Comfort can only be found in a teatowel

Henry's been ill with an unexplained fever since yesterday. The fever hasn't been enough to stop him from ordering everyone about, including the cat. Our poor kitty who is on his last legs has taken to eating only enough food in order to stay alive. After he's done this he likes to stretch out somewhere that he believes is a nice, quiet, relatively safe place (i.e. where Henry can't find him)and snooze because eating a whole spoonful of food is exhausting.

Henry, who is too young to understand the joy that vodka can bring, likes to tuck things up in bed because he believes that is the only way to be truly comfortable.

Our kitty, after a particularly exhausting feast of mushed up tuna had decided to hide on the chair that usually does a good job of hiding him away from the heavily loving hands of Henry. Unfortunately Henry spied his tail hanging over the edge. He decided that if Kitty was going to sleep he needed and deserved to have a few of life's little luxuries. He rushed to the kitchen and grabbed a few teatowels off the rail and a cushion from the lounge room and did his best to ensure kitty was tucked in comfortably.




After only a few seconds he tore all the covers off kitty and yelled in his ear "wake up now kitty, time to go to work".


Obviously the cat was simply way too worn out from all that eating that he just lay there and let Henry do what he had to do and chose to ignore him.

How Can I be so Mean?

Am I really a mean, terrible, hurtful, neglectful mother because I refuse to drive Maya to the bus two days per week?

She has been going to school for nine years and two months but somehow still can't manage to get herself ready with enough spare time to make the five minute walk to the bus stop before the bus leaves.

I drive her to the bus three days a week on the days that I work because I have to go directly past the bus stop to get Henry to daycare. She only has to walk two days but always gets herself into some kind of hysterical tizz about missing the bus because she spent twenty minutes trying to decide which earrings to wear with her school uniform. When I refuse to get in the car to drive her she slams the door behind her while muttering out loud that if she's late or misses the bus it'll be my fault.

It's always my fault. That's what mothers do. They take the blame for EVERYTHING.


10am update:
Ten minutes after she gets to the bus stop and just as I step out of the shower she calls me to tell me the bus has had a crash further down the road and is on fire and people are everywhere and there's a car stuck under it and it's going to rain and if she waits for the next bus she'll be late for school and get detention!

So I quickly put on some clothes, dress Henry who's been wandering around naked, and get in the car to rush to the bus stop to collect her and get her to school on time. On the way home I stop at the shop to pick up some pain killers and vitamins for all the sick people in the house. When I get home I give Henry vitamins and panadol, he wanders into the lounge room with it and spills it all over the carpet. While I clean that mess he wets his pants all over the carpet because I was too busy cleaning up the panadol to notice that he was busting to go. While I clean up that mess he walks past the cat and accidentally steps on his tail and the cat turns around and scratches him across the legs, he screams. While he's screaming the phone rings. By this stage I'm almost about to fall on the floor and start crying. Because when I'm not feeling 100% there's nobody around to pick up the pieces.

I'm feeling sorry for myself but I have every right to. So there.

An event not to be missed

April 28th - the Lyceum Hall, Highland St ESK
Melissa plays with
the Kransky Sisters!
tickets $25.00 [be quick]
for ticket sales [cash or cheque only]
phone: 5424 6364

For those of you who are interested this will indeed be an event worth seeing.

Melissa J Evans, a very talented Musician and the Kransky Sisters. Michele, a good friend of mine was once a Kransky Sister (Ava the Tuba Player) but it seems she's AWOL.

I'll be there.

I don't get paid to de-clutter

All I've got to say, and I need to say this quickly because as I say it Henry is throwing the contents of the video cabinet around the floor, that having a paid job outside the home does not allow one to have a clean, de-cluttered home.

Listening to my child count the videos and call himself a "good boy" as he throws them makes all the clutter worth it. Kind of.

Ridgy Didge

This kid is my nephew. He's all of seven years old. He plays that Didgeridoo like he was born with it in his mouth. It must be that tiny bit of aboriginal blood he inherited from his father that makes playing it so natural. Women are not allowed to play the Didgeridoo, it's bad luck. It's only a man's domain but I had a go anyway and I do alright...for about three whole seconds. It's harder than you'd think.

Declutter the Carpark

The decluttering should start here. Right now. While the owner of all these cars is sleeping soundly. But I am so tired today that I don't think I have it in me. Besides I have the spare fridge in the laundry turned off and dripping all over the floor while it defrosts, three tonnes of washing to fold and a wardrobe rail to fix. Maybe I'll ignore all of those things and just go and sleep instead.

70 things a week

This morning I read Meegan's post about another blog she had found and was inspired by. The idea was to free your life of clutter by getting rid of seven things per week in your home that you no longer want or need.

I had wanted to write a nice lengthy post about the clutter in my life and how it makes me want to start drinking at 7am but I thought most people would be bored out of their minds when they read it. Now that Meegan's gone and started it I am going to take her lead and go on and on incessantly about the clutter/junk/mess that each day fills me with dread as soon as I open my eyes.

My home obviously isn't as bad as some but if I had my way I would only own the bare minimum. Enough just to get me by with. One saucepan, one frypan, enough cutlery for three meals per day, three pairs of underwear, two t-shirts, four bathtowels...you get the picture.

The problem is I never have time to get to the clutter and junk and most of the time when I attempt to Henry will be at the other end of the house taking the flour, cordial and jelly out of the fridge and rubbing it into the carpet for me because he does that stuff so well. If I even turn my back on him for 30 seconds he will find something to destroy and it usually involves the pantry and refrigerator.

I do get around to cleaning out things once in a while but I often come across things that I simply can't get rid of because there is some kind of emotion attached to it. These things never get used and just take up space but to throw it away would be like cutting off one of my arms. I simply can't do it.

Just recently my sister (who lives alone and has only her own mess to clean up) bought herself some wooden coat hangers. I listened enthusiastically while she told me what a difference they had made to her wardrobe, how she was now able to more fully see what she owned and better yet, all her clothes hung at the same level and looked way better when they were colour co-ordinated onto the wooden coat hangers. How I marvelled while thinking that they couldn't possibly be that good!

While shopping the other day I found some on sale and thought I'd get some and just see if they would bring me instant happiness. Guess what? They did! Short lived but I was instantly gratified by the way they made my years old clothing look almost brand new. It was almost as if I had walked into an upmarket thrift shop. I made Maya come and look and couldn't wait for Ben to get home to tell him what a difference they'd made to one moment in my life.

I just wish everything could be fixed with wooden coat hangers.


PS. When I do get around to clearing out the clutter this hat that Maya paid 15 good, useful dollars for will be the first thing to go.

Paper Undies

Today I spent the entire day lying in a hospital bed waiting for a minor surgical procedure that never eventuated. I have a large lipoma on my shoulder which is not harmful and won't kill me but it does cause me some discomfort and it's just plain ugly.

I've been on the waiting list for about four months and the call that came yesterday asking me to make it into the hospital today came a lot sooner than I thought considering it's not life saving surgery. These things, if not too large, can usually be removed under a local anaesthetic but mine is too large for that. I need to be asleep while they cut my shoulder open and scrape it all out.

I had to fast from 6am this morning and be at the hospital by 10.30am. After getting changed into a very unattractive, back opening, purple hospital gown and disposable paper undies I was shown to a bed. There I lay until 4.30pm when they finally told me that due to an emergency procedure that was taking longer than expected I wouldn't be going under today and was sent home.

It was hard to ignore the stomach rumbling and I was just thankful that the aroma from any nearby cafe's could not waft through the ward. My mouth was dry as the Sahara desert because I hadn't even had any water since 6am and was not allowed to.

Luckily I took my book. A juicy little novel I've read about three times in the past. Peyton Place. I don't know what it is about that book but I love it. Maybe it's because it's got that soap opera reputation or that it very deliberately raised issues no one wanted to even believe existed in the 30's, 40's and 50's. It's a sordid tale but perfect for whiling away the hours in a hospital bed where without a blanket your paper undies would be exposed to anyone who happened to walk by.

6210 Times!

Maya has been back at school for almost two weeks now. The chant only started this week on account of the teachers obviously wanted to give them time to settle in on the first week.The Chant generally goes something like this. "Have you done your homework?", "Have you done your homework?", "Have you done your homework?"

I just did some quick calculations and over the last nine years I've said this approximately three times per day on at least 230 days of the year. That equals 690 times per year and that multiplied by 9 equals 6210.

Calculations using the above averages means my mother, who had five children,would have said this approximately 41400 times in the schooling life of her children.

See what you're all in for. Maybe you'll all be lucky and have kids who love homework as much as they love making life hell for their parents. It's statistically unlikely...unless you've given birth to a microchip controlled nerd.