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.

To The Markets We Go

I’m sure I’ve written about my love of de-cluttering several times already. When I was a child, a favourite past-time was sorting through cupboards. Freakish behaviour, I know. But, had I known a professional organiser was to become a legit occupation, I might have taken a different career path.

Instead, I stick to my own patch, decluttering everyone’s belongings. Part of the joy is seeing unused items going to a new, appreciative home and so, when I was younger I would constantly hold garage sales.

Strangely, in contrast I also enjoyed attending them. Back then I would trawl through the garage sales in Friday night’s paper, highlighting addresses. The next morning, at the crack of dawn, we would bung our toddler in the car, still in his dressing down, peanut butter toast in hand, and head to our first destination. 

It was competitive out there, I learnt, especially with antique dealers and second hand shop owners. One elderly man, in particular, would scream up to the address, leap out of his vehicle and, leaving the engine running, bolt up the drive at a speed unexpected of someone his age, leaving the car door flung open in his wake. Usually, within seconds, he would return at the same pace and tear off to the next address before he’d even shut his door.

I didn’t take it that seriously but it was a favourite Saturday morning past-time for a while. I subsequently learnt that trawling through other people’s treasures was not conducive to keeping my own abode minimalistic so stuck to my own garage sales and then I discovered selling at the markets. But after a fruitless wet Saturday where I returned home with most of my junk and think I actually lost money by the time I paid for the site, I decided to call it quits.

Until last weekend. I decided enough was enough with the pile of toys and bric-a-brac I’d been adding to in the garage over the years so, like childbirth, I pushed aside the last memory and went back for more.

With sport consuming most of Saturday, our local markets weren’t an option so, instead, we headed up to Tikipunga the following day. It was driving through the darkness at some godforsaken hour with the skies beginning to open up, that I began to question my sanity. This was new territory and would anyone even be there?

However, when we reached our destination it became clear I’d made the right choice. The rain hadn’t reached Tikipunga and, as I began to unload the car, a queue of early risers stood peering with their torches to check out the newbies’ wares. I was still unloading when the bartering started.

The kids, still sleepy, moped around like muppets at first until they noticed their toys beginning to sell, then sprang into action taking over the sale - lest a sibling pocket their money. It was pleasing to see their class maths equations coming to life as they worked out change.

As the sun rose, peoples’ faces became visible and so, unfortunately, did the goods of fellow site holders. It wasn’t long before the kids discovered we were stationed next to a fidget spinner stand and, as the money rolled in, they were eagerly counting it to see if they had enough for their eyed prize.

The Tikipunga markets were thriving and still had a steady flow after 10am but, alas, the kids had tired of being sales people and we had to go.

With heavy pockets – not from cash, but from fidget spinners and some painted rocks Miss Eight had purchased – and an emptier car, we headed home, satisfied all round.

And I admit, I’ve already got a steadily-mounting pile in the garage ready for next time.