Packing

It’s like a circus in the twins’ room after hours.

It’s my own fault - although they’re coming up four, I insist on still putting them down for a midday nap so I have an hour’s downtime during the day. But I pay for it, come night time.

Collapsing on the couch to unwind, the banging starts up through the wall, the whispering becomes louder until it’s full-on shouting and there’s laughing, lots of laughing. Yes they’re having a grand old time in there.

Finally I peel myself off the couch and, sure enough, their room is trashed through and through.

Putting one in the naughty corner doesn’t work at this time of night - any excuse to get up is a good one. But the one thing that does work, and it feels very cruel, is depositing the naughtiest one on the doorstep in the dark. They absolutely hate it and, although I only leave them there for around 30 seconds, it does the trick. They both shut up quick-smart after that.

The other night, however, the weather was particularly atrocious so I needed another punishment. With our impending move this week, I’d been procrastinating packing their room (procrastinating packing full-stop actually) because, amongst other stuff, there must be close to 100 pieces of paper each under their beds.

Under Jayla’s is her own work – she can easily churn out 30 pictures a day, which I try and ‘edit’ on my way to the recycling bin. But if I’m not quick enough, they get stashed in her “special place” under the bed.
Under Jai’s bed, due to his obsession with boats, is every kind of boat picture imaginable. Most of these are not drawn by himself but any poor unsuspecting victim who comes his way.

So when the yelling and yahooing reached fever pitch I had an idea. Reaching under Jai’s bed I pulled out a yacht picture. The artist had obviously gone to great lengths with the detail so I slid it back under and selected another – one of my own poor illustrations of a speed boat. I held it high in the air and dramatically tore it in two before reaching under Jayla’s bed and producing a picture of a person hovering in the air amongst hearts and kisses.

She looked crestfallen as I ripped it in half and, leaving the room, I felt decidedly mean. But, rounding the corner in the hall, the laughing re-started.

“Oh you think that’s funny do you?” I spun round and strode back in the room feeling like Hitler.

I tore up two more once-cherished but probably long-forgotten pictures before their eyes, making sure not to select one of my own which, I imagine, he probably wasn’t too fazed about.

Finally, after three pieces each of their artwork had been destroyed, they got the picture (excuse the pun) and fell silent.

That was six pictures down and about 96 to go – I was well on the way with the packing. I gave myself a pat on the back as I re-parked on the couch and tried not to think about the Tupperware container crammed full of cicada shells lurking in amongst the debris under Master Six’ bed.

Getting Creative

Master five has discovered the wonderful world of creation.

After many fruitless attempts at getting him to put crayon to paper, thanks to an arty friend at kindy, obsessed with Ben 10, Cade’s curiosity was finally aroused.

When my first piece came home, albeit a Ben 10 watch, I was stoked.

Before, when I’d get Cade set up, he’d hand the crayon back with a “Mummy do it” – something I put down to laziness or lack of interest.

But a doctor told me he displayed traits of a perfectionist - preferring others to do tasks for him and not making an attempt until he’d mastered it. I remembered this theory as picture after picture came home with surprising detail for a novice.

After my 20^th Ben 10 watch I suggested he try something different. That afternoon a landscape came home, followed by another, then another. Each became more detailed, eventually incorporating granddad on his tractor and even daddy surfing the crest of a wave.

Then began the family paintings: daddy in blue, mummy in pink – slightly shorter, Cadeyn in blue and then Jai and Jayla – smaller still – and in their respective colours of course. Trixie the cat also featured.

Our stomachs blew up to the size of balloons and our arms were no longer sprouting from our heads. Heck, we even had five fingers attached to our ringaringa.

Then came the woodwork.

By then he’d made a new friend obsessed with making guns. I explained that guns weren’t very nice. “I know mum but it’s just pretend,” he explained before bringing home 10 more.

We made space in his room but after gun number 15 enough was enough.

After promising that was his last, the next day he proudly emerged with yet another. “Lovely,” I smiled through gritted teeth before lecturing him all the way home about there now being absolutely no more room. “Okay mum, this will be my last one, I promise.”

It seemed my son didn’t yet know the meaning of a promise.

Sneakily, I began “editing” his collection, removing the smaller ones from the bottom of the pile while he was at kindy.

But no sooner was he home when I heard an angry noise from his room: “Mum, where have my guns gone?!”

“Ah, some fell off and broke – I told you there were too many,” was my feeble reply.

“But where are they?” he was now close to tears.

“I had to put them in the bin Cade.”

“Show me them!”

Damn.

“They’re not broken!” he accused after I’d hesitantly picked them out.

“Oh wow, look at that!” I exclaimed before they were snatched from me and taken back to their original spot.

Luckily his time at kindergarten ended shortly after and the gun phase forgotten. By then he had 28 of the monstrosities and, two months later, I again tried “editing”.

Dusting his cabinet each week I eliminated two from the bottom of the pile - there are now only four left and, finger’s crossed, no one’s the wiser.