Xmas Update

We had a bit of a clash between the tooth fairy and Santa on Christmas Eve.

Master Sixes teeth are dropping out so quick I feel like my ‘baby’ is falling to bits. Unfortunately, the top teeth have all come out in a row and it’s not looking pretty. After inspecting his new smile in the bathroom mirror he emerged, heaved a great sigh and announced: “I look horrible,” before adding: “I hope my friends don’t notice.”

I had my work cut out that night. It’s hard enough to remember tooth fairy duties at the best of times so, because I needed my wits about me, I didn’t partake in any pre-Christmas drinking.

The abstinence paid off and it all went smoothly. I went to bed leaving the men to ‘dispose’ of the Santa snacks and reply to the note.

At 2am Master Six got up to go to the toilet and discovered both the tooth fairy and Santa had been and felt the need to come and share this joyous news with me. Needless to say he probably didn’t get the enthused response he anticipated. Likewise at 5.45am when Miss Four awoke to find her and her brother’s Santa sacks full.

“Jai,” I heard her whisper across the room. “Jai!,” the call became more insistent as she tried to rouse her brother. “You’ve got presents!”

“I got jandals,” I heard him exclaim sometime later and with that I shot out of bed. Two heads flung back down on their pillows just as fast, as I entered the room. We have a rule of no peeking until everyone’s assembled together.

I went back to bed feeling a bit bad about growling them first thing instead of wishing them a merry Christmas. But not long after, once their brother had awoken, all the presents were open in a flurry, the kids had taken off to play with their new toys and I was left amidst a sea of strewn wrapping paraphernalia.

Which was why the oven timer method worked so well this year. Actually we used the chiming clock and every hour it chimed, they opened a present, knowing exactly who it was from and thanking the person. This dragged the day out nicely, considering the weather was so terrible we couldn’t go out and play. Before we knew it, it was 8pm and we still had to play Secret Santa.

One of the many heart-warming moments of the day was opening Master Sixes homemade present and discovering a $20 note from his piggy bank with a note saying “I love you.” Turns out he’d done the same for his dad. It was very sweet but, I’m sure he doesn’t have any concept of money’s worth and the $40 was quietly deposited back into his money box later.

“I was sure I’d get squirted when I went to the toilet,” said my brother’s partner to me towards the end of the day, referring to the ongoing practical joke I play every year that I assumed everyone was getting sick of. She almost sounded disappointed.

I didn’t need further encouragement. Off I happily went to set it up. As the toilet seat is one of those clear acrylic nautical themed varieties, I was sure no one would fall for it but, alas, my tired and heavily-pregnant sister-in-law made a stop off before bed.

Luckily she has a sense of humour: She emerged grinning sheepishly and, fortunately, still intact.

Xmas Frenzy

If it weren’t for the fact I draw the line at those ridiculous festive earrings, I’d be the ultimate Christmas geek. 

From putting the tree up, as soon as good luck would have it, with Christmas carols blaring, blinging out the house in fairy lights to the point I don’t like to leave the room for fear of a fire breaking out, baking for the neighbours, making Christmas lanterns with the kindy kids year after year, to leaving “snowy” bootprints on the doorstep for the kids to discover Xmas morning, I usually just can’t get enough.

But I have to say, even I’m a little Christmased out by it all this year. As the kids get older there are more Christmas parties to attend needing secret Santa gifts provided for, plates to make, parades to take part in, ballet shows, the final school assembly and carols to attend. Add to that the multiple birthday parties in the month of December and I’ve realised I haven’t even stopped to enjoy it all.

I guess it doesn’t help the kids are tired at this time of year and fueled up on too much junk food.

This year we split our Christmas in half and had a celebration with one side of the family last weekend. I find it’s less overwhelming for the kids when they are handed gift after gift. It’s also less mortifying for the parent when their kids hastily rip off the wrapping, barely acknowledge what is within, before moving onto the next while the giver watches on.

To help with this we will be using the oven timer this year and they can open a present by the hour. (Strangely, children seem to respect the oven timer?)

We’ll start the morning as usual by opening Santa presents, which brings me to a wee problem: apparently I didn’t clean the fireplace very well and the kids are worried Santa will get his outfit grubby when he lands down our chimney. And, actually, they wonder, how will he even fit if he’s so fat?

Good point. The fireplace door is pathetically small so we’ll leave a window open instead.

We’ll leave water for the reindeer and, as far as Santa’s snacks go, I’m under instructions from my brother, who, along with his family, will be staying, that Santa will be extra thirsty so the kids are to leave out more than just one beer.

After opening their Santa presents and discovering all the traces he’s left behind (heck, I might even go all out and leave a tuft of his beard snagged to the window) we plan (weather-depending) on picnicking, boating and playing cricket before heading back home for a barbi, more presents and Secret Santa. I’m still on the lookout for a funny present for this – everyone (except me) is getting a little sick of my toilet seat bum squirter joke year after year.

Another new tradition is delicious eggnog with all sorts of goodies in it and, depending on how much is consumed, I’m hoping to crank up the karaoke later on.

God help the neighbours.

Advent Calendars

It’s the end of advent calendars as we know them in our household.

Next year I won’t be lured through the eyes of my children by the enticing pictures on the front but will remember instead the monsters they became from the chocolates within.

What I didn’t count on when making the purchase was three kids, with greedy glints in their eyes, sprinting into my room at 5.45 every morning clutching said calendars.

“Which one Mummy?” the twins ask, referring to which number can be opened that day.

I hold it up to the light, blearily trying to locate the number while they clamber on top of me.

They then wave their sculpted chocolate for identification in my face, insisting no one but the owner touch it, before popping it in their mouths with great satisfaction.

Yes, I know – chocolate before breakfast is disgusting and I quietly cringe every morning. But I slipped up by not setting the ground rules from the start and, quite frankly, can’t be bothered dealing with the fall-out before 6am.

One day Miss Four came bounding up the stairs to inform me her brother was eating all his chocolates. I didn’t believe it at first but, upon inspection, sure enough, there he was licking his chocolate-covered chops after gutsing down five in a row. And he would’ve kept going had he not been busted.

As a result his calendar was confiscated for five days and Master Four had to be on his best behaviour to earn it back.

Then, low and behold, sometime later Miss Four discovered that numerous chocolates from her advent calendar were missing.

Her brothers swear it wasn’t them and, try as I might to slip them up by grilling them – detective-style - “When you ate your sister’s chocolates, was one of them the bell shape?”- they maintain their innocence.

The jury’s still out on that one - it seems the chocolates have gone truly awol.

So I’ve warned them I’m pulling the plug on chocolate calendars next year. Instead I will do what several of my friends have done and create an advent calendar a little more like the original.

Behind the windows will be a range of activities, including baking Xmas cookies, watching a Christmas movie, going on the Christmas lights trail or doing a good deed for others like donating toys to the Salvation Army. Not only is it teaching them the art of giving, but it’s spending quality family time.

Hopefully it reiterates the real meaning of Christmas and they take to it with the same enthusiasm they have the chocolate calendars. If not, then I’ll need to come up with another bartering tool. The “Santa’s little elves are watching you” reminder seems to have lost its impact this year but the threat of taking away their chocolate advent calendars has worked a treat.

Hoarding

My son is a hoarder. I worry when he’s older that he’ll be renown as one of those people with a tip for a backyard that all the neighbours complain about.

If his room is anything to go by, he’s well on track.

He’s sneaky about it, mind you. His room looks tidy to the untrained eye. But lurking in all the cupboards, drawers and under the bed, threatening to spill out, is everything and anything he has obtained in his six short years.

Some of these items are ill-gotten gains intended for his brother and sister that he’s cunningly swiped with a bit of wheeling and dealing which only comes to light if overheard or pressed from his siblings.

“Jai, where’s your balloon gone?”

“I gave it to Cade.”

A quick check under the bed confirms this.

“But why did you give your balloon to Cade? The lady in the shop today gave it to you.”

“Because he gave me this,” he produces something unidentifiable, that’s obviously seen better days.

It’s like this whenever the twins come home with anything new – Master Six is quick to pounce.

But the strange thing is, once he’s acquired the new item, it gets stored away never to be seen again, let alone played with.

On an eternal mission to declutter the house, this drives me mad.

Despite having a yard sale, taking a truck load to Hospice and filling a skip pre-move, we still managed to bring a whole lot of shite with us to the new house. But luckily the local kindergarten has their timely jumbo garage sale in November and, so far, I’ve taken up a boot-load each day and I’m still unearthing more.

Not that I would dare take anything from Master Sixes room; Strangely, he keeps track of everything.

Slightly puzzled as to the psychological reasons behind this hoarding, I made a half-hearted attempt at Googling it. Apart from the perfectionism ‘symptom’ ringing true, the results did not make for pleasant reading so I promptly shut it down.

Despite my best interventions, I’ve decided to let it lie for now. If it’s genetic, then it’s obviously skipped a generation so I’m not taking any blame. But, one day, when the next generation begins complaining to council about a local hoarder with everything, including the kitchen sink, in his backyard, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Sunscreen

There’s really no excuse for getting sunburnt in this day and age. Still, many of us get caught out. Knowing what we now know of the consequences, if you’re like me, you’ll feel sick dread the following day. The feeling of guilt intensifies when it’s one of your children.

It’s taken me nearly a year to own up but last summer we went to watch a pre-season rugby game at Lowe Walker Park. The day was overcast, threatening rain so we stocked up on umbrellas and jackets. But, before the first quarter the sun came out with a vengeance. There was absolutely no shade where we sat on the grass verge and, even if we packed up and left, by the time we got to the car in the far distance, we’d be fried. Instead I watched the kids frolic on the hillside as the sun beat down and hoped, by some miracle, its lethal rays wouldn’t find their way to my children’s fair skin.

By that evening it was glaringly evident that they did.

Besides the fact my back was, what once would have been, an impressive shade of fluorescent pink – a talking point of some marvel at the barbecue that night, my biggest disgrace came as the evening wore on and large red raccoon rings began to manifest around Master Five’s eyes. These would go on to blister, thereby increasing my shame.

It turned out I wasn’t the only one who was caught out that day. A friend who’d been sitting along the hillside from us later stated her mortification about the rings, and subsequent blisters, that formed under her baby daughter’s eyes. She went into hiding for several days after that. At least she had the excuse of being a Pom, I told her, and considered applying concealer before Master Five headed off for school.

Although the responsibility of an infant’s sun protection, lies on the caregiver, I couldn’t help but wonder if the girls walking around selling candy floss that day, would’ve been better off selling sunscreen.

I would’ve paid a small fortune.

Nevertheless, whilst nappies, dummies and spew cloths are now a thing of the past in my ‘bag of tricks’, I’ve replaced them with that one essential item – sunscreen. 

Stranger Danger

We had a lovely holiday down at the Mount (Maunganui) last week but, as a result, I’ve been on the back foot all week. And so, being behind on the news, it was mildly disconcerting to finally sit down with a stack of papers to read and find out there is a potential child predator in our midst.

Because that morning, as usual, Master Six had raced off ahead to school while I drove the twins to kindy, at which point, we usually pass and beep. But that morning we didn’t pass him. Of course he was all right – he’d just sprinted to school – but it did play on my mind, especially after coming home and reading the newspapers.

The following morning a hurried version of the stranger-danger talk ensued before Master Six left.

“But a stranger might get him,” whimpered Miss Four, having overheard the conversation.

While it was nice to know she cared, I simultaneously realised she’d got the wrong end of the stick. Despite trying my best to give a more age-appropriate version of the discussion on the way to kindy, it proved fruitless.

“What kind of legs does a stranger have?” asked Miss Four.

“And what kind of head does a stranger have?” chimed in Master Four.

When we pulled up and they piled out of the car it soon became clear what they’d conjured up in their little heads.

“Guess what,” they called out to their mates as they arrived with their parents. “There’s a monster in Whangarei.”

By the time we reached the gates a rumour was in full swirl which, like most gossip, had been blown out of epic proportions.

“Mum,” I heard one child say. “There’s a monster down the road.”

“Um, I think you might need to have the stranger-danger talk to the kids today,” I told the teacher. “I’ve obviously done a terrible job of it.”

She agreed that indeed I probably had and I left with the rumour mill in full circulation.

I was dreading what I’d walk back into at pick-up time, but it turned out the monster story was long-forgotten and the children had moved on, distracted with preparations for today’s Santa parade.

I’m thinking I’ll need to give the stranger danger talk another shot – this time with a little more effort put into convincing them that not all strangers are baddies (“Mum, why did you talk to that stranger?!”), or monsters with square heads for that matter. But, I’ll probably wait until after they’ve met the man in the red suit today – lest there be any confusion.

We wouldn’t want a rumour starting up about poor Santa now would we?

Parental Doubt

All it takes is one comment for the parental self doubt to creep in. Whether it’s someone randomly telling a new mother she’s holding her baby the wrong way (yep I’ve had that – but really, if he was uncomfortable he would let me know me so shut up!) to the latest:

Master Six comes home and casually mentions: “Mum, when I was walking to school this morning a mother told me to tell my mum I was too young to be crossing the road by myself.”

This time though, the self doubt only lasted about half a minute - Maybe I was a bit premature in letting him walk alone to school… but then we had walked the same route numerous times as a family and taught him to look three different ways before crossing the one and only street.

I had to ask: “You didn’t do anything dangerous when you crossed the street did you?”

“No, I stopped and waited till there were no cars like you taught me.” I can tell when he’s lying and he wasn’t.

No, this mother was just a busy-body who hadn’t yet cut the umbilical chords connecting her own children, I decided, and began to feel my hackles rising.

But even so, I walked the same route the next day with Master Six and made sure I had a good description of the “orange-hair, white-shirt, green-car, that wasn’t a van but had a sliding door” - driving mother who had given my son this indirect ticking off to his mum.

“Is that her?” I asked all the way to school, rolling up my sleeves.

Ok, that last part was a lie. I’m hardly the type to start a fisticuffs outside the school gates, let alone even confront her, but, for some reason, I still wanted to know who this Martha Stewart was.

We didn’t see her but I still met a lot of other lovely non-judgmental mothers that morning and had a good chin wag instead. It turned out Master Six is quite popular at school and, no sooner had we entered the school gates than a team of children came running up and, after calling out good morning rituals, began chasing his younger brother and sister round the yard like they were a couple of Pied Pipers.

Note to self: remember to dress them in running shoes next time.

But back to the orange-haired, white-shirt mother driving a green car with a sliding door that’s not quite a van – aka a people mover. When prompted further that night Master Six ventured: “Well, she said I looked scared and I didn’t say anything but I thought in my head ‘I’m not scared’.”

No, he’s an intelligent, well-trained six-year-old who’s been taught how to cross a street so maybe it’s time someone dealt with their own apron strings before passing judgement.

Spring Fever

Ask any teacher if spring fever affects their children and they will most likely roll their eyes to the heavens and shake their head knowingly.

Along with other symptoms, kids become more restless, disruptive, rowdy and generally silly.

Spring fever is said to be driven by the body’s reaction to its changing environment; the increased amount of sunlight. Along with improved moods this brings a better climate for romance in mammals, including humans.

And it would seem my children are no exception.

Not that they would ever admit this. The hot topic in our household at the moment is boyfriends, girlfriends, getting dumped and marriage. But they’re in denial: as far as the boys are concerned, girls are disgusting and vice-versa.  According to Master Six, his siblings have a string of boyfriends and girlfriends which change on a daily basis. In amongst dumpings, his four-year-old brother is going to marry Polly, Ava and Rudy (names changed) from kindy and his four-year-old sister will marry Jack, Harley and Trey (names changed), also from kindy. Heck, sometimes they will even marry each other. This is, of course, followed by uproarious laughing on his part.

If the tables are turned and one of the twins dare utter the name of a female in Master Six’ class, along with the word ‘marry’, all hell breaks loose.

According to my lot getting married is disgusting and, this being the ultimate sin, if ever I’ve done wrong by them (in their eyes), the response is: “You’re going to marry daddy!”

Oops, too late.

This revelation is met by a chorus of “Ewwwwws!”

“But Jayla,” I said one day as I unpacked a box of photographs and stumbled upon a wedding one, only to be met with the above response, “I’ve kept my wedding dress for you to wear one day.”

“Ew, no way,” she said running away.

Her brothers may have corrupted her for now but, one day I’ll win her back.

I remember the days when their older brother – the instigator of it all – was innocently oblivious to all this nonsense. I had read his four-year-old self a book about a frog who seemed to be having a problem with something inside his chest going “thump-thump”. After seeking advice from his animal friends, frog was finally diagnosed as being in love with a duck. He decided to impress duck by breaking the world high jump record but he landed on his head and made a fool of himself.

Never fear, it ended well. Duck nursed frog back to health and they went on to marry and live happily ever after.

But I digress. The next day we were walking up the hill to kindy. I was pushing the stroller while Master Four ran ahead. When he got to the top he stopped and turned round, his hand on his chest, brow furrowed in bewilderment.

“Mum,” he declared puffing. “I think I must be in love.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Because my heart won’t stop going “thump-thump.”

Halloween

Whether we like it or loathe it, Halloween appears to be here to stay.

The youngest generations have grown up with it being the norm but, for the older ones, it’s baffling, annoying and just plain frightening. The trouble with Halloween in our country is we’re just in the wrong hemisphere.

After sitting on the fence, leaning more towards thinking those against it were being party poopers, after Wednesday night – experiencing it from both sides of the door - I’m now in the ‘Leave Halloween to the Americans’ camp.

In previous years trick or treaters have always caught me by surprise, probably resulting in our house being black-listed after I could only come up with a few measly packets of raisons. The kids looked seriously ripped off. So this year I bought a family pack of Macintosh’s Toffee and, forgot all about it as I set off on an evening walk.

Along the way we encountered numerous trick or treaters who looked to be having a successful time with bulging loot bags.

Returning home I found my lot bouncing on the trampoline happily oblivious to the tradition. It turned out I’d way over-catered - when I asked if they’d been handing out lollies at the door they looked curiously bewildered before asking if they could go trick or treating too.

What the heck, I thought and helped them don costumes from the dress up box. Before setting off I filled my pockets with Macintoshs’ for the kids to hand out in the hope of getting rid of them while simultaneously not coming across as being demanding.

“Trick or treat,” they chorused proffering a McIntosh to the home owner.

Luckily they didn’t know any different because, apart from a bag of nuts each, they came away empty-handed. But they didn’t mind – they were just stoked to be out in their costumes handing out lollies.

We only went to a handful of houses but the reactions we encountered ranged from pleasant surprise, sending the home owner into a flurry at not having anything to give back, to a curt “No, I don’t subscribe to Halloween,” with a blunt refusal of the lollies kindly offered from three little outstretched hands. Their crestfallen faces prompted me to tell them they could eat the lollies themselves.

But despite striking that particular person off my neighbourhood Christmas baking list, I had to later admit that I no longer “subscribe” to Halloween either.

Once the kids were in bed a loud rapping on the door alerted me to a mob of about ten kids on the back deck who, apart from the oldest one pulling his sweatshirt over his mouth and a bandana over his eyes to look like a bandit, had made no effort to dress up.

“Give us some lollies,” he demanded in what he hoped was a badit’s voice.

“Where’s your manners?” I demanded back reluctantly giving them a lolly each before they raced off round to the front door and rang the doorbell there. Nice try.

It’s ones like that who give trick or treaters the bad rap and I don’t blame residents for not taking kindly to strangers, who could possibly scare the living daylights out of them, approaching their private property after hours and demanding sweets.

So what if residents, as one Advocate reader suggested, signal they are playing the trick or treat game by leaving an outside light on? This is a good idea in theory but, with daylight savings, school kids would have to wait until late for this to be effective.

Which brings me back to my first point: we are simply in the wrong hemisphere for Halloween to work here.

Next year I’m being a party pooper – we’ll be staying at home where I’ll lock all the doors, disconnect the doorbell and hide.

Disastrous Holidays

Holidays – they can be adventure-filled, relaxing or plain disastrous. Sometimes it’s just easier to stay at home isn’t it?

I wrote earlier in the year of the misfortunate and so-called ‘summer’ vacation up at the bach which involved kids’ spew and cats’ poo. Well Labour weekend we didn’t have any of the latter – we left the cats at home. But the former? There was bucket-loads.

Actually I wished we’d had some buckets. They would’ve come in handy when one twin spewed all the way there, and the other twin spewed all the way home.

Our car reeked.

Mind you, we’ve had worse. A couple of years back we took our young family to Auckland. Everyone’s health was fine when we left but, all of a sudden, in the posh suburb of Ponsonby, I heard what I thought was water gushing. Believing the car to be overheating, I looked around for smoke. No smoke but the gushing continued with vigor until I was alerted to its origins from a protesting sibling who’d had the misfortune of being in its firing line.

We pulled over and stripped the car and kids on the upper-class sidewalk before continuing on with naked children in bare bucket seats.

The upheaval continued throughout the weekend until it was all the family, bar me with the stomach bug. My brother and sister-in-law - childless at the time - looked at the carnage we’d created in their home with thinly-disguised horror while their washing machine whirred in the background on an eternal cycle.

Finally we made the call to go home with me designated driver. It was the worst journey of my life.

Not only was it pitch-black, the other four occupants were barfing all the way home, calling for constant pull-overs on the side of the motorway. In the end there was nothing for it but to continue driving and the kids eventually fell asleep covered in vomit.

Back at home, it miraculously stopped. But it took a good two years before we were game enough (or felt welcome for that matter) to return to the Big Smoke.

Fire Safety

Maybe in hindsight it wasn’t such a good idea hiding the lighter behind the fire flue out of the reach of children.

I thought I’d been murdered when it exploded sending pieces (and my dinner) flying across the room.

Home alone for the day I’d lit the fire and just sat down in front of the tele on Saturday with a lazy dinner for one (oven fries) when there was an almighty bang. Ears ringing I gingerly got up and started picking through the remnants of what once appeared to be a lighter, strewn across the lounge and into the nearby dining room.

It was then I became worried as to the whereabouts of the lighter fluid. Still half expecting an explosion I re-familiarised myself with the fire hydrant and stood there, finger on the trigger, waiting.

Between the fire and the last of the sun the room had heated up considerably. How was I to sleep that night knowing there was lighter fluid on the loose in such a hot room? I turned to the every-trusty Google but, apart from a few freaks youtubing themselves blowing up lighters, it wasn’t helpful so I called the Whangarei Fire Station for advice and the man said he’d send someone out.

“Oh it’s really not a big deal, I was just after some reassurance,” I started backing out.

Not long after, the kids came home and at the same time about six firemen descended the r.o.w spilling into neighbour’s properties trying to locate us. What must they be thinking? I wondered. Their new neighbours already setting their house alight.

Some of the men seemed slightly baffled as to why they were there.

“I really just phoned up for advice,” I spluttered.

Luckily one of them stepped forward and seemed to know why they’d been called out. Another used an infrared camera to check the heat radiation before declaring it safe and they began retreating back to the fire engine.

“You were already on duty weren’t you?” I asked their retreating backs.

“No, I was at home having a beer,” smiled one.

“I was at home having a cup of tea,” said another.

I felt like a right twak and almost offered them a beer for their troubles but wondered how they would all fit comfortably in our house, which I’d thought was big until I saw six large firemen in their bulky gear piled into the living area.

Despite feeling like a drama queen, they were good sorts about it and, needless to say, the kids were impressed. It was quite timely actually. Several weeks earlier a volunteer firefighter had come round for an assessment, mostly to show me where to put smoke alarms in our large, multilevel house. He was very efficient and left books, activities and a dvd on fire safety for the kids, which we watched as a family last week. The kids loved it and watched it over and over again all week. That night, after they went to bed, I heard them talking about a fire plan, which we acted out the following morning.

To have real life firefighters in the house, just made their day – that and gobbling up their mum’s scattered oven fries from the floor.

# Fire safety information can be viewed on www.youtube.com/thenzfs

Soldiering On

I suspect there’s been a reoccurring theme amongst many households with young families this past week after the loss of a popular young mum from our community.

As one of her friends said: “I was busy doing paper runs for both my children, then making lunches for them and generally running around after them. ‘‘Gosh,” I thought, “Aren’t I lucky that I can do that!” I will never think of it as a chore again because of you!”

I have recalled these words all this second week of the school holidays – commonly a trialing time for stay-at-home parents.

After running out of excuses to give Miss Four who’d been begging to paint my nails (and fingers) in stripes of all the colours of the rainbow from the nail art set I’d (rather thoughtlessly in hindsight) given her for her birthday, I finally fell victim. Then reminded myself this was a privilege.

Despite being up to my elbows in meatball mixture, instead of telling Master Four, who was perfectly fine, I was too busy to come to him for yet another cuddle, I thought of our 32-year-old friend and her two precious pre-schoolers who, although with a wonderful dad, will no longer receive cuddles from their mummy and I washed my hands and went to him.

If I’m ever brave enough to catch another bus into town for a holiday treat and the boys, high on fizzy drink and cake from Tiffanys, laugh raucously about farts and bums all the way home on the otherwise quiet bus, I might be proud they’ve brought ill-suppressed smirks to the other passengers’ faces, instead of turning round to the one behind me and asking whose kids they are.

When we walked up to the shops yesterday and Miss Four was dragging behind I picked her up and thought she was giving me a little kiss, then realised she was wiping snot on my shoulder. Sure, that’s fine, I don’t mind wearing snot on my sleeve, I told myself and gave a giggling Missy a poke.

When the tenth fight erupts before 8.30am I’ll … well maybe I’ll draw the line there – I only have so much patience.

Another young mother who’s inspired me over the last two weeks is Anna MacDonald, sister of murdered Fielding man Scott Guy. Despite all the adversity she’s faced, she is still soldiering on as a young single mother of four kids and I watched her on 60 Minutes with admiration as she danced with abandon around the lounge with her children.

Nadia’s funeral service on Monday was beautiful, like she was, and I’ve put her photograph on the fridge to remind me to treasure those special moments.

And now I think of Nadia when I crank her favourite song - Sir Mix-a-lot’s Baby Got Back. Funnily enough, I’d just downloaded it the week before for the kids and, ahem, me to dance around the lounge to – Anna MacDonald-style.

Multiple Birth Awareness Week

It’s quite timely that my twins were born during multiple birth awareness week. Last year I shared my story of the early days up at the hospital. I can still remember being wheeled back from surgery on the gurney, cradling two pint-sized babies under the sheet. As I passed a woman in the corridor, she, obviously seeing my horizontal state with protruding tubes, thought the worst and gave me a sympathetic smile. I beamed back and cuddled my hidden gifts tighter.

These little treasures will turn four tomorrow and the last few years have had their challenges but many families have it far more challenging. Fertility treatment and giving birth later in life are contributors to the rise in multiple births. Fifteen out of 1000 women who gave birth in New Zealand in 2010 had a multiple birth resulting in 910 sets of twins and 20 sets of triplets. One in 80 births produces non-identical twins.

I couldn’t count the number of times during the first year I was asked if my boy/girl twins were identical. I’d stare at the person waiting to see if they were joking. When it became apparent they weren’t, my response would be: “Ah, well one of them kind of has an appendage …”

Usually they’d laugh redly but, surprisingly, some still looked blank.

Just to clarify, generally boy/girl twins cannot be identical.

It struck me the other day as I watched a family walking along swinging their toddler between the mum and dad that our twins have never experienced this. It was always a case of too many babies and not enough adult hands.

It’s simply an accomplishment to parents of multiples to safely transport their children from A to B (and all going in the same direction if on foot). The local supermarket must empathise for they now have double newborn trolleys, not like “back in my day” when I’d have to awkwardly push one while pulling the other.

But for any shortcomings of being a multiple, there are bonuses, like always having your best friend by your side, including regular ‘sleepovers’.

Sadly, many twins drift apart as they get older and I know of many who are no longer close. As I lie awake at night listening to the occasional boy racer roaring off in the distance, I can only hope mine will still be looking out for each other in their teens at least. At this stage I’m happy to report they’re still BFF’s.

So for tomorrow’s birthday we’ll just be celebrating with one cake. It won’t be pink and it won’t be blue. I figure I’ll get away with only making one while I can.

Country Living Versus Suburban (part two)

Besides my inability to produce a decent summer crop which I’m blaming on the lack of quality soil here in the suburbs, the noise levels are another downside to suburban living.

And I’m meaning the noise coming from our side of the fence.

Despite repeatedly reminding Master Four that we’re not in the country now, his great lung capacity makes it challenging to keep the volume down.

We’ve had very kind neighbours over the years who are good liars. They claim to only hear the children and not me yelling over top but, like I say, they’re good liars.

We swapped this:

Besides the privacy, I miss the sound of sheep baaing, looking out to rolling green pastures, working by myself down in the orchard and coming home to find fresh produce on the doorstep from kind country folk.

But I don’t miss the travel.

When you’ve got young kids and you live in the country it seems you spend half your day in the car. Getting caught short of flour when you’re midway through baking a batch of cookies is a nuisance and you’d think twice about making that trip to the “offie” when, god forbid, you run out of your favourite drop.

for this.

For any shortcomings, there are definitely bonuses to living more central;  harbour views with stunning sunsets, being closer to the beaches and boat ramp and being able to walk everywhere. This means fewer deadlines of having to be in the car at certain times. Master Six can take himself off to school and have his friends over to play.

One thing I didn’t count on though was the door knockers. The morning after we moved in a couple of girls showed up at the ranchslider seeking sponsorship. They watched in amusement as I dodged boxes making my way over to them.

“Actually, I wouldn’t have a clue where my purse is,” I explained looking around at the carnage and pleased to have a valid excuse. “We only just moved in last night and everything’s a mess.”

“Yes, I can see that,” said Miss all-of-Nine, looking down her nose at my pig sty of a house. “I thought you must’ve been burgled or something.”

You’ve gotta love children’s honesty.

Anyway, the kids love it here. Miss Four told me last night she doesn’t ever want to get married. She wants to stay living in this house with us forever.

Country Living Versus Suburban

I’ve been weighing up the pros and cons of country living versus suburban of late.

Last year I tried my hand at growing an organic vege garden. I took great satisfaction in growing plants from seed and subsequently giving away the produce we couldn’t keep up with. Such was my pride, almost every poor visitor who came through our gates got dragged down to my patch on a “garden safari”.

And then we moved to town and the warm glow of garden-growing merriment diminished along with my plants.

It turned out it was nothing to do with my prowess but everything to do with the rich, volcanic Maungatapere soil and the content predators who were far too well-fed to bother themselves with the likes of my vege patch. (Come to think of it, the fussy birds never did eat the bread we fed them).

Now no sooner have my seedlings sprouted than they disappear overnight. According to the internet, it could be birds diving down swiping away the original corn seed and the rest of the plant with it. As for the courgette, broccoli, cauliflower and pea plants, well that is a mystery. But if it is slugs, I can’t be a***ed going out after dark with a bucket of soapy water and catching 100 an hour as some keen gardeners do. I’d much rather sit inside and watch The X Factor.

So after months of agonising, trialing different techniques and running inside to look up Google I’ve resorted to growing everything indoors for now.

While these grow I have formed a plan. As most of my Google answers seemed to be coming from the Yahoo site, I signed up and according to the feedback from my many ignorant questions I need to: scoop away the top soil and replace it with quality soil in case the broken egg shells I’d placed around my plants are trapping snail and slug eggs which are subsequently hatching; cover plants in netting and make a scarecrow. Another suggestion was feeding the birds but I’m not feeling very generous towards them at the moment so that’s not an option.

I also had a rather rude response to “Look it up yourself geek.” (I may be a gardening geek but I “reported” them for rudeness and their days of Yahoo are gone.)

So what does this have to do with kids and chaos? Well nothing, although Master Six takes great delight in sending his siblings and any other small visitors through the gates of mum’s garden while he races off to turn on the sprinkler system. Garden safari anyone?

Tune in next week for more country living versus suburban.

The Unpack

Moving house is most inconvenient. Nothing is where it should be when you need it. All week the same scenario has played out on repeat. For example: I’ll go to hang out the washing then realise the pegs are still somewhere in the garage where we dumped everything. I’ll walk down two flights of stairs to the garage and, whilst searching, unearth something else I realise is needed up above. After having walked back upstairs and placing said item where it should go I’ll return to hanging out the washing only to realise I’ve forgotten the pegs.

Slowly but surely things are getting placed where they should be and the pile in the garage is shrinking.

But in amongst all the unpacking, the warm glow of home-making merriment was dampened by the fact a key member of our family did not come with us.

Our cat of ten years, Trixie, disappeared the day we moved. Although I’d half-jokingly tried to throw our problematic stray cat, Jesse, in as a freebie to several customers during our yard sale the weekend previous, he happily jumped in the car, made himself right at home on the window seat of the new abode and has been on his best behaviour since.

But half an hour before we left last Friday, Trixie was nowhere to be seen. Having looked forward to not travelling across town every day, instead we’ve made the hour-round journey back daily to search. I deposited flyers in letterboxes, door-knocked, stopped strangers on the street, played detective tracking down people’s phone numbers but it seemed Trixie had gone truly AWOL.

The new owners had spotted her several times over the weekend so I borrowed a cat trap from the SPCA and phoned the neighbours to lock their wayward cat indoors but it turned up nothing – not even a possum.

Deciding to try one last time, on Wednesday night, like all the others, I lay awake fretting. As the rain lashed around outside I tried not to think of my beloved cat out there starving and bedraggled wondering why we’d upped and abandoned her and moved a dog into what was her home.

The next morning I checked my phone with bated breath. It was good news – they had our cat!

I’ve never got ready so fast in the morning in my life. We raced out there and were reunited with our slimmed down, but otherwise healthy-looking cat.

Trixie proceeded to tell us her story of the last six days all the way to her new home, which she thoroughly checked out before coming to rest in her favourite posi – Jayla’s pillow.

She hasn’t stopped purring since.

Home Sweet Home

Packing

It’s like a circus in the twins’ room after hours.

It’s my own fault - although they’re coming up four, I insist on still putting them down for a midday nap so I have an hour’s downtime during the day. But I pay for it, come night time.

Collapsing on the couch to unwind, the banging starts up through the wall, the whispering becomes louder until it’s full-on shouting and there’s laughing, lots of laughing. Yes they’re having a grand old time in there.

Finally I peel myself off the couch and, sure enough, their room is trashed through and through.

Putting one in the naughty corner doesn’t work at this time of night - any excuse to get up is a good one. But the one thing that does work, and it feels very cruel, is depositing the naughtiest one on the doorstep in the dark. They absolutely hate it and, although I only leave them there for around 30 seconds, it does the trick. They both shut up quick-smart after that.

The other night, however, the weather was particularly atrocious so I needed another punishment. With our impending move this week, I’d been procrastinating packing their room (procrastinating packing full-stop actually) because, amongst other stuff, there must be close to 100 pieces of paper each under their beds.

Under Jayla’s is her own work – she can easily churn out 30 pictures a day, which I try and ‘edit’ on my way to the recycling bin. But if I’m not quick enough, they get stashed in her “special place” under the bed.
Under Jai’s bed, due to his obsession with boats, is every kind of boat picture imaginable. Most of these are not drawn by himself but any poor unsuspecting victim who comes his way.

So when the yelling and yahooing reached fever pitch I had an idea. Reaching under Jai’s bed I pulled out a yacht picture. The artist had obviously gone to great lengths with the detail so I slid it back under and selected another – one of my own poor illustrations of a speed boat. I held it high in the air and dramatically tore it in two before reaching under Jayla’s bed and producing a picture of a person hovering in the air amongst hearts and kisses.

She looked crestfallen as I ripped it in half and, leaving the room, I felt decidedly mean. But, rounding the corner in the hall, the laughing re-started.

“Oh you think that’s funny do you?” I spun round and strode back in the room feeling like Hitler.

I tore up two more once-cherished but probably long-forgotten pictures before their eyes, making sure not to select one of my own which, I imagine, he probably wasn’t too fazed about.

Finally, after three pieces each of their artwork had been destroyed, they got the picture (excuse the pun) and fell silent.

That was six pictures down and about 96 to go – I was well on the way with the packing. I gave myself a pat on the back as I re-parked on the couch and tried not to think about the Tupperware container crammed full of cicada shells lurking in amongst the debris under Master Six’ bed.

The Rhyming Game

“My god he’s loud,” commented someone today for the umpteenth time regarding Master Three’s vocal abilities.

“Try living with it,” I replied for the umpteenth time.

His high-decibel garrulous nature was brought to our attention the moment he was born when the midwife made the comment: “My, he’s got a good set of pipes on him.”

It was true “Throw your baby out the window” material in the nights that followed. Don’t take that the wrong way. I’m sure we’ve all had those moments in the middle of the night when we’re rocking a screaming baby who just won’t settle, – it’s just that most of us don’t act on it.

His twin sister soon and miraculously learnt to sleep through it which was a blessing.

When he was a few months older I got his ears checked out – I mean, could he really be hearing himself? But his acoustics came back all clear. “No, he’s just got a good set of pipes on him,” I was, once again, told.

Wherever we are, he makes sure to attract attention our way, prompting the stranger in the supermarket to ask: “Who needs a foghorn?”

At kindy recently I was in the office and the twins didn’t know I was still there. At mat time all I could hear was Jai. I don’t know why I was surprised by this.

“Is he always like that?” I asked after the session.

“Yes,” the teachers replied unanimously, smiling.

I began apologising but they stopped me.

“Don’t be silly, that’s just Jai’s personality coming out. We wouldn’t dream of crushing his spirit.”

I later found this heartwarming story in his portfolio:

“Jai, I really enjoy the conversations we have. The other day I was reading “Who Sank The Boat”. I could tell that you were really engaged and waited in anticipation for what storyline the next page brought about. Was it the sheep, or the cow, or the donkey, or the pig or the mouse? I waited and peeked at the page while you waited to see who sank the boat. Then I declared that it was Jai who sank the boat! We had the usual Jai response – “Naaaah”, followed by that unique Jai laugh. This infectious laugh got everybody laughing. I love your sense of humour Jai. It’s contagious and you actually get the jokes. Our joking around continued today. Just because Jayla sat next to Layla  gave us enough reason to start rhyming words. Then it was Jai which rhymes with a pie and that was the beginning of exploring with words.

That afternoon I talked to your mum about our rhyming game Jai. Without thinking too much I suggested that you will have to tell me what rhymes with mum when you come to the kindergarten the next day. Your mum stated that it was obvious what rhymed with mum and your brother responded by saying ‘that’ rhyming word. I could tell that your whole family has been engaged in the silly old rhyming game! Your mum also came up with some more words that rhyme with Jai – bye and tie.

Jai, I’m looking forward to what you may come up with that rhymes with my name.”

-          Madhu, 11 June 2012

Jai tells me he wants to be a comedian when he grows up. Look out future comedy scene – there’s one loud comedian coming your way!

Attention Seeking

Why is it that as soon as you pick up the phone or have visitors the little rugrats suddenly demand your attention?

It’s like they have a radar tuned into the most important phone calls – thereby entitling them to up the ante a notch or three. At times I’ll tear through the house shutting doors behind me with at least one child hot on my heels as I try to escape their noise and appear to be carrying out a normal conversation.

I’m sure the person on the other end can hear the wind whistling though the phone as I hurtle around or perhaps the panting is the dead giveaway.

Likewise when someone comes to the door: cue showing off time. Take last week for example - I’m standing in the doorway trying to have a conversation with the man from across the road who’s come to drench our cows while Master Three repeatedly lifts my skirt up while laughing uproariously.

I know I’m not alone in this as whenever I entertain visitors with small children they face the same problem with their kids tugging at their hemline wanting their attention.

I’ve read the answer to this problem is to say: “Not now, mummy’s talking. I’ll be with you in a minute,” whilst placing a hand on the child as you finish your conversation so they know you haven’t forgotten to come back to them. It sounded good in theory but didn’t work with my lot.

“Mummy!” they’ll lower their voice to a stage-whisper only but repeatedly get louder and louder until it’s impossible to concentrate on anything else.

I’m still yet to find a method that works for that one but today the tables were turned by Miss Three.

She was, apparently, making some important phone calls in preparation for a tea party and “phoning” up everyone and sundry to invite.

The twins enjoying a tea party
when they were younger.

“Okay bye,” she said brusquely snapping the phone shut.

“Hey Jayla,” I started not realising she’d replaced that call with another.

“Not now mum, I’m talking,” she said in an exasperated tone.

“Okay bye,” I heard her say again before: “Now, what did you want to say mummy?”

It’s fair to say I was duly put in my place.

Anyhow, the tea party went off without a hitch and, as I was uninvited anyway, I made sure to steer clear and not interrupt Madam and her guests.

Swearing

It’s always a shock to hear a swear word come out of the mouths of our babies.

Not that it happens often, but this latest came when I was making a delivery on the way to dropping the twins off at their nana’s.

I found the address and pulled up in the drive.

“Mum, how long are you going to be?” Jai asked from the back.

“Not long, I’m just going to knock on the door, hand something over to the lady and I’ll be right back.”

After a brief exchange with the lady I returned to the car where Jai said huffily: “I told you you would take a long time.”

“I wasn’t, I was quick.”

“No, we were worried a stranger might come and take our car and drive away with us.”

This is when Jayla, 3, piped up: “It’s alright Jai, you just tell the stranger to piss off.”

Taken aback and barely suppressing the urge to laugh I asked where she’d heard this from.

“Cadeyn told us.”

This sparked the hint of a memory which I gradually dragged from the recesses for the next part of the journey before it came to me.

A couple of months earlier there’d been a news item where a man had taken a car for a joy ride from a petrol station with a three-year-old and his baby brother inside while their dad was in the service station. Miraculously, they survived the subsequent crash and were returned to their family unharmed. The interviewer had asked the three-year-old what he said to the car thief, to which the boy replied: “I said piss off.”.

The hoots of laughter that followed caused Cadeyn, 6, who’d gone to bed, to return to the lounge to see what the commotion was about. I felt it only fair to rewind and show him while explaining it was a naughty word. But he must have later told his brother and sister.

After piecing this together I gave the same explanation to the twins who, realising they were onto something, began giggling and repeating the phrase to each other.

As their nana’s house came into sight, I hastily changed the topic thereby drawing that conversation and any blasphemes to a close.