Number Seven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Umm, yeah about that…”

Xmas Update

We had a bit of a clash between the tooth fairy and Santa on Christmas Eve.

Master Sixes teeth are dropping out so quick I feel like my ‘baby’ is falling to bits. Unfortunately, the top teeth have all come out in a row and it’s not looking pretty. After inspecting his new smile in the bathroom mirror he emerged, heaved a great sigh and announced: “I look horrible,” before adding: “I hope my friends don’t notice.”

I had my work cut out that night. It’s hard enough to remember tooth fairy duties at the best of times so, because I needed my wits about me, I didn’t partake in any pre-Christmas drinking.

The abstinence paid off and it all went smoothly. I went to bed leaving the men to ‘dispose’ of the Santa snacks and reply to the note.

At 2am Master Six got up to go to the toilet and discovered both the tooth fairy and Santa had been and felt the need to come and share this joyous news with me. Needless to say he probably didn’t get the enthused response he anticipated. Likewise at 5.45am when Miss Four awoke to find her and her brother’s Santa sacks full.

“Jai,” I heard her whisper across the room. “Jai!,” the call became more insistent as she tried to rouse her brother. “You’ve got presents!”

“I got jandals,” I heard him exclaim sometime later and with that I shot out of bed. Two heads flung back down on their pillows just as fast, as I entered the room. We have a rule of no peeking until everyone’s assembled together.

I went back to bed feeling a bit bad about growling them first thing instead of wishing them a merry Christmas. But not long after, once their brother had awoken, all the presents were open in a flurry, the kids had taken off to play with their new toys and I was left amidst a sea of strewn wrapping paraphernalia.

Which was why the oven timer method worked so well this year. Actually we used the chiming clock and every hour it chimed, they opened a present, knowing exactly who it was from and thanking the person. This dragged the day out nicely, considering the weather was so terrible we couldn’t go out and play. Before we knew it, it was 8pm and we still had to play Secret Santa.

One of the many heart-warming moments of the day was opening Master Sixes homemade present and discovering a $20 note from his piggy bank with a note saying “I love you.” Turns out he’d done the same for his dad. It was very sweet but, I’m sure he doesn’t have any concept of money’s worth and the $40 was quietly deposited back into his money box later.

“I was sure I’d get squirted when I went to the toilet,” said my brother’s partner to me towards the end of the day, referring to the ongoing practical joke I play every year that I assumed everyone was getting sick of. She almost sounded disappointed.

I didn’t need further encouragement. Off I happily went to set it up. As the toilet seat is one of those clear acrylic nautical themed varieties, I was sure no one would fall for it but, alas, my tired and heavily-pregnant sister-in-law made a stop off before bed.

Luckily she has a sense of humour: She emerged grinning sheepishly and, fortunately, still intact.

Xmas Frenzy

If it weren’t for the fact I draw the line at those ridiculous festive earrings, I’d be the ultimate Christmas geek. 

From putting the tree up, as soon as good luck would have it, with Christmas carols blaring, blinging out the house in fairy lights to the point I don’t like to leave the room for fear of a fire breaking out, baking for the neighbours, making Christmas lanterns with the kindy kids year after year, to leaving “snowy” bootprints on the doorstep for the kids to discover Xmas morning, I usually just can’t get enough.

But I have to say, even I’m a little Christmased out by it all this year. As the kids get older there are more Christmas parties to attend needing secret Santa gifts provided for, plates to make, parades to take part in, ballet shows, the final school assembly and carols to attend. Add to that the multiple birthday parties in the month of December and I’ve realised I haven’t even stopped to enjoy it all.

I guess it doesn’t help the kids are tired at this time of year and fueled up on too much junk food.

This year we split our Christmas in half and had a celebration with one side of the family last weekend. I find it’s less overwhelming for the kids when they are handed gift after gift. It’s also less mortifying for the parent when their kids hastily rip off the wrapping, barely acknowledge what is within, before moving onto the next while the giver watches on.

To help with this we will be using the oven timer this year and they can open a present by the hour. (Strangely, children seem to respect the oven timer?)

We’ll start the morning as usual by opening Santa presents, which brings me to a wee problem: apparently I didn’t clean the fireplace very well and the kids are worried Santa will get his outfit grubby when he lands down our chimney. And, actually, they wonder, how will he even fit if he’s so fat?

Good point. The fireplace door is pathetically small so we’ll leave a window open instead.

We’ll leave water for the reindeer and, as far as Santa’s snacks go, I’m under instructions from my brother, who, along with his family, will be staying, that Santa will be extra thirsty so the kids are to leave out more than just one beer.

After opening their Santa presents and discovering all the traces he’s left behind (heck, I might even go all out and leave a tuft of his beard snagged to the window) we plan (weather-depending) on picnicking, boating and playing cricket before heading back home for a barbi, more presents and Secret Santa. I’m still on the lookout for a funny present for this – everyone (except me) is getting a little sick of my toilet seat bum squirter joke year after year.

Another new tradition is delicious eggnog with all sorts of goodies in it and, depending on how much is consumed, I’m hoping to crank up the karaoke later on.

God help the neighbours.

Advent Calendars

It’s the end of advent calendars as we know them in our household.

Next year I won’t be lured through the eyes of my children by the enticing pictures on the front but will remember instead the monsters they became from the chocolates within.

What I didn’t count on when making the purchase was three kids, with greedy glints in their eyes, sprinting into my room at 5.45 every morning clutching said calendars.

“Which one Mummy?” the twins ask, referring to which number can be opened that day.

I hold it up to the light, blearily trying to locate the number while they clamber on top of me.

They then wave their sculpted chocolate for identification in my face, insisting no one but the owner touch it, before popping it in their mouths with great satisfaction.

Yes, I know – chocolate before breakfast is disgusting and I quietly cringe every morning. But I slipped up by not setting the ground rules from the start and, quite frankly, can’t be bothered dealing with the fall-out before 6am.

One day Miss Four came bounding up the stairs to inform me her brother was eating all his chocolates. I didn’t believe it at first but, upon inspection, sure enough, there he was licking his chocolate-covered chops after gutsing down five in a row. And he would’ve kept going had he not been busted.

As a result his calendar was confiscated for five days and Master Four had to be on his best behaviour to earn it back.

Then, low and behold, sometime later Miss Four discovered that numerous chocolates from her advent calendar were missing.

Her brothers swear it wasn’t them and, try as I might to slip them up by grilling them – detective-style - “When you ate your sister’s chocolates, was one of them the bell shape?”- they maintain their innocence.

The jury’s still out on that one - it seems the chocolates have gone truly awol.

So I’ve warned them I’m pulling the plug on chocolate calendars next year. Instead I will do what several of my friends have done and create an advent calendar a little more like the original.

Behind the windows will be a range of activities, including baking Xmas cookies, watching a Christmas movie, going on the Christmas lights trail or doing a good deed for others like donating toys to the Salvation Army. Not only is it teaching them the art of giving, but it’s spending quality family time.

Hopefully it reiterates the real meaning of Christmas and they take to it with the same enthusiasm they have the chocolate calendars. If not, then I’ll need to come up with another bartering tool. The “Santa’s little elves are watching you” reminder seems to have lost its impact this year but the threat of taking away their chocolate advent calendars has worked a treat.

Halloween

Whether we like it or loathe it, Halloween appears to be here to stay.

The youngest generations have grown up with it being the norm but, for the older ones, it’s baffling, annoying and just plain frightening. The trouble with Halloween in our country is we’re just in the wrong hemisphere.

After sitting on the fence, leaning more towards thinking those against it were being party poopers, after Wednesday night – experiencing it from both sides of the door - I’m now in the ‘Leave Halloween to the Americans’ camp.

In previous years trick or treaters have always caught me by surprise, probably resulting in our house being black-listed after I could only come up with a few measly packets of raisons. The kids looked seriously ripped off. So this year I bought a family pack of Macintosh’s Toffee and, forgot all about it as I set off on an evening walk.

Along the way we encountered numerous trick or treaters who looked to be having a successful time with bulging loot bags.

Returning home I found my lot bouncing on the trampoline happily oblivious to the tradition. It turned out I’d way over-catered - when I asked if they’d been handing out lollies at the door they looked curiously bewildered before asking if they could go trick or treating too.

What the heck, I thought and helped them don costumes from the dress up box. Before setting off I filled my pockets with Macintoshs’ for the kids to hand out in the hope of getting rid of them while simultaneously not coming across as being demanding.

“Trick or treat,” they chorused proffering a McIntosh to the home owner.

Luckily they didn’t know any different because, apart from a bag of nuts each, they came away empty-handed. But they didn’t mind – they were just stoked to be out in their costumes handing out lollies.

We only went to a handful of houses but the reactions we encountered ranged from pleasant surprise, sending the home owner into a flurry at not having anything to give back, to a curt “No, I don’t subscribe to Halloween,” with a blunt refusal of the lollies kindly offered from three little outstretched hands. Their crestfallen faces prompted me to tell them they could eat the lollies themselves.

But despite striking that particular person off my neighbourhood Christmas baking list, I had to later admit that I no longer “subscribe” to Halloween either.

Once the kids were in bed a loud rapping on the door alerted me to a mob of about ten kids on the back deck who, apart from the oldest one pulling his sweatshirt over his mouth and a bandana over his eyes to look like a bandit, had made no effort to dress up.

“Give us some lollies,” he demanded in what he hoped was a badit’s voice.

“Where’s your manners?” I demanded back reluctantly giving them a lolly each before they raced off round to the front door and rang the doorbell there. Nice try.

It’s ones like that who give trick or treaters the bad rap and I don’t blame residents for not taking kindly to strangers, who could possibly scare the living daylights out of them, approaching their private property after hours and demanding sweets.

So what if residents, as one Advocate reader suggested, signal they are playing the trick or treat game by leaving an outside light on? This is a good idea in theory but, with daylight savings, school kids would have to wait until late for this to be effective.

Which brings me back to my first point: we are simply in the wrong hemisphere for Halloween to work here.

Next year I’m being a party pooper – we’ll be staying at home where I’ll lock all the doors, disconnect the doorbell and hide.

Ginga

So apparently it was “Hug a ginga day” last Friday. We were made aware of this when Jayla’s ballet teacher – a fellow ginga – approached her after class with arms outstretched. Miss Three accepted the embrace but continued to look baffled until she asked me the reason for the hug later in the car.

“Well today is a special day for people with orange hair like you,” I explained. (It is orange and I’m sticking to that). “Some people call people with orange hair “gingas” because it’s another word for ginger and that is the colour of your hair.”

I then suggested she give her nana – another fellow “red head” and probably the source of her own – a hug when she saw her later that day.

As far as I can remember the word ginga was coined in the late nineties as yet another way to take the mickey out of red heads. Around this time mullets also became a hair style to mock.

I’m ashamed to say my university friends and I jumped on this bandwagon and I seem to recall us purchasing ginga wigs, which we subsequently chopped into mullets and donned before spending the good part of a Friday carrying out a pub crawl around Hamilton.

Karma caught up years later as, funnily enough, most of us went on to either marry a ginga or have ginga children.

Equally funny, the ginga jokes dried up about then.

Some people take it too far, such as the Facebook “friend” whose sometimes misguided wit led him to post a photo on my wall of a conservation sign stating “Kill the wild ginger.”

In actual fact, redheads make up just two per cent of the global population and, according to some scientists, are threatened with extinction.

Some gingas call themselves gingas, some take offense, others are bemused. If you are a ginga it probably doesn’t pay to Google it. One of the more euphemistic explanations reads as follows:

“A normal human being that just happens to be born with red hair, a lot of freckles, and white skin. They are not some sort of creature they are normal people. They live in houses! Not burrows. They aren't the result of some weird disease. They were just born with red hair, freckles, and white skin! Men find them prettier and more exotic! They are typically smarter!”

My little "Ginga"

I tend to agree with this, although judging by the amount of exclamation marks I’d say it was probably written by a ginga.

It’s early days but my little carrot top may have escaped the freckles that often go hand in hand with auburn hair – her skin is more olive than her two little white-boy brothers. But besides, she’s proud of her copper locks:

Later, on “hug a ginga day” she raced up to her nana and declared: “Happy orange day!”

     

Santa

“Mum, my friends at school told me Santa died,” Cade said to me the other day, looking upset.

“Who?!”

“Everyone.”

“Well if they don’t believe in him then they won’t get any presents. Do you believe in him?”

“Yes,” he looked relieved.

I refused to believe the rumours floating around primary school myself until it was broken to me at the age of nine. I was gutted but cheekily went on putting my oversize pillowcase “stocking” at the end of my bed every Christmas Eve. This carried on right through the teenage years until I’d come home from Uni, delve into the cupboard and leave it out before going out on the town.

Then one year I woke (or came home?) to find it empty - the disappointment was beyond belief.

I’m not sure my children’s Santa will be quite so generous but, determined to exploit the innocence while it lasts, I thought Cade would be stoked with his call from Santa. I’d set it up so the phone rang in five minutes and, when the call came, got him to answer it.

I watched as he put the phone to his ear and a frown began to form.

“Who is this?” he demanded. “Mum, I think it’s Santa.

“Santa!” he began to shout, growing more and more frustrated.

Finally he slammed the phone down in disgust.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“I think that was Santa but he wouldn’t stop talking and listen to me!”

Later, I listened to the call and discovered the reason for his frustration.

My god, that Santa could talk! On and on he prattled not stopping for breath.

Some weeks later the kids received another message from Santa, this time via email.

I lined them up in front of the computer to watch their individual messages which had been personalised by their aunty.

It was fantastic. The kids sat transfixed listening and watching Santa and his elves use graphics of themselves at milestone moments throughout the year. Jai was asked to start using the toilet, Jayla to remember to pick up her toys and Cade to be nice to his brother and sister. Finally the moment came where Santa’s special machine decided whether they were deserving of receiving the gift they’d wished for and everyone held their breath.

When the green light came on (as opposed the red) they all cheered and clapped.

“Hurray, that means I’m getting Smurfs,” announced Cade gleefully.

I froze. I happened to know that their Santa presents had already been sorted and Smurfs were not included.

I also happened to know that Master Five’s Smurf collection, passed down from the grandparents, did not include the much-longed for Smurfette, who I think he may just be in love with, just quietly.

Apart from in a McDonald’s happy meal, I’m yet to find where to purchase Smurfs and the elusive Smurfette so I passed the problem back onto the Aunty who’d sent the email in the first place.

She was on the ball and ordered some online.

So tonight we’re all set for Santa. We’ll be leaving out the cookies and beer, water for the reindeers and maybe, just maybe, they’ll leave some powdery footprints on the lawn.

Yes, Santa is definitely alive and kicking around these parts.

* It may be too late to “barter” with but you can make personalised messages at www.portablenorthpole.tv/home

Xmas Spirit

If your calendar’s anything like mine the month of December will be filled with Santa parades, the Summer Show, the Christmas Festival, end-of-year concerts, assemblies and parties, work dos and birthday parties. There isn’t a single slot free.

December 1 is marked “Put Xmas tree up!!!” As it is considered bad luck to jump the gun here, I make myself wait until the first of the month and with carols cranking the tree is erected with vigour... for the first five minutes.

Two hours and several broken decorations from curious over-zealous hands later, we have an assembled, albeit evermore threadbare, masterpiece amid a thick carpet of pine needles.

As we stand amongst the carnage admiring the twinkling fairy lights, the cat decides to add to it by pouncing up onto one of the top, weaker branches. Down the tree topples in a twinkling, tinselly mess.

The cat is thrown out the door in disgust and it’s back to square one. Another hour later 
and with much less enthusiasm, the job is complete. Chocolate Christmas calendars are handed out and the theme is set for the month.

Although I must admit, in a desperate moment in November, to already pulling out the: “Santa’s little elves are watching you from now on. If you’re naughty, it will get back to Santa in the North Pole and you won’t get any presents.”

This is immediately effective as three little heads start swiveling round in search. “But where are they mummy?” they ask, looking worried.

“Oh, they hide in bushes and all sorts of secret places,” I say knowingly. “You never know when they’ll be watching so you better make sure you’re good all the time.”

This starts to wear thin by mid-December so I’m trying not to over-do it.

The Santa parade came about after I looked through some old photo albums at kindy and stumbled upon pictures of children (including myself amusingly) on a float representing Onerahi Kindergarton. After making the passing comment that we had to get the tradition back up and running I’d found myself nominated with two weeks to organise it.

I lost sleep that night and was thankfully saved the next day when another mother offered to take over most of the organising. This is going ahead today and will hopefully be the re-start of many more.

The kids have taken great delight in watching the Summer Show progress as we drove past this week with new tents springing up each day. Having forgotten their visits from previous years I filled them in on what it’s about.

That night Jayla excitedly met her dad at the door.
”Daddy, we’re going on the “roger” cars and we’re going to crash into you!” (She somehow misinterpreted “dodgem cars”.)

“And I’m going on the “Wherris” Wheel!” shouted Jai. (We’ll see about that.)

“And then you’re going to watch me in my show,” added Jayla.

A puzzled pause before we realise she’s confused the Summer Show for her ballet show (which she’s been harping on about for the last six weeks).

Finally, a day or two after Christmas, the tree is hastily pulled back down - depositing another 10,000 pine needles - amidst a flurry of packing. It’s the last thing you want to face in the New Year when you arrive home from a week-long camping trip with ten bags of washing in tow.

Plus it’s bad luck.