Dreams

Why do people feel the need to share their dreams in every minute detail? The kids take great delight in sharing their nocturnal fictional adventures come sunup. 
“Mummy, I had a dream,” began Master Seven as he crawled into bed with me one morning. “I was driving along in my rocket car and those little yellow men off Despicable Me had turned into baddies and were shooting at me …” 
He was interrupted by a shriek from Miss Four upstairs in the kitchen. 
“Mum, Jai’s spilt the milk!” 
I never did find out if the baddies caught up with him and that was the end of my holiday lie-in as I went to deal with the carnage. 
But sharing one’s dream certainly isn’t just a childish indulgence – adults do too. 
It’s bad enough getting caught up by “a talker” when you’re in a rush - you know, the kind of people who just love holding the floor while they regale you with all the intimate details of another person’s life of which you have no interest. 
But at least that’s real life. Why would anybody have the time to listen to a great elaborate story that someone’s brain has conjured up during its REM phase while it, as one theory proposes, de-clutters their mind? (At least in print you have the option of turning the page.) 
I found myself on the receiving end of such a situation the other evening as I was recited with a fictional story of the after-math following the handbrake being let off in a car on a steep hill. 
Off they went while I faded out and came to, faded out and came to. Jaded from my busy day, I could all but blink mutely as the drawn-out tale continued. 
Perhaps I’m just envious. After-all, I can’t remember the last time I reached the stage of sleep where I could dream. 
So with that in mind I took myself off last week to a much-anticipated appointment at the sleep clinic. At $240 an hour, I was after some serious zzz’s. 
If I was expecting a magical cure I was wrong. Not only did I come away $240 poorer, but I had my work cut out. Basically, it’s all about re-training yourself, much like teaching an infant to sleep through the night (and I don’t mean ‘crying it out’). 
So far I haven’t began the sleep program as the thought of getting up in the cold every 15 minutes does not appeal but I’m determined to get my money’s worth (and some sleep) so will kick-start it one night soon. 
So I’ll see you out the other side of that one and, who knows, maybe I will be able to bore you to tears with my own dreams of Despicable Me goodies and baddies and runaway cars.

Royal Parenting

Did anybody else wonder how Prince William managed to secure the baby capsule in the back of the car so swiftly before he zoomed off?

He had to have been practicing beforehand right? Perhaps it was all for show and he simply drove around the corner into some high-walled, gated compound where he promptly hopped back out and had one of his minders do it. Yes, that’ll be it.

I’m sure we fumbled round in the car park with it for eons and that would’ve been after a fair amount of practicing at home.

It took a heck of a lot longer the second time. Trying to fit two newborn baby capsules into the backseat, along with a carseat for a two-year-old was no easy task.

And if I remember correctly, this was after the two-year-old decided it would be a great idea to take off down one of the dark, long, windy and seldom-used corridors on the way out.

I remember the fleeting moment of wondering whether to lug the car capsules down the maze-like corridors in pursuit or temporary ditch them and give chase.

Little did I know this was to be the first of many such situations.

But the prince and duchess have all that ahead of them. Actually, no they won’t. They’ll have a team of minders assigned to rein in each errant child.

I wonder if, after they zoomed off for show into the gated compound they had their driver drive at snail-pace all the way home for fear their new and precious cargo would come to harm enroute? How can any new parent forget that journey home?!

Like most around the globe, I watched transfixed as Wills and Kate stepped out and I tried to draw the kids’ attention to this momentous occasion. However, later Miss Four said:
”Mum, I don’t ever want to have a baby.”

“Oh, why not?”

“Because it will just cry and I’ll just have to keep fixing it.”

True dat.

“And it will always poo its nappy and I’ll just have to keep changing that too,” she went on.

“And it might be a boy!”

How awful.

I think it is admirable that the new parents emerged and spoke to the press with the world’s eyes upon them when poor, tired Catherine was probably just hoping like heck she didn’t spring a leak for all and sundry to see.

And it is absolutely fabulously brilliant that William had already changed a nappy before they left the hospital. I wonder if it was the lovely tar-like meconium one? I can’t imagine Charles would’ve done that in his day.

But if they thought the meconium nappy was bad – wait till they encounter their first power-poo. Wouldn’t it be funny if baby George happened to be sitting on Prince Charles when it happened. 

That image would be priceless.

Dinner Hits

How hard is it to get a unanimous dinner-time hit with the whole whanau?

I can’t even win with hamburgers and pizza anymore as one of the kids has decided these items are no longer suited to their taste buds.

The menu features big on the day’s agenda for my three - 8am and the conversation goes like this:

“Mum, what’s for dinner?”

“Meatballs.”

“Ew!” “Yum!” “Ew!” (said simultaneously.) 

That’s one hit.

Then the following morning:

“Mum, what’s for dinner?”

“Chicken stirfry.”

“Yum!” “Ew!” “Yum!”

Two hits but one’s not happy.

This causes the “victim” to fret all day about what’s going to be on their plate that evening which seems like a waste of energy but, if I’m honest, I can kind of relate. I remember, as a child, if I found out sausages and/or peas were on the menu I’d work myself up to the point of almost crying as the dinnertime deadline loomed.

So come tea-time, every night I either have one or two sets of disgusted eyes glaring at me across the table, like I’ve cooked it as a personal vendetta, whilst they painstakingly slide the offending contents around their plate.

Oh I’ve tried the starving-kids-in-Africa tales, to which some bright spark replies: “Well, why don’t we just send them this dinner?”

Perhaps I’m cooking the wrong meals. Yet, I am convinced my children have got the strangest taste buds: they don’t even like macaroni cheese and isn’t that supposed to be a sure-fire winner?

Last week we had a houseful of family come to stay and one lot brought up that week’s ingredients from their My Food Bag delivery. After they left we had a vege bin full of items the kids have never been exposed to such as brussels sprouts, leeks and cabbage.

Determined to utilize these ingredients, I Googled the best ways to cook brussels sprouts and decided to sauté with garlic and butter.

That evening they eyed their plates suspiciously and looked impressed with the interesting round green things and Miss Four liked the look of the bright purple cabbage.

“Yum!” they declared before trying it and I actually felt guilty about what was to come.

But, instead, they surprised me. They wolfed it down while I painstakingly slid the contents around on my plate unimpressed with my own culinary results.

But like I said, they’re strange.

So who would’ve thought brussels sprouts would be a unanimous hit (excluding me)? Maybe I should harden up and try them on sausages and peas.