Jump Jam

Master (toothless) Six came home one night last week and gave me a demo of some hip-hop dancing they’d been learning at school.

“Oh I know that song,” I said jumping up and copying his moves to Funky Town.

“No, that’s not how it goes,” he said before re-performing the routine whilst innocently singing “Won’t you take me to f*cken town.”

Oh dear, I wonder how many other kids got that one wrong.

The dance routine, it turned out, was for their Jumpjamathon school fundraiser on Wednesday. It was a combination of Master Six never disclosing anything about his day and me not reading the school newsletter properly which lead me to believe it was a skipping jumpathon like last year’s fundraiser.

“But how are you going to perform a dance with your skipping ropes?” I asked visualising a tangle of limbs tripping over each other and their ropes.

He didn’t bother answering me, which isn’t anything out of the ordinary so I went on believing it was a combination of skipping and a jumbled up dance routine and sponsored him nonetheless.

I also inadvertently found out the day before it was a dress up day. “Oh yes, he’s coming as Spider Man,” the teacher informed me.

I could only blame myself for my ignorance - I’d had a hectic week and, after I dug out the newsletter, there it all was in black and white. But anyway, it seemed Master Six had it all under control.

The event coincided with bookweek and the kids were to parade their storybook character costumes before taking part in the Jumpjamathon later that morning followed by a sausage sizzle.

Wednesday is my day off, sans kids, and I fill it to the brim but I felt a twinge of guilt at my distraction from this special day and, besides, watching dancing was a whole lot more fun than watching kids trip over their skipping ropes. I dropped my plans and turned the car round and headed back out to the school. Arriving at the gates, my nana – Master Six’s great-grandmother drove past so I flagged her down and she joined me for this impromptu morning of entertainment.

We were glad we went. It was high-excitement inside the school grounds. Snow Whites, fairies, pirates, Pippi longstockings, Karate Kids, Little Red Riding Hoods and copious Spider Man’s buzzed around. Finally one emerged from the crowd with thinly-disguised delight at seeing us.

The Jumpjamathon began and all the story characters came to life as an array of colour moved as one … well sort of … some were more co-ordinated than others.

Jumpjam is like aerobics (Jim), but not as we know it. Each class took turns at leading the school through a routine to songs such as Stop Drop and Roll, Blame it on the Boogie and, of course, Funky Town.
”Bet this isn’t the type of music you and Poppa danced to back in the day,” I leaned over and said to nana as Who Let the Dogs Out blared out over the masses.

“No, it certainly wasn’t,” she laughed.

Master Six is a sly one. As he doesn’t share anything I was equally unaware of just how good a dancer he is. Watching the effort and joy the dancing brought and with his rugby career days looking like they’re numbered, much to his dad’s dismay, I renewed my vow to enrol him in hip-hop classes.

As for the Funky Town number, try as I did to watch their mouths, it proved impossible to lip-read what they were singing but I did notice some, perhaps bewildered, kids omitting that “F” word completely.

Tooth Fairy

“Mum I don’t want to turn six,” fretted Master Six two years ago. “I don’t want my teeth to fall out because then I won’t be fansome.”

“What is fansome?” I asked.

“You know, it’s like when you’re pretty but you’re a boy.”

“Oh handsome!”

The sixth birthday came and went with all teeth still intact until finally several weeks ago, he mentioned it hurt to bite into an apple. He wouldn’t let anyone near his mouth but decided that, yes, the tooth was a bit wobbly actually.

Some kids are “wigglers” and some aren’t, I was told. Master Six definitely fell into the latter camp. In fact, despite the second tooth visibly coming through behind the baby tooth, it became apparent he’d rather pretend the whole thing wasn’t happening.

Because of this, it was all forgotten until Wednesday night, which was a bit of an anticlimax really. He was practicing rugby passes in the, ahem, lounge when his dad noticed a gap in his mouth. Thinking at first we’d omitted to share a momentous occasion I was summoned from bathing the twins.

“Where is your tooth?” I demanded a baffled-looking boy while simultaneously searching around on the floor.

“Well I did notice something crunchy in my sandwich,” was all he could offer.

Okay, he had just eaten a crunchy peanut butter sandwich.

“Do you think you crunched it into pieces or swallowed it whole,” I persisted.

“Crunched it into pieces.”

I dialed the number of a good family friend dental nurse and passed the phone to an increasingly-worried-looking boy who’d probably by now twigged that he had nothing to show to the tooth fairy.

“I swallowed my tooth,” he said feebly into the phone.

He was reassured that it was perfectly common for kids to swallow their teeth and to write the tooth fairy a note to put under his pillow. Or he could wait several days and it would probably come out the other end.

She also reassured that he would not have crunched it into pieces so it was likely to come out the other end whole.

Like the bead that got stuck up his sister’s nose I was keen to tack the first tooth into the baby book but dissecting poo for several days?

Actually, in these days of political correctness, isn’t the tooth fairy a male?

“Not a chance,” said his dad when I put this to him.

Well maybe it was a bit OTT keeping the first tooth after-all.

Yes, I decided, the baby book could do without.

Footnote:

# A local dentist says that when children swallow their teeth, parents often worry the roots have been left behind.

“What they can actually see is their permanent tooth coming through underneath.”

As the new teeth come through the roots of the baby teeth reabsorb until there is only the crown left and this is the part that is swallowed.

 “They needn’t worry. The body can’t absorb it. It will come out the other end and then if you want to look for it then you’re quite welcome.”

A common pattern is for the first tooth to appear after six months and to lose the first tooth after six years, although this is not cut and dry.

Dental therapists encourage children to wiggle out their own teeth and caregivers can call 0800MYTEETH for any concerns.

Ginga

So apparently it was “Hug a ginga day” last Friday. We were made aware of this when Jayla’s ballet teacher – a fellow ginga – approached her after class with arms outstretched. Miss Three accepted the embrace but continued to look baffled until she asked me the reason for the hug later in the car.

“Well today is a special day for people with orange hair like you,” I explained. (It is orange and I’m sticking to that). “Some people call people with orange hair “gingas” because it’s another word for ginger and that is the colour of your hair.”

I then suggested she give her nana – another fellow “red head” and probably the source of her own – a hug when she saw her later that day.

As far as I can remember the word ginga was coined in the late nineties as yet another way to take the mickey out of red heads. Around this time mullets also became a hair style to mock.

I’m ashamed to say my university friends and I jumped on this bandwagon and I seem to recall us purchasing ginga wigs, which we subsequently chopped into mullets and donned before spending the good part of a Friday carrying out a pub crawl around Hamilton.

Karma caught up years later as, funnily enough, most of us went on to either marry a ginga or have ginga children.

Equally funny, the ginga jokes dried up about then.

Some people take it too far, such as the Facebook “friend” whose sometimes misguided wit led him to post a photo on my wall of a conservation sign stating “Kill the wild ginger.”

In actual fact, redheads make up just two per cent of the global population and, according to some scientists, are threatened with extinction.

Some gingas call themselves gingas, some take offense, others are bemused. If you are a ginga it probably doesn’t pay to Google it. One of the more euphemistic explanations reads as follows:

“A normal human being that just happens to be born with red hair, a lot of freckles, and white skin. They are not some sort of creature they are normal people. They live in houses! Not burrows. They aren't the result of some weird disease. They were just born with red hair, freckles, and white skin! Men find them prettier and more exotic! They are typically smarter!”

My little "Ginga"

I tend to agree with this, although judging by the amount of exclamation marks I’d say it was probably written by a ginga.

It’s early days but my little carrot top may have escaped the freckles that often go hand in hand with auburn hair – her skin is more olive than her two little white-boy brothers. But besides, she’s proud of her copper locks:

Later, on “hug a ginga day” she raced up to her nana and declared: “Happy orange day!”

     

Winter Sports

And the winter sports season is upon us. Many parents might now be lamenting the idea of signing their youngsters up for outdoor activities as they chauffer kids around to various weekly practices and brave the inclement weather on the sidelines each weekend.

This is not helped by the fact the rugby player himself is no longer enthused by the game and has, many a time, moaned about throwing in the towel only to change his mind when the chocolates are handed out at full-time.

He likes the camaraderie of the team too. He spends an awful lot of time talking with his mates at the back of the pack but, as I pointed out to his father, it could be worse - at least he’s not sitting picking daisies.

These days coaches are fair to each player making sure they all get a turn with the ball, even setting up tries. There’s nothing like scoring a try, followed by a round of applause to boost one’s self esteem and interest for the game. (Parents must always make sure they’re watching here for that is the first direction the try-scorer will look) Then there’s the subsequent trips to McDonalds which some sports-mad parents have thrown in as motivation.

These methods can either set the child up for disappointment by providing a false hope or it might be the positive reinforcement required to achieve more of the same.

Our boy still prefers to talk.

I must admit I think it’s me who bemoans the practices the most. The idea of dragging everyone out of the warm cosy house to return to it cold and dark and having to start dinner from scratch with everyone nagging at me for various reasons, holds zero appeal.

We always return cold, wet and muddy ourselves: Last year when the twins were two they took off to play a safe distance away while I stayed on the sideline, determined to focus on Master Five’s game. There was much merriment coming from their direction and after a while I became aware of their shouting about being stuck in the mud. Thinking it was part of their imaginary game I humoured them and went along with it until ten minutes later I realised they actually hadn’t moved an inch.

Arriving at the scene I noted they were indeed stuck in a mud pit up to the tops of their gumboots.

Not dressed for the occasion, I balanced on the edge of the pit and reached one arm into the centre to pull out the first child. For the sake of a good yarn I could say here that I overbalanced and fell face-first into the mud but, for once, I was more co-ordinated than that.

After one final pull and a suctioning/squelching sound, out plopped twin one leaving their gum boots upright in the centre of the mudpit. By the time I’d extracted twin two they were both standing in their socks with their gumboots still stuck in the middle.

Giving up on remaining clean, I walked (skidded) into the centre and plucked out their boots, sending splatters of mud up in my face. It was then I became aware of a round of applause amidst “Hurrays” and noted we’d had an audience.

I must say if that’s what positive reinforcement feels like it did not make we want to do a repeater. However, I considered taking a bow but then couldn’t be bothered as I went in search of a tap.

After practice Master Five was not happy. My inattention had, of course, not gone unnoticed and it was all his bother and sister’s fault.

These days they still make him mad by running onto the field and trying to join in the game. I suppose, at least, I should be pleased they all want to play the same sport. One lot of chauffering and sliding around in mud is enough for this non-winter sports fan.

Watching their dad play rugby.

Our World

The kids have had a crash course in life and death while living on the farm.

I never liked Our World but dad would sit down to watch every Sunday.

“Run, run,” I would silently cheer on the fleeing zebra but it usually didn’t have a happy ending and I would leave the room upset.

But recently we had our very own, albeit smaller, version right on our doorstep courtesy of the cats.

Every day we’d find a mouse or a bird on the doorstep. Jesse was the culprit. As he’s only new to this hunting game, his prey, I noticed, were babies. One day, after months of watching the mummy and daddy birds mysteriously coming and going from the shed, we found their nest. Not long after, apparently so did the cat. We found the contents strewn over the doormat. Heartbreaking.

Maybe I should’ve been shielding the childrens’ eyes but I figured it was helping teach them about life and the finality of death and therefore ceasing some of the questions I seem to field on a daily basis.

Although Cade – then five - accepted it well, the twins have only registered in recent months that their granddad isn’t coming back. I’d spent most of the last year repeatedly explaining his whereabouts.

So this day, in particular, Jesse caught his usual prey but Trixie decided to get in on the action. She took over and proceeded to eat the bird piece by piece right before my two little ones’ credulous eyes.

They stood on the other side of the window and gave a running commentary:

“Trixie that was Jesse’s bird. You share!”

“Look mum, it’s dead.”

“Look mum, it’s got a red thing.”

“She’s eating the wing.”

“Mum, now he’s biting the head off.”

“Now all this red stuff is coming out.”

“Its legs are still moving.”

“Where’s the bird gone?”

“There’s a little bit of the bird there mum.”

“I don’t want to know guys,” I said dry-wretching from a safe distance. “It makes me sad and it makes me feel a bit sick.”

“Yeah it makes me sneeze,” said Jayla, sniffing. “My bird’s all gone. It’s died.”

“Yes it’s sad when things die because they don’t come back,” I said.

“Grandad died,” one of the twins commented.

 “I know and it’s sad because he stopped moving too.”

“Oh look the birdy’s all gone. Now it can’t fly anymore. I don’t love Trixie eating that bird. It’s disgusting!” Jayla turned away from the window looking mildly upset while Jai, unfazed, looked on.

But the temptation to look again got the better of her and she went back for more. Although by now the show was over apart from Trixie licking her chops in satisfaction and one lone feather.

According to clinical psychologist, parenting author and tv presenter Nigel Latta, young children’s understanding of death is very different to ours.

“They are, not surprisingly, unable to grasp the finality of death. In their world we are as permanent as the sky and the ground and it is inconceivable to them that we may suddenly no longer be around. It is very easy, in the midst of a terrible loss to think that the smallest people in the family are not affected but this is not the case. Just because you can’t say you feel sad or upset, doesn’t mean you aren’t.”

# Use correct and specific words and don’t be vague or use confusing euphemisms, such as saying the person who has died is in a ‘special sleep’ or is ‘lost’. If you think about how young children see the world it’s easy to understand that these types of descriptions are more likely to make them anxious than saying, for example, “Grandad can’t come to visit because he died.”;

# Talking to your toddler about the death will also help you get a clearer picture of what he’s thinking and allow you to correct any beliefs he develops which aren’t true;

# Play is how children express much of their inner life and feelings. So, it is normal for the person your child has lost to appear in his play activities and for his play to reflect what is happening around him and inside him. This is a healthy thing and it is how young children process their thoughts and feelings;

# A young child’s questions can sometimes be almost brutally frank, saying things like: “Did it hurt Grandad when the car squashed him?” Be prepared for that and try to respond calmly and without judgement. He is simply asking questions without regards to how they sound;

# Remember, young children have relatively short attention spans and so they are not able to sustain feelings of grief for long periods of time. This doesn’t mean that he is not feeling the loss; it’s just that for him the rain clouds pass through very quickly.

(Excerpts from littlies.)