Not So Kiddy Kaotic

Well I can’t say it’s been very kiddy kaotic round here of late – they’ve been away camping for the last week with no phone reception so I’ve not heard from them. It’s been very quiet but the trick is to keep busy.

It’s been a myriad of adventures – both with and without kids – so far this summer. We, once again, climbed Mt Manaia and this year managed to stretch out the lolly stops from ten minutes to 15. 

Taking Spotify music requests on my phone also helped add some gusto to their pace and they charged up the stairs leaving me behind listening to Ninja Turtle songs and the like, which received odd stares from passers-by on their way back down the mountain.

We also did caving and, this time, conquered the cave deemed too hard last summer. This was punctuated by Miss Eight relentlessly grilling me with questions about the little girl I mentioned who had lived there and died but whose gravestone we couldn’t find. I promised to look up the history when we got home but found nothing. Hopefully her curiosity has waned while on her camping holiday ‘cos answers I have none.

After the kids left for camping, it was time for some adult adventures: Mangawhai Tavern was the first stop, where we listened to a trio of bands, including Feelers and Dragon who entertained all generations, proving they’ve still got it. I watched as teenagers bopped along with their parents who were clearly reliving their youth, Their offspring had, no doubt, grown up being subjected to this genre by their parents, like I knew every word to John Lennon and Phantom of the Opera – two popular LPs played on my mother’s record player in the 80s. I wondered if that would one day be me and my kids and decided they would probably fall into the category of the 16-year-old girl nudging her boyfriend and smirking before pointing to her mother, high on the memories of yesteryear, who was dancing before them to the band Mi-Sex like there was no tomorrow.

Next day, it was off to the races – probably my favourite event of the year, where I had my line-up of horses already high-lighted to place, purely by name of course. I mean, ‘Sacred Rhythm’ – you can’t go wrong there.

Every year we perch on the hillside and slowly slide our way down, along with our belongings as we melt under the hot early-January sun. It’s standard practise for one or two of the babies from our group to go rolling down the hill also, and then there’s the drunken entertainment out in the car park as we queue to head to the Ruakaka Tavern.

Another repeat adventure was the Mermaid Pools, which I am still debating taking the kids over to. It can be pretty tough going and it’s hard enough hauling yourself up without losing your footing, let alone helping a youngster. But, after spotting the odd pre-schooler over there I decided that, if they can do it, my lot certainly can.

But as I write this I am taking a day out to recoup, finally reassemble the house and pack for our next adventure – our annual holiday in the Far North. Yes the peace is about to be shattered. There will be sand everywhere, constant food demands and, no doubt, squabbling. But I can’t wait.

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.