Party On

The Wondertwins went to their first birthday party a couple of days ago. They had been to a couple of parties before, but I'm not convinced that they really understood that they were there to celebrate someone else's special day and not just there to stuff their faces full of cake and lollies and run around mental like a granny on Bath Salts. Funny to watch but still a train wreck in the making. They were acutely aware, this time, that you buy a present to give to the birthday kid who was being 'promoted' from 3 to 4. In return, you get food that Mum doesn't feed you every day and a lolly bag if you say, "Thank you for inviting me" when it's time to go. 

This party was for their turning-four-year-old friend from childcare. This party had been the behaviour carrot for me for more than a week. I'm a big fan of behaviour carrots. Dangling a behaviour carrot in front of my little asses works a treat. And for more than a week, my little asses asked several times daily if the party was 'today'. 

Getting two 3 year old girls ready for a birthday party is just as exciting as being at the party itself. Both of them wanted to wear fairy dresses. I can't remember how many times I said "No." I also can't remember how many times they changed their clothes.

Finally we were ready. Heading out to the car, Scarlett released an all-too-familiar smell that sent us all back inside to change her nappy. 

Me: Right. Are we ready? Anyone else need to go to the toilet? No? You sure? OK. In the car.

Get in the car. Seltbelts on. Start engine.

Lily: I need to go toilet.

Me: Are you serious? 

Engine off.

Grace: I need to go toilet, too.

Back into the car, seltbelts on, engine started. Let's go. I look back at Lily. Something's different. Something's missing.

Me: Lily, have you got shoes on?

Lily: No.

Me: Where are they?

Lily: In the kitchen.

Me: Why are they in the kitchen?

Lily: Because I needed to go toilet.

Back home. Get shoes. Back into the car, seat belts on, engine started. Again. Let's go. I look at my bag. Where do we have to go? Where's the fucking invitation?

Back home.

We arrived at the party twenty minutes late, and just as the 'Fairy' was getting out of her car. She saw us and ducked quickly back into her seat. Professional. I like that in a fairy.

As we walked into the birthday girl's house, we were greeted by pirates and fairies waving swords and wands and staring at these sad kids of mine who were neither pirates or fairies. If looks could kill, Lily would not have just taken me out but every single fairy at that party. 

Their underdressedness was quickly forgotten as the fairy worked her magic with her...well, magic... and Pass The Parcel, Musical Statues, Face painting and Pin the Tail on the Dragon. This must have been the first time most of those kids had been introduced to the concept of Pass The Parcel. As painful as pulling teeth, the children slowly passed the prized parcel to the next child on their left. No, your other left. Slowly. Slowly. The music...may stop...for...meeeeee...noooooowww. The surrounding mums (me included) called for our children to keep the parcel going. We sounded like mums at a rugby match.

"That's it! THAT'S IT! Pass it to Lily! PASS IT TO LILY! Don't hold it! Pass it along! PASS IT ALOOOONNNGGG!!!"

This party was beautiful. From the fairy, the decorative bunting and the beautifully set table with delicious party foods, cup cakes and treats, to the actual birthday cake, complete with fairy decoration and edible glitter, it was an At Home Party Triumph. And tough competition for the next party mum. 

As we left, Lily and Grace told me they couldn't WAIT for their fairies to come to their party.

Yeah...about that, girls...

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

'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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