Before I get carried away with Cyclone Birthday Party, I just want to finish with the writings from our vacation.
On one of the last days, Husband was hamming it up with his cousin and discussing how awesomely athletic 5yo is. It is true, that 5yo can conquer any sport in 5 minutes – his natural abilitiy boggles the mind, considering he is a yard or so of flesh wrapped around some toothpicks and a bony little botty.
But that is no reason to break the rules and allow ball sports in the house. Especially golf! Encouraging 5yo to play golf in the house is a recipe for disaster, and invitation for future catastrophies, too. Sure he is awesome, but really? And he golfed with a fucking marble right toward my face.
I punched husband – but only on the arm – and he didn’t know why. Ass clown.
Rant over.
Brain Washing
Call me crazy, but I like laundry. I like washing the clothes. I like organising it into coloured piles and linens and washing each pile. Obviously putting it in the dryer is a no brainer, but I prefer hanging it all on the clothes line outside. I don’t organise the clothes line except to be sort of symmetrical, and with undies etc, on the inside. I suppose that is organising the clothes line. Whatevs. The point is, I have a system and I like it. I have taught/trained/brainwashed the kids into understanding the system, and even though they can’t or won’t put the washing into the appropriate sorting areas, they know not to mess with (me) the sysyem. They also know, emphatic pause, not to dump shit on the floor. Ahem.
Obviously, when on holiday, laundry sorting systems fly out the window. However, p a u s e, even the kids know that the large pile of presumably dirty clothes in a corner is the Dirty Washing Pile, and that is where stuff needs to go if it is to be washed. Husband bitched and moaned about his clothes not being washed, but let the record show that his dirty clothes had been put back in the suitcase. Wtf?
And yet, and yet. Nothing, be quiet. The boys knew what the conspicuous pile was, end of story. There are no written invitations issued for dirty laundry when on holidays, and I must have failed in my teachings/training/brainwashing if someone thinks there are invitations issued everrrrr.
Case closed.
Feeding time after the zoo
After a long day with a bunch of animals, it was finally time to take them home. Husband encouraged me to have another nap. I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I wasted no time after I closed my own gaping mouth. I think I nodded off pretty quickly but it was all for nought, because I was woken rudely by 5yo. I know he was trying to be helpful, but beneath the layers of sleep, there lies a watchful parent and in my slumber, I must have picked up on the commotion. My entire body was flooded with adrenaline, so my skin was tingling all over and my limbs were all straight and stiff just as he ran into the room. Obviously the nap was ruined and any sense of rest was quickly reversed.
We went out to dinner with friends and Husband spilled a whole pint of beer on me and in my bag. And I didn’t even get dessert! After 3yo fell asleep and managed to stay asleep, Houston pot holes aside (I should say car holes because more than pots would fit in those craters!), the big boys were a bit too fighty with each other at the table and I was a bit too annoyed by it; our friends probably wished they had stayed at home. Husband kept getting distracted by the eyes painted on the shirt of the awkward lady cowgirl statue at the back of the yard. Thank goodness we were not sitting near the bar, bar staff were stackedaroonie.
I was expecting smoked meat, in which case the boys would not have eaten anything, because of course, food tastes bad by association with unknown flavours. But plainish food was plentiful and the boys ate most of a burger and plate of chicken wings, plus the obligatory shitload of fries. I can’t remember what I had, but I know I did have part of some sour apple caramel something or other martini, which was nice as a novelty, but proved too much for me. I left it on the table rather than finish my evening by swigging or gulping, then hurling or ralphing in the creek along the side of the beer garden.
Poor 3yo, as a sleeping gluten free person who changes his mind all too often, there was little for him that I felt comfortable ordering. I had expected him to sleep through the whole dinner and wake up on the way home again. Luckily, though, there were fries all over the table. Our smart friends bought one meal between them, but still had food left over. Admittedly, leftovers for lunch the next day were totes delish, except that there were no fries!
The moral of the story might be that I go out more often sans family.
Feeding time at the zoo
Heading to the zoo with kids is always an adventure. Usually it involves driving long distance with complaints about the lack of movie options (3yo put coins in the DVD slot) and arguments about reading material and markers. But visiting friends interstate has merits beyond the obvious; there are more people to spread the wealth of childish behaviours among, whereby rendering said behaviour less destructive to a mother’s sanity and more cute and anecdote-worthy. Driving through the city on the way to the zoo, we pointed out various attractions and pretended they were listening to the answers they demanded for oft nonsensical questions. Of course, I had to wonder which enclosure would my children be most enthralled by, and which could I surreptitiously leave them in, Harry Potter style? And where would I fit in?
It wasn’t hard to identify with my animal self at all, he/she/it had the right idea.
I also identified my animal bestie.
It's a face mask!
We could do makeovers and each other’s hair.
The kids were a little harder to categorize because their behaviours can be so erratic, and personalities changeable depending on naps and snacks.
Obvious candidates includes:
Lions:
Let’s the women/woman/Mother do all the food prep and eats when they feel like it, doing little else except laying around and complaining.
Giraffes:
Getting into things up high and licking everything.
Meerkat:
Nominating a lookout so peeps can get up to shennigans.
I wouldn’t compare my kids to snakes, so the score board says… Piranhas. Among other things, wiki says “They are known for their sharp teeth, powerful jaws and a voracious appetite”. Totes true for my kids. Eat everything, sharp little teeth, travel in packs, occasionally attack each other, can be found in places they aren’t meant to be, movies are often made about their terrorising behaviour, some people think they may be a misunderstood species (yeah, right), and have a legendary reputation. The list goes on. Of course, I could not, in good conscience, put the peeps that I personally made, inside a piranha tank, but the zoo thought about that for me.
Wet the beds
When visiting my cousin’s maternal grandmother one day, my mother told me that the yellow flowers we were picking were called “Wet the Beds” because that is what they made children do. Obviously I was sceptical but wary, so I threw the milky stalks down in favour of dry sheets, and she didn’t have to worry about stinky weed flowers drying out in the kitchen over the weekend. What the hey, Mum?
3yo has wet the bed a few times while we have been away, and we couldn’t figure out why. Sure, we are away from home and routine, but he is not a stressed child and has been toilet trained for both day and night for at least 6 months. I wondered if his diet could be to blame, and googled the question, but frankly I could probably google “is (insert any crazy old thing) making my kid wet the bed at night” and have anecdotes a plenty support my concerns. Anyhoo, really the only difference was dairy milk, as he did have it the first few days, which coincided with wet nights. The first day we stopped giving him milk, he stopped wetting the bed. I hope that is the simple answer and we don’t have to worry about it anymore a) during the rest of our holiday and b) when we get home.
According to ask.com:
Why Are Dandelions Referred to as Wet the Beds?
The common dandelion was referred to as ‘piss a bed’ in old English because of its diuretic properties. It increases the amount of urine produced by the kidneys.
Joy. I can only hope that I don’t perpetuate as much bullshit when I am drinking wine with friends in front of my kids. Like natural hair colour.
Blasting off
I was super excited when I found out we would visit NASA on our holiday, and a little disappointed that the boys were a bit ‘meh’. I tried to ramp them up about it a few times to keep the merriment going, but legos would intrude.
Anyhoo, finally it was the day to drive on out there and, of course, it took bloody ages to get organized. Shits me. Turns out that one of the boys doesn’t want to go to NASA (wtf?), another doesn’t want to bring his awesome Christmas present camera, and I forgot shirts for the other. And underpants for 3yo. Sounds like a legit excuse to buy NASA merch.
The place was a bit of a ghost town, and there were huge tanks of liquid nitrogen everywhere, like propane. It was windy and freezing on the train/bus, and while we got to look at cool things, there weren’t any technicians working or double agents trying to steal secrets, which was a bit of a let down.
There was an awesome video to watch while we waited in the corralling area but the boys weren’t really paying attention.
Afterwards we were starving, as expected, so Husband bought food for all, but I got frowned on when I ate what I thought was my share. Dammit. Husband buys food for the kids but makes us share a small amount of food, he should know better.
There was an awesome kids area with experiments and a remote control buggy like the Mars Rover, and also a slide, which may or may not have been an exhibit about centrifugal force or whatever. I found it to be a great example of the forces of friction, as I frictioned off some skin on my knee while testing said forces. I knew it was a bad idea but 3yo would not hear of my pleas to sit this one out. He is one demanding little shite sometimes. I will honestly say it was all worth it if only he becomes an astronaught.
Futility
Noun?
One of those afternoons when you drive a little longer so that the child or children fall asleep in the car, but wake when you place them on the bed after walking through the house and up the stairs after weighting up whether to put them on the couch or in their own bed with their own toys. They open an eye and feebly protest so you hop in bed with them and start to go to sleep because it always works better for them to go to sleep if you are doing it for real as well.
But then you develop Talkative Brain Syndrome – when you should be sleeping but your brain just goes and goes and you could probably fill a blackboard with crazy equations that solve the dilemma of world peace and you try to decide whether to write that shit down or just go the fuck to sleep because you are so ever-loving tired.
You decide against world peace but start in on the Mother Loving Peekaboos: when you have to look at your child because they are gorgeous and sleeping in cute positions and you can hear them breathing – but not snoring because they had their tonsils taken out – but you should be sleeping because you already wasted all that time with the whole world peace thingy.
And then it all goes to shit because angel baby has turned horizontal in the bed and kicks you a nipple cripple which wakes THEM up, wtf?!
On a plane, with far fewer consequences
The last time we flew, we had a pretty shitty time, at least this time we caught a noon flight and didn’t worry too much about alarms. However, the timer got a little mixed up on the new automatic door opener at Toad Hall so I had to ask our neighbour to take a look for us. Of course, Husband only thought about that while we were driving to the airport, and that’s after we already doubled back because we forgot to close the garage door. So, nothing like last time but still not completely smooth sailing. At least everyone is toilet trained!
Cut to mid-flight and the guy in the row in front gave me his number. I’m tempted to tell him I’m married, but I’m interested to see if he will try anything when we get to our friend’s house tonight, because of course it’s Husband with nearly 7yo in the row in front of us.
On the trip we had 2 carseats and no pram or stroller. 3yo walked and carried his own bag, and we got away without having to carry a bag full of snacks, though Husband insisted on bringing 7 apples with us. Luckily, Texas is not a quarantine state so it wasn’t a problem. But I laughed when he had to eat 2 half-eaten apples on the drive to the airport.
There was a bit of to-ing and fro-ing between the boys mid-flight, though, because Husband promised the ipad to nearly 7yo and I denied it. There were no power points on the plane so the power cords for the leapsters were as useless as any of the proverbials – my fave being tits on a bull – but nearly 7yo’s leapster has rechargeable batteries and there is no point having the two younger boys argue over that while nearly 7yo hams it up by himself and Husband sleeps through the whole bloody episode. Frankly, I am usually as likely as not to make things a little harder so that Husband has to wake the hell up and parent and participate in whatever bullshit (or not?) is taking place instead of taking his business pro nap between destinations. But that’s just me.
Anyhoo, no delays, no lost items, no prob with the rental car and no wrong turns on the drive to our friends’ place – obviously I wasn’t driving. I’ll ignore the 11pm bedtime for the kids and say it was a great first day of vacation all round.
Scoby Doby Doo
I will admit to being sceptical of kombucha and kombucha brewers previously. I don’t know what changed my mind, but one day I decided to try some at a cafe, and it wasn’t all bad. The next time I saw a bottle at the shops, I bought one home, and thought it was actually rather delicious. I bought another bottle, and then a two-for-one deal, and then thought about doing it myself. Husband was not impressed, but I knew I would win him over, just like I did for ditching shampoo. So the next time I bought a bottle, I saved part of it and put it in a jar with some sweetened tea, and covered it, and waited. And waited. And waited. Then I moved it to the pantry for better air flow, even though the temperature is probably lower in there. The high cupboard above the oven where it was before, still smells a little extra vinegar-y.
Then I kept waiting, then peeking under the cheesecloth, and worrying about the gnarly white plops on top of the big plop, and then I worried less because the big plop became the mother and got thicker. I’ve been wondering for a week or so, when to add more tea, and decided to do it today, so she can drink it up over the next few weeks. Maybe I can have my first drink during spring break. I could mix it up with dandelion greens from the lawn, and Husband would really roll his eyes.
But how to transfer the scoby?
I got a sweet haircut today
Nasty
She’s in there. It’s like a spa bath, for scobies.
Tonsils and More
3yo had his tonsils and adenoids removed during the week, and while it was awful, it wasn’t actually that bad. The awful part was walking away while he cried and the nurse carried him to surgery. He had been his usual cheery self up until that moment. He insisted on carrying his backpack and leapster case around with him, even though we weren’t waiting nearly long enough to warrant bringing the cache of distraction devices that I had packed. There was a lady knitting in the waiting room, but I just read my book. It was a mere 30 minutes until the doctor told me all went well, and then long enough to pack up before I could then go into the recovery room and cuddle my precious monkey. At home, he was lucid enough to watch tv and demand ice cream, and eat an evening meal. I was lulled into a false sense of what the night would be.
I have only seen the original Carrie movie, not the remake, but I assume it is much the same thing, perhaps with a few extra gory details to woo the modern crowd. That’s what my night was like, and I was horrified. It was truly awful, the stuff of parenthood nightmares, not just outsider teenage prom queens.
And since then, he has refused to take any and all pain medicines. I am at a loss as to how to help him. I’ve tried what I can and googled the rest. He won’t take any ‘lollies’ and will probably be suspicious of them for a while. Aside from that, he isn’t screaming or crying or even whinging, he is sleeping and sleepy and in a bit of a daze, but still well enough to say No and be annoyed if I offer the wrong drink.
During it all, I’ve slept in the same bed as my widdle patient, as the nurse suggested, and what an awesome thing to (be kicked and pushed around all night) see him when he is sleeping all the time, and get cuddles all the time, and all that angelic child, touchy, feely softest skin !ever! stuff.
During all this, I have been taking antibiotics for the nasty cold that almost kept me from my own Oscars night, and loving the excuse to do nothing at all except snooze on the couch (it’s actually not super comfortable for extended periods) and stay in bed, trying not to watch Bob The Builder again while trying to read. And since 3yo has turned his nose up at pretty much all soft foods, I. Want. Queso. DILLA! I have been hard put not to eat that economical costco twin pack of ice cream all by my bitty self. Because I also had a sore throat for a while, you know.
Now it is the weekend and Husband will soon be heading off to rugby with nary a care, and I have to sit with 3yo to make him drink every 5 minutes. The big boys also want to watch tv but have the requisite levels of weekend energy to burn off before they explode, or achieve some sort of mischief while I languish in front of Alice In Wonderland. I also want to go (back to bed) outside, but 3yo just isn’t up to it right now, and the antibiotics would also prefer me to stay close to, er, home. But things still need to be done, the boys need some level of supervision – husband bought them paint brushes, for goodness sakes –
and then we need to, blah blah blah. What does it matter. Chaos can reign for a bit longer, so long as 3yo is drinking and the paint doesn’t get on the carpet.
4 Princes and Me 