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.