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.