Broken Bones

I’ve never experienced a broken bone in my family. But that all changed last week when I got a call that my 11-year-old was in the back of an ambulance after falling off the waka along the loop.

After pulling myself together, I headed into Emergency not knowing what I’d find. It seemed to take forever getting through the barrage of questions at administration as all our contact details were updated before I was let through to see him.

And there he was, lying on the bed. Not the happy-go-lucky boy I’d kissed goodbye the day before, who’d been in and out of the pool with carefree ease and excitedly poking and prodding his presents under the tree. Instead, lay a child in agony, a different colour to what I’d ever seen him and with a totally different summer ahead to the one we had planned.

X-rays showed he’d broken his right arm in three places with a compound fracture, confirming that, indeed, he would spend the entire summer in a cast with it due to come off around the time school goes back.

He was subsequently moved to the children’s ward to await surgery. It was a long and agonising nine-hour wait for a child in pain when his limit of morphine wasn’t cutting it.

Finally, he was wheeled through to theatre that evening, where he underwent many more questions before I donned a cap and gown and went through the doors with him.

“Mum, should I order my dinner now?” he suddenly asked, taking me up on the offer that, after not eating a whole day (not that he felt like it), he could have whatever he liked when he emerged from theatre.

“A cheeseburger combo with an L&P,” he informed.

He was administered the anaesthetic and asleep before I had time to say goodnight.

I kissed his forehead then took a step back watching for him to take that first breath.

“Bye mum,” the anaesthetist smiled.

I took my leave and we waited two hours before we got word he was on his way back.

When he returned he was groggy and, of course, not interested in food. The following morning, he vomited his medication back up. Not only was he still in pain with two rods in his arm but he was severely nauseous as well.

You know they’re in a lot of pain when your child, who hasn’t cried once in his schooling career, spends the most part of 48-hours in tears, not to mention is disinterested in food or their phone. And it’s hard for a parent when there’s nothing you can do to take the pain away – you can’t even hug them for the intravenous in one arm or fear of bumping the painful swollen fingers protruding from the cast on the other.

The concern on his siblings’ faces when they came up to the hospital and saw the state of their brother was humbling. Despite having a rumble the day before, which went a bit far, leaving Master Nine and his ego a little bruised, it was obvious all was forgiven. Likewise, his sister was rendered silent as they took in the sight before them.

Even though it was an extremely busy time of year for accidents, the staff professionalism was admirable and, despite surely being used to children constantly groaning in pain, the nurses in the children’s ward had empathy in spades. The atmosphere in the ward was festive and I was impressed with the trolley of new books wheeled into the rooms for the children to choose from and take one home. Likewise, the generous Christmas gift my son received before he left.

After lunch, he was wheeled out of hospital and loaded into the car. On the way home we passed his friend and, while I beeped, he went to wave, then realised he couldn’t. The first of many realisations.

At home, my role as a nurse truly kicked in as I realised how little he could do with one arm. The first night home was harrowing with all the pain killers he was allowed and still sobbing in agony, there was nothing else I could do but climb into bed and try to comfort him with little effect. 

It took several days to get on top of the nausea and manage the pain. Concerned friends were showing up, expecting to find their cheerful buddy and soon realised he wasn’t in the mood to socialise so they sat, instead and kept him company.

And then on day three, when all the surgical meds had left his body, he snapped out of the gloom. Grinning from ear-to-ear and with his custom cheek, we had our boy back just in time for Christmas.

His summer will certainly be different to the one we had planned but, during a season when, every time I look at the news, there is yet another tragedy, I’m grateful that, with his bones healing, we still have our family intact.

Christmas Magic

This Christmas some of the magic has gone. Yes, we now have a houseful of non-believers. They’ve done pretty well reaching the age of nine and I’m sure that, had her friend not spilt the beans earlier this year upon finding out herself, then Missy would still believe.

Her brother, on the other hand, has been sceptical a while. In fact, I’m fairly certain he didn’t believe last year either but was smart enough to go along with it and still receive a sackful of pressies on the end of his bed Christmas morning.

Master 11 was told from the age of eight: “If you don’t ‘believe’, you won’t receive”, ie Keep your mouth shut and you will also wake to a sackful of presents. This worked.

There was no big announcement; One day, halfway up Mount Manaia, one of them said: ‘Mum, Santa’s not real – it’s you aye?’ and I just gave him a little smile which he could interpret any way he wanted.

However, his sister came home from school a little irate that her friend had spoilt it for her and I confirmed it by joining her with the unfairness of it all. (Parents, if you’re gonna tell your kids, please ask them to keep it to themselves!) And that was that.

It’s been odd this year, not having to put stocking-fillers aside, nor making the personalised Santa videos which would hold them enthralled waiting until the end to see whether they got the red light or the green for naughty or nice. (One year, Missy ended up in tears for her brother who had received a red light, it was taken that seriously.) There’ll be no more watching the Santa Report on the news, followed by shrieking their way to bed in excitement with his impending arrival.

We won’t be leaving a bucketful of water on the back deck for Rudolph and his buddies or a note to Santa stating: ‘Santa, you’re the best in the world. Ho ho ho.’ with some huckeroo pieces of chopped up fruit (phew!) I can’t even bribe them from December 1 that Santa’s elves are watching them ready to report their behaviour back to the North Pole.

I’m fairly confident your children won’t be reading this – mine certainly don’t, but perhaps, if they were thinking of doing some papier mache, confiscate it fast! I would hate to shatter their magical illusion. And meantime, soak up the magic that is Christmas with a houseful of believers.

Inner Voice

“I was wondering,” mused Master 11. “When your voice breaks, does the voice inside your head change too?”

“What voice in your head?” I stupidly asked.

“You know, the one that thinks all the time.”

Silly me but I’d never contemplated my children thinking with a voice in their head - it’s hard to believe that your children, who seem to be continuously making a racket and on the go, have an inner voice as well that they listen to.

Mine is constant. In fact, its flow of narration doesn’t shut down – hence why I’m an insomniac. For some reason, it decides to up the ante at 2am after only three hours sleep. I will find myself thinking about the randomist things and then wonder how I got there. It’s only after backtracking and rewinding the string of linked thoughts that I come back to what started it all.

Sometimes I’ll have an epiphany, only to, a, completely forget or, b, no longer care, due to my sleep-deprived fuzzy head the following morning. This is when I berate myself for worrying about such trivial matters and thereby impacting on the quality of the day.

But us insomniacs just love talking about how little sleep we get and no one really wants to hear. It’s probably almost as irritating to them as it is for the partner of an insomniac to wake and declare how tired they are after you’ve laid next to them all night listening to them snore.

So back to this inner voice; I was curious.

“What does the voice inside your head talk about?” I asked him.

“Oh, just random stuff.”

“Well that was a good question but I really don’t know the answer to it. I imagine, as we grow older and our voice matures, the one inside our head does too. Although we never seem to sound how we think we do,” I shuddered, thinking of all the baby video recordings I’d done in previous years where I’d wished I’d kept quiet.

“Anyhow, I guess only a male whose gone through puberty can answer that so maybe you’ll have to ask somebody else.”

A few weeks later I remembered our conversation and posed the question to a (way past) post-pubescent male.

After a good chuckle, he replied: “Yes, the voice would change in your head because the voice is your voice, hahaha.”

I felt a little dumb but decided to take up my son’s quest:

“But does it change gradually or overnight?”

“Your voice changes gradually, breaking up and down and squeaking so that means your inner voice would break too…”

I sat there for a moment trying to imagine this but, to be honest, it hurt my own head to try and even wrap it around this notion. There was no point turning to Google; my kids have never thought to ask ‘normal’ questions like why the sky is blue. I always got the likes of: “Mum, do teachers ever go to the toilet?” or “Why are those flies fighting?”.

“Oh, because they just are,” was my response to the last one, the kids then being far too young for the birds and the bees talk.

So, defeated, I got back to my son: “You know your question about when your voice breaks? Well you’ll just have to wait and see the answer to that.

“But please enlighten me when you find out – I’d love to know!”

Careers

When I was seven I decided I’d like to become a postie when I grew up. My mother was unimpressed. But then one day I watched the poor postie get a drenching in the rain and changed my mind.

After that it was a ballet dancer, then a teacher before I settled on working with animals. I’ve always loved animals but freak out at the sight of needles and, whenever I visit the SPCA, want to take them all home. Then I flunked biology so that put an end to that.

All throughout these career changes, my mum and poppa steadfastly said I would become a journalist. My love of reading led me to have quite the imagination which always gained 10 out of 10s for my stories which were subsequently read out to the class. Likewise, every morning, without fail, I would stand and conduct a long and elaborate morning talk, regaling the class and, likely rendering them bored silly. God knows what I talked about but, no doubt, the teacher knew she had a good half-hour up her sleeve to do the marking while I waffled on.

Because adults were telling me what I would become, I rebelled against it until I had exhausted every other option. So, at 17, after finishing seventh form and, unlike in the biology and maths departments, did well in English and photography, reluctantly signed up for the three-year Waikato Bachelor of Mediarts degree/diploma in journalism.

I loved it and they were right – damnit.

So, it is with caution that I discreetly steer my daughter toward a nursing career. It has nothing to do with my own ambitions – I would make a terrible nurse – and I don’t even know if the money is great but her sunny and caring disposition and love of first aid would make her the perfect nurse. Her art work has also gained admiration since kindy days so I have that all mapped out for her too.

In her nine years she has undergone many a career change; after I took her to the hair salon, she wanted to become a hair dresser, later changing to a wedding planner. At one stage, upon returning from her dad’s, her and her twin bro decided they wanted to own a building company called JJ’s (their initials), followed by a restaurant under the same name and making all their favourite food.

I just roll with it while harbouring my secret belief that she will make a great nurse and artist on the side. However, the other day I couldn’t help myself.

She mentioned a ‘piece of wood’ that was stuck in her finger from the mau rakau stick at kapa haka that day and, on closer inspection, I noticed a sizeable splinter.

“Off you go, get the tweezers and we will try and get it out,” I said.

“Nooooo,” she whinnied. “It will hurt!”

“Ok, well you do it,” I suggested.

She returned with the tweezers and, after a short while and with an exclamation of glee, retrieved said splinter and held it up for me to see.

“See, you would make a great nurse,” I said for the first time in several years.

“But then I’d have to do surgery and cut people open,” she replied, no doubt referring to Shortland Street.

“No, you wouldn’t, there’s all types of nursing. You could work with new born babies or on the children’s ward or become a Plunket nurse. Although I think your lovely bedside manner would go unappreciated with babies – you’d be great with the elderly.”

“What would I have to do?”

“Oh, you know, bring them their meals, fluff up their pillows,” I glorified. 

But she was one step ahead: “Wouldn’t I have to change their adult nappies?”

“Uh – maybe.”

“No, I’ll work with babies then,” she decided.

I’ve no doubt it will change a zillion more times and perhaps she will totally prove me wrong but I’m still sitting smug in the belief that mothers know best. I just won’t tell her that.

Halloween Central

I’m not sure how I went from being the Halloween Grinch to my home becoming Halloween-Central but Tuesday I found myself hosting eight excitable kids pre-trick or treating.

The oldest had been harping on for days about going trick or treating from one of his new Intermediate friend’s houses. Based on the fact the only piece of flimsy information he could provide was that he lived somewhere in town, I refused.

“I don’t even know his mother,” I said.

“She’s a teacher,” he offered hopefully. Then: “Well, she was, I think she got fired …” he drifted off, realising this wasn’t helping his plight.

I suggested his friends base themselves from our house and, next minute, it was all on.

From the kitchen window, I watched four big boys coming down the drive after school and then bypass the door to head straight for the basketball hoop. I was keen to meet these new friends I had been hearing about all year so, after a while, armed with two big bowls of popcorn, went down to his room, where they were now playing X Box.

The first thing to hit me was the strong smell of deodorant. These boys must have been having a Lynx-fest. I shook their hands and we chatted amicably. They were good sorts.

I chucked a bunch of pies in the oven, adding one more when another boy showed up and called them all upstairs to put a lining on their stomachs before the onset of sugar.

After that, they got into their costumes and were chaffing at the bit to go. I managed to rein them in for another ten minutes and, following a lecture about being respectful and a curfew of 8pm, at 5.30pm, they were off with their fake gashes and what-not.

“This will probably be your last year of trick or treating,” I called after them. “So enjoy it.”

“Wh-at?!” they cried.

“You’re too old for this – you don’t look cute!”

Next it was time to get the younger ones ready. I returned inside and found a text from a mum asking if my younger, supervised, trick or treaters could pick up her boy and his friend along the way. Apparently, they had organised it at school. Off they went and I filled up a pumpkin container with ‘body parts’ lollies to hand out to visitors.

As I absorbed the peace, I reflected on how I have never dressed up for Halloween and likely never will. It just wasn’t part of our childhood. In fact, the only time I went door-knocking was to sell Girl Guide biscuits. 

These days, apart from the non-believers, it seems to have become the norm. For as long as my kids can remember, it began with them dressing up and handing out lollies to the older kids who came to our door, to going around our neighbours handing out lollies to them, to now the full works.

They came home laden, to my horror, but I listened almost enviously as they sat in the lounge and debriefed on all the fun. Going by their feedback it appears, as well as being a sociable event, many, including the elderly, are embracing it (although, perhaps this is more a case of ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em). Some were handing out bags of lollies, balloons and even the dairy owner gave a couple of lollies to each kid! Some even got in the swing of things and played tricks, much to the kids’ delight.

Master Nine commented that he wished he’d had a drink while doing the rounds as it was thirsty work.

“So, if drinks of water were handed out at some of the houses, would you rather that than lollies?” I asked, impressed.

“Ye-es!” he vigorously replied, still on his sugar high. Before adding: “Well, Mountain Dew would be better.”

Instant Gratification

It’s magical how a song has the ability to quantum leap you back to a long-forgotten time and place in life.

David Gray’s Sail Away has me lounging on a pier in the Mediterranean sun somewhere over in the Greek Islands waiting for the ferry in 2002, the Poques followed us around Ireland on a rainy bus trip which, apart from the Blarney Stone, seemed to beeline all the pubs. Then there’s the dreaded Closing Time song, which signaled lights-on and therefore ending many a fun night at The Outback during uni days in Hamilton circa 1996.

Rewind further back to 1988 with the release of one-hit-wonder Tiffany’s song over the summer holidays and us aerobics instructors dashing back to school in our fluoro gear and crowding round the ghetto blaster choreographing a new routine.

But it’s not just songs that can trigger nostalgia. It may be clinging onto an outfit unworn for decades because it signifies a time in life you’re not ready to let go of, a rediscovered, long-forgotten meatloaf recipe associated with the bach or it could be a menial task, like pulling weeds.

I was crouching down doing just that over the weekend, prior to mowing, when I was taken right back to yesteryear to my nana’s red-brick Kensington house. My dad would mow his mother’s lawns once a fortnight and us kids would go along to help. We would take turns each time rotating the jobs of weed-pulling from all the places the mower couldn’t go. One of us would be out the front, the other out the back, another emptying the clippings into the compost. We knew our roles and it went like clockwork.

As I pulled my own weeds some thirty years later, I could still smell the grass clippings, mingled with mown feijoas and feel the twigs scratching at my face from nana’s mossy lemon tree as I dived under grabbing at errant foliage.

I don’t even remember if there was any money involved but, afterwards, there was always a cup of tea or coffee for dad and a cold drink for us and some (probably stale) biscuits. 

We didn’t complain about the work, it was just a given. Try that on this generation!

My kids are likeable, resilient and well-mannered children but, like most of their peers, quite accustomed to instant gratification.

They have their routine chores and I sometimes write up a list of extra outdoor jobs I need help with if they want the option of earning pocket money. When they’ve taken on the responsibility, I have watched their faces and attitudes transform as they feel that sense of satisfaction and self-worth in achieving a physical job and actually earning their money.

The twins recently had a birthday and, as well as numerous gifts, received sums of money from generous reles on both sides. Now, when asked to take on a job they say they don’t need the money because they have loads. When there’s something they want, they know they can buy it. It’s the never-ending birthday and the end of getting any help with chores.

In my eyes, as well as accumulating a lot of stuff, among a myriad of other problems, instant gratification can lead to raising adults who have no qualms banging purchases on credit cards, thereby living in debt. And many an elderly person will tell you that, at the end of the day, it is not money and possessions that bring long-term happiness: “We enter the world with nothing, we leave the world with nothing” – but the experiences and memories.

I was pondering this as I pulled weeds wondering why my kids weren’t out helping me, when I had another flashback: the stripy old bank books we would take to school to do our banking in the 80s and possibly the key to good old-fashioned delayed gratification.

My children’s bank accounts have sat dormant since they discovered the instant thrill of purchasing. I rehearsed a pitch, which I delivered to them later that day and was surprised by the response: They readily agreed to bank the remainder of their birthday money (although Miss Nine worked out the exact amount she would need left out to buy a Smiggles watch!)

So with their money safely in the bank and some tough-love on my part, I can now re-focus on turning out hard-working self-fulfilled providers who, rather than building up an empire of easily-acquired possessions, will hopefully be building precious memory banks to their own soundtracks.

It's Yesterday Once More

The Mangamuka would get me every time. Mum would bring the Krispie biscuits which supposedly kept car sickness at bay but the grueling, winding incline would always win over at the top.

We were on our way to Pukepoto, Kaitaia, where we spent most of our school holidays at the family friend’s farm.

As the only girl, I was vastly outnumbered among the five boys. I would rove between trying to fit in with the boys, who couldn’t resist teasing the only girl, and hanging round mum and her friend, who seemed to be having copious amounts of cuppas accompanied with the baking both had made at the kitchen table and catching up on several month’s conversation.

Upon arrival, we would always check out the barn; the three boys had built huts and traps in the new

hay bales. It would always be different. We would play Go Home, Stay Home, climbing and jumping between bales. I was often ‘It’ as they would let my brothers in on where the new nooks were. One time, they made a big hole in between bales and covered the opening with loose hay. I fell down into a deep well. It was a soft landing but I climbed back out and re-joined my mother and her friend for some more baking and eaves-dropping on their chit-chat.

Dad and the boys’ dad would be off down the farm – we wouldn’t see them, except at meal times. Sometimes we’d go find them on the motor bikes. One of the boys would double me and usually drive through mud and, once, cow sh*t, at full speed making it splatter up over me, much to his delight. Despite being petrified, I would always end up laughing too. Another time, one of the boys and I packed a picnic of the baking, took the dog and went to eat it in the paddock. As we climbed over the electric fence, I got a shock and dropped the baking, which was promptly eaten by the dog. Our eight-year-old selves ended up rolling around in hysterics. That was the end of our picnic.

We roamed the paddocks for miles to go eeling, often falling in the creek, having slipped off the rocks and would come back to a good, hearty home-cooked dinner.

They breed them tough up there, those farm boys - and rude. I would usually return to my school in Whangarei with new crass jokes and verses to an ongoing song I had learnt on the farm.

Those were good times.

These school holidays I took the kids up north to a friend’s farm, as I do most holidays. I take them the coast way so there was no vomiting. The kids made huts, rode quad bikes, took the dog on

adventures roaming through the bush and crab hunting at the local beach, fishing off the wharf and eeling in the creek, later returning to cook up the crabs and mussels as a mornay.

My daughter spent her time roving between the four boys and me and my friend, who spent a fair amount of time (but not all!) sitting at the kitchen table drinking cuppas, eating baking and catching up on several month’s chit-chat.

Dinner Time Phone Calls

It’s never a good idea to ring a phone or internet provider when you’ve hungry kids around.

It’s just going to put life on hold for an hour while you listen to a tinny rendition of Lorde’s Team on repeat. Sorry Lorde but I now loathe your song.

But phone them I did when I realised my stagnant inbox was the result of my email account being shut down several days earlier.

Admittedly, it’s not as bad as the days with toddlers hovering round your feet, upending things and pooing their pants but still, hungry, bored kids are not ideal.

There’s always the option of putting the phone on speaker and going about the daily tasks with one hand, which is what I do – it’s all about multi-tasking after-all – but it’s rather hard peeling kumara with one hand and, no sooner have I put the phone down, then Lorde’s song abruptly ends and a man’s thick-foreign accent carries across the kitchen.

I drop what I am doing and lunge for the phone. I don’t know why I do this when they’ve kept me on hold listening to their bollocks entertainment. I’ve been through this before, including earlier that day; It’s all about delegation, you see. I phone up, give them my details and security passwords, they decide it’s too hard and likely to make them go past home time, so they forward my call onto someone else ‘who can help’. I am placed back on hold, which is when song number one on their playlist comes on. Someone answers and I repeat the problem before they interrupt to ask my passwords. They inform me I’ve been put through to the wrong department and the song starts up again. Repeat this times ten.

During this circular game, the kids approach for food and I remember dinner. The potato and kumara chips I chopped earlier to Lorde’s sound track are now crisp in the oven but I hadn’t got the veges or chicken on. I switch off the oven – dinner will have to be staggered tonight.

I am now onto a young Kiwi guy who sounds like he knows his stuff and – hurray - I can understand! He asks permission to take over my computer from his end and I call my very bored daughter over to watch the cursor magically fly around the screen off its own accord. She looks from the cursor to me in wonderment and mouths “Wh-at?”.

She knows to be quiet because mummy’s on the phone and keeps telling her noisy brothers to shush. They’re well over it though and whatever’s on the screen of the ipad is holding them enthralled, causing raucous exclamations. I’m done with telling them to be quiet – I’m sure the IT gurus have heard worse and I had to listen to Lorde on repeat for an hour, after-all, putting me off an iconic Kiwi singer.

While he is mucking round with my computer I take leave of my chair and make another attempt at dinner. He tells me the screen has frozen at his end and asks how things are looking my end. I am looking at a fry pan, but he doesn’t know that. I run back to the computer.

It appears the man has fixed my problem but he’s thorough – he wants to check something else. I want to go. The boys have emerged from their devises, and Missy has decided she’s had enough of being quiet. They are all making a racket and bemoaning their empty stomachs. I need to put the veges and chicken on and also need to go bathroom.

I am back in email-land and tell him politely, I no longer care about retrieving the last few days emails I’ve lost, and with a headache from the loud, tinny music, hang up and pick up where life left off an hour earlier.

I never did find out what song number two was but I hope I never do. 

Return of WWF Super Stars of Wrestling

Be warned parents: WWF Superstars of Wrestling is back on trend!

Or, as corrected by my eight-year-old son: ‘It’s not WWF anymore mum, it’s WWE’.

This all came to my attention when Miss Eight rushed through the door one day after school last week declaring that her brother had copped a blow. It must’ve hurt – it is the first time in his schooling career he has been reduced to tears.

But by the time he came in a minute later, I realised my sympathy was a surplus to requirement as he was well over it. In fact, upon closer scrutiny, it transpired that he had even got his own back.

Let me just say here that I am anti-violence and the school certainly doesn’t condone it. In fact, when I next set foot in the school the following week, the teacher approached me to let me know how they had dealt with it. Amongst other ways, she was adding wrestling to the class treaty.

So, it was here I learned that this new wave of rough and tumble stemmed from the return of the Superstars of Wrestling.

Back in the day it was big! We’d earn our pocket money and walk up to the dairy to buy our bubblegum which came with collectors Superstars of Wrestling cards, which we’d swap if we already had. By memory, Hacksaw Jim Duggan, Hulk Hogan and Ravishing Rick Rude were favourites. Why I was into this, I don’t know. The wrestling itself didn’t interest me, but, like the Garbage Pail Kids series, which some boring old adults subsequently banned for their indecency, it was just another craze to get swept up in.

And now, it would seem, one of them had made a come-back.

At a guess, some kid likely came across it online and has given a demo to his peers, who have raced home to Google it themselves and study their own moves to try out on their buddies in the playground.

But being amatuers, this hasn’t gone too well, resulting in tears, fall-outs, sorry notes, parental consultations and tellings-off.

Apparently a RKO is the most popular move, and I only became aware of this after questioning my boisterous boy as to why he kept body slamming himself onto the beanbag.

“I’m practicing the RKO,” he replied.

“What does RKO stand for,” I asked.

He drew a blank at that so I Googled it and discovered it does not stand for Repeat Knock Out, thank goodness, but rather the initials of a wrestler. (Although, when I investigated further, the meaning sounded just as bad).

But before I could intervene and try to steer him in another direction, it turned out the boys had already moved on from this wrestling business. Besides the fact the school have banned it, according to Master Eight who listed off the names of friends who’d been reduced to tears, there were just too many casualties.

They have now, thankfully, returned to the much safer game of tag. 

Birds and Bees Fail

Master 11 is learning ‘positive puberty’ in school at the moment. Apparently he and his classmates love it.

I’m not sure what they are doing differently these days but I seem to remember it all being a bit cringe-worthy.

This is good right? It’s good to talk about these things openly and, equally, when he comes home from school and I ask him what he learnt in puberty that day, he’s only too happy to tell me. We have a bit of a laugh about it all actually. That’s how I want things to be in my family, rather than have my children too embarrassed to come to me about things. We’re not exactly hippies, walking around naked in front of each other – far from it – but we’re not prudish about talking about certain subjects either.

All this puberty talk made me realise it was probably time for the old birds and bees chat with the twins (nearly nine). So I got my hands on the Where Did I Come From? Book mum used with us kids back in the 80s and sat down one evening to ‘research’ what was ahead.

Pages one, two and three were all right: “We asked some boys and girls your age where they thought they had come from – Here’s what some of them said: ‘The cat brought me in one night’, ‘Dad found me in his beer’ or ‘Mum found me at hospital’.”

I turned the page: A picture of a nude man and lady in the bath playing with a little boat. Not sure what the boat was about but I knew the twins would have a giggle at the nudity.

I turned a few more pages – more naked pictures and text about breasts or ‘titties or boobs’ being like a mobile milk bar, various names for other body parts and then … how the baby is made.

I was cringing.

I wasn’t sure my ‘babies’ were ready for this but I decided it was better they learn it from me than in the playground. The following day I called them upstairs.

While many parents back in the day just left this book with their child and skedaddled, I decided to take a school teacher approach. They sat sheepishly on the couch, clearly dreading the talk they knew was coming.

As predicted, they dissolved into pink-cheeked giggling with Master Eight pulling faces and looking away, while his sister hid her face down her school jumper. As I turned each page, she would emerge from her sweatshirt, only to burrow back down upon sighting the illustration while her brother convulsed with hilarity, unsure where to look.

Finally, the image of the bare-bummed man and lady hugging in bed with love hearts coming out from the covers tipped them over the edge and they ran from the room. I didn’t mind - I had reached the part about how babies were made and gauged from their reaction that my ‘babies’ just weren’t ready to have their innocence corrupted with this knowledge and neither was I.

If they’re happy believing the cat brought them in one night or they were found in their Daddy’s beer, then so be-it for now.