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.

Driven to Distraction

 I grip the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles white against the black leather, my fingers numb with the strain. My arms are extended straight out in front of me. Rigid and tense. I flex my fingers to try and release some pressure...it doesn't help. I feel angry and almost aggressive.

The noise inside the car is diabolical. Two children sit in the back arguing loudly. They shout, yell and scream at each other. Little fists are clenched. Tears flow freely.

    The little one is struggling against her car seat. She wriggles and squirms. Short, chubby legs fly kick out with apparent frustration while she lets out a continuous high-pitched and piteous wail.

The eldest one ignores them all; I wish I could share in his detachment of the whole scene.

The scenery that flashes past on our journey is at a complete contrast to the chaotic scene within the car. The countryside is clean and vibrant with rolling hills and pretty houses dotted here and there. The sky is clear, cloudless and the brightest shade of blue. The day outside looks tranquil, peaceful. My mood is at odds with it.

As I finally pull into the school car park I am relieved but also immediately self conscious. I have had no time to take care with my appearance. My jeans are wrinkled, my jumper covered in fluff - the white showing clearly against the black. I push my messy blonde hair off my face, sunglasses will fulfil the purpose of taming my shaggy mop. My face is devoid of any make up. I secretly wish I had found the opportunity to put on a tiny slither of lipstick, maybe a flick of mascara.

I settle the children, the older ones march off to their respective classrooms. I deliver my Preppy to his teacher.

On the way back to the car I hold the littlest one by the hand. She chatters endlessly and I calmly listen to the rise and fall of her voice. We walk slowly and I finally feel myself start to relax. I breathe deeply and inhale the fresh country air - it is soothing and sweet. As I walk my shoulders loosen, the tension leaves my body.

I hum softly under my breath. Finally I feel at peace with the world.

    Post script; After having dropped the children at school I raced home to write this post, quickly typing it out before my memory evaded me completely!

The Poo To-Do

It was early afternoon and I was happy in my work. Unsurprisingly I was in the kitchen and predictably I was baking. I wasn't just baking anything mind you, it was of course Chocolate Cake. I had decided that when the older children returned home from school they would be in the need of sustenance and the sustenance they required was in the lovely, moist, sticky, fabulous form of my their favourite cake.
     I was having a lovely time, measuring ingredients, pouring ingredients and chattering incessantly to myself. I had once again disappeared into my own little world. A delightful little world; all bubble-wrapped and rosy coloured. But, suddenly I came crashing back down to earth. I had realised something....something terrible. It was quiet.....very quiet....too quiet.

Before commencing my little baking/daydream foray I had set up Miss Tornado Two in her room and surrounded her with all the things she loves best; her dolls, her tea-set, her teddies. When I had ducked out of her room I had every intention of popping back into her room every 5 minutes or so to check on the little cherub. Unfortunately I had soon completely forgotten.
  
I really should know better. I am the Mother of four children after all and we Mother's all know that a silent child is certainly not an idle one.

So, I crept down the hallway apprehensively....terrified of what  I would discover in the little room at the end of the house. Relief flooded through me when I heard her little piping voice babbling away in her own special language. Hopefully she was happily playing a lovely little game with her dolls I reasoned.

Unfortunately that myth was dispelled the moment I entered her room.First I detected a slightly earthy smell. A discarded nappy lay on the floor in front of me. A short distance away lay an abandoned pair of pants. In the corner sat my beautiful and charming little girl...but she wasn't alone....she was surrounded by several long brown things...and she was playing with/in them!

The gorgeous darling looked up at me, smiled sweetly and said "Poopy"
'Yes darling,' I muttered weakly 'Poopy'
And so began the long and painful process of cleaning up the precious child...and the carpet...and her dollies...and everything else she had contaminated with her ummmmm, poo.

The Chocolate cake lay discarded, forgotten, rejected. For some reason I couldn't face eating it. I couldn't even look at it. Anyone care to hazard a guess why?

For the love of....Cookbooks.

Today I'm going to start sorting out my collection of Cookbooks.......And when I say collection, I mean it, I've probably collected about 60 of them ...so far.
     I love Cookbooks - reading about food is one of my all time favourite pleasures. I research meals and treats for my family and I dream. Dream of the food I could be cooking, I should be cooking, the food I would love to cook. Despite not having the ability to create some of the items presented in these gorgeously photographed and created books, despite not having the funds necessary to achieve this dream......dream I do. But I find the books I love the most are the ones that are practical and achievable and that is why they are my favourites.

I adore Nigella Lawson; there is something about her attitude about food and her cooking philosophy that I just "get". Most of her dishes are just good, traditional food - tasty, easy, yum! The Cookbooks that I currently have in my possession of the lovely Miss Lawson aren't technically mine though...they are kind of on an extended loan thanks to a good friend of mine (I will return them, I promise, soon!)

I have quite the stack of books by the ever-enthusiastic Jamie Oliver, whom I also love. I love his verve and passion. I love that I can flick to almost any page of one of his books and find something that a) I have the ingredients for & b) is easy and delicious. I started compiling his books ten years ago....and I'm still going!

The remainder of my hoard is an eclectic mass of various books by various cooks/chefs. I've picked them up here and there; garage sales. op shops, cheap shops, book stores, online and handed down from my Mother and Mother In Law. From the vintage 70's and 80's books - full of the typical 'retro-cool" fare from that era that I love; to the newest, shiniest, prettiest offering from the latest 'celebrity' I love them all.

So, what are your favourite Cookbooks and why? (So I can secretly covet them!)

Ode to Coffee

Ahhhhhhh, Coffee. Nectar of the gods. Manna from heaven. How I love thee.
Every morning I wake up to your bitter-sweet smell, a large cup usually freshly brewed and lying on my bedside table, placed there by my adoring Husband - of course he knows that if I don't get my morning coffee I turn into a rabid banshee.

You give me the energy to face the day, no matter the earliness of the hour awoken by certain small people, no matter the poor quality of sleep the night before (due once again to the aforementioned small people)

First thing in the morning I may tolerate you in the instant form, but later in the day you must be purchased in the frothy-milky-cafe-style form. A feast for my senses, a revelation, my one true vice (other than chocolate cake of course)

Sometimes I may sip tea or hot chocolate...but I will always return to you, coffee, my one true love. I feel like I need to ingest you to live...to get by and although I limit myself to two cups of a day those two cups are heaven, bliss and I savour them.

So, today Coffee, I celebrate you  (due to one beer too many last night and another sleepless night)

Heart Thinking

At the moment I'm struggling with a decision. The choice has to be made and it's not an easy one.

The problem, the question, the dilemma is; do I base the decision on what is logical, practical and pragmatic or do I go with my gut feeling, my instinct, my heart?

Do I conform to what I think I should do, or do I follow what I feel I should do? In other words do I follow my head or my heart?

When I ponder the consequences of taking the practical approach I feel determined and focused. Sacrifices have to be made to get ahead, I just need to toughen and make them. Trouble is when I think about this choice I also feel awkward, distracted and discontent.

Contemplating the heart choice makes me feel warm, relieved, content and happy. It also comes with a fair amount of worry....but you know what? I can live with that.

The heart is the core of human existence. Everything I am and will be comes from this core.

Thinking with the heart makes me feel at peace, it makes me feel relaxed and open. Of course it makes no logical sense but to be perfectly frank, I don't give a damn. I'm opening myself up to where I want to be, and deep down, in my heart, I know I've made the right choice.

Will you play with me?

The other day Mr 5 was home from school with temps and a nasty headache. Unfortunately this didn't result in dampening his spirits, neither did it entice him to spend the day curled up on the couch watching cartoons (which is what I wanted to do). He was bouncing of the walls with excitement and joy, he was busy and vivacious....the day descended into a slow form of torture.
    Obviously he wasn't as sick as previously thought, so I had Miss Tornado Two and Mr Fun-loving Five at home with me all day.......joy!
I tried to do the washing, I tried to vacuum, I tried to cook & clean, but I had a constant companion hovering at my elbow. "I'm hungry", "I want your help on the computer", "Can you read me some books", "I need to go to the toilet...and you need to come with me", "I'm thirsty" and the question, the dreaded question he asks continually, "Will you play with me?"

I have no problem playing with my children. I love a good game of hide and seek. A game of tickle monster is one of my all time favourites and running around with a soccer ball...pure joy. But the game Mr 5 was so desperate to play (and I was so desperate to avoid) involved action figures.....cue glazed eyes and vacant expression.
   All of his figures seem to have exceedingly complicated names. Mr 5 can rattle them all off like they're his best friends and then, get this, he expects me (me!) to remember them. He then expects me to recall the ludicrous super-powers that each character possesses. So, not only do I have to remember what Super-Ultra-Humungo-Mega-Dude is called but also that he has super-strength, invisible undies, a jet-fart pack and laser beams for eyes....Ummmmm...Yeah right.

Being that he has just celebrated his birthday he now has a whole array of fresh super-dudes for me to remember. I do my best, I really do, but there is a part of me that just wants to curl up and die when he requests to play with them with me. I try to concentrate, to focus on the complicated storyline he concocts, but, before long I'm yawning and I can't help thinking of all the other things I should be doing. It is coma-inducing boring and requires all my self-control not to fall asleep.

Later though, my foray into super-dude territory pays super-dividends. At bedtime we have a cuddle, Mr 5 holds my face in his hands and says "I love it the most when you play with me." Then, at that moment, I decide that being bored s***less is totally worth it. And guess what? The next day I play it all over again.