Christmas 2014 Notes to Self.

By the time this is read we’ll be out the other side of Christmas and, I imagine, holidaying in our respective camping or beach spots around the country.

But before I completely shut off from festive-mode there’s a few “notes to self for Christmas 2014” I need to record while they’re still fresh.

1. Come up with a looooong list of ways to entertain the kids on Christmas Eve. While the boys weren’t too bad at amusing themselves, Miss Five drove me nuts with her excitement. This included getting Santa’s beer, snack and note ready at 8am (I hope he liked his beverage at room temperature), and pouring Rudolph’s water in a bucket and labeling it with a picture of a reindeer, just in case he missed it. Which begged the question from Master Five – How were we going to get it on the roof?

The day dragged - By 10am we’d walked up to the dvd shop, by midday they’d watched their Christmas dvd and so I resorted to letting them get out their Christmas “stockings” early and leave them out on their beds. When I next went downstairs, there they were – dutifully lined up on their MADE beds! But once I got past this astonishing sight I was momentarily stunned by my own stupidity for buying such ridiculously large Santa sacks. How on earth was I going to fill these up?!

Next on the list was making the frozen Christmas cake ice cream that an increasingly-bored Miss Five helped with, which brings me to number two:

2. Don’t be so heavy-handed on the alcohol which goes in this;

3. Likewise with the egg nogg. Earlier in the week I’d looked up the recipe and, according to Martha Stuart, you need milk, eggs, sugar, cream and nutmeg. Then, if you wish, add the alcohol of your choice. I’d decided she’d got this all wrong and, according to my recipe, you added all the alcohol in your cupboard, then the other five ingredients before serving it up to your family.

Even I had to admit this year’s mix was a little strong;

4. When you think the kids are asleep and it’s time to dump all the presents you’ve acquired over the year on the floor to sort into piles for wrapping – they’re not;

5. Don’t dispose of Santa and Rudoph’s snacks too early for this reason;

6. Keeping them up late never guarantees a sleep-in;

7. Always have scissors on hand to cut off all the annoying packaging;

8. Always have batteries on hand for the new toys;

9. Always give each kid the same amount of presents for they will count them;

 And lastly:

10. When you get those annoying last-minute Secret Santa requests when you think you’ve completed your Christmas shopping and can’t be fecked going back into town on Christmas Eve so wrap up some crap from around your house instead, make sure it’s not something someone who is likely to be present has given you a previous year. Awkward.

Apart from that I wouldn’t change a thing.

Have a great holiday.

School's Out

School’s out for summer and lucky us! I don’t know about yours but, these past few weeks, mine have been little horrors.

Apparently we’re to put it down to a combination of end-of-year tiredness and the nuttiness spring inflicted.

If you take Master Seven out of the equation the twins get along fine but this week something overcame them and out broke World War Three.

Usually when the kids fight it’s contagious and can kill the best of moods but on Tuesday morning their scrapping had gone beyond that and was just plain entertaining. In fact, Master Seven who, for once, had nothing to do with it, and I actually took seats to watch.

It started when they woke up. One can never do so without waking the other. One by one, they pile into my room but three of them in the bed never works. They all want to lie next to mummy so then one has to lie on top which means clambering over a sibling to get there and this is when the battle begins.

In the end, I push them all out of bed - if one hasn’t already stormed off with the pip - and go on my way.

The next fight usually breaks out over breakfast over who gets the most yummy bits in the cereal. And so it goes on with Master Seven usually instigating it.

But this day he’d done all his chores and was sitting contently watching tv when I came upstairs to sunscreen everyone.

I’d heard a bit of commotion and found Miss Five taunting Master Five with him getting increasingly agitated. Finally he exploded and gave chase, fist raised.

Miss Five ran downstairs to their room where he must’ve lashed out. But this didn’t stop her. He returned upstairs with her hot on his heels still teasing him. In retaliation he swung, what should have been a good one, sending him spinning in a full circle before collapsing on the floor and totally missing his target. This was so unco it was comical and Master Seven and I, who had been watching on in amusement, sniggered. So then of course, Miss Five, who saw a chance for revenge, joined in.

This made an embarrassed Master Five furious and he got up and clobbered her one. Then, of course, the tears came. This doesn’t sound fair in hingsight but Master Five got sent to the naughty stair where I promptly forgot about him while I dealt with Miss Five who’d barricaded herself in her room. Because I had little sympathy, by now she was in a right fouler and this made getting her sunscreen on harder than ever. A difficult task at the best of times with her being ticklish, it got smeared all down her shirt and through her hair but by then she was giggling despite herself. Soon after, I discovered her brother still sitting on the naughty stair and he’d calmed right down too.

This was all before 8am and there’s six weeks before school re-starts. Like I said, lucky us.

Reptiles and Insects

Forget “T’is the Season to be Jolly” – round here, it’s the season for reptiles and insects.

Lizards keep making an appearance on a regular basis courtesy of our two cats. One, in particular, takes great joy in bringing them in, dropping them down and then ‘forgetting’ they are there. It’s all part of the game but, the trouble is, he’s so flippin’ useless at it, they always escape and usually into a floor-level cupboard.

Then the kids and I start the usual pulling everything out and searching for it. Actually, I tentatively pull everything out and search for it while the kids watch on wide-eyed, like some fascinating freak show is unfolding before their eyes.

It probably never would’ve occurred to them to fear these creatures had they not witnessed my reaction.

One Friday a friend and I were having a celebratory ‘I survived the week’ glass of bubbles after school, as you do, while the kids ran rampant throughout the house. Everything was going swimmingly until Master Seven raced up and dropped half a wriggling lizard next to my wine glass. Did you hear that?! HALF a WRIGGLING lizard!

I, of course, reacted like Scooby Doo chancing upon a ghost and have never left my bar stool quicker.

I shot across to the other side of the kitchen while Master Seven, bemused, looked from me to my friend, who had the opposite reaction and was sitting rooted to the spot with her hands covering her mouth.

“Take that THING off my bench,” I finally managed, watching it writhe before our eyes.

“And where is the other half?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Master Seven shrugged nonchalantly before picking up the tail and walking off.

I didn’t see where he went with it as I was too busy wondering the best way to sterilize the bench.

That incident was right up there with the live mouse being delivered to me in bed during rodent season. I won’t even go there with the huge weta which landed on my head one night.

The latest incident was the giant insect which I had to get out of the house the other evening – I’m still unsure if it was a cockroach or a huhu bug but had I known those things could fly I would never have attempted it.

It did not end well. In a scene reminiscent to Our World, but in my own lounge, I watched from a distance as the cat attempted to eat it alive, managing to detach two legs and half a wing before it blunderingly and crazily took off – towards me!

After a fair amount of screaming I calmed down and bravely, and might I say, rather heroically, caught the invader in a container before throwing the whole thing out the sliding door.

But, alas, I was not fast enough in shutting the door and it flew straight back in towards the light.

Round two and I succeeded but it took the night’s sleep offa me, that one.

Decorating the Xmas Tree

I stuck to my plan and abandoned chocolate advent calendars in light of the fiasco with our resident thief last year.

Instead I got semi-creative and came up with notes for each day of December for the kids to open. Most of them weren’t that exciting – coming up with 24 ideas for each day hurt my brain so the kids were in for a disappointment. Still I threw a couple of chocolates in on two of the days just to keep the anticipation up.

First up on December 1 was decorating the Christmas tree. This one proved a winner. Come five-whatever-it-was a.m. the kids were jumping on me and bouncing up and down with excitement while I wished they weren’t so clever in guessing that one in advance.

“Look, we’ll do it after morning tea,” I said, shuddering at the memory of last year’s all day decorating effort.

By 7am, when many would still have their well-trained little ones sleeping, mine were already asking if it was morning tea time. Finally at 9am I caved to morning tea and the decorating.

Our tree is rather large so erecting it, in itself, takes some time. But that didn’t deter them from hopping up and down, trying to hang decorations off its still-scrunched-up-from-the-box branches with me floundering around underneath.

This is supposed to be a happy occasion, I reminded myself through gritted teeth and put on some Christmas carols. 

I gave up trying to get the tree to stand straight so, with it resembling the Leaning Tower of Pisa, I let the kids go wild. While I strung lights all around the house, they took off to deck out their rooms with random decorations and soon there was a thick layer of tinsel everywhere. 

Finally several hours later, I stepped back to admire our work. Sure enough it was done up like a dog’s dinner and with the precarious lean, all it would take was for the cat to do her usual party trick and leap into its branches for the whole thing to topple over.

Still, as predicted, I was over it so took some time out.

That night with the kids in bed I sat across the room from the higgledy-piggledy tree and had an internal dilemma. I should be one of those good parents who leaves it as the children have decorated it but the pedantic side of me wanted the decorations more strategically-placed.

In the end the anal side won out. With a burst of energy, I was off the couch and re-arranging, and I fixed the lean while I was at it. After-all, I had 24 more days of this temptation.

Now I just had to hope no one noticed in the moming. But I needn’t have worried – they were far too distracted with opening the next day’s message. However, it was a dud: “Do one nice things for your siblings.” This put them in foul moods and they were worse to each other than ever.

Bring on the chocolate day.

Sleepovers

How could I have forgotten? Sleepovers aren’t fun for the adult and they equal tired, grumpy kids the next day. Actually make that diabolical monsters.

Of course they were never going to sleep without getting the giggles, trashing their room, then having a falling out, in that order – with ten million growlings thrown in amongst it.

It seemed like a good idea over a few wines when Miss Sixes mother and I organised for her daughter to have a sleepover with Miss Five.

The two got on well enough. I’d let them sleep downstairs in the kids' lounge, got everyone to bed and just settled upstairs when it started. The thundering on the stairs that is.

The first child popped up.

“Mum, I can hear the girls talking and I think they’re out of bed.”

“Thank you but you’re out of bed right now so do you think that’s any better?”

Master Seven slunk back down to his room.

Stomp, stomp, stomp, up pops Master Five.

“Mum, they just snuck upstairs into my room.”

I sent him back to bed and went down to investigate.

“Shhh, your mum’s coming,” (giggle, giggle.)

All, of course, was still by the time I got down the bottom floor. I’ve long given up trying to sneak up on the kids and catch them out – the creaky stairs gives it away every time.

A reprimand followed, along with several subsequent trips. Next it was the girls turn to bowl upstairs.

“Oh what now?!” I finally exploded.

They actually recoiled in fear.

“W-w-we’re scared downstairs,” Miss Five whimpered. “We’re scared of baddies.”

“And we’re scared of your mean cat that attacks girls,” spoke up Miss Six (another story).

“We want to sleep upstairs,” they finished.

“Well that’s not going to happen because your brother is already asleep in your room so there’s no room.”

I sent them back down with their tails between their legs and returned to Packed to the Rafters.

In the ad break I could still hear them. By now it was nearly 9pm, Miss Five had a school trip the next day and Miss Six a Pippin’s event. I stomped back downstairs, grabbed the spare mattress and dragged it upstairs. I had turned into a dragon and was dreading what Miss Six would go home and tell her mother.

However, all must’ve been forgiven for, come 6am the next day, she waltzed into my room with the others.

The following night, while my friend and I were dealing with our respective beside-themselves daughters, the oldest had a friend over.

“Now you’re not going to carry on like your sister did last night are you?” I had pre-warned.

He swore he wouldn’t. Whatever. They carried on in much the same manner until 10pm before I found him upstairs alone in his own bed and asked why.

It turns out they’d had a falling out after one hassled the other about girlfriends. No matter, they went straight to sleep and their BFF relationship was back on in the morning – at 5.38am no less!

As Murphy’s Law would have it, my one glimmer of hope that I’d be granted a mini sleep-in the following morning did not come to fruition. Instead I had three little monsters to deal with after school.

Tangles

Those who always dreamed of having a little girl probably imagined spending special mother/daughter bonding time whilst lovingly brushing her hair.

Let me shatter that illusion and tell it like it is.

This daily task has the ability to turn the sweetest little cherub into a hissing, snarling, thrashing wild animal.

We go through this fiasco every morning before school. It’s usually last-minute as, being my least-favourite morning duty, it’s the one that’s procrastinated. It will see me chasing Miss Five the length of the house with the offending ‘weapon’ while she skedaddles it, squealing in terror.

Short of me pinning her down, it’s usually achieved following a threat along the lines of getting it all cut off until she looks like a boy and, eventually, she subsequently goes to school looking semi-respectable.

It’s not helped by the fact her hair is nearly down to her backside. Despite well-intended innuendos from the grandparents, she’s never had a hair cut in her life and that’s my bad. Because it originally took so long to grow, when it finally did I couldn’t bring myself to get her beautiful golden locks cut and now that she’s at school, it’s a case of finding it hard to fit in a trip to the hairdressers with her siblings in tow.

And there’s no way I’m touching it. The few times I cut my own fringe when I was younger, it always turned out uneven, requiring several further trims until I resembled a  China girl gone wrong.

But then last weekend her young cousin came to stay bringing with her a new hair brush which I shall not name for fear of being accused of taking commission. But it’s said to tame the wildest mane pain-free which I’d heard of but never really believed was possible.

I thought it was worth a shot so summonsed a weary-looking Miss Five my way.

At first she put up a fight, which was probably more psychological than anything else but, after a while I noticed she began to relax and actually enjoy having her hair brushed.

A miracle had just occurred.

Before long we had completed the job without so much as a whimper and her hair looked like spun gold. 

That was it – I was sold and went straight away to the website to make an order.

My mornings just got easier, my wild animal tamed and we now start the day off friends.

For those of you still faced with this daily drama, you’re probably wondering how to get your hands on one of these magical devices.

…Let me just call the company and see if they’ll put me on a commission rate and then I’ll get back to you.

Jungle Hour (Baby Days)

There comes a time when you realise you’ve popped out the other side of the baby days and the world looks like a different place.

This hit me one day when I ventured out after 5pm.

There were different people out on the streets. Instead of the usual faces – mothers with strollers who you’ve smiled and waved to every day for the past few years on passing, smiley check-out ladies who’ve cooed over and witnessed your children grow up, the elderly man with the lovely manners who delightfully still tips his hat – there are different people walking the same streets. People you’ve never seen before living in your own community because you lead completely different lifestyles preventing your paths from ever crossing.

And if you venture out just after 5pm, they’re in a hurry. Instead of the leisurely pace by day, there’s a slight, more-frantic air as last-minute supermarket errands are carried out amid road rage as everyone just wants to get home from work.

Yes for those of you who are kid-free, let me enlighten you: We don’t get out much after 5pm.

Doing so could be a nightmare. This is commonly known as Jungle Hour in the family home. Witching Hour or Feeding Time At The Zoo are others. It usually occurs between the hours of 3pm-5pm when the tribe decides they’re starving. This is when you don’t listen to one of the many new-age pc rules about not using tv as a babysitter and you turn to it every time without fail out of desperation to put some food on the table and ship them off to bed.

If this is all sounding a little hazy that’s because it is, because you know what? I’ve forgotten!

It’s now a thing of the past and you don’t realise just how inundated you were until you step out the other side - and up a curb without having to always cross the road where there’s stroller-friendly access. Oh the luxuries! 

It’s these small things that make you realise. You see, there’s some of us that have probably missed a whole series of changes to the coloured lights under the canopy bridge. I mean, since when did it change from red for the 2011 Rugby World Cup to blue? (I’m only kidding, it isn’t that bad.)

Self-inflicted sleep deprivation was unheard of in the early days. On the rear occasion I’d venture out, it was hard not to count down the hours of lost sleep before my “alarm clocks” would be waking me up come 5.45am.

But now I’m happy to report I am out the other side and life just keeps getting easier.

...Just don’t mention the teenage years still ahead.

Worst Mum Incident

How many of us have, at times, felt like the worst parent in the world over an incident and been far too ashamed to admit it?

Well I’m going to share my latest episode with you in the hope it will make you feel better.

You see it was Halloween and I was out walking with mum. Along the way we passed numerous groups of kids on the streets decked out in their trick or treating outfits and I declared that, seeing as I didn’t have the kids that night, I was going to be a Halloween grinch and lock the doors and pull the curtains.

Last year I had a persistent bunch who, after receiving their lolly stash, ran around the house to ring the other doorbell and tonight I really couldn’t be bothered.

We got home and had not even made it upstairs when the doorbell rang.

“Freeze!” I ordered mum, safely out of view from the door.

We stood there for a while as the doorbell continued to consistently chime before deciding the coast was clear. We were just heading upstairs when the second doorbell started up.

“Little shits,” I think I heard myself utter as we continued upstairs where I promptly pulled the curtains.

I needn’t have bothered. Mum left and, shortly after that the rain started, thereby ending any more trick or treating fun for kids.

The following evening I got a text from mum.

“I think you might have been hiding from your own kids – Jayla ran up to me in the playground at lunchtime and said they came trick or treating and my car was there but we weren’t home!”

Needless to say, this news didn’t make me feel too flash. I could only imagine them excitedly donning their costumes and walking round to mummy’s house only to be met with closed doors and their dejected little backs turning round and walking away. 

Two days later they got dropped back home and ran in to tell me all about how they came  trick or treating and I wasn’t home. I had already decided not to own up to the fact that I was.

So the worst Mother of the Year Award goes to …

Homework

When I thought I was shipping all the midgets off to school I didn’t count on being bombarded with three lots of homework coming back each afternoon.

While Master Seven remains vague over whether he’s got any and then it’s painfully drawn out, the twins enthusiasm for theirs makes up for it. Once they’ve returned home and re-explored their surroundings, noting any changes in their absence, ie, mysterious and enticing-looking packages I may’ve dumped on the bench top after a shopping trip, the contents of which would really not excite them, and then checked the fridge for treats, they remember their homework.

Then it’s all go.

“Mum, I want to read you my book – it’s called Daddy,” shouts Master Five.

“Mum, I want to read you my Daddy book too,” chimes in his sister.

“Hang on, one at a time.”

“I’ll go first!” they both yell.

So one of them starts while the other sulks nearby.

“Daddy is running,” began Miss Five, her finger skidding over the words out of sync and her eyes skipping to the picture to tell her what daddy is doing.

She gets to the end, proud as punch, before her brother has his turn.
”Daddy is …,” he pauses while he checks out what daddy is doing.

“Sleeping!” informs his sister.

“Shut up! It’s my turn.”

I decide it be best to do homework separately so the next afternoon, they sit down at different times and read me their Mummy book.

“Mummy is running,” reads Miss Five and, I was impressed to note, her finger kept in time with the words.

Next they sat up at the table and dutifully wrote out the word “am” over and over. Well one of them did. The other decided to throw a strop and do things her way. Apparently I know nothing.

This came with fist-slamming on the table (her – not me) and storming off down the hall (again, her – not me, although I felt like throwing my toys too). Then I noticed a note glued to the homework book about providing lots of encouragement so I got over it, took some deep breaths and decided to try again later.

But while I was distracted trying in vain to rein in my feisty redhead, I didn’t realise her brother was in race-mode and had filled nearly a whole page with backward ‘a’s’ and no finger spaces in between. 

How on earth do teachers navigate 20-plus kids when I can’t even keep up with two?

So while we’re yet to get into a rhythm on the homework front, at least the playground dramas have sorted themselves out.

I think Miss Five was milking the sympathy last week when she said she had no one to play with. The next day she was spotted walking around holding hands with a group of bigger girls and quite self-assuredly calling the shots.

The Big School Debut

Aren’t they supposed to come home jaded after their first day of school?

I’m not sure what happened to mine but they were still fair bouncing off the walls at 8pm.

Some parents report their new entrants falling asleep during the car ride home. One mum took her boy out for a celebratory dinner and said he was diabolical.

I was looking forward to an early night but no, it was harder than ever to get them settled.

I did, however, manage to extract more information than usual about their first day.

“Mum, Jai didn’t get a growling all day because he uses his inside voice now,” reported Miss Five, before proceeding to fill me in, as usual, on all the kids who did get growlings.

This torrent lasted, in great detail, all the way home with Master Five interrupting at one point with his own input.

“Grrrr,” growled his sister, clearly annoyed. “I hadn’t finished!” And away she went again.

Finally she dried up and I asked her brother what he learnt that day.

“I learnt to write a capital I,” he managed, before running inside.

Funny how I get the most insight into their day from his one sentence than all his sister’s ramblings.

While his energy continued to be boundless, the big school debut caught up with his sister on day two. I’d left them watching a dvd while I went to cook dinner and when their dad rang I took the phone to her. I found her lying on the couch comatose and not happy about being woken up.

She couldn’t utter one word into the phone before storming off claiming everything to be too loud.

It was early to bed that night with no tea. The next morning my normally happy-go-lucky was still in a fouler.

“Mum, I still don’t know how to read or write,” she moaned.

I explained to her that it takes longer than two days and asked if she was looking forward to playing with her new friends again.

“No, because no body plays with me,” she whimpered. 

That’s not what you want to hear. If it weren’t for the fact her nana teaches at the same school and keeps an eye out for her grand children, I’d find it hard not to march up there every playtime and set her up with a friend.

I checked with their nana who confirmed that, while her twin brother disappears off into the sandpit with all his buddies, she’d seen Miss Five floating around by herself on day one and tried to find her a friend. The next day she’d spotted her sitting outside the classroom at lunchtime with another new boy who also appeared to be friendless.

When I asked Miss Five about this I didn’t realise her older brother was listening.

“Ahhhh Jayla’s got a boyfriend!” Master Seven shrieked running off to tell his brother. They both erupted into fits of laughter, reducing their emotional sister to tears once more.

“Well it wouldn’t hurt either of you to play with her,” I told them.

“No way,” said Master Seven.

“No way,” emulated his younger look-a-like.

I’m sure she will find a nice little girl to play with – or boy … I’ll just have to check him out first.

Fifth Birthday Party

I must familiarise myself with the protocols for throwing a multiple birthday party. 
Parents must dread being the recipient of invitations for one of these. Two presents? Good grief. 
In hindsight I should have written something on the invite - I certainly wasn’t expecting them to come bearing gifts for both but most generously and good-naturedly did. 
Pirates and Pirettes was the theme and the twins had been planning this much-anticipated party since about March. Each week a set of friends was invited, them uninvited after fallings out (mostly on the female side) to be replaced with another, despite my repeatedly telling them to keep their party planning to themselves. 
Finally the day arrived and they donned their costumes. Soon the house was descended upon by a bunch of excited pirates and pirettes who were put to work by Master Seven, aka Captain Cade, seeking treasure for their loot bags encompassing the circumference of the property. Then they got in amongst the food – pirate pizza, treasure island tropical fruit, little boys, pirate’s teeth and leaky pirate jelly boats (don’t ask), to name a few – before burning off more energy playing pass the treasure, musical boats and statues. 
The time went quick – in between each game they’d disappear to play with new toys – and I’d have to keep reining them in to play the games I’d organised. In the end we didn’t bother with pin the eye patch on the pirate as they were too busy doing bombs onto the tramp and we only just squeezed in time to sing Happy Birthday and cut the cakes. 

This year they had a cake each. I’ve always managed to get away with just one and, seeing as they don’t know any different, probably could have this year too. However, it was a special occasion so, the day before, I got to work making the cakes – all four of them! Yes, while Jai’s was a straight-forward round pirate face, involving only one cake, Jayla’s was a treasure chest, requiring three. 
By the end of Friday, after my big bake-off, I was all caked out and happily sent a chunk home with each child after the party. 
Everything went swimmingly and there was only one spat – the kids bombing onto the tramp ganging up on another kid through the bedroom window, but after a tip-off from the resident nark, it was all sorted. 
That night, despite wanting to stay up and play with their new toys, their tired bodies were telling them otherwise. By bath-time, Jayla was almost beside herself. 
“Mummy,” she sulkily accused, as I washed her. “Why did you make us green and orange jelly boats? You should’ve made us red ones!” 
“Is that all you’ve got to say about your party?” I asked as she pouted and looked away. 
In spite of the overtiredness, her conscience must’ve kicked in for, as I tucked her in bed she said sweetly, “Thank you for my party mummy.” 
“You’re welcome,” I smiled and, walking out of the room, I heard a second voice from the other bed call through the darkness: “Thank you for my party mummy.” 
And with that it was all worth it.

End of an Era

I can still vividly remember my younger brother’s final day at kindy – getting to the gate, then his small retreating figure as he raced back and threw himself into his favourite teacher’s arms. Last Friday this scene was replayed with my own children. 
It was a bittersweet day – the end of an era, yet the start of the next chapter. 
The twins dressed in their finest and, at mat time, lined up alongside five other children leaving for school. They took turns sitting on the ‘throne’ next to the head teacher who made each child feel special by talking about their time at kindy and the exciting school times ahead. 
Anyone in the room was allowed to put up their hand and share anecdotes about what they loved about the individual being farewelled. Because there was such a big group leaving, the ceremony was lengthy and the children were getting restless. After every two kids, they were asked to stand and run down to the swings and back which seemed to generate another couple minute’s attention span. 

Then the leavers were issued with a diploma, their kindergarten cvs and a playdough cake each, and everyone sung and clapped. Fancy food was handed out at morning tea, a gift was presented and, at home time, there were hugs, tears and promises of returning for a 
visit. 
Despite there being so many leaving at once, much ado was made for each child and I wondered if the twins were feeling any twinges of sadness as it sunk in that there was to be no more kindy. 
Apparently not. 
As we walked out the doors for the final time, I turned to them and asked if they had a good last day. 
To which Master Four replied: “Was it our last day?”

Information Hold-outs

You’d think between three kids in the same class I’d be able to get some information out of them about their day.

It was the twin’s first school visit sans parents and I was picking up their friend as well.

Unfortunately that was the day of the weather bomb and ensconcing three kids in as many jackets and under umbrellas was no easy task. The one who was without an umbrella, due to it blowing inside out and therefore being rendered useless, had already wandered off into the elements while I helped one who’d just put his jacket on inside out and his bag, back to front. 

We needn’t have bothered. By the time we reached the car we were soaked. Just the simple task of depositing each child into their seat and figuring out what to do with three erect umbrellas gained a saturating.

Then at the other end, trying in vain to remind them to take off their soaked jackets and shoes fell on deaf ears. I followed a trail of water up the stairs to their room where everyone was already excitedly playing trains.

“Is someone going to tell me about their day?” I asked for the umpteenth time.

“Nah, we’ll tell you about it at dinner time,” came the reply.

I switched tactics: “Ok, did Jai get any growlings today?” I asked his sister who is always keen to nark.

But even this didn’t get a response. They were so excited about their playdate, their morning didn’t feature.

Mister Seven has been a master of this mute void of information for some time but I had expected the younger ones – especially a girl – to be more forthcoming.

Hence the reason I put my name down to mother help one morning a week. To be a fly on the wall is the only way I’ll gain insight into their school days.

I made another attempt at afternoon tea time when the three of them were perched up at the bar.

“Yes, Jai got a big growling for being too loud again,” shouted Miss Four before proceeding to fill me in on all the naughty antics of each kid that had occurred that day.

“Oh and I learnt how to write ‘I like being in room 10’,” Master Four recalled.

Finally I was getting somewhere.

“Would you like to show me how?” I asked.

But that was as much as I was going to get as my question was drowned out by the burping (and subsequent giggling) competition now taking place.

Later at the dinner table I got another snippet when Miss Four formed the shape of a ‘T’ to notify me she needed to be excused to the toilet. This was closely followed by her siblings making T-shapes with their hands, just for the novelty of it.

As a result, I soon found myself dining alone and none the wiser about their day.

Winter Sickness

Clearly I wasn’t touching wood when I declared no one in our house had been sick all year. As punishment, that night it started. Word in the hood was that kids were dropping like flies from a particularly nasty viral bug doing the rounds and Master Four was first to bring it home. Unusually quiet and listless, he stayed home from kindy the next day. 
Strangely, when one twin gets sick the other has boundless energy and as Miss Four bounced off the walls I thought ‘Just you wait – you’ll be next’. 
Sure enough, the next day she went down but when Miss Four gets sick she gets it three times as bad as the boys. After the weekend, while her brother was fine to go back to kindy, she lay on the couch whacked after a night of croup and now delirious from a temperature raging up near 40 degrees. 
The delirium caused her to wake lashing out and accusing me of all sorts of things there was no way I could have done. At this point, in walked a pale Master Seven from school, who promptly put himself straight to bed. 
The next day I had a dilemma. It was the twin’s first school visit and Master Four was itching to go. There was no way his sister was up to it so we resigned to staying home. But then, after a collective dose of Pamol, Ibuprofen and Broncial Syrup, she suddenly “came right”. 
It probably wasn’t my best call but, with two now begging me to take them up to school, I decided to go for a little while and sit Miss Four up the back with me. It’s funny how the loudest of children suddenly go shy when they first start school. However, as my school teacher mum always says, it doesn’t take them long to come out of their shells and by the end of the morning Master Four had already received his first ‘growling’ for being too loud. (The kindy teachers later told me their ears had a nice rest that day.) 
Anyhow Miss Four pulled it off and came home and slept off her big morning. 
Of course, if there’s one thing kids are good at sharing it’s their germs and, after a week of them coughing in my face, it was inevitable that I’d catch the bug. This is when I really began to appreciate what the kids had been going through and wished I’d been more sympathetic. 
I’m no hypochondriac but the headaches were a killer and, still dealing with three kids who were not 100 per cent, I was beginning to feel a little delirious myself. This became apparent when I went to give Miss Four another dose of Pamol and she pointed out that she’d just had one. With three different types of medicine on the go for three children at different stages of their sickness, I was basically a walking medicine dispensary and in my sleep-deprived, ailing confusion, I’d forgotten the golden rule: write down every dosage. “So which medicine did I just give you?” I asked Master Seven. “The white or the pink one?” 
“Remember mummy?” he asked, looking at me like I was barmy. “You just gave me the pink one and Jai the white.” 
This was when I started the dispensary chart before putting us all to bed. 
To top off the bad week I had to make a last-minute emergency journey down to Mount Maunganui. Driving for five hours while in this condition is not ideal and I longed for the days when one could actually stay sick in bed. 
Anyhow, apart from the last vestiges of that nasty bug – the ongoing cough – I’m pleased to say we’ve come out the other side. 
And I’ve learnt my lesson – I’m touching wood.

The Boy Who Cried Wolf

The Boy Who Cried Wolf is a phrase that has been bandied about in our house for some time. I’ve constantly recited the title to the kids when they’ve fabricated a story or given a false alarm. But, like a piece of oft-repeated family folklore, I realised it had become unremarkable simply by its familiarity. 
Did they, indeed, ever know its true meaning? It was time to give them visuals so I ordered the book and, at last, they discovered what I’d been harping on about. The Boy Who Cried Wolf, complete with interactive flaps, went on to become the most popular book of all time in our house, holding the interest of the seven and four-year-olds alike. 
I heard myself preaching the title to a group of friends up at the local one evening recently as we wound down from our respective tumultuous weeks. 
We were being regaled by one with her daughter’s ability to misconstrue a situation, the latest being her insistence that she could bring her new puppy into school the next day for a show and tell. 
“Are you sure?” asked her mother repeatedly. 
“Yes, I swear!” insisted Miss Six. 
So she went about rescheduling work appointments for the next day, which happened to be the big storm. Managing to get to kindy super-early, she kissed off Master Four and delivered her daughter and puppy to school on time. 
“I kept asking her if we could do this tomorrow,” she recalled. “But it was this day that had been organised apparently.” 
Upon reaching the class, and now covered in mud from one excited dog, she was met with a bemused teacher and it soon became apparent there was never going to be a show and tell. 
“The teacher explained that they had talked about the dogs they each owned but no mention of a show and tell opportunity. It turns out it has been suggested by the other teacher that, before he got too big, she could bring him in but not the teacher of this week. 
“(Miss Sixes) reply was: ‘Oops, I forgot.’” 
 “So did she get to show and tell anyway?” we asked. 
“No, the teacher said we could, since we had made it that far but where would the lesson in that be?” 
Clearly Miss Six was on a role that week for my friend found herself in the same situation only days later. 
“They needed blue tutus for the film festival and, as I had made one for her ballet show last year, I was under the impression the class needed one more. So, as it had to be plain, I stayed up that night picking the jewels off and adjusting it to fit in with the water theme. Days later I noticed it sitting on the classroom shelf and, when I asked if it had been needed, the casual reply from both child and teacher was ‘no’. 
“And, to be clearer, it never had been."

Martha Stewart and Rainbow Spaghetti

“All these mums who are on Pinterest, making rainbow spaghetti and homemade playdough… I’m all like ‘I had a shower today and kept the kids alive – Go Me!’” read the quote doing the cyber rounds recently.

What the heck is rainbow spaghetti anyway? And if you don’t know what Pinterest is, join the club. I would look into it for the sake of shedding some light and, although I have friends trying to get me into it, I am going to choose to remain oblivious for fear of being lured in.

As for the homemade playdough, I tried that once and, although I restricted it to the outdoors only, there were little bits of red playdough trampled into the deck for weeks after. Now it’s banned but that’s what kindy’s for isn’t it?

But seriously, has anyone tried making rainbow spaghetti?

It all sounds very Martha Stewarty. Speaking of Martha Stewart, she once gave a demo on Oprah Winfrey on how to fold a fitted sheet. Despite the benefits of MySky and therefore being able to rewind and pause live tele … and rewind and pause … like 30 times, and then watch in slow-motion, I still can’t fold a fitted sheet.

Epic fail.

But who cares what a fitted sheet looks like once it’s stored away in the linen cupboard, right?

Damn it.

Martha Stewart has a lot to answer for in setting the bar so high. All this folding fitted sheets, home-made jams and hand-sewn curtains… I mean, I cook and clean but can’t sew to save myself. In fact in form two we had to sew a cushion in the shape of a stuffed pig. I was the last in the class to finish, staying in at lunch while the teacher, clearly missing a lunch break, sighed repetitively from her desk. The pig fell apart and lost all its stuffing within a week.

I’m sure the older generations despair over this lack of sewing ability - with the exception of some - common in today’s youth. Is it still even a compulsory subject or have they given up?

For a while, whenever the kids returned from sleepovers at their nanas’ I noticed their favourite, well-worn soft toys would come back mended. But then it got to the point where they were springing leaks left, right and centre; as a result, baby, rabbit and bear are now adorned in fancy plasters, thanks to my patch-up jobs. 

However, after the fitted sheet failure, I had more success last night with making a paper dart for Master Four via a step-by-step Google guide. Good old Google. Who knew the process was so intricate and there were up to 15 steps? No wonder my dart planes always dive-bombed.
But this rainbow spaghetti, as Martha Stewartish as it sounds, now has me intrigued. So you’re going to have to excuse me while I go Google it.

Confusion

Sometimes you’ve got to wonder what goes through kids’ minds. You think they understand something we’ve taken for granted but, in actual fact, they have a completely different concept.

Miss Four: “I like your hair clips.”

“Me: “Thank you.”

Miss Four, still eyeing up my hair clips. “So will one day they get smaller?”

“Er, what do you mean?”

“I mean, will they fit me one day?”

I see.

“Ah, no, you will grow into them and, yes, you can one day have them, just like everything else I own that you’ve had your eye on.”

The next day:

“So when I turn five will I grow bigger?” 

“You don’t suddenly have a big growth spurt, you’re growing all the time – especially when you eat your vegetables,” I added in.

Of course this notion has derived form being told that ‘big kids’ go to school so a four-year-old must assume they suddenly get big upon starting school.

But I’m sure, had I not explained, Master Seven would’ve soon put his siblings in their place. He’s already made it abundantly clear they are not to play with him or his friends in the playground.

Somewhere along the line, between the ages of five and seven, the cuteness that was present on the first day of school, has gone and it’s now all about being cool in front of his friends. And younger siblings – especially, it seems, when they come simultaneously - are definitely not cool.

Except when one of them comes home from staying at their nana’s sporting the latest McDonalds toy which you were after for part of your collection. Then it’s straight off down the hall where, behind closed doors, secret wheeling and dealing is conducted until both emerge – one looking rather triumphant, the other unaware they’ve just been shafted.

But I guess there’s got to be some perks to being the oldest child and a little bit of bullying often comes with the territory.

Besides, they might as well milk it while they can because, one day, a younger sibling really might have that growth spurt and actually be bigger than them.

Baby Talk

For selfish reasons, I’m guilty of sometimes not correcting my children when they pronounce a word wrong. 
You see, it’s just one of those last vestiges of their baby days that I want to hold on to. For example, the twins still say “a-cause”, instead of “because” and I like that. 

When Mister then-three sung his little heart out to Beyonce’s I’m a single lady, I didn’t correct him either. Not because it sounded so ridiculous hearing a three-year-old boy proclaim to be a solitary woman, but because his muddled version was so hilariously funny: “I wear sing-a-lets, I wear sing-a-lets,” he belted out. 

When it comes to the alphabet, I’ve been teaching the twins, with the help of an alphabet chart, in preparation for school, and they’re coming along in leaps and bounds until they get to the standard “elemenop”. This throws them because after a p they know comes a q but, with me pointing a pen at the chart, teacher-style, we’re still stuck on the ‘l’ and they know an ‘m’ because it looks like the “Old MacDonald’s” golden arches. 
Speaking of the golden arches, gees it’s hard work paying so many visits there when your sons keep getting player of the day! 
Did that just sound like a proud (boastful) mummy moment? 
Actually Master Four scored his first ever try last Saturday, resulting in player of the day and so the subsequent trip to Macca’s with the received voucher was in order. Not that I got to have that proud mummy moment because I missed it. I couldn’t even pretend to have seen it and clap and cheer as I wasn’t even onsite, running five minutes late that day. 
To use a (rather ridiculous) saying which Master Seven has brought home from school – “My bad”. 
On the dinner front, it’s still not going well with Miss Four last week declaring: “Mum, I think I’m “electric” to all of your dinners.” 
Sigh. 
What do you think? Should I correct her on that one?

Broken Records

The whinging had reached a peak. 
“Oh you sound like a broken record!” I heard myself mutter and then pondered its meaning through the childrens’ eyes. 
Indeed as a child I imagine I considered it meant breaking a Guinness Book of Records record and that was in the day when John Lennon vinyls religiously rotated the turntable as part of mum’s Monday morning housework ritual. 
Today’s kids, no doubt, have zero idea what a record is, nor the subsequent tape for that matter. Perhaps someone should’ve coined the phrase “You sound like a skipped disc” for the generation that followed. But that would still be no good for today’s kids who’ve grown up with the ipod as the norm. 
Speaking of “old-fashioned” entertainment devices, I stumbled upon a stack of my old favourite childhood videos the other day. Keen to show the kids the movie Labyrinth, I popped it in the machine, only to be met with the startling sight of Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch belting out their rendition of Good Vibrations. This was followed by the brightly-hued Salt and Pepper girl band raunching around the stage to Push it. An ad break revealed a very young Jason Gunn, Simon Barnett and Robbie Rakete which I found strangely disconcerting, before switching it off. 
Clearly, in my following teenage years, I had decided recording RTR Countdown rated over Labyrinth. 
I popped in Annie. 

“The Sun’ll come out, tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there’ll be sun,” belted out the little carrot top. 
Hurray! Miss Four’s face lit up as her Annie book came to life and she was particularly delighted the main character had orange hair like her. The boys, despite themselves, sat transfixed throughout the movie until Daddy Warbucks and Miss Farell had a pash at the end, at which time, they both took leave in feigned disgust. 
“Mum, are they having a marry party (wedding)?” Miss Four asked, still enthralled by the movie and clapping her hands with glee. 
“No, they’re just celebrating because they got to keep Annie,” I explained. “They get married after.” 
“But when do they get married? How do you know they get married?” 
“They get married later. It just doesn’t show it in the movie.” 
“But how do you know?” 

“I just know ok?” 
“But how do you know?” 
Oh, you sound like a broken record …

Charades

Sometimes all it takes is a good old-fashioned pastime from yesteryear to drive home the reminder that today’s kids don’t need modern technology as entertainment.

Whether it be knuckle bones, marbles, elastics or hop scotch, there’s nothing quite like the pleasant surprise in seeing your children take delight when grasping the concept of one of your childhood favourites.

This week it came in the form of charades. 

We were aiming to head out the door to dinner and the kids were chaffing at the bit. I wasn’t quite ready so, to stall them, I asked their brother to teach them the game I’d taught him earlier that week. At school this term they are studying film-making and part of his homework assignment was to choose a movie and act it out.

Although the twins were a little too young to understand it fully, they were all over it.

One would come and whisper to me their idea for a topic behind closed doors while the other two had their ears pressed firmly against it on the other side, before fleeing, giggling, back to their seats as the door opened.

Soon, they’d exhausted their collective, mental library of movies (one can only shake their butts like Gloria the hippo in Madagascar so many times) and we moved onto books.

Master Seven went into his sibling’s room to peer at their bookshelf, with them hot on his tail.

When he emerged we took our seats (I had now succumbed to the game).

He thought for a moment and then we watched perplexed as he threw himself on the floor, rolled onto his back, opened his legs for a nanosecond and squeaked out the word “Pop”, before continuing to roll over and stand up.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Do you give up? The book was “The New Baby”.

“Is that how you think you came into this world?!” I spluttered with laughter.

By now his siblings had cottoned onto the fact that he was onto a good thing and were keen to get in on the action. Silliness descended and they all began throwing themselves on the floor and popping out babies.

Game over.