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!

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!

The Too Hard Basket

image thanks to weheartit.com

There are days when things just become too difficult. Days when I feel like climbing back into bed, pulling my blankets over my head and wishing that I could go back to sleep. Days where I wished that I had a 'Too Hard' basket and I could just dump the offending day in there.....
'Damn you Friday! In the 'Too Hard' basket you go!'

This morning I awoke early.....too early, to find a small person breathing very loudly in my ear. 'Mum' he loudly whispered, 'Mum, will you get up and play cars with me?'

No, no I won't get up and play bloody cars with you. It is five fifteen in the morning...I want to sleep damn you...I want to sleep!

Of course I didn't actually say this, I sort of muttered 'In a minute darling, go and wait for Mummy in the lounge room' and then promptly fell back asleep. Only to wake up at quarter to seven and completely freak out because the latest I can sleep in with out being ridiculously late is quarter past six.

Then, understandably Mr 5 (the early riser) was miffed. Quite possibly because I had kept him waiting in the lounge for an hour and a half to play cars.

Mr 5 in a good mood is delightful. Mr 5 in a bad mood is, quite frankly, scary.

So, he grumped through breakfast, grumped through getting dressed, grumped through teeth, hair and packing bags, grumped through tidying his room and grumped his way out to the car.

'Sorry,' I kept saying, 'I'm really sorry, we'll play cars this afternoon...I promise' I kissed, cuddled and tried to mollify him while I searched in the voracious depths that is my bag for my car keys........

Snotty tissue from Miss 2.....ick.......squashed sultanas stuck to my purse.....yuck......soggy bit of biscuit.....ugh......lip gloss minus the lid, sticky contents everywhere....sigh.....but, you guessed it, no keys.

'Darling, have you seen my keys!' I bellow....waking up any nice, normal neighbours that may be sleeping at that hour (who hadn't already been woken by Mr 5's grumping)

Of course he hadn't.

So then we all scour the house trying to find the damn things. I dump the contents of my filthy hand bag on the dining table...no keys. We check kids bags, counter tops, kitchen draws, under beds, beneath couch cushions and in every little nook and cranny imaginable...no keys.

By this stage we irrecoverably and incredibly late. It takes twenty minutes in peak hour traffic to get my children to school and today was the one day that we needed to be there early for dance rehearsals.

I end up leaving my poor husband with my key less car and 'borrowing' his.

Once the children had been safely deposited at school I flew home so Hubby could actually go to work. He had spent the time I had been gone searching for lost keys and when I had arrived home had still had no joy.

I walked in and noticed Miss Two's tea set sitting on a step. On a whim I picked up a little pot and lifted the lid....there were my keys.

Hubby and I clutched each other laughing at our own stupidity........'So,' I said cheerfully....'Can I go back to bed now?'

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 little old lady....

On my birthday morning, amongst all the love and snuggles I received, I kept detecting a feeling of concern radiating from the lovely and sensitive Mr 5.

He kept staring at me and frowning. Worry was etched all over that wide-eyed and innocent face of his. He was distracting me from the all important tasks of opening presents and enjoying my coffee.

Finally I gave in and looked down at the little guy, who was snuggled up next to me in bed;
'What's up mate?'
'Mummy?' he asked 'How many are you?'
'I'm 32 buddy'
'Oh,' he paused momentarily before continuing 'So, you're old then'
'Well, not really buddy' I answered, slightly affronted.
'But you're getting old...you have those crinkly things' he points all over my face,
'They're called wrinkles, and I don't have that many'
'Yeah you do - they're all around your eyes and stuff'
'Oh, thanks mate, point taken'
Then the little bugger sighs. Very theatrical, very melodramatic.
'It's just too bad you're going to die soon' Is his parting statement before he rushes off to wreck havoc elsewhere.

I sit dumbstruck by the conversation I've just engaged in. I had no idea that in my early thirties I'd be entering into old age, that I'd be on death's door, but apparently, (according to the ever-knowledgeable Mr 5) it's true.

Happy Flipping Birthday to me.