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.

Kindy Debut

My ‘babies’ have had the kindy call-up. You should have seen the excitement when I hung up the phone and told them. Jayla especially was ecstatic. Jai’s enthusiasm, however, was short lived when older bro pointed out he was still in nappies and big kindy kids should wear undies.

There’s a point, I thought. What with shifting house and everything else that’s been going on, toilet training has been left on the back burner. Our nearly three-year-old is anti- potty, anti-toilet and anti-undies so when I tried to persuade him with: “Jai, would you like to go to kindy with Jayla in big-boy undies or stay at home with mummy in nappies?” you can guess what his answer was. Even when I threw in the fact his undies would have trucks on them it was met with a sing-song-like “No thanks”.

So we decided to let it be for now – afternoon kindy is only two hours after-all.

Monday morning finally came. Jayla woke and said “I go kindy today!” Jai woke and said “I have sore tummy.”

Could he be that clever? After clearing up the chunder hurled across the lounge I decided not even a Golden Globe nominee could pull that off.

Now I was faced with a dilemma. Obviously the sick one could not be going anywhere but I also wasn’t about to burst the bubble of one excited ‘kindy girl’ who’d been carting her packed bag around the house all day.

Then I remembered my wonderful mother-in-law. One phone call later and problem solved. She came and sat with Jai while I took Jayla, chanting ‘kindy’, up the road.

She walked in and made a beeline for the ‘babies’ and that is where she stayed for the first hour saying “My name’s Jayla Mae, what’s your name?” to anyone who came her way. At mat time she sat with baby tucked under one arm before spotting the play dough and deciding she’d rather make a gingerbread man. Off she trotted and was promptly called back. She then tolerated a story before trying her luck again. She was summoned to the mat once more before all the kids washed up and had afternoon tea. The first finished, she was straight back to the play dough table. I took leave then to go and pick her brother up from school and she didn’t even notice I’d gone.

The next day was her brother’s debut. Our youngest (by 30 seconds) is not what you’d call quiet – in fact his father received the comment “Who needs a foghorn?” by a passer by while at the supermarket with him last week. At mat time he was delighted when the teacher pulled out a family favourite book – We’re Going on a Bear Hunt.

Jai proceeded to predict every line of the story in his “foghorn” voice followed by a stomach-clutching hearty laugh while the rest of the kids sat silently open-mouthed. Every hearty laugh was punctuated by rolling round the floor in merriment.

I don’t enjoy being the centre of attention but my son made sure all eyes were our way. Judging by the looks on the teachers’ faces I gathered it was important not to laugh so instead sat there convulsing with ill-suppressed mirth.

The teacher read the last line but Jai knew there was another page without words to come. “One more page …” he shouted. It was a picture of the bear walking back to his cave. But Jai wasn’t done. Just to embarrass me one last time he yelled “Bye-bye stinky bear”.

By that point I was bright red with the effort of trying to contain myself.

They say you’re not supposed to label your kids as they will be brainwashed into believing they have to live up to that label but we’ve always quietly thought Jai was going to be the class clown. It seems our predictions were right.

Birds and the Bees

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There’s no way I’m ready for the birds and the bees talk. My oldest is only five but the other day the subject was broached when I was re-reading a childhood book about kittens in a bid at remembering how to teach our new addition to stop depositing in the shower. Noticing Cade looking over my shoulder I decided to read it aloud and every thing was fine until I got to the speying and neutering page.

“These cats have had the same operation Jesse had the other day,” I said.

“Why did they have to have it too?” he asked.

“Because remember I told you Jesse needed an operation to stop him wandering off to find girl cats and that would stop him getting into fights or run over? And these girl cats have a different operation to stop them having kittens.”

Lower lip starting to tremble: “But why can’t they have kittens?”

“Because if everyone didn’t give their cats the operation there’d be too many kittens and some people don’t look after them and they have so many they dump them.”

“So, does the operation kill the kittens in the mummy cat’s tummy?”

Oh heck.

Some fast thinking then: “No, the kittens aren’t already in there, the operation the boy cat had stops the boy cat putting seeds into the girl cat which grow into kittens.” I can expand on that further down the track.

This was accepted and I thought I had got away with it until later that day. We were driving into town when he asked out of the blue: “Mummy do you write stories on your computer and give them to the newspaper?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“So are you called a ju .. jur …jurnlist?”

“That’s right!” I answered impressed. “How do you know that?”

“My teacher told me when I told her you write stories.”

At that point we drove past my childhood home so, making the most of his interest, I pointed it out and proceeded to tell him an edited version of my life story.

“And then we came back from overseas, bought the house you live in now and got married,” I finished.

“And then did I pop out of your tummy?” he asked.
”That’s right.”

Pause then: “So did you just leave Jai and Jayla in there?”

Oh bugger.

“How about we leave some of these questions for your daddy to answer,” I resorted. “I think you’ve already learnt enough for today.”

He nodded in agreement and, thank goodness, let the subject be.

 # According to family therapist and parenting coach Diane Levy we shouldn’t rely on “The Chat” as with all knowledge children should be acquiring information in small digestible bits at a rate that matches their ability to understand and in a context that is happening naturally.

“It is a good idea if your children can have this information before they are five or six.  That way, you take charge of it before their friends can tell them. By the time they are old enough to identify reproduction with their own bodies (about seven or eight), they don’t feel betrayed because they feel that they have always known.”

Diane, who is a tv presenter, magazine panellist and author says to start early giving toddlers a vocabulary of body parts that will be familiar to them when the time comes to explain reproduction.

Sooner or later you may be asked, “How did I get into Mummy’s tummy?” That’s the easy question.  “You started as a tiny seed and you grew and grew and grew.” And then you may get the big question, “How did the seed get there?”  If you can manage it, just give the straight answer.”

Diane also recommends age-appropriate books.

“Most children are fascinated about how their body works. Expect your children to want these “stories” over and over again. As with all other books, they will need to hear them many, many times until they have integrated the information.”

More information on this topic can be found in Diane Levy’s book Of course I love you…NOW GO TO YOUR ROOM!  

Jesse

Recently a pretty wee tabby followed us from the school and made herself right at home much to Trixie’s disgust. The twins, rather taken by its playful youth, invited it into the house and, while Jai lost interest, Jayla proceeded to feed and mother it. After filling its lean belly, followed by ablutions, our own cat, Trixie, who had been sleeping obliviously upstairs, finally made her appearance in time to see it eating from her bowl. I moved quickly to intercept the expected scuffle. But surprisingly, Trixie just walked straight up to her dish and began eating from it too. The other cat however, batted Trixie with her paw and, to this, Trixie’s hackles rose. After a few more playful swipes, Trixie suddenly lost it and flew after the cat. I jumped in there and saved it, emerging with multiple lacerations. Jai and Jayla though, having witnessed the furor, were now not so enamoured.

“Different cat mean,” said Jayla. “Different cat go home to the naughty corner.”

After another pursuit outside and with different cat not showing any interest in leaving, despite Trixie’s hostility, I finally locked it in the house for her own safety, where she slept on the couch with Trixie watching on with loathe through the ranchslider.

Several days later, Trixie no longer wanted blood and, despite a fair amount of hissing, I could trust them in the same room.

With Trixie due a vet appointment and our newbie, whom Cade had named Jessie, not going anywhere, I decided to take her to find out some history.

I loaded Trixie into the car while I went to find Jessie. Meowing coming from the top of a spindly tree alerted me to her whereabouts and, after casting furtive glances over the fence, I had no choice but to scale it in my town clothes to rescue her.

Twenty minutes later, I emerged, with more lacerations and wearing half the tree in my hair.

Now late for our appointment I finally struggled with the two boxes into the vets only to be told by a confused receptionist there was no booking for us.

But she must have felt pity for my dishevelled state for she made an exception and we were in.

“She is pretty,” the vet agreed when Jessie had sprung from the box.

But a minute later a surprised vet informed me Jessie was, however, a boy. How could I have got that wrong? She explained that his balls hadn’t yet dropped so we ditched the ‘i’ from his name and booked him in for a castration.

Already chaotic, we probably needed our new addition like a hole in the head, especially now my daughter insists on being carried everywhere for fear of the playful yet sharp-claws lurking at the bottom of the stairs waiting to attach themselves to one’s ankles. Likewise, the now unravelling carpet on that same corner of the stairs, not to mention the ‘parcels’ I find in the shower every morning.

And I certainly wasn’t ready for the birds-and-the-bees talk with my five-year-old that the castration generated. But that’s another story.