School's Back

If you were wondering why a mass exodus of parents was outside school gates sans children and grinning like Cheshire Cats this week, it’s because school’s back. Just in case you hadn’t figured it out.
“Who’s excited for ‘getting rid of the kids’ day!!! Love you really girls xx,” read a Facebook message from one over-the-holidays mum earlier that morning.
She was quick to get a lot of ‘likes’ from fellow over-it stay-at-home parents who had, no doubt, also posted their own pleasure in retrieving their sanity.
As a working mum, this year was a little different for me. I hadn’t been driven round the bend from squabbling, bored children and had, instead, suffered mother’s guilt, dropping the kids off at a school holiday programme each day. The guilt was needless - they had a ball and the two weeks I did have off was quality family time.
Despite the fact I was feeling a little regretful that the holidays were over and some of the plans I’d had, involving spending more one-on-one time with the kids, never eventuated, the excitement was contagious.
It was like Christmas within those school gates. Kids were buzzing round, reconnecting with long lost pals whom they hadn’t seen for six weeks. There were new class rooms to explore, teachers to meet, stories to exchange and Miss Six wanted to show off her pierced ears to her friends.
I left Master Eight fast-pacing it across the grounds to catch up with a mate he’d spotted, and went to settle the twins into their room, promising to be back to come into his class. It didn’t take long for any shyness to thaw out. Soon they were playing ‘spot the friend’ through their new class room window, before they could no longer contain their excitement and took off outside.
I took my leave and went back to Master Eight’s class, where he wasn’t anywhere to be found. Never mind, I introduced myself to his teacher before going on a search which incorporated the circumference of the school.
It was reunions all round for both parents and children. While searching for Master Eight, the twins saw me and sped over with their accumulating posse. Then Miss Six spied her BFF making her way across the field and hid behind my legs. After all that talk about finally seeing her and showing off her earrings and she was too shy to acknowledge her!
Just then Master Eight, having reunited with his gang, was spotted hiding behind a playground structure. It turns out they’d been following me during my search and having a great laugh at my confusion.
I dragged him back to his new room to show me before offering a clearly disinterested Master Eight a goodbye kiss and cuddle. They ran away and, now a surplus to requirements, I left the raucous behind.
Content that my lot were happy behind me and thinking about the peace and quiet and about-to-be spotless house ahead, I found myself exchanging grins with the parents waltzing in with their skipping school children. In fact, such was the contagiousness of the mood, we just stopped short of a high-five.

Matriarch

The little boy and girl sat on the sill of my mother’s childhood home for many years – their story ingrained - rendering them part of the family furniture.
They were originally spotted in a shop window by a beautiful 16-year-old, strolling along the streets of Blenheim with her fiancé during the second World War.
She stopped to admire them. Her fiancé took note and, later, secretly returned to the shop and purchased them for her.
Two years later he was killed when his plane went down over Kapiti Island.
Although later marrying a wonderful man, she treasured those porcelain ornaments and, after moving to Whangarei, passed down the story to her subsequent children, their children and her grand-children’s offspring.
One house move later and the youthful figurines now take pride of place in the bedroom. On a recent visit, I overheard my nana telling the story to my daughter, after she had found her admiring them, much like I used to. I stood outside the door and listened as she regaled her captivated six-year-old audience.
It was a special moment.
But although her beloved figurines have been captured in eternal youth, this week my ‘dear old nan’ turned 90.
To mark the occasion, last weekend we held a party in the theme of her favourite colour purple. All the family came from across the globe – including first cousins in their late teens who I had never met. There was live music, professional catering, a full bar for the young ones, both moving and hilarious speeches accompanied with champagne - all in beautiful outdoor surroundings.
Unfortunately you don’t reach the age of 90 without losing many dear friends along the way and nana’s once vast circle was reduced to one large table. Despite some with ailments and grievances of their own, they all turned out in their finest and it was truly grand to witness their easy comradeship and banter across the table, like old times.
It takes someone pretty special to bring that many people together and my nana, the matriarch, was the reason.
The story of the porcelain boy and girl’s origins has been passed down through the generations and while experiencing many triumphs and tribulations since she first laid eyes on them, my nan still remains that same beautiful, graceful lady.

Bubbles

This year Santa didn’t quite deliver what Master Eight wanted – a kitten. Instead he got a goldfish.

His pet kitten has been a hot topic since (ashamedly) not long after we lost our beloved pussy cat.
“Mum, when you get me a kitten, if it’s a boy, I want to call it Michael Angelo or Rafael but Rafy for short.”
“What about Lucy?” offered Miss Six.
“What about Hatupatu,” chimed in Master Six.
“Nup, it’s Rafy,” Master Eight confirmed.
“But when you have a pet, you have to take responsibility for the good times and the bad.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well because it’s a baby, it will have some accidents. It won’t wear a nappy like babies do so you will have to clean up its wees and poos.”
His smile froze, before:
“I know, Jayla can do that!” He went off in search of his happy-go-lucky sister, who’d wandered off.
“Yep, it’s all sorted,” he announced triumphantly on returning with his sister in tow.
“Will you really clean up the kitten’s wees and poos?” I asked her and she nodded meekly.
I was not entirely convinced and getting a kitten at this time of year did not tie in with our holiday plans so he was told the kitten had to wait. Instead, I decided to test his responsibility with a gold fish. A last-minute Christmas Eve dash to the pet shop ensued where I choose a cheeky little nifty fish, who stopped to make googly eyes at me before darting around his peers and proving difficult for the pet shop owner to catch.
Of course I had to buy a bag of coloured stones and an old ship wreck for him to play in resulting in my ‘top-up’ present almost costing more than the main one. But with my soft spot for kittens, I was lucky to get out of there with only a fish and its paraphernalia, which probably had something to do with the fact all the kittens had just sold out.
Back home I hastily set my little friend up in his bowl before the kids returned and carried him down to the garage where he would spend the night.
Santa’s snacks were out, the reindeer bucket filled with water and stockings laid out on beds with three excited kiddies pretending to go to sleep within.
It took a while, they kept finding excuses to get up, until I showed them a Santa tracker online stating the next stop was Australia. I think it was most likely American and New Zealand had got lumped with Australia but I told the kids that this must mean Santa was already in New Zealand and they went hurtling back to bed, screaming with excitement.
At long last, all was (genuinely) silent and I got to work filling stockings. I carried up the fish who, by now, had calmed down and was looking rather dejected with his new surroundings without his buddies, and set it up in Master Eight’s room.
Finally, after realising I still had presents to wrap and a salad to make, replying to the children’s note and disposing of the snacks which had been left out since the morning (clearly they thought Santa should be on a diet this year – a measly packet of raisons, a rice cracker and a glass of water) I dropped into bed around midnight.
But at 4am I was woken with a light going on – Master Eight’s. I catapulted out of bed and turned it off while he was in the bathroom. But when he returned, he switched it back on.
Not wanting to do the whole Santa thing at 4am I shot back out of bed and switched it back off with a warning. Luckily he’d practically been sleep-walking so hadn’t noticed anything. But that was it for me. Like an excited kid I did not go back to sleep so managed to get through Christmas Day on strong Panadol.

At 5.45am, in raced the kids clutching their filled stockings and within half a minute everything had been ripped open. Sometime later that morning Master Eight went back into his room and noticed his fish. He was suitably stoked and, as he sat and watched “Bubbles” swimming round and through his ship wreck, proclaimed him “adorable”.

His fascination with Bubbles only lasted a few days – he is currently off camping and forgot to arrange someone to feed him.

And as poor Bubbles’ water gets murkier and murkier, I’m thinking, yeah-nah, Rafy… Lucy… Hatupatu – whatever it was – can wait.