Camping

Sharing the portacot camping.
Two and a half months

 When the lactation consultant at Whangarei Hospital told me she took her newborn twins camping and suggested I did too, I recoiled in horror.

Two and a half months later there we were camping at our section in Taipa. Were it a public camp ground I don’t think I would be so game, being conscious of the noise levels – from us that is.

But the thought of sitting inside the same four walls all summer long didn’t appeal so, after a colossal pack where I think we literally took the kitchen sink, we set off.

Happy Campers

Back then our block of land was just that – no power or water - so we’d take the main tent, the kitchen tent, an “ablution block” tent, a chemical toilet, kitchen shelving, solar showers and everything else one takes on camping holidays. Oh and then of course there were the cots, baby bath, bouncinettes, play gym, stroller and all manner of baby paraphernalia imaginable.

The first beach trip was a nightmare. After spending all morning in preparation, we arrived at Whatuwhiwhi, unpacked everything and just got set up when the twins did a power-poo in tandem. By power-poo I mean it squirted out their nappies, out the top of the back of their body suits, all over their outfits and into the lap of whomever happened to be holding them. After using nearly two packets of wet wipes, we realised it was all-over-Rover and concluded there was nothing for it but to strip and dunk our not quite three-month-olds in the ocean before packing the car and heading back.

Sharing a cuddle with big bro

Although I’m sure I didn’t stay up until midnight New Year’s Eve, earlier we played a game of “can-a-round”. This is a type of relay when ourselves and unsuspecting visitors took turns at doing a lap of our gently-sloping half-hectare block pushing the unsettled babies in the double stroller before being handed a drink on return. You had to earn your beverages up there.

The night feeds, though, were easy. As they were fast feeders, one baby would get their nappy changed while I feed the other without any crying in between to wake our two-year-old.

Was it all worth it? It must’ve been as we did it all again the following year. And the next.

Witnessing my brother and his wife’s unimpressed reaction as their first newborn did a repeat performance, albeit a solo act, of the power-poo under the exact same tree last year while we sat and watched our kids frolic in the shallows made us realise just how far we’ve come.

These days we virtually only need to pack clothes and food, having renovated and moved a cabin up there. Our biggest problem is getting three excitable children to sleep in the same room. Surrounded by picturesque beaches to explore and with friends living next door the kids are in their element.

I’m not sure what we’ll be doing this New Year’s Eve but it won’t involve can-a-rounds with crying babies. I’d just be happy with having a few quiets on our new deck watching the fireworks at Tokerau in the distance while the children sleep peacefully within. Finger’s crossed.

Santa

“Mum, my friends at school told me Santa died,” Cade said to me the other day, looking upset.

“Who?!”

“Everyone.”

“Well if they don’t believe in him then they won’t get any presents. Do you believe in him?”

“Yes,” he looked relieved.

I refused to believe the rumours floating around primary school myself until it was broken to me at the age of nine. I was gutted but cheekily went on putting my oversize pillowcase “stocking” at the end of my bed every Christmas Eve. This carried on right through the teenage years until I’d come home from Uni, delve into the cupboard and leave it out before going out on the town.

Then one year I woke (or came home?) to find it empty - the disappointment was beyond belief.

I’m not sure my children’s Santa will be quite so generous but, determined to exploit the innocence while it lasts, I thought Cade would be stoked with his call from Santa. I’d set it up so the phone rang in five minutes and, when the call came, got him to answer it.

I watched as he put the phone to his ear and a frown began to form.

“Who is this?” he demanded. “Mum, I think it’s Santa.

“Santa!” he began to shout, growing more and more frustrated.

Finally he slammed the phone down in disgust.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“I think that was Santa but he wouldn’t stop talking and listen to me!”

Later, I listened to the call and discovered the reason for his frustration.

My god, that Santa could talk! On and on he prattled not stopping for breath.

Some weeks later the kids received another message from Santa, this time via email.

I lined them up in front of the computer to watch their individual messages which had been personalised by their aunty.

It was fantastic. The kids sat transfixed listening and watching Santa and his elves use graphics of themselves at milestone moments throughout the year. Jai was asked to start using the toilet, Jayla to remember to pick up her toys and Cade to be nice to his brother and sister. Finally the moment came where Santa’s special machine decided whether they were deserving of receiving the gift they’d wished for and everyone held their breath.

When the green light came on (as opposed the red) they all cheered and clapped.

“Hurray, that means I’m getting Smurfs,” announced Cade gleefully.

I froze. I happened to know that their Santa presents had already been sorted and Smurfs were not included.

I also happened to know that Master Five’s Smurf collection, passed down from the grandparents, did not include the much-longed for Smurfette, who I think he may just be in love with, just quietly.

Apart from in a McDonald’s happy meal, I’m yet to find where to purchase Smurfs and the elusive Smurfette so I passed the problem back onto the Aunty who’d sent the email in the first place.

She was on the ball and ordered some online.

So tonight we’re all set for Santa. We’ll be leaving out the cookies and beer, water for the reindeers and maybe, just maybe, they’ll leave some powdery footprints on the lawn.

Yes, Santa is definitely alive and kicking around these parts.

* It may be too late to “barter” with but you can make personalised messages at www.portablenorthpole.tv/home

Twinkle

Last weekend was all about ballet. Well nearly. In amongst rehearsals, Friday, Saturday and Sunday we hosted an annual Christmas party, complete with wheel barrow, sack, egg and spoon and three-legged races and Santa showing up on a four-wheel motorbike to the kids’ delight.

The next morning, first thing, it was into Forum North for the final rehearsal before the junior ballet show Twinkle.

After much anticipation, Jayla excitedly donned her butterfly tutu before being ushered to the stage where the entire cast was to sit for an hour throughout each others’ dances.

I zipped around to the audience to watch the rehearsal, anxious as to how long a three-year-old would last. But my anxiety was unnecessary as she sat transfixed watching the other girls’ dances.

Then I remembered she hadn’t been toilet and began to fret.

Once rehearsal was over I raced backstage and found her walking around in circles calling “Mamma”. But upon spotting me, instead of the congratulatory/reunion hug I’d anticipated, she stripped off her leotard and tutu and, noting my displeasure, took off giggling across the large and chaotic dressing room near-starkers.

“What are you doing?” I asked once I caught her.

“My show finished now? Can we go home?” she asked.

Oh I see. I tried to explain that that was only the rehearsal and she had to do it all again but she continued to play up.

The idea now was to get them ready with hair and make up. I’d been informed that red-heads shouldn’t wear red lip stick as it makes them so prominent their mouths walk out on stage long before the rest of their face. Brown was the go, as with mascara.

Feeling slightly disturbed at applying make-up to my three-year-old I kept it minimal, all the while trying to coax her back into her costume.

Then I remembered she still hadn’t been toilet so, abandoning the make up, went to queue.

Ten minutes later, the reason for her odd behaviour was revealed. It seemed we’d had a wee accident – and probably while on stage!

Emerging back into the dressing room we discovered her group had already left for the curtain call – Jayla was still half-naked with only half a face of make-up.
Just then an announcement was made that all parents who intended being in the audience should go now.

Panic began to set in as, with the help of another mother, we frantically changed Jayla as best we could before going on our way.

Finding my family in the audience I took a seat and continued to fret.

What if her damp tights were irritating her? What if she was rubbing mascara into her eyes? What about the fact right now was her midday sleep time?

“Now you know how I felt with you all those years ago,” mum leaned over and whispered.

I relaxed as the curtains opened and we spotted Jayla’s golden head amongst the others.

The show was beautiful, twinkly and Christmassy. All the girls were adorable. And seeing Jayla’s 30–odd second dance made it all worth-while. Admittedly, more like a baby elephant than a ballerina, she did manage the odd twirl in amongst waving to her family. As the music wound up, Jayla finished at the back of her group but popped her head round for one final wave.

I think there were several generations in our row who could barely see through the tears from laughing at the cuteness of it all.

Positive she’d be well over it this time, I ran backstage only to find her sucking happily on a lollypop.

On the way home I asked if she’d like to do ballet again next year.

“Or what about hockey or netball?” interrupted her father.

“Ummm … meatball!” she exclaimed.

It seems food will win over everytime.

Xmas Spirit

If your calendar’s anything like mine the month of December will be filled with Santa parades, the Summer Show, the Christmas Festival, end-of-year concerts, assemblies and parties, work dos and birthday parties. There isn’t a single slot free.

December 1 is marked “Put Xmas tree up!!!” As it is considered bad luck to jump the gun here, I make myself wait until the first of the month and with carols cranking the tree is erected with vigour... for the first five minutes.

Two hours and several broken decorations from curious over-zealous hands later, we have an assembled, albeit evermore threadbare, masterpiece amid a thick carpet of pine needles.

As we stand amongst the carnage admiring the twinkling fairy lights, the cat decides to add to it by pouncing up onto one of the top, weaker branches. Down the tree topples in a twinkling, tinselly mess.

The cat is thrown out the door in disgust and it’s back to square one. Another hour later 
and with much less enthusiasm, the job is complete. Chocolate Christmas calendars are handed out and the theme is set for the month.

Although I must admit, in a desperate moment in November, to already pulling out the: “Santa’s little elves are watching you from now on. If you’re naughty, it will get back to Santa in the North Pole and you won’t get any presents.”

This is immediately effective as three little heads start swiveling round in search. “But where are they mummy?” they ask, looking worried.

“Oh, they hide in bushes and all sorts of secret places,” I say knowingly. “You never know when they’ll be watching so you better make sure you’re good all the time.”

This starts to wear thin by mid-December so I’m trying not to over-do it.

The Santa parade came about after I looked through some old photo albums at kindy and stumbled upon pictures of children (including myself amusingly) on a float representing Onerahi Kindergarton. After making the passing comment that we had to get the tradition back up and running I’d found myself nominated with two weeks to organise it.

I lost sleep that night and was thankfully saved the next day when another mother offered to take over most of the organising. This is going ahead today and will hopefully be the re-start of many more.

The kids have taken great delight in watching the Summer Show progress as we drove past this week with new tents springing up each day. Having forgotten their visits from previous years I filled them in on what it’s about.

That night Jayla excitedly met her dad at the door.
”Daddy, we’re going on the “roger” cars and we’re going to crash into you!” (She somehow misinterpreted “dodgem cars”.)

“And I’m going on the “Wherris” Wheel!” shouted Jai. (We’ll see about that.)

“And then you’re going to watch me in my show,” added Jayla.

A puzzled pause before we realise she’s confused the Summer Show for her ballet show (which she’s been harping on about for the last six weeks).

Finally, a day or two after Christmas, the tree is hastily pulled back down - depositing another 10,000 pine needles - amidst a flurry of packing. It’s the last thing you want to face in the New Year when you arrive home from a week-long camping trip with ten bags of washing in tow.

Plus it’s bad luck.

Guilt Trips

Many of us mothers are riddled with guilt from the moment our firstborns arrive.

BC (Before children) I had visions of my much plumper self frolicking with my children by day then drawing them close to my ample bosom as I lullabyed them to sleep at night. But I must be more selfish than I realised for things didn’t turn out that way.

As soon as baby number one made his appearance I was overwhelmed with a sense of how much there was to do and how little time there was to do it. My guilt trip comes because I’m not talking baby stuff here.

While I was nesting in the five weeks between stopping work and giving birth, I set the housework standards so high I became obsessed with having everything in the house just so. You’d think that when the baby arrived everything else would take a back seat but no.

Sleep while the baby’s sleeping? Pwah! There’s far too much to do.

My eternal “to-do” list and dislike of procrastination lead me to keep going - Energizer Bunny-style - on as little as two-hour’s sleep and not drop into bed until that day’s list was complete.

I’ll never forget visiting The Baby Factory with my two-week-old and leaving him in his car capsule on the counter while I ducked back out to the car to grab my purse. When I returned, the ladies, who’d been cooing over him, commented that I must take great delight in looking at him all day the way they just had. 

“Oh no, there’s no time for that. I’ve far too much to do,” I replied.

Their silence spoke volumes and as I left the shop I heard my words through their ears.

What? She’s got this gorgeous baby and doesn’t even take the time to enjoy him?

I decided to do just that from then on but old habits die hard and comments of “The housework can wait” fell on deaf ears. “It can’t wait,” I’d retort. “If I leave it, it will just build up until I have a mammouth job in front of me!”

With my next born, I vowed to get over my fetish and become more slovenly.

But then I wasn’t banking on having twins. Along came two and suddenly I had three children to tend to. Any hopes of sitting, gazing into my baby’s eyes all day long were dashed as I found myself thrown into a never-ending whirlwind of feeding, burping, nappy changing and looking after a toddler while under the foggy haze of severe sleep-deprivation.

Such is my guilt I’ve toyed with the idea of having another just to carry out my dream but then I know with three kids tearing around, plus a baby, it would be just that – a dream.

So I’m guilty of not being “there” enough for my kids. I need to drop the trivial stuff, switch off the computer, “be present”, frolic and enjoy them because one day I’ll come up for air and realise they’ve flown the suddenly not-so-messy nest.

I never do get to the end of my “to-do” list and probably never will. With three (ahem make that four) against one in the cleanliness stakes, it’s like being on a treadmill. But if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em right? Therefore, top of my New Year’s resolution list will be: “Live for the moment and become a sloth!” Good luck to me.

Rat Hunting

I’ve discovered the downside of living in tranquil countryside surrounded by scenic, historic stone walls. They come with four legs, long tails and I find them rather disgusting.

I realise cats present their prey to their beloved like a trophy but the night Trixie dropped a mouse on my bed I was not impressed. Luckily that one was already dead.

The next time she sprang through the cat door and dropped a live rat at my feet I reacted like Scooby Doo chancing upon a ghost.

It was high-drama in our house as it took off under the coach where I had leapt and the twins, oblivious but sensing excitement, decided to climb aboard too laughing hysterically at my spaz-attack.

Having witnessed its frantic scurry, Cade knew what was going on but it hadn’t occurred to him to be fearful.

“Cade, open the ranchsliders,” I ordered amongst shrieking at Trixie. He obeyed and fetched a stick which he prodded under the coach while I cowered on top, knowing full well rodents can climb.

Half an hour later there was still no sign of the rat, which, I might add, had the longest tail in the world, and, infuriatingly, Trixie, having lost interest, had walked off.

Finally I resorted to asking Cade to fetch the phone.

“Um, I don’t suppose you’re working in the area?” I feebly asked hubby.

“No, I’m at Waipu, why?”

Damn.

After being told to harden up, I tentatively stepped off the coach and slowly pulled it away from the wall, only to discover nothing but a few crusts in amongst an astonishing amount of dust.

That meant it was in the mammoth pile of children’s books toppling over next to the couch in the corner.

After requesting the kids pick them out one-by-one it was finally unearthed and darted for the other couch.

Defeated and exhausted, I went and cooked dinner (standing on a stool) and left it for hubby to sort later.

The latest rodent drama occurred after I had retired for the day. Hubby was watching rugby in the lounge when the cat ran into my wardrobe. Scuffling noises within confirmed my worst fears.

“Did you check Trixie’s mouth before you let her in?” I yelled.

He appeared, looking sheepish and began lifting things in the wardrobe while I sat up like Jackie watching.

Several attempts at placing the cat in front of the about-to-be removed object were fruitless. Muttering something that sounded like “Stupid cat” he disappeared back up the hall.

Ten minutes later I was still watching the doorway to the wardrobe like a hawk when I realised he wasn’t coming back.

Gingerly I stepped out of bed and found him back on the couch watching rugby.

After pointing out I was not the one who let the cat in he eventually prised himself back off the couch.

“So much for my knight in shining armour,” I huffed as I stalked (tentatively) back to my throne.

Another 15 minutes later the mouse finally ran into our other cat Jesse’s mouth. He was stoked with his first catch and was promptly ushered outside with his prize.

Having been ‘broken in’ to the world of rodents Jesse was now on a roll and my wardrobe was the place to dump them, according to the cats’ new-found fascination with it.

I knew something was in there and after avoiding setting foot in it for a week, walked down the hall one morning and narrowly avoided stepping on a dead mouse matching the carpet. It seems it had finally made a dash for it and been defeated.

I suppose these rodents resided in the stone walls long before we came along and put a house in their midst so I will have to learn to live with them – I’ll just be wearing shoes inside from now on.

Terrible Twos

Last week I had two revelations in quick succession. The first was that I am experiencing the “Terrible Twos” times two. 

Look what I caught them doing to
their photo album!

 Had I cottoned onto this fact earlier I would have used it as my excuse for the last year.

My excuse for my mess of a house, even though I seem to be constantly tidying. My excuse when someone overhears me yelling my head off in an unattractive manner or, when I just plain can’t be bothered, out of sheer exhaustion, reprimanding my lot when we have guests and I catch their shocked expression.

Sprung!

I could use it for my excuse for anything really. Like when I was breastfeeding the twins and ate like a horse. I’ve actually always been a pig but for 14 months (not to mention the nine months prior) I had a good excuse. Then when I stopped I realised, not only could I no longer get away with that justification, I also couldn’t get away with eating what I liked so I pulled my head in quick-smart.

The demands of a two-year-old are relentless. They want it all and they want it now and

if I can’t cater to their needs asap they will throw themselves on the floor and kick and scream.

Little Missy, once my placid one, has become a real madam and throws the most unreasonable strops. I was told this morning in a fit of rage that I’m going to jail. Who taught her about jail? Does she even know what it is? And Master Two no longer loves me whenever I reprimand him. However, he is quick to reinstate his affections when it’s morning tea time.

Walking up to school is rather tedious. While Jai is happy to walk ahead keeping up with his brother, Missy will suddenly decide she’s homeward bound and about turn and head back down the hill. I’m left standing in the middle as the distance between us all gets larger, wondering who to go after. I see where a double leash would come in handy.

Yes, the naughty corner has definitely had significant foot traffic over the last year which brings me to my second revelation: in only a matter of weeks the twins will be turning three and surely this means the end of the “terrible twos”.

But no sooner had I felt that ripple of excitement when I had a flash of déjà vu and my spirits lowered themselves back to base: I was aged 19, just days away from my 20^th, signaling the end to “teenage pimples”.

The chances are slim to none.

# Author of bestselling Of course I love you… NOW GO TO YOUR ROOM! Diane Levy prefers to describe the “terrible twos” as the “terrific twos”.

She believes it disempowers parents and ignores the fact that the behaviour is a normal and necessary stage on the path from child to adulthood.

“Children are beginning to realise that they are independent beings with an identity separate from their parents and they are exercising this newfound independence.”

However, Diane is quick to point out that this doesn’t mean parents should ignore “bad behaviour”. 

She says many parents believe they have to put up with tantrums, screaming fits and – in some cases – bad language simply because their children are going through “a stage” which they’ll “grow out off”.

Diane advises parents that there are three actions fundamental for supporting their child’s development and passage into adulthood:  respect their integrity, support their feelings and set boundaries.

Getting Creative

Master five has discovered the wonderful world of creation.

After many fruitless attempts at getting him to put crayon to paper, thanks to an arty friend at kindy, obsessed with Ben 10, Cade’s curiosity was finally aroused.

When my first piece came home, albeit a Ben 10 watch, I was stoked.

Before, when I’d get Cade set up, he’d hand the crayon back with a “Mummy do it” – something I put down to laziness or lack of interest.

But a doctor told me he displayed traits of a perfectionist - preferring others to do tasks for him and not making an attempt until he’d mastered it. I remembered this theory as picture after picture came home with surprising detail for a novice.

After my 20^th Ben 10 watch I suggested he try something different. That afternoon a landscape came home, followed by another, then another. Each became more detailed, eventually incorporating granddad on his tractor and even daddy surfing the crest of a wave.

Then began the family paintings: daddy in blue, mummy in pink – slightly shorter, Cadeyn in blue and then Jai and Jayla – smaller still – and in their respective colours of course. Trixie the cat also featured.

Our stomachs blew up to the size of balloons and our arms were no longer sprouting from our heads. Heck, we even had five fingers attached to our ringaringa.

Then came the woodwork.

By then he’d made a new friend obsessed with making guns. I explained that guns weren’t very nice. “I know mum but it’s just pretend,” he explained before bringing home 10 more.

We made space in his room but after gun number 15 enough was enough.

After promising that was his last, the next day he proudly emerged with yet another. “Lovely,” I smiled through gritted teeth before lecturing him all the way home about there now being absolutely no more room. “Okay mum, this will be my last one, I promise.”

It seemed my son didn’t yet know the meaning of a promise.

Sneakily, I began “editing” his collection, removing the smaller ones from the bottom of the pile while he was at kindy.

But no sooner was he home when I heard an angry noise from his room: “Mum, where have my guns gone?!”

“Ah, some fell off and broke – I told you there were too many,” was my feeble reply.

“But where are they?” he was now close to tears.

“I had to put them in the bin Cade.”

“Show me them!”

Damn.

“They’re not broken!” he accused after I’d hesitantly picked them out.

“Oh wow, look at that!” I exclaimed before they were snatched from me and taken back to their original spot.

Luckily his time at kindergarten ended shortly after and the gun phase forgotten. By then he had 28 of the monstrosities and, two months later, I again tried “editing”.

Dusting his cabinet each week I eliminated two from the bottom of the pile - there are now only four left and, finger’s crossed, no one’s the wiser.

Choking - The Day It Happened

It was late afternoon and I was giving my eleven month-old first born an early dinner.

I placed a spoonful of puree chicken stir fry in his mouth and proceeded to scoop up the next lot when I heard him gagging.

This was a fairly common occurrence so I calmly stood up and patted his back. However, the coughing continued.

Slightly alarmed I scooped him out of the high chair and began back blows, like we’d been taught at antenatal classes. The gagging continued.

It was at this stage the plan I’d mentally rehearsed, should this nightmare ever occur, kicked into action. I raced downstairs with my now convulsing baby in my arms. But when I reached the door he stopped.

Thank god, I breathed, false alarm. But then I saw his face.

My baby was completely blue and limp.

Screaming ‘Help’, I sprinted next door with Cadeyn now unconscious.

My neighbour came running out to meet me on the drive and grabbed him from me.

“Call 111,” I shrieked to the others who had emerged.

They ducked back inside while, for a second or two, I watched my neighbour frantically patting Cadeyn’s back.

At this point I asked myself, do I stand here watching helplessly and leave the one chance I have at saving my son’s life in someone else’s hands, in which case, if it didn’t work I’d never forgive myself for not trying harder? Or do I give it all I’ve got?

I grabbed my son back – his limp body feeling heavy in my arms - and started pelting the heel of my hand between his shoulder blades, but to no avail.

I remember thinking then: “Oh my god, I’ve lost my baby two weeks before his first birthday”.

“It’s too late,” I cried to the neighbour who seemed to be talking so calmly on the phone.

As I ran with him over to the porch I tried to recall the sternum compressions we’d been taught at antenatal classes. Was it two fingers or three now that he was no longer a new born?

I lay him on his back intending to unconfidently carry this out but then saw his face.

That was when I lost it and, in one last-ditch effort, began mouth-to-mouth.

“Jodi, he’s breathing,” my neighbour put her hand on my arm and stopped me.

Somewhere along the line, perhaps due to the relaxed throat muscles, the unknown food item had dislodged and he’d started breathing again. My boy’s completely blue and swollen body was now erratically taking in air.

I picked his heavy body up in my arms and held him close to me as tears rolled down both our cheeks.

We sat like this on the porch in the sweltering March sun for I don’t know how long – his little body convulsing with his sobs and the effort to breathe.

Finally the ambulance arrived, guided by the neighbours’ kids, and by this stage I was in a daze. We carried out the procedures in a strangely calm way, before they transported me and Cadeyn – with tubes attached to his body and an oxygen mask over his face - to the hospital.

But on the way in he started to close his eyes again.

“He looks like he’s about to have a sleep,” commented the ambulance officer.

“Well he shouldn’t,” I replied, instantly alarmed. “He’s only recently woken up.”

The adrenaline kicked in all over again and she was straight on her feet making adjustments to a machine while I urged Cadeyn to wake.

But then he opened his eyes, smiled weakly at me and said “mama” in a soft voice and it was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard.

By the time we got to the hospital, where his father was waiting, he was back to his old self. It was only after, I realised his dad had been due to come home while it was unfolding, but had worked slightly late that evening. This was a blessing as I wouldn’t have wished the sight he would have seen upon anyone.

I learnt some valuable lessons that day – one: do a first aid refresher course, and two: you and your children are not invincible. As parents we can get complacent and take things for granted but it can happen to anyone at anytime.

For information on courses such as Choking and CPR, visit www.stjohn.org.nz or phone 0800 ST JOHN (0800 785646).

It's Not All Bad

Last week my nana gave me a wee lecture.

“Jodi,” she said, waving the newspaper in her hand. “You know, one of these days I’m really hoping to read something positive from you. After all, it can’t be all bad,” she said, giving me a meaningful look.

She’s right, of course. I had become aware that some of my horror tales could unintentionally be providing verbal contraception for childless couples.

I usually start off on a positive note, before it all somehow turns pear-shaped. A bit like my day really. Oops – there I go again.

Take two:

On Saturday Cade (5) scored his first try and I was so proud I cried. I will probably cry again when he is one of only two kids from his class to deliver a line in his school production at the Event 33 centre this month, although I won’t be able to hide behind sunnies this time. Even after his teacher euphemised that he was chosen partly because it “would make good use of his loud voice” I was still proud as punch.

And never was I prouder than when he delivered a speech in front of hundreds of people at my father’s funeral in June.

Some say that kids are not meant to be your friends – your role is to be their parent but this has always confused me. When it was just me and Cade during the day, he was my side-kick. I can still parent and guide him but he will always be my little buddy.

Despite going through the terrible twos in tandem, the joys of watching toddlers develop side-by-side are immense. Life would be a lot easier if we had them in separate rooms but I keep them together at their mother’s expense. That’s part of the fun of being a twin isn’t it?

Occasionally I stand outside their door and eavesdrop. Their conversation might go something like this:

“Je-ja, you awake Je-ja?”

“Shoosh Jai-Jai, I’m trying to go to sleep.”

“Je-Ja, Jessie’s on your bed.”

“I know, Jai. I’m a little girl and Jessie only goes on little girl’s beds.”

“Can I come and pet Jessie Ja-ja?”

“Only if Mummy doesn’t catch you. If she catch you, you go in the naughty corner.”

“She not catch me.”

Footsteps.

“Jessie purring.”

“Ahh, he so cute.”

“Yeah, he brave.” (Word of the week)

“Mummy coming!”

“Arghhh”

At this point I walk in as, giggling, they both dive for cover.

I happened to catch a glimpse of Oprah recently where one wise guest said kids can tell when you’re not paying attention because you wear a certain distracted look on your face.

“Kids are supposed to light up a room,” she said. But it rarely ever shows in their parents’ eyes. Instead the mother is often looking to see if their trousers are buckled up right or their face is clean.

From what I gleaned the message was to live life in the moment and show your joy, for kids are more perceptive and sensitive than we realise.

Now, I’m off to find my trio and embrace them in a big bear hug.

Bumblebees and Butterflies

It has always been my dream to have a little ballet dancer. I’ll never forget an adorable four-year-old girl dressed as a lady bird in one of our concerts standing frozen at the front of the stage while the rest of the ladybirds tried their best to perform the dance without her. For the entire routine the girl stared into the audience, mouth agape. Finally the song finished and she was ushered off the stage remembering to wave over her shoulder, having spotted her parents.

So it was with some dismay that I noticed my one and only daughter turning into a tom boy around the age of one. In the proceeding months hubby took great pleasure in teaching her the skills involved with rugby – the boys having shown little interest.

The biggest eater of the three she was certainly, er, rotund. After witnessing yet another impromptu training session of our tubby ginga being converted into a rugby player I decided enough was enough. “Hey,” I voiced. “You’ve got your two rugby players, leave my ballet dancer alone!”

I will just say that it was all in good humour and I wouldn’t really have a problem with my daughter choosing to play rugby but it must have been a phase because by the age of two and a half, without any interfering on my part (honest) her feminine side began to emerge.

She began following me around and watching me closely and no longer wanted to wear sneakers with everything.

She’s also obsessed with dancing on stage! (Now where did that come from?) Actually, despite how it’s looking, this derived as a result of her older brother performing in his school production last month. She delights in “turning around” for our guests and can even point her toes … if raising a bent leg in the air and hooking your toes like a claw qualifies.

During these school holidays I decided to take the kids to a puppet show. The night before, after I’d announced it to them, a sleepy Jayla asked “Mummy, tomorrow I go in the show and do a twirl?”

I tried to explain that she would be in the audience but the next morning the first thing she asked was “Today I go on stage and turn around?”

It took all of my might to hold her back off that stage so the next day Jayla was enrolled in Bumblebees and Butterflies dance classes which puts on a show at the end of the term.

After meeting her daddy at the door with the announcement, he murmured a response before frowning at me over her head. “She was showing good signs of becoming a rugby player,” he tried one last time. “You should see her when she gets fired up – she can even tackle Cadeyn.”

“Hmmm,” I pondered. “Do you know Jayla’s class is actually called Bumblebees and Butterflies? … Maybe I can sign Jai up for the Bumblebees …”

At that point, strangely, the conversation came to an abrupt end.

Smurfs

Is it Murphy’s Law that it rains all school holidays? I’m fairly new to it so only noticed a pattern this year but come mid-Monday morning the house had been trashed well and truly and one bored five-year-old had been sent to the corner umpteen times for ganging up on his siblings alternately.

As part of country living my new-found pledge was to stay home as much as possible so by Wednesday – my ‘town day’ – we were itching to get out.

I’d promised Cade to take him to The Smurfs on this day - if he behaved - and I’d been unashamedly bribing him with it all week.

So finally the day came. I dropped the twins at their nana’s and we continued on our way. That was when Cade turned to me and said “Mum, I’m so excited!”

We arrived at the cinema and I began to have a bad feeling - the place was teeming with holiday program kids.

We joined the end of the long, windy queue with Cade practically hopping from one foot to the other in excitement when my fears came to fruition: an announcement was made that tickets to The Smurfs had sold out.

I looked down at Cade, who had spotted a couple of girls from his class, also eagerly queuing and oblivious to the news. We still had a long way to the ticket counter so I stayed in line to buy time to form plan B. With the other kids’ movies now showing likely to send me into a boredom-induced coma, I decided a dvd would have to cut it. By now the trio from room 5 had all spotted each other and were giggling in the silly manner children of this age do so I took the opportunity to break it to him.

The showing off abruptly stopped and he deflated before my eyes. His disappointment was inner and it was intense.

“But how about we go and look for a Smurf dvd instead?” I coaxed on our way back to the car.

“I don’t want a dvd, I really wanted to see the Smurf movie,” he mumbled, head down.

I felt terrible and badly wanted to make it up to him. “Well how about we go to The Warehouse and see if they’ve got a Smurf’s dvd? That way you get to keep it and then Mummy will take you to see the movie next week and I promise I’ll buy the tickets the day before.”

“Ok, but only if you promise,” he eventually agreed.

After being made to repeat my promise all the way there we arrived at our destination while I silently prayed they held the goods.

My prayers were answered when we were pointed to a display of Smurf dvds, including a complimentary Smurf. All for far less than the exorbitant price I’d been expecting to pay.

Cade was stoked … almost enough to forgive me … so I threw in a lollypop on the way to the check out – just for good measure.

Thomas The Tank Engine

My oldest has been obsessed with Thomas The Tank Engine since he was nine months and able to say “Choo-Choo” in his sleep. Upon hearing this we looked at each other in the next room and wondered if we’d heard right.

As it happened, we had.

His fascination with Thomas and the engines on the island of Sodor was born when someone unwittingly purchased him a Thomas train for Christmas. From there, it snowballed into bridges, tunnels, turn tables, the Fat Controller and many of Thomas’ sidekicks.

I owe a lot to Thomas who, not only enlightened me to the world of pistons and axles but, despite tv being a no-no, he held my two-year-old enthralled on many a late afternoon during my first trimester while I lay shattered on the couch. However, he may have been a life-saver but we learned that Thomas the Tank Engine is an expensive obsession.

One day up at the local shops, we chanced upon one of those machines that pops out lollies and toys. Well low and behold there was Thomas and co, albeit a miniature version with wheels that didn’t turn but Cadeyn was excited nonetheless and at $2 a train, well, so was I.

Cadeyn – then 3 - placed his $2 in the machine and out popped Gordon. He was rapt. The next time he was due a treat we made another stop at said machine. After warning he may end up with another Gordon, he was willing to take the punt. Duncan popped out. There were six different trains in all and the next time it was Emily. “You little tin-ass,” I thought as Edward made his appearance some weeks after.

One Spencer later and we were down to the last train – Thomas himself. Mr Confident marched up to the machine, placed his $2 … and out rolled … Gordon.

The mother of all meltdowns ensued.

“But… I… wanted… Thomas,” he wailed, while Jai and Jayla watched in awe from the safe confines of the stroller. 

I tried desperately to reason with him but couldn’t be heard over the ruckus. By now we were attracting attention on the narrow sidewalk as people stepped around our commotion to get by. Then a kindly elderly man stepped up to my son, bent down and said “Oi, what’s all the fuss about?”

Cadeyn was so taken aback by this stranger that he stopped at once.

I took the chance to remove my lot safely from the scene.

Once he could see reason I verbally replayed the scenario with my little man.

“And then you threw a big wobbly,” I finished.

“But where mummy,” he looked around mystified.

“Where what?” I asked equally puzzled.

“Where is the wobbly I threw?”

“Ah…. “

My feeble explanation to that isn’t worth repeating.

Wobblies aside, with Thomas playing such a large role in our lives over the last five years, it is with some sadness that I note the dust gathering on the tracks.

The end of an era.

Multiples

I will never forget the first time having multiples impacted on me. It was day four up in the hospital. I always warn people about the dreaded ‘day three’ after giving birth. Due to hormones in over drive and milk coming in, the majority of this day is usually spent in tears. However, my day three came and went – no tears.

But then day four struck.

It was Friday evening and, with babies sleeping peacefully, I’d sent hubby, who’d been by my side for most of the last three days, off to work drinks. During this time the grandparents showed up with our then two-year-old Cade. I loved these visits with him because I missed my little man but unfortunately, not long after arriving, it became apparent he needed a new nappy and no one had a spare. He was at the stage where this bothered him and became upset. Unable to come up with a solution, I began to feel distressed. Right then both babies woke screaming. They were hungry and relentless with their demand.

This was when it struck me that I had three children depending on me and I hadn’t a clue who to tend to first.

So there I was in the midst of three balling infants so what did I do? I joined them.

At that point a visibly-relaxed hubby walked in, stopped in his tracks and surveyed the scene: his poor mum was hovering helplessly, his dad had understandably bailed and the rest of the room was in tears.

These days I’m still in hot demand in my house but I like to think I handle it better.

I was lucky to have three little piggies who took to breastfeeding like pros. They were seven minute feeders, which meant the slurping noises were not so discreet but it made for a quick night-time turnaround and I didn’t wean them for 14 months.

At its peak, with all three in nappies we were changing up to 30 a day.

For the first two years stepping out in public felt like we were mini celebs. I’m not joking when I say I’d have to allow at least half an hour for being mobbed. But in all honesty, I loved it. Who wouldn’t relish the chance to put a smile on someone’s face or brighten up one’s day?

Admittedly these days, if I’m bold enough to take them shopping, we’re met with wary looks or thinly-disguised horror.

If I could have a penny for every time I’ve heard “Double trouble” or “You must have your hands full!” I could buy us a mansion. It’s true they’re double-trouble but it’s also true they’re a double-blessing. My ‘babies’ were three yesterday and they crack me up every day.

Jai and Jayla are BFF’s (best friends forever) and the first thing one will ask upon waking, is where the other is.

Townies take on the Maungatapere

Brace yourself Maungatapere, your peace is about to be shattered for we are coming to town!

It’s a long and complicated story but the simplified version is that, without anywhere permanent lined up to go, we listed our house and it sold for asking price before the Property Guide even came out.

When the real estate agent came around, beaming, to tell us, we sat there like stunned mullets before eventually accepting. It would’ve been rude not to really.

Our lovely home has been good to us for the past nine years. It’s seen hens’ parties, baby showers, kids’ birthdays and of course many a bbq and party BC (before children). It’s also where I brought my babies home to from the hospital, where we blearily trapsed up and down the hall all night whether it was to carry out a tandem feed, deal with a night terror or to stuff a dummy back in a mouth. Did I just say that? Let me re-phrase: to place a dummy back in a baby’s mouth for the 30^th time that night. (Obviously this method wasn’t working – I wouldn’t advise it – but that’s an entirely different topic.)

I look at the nursery I so lovingly decorated with my first baby bump and wonder if it will all be painted over and torn down. Not knowing whether we were having a boy or a girl, I painted the bottom half yellow and the top, bright blue punctuated with stars, moons and suns. I wasn’t sure at the time how it would sit with the older “Pepe”, however, Cadeyn, now five, asked me if he could take it all with him.

But the multi-levels, harbour views and extensive decking is no longer required for our lifestyle. We need space.

So although it is on the market, my late father’s lovely new lifestyle property is the perfect, albeit, temporary solution. We have become townie farmers “working the land” over recent months and we love it. There’s fruit to pick, a new black lamb down the paddock and the kids could spend all day on their dad’s lap mowing the orchard on the ride-on.

With two weeks to go I really ought to begin the packing.

But first I need to stop procrastinating and finish packing up the place we are moving into. This is something I have been chipping away at for the last few months but how do you reduce one’s whole life practically into a box? Obviously this has been slow going.

When this, sadly, has to sell, whether we end up buying in the country or not, the kids will still end up having had a taste of the good life.

Show

Last week I had the privilege of attending a spectacular show at Event 33 centre. It was Onerahi Primary’s production of The Magic Box and it wasn’t until halfway that I realised I was sitting on the edge of my seat with my mouth hanging open and a wet face from laughing so hard. What a talented bunch of kids.

I’m not sure if it’s still the largest primary school in Northland as it was when I attended in the 80s but allowing each pupil to perform meant for a lengthy show. Even my hubby, who is more the sporty kind than theatrical had to admit he enjoyed it and, sidelong glances throughout the show spotted a smile on his face the entire time.

Our little man’s class was first up as a group of cute buzzy bees performing a dance competition and he delivered his line without any signs of stage fright despite the 600 spectators.

Directed and part-written by teacher Alan Curry, classes created and performed their own items, centered around a treasure chest discovered in the attic of one of the main characters. The boy and his friends opened it to discover a variety of artifacts which sprang to life in each scene depicting characters and trends from throughout the eras. Although these children weren’t around back in the day, they head-banged to Nirvana and hip-hopped to Vanilla Ice and even carried out a live version of the old popular Pacman game with aplomb.

As well as laughter, my tears were from pride. Pride in the Onerahi community and pride in all the kids – some of whom I’ve watched grow from babies.

These kids were thriving up there and I hoped like anything their parents were there watching. Unfortunately disappointed parents missed out on tickets but I also knew of one family right then who weren’t there supporting their kids because they just plain couldn’t be bothered. I watched their daughter up there on the stage, her face lit up, putting her heart and soul into her performance and wondered who she was performing to. I felt pride for her and told her so the next day.

And looking at these fit, lean children in all their purity, I couldn’t help but wonder what will become of them. If only you could bottle up their enthusiasm, innocence and willing to please.

The Facebook pages were full of talk of the show and there were many tired kids away the next day – but not our little man. He’s in love with school, not to mention his teacher and was straight back up the hill as soon as gates opened.

Oh and the highlight for me besides the buzzy bees? The little break dancer who stole the show.

As we emerged back into the light I announced that I would be enrolling Cade in hip-hop classes until I stole a look at his father’s face. His look of horror said what he thought about that.