Rat Hunting

I’ve discovered the downside of living in tranquil countryside surrounded by scenic, historic stone walls. They come with four legs, long tails and I find them rather disgusting.

I realise cats present their prey to their beloved like a trophy but the night Trixie dropped a mouse on my bed I was not impressed. Luckily that one was already dead.

The next time she sprang through the cat door and dropped a live rat at my feet I reacted like Scooby Doo chancing upon a ghost.

It was high-drama in our house as it took off under the coach where I had leapt and the twins, oblivious but sensing excitement, decided to climb aboard too laughing hysterically at my spaz-attack.

Having witnessed its frantic scurry, Cade knew what was going on but it hadn’t occurred to him to be fearful.

“Cade, open the ranchsliders,” I ordered amongst shrieking at Trixie. He obeyed and fetched a stick which he prodded under the coach while I cowered on top, knowing full well rodents can climb.

Half an hour later there was still no sign of the rat, which, I might add, had the longest tail in the world, and, infuriatingly, Trixie, having lost interest, had walked off.

Finally I resorted to asking Cade to fetch the phone.

“Um, I don’t suppose you’re working in the area?” I feebly asked hubby.

“No, I’m at Waipu, why?”

Damn.

After being told to harden up, I tentatively stepped off the coach and slowly pulled it away from the wall, only to discover nothing but a few crusts in amongst an astonishing amount of dust.

That meant it was in the mammoth pile of children’s books toppling over next to the couch in the corner.

After requesting the kids pick them out one-by-one it was finally unearthed and darted for the other couch.

Defeated and exhausted, I went and cooked dinner (standing on a stool) and left it for hubby to sort later.

The latest rodent drama occurred after I had retired for the day. Hubby was watching rugby in the lounge when the cat ran into my wardrobe. Scuffling noises within confirmed my worst fears.

“Did you check Trixie’s mouth before you let her in?” I yelled.

He appeared, looking sheepish and began lifting things in the wardrobe while I sat up like Jackie watching.

Several attempts at placing the cat in front of the about-to-be removed object were fruitless. Muttering something that sounded like “Stupid cat” he disappeared back up the hall.

Ten minutes later I was still watching the doorway to the wardrobe like a hawk when I realised he wasn’t coming back.

Gingerly I stepped out of bed and found him back on the couch watching rugby.

After pointing out I was not the one who let the cat in he eventually prised himself back off the couch.

“So much for my knight in shining armour,” I huffed as I stalked (tentatively) back to my throne.

Another 15 minutes later the mouse finally ran into our other cat Jesse’s mouth. He was stoked with his first catch and was promptly ushered outside with his prize.

Having been ‘broken in’ to the world of rodents Jesse was now on a roll and my wardrobe was the place to dump them, according to the cats’ new-found fascination with it.

I knew something was in there and after avoiding setting foot in it for a week, walked down the hall one morning and narrowly avoided stepping on a dead mouse matching the carpet. It seems it had finally made a dash for it and been defeated.

I suppose these rodents resided in the stone walls long before we came along and put a house in their midst so I will have to learn to live with them – I’ll just be wearing shoes inside from now on.

Terrible Twos

Last week I had two revelations in quick succession. The first was that I am experiencing the “Terrible Twos” times two. 

Look what I caught them doing to
their photo album!

 Had I cottoned onto this fact earlier I would have used it as my excuse for the last year.

My excuse for my mess of a house, even though I seem to be constantly tidying. My excuse when someone overhears me yelling my head off in an unattractive manner or, when I just plain can’t be bothered, out of sheer exhaustion, reprimanding my lot when we have guests and I catch their shocked expression.

Sprung!

I could use it for my excuse for anything really. Like when I was breastfeeding the twins and ate like a horse. I’ve actually always been a pig but for 14 months (not to mention the nine months prior) I had a good excuse. Then when I stopped I realised, not only could I no longer get away with that justification, I also couldn’t get away with eating what I liked so I pulled my head in quick-smart.

The demands of a two-year-old are relentless. They want it all and they want it now and

if I can’t cater to their needs asap they will throw themselves on the floor and kick and scream.

Little Missy, once my placid one, has become a real madam and throws the most unreasonable strops. I was told this morning in a fit of rage that I’m going to jail. Who taught her about jail? Does she even know what it is? And Master Two no longer loves me whenever I reprimand him. However, he is quick to reinstate his affections when it’s morning tea time.

Walking up to school is rather tedious. While Jai is happy to walk ahead keeping up with his brother, Missy will suddenly decide she’s homeward bound and about turn and head back down the hill. I’m left standing in the middle as the distance between us all gets larger, wondering who to go after. I see where a double leash would come in handy.

Yes, the naughty corner has definitely had significant foot traffic over the last year which brings me to my second revelation: in only a matter of weeks the twins will be turning three and surely this means the end of the “terrible twos”.

But no sooner had I felt that ripple of excitement when I had a flash of déjà vu and my spirits lowered themselves back to base: I was aged 19, just days away from my 20^th, signaling the end to “teenage pimples”.

The chances are slim to none.

# Author of bestselling Of course I love you… NOW GO TO YOUR ROOM! Diane Levy prefers to describe the “terrible twos” as the “terrific twos”.

She believes it disempowers parents and ignores the fact that the behaviour is a normal and necessary stage on the path from child to adulthood.

“Children are beginning to realise that they are independent beings with an identity separate from their parents and they are exercising this newfound independence.”

However, Diane is quick to point out that this doesn’t mean parents should ignore “bad behaviour”. 

She says many parents believe they have to put up with tantrums, screaming fits and – in some cases – bad language simply because their children are going through “a stage” which they’ll “grow out off”.

Diane advises parents that there are three actions fundamental for supporting their child’s development and passage into adulthood:  respect their integrity, support their feelings and set boundaries.

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.