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.

Routines

I’m all for routines and it’s a well-known fact that children thrive on them. If I had my way I’d have the kids feed, bathed and in bed by 4.30pm.

I almost did the other day. It got to the bedtime bit and then I looked at the clock. This had the potential to backfire with them waking at 4am so I decided to let them ‘stay up’ and do a quiet activity.

Because it was darkening outside, I haven’t yet taught two of them to tell the time and it didn’t occur to the oldest to check the clock, this went down like I’d just announced they could have a bag of lollies for supper.

They were little angels and quietly went about their respective drawing, writing and car activities allowing me to watch the likes of the Ellen show and the news (while multi-tasking of course) undisturbed. By the time Shortland Street came on, they happily trotted off to bed, believing they’d had a pretty radical treat.

The next night, I again fed them early and Master Four, a stickler for routine, moseyed off to run the bath at 4.15pm announcing “I’m gonna have the first bath and then I can stay up and do an activity.”

What a treat!

This made for a no-fuss bed-time, considering, before this, the only way I could coax them to bed was promising a “great big boof”. This is when they get thrown into bed with a “boof”. It went from swinging them with a “one and a two and a three – boof” to the boof never being big enough so each night they had to be swung and dropped onto their pillows from a greater height. Not ideal on one’s back with growing kids.

But I’ll happily summon up the strength to give them a great big boof if I get a whole lot of down-time at the end of the day. In fact, there’s a good line-up on tv tonight so I might go peel the spuds now.

Power Shopping

When I announced to my friend I was taking my three children shopping she looked at me like I needed my head read.

I’ve written about clothes shopping with babies and grocery shopping with kids. I wouldn’t recommend it but, this time, we were on holiday and I had no choice.

After-all, what’s a trip to the Mount without beaching, climbing the Mount itself, an after-hours drink at the Astrolabe for old time’s sake and visiting BayFair?

What I hadn’t counted on was the fact it was a public holiday and the shopping centre didn’t open until 1pm. We got there at 12.20.

Time is precious whilst shopping with kids but, no worries, the food hall was open so we sat down and shared a plate of sushi. That killed ten minutes so I followed up with a piece of caramel slice. We still had twenty minutes till the grand opening so I paid for a ride on a carousel which they were really far too big for.

Twelve forty-five and we were camped outside my favourite shop – Valley Girl.

“Now guys, just remember you’ve had your treats so now you’ve got to be good,” I warned, fully aware I’d done things in the wrong order.

The doors finally opened and we charged in. I say charged because it really was a case of power-shopping. I wasn’t sure how long we were all going to last.

But my kids surprised me. They embraced the whole shopping thing with gusto (or perhaps it was the sugar rush) and it wasn’t long before I was being plied with garments.

“Mum, what about this?” shouted Master Four from across the other side of the shop pulling out a leopard-print one-piece.

“Ah no, Mummy’s not really into leopard print.”

“Mum what about this?” Miss Four produced a hot-pink frilly number and looked crest-fallen when I pulled a face.

I added it to my pile anyway and we headed for the changing room. I hate trying on clothes at the best of times and these fitting rooms were tiny. I allowed Miss Four to come in with me and ushered the boys to one across from us.

What is it with kids having to peer under partitions? As well as my suspicions of this occurring – the stifled giggles a dead-giveaway - it didn’t take long before the toilet humour started up.

Please don’t, I silently pleaded, frantically flinging clothes around the dressing room in an attempt to speed things up. And then they had to go and take it a step further:

“Who farted?!” yelled Master Four in his over-loud voice.

The whole changing rooms, which were bustling a minute ago, fell silent, before a bunch of teenage girls began snickering.

“We have got to get out of here,” I said to Miss Four, giving up and getting dressed. I entertained the idea of disowning and leaving them behind but then remembered we were in a different town where no one knew us. Taking a deep breath, I emerged to a combination of bemused stares and ill-suppressed smirks from the fellow shoppers in a queue, who’d, most likely, just stepped out for some quiet retail therapy. I rounded up my boys who surfaced wearing silly grins and we headed to K Mart instead. Here they submerged themselves in the toy section while I wandered off and loaded up my basket with clothes I could no longer be bothered trying on.

Leaving the store we were greeted by a marching band playing the bag pipes in tribute to Anzac Day. While Master Four broke into dance, grinning from ear to ear, the other two recoiled in horror, pinning their hands to their ears.

“That sounds terrible mum,” shouted Master Seven overtop the music. 

“Yeah mum, that’s terrible,” parroted Miss Four.

“But I love the bag pipes. In fact, we’re going to listen to them again,” I said gleefully leading them across to the other side of the mall to await the band’s circuit.

Once again, Master Four danced while the other two covered their ears. 

“But mum, why do you like that?” Master Seven asked as the resonating sounds died away. “They were terrible – they hadn’t even practiced!” claimed my bag pipe connoisseur for all and sundry to hear.

On that note, and with several purchases of which I had no idea if they fit, I decided to call it quits, probably much to the entire Bayfair’s relief.

Coffee

I’m one of those rare freaks of nature who doesn’t drink tea or coffee. But, last weekend, after only one hour’s sleep (which wasn’t even self-inflicted, unlike the weekend before) and faced with three energetic kids on my own all weekend, I decided to take up the practice.

Any visitor that comes to our house knows they’re not going to get a good brew – the world of flat whites, cappuccinos and chai lattes is foreign to me. Plus the standard coffee in the jar is so seldom used, it’s now ground solid. Therefore one can either take to stabbing it with a knife to loosen the granules or select from my array of proudly collected sachets (the contents of which are also foreign to me) but saved for this very reason.

While the kids had long been tearing the house up, I eventually prised myself out of bed and opted for a lucky dip of the latter.

Once I got past the pleasant enough frothy milk the real taste of coffee hit me. It was foul but, over the course of an hour and with a fair amount of gagging, I eventually downed it.

And then, suddenly, as if I’d been plugged into the mains, I was awake and fair bouncing off the walls. Okay, slight exaggeration there, I’d only had one hour’s sleep after-all. But with this surge of energy that enabled me to function like a normal human being, I was now beginning to feel like I’d seriously ripped myself off in life.

Had I handicapped myself by only running on three cyclinders all this time while everyone else was running on four or more?

And, in an epiphany, I realised maybe that was the reason why I didn’t pass School C maths! Suddenly I could blame all my failings on not drinking coffee.

Was it too late to sign up for the Beach to Basin? Perhaps I could beat my last year’s PB after-all.

Instead it generated a maelstrom of house cleaning frenzy – after-all the house had been rendered a bomb site by now.

But with any high comes a low and I came down with a thud. I guess this is where most people would have round two but, even if it was because I made the world’s worst cup, I concluded that my taste buds and coffee are just not in tune.

So it’s safe to say I will not be taking up that addiction. Besides, who needs School C maths? I’ve survived thus far counting on my fingers.

Update

This week I’ve been inundated with porn. Last Saturday my phone beeped at 8am. It was the friend who lent me 50 Shades of Grey, having read my article about being a few beats behind the drum when it comes to fashion and contemporary literature. It read: “Don’t you want the second and third 50 Shades book before you start The Hunger Games trilogy? The second book is better than the first.”

When I said it only took me a week to read, I was talking about one book, not the trilogy – I did say I’m a slow reader after-all. I was also still finishing it off Saturday morning and was most disappointed with the unhappy ending.

“Yes please, I replied. “The Hunger Games can wait. That book didn’t end on a good note - most unsatisfactory.”

Next minute my email’s beeping with a message from another friend: “I’m off to the beach but I’m leaving your porn on the back deck.” She was referring to books two and three.

I just need to clarify that this subject matter wouldn’t usually be my thing but I do need to find out what happens in the storyline (and I’m not just saying that in case my mum and nana are reading).

So The Hunger Games has been shunted further down the pile as I embark on my painfully slow (to most) journey through book number two.

Anyway, that’s hardly a topic related to anything remotely childlike or chaotic so I shall change the subject:

You know you’ve had a good Christmas when Master Four repeatedly refers to the non-existent baby in your tummy and keeps patting it.

“That’s not very nice,” I say, feigning a sad face.

“Sorry mummy.” Then, as an after-thought he walks back: “And sorry baby,” he says patting my tummy one more time.

Apparently I need to start running again.

And that’s about all I’ve got to say on that topic too.

50 Shades

When it comes to fashion I’m usually a season or two behind. The same applies when jumping on the 50 Shades of Grey bandwagon.

The days of reading novels at one’s leisure disappeared out the window around seven year’s ago when baby number one made his appearance. The stack of books beside the bed grew taller and taller until I was forced to make a second pile, now equally high.

The lack of time, combined with the need to drink in every detail makes me the slowest reader in the world; The book which has made it to the top of the dusty pile only gets picked up at bedtime, by when I’m so exhausted I usually only get through one page.

Therefore one year on, I’ve finally finished the intense but intriguing The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo series (I’ll be surprised if the friend that lent me them ever lends me another), allowing me to start the controversial 50 Shades of Grey (which I had cheated and bumped to the top of the pile).

One week later and I’ve nearly finished.

It’s true it’s received a lot of flak for its storyline and repetition (the overuse of the expression “Oh My” makes me cringe more than the lewd acts themselves!) but I’m a sucker for good easy-read chick-lit (although I understand it’s proving popular with men too) and, like many readers before me, I’m finding it hard to put down.

This poses two problems: One – I can’t take this book to the beach to read because anyone who happens to look my way and notices the familiar cover will recognise it for what it is and – two – once I finally pick it up at night, the storyline is somehow managing to keep me awake until midnight, rendering me tired and grumpy the next morning when I’m woken by 6am regardless.

By the time you read this I will have finished and should be started on The Hunger Games trilogy (lent to me by the same generous but, at the time, oblivious friend).

If you haven’t already read it, it would be quicker to read yourself than wait for a review from me. Otherwise, I’ll give you my verdict in. oh, about a year’s time.

Mother's Day

Miss Three tells me I’m only getting a Mother’s Day present if I’m nice to her.

It would seem my sticker chart system is being thrown back at me.

Just as well I don’t ‘do’ Mother’s Day presents. Like my mother, I prefer the non-materialistic things. In fact my ideal day would simply comprise a lie-in with a good book or magazine (I’m not one for breakfast in bed), followed by a leisurely morning with no rush to get out the door and perfectly-behaved children all day. Maybe even a countryside stroll thrown in there too and coming home to the smell of a roast cooking, the preparation of which I’ve had nothing to do with. Same with the washing up. Then, after I’ve put my perfectly-behaved angels to bed I’d settle down to watch Packed to the Rafters followed by Call the Midwife before falling into a deep eight-hour slumber. Sounds pretty realistic really doesn’t it?

But, alas, I already know this is not going to eventuate as, for starters, I’ll be spending the morning cleaning in preparation for our open home. By the time I twigged there was to be an open home on Mother’s Day the ad had already been booked and it was too late to cancel. But will people really be open homing tomorrow?

We’d had a fairly good turnout to the three we’d had so far but last weekend we were heading on a road trip to Waihi and packing for a holiday with kids is no easy task at the best of times. But to also leave the house in an open home state whilst being out the door by 8am? Nightmare.

As there was no point cleaning the night before because it would all be messed again, I frantically rushed around tidying the breakfast carnage, cleaning and ‘editing’.

By this I mean going round the house looking at it through a stranger’s eyes and putting away what I didn’t want them to see. Then I realised they would probably open bathroom drawers and kitchen cupboards so I couldn’t get away with hiding things in there either.

I was not having my finest moment and to top it off we returned to a note saying there’d been no one through.

So I’m not looking forward to the morning rush. Then, of course, there’s fitting in visits around childrens’ sleeps to both mothers. Not that I’m complaining about this – I’m thankful I have mothers, who now play such a significant role in our childrens’ lives, to visit.

By the time we return, it will be too late to put the roast on.

Never mind, maybe we can go for that walk in the country while the open home is taking place. And, of course, my children will be positively angelic all day. Oh and don’t forget if I’m nice to Miss Three she won’t hold out on my present. She tells me it’s the (now very crumpled) picture she drew for me last week which has been hiding under her pillow since. I purposefully avert my eyes as I make her bed every day so as not to spoil the surprise.

Apparently there’s something festering under Master Six’s bed for me too. He walked in after school on Wednesday holding a container which he announced held my Mother’s Day present inside. His nana whispered to me that she didn’t know what state it would be in by Sunday. I’m hoping it’s nothing like the hundreds of cicada shells he’s collected from the garden which now reside somewhere in his room in my good kitchen Tupperware container.

But although I’ll be sure to be holding my breath when opening that one I’d much rather these simple things than a shop-bought item as they are one of a kind. And if the kids insist on delivering breakfast in bed, then I’ll staple a smile on my face and ‘enjoy’ it because it’s these heart-felt gestures that count.

Geriatric

I’ve always loathed looking young. Silly huh? Up until two year’s ago I’d always, begrudgingly, have my ID at the ready.

“How dare this young shot question my age when I am their senior,” I’d quietly seethe.

But then it stopped and it gradually dawned on me that I had finally caught up to my true age.

I blame having twins of course. And being an insomniac.

As always, the grass is always greener and I wanted what I no longer had. So it got to the point this week where I decided to do something about it. My first kid-free day in weeks due to the school holidays, armed with a shopping list half a metre long I eagerly went to town. I approached a woman in the pharmacy with my plight who pointed out an array of natural cleansers, toners and skin illuminators.

I decided on just one of the above and made my purchase. I was about to head happily on my way when she looked at me and said “But you don’t need to worry anyway, you’ve got lovely skin for your age.”

I should have taken the compliment and left it at that but I just had to query it didn’t I? “But how old do you think I am?” I asked the 50-plus woman, expecting her to pull out a figure in the 20s.

“Let me see,” she peered at me quizzically. “I’d say you’re about … 46.”

What the …

Was she taking the p***? I stood before her, mouth open and realised by her stumbled cover up that she was not.

I left the shop reeling. Maybe she has a really badly misguided sense of judgement or maybe she just took an instant disliking to you and felt like insulting you, I tried to console myself. Or maybe she took me for a sucker and wanted to make commission from my repeat purchases based on my new-found complex.

Whatever it was, it worked. After purchasing a pair of oversize sunnies I decided to cut my shopping trip short – I was no longer in the mood to be seen in public. Driving home I was still shaking my head at the absurdity of it when I realised what I had to do: 1. Get more sleep, 2. Definitely NOT have any more children and 3. Stock up on all the other recommended products – but from the opposition!

Beach to Basin

It’s never a good idea to take a sleeping pill at 2am when you’ve signed up to run 9km in mere hours.

I’d gone to sleep all right but was woken at midnight by a twin who was upside down and back to front and all disorientated in bed.

After rearranging him I was padding back to my room when I remembered the impending event.

“Don’t switch your mind on, don’t switch your mind on,” I told myself.

Too late. Clammy dread shot through me and I was wired.

It had been eight years since I’d last run the Beach2Basin. Always one to come in nearly last at school cross country, running was never my thing. But I think it’s good to step outside the comfort zone now and again and I’d been proud of my 49-min score. In the years that followed, I’d come up with a last-minute excuse not to do it and hadn’t even run five kilometers, let alone nine (although I’m sure it used to be 9.4!)

Now I was keen to match my PB and interested to see if sitting in an office most of the day, as I did back then, with a run thrown in morning and/or night made one fitter than a mother on her feet all day who no longer exercises religiously.

Hubby signed me up sometime during the week before I had a chance to chicken out - he was probably sick of me being all talk – and I tried not to think about it after that.

So back to the early hours.

Counting sheep has never worked. The horrid sheep would start jumping too fast for me to keep up so, instead I lay there listening to the ‘weather bomb’ and trying every other trick in the book while resisting the urge to take a sleeping pill.

Finally two hour’s later, after watching the clock and counting down the hours with a sense of foreboding till I had to “perform”, I decided it might not hurt to take a quarter, just to knock me out without leaving me dopey the next day.

It didn’t and I was.

I fell asleep just before dawn and awoke late feeling like crap. The kids were already up and hyper with it.

With a thick fog hanging over me, I dragged my slothful self up and slovenly pulled on some running gear before dressing the kids.

I joined the masses at the start line and we were off. The running helped clear the cobwebs and I began to pick up speed.

Gridlocking during the Waimahanga Track slowed things somewhat and everyone came to a standstill waiting to cross the bridge single-file. Soon after I became aware of heavy breathing and a loud jingling noise behind me. It was hot on my heels and slightly disconcerting. After five long minutes of this, a long-bearded Neanderthal-looking fulla wearing a netting shirt with bells and chains lumbered past. Interesting.

It’s always funny passing kids along the way. Not having learnt to pace themselves, they shoot off, only to run out of steam and look up surprised to be passed by geriatrics further down the track.

But I cringe when I spot someone I know up ahead. Do you slink past and hope they haven’t seen you, or call a cheery ‘hello’, rubbing it in that you’re about to leave them in the dust? Then you have to keep up your pace in case they pass you again because then you might just end up passing them later on and you’ll have an involuntary race.

On and on I ran leaving the now-walking, heaving Neanderthal behind. I had to beat 49 minutes, or at least get the same time – and I’d be happy. Nine kilometers was definitely my limit, I decided. I only have one thing to say to people who put themselves through the torture of half-marathons and more – WHY?

I looked at my watch – there was three minutes to go and no way I would make it but then rounded the corner and noticed the finish line had moved closer than where it used to be.

With a burst of speed I went through the flags at 49 minutes to “Go Mummy,” from my small cheering squad. I stopped to greet them, then realised that was not quite the finish line. My body now hating me, I dragged it a little further through a second set of flags as the clock ticked over to 50mins.

Ahhhh well.

The finish line, on the canopy bridge resembled a ‘who’s who at the zoo’ scene but when you’re a red, hot, sweaty mess, gasping for breath with the dregs of an insomnia-induced haze hanging over you, you’re not in the mood to talk. I was keen to go before my muscles went into spasm and my legs gave out.

After hobbling around for the first part of the following week I was already vowing to beat my time next year but, by then, I’ll have a few things sorted - namely training and sleep. Getting the right finish line might help too.