Good Luck!

Husband was away last week so I had a few days off from work and the boys and I did a few errands and what not, but it was hot af so we weren’t cavorting like we planned. Thursday was the day I had planned yet another baby shower for a colleague, so I stashed the boys in a spare room at the back and worked my magic. But I hope the parents-to-be aren’t under the impression that kids (or mine) are that well-behaved that often, because that is some straight up bullshit. To their credit (AND MINE), they were quiet and kept themselves occupied while the rest of us played, and they were justly rewarded with cupcakes, win win. But the real winners were, of course, my colleague and his wife because they are still naive about kids and parenting…

They have a nautical theme for their nursery, so I complied but couldn’t do all the cutesy stuff like “captain adorable” onesies etc because some of the up and ups are quite busy and, ahem, non-participatory when it comes to arts and crafts. So I put a game together, in the fashion of the Sydney to Hobart yacht race, with blue, grid-lined paper for the board and the water. Then we needed boats to sail over them thar seas.

The boats sailed with the aid of a compass and encounted obstacles and assistance in the form of dolphins, wind, knots and booze, among other things.

We ate “seaweed snacks” aka lettuce wraps, and cured meat (jerky) and fruit (rollups) for the vegetarian. Because I was out of the office I wasn’t able to make adorbs cupcake toppers like I wanted, but we did have lifesaver candies strewn throughout the seven seas. 

The object of the game was to make it to “Bay-bee-dos” as opposed to Barbados, but the map was conveniently unmarked in true pirate fashion, or “ran out of time because I’m at home wrangling monkeys” fashion, but it was fun and everyone had a good time. But again, good luck to the parents-to-be if they think it’s all plain sailing. Not bloody likely!

It’s Adventure Time Again, Huzzah!

It’s not raining; there is blue sky and the birds are chirping. The roosters are also hollering themselves hoarse. Earlier, I sent the boys off with water, oranges and clif bars to either die or walk up and down the driveway a few times. I just saw the middle child traipsing into the backyard so I’m assuming the latter applies to all three.
It’s Sunday, post daylight-saving clock fuck-around and here we are. I woke up in the middle of the night because my bodyclock apparently lost 4 hours. After doodling pointlessly for that amount of time, I woke up after a nap feeling refreshed and relieved. I filled the boys’ camel baks and patted their heads on the way out the door to sit on my ass in peace and quiet for as long as they would be gone.

It got me thinking about what I was doing in terms of adventure at a similar age, and also about the articles of crazy crackdowns on parents who are punished by society (or police) for giving their kids different amounts of independence than what people other than their parents think is appropriate.

Cue the Wayne’s World guys doing the doodley-doos with waving fingers…

We lived on a flat street that was U-shaped and the sign at one end said Pelsart St and the sign at the other end said Pelsart Ave. I didn’t think this was a big deal until a teacher told me that Pelsart St Ave was not a thing and it had to be one or the other. Live a little, people! My sister and I rode our bikes up and down the street with the neighbour kids and were supposed to stay in view of the house but, you know. Sometimes when we thought our parents were in the backyard and I was feeling particularly daring, we would ride around the whole block. So adventurous! Mum and Dad never liked that. 

There was a house just past the Pelsart Ave sign that was not lived in. The path to school inevitably went that way and people talked about that house. There were holes in the windows from rocks (can’t remember if I threw any; I might have dared myself a couple of times on the insistence of other kids but I knew it was wrong) and some holes in the walls. We went in there once or twice, too. I think I was petrified that other kids (or teenagers) would be in there and dare us to do things. There was graffitti and probably poo in the toilet. There were bits of rubble and I can’t remember about condoms or clothes. Positive the parents would have whipped us if they knew – maybe they did, I can’t remember – and my sister would have been either shitting her pants because she was 2 years younger than me, or instigating the whole bloody thing because she was daring when you least expected it.

There was a football oval down the road and around the corner from the Pelsart Ave sign, too, which, incidentally, Husband used to play on as a kid. When it rained for days, the oval occasionally flooded and sometimes I went there with a friend from school and we hunted for frogs and tadpoles. She warned me about Electric Eels. 

I was skeptical because the water, you know, would conduct their electricity, but she was older. My folks have told me about the stink of dead tadpoles at the front door where they made me leave the large containers of stormwater we’d bring back, and the occasional frog hopping around the steps.

Flashforward to today: I tell the boys to leave outside animals alone, to only look and not touch too much because I don’t want other living things in the house and because I don’t want them to become  blasé about fawns and be trodden or gored to death by deer or fucking stags.  We live on a hill with no sidewalks and fast drivers so they don’t ride bikes on the road but they do do BMX riding which is fucking rad. They go “hiking” in the backyard and today they found bones down by the old treehouse. 

I think they’re doing just fine.

Oh, The Poor, Wee Souls!

“Hey guys, wouldn’t it be cool if I got to work with the police?”
“Would it be dangerous?”
“Who would look after us?”

Of course, the answers are “no” and “seriously?”. The boys would either play all day in their underpants with no food or would scrounge from the pantry or fridge themselves if they didn’t see me in a congealing mess of offal and writhing ants, or they’d call 911 if they did. In either scenario, I consider that to be taking care of themselves. Case closed.
5yo starts full-time school in September and turns 6 (gasp!) in December, so they are old enough to be taking care of me! Any theoretical jobs I could hold down would be during school hours in all probability, so the day to day love and trudgery would still be on my shoulders rather than some slender nanny with long hair and an attitude (bitch better have an attitude if she’s taking care of my monkeys). And let’s face it, a bit of before or after-school care would probably be the pinnacle of my children’s days, and especially if I came home with tales of heroics and standoffs from the world of filing cabinets and multi-line phones.
So I guess it’s just myself I have to convince.

Ways my life is like a Weezer song

Everybody Get Dangerous – 7yo is obsessed with ninjas right now and is always asking crazy questions about ninjas and hummers and the like, and then these lyrics:
“What will we say when our kids come to us
And ask, with a smile on their face,
“Hey Dad, my friend’s got some new ninja swords!
Is it cool if we slash up his place?”

Sweater Song

Sweeny – totes relevant in the book I’m writing/procrastinating over
Lonely Girl – in my book

Eulogy for a rock band – RIP David Bowie
Foolish Father – applies to any and all parents
Island In The Sun – That was one of our wedding songs. We got married on Shark Island in the middle of Sydney Harbour. The only thing missing was being stoned as hell.

There are probably more but the boys are home from school now so I can’t just watch music clips all day anymore 😧