Fridays are For Us....

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For as long as I can remember Hubby has been working 7 days a week.
'The poor man' I hear you thinking, 'He must be exhausted' Yes, yes, I'm sure he is. He works hard to provide for us and we are lucky that he has a good job and therefore I can stay at home and simply 'Be Mum'.

But.....his working so much does not lead to a harmonious life. It leads to a fair amount of stress, for both of us. It also leads to the inevitable. Which is that he is missing out on the kids growing up.

Because they are growing up. Really fast, scarily fast. And I'm a little sad, because once it's gone we can't get it back again.

Mr 11 is leaving childhood. He is so responsible and so mature that sometimes I feel like shaking him and crying 'Just be a kid again!' He helps me to take care of his younger siblings, he cleans up around the house. It is wonderful, but it is also sad. Sad because his young and carefree days are nearly over. He no longer plays whimsical games of make-believe, he no longer sees shapes in the clouds and fairies in rainbows. The adult world is beckoning...and he is beginning to follow.

Miss 8 is losing her selfish streak. She is beginning to see that there are other people in the world besides her. She is starting to care. Yesterday, when she saw that her brother ran dead last in his athletics carnival running race she promptly burst into tears. On our return home she dug out her second place ribbon from last year and gave it to him. It was a beautiful moment. She still has a vivid and exciting imagination, yet she now knows that the world isn't rose-tinted as she previously thought....at night she worries about everyone and everything, she still falls asleep in my arms.

Mr 5 is on overload. He is cramming so much into that little brain of his at school that by the time he gets home he is ready to explode. Running around outside helps him to let off steam, yet a fair amount of that steam gets directed at his sisters and I. His teacher tells me that he puts in 110% with everything he does. So, by the time school is over for the day I pick up the shattered and exhausted shell that is my boy. His temper flares, he cries easily, he falls asleep in the car, he refuses to do his homework, eat his dinner or have a bath. Everything is a struggle. Sometimes, I'm almost relieved when he is asleep for the night. And yet, he can be the kindest, sweetest little boy I know...and his cuddles are truly something wonderful.

Miss 2 is a delight. That difficult and demanding stage of toddler hood seems to be finished and she is starting to become a 'real' little girl. She plays dollies endlessly, chatting away happily in her little made up language to all her charges. She dances to her own beat, kicking her legs in the air, twirling like a little fairy ballerina. She says new words everyday. Today we were playing 'doctors' and she attempted the word 'stethiscope'...with hilarious results. She is the fussiest eater going. Sometimes she seems to exist on only air and yogurt. I worry endlessly, she is two and a half and yet weighs the same as a one year old. She is teeny-tiny, with her little pixie face. Her babyishness is melting away, despite my attempts to prolong it, despite my desperation to hold onto it, my last baby is changing before my very eyes.

And so, with all of this in mind, I finally told my beloved Hubby about my fears. My fear of them growing up without him. And so, he has promised to spend a day with us.... tomorrow, Friday, is our day....and I'm going to make sure we embrace it with both hands, for all of us.




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I'm Just a Girl......

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This morning despite the usual rush and chaos that ensues on a typical Monday morning, I did manage to notice that once again my car tyre was looking despondently flat.

I say 'once again' because it's about the fourth time in the last week that Hubby has dragged out the compressor and pumped the damn thing up.

Now, I can hear quite clearly what you are thinking. What doesn't she get the thing fixed? Driving around with a flat tyre isn't the smartest thing in the world. Surely this girl has some semblance of common sense?

I was of course well aware of what needed to be done. But once again, I was doing what I always do when something needs fixing. I played my 'helpless female' card. The card I play way too often. The card I play when  I really don't want to know. Or I simply can't be bothered. Or I more commonly than not think "Hubby can do it'

Shameful isn't it?

'Darling' I coo, with a flutter of my eyelashes. 'Can you get my tyre fixed for me?'
'Sweetie' I breathe in my sultriest voice, 'Can you take the car down to get petrol?'
'Honey' I titter, with a girly flick of my hair 'Can you fix the clothes line/ washing machine/ Mr 5's remote control car...etc etc'

I avoid mowing the lawn. I escape from trips to the tip. If there is any 'grunt work' to be done I'll elegantly skip into the kitchen and bake some scones.

And, if it's something that really, really needs to be done and I really, really don't want to know I'll do something that I'm not entirely proud of. Something that works a treat every time.

I'll turn on the tears.

I have no excuse for being this way. None at all. I grew up in a completely feminist household. My Dad was the only male amongst my sisters, my Mother and I. My Mum taught us that we could do anything. She is and always has been the ultimate go getter. Diminutive, eloquent and very, very tough.

I was bought up learning all sorts of skills that I doubt girls that I was friends with would have learnt. One of my earliest memories was of slaughtering a 'pet' lamb to roast on the spit. My sisters and I were expected to help...and help we did. We thought nothing of it, it was part of life. Another was our before school job of checking the possum traps (in NZ they are considered a pest) and subsequently the 'disposal' of any captured possums we may have encountered.

Girls are tough. That was our childhood motto. A motto I seem to have forgotten lately. A motto that I need to rediscover and teach to my spirited and independent daughters.

Even my name means 'strong little woman'....it's about time I started living up to it.

A Memory.....

I run. My hair flies out behind me and the cold wind stings my face. My feet fly over the damp, dewy grass and I feel exhilarated. I spread my arms out wide and I feel like I could fly at any moment.......I close my eyes.
    Then, my foot slips and I stumble. The ground races up to meet me and I land, then tumble. It hurts and tears spring to my eyes.

I hear shrieks of laughter behind me and I quickly scramble to my feet. My sisters shout with glee at my demise as they come running up behind me. I am quick to brush off my downfall. With a wicked grin I am off again. The girls close on my heels.
   And then, we are there. Our secret place. Our hideout. It is dense with trees and shrubbery. A magic place. A place of mystery.

The sounds of the creek bubbling merrily nearby and the birds singing are soon drowned out by our high, piping voices and our shouts of laughter.
In this secret world of ours I rule. I am the eldest and therefore make all the decisions. Today we are making a cubby and I quickly delegate jobs to my younger siblings. The middle sister; quiet and easy-going. The youngest one; full of cheek. We are happy in our work. We invent a make believe world full of promise and beauty. We chatter endlessly.

And then, we hear it, a sound we all dread. Our nemesis approaches, we hear his footfalls and the laughter dies on our lips. He stands in a clearing, close to our sanctuary. My sisters gasp, my heart hammers loudly in my ears. Our little world is suddenly silent, eerie.
  The rangy, old Ram grunts and stamps his feet. Then he starts to run.....at us. We scream with fear and run, he is close behind. Both my sisters faces speak of pure terror. The youngest one struggles to keep up on her short, little legs. He is gaining on us and I know that to run is futile. He is much faster than three little girls.

Then, I stop. Stupidly. Stubbornly. The Ram lowers his head and runs straight at me. I brace myself for impact. As he reaches me I suddenly raise my fist and I punch him right between his eyes. He stops, blinks stupidly at me, turns and runs away.
   I sink slowly to the ground gasping with fear and disbelief.

My sisters are there and they can't believe what I have just accomplished. Their voices are full of awe as they pull me to my feet. My heart swells with bravado at their praise. I am six feet tall and filled with pride. As we walk home again I walk with a slight swagger.

It's a tale I will go on to tell for years and years to come. Although my sisters no longer hold me in awe, I'll always remember the moment in which they did.