Number Seven

“Right I’ve gotta go,” I said to mum on the phone. “Farmers has just opened and I’ve got an hour and a half to get home, make cupcakes and deliver them up to the school by snack. Then I’ve got to start on the number seven cake,” I added.

“Oh a seven, that should be nice and easy.”

I agreed, before hanging up and racing into the half-price children’s clothing sale to make some purchases for Master Seven’s birthday.

Several hours later, up to my eye balls in icing, I remembered those words and frowned. How had I managed to screw up a number seven cake? I blamed the cook book. You’d think all it would involve was joining two rectangular cakes but apparently I was to cut an angular piece off one of the tops. This was where it all turned pear-shaped … or should I say number one-shaped?

Indeed, it looked like I’d baked my seven-year-old son a cake in the shape of a number one – a distorted one at that. What’s more, after slicing several more pieces off in an attempt at a patch- up job, it now had cracks that resembled the Hora Hora rugby grounds post-drought.

The cupcakes hadn’t fared too well either. After a rush-job I managed to get them to their destination on time but not before they all spilled sideways out their paper cups.

When I turned up to class Master Seven actually looked embarrassed (but that’s another story) until he realised his classmates thought I was cool because I was bearing treats.

“You seem like a nice mum,” said a little girl sidling up to me. Hmmm did she just want something or should I be flattered? I choose the latter.

But back to the cake. Because I only had one loaf tin, I baked two separately. The second was still cooking when it came time to pick the twins up from kindy. After some mulling I turned the oven right down, jumped in the car and, seven minutes and a lot of arm-tugging later, returned to a house still standing and a cake that was just right.

But then came the disastrous part. After a whole bowlful of bright yellow icing, still the cracks were there. I’d run out of icing sugar so there was nothing for it but to load the kids back in the car and head to the supermarket. Nearly another packet of icing sugar later and it was still a big mess. It seemed the icing I poured down the cracks was just oozing back out the bottom of the cake until the whole platter was covered in thick yellow goo.

I had one hour left to fix it, prepare the rest of the party food, blow up balloons and wrap presents before six boisterous boys descended on us.

And then I had a brainwave: “Guys do you want to come and decorate the cake?” I called to the twins.

Smacking their lips, they eagerly climbed up on the bar stools as I handed them a bag of pebbles each.

I got photographic evidence of their handiwork as I envisaged carrying out the brightly-hued mess of a cake before six sets of unimpressed eyes. “Look at what your brother and sister have made for you!” I would declare.

But as it happened I didn’t need to divert the blame. Come five past three I heard the excited voices coming down the drive and, suddenly, our house was filled with bags and presents, chatter and boys. They took off and spent the first hour exploring the house, toys and yard before remembering they were hungry. After devouring a belly-ful of cheezals, burger rings, cheerios, sausage rolls, pizza and biscuits they were off again. We played musical cushions, pass the parcel and pin the nose on the Smurf and then someone remembered the cake. After a quick last-minute touch-up job that managed to disguise any remaining cracks but now with icing about two inches thick, I plonked the (very heavy) cake down on the table. Luckily they were so taken with the Madagascar train I’d stuck on top, that any imperfections went unnoticed.

Besides they were too full for cake and were off again, leaving me to quickly hide the yellow monstrosity back in the fridge before the grandparents arrived for dinner.

“Now how about a piece of the birthday cake to go with supper,” said one as they sat down with cuppas later that night.

“Umm, yeah about that…”

Weddings

The children lined up excitedly to watch their aunty's nuptials.

Wedding banter stepped up a notch between the youngsters last week in the lead up to their aunty’s nuptials.

My kids are obsessed with people being boyfriend and girlfriend and getting married so this was just the icing on the wedding cake.

The wedding was an all-weekend affair at Pakiri Beach. A lovely weekend where food, accommodation and even childrens’ activities were provided – all we had to do was pack clothes! Gotta love a holiday like that.

The morning of the ceremony was an early one. The kids were sharing a room and one bright spark decided to wake the others at 5am to make the decision whether to don their wedding outfits or togs. I got up to find them all standing starkers, blinking in the light and pondering this big decision. They were told to put on their undies and go back to bed. This was when it was discovered I’d forgotten to pack Miss Four’s knickers. By the time I’d searched high and low we were all wide awake and so our day began.

The morning was spent exploring the Matakana markets before heading over to Leigh for some snorkeling. Just as we pulled on our wetsuits it began pelting down. The boys were fine – they frolicked in the sand and shallows undeterred while Miss Four huddled with her head buried in her towel – a few orange tufts of hair all that could be seen sticking out. This made for some power-snorkeling and, realising the kids were just a little too young, we packed up and headed back in time to scrub up for the big event.

The weather came right just in time and the kids waited with eager anticipation – with Miss Four wearing a pair of her brother’s truck undies under her pretty frock - for their aunty – the bride. The day before they’d dressed up their Barbie and Ken dolls in wedding outfits and staged a mock wedding so to see it all unfold in real life was just too much. They sat in a line with their hands held to their mouths stifling giggles but when it came to the kiss, they erupted. 

They were a little distracting and it took a bit to settle them down ready to perform their duties – blowing bubbles at the newlyweds. Miss Four’s role was to sprinkle rose petals, painstakingly gathered in a basket to match her outfit but, at the last minute, decided she was too shy.

After that, the 5am start began to take affect. While the boys got a second or third wind, Miss Four began to wilt. But we still had the 45-min bus ride to the reception – we were only just beginning! Luckily the kid’s menu kept them awake and all the children played outside the restaurant in the playground till well after dark – all that could be seen were their glow sticks bobbing around.

Finally on the bus ride back, the twins fell asleep exhausted while Master Six, hyped up from no sleep, a new friend to show off to and too much fizz, entertained the passengers with stories, interspersed, of course, with toilet humour, which had them in hysterics. Spurred on by the laughter, his stories, which filtered down to me in the front, became more and more ridiculous and, not to mention, embarrassing.

Finally they toppled into bed and, after the giggling subsided, fell into deep sleeps until 7.30am, which is a major sleep-in for us.

Strangely, Barbie and Ken have remained idle and all marriage talk ceased since the real life wedding – I think my three might just be all wedding’d out.

Mornings

As the Sanitarium ad goes: Let me tell you the truth about mornings. One is pretty much like another.

But that is where the similarities end. There’s nothing “dull” about mornings in our house. In fact, it’s like a tornado hits at 6.30am.

I admit, it’s not as bad as it was. The kids no longer wake at 5.30am but this sets us on the back foot in terms of getting anywhere on time. They also now dress themselves, make part of their breakfasts and brush their own teeth in the mornings. But no matter how prepared I am – making lunches the night before, laying out outfits (if I don’t, Miss Four is likely to show up to kindy wearing a purple polka dot boob tube with an equally loud but mismatching bottom piece), we still can’t seem to get out the door by 8.30am.

Well not without World War Three breaking out.

Recently I was describing our mornings to a friend. It went along the lines of repeatedly requesting three kids with painted on ears to get dressed, make their beds, pull their curtains, finish their breakfast, brush their teeth, pack their bags and line up for sunscreen. These requests become louder and less patient (okay, that’s a euphemism) culminating in the part where we all tumble into the car late and no longer on speaking terms. Then there’s the one-minute drive up the road taking deep breaths and calming down so we can part on good terms.

“Is it like that for you?” I finished, expecting an answer in the affirmative.

Instead she looked horrified.

“No! My god Jodi, that sounds terrible.”

I chose not to believe her. I once asked a mother of so many kids I’ve lost count how she stays calm. She simply shrugged nonchalantly like she took it all in her stride. Then, some weeks later I happened to be walking past her People Mover as she went completely off her nut at her tribe. It was like music to my ears and I just stopped myself performing an air punch.

Still, I decided to reassess my morning strategy.

I tried several methods: 1. Drawing up a chores chart which they each had to tick as they went along, resulting in a small amount of pocket money at the end of the week. This lasted two weeks before the novelty wore off and the meager pocket money forgotten.

2. Hiding the tv remote but they soon replaced tv with building block houses down in the kid’s lounge.

Finally I resorted to the good old oven timer. I resent the fact that they respect the oven timer more than their mother but whatever works right?

It was like a bomb had been put under them. There was a frenzied flurry of activity and, within ten minutes, all their chores had been done. There was no fighting and they all played happily while they actually waited for me to get ready! The washing was hung out and all the breakfast carnage cleaned up so I returned to a tidy house, sans children and ready to start my day.

We were like a different family as we drove to school and kindy. I breathed in well-being, breathed out calm and felt benign goodwill to all – especially the mothers still exhaling toward their fringes.

The kids must have felt it too for they now willingly do their chores without prompting (or threats).

Now, shall we start again? Let me tell you the truth about mornings …

Coffee

I’m one of those rare freaks of nature who doesn’t drink tea or coffee. But, last weekend, after only one hour’s sleep (which wasn’t even self-inflicted, unlike the weekend before) and faced with three energetic kids on my own all weekend, I decided to take up the practice.

Any visitor that comes to our house knows they’re not going to get a good brew – the world of flat whites, cappuccinos and chai lattes is foreign to me. Plus the standard coffee in the jar is so seldom used, it’s now ground solid. Therefore one can either take to stabbing it with a knife to loosen the granules or select from my array of proudly collected sachets (the contents of which are also foreign to me) but saved for this very reason.

While the kids had long been tearing the house up, I eventually prised myself out of bed and opted for a lucky dip of the latter.

Once I got past the pleasant enough frothy milk the real taste of coffee hit me. It was foul but, over the course of an hour and with a fair amount of gagging, I eventually downed it.

And then, suddenly, as if I’d been plugged into the mains, I was awake and fair bouncing off the walls. Okay, slight exaggeration there, I’d only had one hour’s sleep after-all. But with this surge of energy that enabled me to function like a normal human being, I was now beginning to feel like I’d seriously ripped myself off in life.

Had I handicapped myself by only running on three cyclinders all this time while everyone else was running on four or more?

And, in an epiphany, I realised maybe that was the reason why I didn’t pass School C maths! Suddenly I could blame all my failings on not drinking coffee.

Was it too late to sign up for the Beach to Basin? Perhaps I could beat my last year’s PB after-all.

Instead it generated a maelstrom of house cleaning frenzy – after-all the house had been rendered a bomb site by now.

But with any high comes a low and I came down with a thud. I guess this is where most people would have round two but, even if it was because I made the world’s worst cup, I concluded that my taste buds and coffee are just not in tune.

So it’s safe to say I will not be taking up that addiction. Besides, who needs School C maths? I’ve survived thus far counting on my fingers.

Lies

When it comes to telling lies, the days of innocent oblivion are gone with my lot. I first discovered this just before Christmas last year. 

Innocent oblivion

It was round about the time all the chocolates in the advent calendars began to mysteriously disappear. Their wide-eyed innocence was so believable I actually pulled the calendars to bits thinking the chocolates had merely slipped down the back. When it became apparent they had truly gone AWOL I simply couldn’t believe that a child of mine could pull off a lie with such apparent ease.

Butter wouldn't melt

Although I guess it shouldn’t have come as a shock: growing up with my mum, whose true calling, I believed, should have been as a detective, you had to be pretty sneaky to get away with anything. As a result, I thought I’d become a fairly deft detective myself until I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out which one was lying.

Then one day after lining them all up against the wall in the midst of yet another grilling, I had a brainwave.

“Right,” I said beyond frustrated. “If you won’t tell me the truth, I’ll phone the police and they will find out who the liar is.”

And as I marched to the phone their combined muteness suddenly burst to life behind me.

“No mummy!” they shrieked chasing after me and clawing desperately at my clothes in an attempt at halting further progress towards the phone.

I ignored them and, trying not to laugh, reached for the phone, which was subsequently knocked from my hand.

I turned to face them and was astonished to see all three in tears with Miss Four doubled over clutching her stomach gasping and sobbing.

It seemed my threat of phoning the police had truly put the fear of god in them and I was actually starting to feel a little sick myself from causing them such distress.

“Well then who was it?” I demanded.

“It was me mummy, but don’t tell the police,” wailed Master Four, wide-eyed with fear.

“Yeah Mummy please don’t call the police on Jai,” begged his sister (whose chocolates he had eaten) still grasping her tummy.

Although I felt awful that I’d scared them so, it was nice to see they cared for each other. I let him off with a warning that if it happened again I would be calling the police.

It only happened one more time. This time I did “call” the police. Master Four and his siblings were beside themselves but I had to “follow through” with my threat.

While we waited for the police to come I tried to calm him down and have a talk. Eventually we agreed that it would never happen again and, as I claimed to hear a siren in the distance, I hastily made another “call” to tell them it was a false alarm.

That evening I went on a girl’s night out. My friend’s babysitter was having trouble getting her five-year-old to bed. She was constantly on the phone trying to cajole her and it was ruining her night.

“Have you tried “calling the police?” I leaned across the table and whispered.

Finally she threw in the police threat while one of the others in our group began wailing like a siren. Apparently her daughter whimpered and went straight to bed. She didn’t get another call that night and visibly relaxed.

Following that, a collective light bulb went off amongst the mums at our table and I almost began to feel guilty for being the instigator if their kids reacted the same way mine had.

Anyhow, as I tell myself, the world is a better place without liars and thieves and if it’s going to stop them in their tracks, so be it.

At my house, the chocolate thief is no longer and, as far as my re-tuned detective skills can pick up, no one has lied since.