Kiwi Beach Holiday

Those whose grandparents held onto the family bach should be thanking their lucky stars this time of year. 

Every year I dream of having just one place to park up to spend Christmas and holiday and, afterwards, I vow to do things better the next year but the truth is, these days, with broken and blended families, everyone wants a piece of the kids, the lucky things, and we end up spending the day and thereafter, chasing our tails.

And so we found ourselves at 3pm, after a morning of stressing to get everybody to the right places on time, on the road to Auckland which was unsurprisingly, quiet and calm. I mean, who in their right minds would be traveling to Auckland on Christmas Day?

And the following morning, while we filled in time to pick up the kids, there we were in amongst the Boxing Day sales, which I’ve always likened a little to the illness of casino gambling – it’s sad watching the swathes of people trooping to the shops they’d supposedly had enough of before Christmas when they should be relaxing with family.

Travelling home in the heat, I looked longingly out the window at the large groups parked up under their gazebos with their barbis while others frolicked in the ocean. By the time we got home it was too late for such carry on so it would have to wait until the next day. However, the next day the kids were tired and just wanted to stay home building their new Lego sets and swimming in the pool. I would get my Kiwi beach day the following day.

But, Wednesday dawned overcast and the kids were still tired. Too bad, I was determined. I packed a picnic and eventually, after the usual whirlwind, loaded everybody in the car and we set off. Everyone was silent on the way out – it was obvious they didn’t want to go and to tell the truth, I was exhausted from the effort of packing the picnic and multiple sun screening, checking for hats, togs, towels, body boards, etc, to speak much either.

Pataua we were bound and as the grey skies stretched out before us, I was beginning to wonder if I should have just gone with the flow and stayed home. But then we rounded the corner and the stunning site of a sunny Pataua loomed before us and everyone perked up.

Out we tumbled and parked up under one of the many Pohutakawa trees in full bloom where we ate our picnic, chatting to the friendly locals around us and watching kids bomb off the bridge, before swimming, boating and playing cricket.

The mobile library happened to be there on this day (what a great initiative!) offering free books or just a cool sanctuary from the sun to sit on cushions and read, as well as outdoor giant-sized games of Connect Four and the like.

After that it was low tide so we joined the locals at the new pipi-picking spot (it changes every year), stuck our bums in the air and dug for pipi, cockles and mussels. 

Back on the grassy verge with our full buckets of kaimoana, the fishery officer materialised on cue, as he does every year, to check our contents. (We were under but the whanau next to us were not so lucky.) They are always very pleasant as they go about their job and happy to offer advice.

We drove back home content after a blissful day at the beach with barbequed kaimoana on the menu. I had got my typical Kiwi beach day after-all.

Santa Magic

This time next week it will be all about Santa in this house.

I’ve no doubt it will be the twins last year believing. Perhaps I could’ve strung it out a little longer with Miss Eight but her bro is seriously questioning the legend. In fact, I’m not entirely convinced he isn’t just playing along so as to receive presents in his stocking this year.

I’ve got similar suspicions with the tooth fairy. Last week his tooth fell out while I was at a work Xmas party so I didn’t find out until the next morning when he showed me the gap.

“Ohhh, you will have to remember to stick it under your pillow tonight,” I said.

“I already did!” he replied. “I got $1.20.”

Say what?

“Ummm … are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll show you.” And he ran off, returning with $1.20.

I grilled him, I grilled everyone in the house but they all denied placing the $1.20 there. And besides, why would they want to part with their money for a measly tooth? Which made me wonder if Master Eight was just calling my bluff because he was starting to cotton on. But then why would he use his own money to prove a point when he could have received more and that didn’t explain his absolute confusion as to why I was questioning him so thoroughly. As far as he was concerned, the tooth was placed under the pillow, the next morning the tooth was replaced with money, everything went as usual, end of story.

Had I just been punked by the tooth fairy? That mystery still remains unsolved and was further deepened when Miss Eight found said tooth several days later under the bed.

So back to Santa.

Last Xmas Eve was the first time I’ve been told to shoosh by the children during the news. It was the Santa report they were interested in and they sat there, transfixed, while he delivered his message.

After, a then Master Seven wouldn’t leave his vigil by the window, eyes on the sky. He already had a glass of milk going warm on the bench, with some fast-browning chopped up fruit (poor Santa) and a note stating: “Santa, you’re the best in the world. Ho ho ho.”

However, the following whereabouts update showed a glimpse of Santa in his sleigh and it was clearly a different Santa to the previous report.

“Hey, his beard’s too short,” pointed out Master Seven.

“Ah, maybe he stopped and had a haircut along the way,” I tried feebly.

“Nah, that’s not Santa,” he concluded.

However, all was saved by a trick of the light and a seven-year-old’s imagination for ten minutes later, following some more window-watching, he was adamant he had spotted Santa and it was back on.

“Ohhh, I’m so excited!” he proclaimed to which Miss Seven shrieked and they tore downstairs to bed with Master Nine following along smirking. He knows to play along else he will be waking up Xmas morning empty-stockinged.

Marble Resurrection

“Clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk, clunck, clunck, clunck.” I could hear them coming a mile away.

In they trooped, one after the other, flinging their bags from where the cluncking noise derived, on the floor.

“Hi mum!” they chorused, making a beeline to the fridge in search of their afternoon tea.

Afternoon tea was downed but they did not head to the cartoons. Because people, there is a new phenomenon going down and this is serious business: welcome back, the return of the marbles!

Out they come in their Click-Clack boxes (the source of the clunking noise – whatever happened to good old marble bags?) and they pore over their day’s wins, before heading off to the back lawn for their post-school sibling games.

It’s funny, I’ve had my marbles, mixed together with my dad’s from back in the 50s, sitting in his original named marble bag in a cupboard in Master Ten’s room since he was a toddler. Not knowing what they were for, he’s never shown any interest in them.

I’ve often thought about resurrecting the game but couldn’t remember the rules. Clearly someone else’s parent did for, one day several weeks ago, Master Ten marched in from school, by-passed the fridge, heading straight for the marble cupboard and it was game on. Suddenly they’ve realised the value of certain marbles and they are like gold. When they discovered their dad still had his childhood stash at his parent’s house, even better!

So holes have been dug up in the school playground – possibly the original holes their mother played in back in the 80s, albeit with new rules attached. These days they are to play ‘friendsies’ only. Apparently a handful of seniors were bending the rules by playing friendsies and keepsies when it suited, shafting the juniors out of their loot. However, after school, they are playing for keeps – hence the stash comparison upon homecoming.

“It teaches them some skills but needs a certain amount of supervision,” commented one teacher. “Because there is an element of gambling involved.”

True that but, oh great, yet another childhood favourite game that has gone all pc. Anyhow, there’s no stopping them.

This morning: “Bye mum!” yelled Master Eight bang on 8am.

“Why are you going so early?” I asked.

“Because Kelvin is giving me a King this morning.”

A King is one of the top marbles, in case you didn’t know. Followed by Queen, I would imagine. Then there’s Granddaddies, Bonkers, Galaxy, Swirlies, Pearls … Oh it’s all coming flooding back now.

So while I’m still kicking myself for not being the cool parent to re-introduce this trend, I’m meanwhile conjuring up the resurrection of another couple of old childhood favs: if you notice Elastics and Knuckle Bones out in full swing, you know who started it!

Mamma Mia

It’s often said when we start having a family that we lose a part of ourselves. Over recent years I have sometimes been asked what my hobbies are and, after wracking my brains, eventually have to admit I don’t have any.

When I was school age I did a decade of ballet, then there were the piano lessons, girl guides and pony club but they all stopped when I went to uni, then did the OE and returned to start a family. Who has time for hobbies?

But lately, with the kids all at school, I’ve been feeling like I need something for myself. The suggestions included a photography course (I studied manual photography at high school and polytech in the pre-digital days), getting another horse and ladies golf. Then I spotted an ad for auditions for Mamma Mia and a light bulb went off.

I’ve always loved performing on stage but, although I can sing in tune, I don’t have a great voice and so I phoned and enquired if I could audition for a dancing and chorus (background) part with no solo singing involved.

I went along and reminded them that I wasn’t there to sing. Sitting there waiting I was feeling alright about everything when in walks a 17-year-old who starts warming up by promptly sinking into the splits, before touching her toes to her head in a back arch. At this point I grabbed my bag and started making a run for it when the choreographer called us both in.

She was lovely, as was the girl I was auditioning with who happened to mention she had just made it into the Australian School of Dance. I wanted to leg it as we were taken through our routine and I clumsily tried to keep up. Six years ago, I was in Disco Inferno as chorus and dancer and, afterwards, I declared it the best thing I had done after having children. But this was clearly a totally different calibre.

“Right,” said the choreographer. “Who would like to go through first?”

“Where to?” I stupidly asked.

“Through to the audition,” she replied smiling.

Gulp. “You mean … that wasn’t the audition …?”

The confident teen went through ahead of me, making my plight even worse. Not only would I look like a complete doofus, but, following the likes of her, I would look like a geriatric flunk.

She went through and, again, I considered bailing.

But then the doors opened and it was my turn. I went before a panel of four or five who, although were extremely pleasant, had had a day of auditions and, I would imagine, would not have the time for the likes of me.

“Would you like me to do the routine with you.” asked the lovely choreographer, seeing my discomfort and realising I was a long way off mastering the routine.

“Yes please,” I gratefully replied. 

And with that, for the next five minutes I assailed their senses by flustering my way through the steps, making some up as I went along.

“Now, can you sing?” asked the pianist.

I shook my head in a vehement no.

“It’s alright, we’ll just get you to sing Happy Birthday and we’ll sing it with you,” he soothed.

Off they went in a pitch that was way too high for me and, oh-em-gee, it was high school speeches all over again.

I mean, have you ever tried to sing Happy Birthday solo when you’re not at a kid’s party with all the racket to drown out your own voice? It’s terrible!

Halfway through, I stopped.

“You can sing in tune,” the pianist euphemistically declared, no doubt, seeing my mortification.

I must admit, the panel were very gracious about my disastrous audition and I thanked them for tolerating me, then fled.

So ladies golf it is. Look out Pines Golf Course, here I come and, I promise, no singing or dancing on the golf course! 

Halloween Crazy

Sorry anti-Halloween folks – I’ve jumped the fence.

After years of teetering on the edge, ill at ease with the thought of kids invading peoples’ privacy by knocking on doors and demanding lollies, I’ve now been converted.

There was the year I allowed my children to go trick or treating but handing out lollies, instead of taking, there were the years they dressed up and handed them out at our door, then there were those years I locked all the doors and hid. The oldest has been coming home from school for the last two weeks reporting the latest Halloween plan plotted between himself and his mates and I’ve only been half-listening, hoping the whole thing would just go away. 

But, in retrospect, as New Zealanders catch onto the American tradition, so long as the non-believers are respected, and the children are polite and well-mannered, I’ve realised I’ve got to stop being a party pooper and just let them have fun.

And this year it was fun, with a fair amount of crazy thrown in.

It all started as soon as the kids got home from school. They raced downstairs to don their costumes and, not being able to wait until a more suitable hour, charged up the drive to spy on other trick or treaters. That was when the menacing boom of thunder sounded and the skies opened up to pelt all and sundry with large hailstones.

They tore back indoors as silver bullets ricocheted around the yard and the disappointment of being weather-bombed out of their Halloween fun, soon gave way to awe. Before our eyes, the front and back yards were transformed into a white, winter wonderland, the likes of which I’ve never before seen in Northland. 

Before long we were all out in it, summer clothes and all, scooping up armfuls of the 1ft deep ‘snow’. They threw it, they skidded in it, they brought cupfuls inside to eat and the housework I had spent half the day doing earlier was undone just like that with water, mud and (later) candy crumbs. Eventually it stopped and the sun popped back out, thereby declaring the trick or treating back on.

It was all go as two of Master Ten’s costumed mates got dropped off at ours before they all set off to pick up a fourth friend to do the rounds of the suburb.

Meanwhile, the younger ones were chaffing at the bit to get going so were escorted around the still ‘snow’-laden footpaths closer to home, while I opted to stay back to clean up the carnage and hand out the bloodshot eyeball lollies to the trick or treaters. When they all finally returned, weighed down with loot, they sat on the floor and had a debrief while comparing and playing swapsies with their stash.

The younger ones had passed a teacher with her kids wearing a Donald Trump shirt and Master Eight had skidded in the snow, up-ending himself and his bucket of lollies all over the footpath.

According to his big brother, whose area covered a sub-division with mostly elderly, about 80 per cent played the game, with one opting to ‘trick’ instead by chasing them, barking, back down the path with some toy dogs, much to the boys’ hilarity. Another proclaimed to be a witch herself and declared that that was what 40 years as a teacher had done to her. Others asked what their tricks were, to which the boys told jokes.

“There were some weirdos mum – it was so much fun!” he declared.

Judging by their reports, it would seem that gone are the days where the elderly are startled by the invasive intrusion of frightening-looking children knocking at their door after-hours and, for the most part, they seemed to be embracing it.

And as the vestiges of snow melted away outside and I tucked in the happy but knackered children, (having ensured they brushed their teeth extra well), I decided that, next year, I will too.

Clown Fever

I’m hoping, like the Pokemon, that this crazy killer clowns phenomena is just a passing phase. Although, judging by the amount of couples and groups walking past us multiple times glued to their phones while we were dining at the Town Basin recently, one would beg to differ if even that is going to end.

But this clowns thing, whether we try to keep it from our kids or not, they were always going to find out. It’s been the talk of the playground.

Master Ten came home the second Monday after the holidays full of it, having heard it from his mates. Then, catching a glimpse on the news, he, along with his siblings, was fixated.

Shortly after, it was the bedtime routine, amid much hysteria regarding killer clowns.

“There’s one at your window!” exclaimed the boys to their sister as she emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel.

She scuttled, right, into the lounge, instead of left towards her room, where she proceeded to stay for the duration of the evening.

“What are you still doing in your towel? Go put your nightie on,” I said, suddenly noticing the state of her an hour later.

“I’m too scared to go down to my room,” she whimpered.

“Oh for goodness sake, there are no clowns down there – the boys are just being silly.”

“But the news said there are clowns killing people – are they in New Zealand?”

“No, it’s all overseas.”

“Yes, there was one in Hamilton,” piped up her brother.

And so it went on. I finally got the kids to bed after ‘de-clowning the house’ but the conversation continued amongst them for a long time.

The next morning the hype continued and they went off to school ‘spotting’ clowns in the gardens and bushes along the way. By that afternoon it was the talk of the playground and tall stories of bravado were surfacing all around. One of Master Ten’s mates apparently kicked a clown in the privates while another ran one down with the car. By mid-week, Ronald McDonald had gone into hiding and Batman was now on the scene to hunt down the clowns.

But that was all last week and this week the talk has been on Halloween.

“So, what do you want to dress up as?” I queried after they asked if they could go trick or treating.

“Clowns!” replied the boys. “So then we can hunt down the real clowns.”

“But what if there’s a Batman who hunts you down?”

Their mouths dropped open while they contemplated this.

“Oh yeah,” said Master Ten. “Then I’m gonna be Batman.”

“Me too,” said little bro.

Needless to say, the jury’s still out on the trick or treating front this year.

My Least Favourite things

The antithesis to Julie Andrews song My Favourite Things for me would go something along the lines of: “Sticky tape and superglue, batteries and Chupa-Chups; Opening McDonalds toys  and likewise the Happy Meal cups; combing the knots amid hissing and snarl-ing – these are a few of my least-favourite things.”

“Mum, here’s your favourite job,” announced the youngest, handing over a roll of sticky tape and giving me a wry smile. Oh how I loathe finding the elusive end of the sticky tape, the request of which usually comes in the middle of cooking dinner with wet and slippery hands. And don’t even talk to me about superglue. How to use that stuff without gluing your fingers together is beyond me but let’s just say my fingertips have a permanent layer of dried glue and the bench a regular sheen from wiping up the fast-drying spill. 

Batteries? Like the superglue, which always needs replacing because the end has also glued itself together, these are a regular feature on the grocery list for toys and what-not but, on the plus-side, I’ve become pretty deft with the screw driver. 

Speaking of super markets, it’s standard practise for your kids to be eyeing the dreaded Chupa Chups at check-out and it’s all very easy to chuck a few onto the conveyor belt to keep them happy but then comes the hard part: opening the blimmin things! What, is the wrapper end super-glued to the stick or something? 

And don’t you just love it when you’ve sat down to tuck into your Quarter Pounder Combo, when three Happy Meal juice bottles (okay, they aren’t exactly cups but I’m no Eminem when it comes to rhyming) consecutively get thrust at you for opening, after you’ve already been bombarded with three Happy Meal toys ensconced in seemingly kiddy-proof plastic bags.

And the knots. It’s hard enough keeping on top of my own unruly mane, which tends to easily dread, let alone putting a seven-year-old through the torture of disentangling her lengthy locks – hence the transformation from sweet little girl into hissing, snarling wild animal.

But then at random times of the day, little warm arms, the hands of which still hold the vestiges of their tubby babydom, appear from behind to wrap around your tummy and melt away all those first world problems and these are a few of my favourite things.

Bossy Britches

“Mum, you have a bad case of repeateritus,” said Master Ten one day, as I went about cracking the whip on their evening routine.

Indeed I do but if they only turned their taringas on and did things the first time I asked, it would save a lot of wasted breath. I have tried every tactic to speed up the evening rituals so as to get a little down time but, as children get older, you can no longer shunt them off to bed at 7pm and sit down and watch Shortland Street in peace.

As I’ve lamented before, as soon as you walk through the door after school, there’s the afternoon tea and dinner preparation/consumption, bathing, homework and, in the younger days, storytime. Phew! With a husband or partner coming home amongst all that, you’re lucky if you can shout over top of the chaos a “How was your day?”

There is no down time because, by the time you come to the end of all that (multiplied by however many kids you have) you’re wacked. Then, once they’re tucked up peaceful in bed, you feel guilty about not having spent any actual quality time with them.

And so, always on the look-out for a way to make things go smoother, I devised a plan: Each day they take turns at being “Star of the Day”, who is also my helper. They make lunches while I make dinner. We chat about their day at the same time. As a reward for preparing the lunches they get to choose a half-hour family activity to do together in the evening before bedtime. But the challenge is, this must be conducted before Shortland Street, which we all like to watch. Therefore, everyone must be bathed, have brushed their teeth and put away their belongings by 6.30pm. It is up to the “Star” to make this happen and that means putting on the bossy pants and having a taste of what it’s like to be me.

“Boys, hurry up and get in the bath,” conducted Miss Seven, hands on hips. “How many times do I have to tell you?!”

They continued to ignore her, eyes glued to the tele.

“I’m getting sick and tired of this – open your taringas and listen!” she huffed as I observed from the kitchen, slightly alarmed by her resemblance to me.

“Mum, they’re just not listening to me!” their sister sighed, clearly frustrated.

“Welcome to my world,” says I.

The following night, it was big bro’s turn. “Pick up your clothes,” he admonished little bro for the third time.

“Who’s got the bad case of repeateritus now?” I quipped smugly from the sanctuary of the couch.

Death of a Phone

You hear about it happening all the time but as I’m not one to carry my phone in my pocket, never had it happened to me. Until:

“Splash!” And there is was. My beautiful new pink phone sinking into the depths of the porcelain bowl. When I say I’m not one to carry my phone on me I mean I am not someone who needs to be surgically detached from their device. I can easily leave it behind at home and, in fact, when I was asked earlier this week if I took my phone with me when I go for a run, I laughed.

But then, with the start of spring, I decided to capture my first run in six months, complete with spring splendour in the background. But I didn’t get this far. Not used to having my phone in my pocket I was careless and it took a dive. Regardless of whether the water was clean or not, after I had retrieved the phone, and being a bit of a germophobe and all, it was having a rinse.

This probably wasn’t the brightest idea either. The light dimmed before extinguishing altogether and, with that, my new phone, buzzed to a slow death. In the hot water cupboard actually. After pulling it apart, it was still making a noise I’d never heard before so, with hope, I tucked it between two towels and went for my run.

Upon my return, the buzzing had stopped and that was when realisation set in. What if someone was trying to get hold of me – it could be an emergency! I’d just cut the landline a few weeks previously and grieved the loss of the central family hub and life as we knew it as kids. Now no one could get hold of us unless they messaged through social media and that meant more time at the computer!

Speaking of that, I turned to Google. It advised plunging the device into a bag of uncooked rice to absorb the moisture. This sounded bizarre but I was willing to try anything. Oh it also said do not try to turn the device on for 48 hours but I ignored this and dipped my hand in to push the button after only ten minutes.

By then the list of people trying to get hold of me in my mind was escalating and, after trying unsuccessfully to invent a riveting story as to how it “fell into a pool of water” (jumping overboard to rescue somebody featured but, not being summer, this wasn’t holding much merit), I turned to Facebook to state my plight and ask for advice.

“There must be other muppets out there like me who have done this before?” I asked.

Sure enough, there was and the answers came thick and fast.

“Whatever, you do, don’t try and turn it on – this fries the battery!”

“Oops.”

And so here I am in a strangely silent, semi technology-free state which I can only describe as akin to losing a loved one a year on. It’s only a gadget and I certainly didn’t love it. But it’s a feeling similar to when you go to pick up the phone to call someone, only to remember they’re no longer there. Well it is but it’s still buried in the depths of a bag of uncooked rice, as dead as a door nail. I know this because I keep checking it every ten minutes.