The Birds and the Bees.

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For the past couple of months, our family has played host to a bustling community of silk worms. These creepy, crawly, ugly things have munched their way through a ridiculous amount of mulberry leaves and I have found myself constantly cleaning up large piles of silk worm poop....nice.

A week or two ago they started to spin cocoons, and it was bliss not having to scrounge the neighbourhood for leaves to feed the little buggers.

Then, wonder of wonders we had moths, a huge shoebox full of the things.

Now according to the knowledgeable Miss 8, the moths don't need food...we just wait for them to lay eggs. But while we wait for the egg-laying to begin the moths are engaged in 'other' activities.

This was brought to my attention by a rather hysterical Miss 8 one afternoon......

'Mum! Mum! The moths are doing something weird!'
'What is it honey?' I asked, none the wiser.
'They're stuck together and they won't come apart!'
She showed me her moth collection and they were all....every single one of the gross little things....... were engaged in, well, moth sex.
'Look Mum, look! Their butts are stuck together! How do I make them stop?'
'We-ll, you don't want to make them stop, they're making babies'
Miss 8 stared at me in horrified disbelief while she digested this information.
'You mean they're doing that S-E-X thing?' she whispered
'Yes, yes they are'
'Oh eeeeew! That is so disgusting!
We stared at the little moth nymphos in silence for a few minutes.....they were really going for it.

'Ugh!' said Miss 8 as she gathered up her box of pro-creating insects, 'I'm going to put these under my bed'

'Why are you doing that' I asked

'Because, these guys need some serious privacy!'

Oh No! I think I'm a 'Stage Mum!'

Yesterday, Miss 8 and Mr 5 performed in their first ever major dance concert. It was at The Arts Centre on the Gold Coast and on stage in front of a rather large group of people.

Now, not one of my fabulous four attend any sort of dance school or dance training. They are unfortunately as uncoordinated and musically inhibited as what I am. Every one of us have two left feet. When we dance we look like a bunch of deranged ostriches.

My son's Prep teacher had other ideas however. Lovely lady that she is, she seems to have extreme faith in my darling children's non-existent ability. As the school's dance teacher she was full of enthusiasm that my little robotic, out of time monsters would somehow be able to perform admirably.

So, along with a whole bunch of other little (gorgeous) Preps, Grade 1's, 2's and 3's they went thorough weeks and weeks of rehearsals to reach the climax of their performance last night.

We were at rehearsals for a good portion of the day yesterday. My children were introduced to the wonderful world of dancing on the stage. They handled it well for little people who have never really been exposed to anything like that before. I, however, wasn't quite so composed. Everytime they appeared on stage, my heart would hammer, I would start sweating, tears would begin to form in the corner of my eyes. Then, I would start cheering. Yes, embarrasing 'Stage Mom' that I have suddenly become I couldn't help myself. My babies would alight the stage and I would start carrying on like a raving lunatic.

The performance last night was marvellous. I could not quite believe that this admirable teacher managed to get such a large group, made up predominatly of 5 and 6 year olds (and my Miss 8) to perform so well. But they did.

Although I had to seriously restrain myself from screaming hysterically I did succumb to tears of pride and of course, some rather well-behaved cheering (I was sitting next to my MIL after all)

So, it may be that was my first and last opportunity to be a 'Stage Mom'. Being the complete and utter shameless OTT cheerleader for my children that I am, I have to admit...I loved every second of it!

An 8 year old Fashionista!

Today was free dress day at my children's school (or as a friend says 'pay dress day' as we all are expected to make a donation)

Anyway, I digress; today was free dress day at school.

Mr 5 was up at the crack of dawn as always. He quickly choose some appropriate clothing...jeans, long sleeved shirt, jacket...and was off to eat breakfast.

Easy, not a problem, stress free, argument free, just dress and go.

Miss 8 on the other hand was a different story. It was a debacle more fitting to a temperamental teenager rather than an 8 year old girl.

I had already put out some clothing that I deemed appropriate for her age and the weather. She poo-pooed them as soon as she saw them on the end of her bed.

'Mu -um!' she sighed in her best exasperated 'you don't know anything' voice.
'I can't wear stuff like that! I'll look like a baby!'

What's wrong with a shirt and jeans? That's what I want to know.

I hastily pulled out another outfit. Long top and leggings.

"I wore that last free dress day Mum!' she exclaimed in her best 'you don't remember anything' voice.

Scavenging through her wardrobe I came across a pretty dress.

'No one wears clothes like that Mum! It's not fashionable!' said Madam in her best 'do I really have to put up with such stupidity?' voice

That was it.
I had had enough.
'Choose your own clothes then' I huffed and flounced out of the bedroom.

Two hours (exaggeration) and 45 outfits later (exaggeration) she emerged from her room wearing precisely the outfit I had originally picked out for her. She looked at me with her best 'don't you dare say anything' look. I looked back at her and smiled.
'You look lovely darling' I said soothingly....
 But secretly...what I wanted to say was.....

'Nah, nah, nah-nah, nah, told you so!'

Honesty Is The Best Policy!

It is my theory that all babies are born with an honesty gene. This gene remains dormant during infant hood and then rears it's ugly head at around the age of 3, peaking at 5 and then generally diminishing after the age of 8...until around 10, when children become masters of tact and 'the little white lie'

So, if my theory is correct, Mr 5 should currently be in the throes of brutal honesty........which he is.......let me demonstrate;

This morning, after returning from my usual run I vanished into the shower for a few moments of quiet and blistering heat. Mr 5 followed me and moments later was joining me in the shower with an array of his favourite super hero dudes...honestly, I would much prefer to shower without Batman looking on...thank you very much.

I tried to ignore his boisterous game in such a confined space and went about washing my hair as usual.

It was then that I felt a sharp poke on my bottom cheek.....
'Mum' said Mr 5 cheerfully "Mum, did you know your butt wobbles when I poke it? Did ya know that Mum? Watch Mum and I'll show you...look!'

Poke, Poke....Wobble, Wobble.

'Thanks for that mate' I muttered as I extricated myself from the shower cubicle. Yes, I did know my butt wobbled and no, I didn't need the demonstration as proof.

I swear if I listened to everything my children said I would have the worlds biggest complex;

There was the time - shortly after Mr 5 was born and Miss 8 had just started her 'honesty phase'  - that we were in a change room together. I was trying on a dress for an upcoming wedding and was having trouble finding something that didn't enhance my very obvious mummy tummy. 'Mum!' shrieked Miss 3 (at the time) 'You have the fattest tummy ever! Look it's all blobby!' Unfortunately all the nearest holes to crawl into and die were already full of other mortified Mothers out shopping with their honest children.

'Oh good girl Mummy' said she of the loudest voice in history - when we were in a public toilet together one day,  'You did three big poos!'
Needless to say we hid in that cubicle until all the other patrons had left.....it took quite a while.

Unfortunately Hubby is rarely the one 'copping it' in the honesty stakes. And when he does the children are quite complimentary; like the time we were at a friend's BBQ and Mr 5 announced to everyone 'My Daddy has a big penis'.

'That's my boy' said Hubby proudly.

My advice to anyone about to enter this brutal...but very entertaining stage.... is to lie low for a while. Avoid confined spaces where children can look at you under a microscope. Avoid public places where they can blurt to the world about all of your faults. Avoid any situation that may bring you embarrassment and ridicule....or you can develop tough skin, laugh it off and enjoy this funny, delightful and very truthful age.....just like I did.

Sick of Sickness

image from weheartit.com

By the time Spring dances along, flicking her sunshiny hair and flipping her pretty floral skirts; you kind of expect that illness is done and dusted for the year. With the warmer weather finally approaching I began to anticipate months of outdoors, sunshine and good health....and then it happened....the family was once again king hit by the flu.

This morning when we awoke to start another week, two of our members were out for the count, comatose, immobile.

Now, certain people in this household react in different ways to illness....as you would well expect......

Hubby, of course, suffers as only a male could possibly suffer. The world is ending. There is disaster and impending doom. No one in the history of mankind has ever been so sick before. He is dying.... do you think you should ring the doctor....or an ambulance? If he has to do anything that requires any sort of effort it is with an air of martyrdom.

When Mr 11 is sick he is properly sick. He will lie in bed all day and barely move. Occasionally he will have a little cry or just need a hug but otherwise he will sleep and read like all good sick children should.

Miss 8 moans. She whinges and demands. She needs a cup of tea, a glass of lemonade, a sandwich. "Mum, I feel like soup' she'll cry. "Mum, I need a tissue', 'Mum I want an apple' It seems that being sick also temporarily removes her ability to use her manners.

Mr 5 is amazingly stoic while unwell. He will occasionally tell me his head hurts and will have a bit of a lie down, but other than that he will be a quieter version of his normal self. He still wants me to play endless games with him so it doesn't dampen his spirits in the slightest.

Miss 2 remains at her tornado best despite whatever illness is handed out to her. She'll continue to create mayhem and ransack the house even with raging temps and a rotten headache.  When sick she is still a spirited and busy toddler....just an unbelievably snotty one.

I don't do sick. And when I do occasionally fall prey to the dreaded lurgy I do so badly. So if you cop a whinge from me when unwell I apologise....I don't have time to be sick.

As you could probably predict the two members of the household who were run down by this calamity were quite possibly the two who are the worst to have stuck at home all day demanding things (Hubby and Miss 8)  All I hope is for a speedy recovery so I can regain my sanity. And most of all face masks for the rest of us so we don't catch it too!

My Mumma Business Card.

Hubby often comes home with his pockets full of a plethora of business cards. I get to peruse these on a regular basis as I usually have to empty them out before they go through the wash and ruin yet another load of washing.

Most of these cards have fairly standard job descriptions; like Dental Surgeon or Solicitor or Plumber. Others are a little more interesting. For instance I recently came across one that said 'Sandwich Artist', there has also been a 'Brain Trainer' (read; Hypnotist) and also one that called themselves a 'Refuse Collection Operative'.....in other words a Garbage Collector.

So, it got me thinking (never a good thing as we all know) about what my job description would be. If I had to come up with a fancy pants business card what would I call myself?

I started with writing a list of all my individual 'jobs' and decided to go from there.

Administrator of Sympathy - eg; Kisses, Cuddles and Kind Words.

Director of Routine - Get up, make your bed, have breakfast, clean your teeth, get dressed, brush your hair..etc...etc.

Nutrition Management - Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner and all those little snackies in between. Coercing children into eating their greens. Talent at hiding vegetables in pasta sauces. Creative-on your toes-meal artist.

Negotiator of Conflict - 'You've hurt your brother, now say sorry', 'I don't care who had it first', 'No you can't have a chocolate before dinner'

Hygiene Specialist-  'Stop picking your nose', 'Wash you hands after the loo', 'Dirt is not a food group', 'Letting the dog lick your face is disgusting!' Must be able to toilet train small people. Supervision in the bath is a must.

Dental Technician - Supervising the teeth cleaning process. Some members of the family simply like to lick the toothpaste off the toothbrush. Or if you're Miss 8, run the tap and make scrubbing noises without actually putting the toothbrush in your mouth (not realising Mum is watching from the doorway)

Hair Stylist - Gel spikes for the boys, ponytails and braids for the girls. Requires a certain amount of speed and dexterity.

Teacher - Homework, homework and a bit more homework. The joy of school children.

Psychic-  Able to read minds of children and predict what they will need/want next.

Domestic Engineer - I really don't need to explain this one...but I will. Mess...everywhere. Constant vacuuming, dusting, mopping, toilet cleaning (Ugh - boys and toilets...need I say more?) washing (wash, hang out, bring in, fold, put away) Scraping food off surfaces, dishes, making of beds, falling over toys....the list goes on and on.

Safety Expert - Jumping out of the bath onto the tiles is not safe (the cause of Mr 5's latest bump) nor is; scaling the screen door, riding a skateboard down our very steep driveway, pushing your little sister off Mum & Dad's bed, Wrestling on the coffee table, Eating dog food or throwing a matchbox car at your brothers head.

Imagination Stimulator - Creating ideas for games, providing paints, crayons, textas and paper. Encouraging the wacky, crazy and zany. 'Yes, let's pretend to fly to the moon in a spaceship made of egg cartons'

Medical Specialist- dealing with scrapes, bruises, grazes, cuts, scratches, puke, poo, fevers, snot, blood. A calm head is always required.

Chauffeur- School, Shops, Sport, Friends...be prepared to spend half your life in a car.

Governor of Chaos - Exceptional organisation skills. Able to do limitless things all at the same time. Be prepared to survive on minimal sleep and copious amounts of coffee and tea. Must be aware of the idiosyncrasies of each child and react accordingly.

So, there you have it. I may have left a few things out, but I think that will do for now.
Admittedly it may be a little difficult to fit this all onto a business card....I probably need a business brochure or a business essay to do the job.

But then I thought of the perfect job title.......one that fits all of my roles perfectly............

                             Carlene......

                 Mother to;

               Mr 11

                 Miss 8

                   Mr 5

                Miss 2

I think that suits me perfectly....don't you?

If you had to create your own business card, what would it say?

Meet My Monsters!

Mr Endearing Eleven -

Sensitive, Responsible, Super-Smart, Math-Whiz, Caring, Loving, Tidy, Insightful

Miss Enthusiastic Eight-

Busy, Silly, Excitable, Talkative, Book-Mad, Cuddly, Humorous, Messy, Joyful

Mr Funny Five-

Kind-Hearted, Snuggle-Bum, Funny, Grumpy, Organised, Sweet, Perceptive, Tender

Miss Tornado Two-

Mischievous, Cheeky, Lovely, Trouble, Sparky, Determined, Quick, Hilarious, Social

A Love of Reading

I spent a fair amount of my childhood years with my nose firmly planted in an assortment of books. I absorbed them, I inhaled them. Any moment spent not reading was a moment wasted. There was world upon world of marvellous discoveries to be made. Places to escape to, characters to identify with. I had stumbled onto one of my greatest loves

A lifelong obsession had begun.

I devoured all of Roald Dahl, I adored Enid Blyton. Many wistful hours were spent in the whimsical world of Beatrix Potter. I cried through 'Little Women' and cheered through 'Charlotte's Web'.

Many of my childhood adventures were a direct result of the imagination that these books sparked.

As an adult I still spend a fair amount of time in my favourite hobby. When I haven't disappeared into a book myself I'm trying my hardest to get my children involved in one. Mr 10 and I have enjoyed books together for years; ever since I read him Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone when he was 6. We both loved the series and he managed to read it in it's entirety before he was 8. Both of us read The Spiderwick Chronicles and Narnia. Comparing notes at the dinner table. It is one of our (many) similarities, our love of books. It brings us together, our common denominator.

Miss 8 however, was showing little interest. She seemed to far prefer to spend hours outdoors making mud pies and pretending to rescue animals...very worthwhile activities for a young mind to be involved in. But I wondered and I hoped that she too, would become a book worm like her Mother...eventually...when she was ready.

Then slowly, she started. It began with 'The BFG' and then we read 'Harry' together. That was it, she was enthralled. She adored 'The Enchanted Wood' and we cuddled up and absorbed 'Charlotte's Web'. She currently has her head buried in 'Diary of a Wimpy Kid'. Every now and then I detect a giggle coming from the couch she's curled up in as she enjoys the juvenile humour. And I smile secretly to myself. She still makes mud pies in the garden...but now she had a new love to indulge in....and I couldn't be happier.

Check out some other 'Grateful' posts over at Maxabella Loves....

The Tweenager

We stare at each other across the room. Both of our eyes are narrowed in silent fury. We don't speak, we don't move, we just stare. It's a battle of wills, a fight of the mind....and she's winning. I feel myself deflating like a balloon, curling up in defeat, losing my purpose, my resolve.

Anyone think this would be a typical Mother/Daughter scene. And of course you may have made the assumption that my daughter is well into her teens. Not the case, sorry, and I'm saying sorry more to myself than anyone else. Truth be told my daughter is only 8 years old.

I'm not quite sure exactly when it happened or how it happened. It sort of crept up on me, king hit me when I wasn't looking. My beautiful, smart, funny and adoring child no longer looks at me as a pillar of perfection, she no longer regards me as all that is good and true. (Unlike Mr 5, see Wednesday's post) She sees what is really going on here; me pretending to know what I'm doing....because really I don't have a clue.

Now, I'm not saying that she's running amok. She's perfectly behaved at school, she mostly does what she is told at home. But it is all done with a mix of defiance and attitude. Her eyes roll when I tell a joke, she thinks my fairy stories are passe, and don't get me started on my random dancing and singing around the house......"Mum, you're sooooo embarrassing."

Maybe I'm a little zanier than the usual Mum? Maybe she has every reason to think I'm a touch foolish? But to be truthful every time she scowls at my antics my heart breaks just a little.

We've been through so much together. There was a time when she was all I had and I was everything to her, the centre of her little world just as she was the centre of mine.
She still is of course, my world had just grown to encompass several other little (and big) people.

My first baby is growing up, she starting to set off into the world. I'm not her biggest influence anymore. She no longer thinks I'm the most wonderful person alive. I guess I'm OK with that. I guess that it has to happen sooner or later and she may just be an early riser.
     
There are times though, when it all comes racing back, when she climbs into my lap for a cuddle and I hold her and I capture a moment when she is mine...all mine.
And I remember that time, the time when everything was black and she was the singular ray of sunshine...lighting the way.

Risky Business

Should come with a warning sign!

With the weather being absolutely bloody freezing I seem to spend a ridiculous amount of time asking (or rather harassing) my small people to dress warmly. Yesterday in particular was one of the coldest days in history; so on the return from the frozen wonderland that is my children's school we all resembled human icy poles. I then proceeded to nag persuade the children to rug up nice and warm. You know appropriate clothing for winter on the Gold Coast......beanies, jumpers, jackets, gloves, scarves, track pants and socks....most importantly socks. I have a firm belief that if the feet are attired warmly then the rest of the body will follow suit. So I coerced the children into wearing their thermal socks (despite all the whinging, moaning and groaning)

The thing about socks though is that they are slippery - especially when running down a tiled hallway at full tilt - which is exactly what Miss 8 decided she was going to do. Miss 8 seems to have developed a rather charming knock-kneed awkwardness that seems dominant in pre-teens. So, when she went for her little slide up the hallway her gangling arms and legs were all over the place and then smack! She hit the tiles face first like a sack of potatoes. Elegant it wasn't, funny it was. And terrible mother that I am....I laughed...a lot.

It wasn't until I actually picked up the poor child sprawled on the ground (and listening to her Mother's sadistic laughter) that I realised there was something wrong other than wounded pride....there was also a fair amount of blood.
    At further inspection it was discovered that the face plant into the cold and unyielding tiles had resulted in a "nice" split under the chin.

Strangely I didn't panic.....which is unusual as I am one of these parents that tend to freak out when their child is injured. No, I calmed my baby down, cleaned up her chin and Hubby quickly bundled her into the car for a trip to emergency "just in case".

Happily they were home within the hour (which is a miracle - this is GC hospitals we are talking about here) With her chin carefully and beautifully wrapped in steri strips and band aids.

And of course we've learnt our lesson...socks are dangerous - an absolute hazard - so "tread" carefully.