Santa

“Mum, how old is Santa?” asked Master Eight pensively.
“Gosh, I don’t know. Pretty old I think.”
“So when Santa was a kid, who was his Santa?” he continued.
“Maybe in the olden days there was no Santa,” Master Six piped up saving me.
“Maybe he went with his dad and learned in the sleigh,” Miss Six chimed in.
Master Eight: “You know how Santa got here so quickly last year, I think it was because there were lots of naughty boys and girls.”
“How do you mean?”
“You know, he got to our place early, I think it was because he didn’t have many other places to go to.”
“Maybe. When I was a little girl I swear I saw the buckle of his belt shining in my room.”
“When I was a little boy I saw his beard,” added Master Eight.
“Really?”
“Yeah remember? It got stuck on the fire place.”
Oh yeah, that’s right. Silly Santa snagged his beard as he was entering last year.
“And his boot prints!”
So he did. He left snowy boot prints on our doorstep.
“Does Santa live up in the sky?” asked Miss Six.
“Yep,” answered her twin knowingly.
“No, he lives in the North Pole,” said older brother.
“Mum I don’t like those videos you play us when Santa opens up the book,” Master Six said.
“Why not?”
“Because at the end it gets real scary when he decides if you’ve been good or bad.”
“Yeah it’s real scary because we don’t know if we’re going to get the red light or the green,” added his sister.
That reminded me.
By the time the kids returned home from school they each had a personalised Santa message waiting for them on the computer.
As always, they squirmed with delight when Santa addressed them by name and they saw their own photo in his book. Santa then took them on a magical tour through to the barn to meet his reindeer before returning to his big wooden desk where he re-opened the book with all the information inside about the children. And then the build-up to the naughty or nice conclusion began.
The kids waited wide-eyed with anticipation as the elves went through a process to reach the verdict and then clapped with joy when the green light appeared.
However, Master Eight this year didn’t quite make it onto the ‘nice’ list and the devastation from all was absolute.
Apparently he needed to try harder to be nicer to his siblings.
But the disappointment that followed the orange light (not quite naughty or nice) was worth it for he immediately changed his tune and has become a different kid. (A subsequent message awaited him several days later where he got the green light.)
Based on the questions above, it may well be the last year this Santa approach works but, for now, peace and harmony have been restored.

# To make your own free personalised video from Santa, go to: www.portablenorthpole.com

 

 

 

Mangroves

When I found myself nominated to parent help on a school trip I have to admit, I was not too overjoyed.
When I found out it was to go look at mangroves I was even less enthused.
However, the event fell on my day off and, because I’d recently been on a class trip with the twins, Master Eight saw no reason why I shouldn’t go on his.
But I did.
Besides the fact that fair is fair, of course, and we were long overdue some special time together.
Let me just say that, although ‘day off’ conjures up images of sleeping in, meeting up with friends for coffee and general lounging around, it is anything but. My day off is consumed with all those mundane things that, before I returned to work, used to be spread out over the week – house work, gardening, lawns, groceries, town errands, exercise, Christmas shopping, amongst before and after school duties.
And I learnt from the early baby days of everyone saying that housework can wait that it doesn’t. It just accrues until when you finally take to it with the vacuum cleaner, it clogs up.
So these days off are rather precious but when a school activity falls on this day, it is also a novelty to be able to attend when most working parents can’t.
But mangroves?
A week or two before we were disappointed I missed the Limestone Island trip Master Eight went on. The night before we’d been reading Famous Five together. The five had returned to Kirren Island and rediscovered the ruins of the old castle.
He was quite impressed to discover our local island has its own ruins and even a dungeon and I was too when he relayed the day’s adventures back to me.
I knew how much it would mean to Master Eight if I went along on this outing so I rearranged my week, cramming all the Wednesday humdrums in before and after work on the other week days.
There was no postponement date on the notice which meant it was going ahead rain or shine. But I needn’t have worried about floundering around in mud for hours with the rain pelting down, for the day dawned brilliant. I went along to the school and my group of boys was waiting for me.
We set off down the Waimahanga Track and spent the day in the depths of the mangroves.
Amongst other things, I learnt that, as well as being an important habitat for many plants and animals, mangroves help to hold the land together and stop the sea water from washing it away.
I learnt that it was still possible to collect multiple bags of rubbish from the same area where 12 bags had been collected on the previous class trip only two days before.
I learnt that I needn’t be worrying about my eight-year-old’s behaviour – his peers are just as silly and trying to get a photo of them all smiling or with normal faces, at least, was impossible.
I also learnt that hanging out for a day with a bunch of silly eight-year-old boys who are just too cool for school is quite fun and humbling.
And I learnt that, although the housework doesn’t wait patiently, some days it’s rejuvenating to just wake up and smell the, er, mangroves.

Three Little Pigs

“Mum, we’re doing a show called Three Little Pigs,” the twins cried last week as they raced in the door.

“Oh cool, what part are you playing?” I asked.
”We’re the houses.” 

“Oh.”

“I’m the stick house,” went on Miss Six.

“And I’m the brick house,” added Master Six.

“What is everyone else?”

“Well they’re mostly singing and playing instruments,” they informed.

“Would you like to be doing that?” I asked them.

“No, being a house is cool. This is how I fall down when the wolf blows the house down,” Miss Six demonstrated a rather carefully choreographed descent.

I must admit, after taking part in a musical a few years back, I had aspirations of my kids starring in some shows themselves, but playing the role of a house wasn’t quite what I had in mind.

However, come Wednesday, the day of the show, I was pleasantly surprised to see the houses were, indeed, quite an important role. 

With five classes featuring in the junior show, the majority made up the chorus and were based on the floor in front of the stage. And there were my little twinnies, standing tall on the stage, proud as punch and waving madly in my direction.

By the looks of their chequered costumes, Miss Six had now been promoted to a brick house (the door no less), like her brother so would not need to make her graceful fall after-all. And the houses got to sing.

She took it all very seriously and did not crack a smile the whole time, while her brother, who was meant to be holding his arms up to form the roof, grinned and waved.

The show was a delight and the narration, read by five and six-year-olds, impressive.

Around me, parents were like kids with ants in their pants, popping up and down from their seats to proudly take photos of their kids or filming the show from ipads.

Because I thought my two would be obscured as a house, it hadn’t occurred to me to bring a camera but I soon whipped out my phone and, full of pride myself, joined them.

Trick or Treat

The kids came tearing in last Friday evening high on sugar. “Hi Mum, can we go trick or treating?”

The answer was no, but I suggested they get dressed up to answer the door for the trick or treaters who would inevitably call.

They shot off downstairs, the dinner I’d just prepared abandoned. I caught a glimpse as they raced back past me and up the drive to see if anyone was coming: Master Eight had donned his Spider man costume from when he was two – the pants now came up to his knees and the top was rendered a boob tube; Master Six was wearing a mask and the extent of Miss Six’s costume was some fairy wings.

“They’re coming, they’re coming!” she shrieked from up the drive, before they all skittled excitedly back into the house.

”Where are you going?” I asked, following them around the corner into the lounge where they were all huddling on the furniture.

I was answered with giggling.

Next minute, ‘knock, knock, knock,’ a skeleton and miniature female Spiderman appeared at the door eyeing up the bowl of lollies waiting nearby on the benchtop.

“Come on guys, this isn’t my job. You wanted to do it,” I cajoled. But, suddenly shy, they wouldn’t budge.

Meanwhile, the miniature Spiderman wandered into the house and peered around the corner at my cowering children. She was followed by her big sister who apparently goes to the same school. Master Eight went pink in the cheeks.

“Do you guys know each other?” I asked, as they eyed each other.

“Mum you’re so embarrassing!” emphasized Master Eight once they’d gone.

“Well, I’m not playing this trick or treating game. If you guys aren’t, then you can go to bed and I’ll pull the curtains.”

The next lot came down the drive and, once again, mine hid.

This time, Miss Six cautiously crept out from her spot and shyly offered the bowl to the six kids standing on the doorstep.

After I reminded them their manners they left and were followed by another two who said nothing but took the lollies and ran.

And that was it. Despite my lot waiting up at the top of the drive for about an hour, we had no more trick or treaters.

Not that I minded. By now, they’d calmed down so I bathed and tucked them in bed and pulled the curtains ready for their big day.

It began with the parade for Whangarei’s birthday, followed by the party at the Town Basin. This was fun. The music was good, the Mayor was dancing and we saw heaps of people we knew but we had to cut it short to head off to another party in Auckland – their cousin’s birthday.

There they had a visit from ‘Fairy Clare’, a well-known children’s party entertainer in Auckland. Despite having an audience which ranged between one and eight, she managed to hold everyone’s attention throughout. Apparently eight-year-old boys aren’t too cool for Fairy Clare when their friends aren’t watching. The party hosts concluded it was money well spent and Fairy Clare declared, before departing, that she was going to shrink herself back into a tiny fairy before disappearing into fairy dust. 

But several of the tiny tots were most disgruntled to spy her out the window getting into her car further down the road.

Not to worry, she’d left them each with a bag of fairy dust to put under their pillows for sweet dreams and while changing the kids’ sheets this week I came across those bags under three pillows.

School Trip

Wednesday was a day of high-excitement. We awoke to an electrical thunderstorm – the thunder rolling out continuous, while the flashes lit up the sky and house.

This was the day of our school trip to the police and fire stations but the weather didn’t deter.

While the parents traveled in their cars, the bus got pretty uproarious apparently. Outside the police station, off they all tumbled in their raincoats and lined up outside.

“Look!” exclaimed one Master Six, pointing in the window like he’d seen a celebrity. “A policeman.”

“It might be Ian!” shouted my Master Six, referring to his first-name-basis buddy - the Constable who sometimes comes to the school for educational reasons. 

“We might get to see some baddies,” remarked the other.

We filed inside and two constables emerged through the door.

“Holy!” enthused one wide-eyed Master Five. “Two polices. And they’re real.”

“Hi Ian!” shouted my Master Six, to one.

“Are you really Ian?” I asked the constable. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

He affirmed that he was indeed ‘the Ian’ and, after splitting into two groups, the children, slightly star-struck, followed along behind constables Ian and Mario.

After showing us their gym, lunch room and visiting areas, we went into the car park where the kids were allowed to sit in one of the cars with the lights and sirens flashing, and talk into the loud speaker.

Two dog handlers emerged with police dogs, who conducted some tricks, before the kids had a pat. We were then taken into a graffiti-littered holding cell – the lone toilet in the corner being the highlight for the kids – before they each got to walk through the metal detector. After being finger-printed, it was upstairs - still looking for baddies along the way - to have lunch in the lunch area.

I’m not sure if it was a matter of drawing the short straw as we noisily trailed around the police station with our tour guides, who swapped grins with their peers along the way, but they did extremely well.

Next stop was the fire station. As we pulled up, two engines came hurtling out, lights flashing. 

Turns out, our chaperones were aboard and headed off to an emergency. Luckily, an off-duty fireman, who had called in to pick up some paperwork, took pity and kindly offered to be our host. He disappeared for a minute, then emerged in fireman’s attire and proceeded to show the kids the alarm system, demonstrating how the sleeping firemen had only two minutes to don full apparel, and board the engines, before the roller doors came back down. 

Upstairs it was a blast from the past for me. While the fireman gave the kids a firewise lesson, I looked around the lounge room and reminisced how we would spend our Saturday evenings there as kids. Of course things always look smaller as adults and although the pokie machines have long been removed, along with the ping-pong table and pole we would slide down on the way home (for OSH reasons), the bar and pool table were just where I remembered them. I was also pleasantly surprised to see my late father’s name on a large wall plaque under Whangarei Brigade Honorary Life Members, along with ten other, some familiar, names. Definitely a highlight for me.

After a quick fire drill, the kids filed back downstairs where they were allowed to go through a fire engine before each having a blast with the hose. A teacher then got dressed up in full heavy fire apparel before the kids were handed some goodies. They then boarded the bus and returned to school. We were wet and it had been a long day but a good one, thanks to our emergency services crews who good-naturedly put on a great show.

Spooky Toys 2

It’s one thing when your baby’s toys go off on their own accord in the night and play sweet lullaby’s but older kids’ toys is quite another thing.

I wrote some time ago about toy boxes coming alive at night. It usually happened as I was just drifting off after a night-time feed (the babies – not me) and served as a form of torture to my poor sleep-deprived brain.

The main culprit came in the form of a shape-sorting snail, which played out a happy little tune at the push of a button. When it played repeatedly, I assumed the button had got stuck so I got up and removed it from the toy box.

What do you know, just as I was drifting off again, away it started.

I got back up with the intention of ripping out the batteries, only to discover it didn’t have any. The snail was subsequently thrown down yet another level to the garage with the door slammed and where it could play its gay old tune all night long.

I have no idea what the next culprit was but it put me off the song “Oh Susanna” for life.

A friend and I had swapped stories of our own spooky encounters with kids’ toys.

A tune had started up from her three-month-old’s play gym mat one night. She assumed the cat had walked over it but it went off again. After a while she walked downstairs to investigate but there was no cat in sight. Deciding the cat had gone outside, she went back upstairs and, as she did, the music started playing a third time. The tune was a haunting piece from Mozart and she fled back to bed.

Because we’d both recently lost a close family member, we did wonder if they were messages from beyond.

Or it could be like the Toy Story where all the toys come alive at night time. They just hadn’t factored in an insomniac catching them out.

Then again, I couldn’t help taking this latest incident a little personally. As usual I was just drifting off when I heard: “Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy…”

I lay still for a while, trying to figure it out. Stumped, I got out of bed and followed the noise, which led me to Master Eight’s room. The sound was coming from his toy box. I lifted a few items and unearthed a Ninja Turtle, none other than Rafael.

“…..ya!” he finally finished what he’d been trying to say.

“This means war,” he declared as I removed him from the toy box and sat him next to Master Eight’s bed to remind myself to tell him in the morning.

But as I turned and left the room, Rafy, as Master Eight affectionately calls him, had the last word: “You’re going down!” he stated.

I couldn’t help it – I shot him a look before shuffling on back to bed but, nonetheless, since our ‘words’ that night, I’ve been watching my back.

Front Tooth

Miss Six’s front tooth has been hanging at a precarious angle for weeks and she’s had several offers of tying a piece of string to it and attaching the other end to the door handle before it slams.

You can imagine the reaction this gets.

The loss of her teeth at a rapid rate has totally transformed her face and, at times, it seems my little girl is falling to bits.

Her first tooth fell out while walking down the street and luckily her nana caught it for as she said: “I didn’t have my glasses with me so I would have been fumbling round on the street for hours.”

The next one likely ended up down the loo after she swallowed it – no one was keen to go hunting for it but the tooth fairy did still make an appearance.

This last one, hanging by a fine thread, has been bugging us all holidays but it was her twin brother who did the favour in the end. They were having a bit of a wrestle and he punched her in the mouth. The tooth went flying across the room.

“My tooth!” yelped Miss Six diving after it.

Then she thought she better have a cry for effect.

“Waaaaa!” she wailed running to the bathroom.

A mother knows when her child is crying in pain and, in this case, there was no pain.

There was the usual amount of blood which soon stopped but the commotion drew Master Eight into the bathroom.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Jai punched my tooth out.”

“Well that’s pay back,” shot back an unsympathetic Master Eight without missing a beat.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because last year she knocked my tooth out. With a car!”

Gosh I’d forgotten about the time Miss Six had thrown a toy car at her older brother and knocked his tooth out. All hell had broken lose that day and there was no end of blood.

Poor Master Six, the culprit, stayed in the lounge at the scene of the crime thinking he was in trouble. He wasn’t.

But I was. Who has money on them these days?! After scrounging around I came up with some coins and at bedtime Miss Six decided to leave her precious tooth on her drawers next to her bed for easier access.

“See Mummy, the tooth fairy will fly in here and see it straight away,” she said, giving me a demo by running from the door to the drawers while flapping her arms.

Righto then. It was sorted. Luckily the tooth fairy found it (or remembered) because the next morning, a beaming, toothless Miss Six appeared in the kitchen clasping her coins.

She propped herself up at the bar, placed her coins where her brothers could see them and proceeded to spend the entire breakfast lisping “sausages” and whistling through her new gap.

Holiday Fun

For once I am saddened that it’s the end of the school holidays. As a stay-at-home mum, one tends to dread the long days of entertaining bickering kids. But as a working mum, I welcome the time catching up on things at home and, more importantly, spending time with the children. As well as the good times, this means getting stuck into the nitty-gritty.

After completing most of my spring cleaning in the first week, we headed off on a holiday to Mount Maunganui.

During the five-hour drive, we only had one casualty on the vomiting front: While driving through Dome Valley with nowhere safe to stop, Miss Five, who against my advice, had decided to sit in the back of the seven-seater, informed me she had a sore tummy.

“Hang on, we’re nearly in Warkworth – it’s just around the cor-“

“Cough, cough – blarghh!”

Doh! Too late.

The boys were unimpressed and let their poor sister know it.

I pulled into what I thought was a deserted side road and we leapt out while an upset Miss Five slowly clambered out.

She’d managed to miss herself but the back of the car, in the furthest-reaching corner had copped it.

Once again, it was wet wipes to the rescue and I used nearly a whole packet cleaning up the mess, on the side of the road while a steady stream of traffic went past, its occupants rubber-necking.

I’m sure they knew what had happened – we see it all the time. What I hadn’t noticed, was that I was on the road to Sheep World – hence the volume of cars and the lack of privacy I’d hoped for.

With most of the carnage cleaned up but the aroma certainly lingering, we continued on. If we drove with all the windows down, it went away, but we could only last so long like this in the cold weather.

It came with us all the way down to the Mount and Miss Five copped a fair amount of flak from her brothers for it.

The Mount had a somber feeling and, if not for the dodgy weather (hailing one minute, brilliant, hot sunshine the next) I would have kept the kids and their noise away from that end of the beach as a mark of respect. But they’ve seen it on the news and, as it happened, when we ended up there on Sunday waiting to meet friends, they made wee Jack their own creation to add to the teddies and candles awaiting him.

Back home (the vomit smell had almost completely disappeared by now), it was a quick bath and straight into bed ready for the twin’s birthday.

Being their sixth and having done the big party thing last year, this time I decided to keep it simple: they were each allowed one friend to play for the day and they were stoked with this.

In keeping with the simple theme, the cake was a huge box of ice cream, tipped out onto a chopping board, which the kids had a ball decorating with lollies and sprinkles. The idea was to slice it into rectangles before sticking an ice block stick in it and there they’d have their own decorated ice blocks. However, the kids had so much fun decorating the ‘cake’, it began melting rather rapidly so they were shuffled off outside with their ‘íceblocks’ in a bowl.

Despite the simplicity, they claimed it the ‘best day of my life!’ Admittedly they say this on a regular basis but it was still humbling.

In fact, the whole slower pace of the holidays was humbling. But alas, all good things must come to an end and it’s now back to the rush, rush, rush of getting kids and myself out the door.

Until next time. In a strange reversal: ten weeks and counting.

Goodbye Trixie

Last month our household decreased by two members.

The rather arrogant stray cat that made himself at home with us three years ago and then proceeded to attack all the female members on a regular basis – me, Miss Five and Trixie – our cat of 13 years – contracted his third urinary tract infection. This causes them to pee blood all through the house and, last year, after regaining his health, which rendered me broke in the process, and returning to his arrogant self, I vowed that, should he get sick again, I’d have him put down.

He did and I did.

I was upset for about a day but then, seeing Trixie come out of the shell she’d been hiding in for the last three years, not to mention the lack of mutilated mice and birds being delivered inside, soon put an end to any misgivings.

No longer in fear of being attacked in her sleep or from around every corner where Jesse would lie in wait, she, returned to her joyful, playful self.

The next three weeks were bliss.

Trixie went back to sleeping in my bed and curling up on my lap at night. When the kids and I walked home from school, she would run up the drive to meet us, throwing her tail up in greeting.

And then one night an almighty fight erupted from my room.

I went downstairs to find a random fluffy ginger and white cat bailed up on my window seat, throwing itself, legs splayed, at all the surrounding windows in a desperate attempt to escape from an upper-level floor.

Trixie wasn’t having a bar of another male taking over her patch and stood her ground.

Meanwhile I went back to the phone to say I’d have to hang up. The person on the other end understood – apparently it sounded like a war zone my end.

On the way back I opened the garage door for it to escape but when I got back to my room, there was no sign of both cats.

Growling lead me to the twin’s room, where I found Trixie keeping guard by Miss Five’s bed where its scared and now wide-awake occupant sat bolt upright. I shut Trixie upstairs and closed all the other doors so there was only one way out, went back and lifted up the valence.

A pair of eyes glowed back at me.

“Shoo,” I attempted.

The eyes continued staring and the cat didn’t budge.

Now I was faced with a dilemma. This was obviously going to take some effort to get the cat out from under the bed which was pushed up against a wall and I’d need the light on. I looked at Master Five, who was miraculously still sleeping blissfully, and decided to pull the sheet up over his head so he’d miss the drama.

After placing Miss Five in my bed and shutting the door, I pulled her bed out from the wall, unearthing all manner of rubble.

The cat simply moved to the other end. This went on until I had the bed in the centre of the room and piles of crap now where the bed had been. I went around the back of the bed.

“Rarrr!” This time he obeyed and shot out, down the stairs and out the garage door.
After closing it behind him, I re-assembled the house, popped Miss Five back in her bed, unveiled the still sleeping Master Five, let Trixie out and spent the next few days trying to get rid of the smell of cat spray.

Work that week was hectic in the lead-up to the school holidays, and it took me a few days to realise that Trixie wasn’t herself. She was barely leaving the couch and her food was untouched.

Thinking she must have an abscess from the fight, I decided over the weekend I’d take her to the vet on Monday.

Meanwhile we had a houseful of visitors and Trixie would always go into hiding when we had people over so I didn’t think too much of it.

Sunday morning, the twins said she was sleeping in their room when they woke up but ran away. That day and the next were icy cold and I lit the fire, which I’d just cleaned out for the summer. But Trixie was out there in the storm.

In amongst the chaos of kids and visitors, we made a few attempts at finding her, as well as before and after work the next day.

It was while walking back from school that Master Five spotted her in our garden, barely breathing.

She was dehydrated and probably hypothermic.

I didn’t waste any more time – I gave her a few pats and soothing words and shot inside to call the vets, while the kids tucked her in with a blanket and put some crackers in front of her nose, which, of course, she had no interest in.

On the way in, we sung her songs, relieved that we had found her in time as, at this point, I was still convinced it was an abscess.

Master Five suggested Twinkle, Twinkle.

“How about My Favourite Things?” I said before proceeding to sing: “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens …”

After I’d finished Master Five looked at me with admiration before telling me I should be on The Voice.

I’ve heard myself sing and know this isn’t true.

We got to the vets and it wasn’t good news. X-Rays showed major internal injuries, the cause unknown. She was one sick little cat, said the veterinarian.

With heavy hearts, we said our goodbyes and she was put down that night.

The house is lonely without her and full of reminders. I keep seeing her in my peripheral, only to find the dark shape curled up at the end of the couch is just my washing pile.

This week I picked up her ashes. When I carried the little box back out to the car, the kids exclaimed that Trixie couldn’t fit in there. I had some explaining to do about cremation and they took it in turns to nurse Trixie on their laps on the way home. Master Five insisted she was purring.

Back home, I dug a hole next to her special place and we each took turns at saying a memory we had of Trixie, before sprinkling some soil over the box. Finally we placed a cross and planted some pansies around it and the kids went back to their ipad games and drawing. They’re funny like that.

That evening, after I’d dropped them off at their dad’s it was lonelier than usual. As I pottered in the gardens, a scruffy dog ran up from nowhere. This was unusual - I live down a long drive and there are no dogs in the neighbourhood. The friendly dog kept me company while I went about my outdoor tasks and then watched me through the sliding door when I went in to cook dinner.

He didn’t seem to want to go anywhere so I gave him some left-over cat food and put a towel on the deck which he lay down on.

Intending to call Animal Control in the morning, I said good night and pulled the curtains. In the morning he had vanished.

Someone pointed out that this might have been Trixie coming back to say goodbye. That’s a nice thought.

Runaway

The bedlam hour (dinner-lunches-homework-bathing) is not an ideal time to run away from home.

Master Eight made a half-hearted attempt at this most inconvenient time of day.

A small growling for annoying his brother had not gone down well and, unaware, I got distracted with making dinner.

I was alerted to the sulks when I glanced out the kitchen window and was met by the sight of a sullen figure sitting right in my line of vision, head down but glancing up every now and then to check I had seen him.
I didn’t have time for this carry on so, in a bid at cheering him up, stuck my tongue out. After trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile, he got up and stomped off up the drive.

Minutes later, he must’ve decided it was going to be cold out there on the streets so returned inside to grab a sweat shirt. 

I locked the door behind him and tried to get down to the bottom of the matter while the mince sizzled on the stove behind me and the twins called out homework queries. However, he wasn’t having a bar of talking it through and kept shrugging me off so I took the stance of, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

“Well if you’re going to be sleeping on the streets, you’ll need a sleeping bag,” I told him. “It’s pretty cold out there.

“And you also need a knap sack – you just tie a hanky to a stick and throw it over your shoulder,” I added for good measure. He might as well look the part.

“No, I don’t care. I’m going,” he replied and tried to get out the locked door.

I didn’t have time to pin him down without the neglected dinner burning the house down so I asked his sister to bring me the phone.

“Yes, Constable Ian,” I said, using the familiar name of the policeman who has been visiting their school. “My son is about to run away from home. He is wearing a green hoodie so can you please look out for him and pick him up.”

“Mummy, this is hurting my tummy,” wailed my sensitive Miss Five, clutching her stomach and looking panicked.

“It’s ok,” I reassured her. “Mummy’s just tricking.” (Clearly that trick will not work on her if she ever tries running away from home.)

But Master Eight didn’t hear that. Giving up on running away, he’d returned to his spot outside the kitchen window where he went on sulking.

It just so happened it was “Taco Tuesday” – named by Master Eight and his favourite meal of the week – and both his siblings made sure he knew it.

“Mmm yummy tacos!” exclaimed Miss Five, loud enough to reach her brother’s ears.

We sat up at the table and began our usual talking about our day while Master Eight slunk back inside.

“I’m hungry,” he said, eyeing up our laden plates.

“Well you’re welcome to join us but you have some apologising to do first.”

He readily apologised and took up his usual spot at the table and was soon tucking into his beloved tacos and telling us about his day. We left off the last hour’s happenings.

It turns out this running away from home palaver isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Celebrity Goss Fix

Since when did Mariah Carey and Nick Cannon split up?

Getting my weekly dose of celebrity goss used to be a high priority BC (before children). In fact, if I’m honest, it was still a sneaky indulgence after children, it would just be by way of having a quick flick through the magazines whilst waiting in the checkout queue. ET (Entertainment Tonight) would also bring me up to speed on the goings-on in Hollywood while multi-tasking.

Although I’d take a lot of the content with a grain of salt and put some of it down as gobble-de-gook, it was a habit I just couldn’t give up. We all have our thing.

While others pride themselves on general knowledge at such events as quiz nights, I would unashamedly be the one with the answers on anything celebrity.

But when I re-entered the work force earlier this year, that all came to an end.

I only had withdrawals for several weeks before realising that I could still survive without knowing who had hooked up with who and how any kids Brangelina now had.

But last weekend I was most disgruntled to discover just how much life had carried on since I’d dropped off the celeb knowledge radar.

I’d taken the kids up to the hospital to visit my nana and, as well as enjoying (careful) cuddles with their beloved great-grandma, the highlights were indulging in her stash of chocolate biscuits they’d been eyeing up as soon as they walked in, and the ride in the elevator.

On the way back down, we were joined by an elderly man and the elevator doors closed on the five of us.

After a moment’s silence Master Five turned to the man and loudly declared: “Gidday mate!”

The man looked down at Master Five: “Gidday mate!” he cheerily replied and the two stood grinning at each other for a while.

The rest of us quietly tittered in our respective corners which, of course, prompted Master Five, ever the show-off, to say it again.

And again, and again.

“That’s enough, you’re just being cheeky now,” I warned him.

“He’s not being cheeky, you’re just being friendly – aye mate?”

We exited the lift with our new buddy now chatting like old mates.

“Would you like some celebrity gossip?” he asked pro-offering the stack of magazines he was holding. “I bring them up to my wife and swap them over each day.”

Would I ever. My eyes lit up like an alcoholic at what he was offering. I knew I wouldn’t have time, but I would make the time.

They took me a good week to work my way through skim-reading – none of this reading every article word-for-word like the days of old. I’ve still got some on the go but so far I’ve learnt that: J-Lo and her toy-boy have split, the late Paula Yates and Michael Hutchence poor little cute orphan Tiger-Lily has grown into an 18-year-old with a boyfriend, Orlando Bloom and Miranda Kerr appear to have done a husband and wife swap and Geri Halliwell had some new man on her arm which must be such old news that it didn’t even rate a mention!

Imagine my shock when I discovered Mariah Carey and Nick Cannon had split when, last I read, the so-called happiest couple on earth were renewing their wedding vows.

This was all a bit much for some ‘light’ bed-time reading and was certainly doing the opposite of sending me to sleep.

So now that I’ve been brought up to speed with such ‘need-to-know’ knowledge, I’m faced with the dilemma of keeping up-to-date or letting it slide for another year.

Based on how disturbed I was by many of my discoveries, I think I’ll opt for ‘ignorance is bliss’.

Best I brush up on my general knowledge instead then.

Birds & the Bees - round three

There comes a time when we can no longer avoid the “where did I come from?” questions and realise a private little sit down talk is required.

Yes I’m talking about the Birds and the Bees.

It had reached the point where Master Eight was picking up on various “rude” words from a school friend who had been inducted (or corrupted) at an early age via his teenage siblings.

According to Master Eight, this friend had told him to Google the word “sex” and it was the tittering between him and his after school play date (another friend) that alerted me to the ipad where they were supposedly doing their homework.

The images on the screen were startling.

A subsequent ipad ban and word to the teacher ensued but I now realised I had some explaining to do.

The next night I sat him down and asked if he would like to know the real meaning and he said yes.

I’m sure you’ve all been inducted so I will spare the details. However, I finished by saying: “So you know when you were four and you asked me why those two flies were fighting? Well now you know.”

It went well and, apart from the horror to learn of his mode of exit, he seemed relieved more than anything. Perhaps I had left the talk too late – after-all today’s children are exposed to more than we were as kids.

It was quite timely rather, given the kids are currently undertaking a Keeping Ourselves Safe programme at school.

As well as learning all the proper body part names and what is right and wrong it’s put them on first-name terms with the local cop who conducts it.

We were walking home from school this week when a police car came along the road. Master Five started waving madly, drawing a lot of attention to himself.

“Settle down,” I told him.

But the police man raised his hand and waved back.

“That was Ian!” exclaimed Master Five, before turning and marching smugly down our drive.

# According to family therapist and parenting coach Diane Levy we shouldn’t rely on “The Chat” as with all knowledge children should be acquiring information in small digestible bits at a rate that matches their ability to understand and in a context that is happening naturally.

“It is a good idea if your children can have this information before they are five or six.  That way, you take charge of it before their friends can tell them. By the time they are old enough to identify reproduction with their own bodies (about seven or eight), they don’t feel betrayed because they feel that they have always known.”

Diane, who is a tv presenter, magazine panellist and author says to start early giving toddlers a vocabulary of body parts that will be familiar to them when the time comes to explain reproduction.

Sooner or later you may be asked, “How did I get into Mummy’s tummy?” That’s the easy question.  “You started as a tiny seed and you grew and grew and grew.” And then you may get the big question, “How did the seed get there?”  If you can manage it, just give the straight answer.”

Diane also recommends age-appropriate books.

“Most children are fascinated about how their body works. Expect your children to want these “stories” over and over again. As with all other books, they will need to hear them many, many times until they have integrated the information.”

More information on this topic can be found in Diane Levy’s book Of course I love you…NOW GO TO YOUR ROOM!  

The Return of the Kutus

Last weekend Miss Five had her beautiful, long, golden locks chopped into a bob. Seven weeks of battling the ‘kutus’ will do that.

I wrote some time ago about our experience with nits when Master-then Four brought them home from kindy and shared them with the family.

The twins were only one at the time and, after I got over the shock of my babies having head lice, I realised there wasn’t a lot of hair for them to hide and found only a couple lurking.

But several years on, discovering activity in your daughter’s long and knotty hair, is a whole new ball game.

Although the rest of the family managed to escape them this time, it has still been a seven-week exhausting battle.

Female lice lay seven to ten eggs at night and when you treat the hair it is not treating the eggs. Therefore, when all the eggs have hatched nine days later, another treatment is required. It should just be a nine-day ordeal.

Not so this time.

Despite the special shampooing, fine-tooth combing, hair clip, brush and comb sterilization and hot water washing of the bedding, towel and school uniform on a daily basis, they just weren’t going away. And it wasn’t all the new lice hatching either. Big giant kutus would turn up the day after treatment. And so the cycle repeated.

How was this happening? It was doing my head in and, come to think of it, it was feeling rather itchy.

Myths abound that “well-to-do” people with clean hair don’t catch head lice and it’s often still a taboo subject. Perhaps there’s even an element of not wanting the finger to be pointed in the event of another child catching them but, after several weeks of unsuccessfully battling these invaders, I finally spoke out.

The teacher was onto it in a flash, sending out letters to parents and getting the children’s hair checked. This turned up a number of others, including, according to Miss Five, her close friends. Between them, it was kutu-central.

I don’t know why I thought I was in this alone, when, in reality, there were other parents close by dealing with the same thing. It hadn’t occurred to me that, of course, she was returning to school and being re-infected.

Funny how us parents had all stood together in the playground at pick-up time harbouring this knowledge for fear, I would imagine, of rendering our daughters unworthy of one another should their “secret” be revealed.

One day I decided to break the ice: “Oh those nits have been a nightmare but I think we’re on top of them now,” I declared.

“Tell me about it,” said the other mum,” looking relieved. “We’ve had them three times.”

Another mum joined in with her daughter’s experience and there you have it. If we’d just communicated this sooner, it might have nipped this ongoing nightmarish rigmarole in the bud sooner.

The catch-22 of the situation is that hairdressers won’t touch hair that is infected with lice but when you’ve got hair as long as Miss Five’s, it’s a mission to eradicate them. Life would have been a whole lot easier if she had short hair. Each night I’d spend nearly an hour combing through trying to remove the knots before attempting to comb out any lice while she sobbed in pain and begged me to let her go to bed.

We finally got on top of them, with the help of some diluted tea tree oil (repellent) sprayed in her hair before school each day and so I was able to book her in for the big chop.

Once proud of her beautiful, golden locks, she was happy to now get them all cut off. She certainly looked different but managed to pull it off and still look cute.

Despite a fair amount of scratching as I write this (have you been?), I am happy to declare us kutu-free and put all that behind us (for now).

So you’d think I’d have a bit more time on my hands. However, Miss Five’s new do requires straightening every day and I just can’t get it looking the way the hairdresser did. On Monday morning I had one nervous little girl worried that her friends wouldn’t recognise her.

After some attempts with the straighteners on my part she stood in front of the mirror and looked at her short, wayward hair in dismay. “Oh mummy,” she said woefully. “I wish this never happened!”

# Notify your child’s school or pre-school if head lice are found. Some provide information and natural treatments.

Fact Box:

# Headlice is a common problem around the world. They are small flat insects about two-three millimeters long that breed all year round;

# Their colour ranges from beige to grey but they may darken as they feed;

# Headlice cannot jump, fly or swim and remain on the head after swimming, bathing or showering;

# Female lice lay about seven – ten eggs each night while the person is still. Eggs are firmly glued to the hair and laid close to the scalp. Hair grows about one centremeter a month. Therefore any eggs found more than one centremeter from the scalp will have hatched and died;

# The eggs (nits) are small and hard like a grain of salt and are typically cream/brown or grey in colour. After hatching the nits (empty egg cases) are white;

# Eggs hatch in nine days and a louse will live for up to 40 days but only up to two days off the human body. Headlice found off the head are usually sick, old or injured and do not lay eggs;

# Common places they are found are around the hairline at the back of the neck, behind the ears and on the crown.

Lazy Little Sloths

I have to admit, despite all their good qualities, my three can be lazy little sloths.

Many kids these days are handed everything on a plate – which is then abandoned where they ate - and when asked to do a chore, it is meet with strong, protests of indignation.

It recently occurred to me that I was run off my feet doing all the chores while the kids were firing demands at me and, if they just helped me out, they would get their demands met quicker.

I pointed this out to them: They decided they would rather wait.

Suddenly I realised what I was doing: by carrying out everything for them I was inadvertently raising little sloths, thereby setting them up to expect everything to be done for them as adults. This would not be doing their future relationships any favours.

“Look, in the olden days, kids used to brave the icy cold and go and milk cows to have the milk to pour on their cereal,” I pointed out, but they just looked like they didn’t believe me and continued spooning Light n Tasty into their mouths.

It was time to introduce pocket money.

We started small – one had the task of carrying in the firewood, while the others shared the dishes.

It’s amazing what a bit of incentive can do – suddenly they were begging me to do the dishes. Trouble was, I found it hard handing over the reins and watching big puddles of water dripped across the kitchen floor and plates and cutlery declared clean when they were still smeared with Marmite and tomato sauce. Then there was the trail of bark from the door to the fire place.

But the problem with introducing rewards into the mix is you never know when they are doing things to be helpful or for an ulterior motive.

Master Five suddenly became really helpful that week. He went above the call of duty and on a mad cleaning frenzy. Cloth in hand, he ‘polished’ the whole house, including stair banisters and cupboard doors.

“This is a bit hard to get off,” he declared before marching over to the sink and wetting the cloth.

“Why are you cleaning the house?” his big bro asked warily, glancing up from the ipad.

“Because it’s all rusty,” he replied.

I didn’t know we had a rust problem in the house but the jury was still out on whether it was now cleaner than before he began.

“Mum, he’s just cleaning the house because he wants money,” Master Eight said in a knowing tone.

“No I’m not!,” Master Five protested. “I’m just being helpful aye mum?”

If he wasn’t before, he would be now, in a bid to prove his big bro wrong. But as I reluctantly watched him smear the now liquefied dust – or was it rust - across the glass window of the relatively clean ranch slider, I wondered if I should just let them be lazy sloths a little longer.

Spring Fever Again

Is spring here already or something? Besides the welcome but misleading sight of daffodils blooming outside my kitchen window since last week, you’d think, from the way my children were acting, it was.

I have written, two years ago, about how spring fever affects school children.

Spring fever is said to be driven by the body’s reaction to its changing environment; the increased amount of sunlight. As a result of improved moods, kids become more restless, disruptive, rowdy and generally silly. The onset of spring also brings a better climate for romance in mammals, including humans.

And, according to after-school reports from my lot, romance is in full swing in the playground.

Master Eight comes home from school last week full of the story how (we shall name them) Nate and Chloe fell in love that day.

Apparently they declared their love for one another by revealing their ‘crush’ written in their books. When they both saw each other’s names, embarrassed, they ran away in opposite directions.

And so began their romance.

The next day, for once, Master Eight was chaffing at the bit to get out the door.

“What time do gates open again?” he asked for the tenth time.

“Ten past eight,” I answered for the tenth time. “Why?”

“Because I want to get up to school to get on the computer first to play Minecraft.”

Yeah right.

Earlier that morning he’d got out of bed to tell me Nate and Chloe were having a wedding that day.

“But you don’t just ‘fall in love’ and then get married the next day!” I told him.

Despite his denials, this whole romance thing was clearly intriguing him and he shot off out the door to school to, no doubt, not miss the impending nuptials. 

When I look back at my previous story on this topic, it would seem nothing has changed. Boyfriends, girlfriends, getting dumped and marriage are still hot topics in our household but, still in denial - as far as my boys are concerned, girls are disgusting and vice-versa.   

However, their behaviour would suggest otherwise: Earlier in the week, after I’d dropped the kids off and was walking back across the playground I saw a bunch of giggling boys being chased by a pack of giggling five-year-old girls and was not surprised to find it was Master Eight and co. But I was surprised to find shy Miss Five at the helm of the pack of giggling girls. Both sides seemed to be having a ball.

But back to the “wedding of the year”: According to Master Eight, despite his best efforts to stop it, the wedding went ahead. Chloe and Nate exchanged loom band rings before kissing and running off – in opposite directions of course.