sweatshirt with denim shorts over white floral tights and pink and blue polka dot socks and purple high heels from the dress up box. Hobos and hookers.

Me: For the love of God, put on the bloody clothes I gave you.

Campbell: Fuck this. I don't even want to go.

Me: Watch your language. Clean is all I ask. Not hard.

Campbell: I'm not going.

Lily: But I look pretty. 

Me: True. But waaaay too pretty for these photos. Let's save that outfit for the shops.

I fucking hate Dora.

Grace: I want Dora dress.

Me: Not today.

Grace: I WANT DORA DRESS.

Ella: I can't do this. I have absolutely nothing to wear. And I'm not being in a photo with Campbell unless you pay me.

Me: I'm not paying you.

Ella: Then I'm not standing with Campbell.

Campbell: Fuck you. That's it. I'm not going.

Me: How much do you want?


Dress code gone, but clean clothes agreed, we set off. Three suburbs away, two children crying, one complaining of starvation, one asleep, one who can't hear a thing anyone says, and me close to tears of nervous exhaustion, Campbell turns to me and says, "I don't know how you do it."

Professional photographers are the ultimate illusionists. From the couple of photos I've seen so far, no one would believe the sibling hatred, the impatient sighs of having to stand too close to another, the smells, the tantrums of a three year old who refuses to look at the camera as her face is too tired to smile, the constant nose picking of the other three year old, and the distractions of ducks, dogs and sticks. Hundreds of photos were taken in the hope that a handful will give me the images I want.

A nice, normal, loving family.

Jessica at Angelic Angels Photography, you're worth your weight in gold.

The Adoraferals by
Angelic Angels Photography

Ripe for the picking

Oh.My.God. I don't feel so good. I'm as round and as red as a strawberry and if you poke me I will explode.

Little sis and I took advantage of the last few days of warmth before autumn really arrives, and hauled the Wondertwins and Baby Scarlett off to a strawberry farm for something other than the usual nose picking in the town of Main Ridge about 40 minutes from where I live. 

Some of our bounty

We have never been strawberry picking, so I wasn't sure what to expect, and stepping into the unknown with Lily and Grace can be terrifying to say the least. It crossed my mind that they might pull out entire strawberry plants, eat more than they pack into their plastic containers (try telling a 3 year old she can't eat her favourite fruit in the whole world as she picks it), be bitten by a snake or a rabbit more feral than they are, vomit all the strawberries they have gorged on during the picking frenzy all over the cafe floor, or just have one of their loud, spontaneous, unpredictable meltdowns over who the fuck knows what this time.

The drive to Main Ridge should have been simple enough. I looked at the map at home. Map? Who needs a map? Apparently we did. I was guided there by the little British man who lives in the GPS on my phone. 

"Turn right at the third exit at the roundabout. Continue for three kilometres." 

It is easy to lose yourself in his melted chocolate voice. All was going well until he announced in his suave British accent, "GPS signal lost." Very polite and strangely calming, however at this point we had no idea whether we were close to the strawberry farm or heading towards Sydney. Either way, because of his relaxing voice we merrily continue down the lonely country road in a false sense of contentment.

If it were an Aussie GPS, we'd know exactly where we stood.

"Hang a lefty at the next roundabout comin' up. Keep cruisin' for about three k's."

"Ya missed the turnoff. Now you're fucked."

"Go back ya dickhead. You're heading up Shit Creek."

"Did I say 40 minutes? I meant 60...maybe 70 minutes, tops."

"For fuck's sake. The GPS has shit itself again. Lost the bastard."

"Here y'are. Stop ya whingin'. Got ya here didn't I? Fuck."

Yes. We got there eventually. Thank you efficient satellite signal.    

Picking strawberries is a brilliant activity for three year olds. It would take them about 15 to 20 minutes to fill their tubs with deliciously ripe strawberries, the perfect amount of time to cater to their short attention spans. No time for ripping up plants, snake bites, feral bunnies or big strawberry vomit. Not yet.

 

Back to the cafe for some indulgence. So glad I'm watching what I eat. But my sister assures me that eating healthy strawberries dipped in chocolate equals negative calories. So I had a vanilla bean panna cotta with fresh strawberries and raspberries with chocolate dipping sauce and cream. And, she said, the same rule applies for calories as cheating on your partner - it's ok if you're in another postcode. She is my sister and she is smart, so I have to take her word for that.

Mini Knickerbocker Sundaes & Strawberry
and Marshmellow Kebabs with chocolate sauce.
Amazeballs!!

Scarlett looks as though she was dipped
in spaghetti & choc coated strawberries.
Strawberries dipped in chocolate sauce is baby crack. 

Love to read your comments!

Or come to where the ferals play on Facebook

Palm twitchin'

I've always been told to turn a negative moment or thought into a positive one, so here it goes...

I was very proud of myself last week. 

I resisted the urge to throw my screaming satanic head-spinning spawn through a window at the local doctor's surgery. In fact, I think everyone at the surgery deserve a big pat on the back for not throwing my screaming satanic head-spinning spawn through a window. Cudos to you all.

Oscar nominee Grace Butter-Wouldn't-Melt-In-My-Mouth-If-My-Head-Was-On-Fire gave her award winning performance in the art of dummy spitting. Again. Her 10000 hertz 110 decibel dog attracting screams made even the elderly lady crack her knuckles, her palm twitching, ready the lash out with a can of whoop-arse. All eyes on me, once again, the sweating woman with the expressionless face who was, once again, avoiding all eye contact with the patients in the small waiting room. 

I know in my day my mum would have, without hesitation, reached out with her experienced tennis arm and backhanded me on the spot. But alas, today we are not allowed to exact this sort of fury on our precious little ones. Ahhh, the 70's. Those were the days. Being disrespectful to your mum meant being chased around the house with the wooden spoon. My mum rarely dished it out, but you knew when she was truly pissed when, quick as lightning, her hand flashed out from her side to give you a backhand across the chops making Billy the Kid proud. I only remember a couple of smacks from my mum. I quickly learned you don't piss off a pissed off mum. But smacking your kids these days can mean jail time. And the kids know it.

Hang on, let me think about it...Jail time equals private room plus someone cooking my meals plus free gym plus free movies plus learning a skill or getting a degree. Hmmmm. 

No. No. Shakes head. I'd miss my kids. After a while.

But I am trying very hard to remain positive these days. My God, it's an enormous ask. I'm trying to stay calm, cool, confident and collected. 

I said trying.

Yesterday, Lily turned to me on the couch, tossed her apple core on my lap, and said, "Put this is the bin."

Are you shitting me?

Lily gave herself ink.
Don't ever turn your back on her.

"Uuggggghhhh," she sighed loudly, got off the couch, walked to stand in front of me and The Wizard of Oz on TV, looked me in the eye and said slowly, "I. said. put. this. in. the. bin."

I stared back at her. 

She continued to stare.

I was not going to back down. I was not going to blink first. I was going to win at the stubborn staredown.

Lily stared. And stared. And stared. My eyes ached and began to water. I blinked. Fuck. 

"Put this in the bin," she repeated.

Calmly, I tell her, "You put your apple core in the bin like a good girl."

"I not a good girl. And you do what I say you little bugger bum or you will go on the naughty step for how old you are." Oh my God, how I would love that! 41 minutes of sitting quietly with no interruptions. Bliss.

I admit, I am scared of this child. She can make Linda Blair's 'Reagan' look like an angel.

I picked her up, carried her to the bin and made her drop the apple core in it. We continued to the dreaded 'naughty step'. I kept my cool and this unnerved her. 

After three minutes on the stairs, I crouched down before her.

"Ok, you've sat there for three minutes to think about how naughty you were. What do you have to say to Mummy?"

Still tilted her head, crossed her arms and pursed her lips. "Yes. Next time I tell you you better put my apple in the bin when I say."

Yep. Lesson learned.

Keeping my cool.


See what other shit they get up to on Facebook

Counting My Blessings

My five often unruly, often psychotic, children are occasionally mentioned in my bloggy rants. But the events of late have made me regard them in a different light. Don't get me wrong - they are still ever present in their annoying way and not just a bad dream my impaired mind has conjured up. It's just at this moment I want to ignore their little (little - ha!) irritating behaviours and hug them a little tighter, look at them a little longer and tolerate their little tantrums. 

I don't want to overdo the conversation or trivialise the horrific event that recently occurred in Connecticut. I see my son at six. I see my daughter at seven. Their innocence and simplicity. The event may have happened thousands of kilometres across the seas, but it may as well have happened here at our local primary school. It has touched us deeply.

When the Twin Towers fell in 2001, I was in the Mother-Baby Unit at Melbourne's Monash Hospital. Ella was 7 weeks old. I was tired, confused, anxious, intensely sad, floating on a cocktail of medication and couldn't think clearly. I watched the news report as it unfolded, watched the second tower being hit and thought this was the end of the world. I thought that if I had been there I could have saved a life. In my pyjamas in Melbourne I blamed myself for a life taken overseas. I was scared that if I thought too much about New York, I might make it happen here in Melbourne. I panicked for my husband who worked in the Rialto, Melbourne's tallest building of the day.

I'm scared that if I allow myself to think and grieve for these little angels, I might get lost in it again. I mean no disrespect - it truly is a parent's worst nightmare. I will hold my five young ferals close to me and count my blessings each and every single day.

Love to you all xx

Find me on Facebook

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

Knock Knock

Good God, my kids make me laugh! 

When they are not shitting me to tears with extreme public tantrums, slapping each other on the head & running for their lives, creating masterpieces of art on furnishings (what's with their paper aversion? And why is it always with markers or nail polish?) my darling little comedians can have me in stitches.

The Wondertwins, Lily and Grace, at 3 years of age, have been working on their comic routine. They still like their poo poo and wee wee and bum jokes (well, who doesn't?) but I've started to get little glimpses of more sophisticated humour.

Lily: Knock knock, Gracie.

Grace & Lily, my funny space aliens.

Gracie: Who dere, Lily?
Lily: Banana.
Gracie: Banana who, Lily?
Lily: Carrot.

Fits of 3 year old laughter.

Gracie: Knock knock, Lily.
Lily: Who is dere, Grace?
Grace: Lemon.
Lily: Lemon who?
Grace: Just lemon, Lily. That's all.

It took Ella a while to cotton on to the idea of Knock Knock jokes. About 6 or so years. We'd give her examples of them:

Tim: Knock knock.
Me: Who's there?
Tim: Lettuce.
Me: Lettuce who?
Tim: Let us in our feet are freezing.

2 men walked into a bar...no, wait...it was
3 men & they...no, wait...a man and a horse
walked into a bar...& something happened...
but I can't remember. But it was funny.

So Ella would try.

Ella: Knock knock.
Me: Who's there?
Ella: Aunt.
Me: Aunt who?
Ella: Let us in our feet are freezing.

and...

Ella: Knock knock.
Me: Who's there?
Ella: Doctor.
Me: Doctor who?
Ella: Let us in our feet are freezing.

It was obvious she had missed a very important developmental milestone - the acquisition of pun and play on words. I've worked with hearing impaired kids who had difficulty with jokes, particularly those that have the manipulation of words, sounds and homonyms. Funnily enough, Ella is extremely strong in literacy - but is just one of those kids who took a hell of a lot longer to grasp humour and hold on to it.

But with the twins, I'm fascinated daily with their language growth. 
In the car they like to play 'I Spy'.

Lily: I spy, my little guy, someping aginning wiv train.

Grace: I spy, my pretty eye, somepink aginning wiv green and it's a tree.

We're getting there.

I spy two cuties.

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

Night one

It's been a while since the whole family has spent this amount of time together in such close proximity, and I think I know why. As I lie here in our motel room, baby snuggled into my chest, Lily across the foot of my bed, and the rhythmic serenade of my husband's snoring (please read that with a hell of a lot of sarcasm - it sounds like a pig mating with a cow on a train in a tunnel) I am able to see, hear and smell just what I have been missing all this time.

I note that my son talks in his sleep. Grace can search and find her dummy while very much asleep. Someone's junior parmigiana keeps creeping like a silent brown cloud over to my side of the large bedroom. Someone else isn't so silent. Ella suddenly will sit upright, rub her nose, and crash back down to her pillow. Tim, banished to the small couch in the kitchenetteloungeroomentrance area, breathes heavily, holds his breath...7...8...9...and bursts with a grunty snore. 

Night One.

The 10 hour drive to Goulburn, New South Wales, from Melbourne was better than I thought - but I have had a glass of wine.

I had aimed to leave Melbourne this morning as early as possible to get to Goulburn by 5:30pm. We got here at 8 and I don't think that was too bad considering we were traveling with five wild and constantly hungry animals who smelled and argued a lot. And if you think chewing gum is fun to get out of hair, try extracting a marshmallow from a 3 year old who in her tantrum is shaking and matting the goo deeper and deeper into her locks. And I need to get it out to make room for the next tasty morsel she'll lose in there tomorrow.

It's the little things you take for granted when you travel long distances. Like having a car stereo that doesn't have a Wiggles, Hi5 and about 70 cents of loose change shoved in it together. The USB with the Glee soundtracks can only last 

so long, yet I think we may actually have listened to about 10 hours of it already. Lucky us - it's about another 13 hours plus kid factor which equals around 17 hours that we can get our Gleek on. 

Yay.

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

Three hours

Jekyll and Hyde had their first day of 'kinder' today. Unable to crack open a bottle of champagne to celebrate my three hours of me time without the deafening screams of 3 year olds in stereo, I sat in the car outside the kinder wondering what I should do with my precious time.

Nothing.

With a five month old in tow I was limited with what I could do. The pub was out of the question - I wasn't dressed for it at 10am, and the hint of sour S26 on my left shoulder was a bit off-putting. I went home instead.

Nevertheless I arrived to pick up Lily and Grace feeling fresh and confident and the successful mum that I am. I watched them from the car as they played with their new friends. They danced and sang songs. They sat still and listened to the story read to them. Then Gracie saw me. And it began.

"I NOT GOING HOME!"

I was fine with that. 

I NOT GOING HOME! I NOT GOING HOME! I NOT GOING HOME!

You poo on your head. I tell you every day, you little poo.

I. NOT. GOING. HOME.

RUCK SAKE!

I was gobsmacked. Poo isn't even in my vocabulary. To others in earshot it sounded as if she called me a rucksack. So glad she can't say 'f'.

But she was going home, and closely resembling a child abductor I lured her to the car.

Want a lolly?

160 hours until kinder. I'll have the Brown Brothers on ice.


Find me on Facebook

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

Yesterday, before the blog began

Anyone who already knows me will know just how much I love a good Ikea-ing. I swore the last time I went to Ikea would be back when I was 50 weeks pregnant with #5. I had ambitiously waddled through the store with my 2 year old twin girls who were determined to walk independently. I was lucky enough to have my gorgeous friend Ali with me who acted as kid-wrangler and potential midwife should Scarlett decide to escape the womb then and there. It was hard work - sweaty, achy hard work. My girls ran in their clumsy 2 year old way around the candle section with the pretty but breakable glass holders and then under the self-serve section of deceptively heavy pieces of Swedish furniture. Fall. Tears. Screams. I swore that would be the last time I would go to Ikea with children.

Yesterday, I went back to Ikea with children.

My lovely stroll around the glasses section (what is with kids and glass?) was destroyed by the nastiest display of temper I'd seen in the last hour. It bothered me as I tried to ignore this screaming, squealing piglet writhing in a circle on the floor between the Brukbar glasses and the Forsla plate sets. The mother clearly didn't know what to do. Older people tut-tutted their disapproval and other mothers gave their thank-God-it's-not-me look. I did my best to pretend I wasn't that piglet's mum, but the unfortunate truth was that I was. 

I was left with little choice but to throw this red-faced tanti chucker under my arm and carry her scratching and kicking body to the nearest exit, avoiding eye contact with everyone while pushing the pram and calling for the less evil twin to follow. Where the hell is the nearest exist? 

I will never be going back to Ikea with with children.

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